Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“A dragon without its rider is a tragedy.
A rider without their dragon is dead.”

-Article one, Section one
The Dragon Rider's Codex

It’s Conscription day, the single deadliest day for aspiring dragon riders. Miya Atsumu looks up at the towering fortress of Basgiath War College and clutches at the silver medallion around his neck. His thumb rubs over the smooth opal nestled in its center—a light white stone that flashes with rainbow colors in the sunlight. It’s his birthstone. Their birthstone. Well it was theirs anyways. 

This soothing motion has become a ritual over the past few months, helping to calm the raging storm inside of Atsumu’s chest. The storm is always there, but the severity of it ebbs and flows, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. Right now it’s subdued to dark clouds and a dull rain matching the one pattering his head and shoulders as he waits. He stares down the stone staircase leading up to the parapet, not easily crossed on a sunny day, now slick and menacing under the downpour.

His golden blonde hair sticks to his forehead, wet and limp. It’s funny—he used to care so much about his hair, it’s what set him apart. His roots are dark brown, but they curiously fade into a pale blonde at the ends. Growing up, his mother told him that the gods saw fit to bless him with a golden crown. She said it meant he was destined for greatness. He used to believe her. He remembers when he always used to fuss with his hair, making sure each strand was perfectly in place. The bottom half is cropped short, keeping its deep brown color, and the top is grown long to show off the golden tips—as if it really were a crown. He can’t find it in himself to care about his stupid, gods’ given hair right now; caring is exhausting these days.

He scowls at the dark clouds above him, cursing his old man under his breath. “Ya couldn’t have made this easy fer me, huh?” He spits on the ground just to watch it wash away under the cascading droplets.

He stands amongst a crowd of other twenty-somethings, nerves buzzing in the air like static electricity. Four lines branch out from the muddy quad toward their respective divisions; scribes, healers, infantry and riders. Atsumu makes his way towards the line of pretentious, egotistical maniacs; the Rider’s Quadrant. They’re here looking for glory, power, or a chance to prove themselves. Most of them have probably been waiting for this moment their whole lives. For Atsumu, this is what he’s been avoiding his whole life. He swore to his father that he would never be a rider, never be anything like that cold-blooded bastard. But life rarely has a way of working out how you’d expect. Atsumu’s life has veered so far of course that he isn’t sure it’s worth clinging on to any longer.

Lucky for him, Basgiath is a wonderful choice for those with a death wish. Nothing here is easy, and almost everything is out to kill you; the tests, the training, your fellow cadets—and if you manage to survive all of that there’s still a 30% chance you’ll get roasted by a dragon come Threshing. The dragons of Navarre are fierce, powerful and ruthless—and they expect nothing less from riders wishing to bond with them. The Rider’s Program is designed to weed out the weak, ensuring that Navarre’s armies are as strong as the dragons who champion them.

Weak is a word that has never been assigned to Miya Atsumu, but seeing the dragons circling overhead he can’t help but feel an immense sense of smallness under their wings.

Screams sound around him as an absolute terror of a blue daggertail swoops down over the huddled mass of new recruits. Those unlucky enough to catch the wind whip of the beast’s tail are knocked right off of their feet. The huge gust reaches Atsumu and threatens to topple him. Luckily, the rubber soles of his riding boots grip the ground, and he’s able to steady himself to keep from falling over.

The kid formerly standing beside him isn’t so lucky. Atsumu hears a “Guahh!” as a flash of bright orange hair rushes towards the ground. His instincts have him reaching towards the boy, but he’s not quick enough to stop him from hitting the dirt with an “Oof”. Luckily the enormous pack he wore broke the fall, but it’s now causing him to flail about, looking like a turtle on its back. Damn he is tiny. He shouldn’t be here. This is not a place for anyone you could describe as fragile. Atsumu really shouldn’t bother with this guy--he isn’t here to make friends. Much less with weaklings who could jeopardize his mission. But the poor boy looks so pathetic, straining to get up, that Atsumu can’t take it anymore. Pity wins out and he reaches down, grabbing the straps of the redhead’s backpack, and hauling him back to his feet.

“Woah! Hey thanks man!” the boy says with a bright smile.

“Don’t mention it,” Atsumu replies, helping to brush off the mud from his rucksack. Gods, it’s nearly twice the size of him, it’s a wonder he didn’t just topple over on his own.

“They’re amazing aren’t they?” The boy’s bright brown eyes follow the receding dragon in awe.

Atsumu looks back up, the blue dragon already out of sight, having retreated behind the tower. They really are amazing. He briefly wonders what type of dragon would be willing to bond with him. No doubt it would be a swordtail, like every rider in his family before him, but he always thought the clubtails had a pretty mean look to ‘em. Plus that might piss the old man off as a bonus. He shakes the thought from his mind. It doesn’t matter- he doubts he’ll live long enough to bond anyway. That’s not why he’s here.

“Yeah, sure are,” he replies.

“My name is Hinata Shoyo, what’s yours?” Hinata shakes the water from his head like a dog, regardless of the fact it’s immediately soaked again right after. There’s a sort of naive excitement surrounding him, like all of this is some grand adventure. 

Atsumu pities him. Wide eyes and a thirst for greatness aren’t enough to get him through training, or even past the parapet to start training. Atsumu hesitates to return his own name; his father’s voice echoes in his mind.

‘Don’t make friendships. Forge alliances.’

Words of wisdom for surviving in Basgiath. Atsumu could write a damn book on it; all with knowledge given to him against his will. He never planned on needing any of it, but he’s thankful for the pieces of advice tucked deep in the back of his mind. He’ll need them today.

Making friends before you’re officially a cadet is useless, bordering on masochistic. The less names on the death roll you can recognize, the less there are to mourn. But something about Hinata’s energy is infectious and makes him mutter back, “Mi- Atsumu. Just Atsumu.”

If Hinata questioned the redaction of his surname, he doesn’t show it. Instead he beams back with a “Nice to meet you!” and a million watt smile.

Hinata is nearly vibrating with energy beside him as they step forward in line, the other cadets shuffle to move up and fill in the gap. As they approach the bottom of the grand staircase Atsumu spares another glance at the strange boy. Bright brown eyes stare up towards the treacherous path ahead, white knuckles clutching around the straps of his pack. The pack that’s entirely too enormous and entirely too heavy for this.

Don’t do it. Focus on yourself. You’re here for a reason. 

Atsumu forces himself to keep his mouth shut, this guy is so not his problem.

When they reach the bottom of the steps they fall into a single-line formation to begin their ascent.

“Wow! It’s like the fort is carved right into the mountain! How many steps do you think there are?” Hinata marvels.

“Two hundred and fifty,” Atsumu responds curtly.

“Whaah? That’s so many!”

“If ya can’t climb a measly staircase, ya won’t be able to climb on to a dragon.”

“Oh I’ll be fine, I’m just impressed. I’ve dreamed of this place my whole life, it’s crazy that I’m actually here. I can’t believe we really have to cross along the wall to get in—you can’t even see the top yet!”

“Every trial in the Quadrant is designed to test your ability to ride. The wind up there’s got nothin’ on a dragon flyin’ full speed, and they go even higher up. No point in training anyone who can’t at least manage this.”

“You sure know a whole lot about this stuff Atsumu!”

“I was bred for it.” His voice drips in disdain.

“Wow you’re so lucky. My mom would lose her S-H-I-T if she knew I was here. I told her I was coming to join the scribes-like my dad. But I always wanted to be a rider, and I figured now’s my only chance.”

“Not too late ta turn around n’ join the other line. Bein’ a scribe’s real important too, and the death rate is significantly lower when you’re sittin’ in a library all day.”

Then again, Atsumu’s mother was a scribe, and now she’s sitting in the arms of Malek.

“No way, I have to take my shot. I’m going to ride a dragon or die trying.”

He’ll almost certainly die trying, but Atsumu holds his tongue on the matter.

They continue their march up the narrow, winding staircase.

At about the halfway mark, thunder cracks in the sky above them. Hinata jumps at the noise and the weight of his pack pulls him backwards off his step. Suddenly he falls back, massive fucking rucksack slamming into Atsumu’s face. He barely manages to catch Hinata and push him back upright.

If he can’t even hold his ground on the damn stairs, he doesn’t stand a chance against the 200 foot drop ahead. Atsumu groans, cursing his bleeding fucking heart. “Let me see this stupid thing,” he says, ripping open the zipper on Hinata’s pack.

“Hey! Quit it!” Hinata screams, scrambling to move away. But Atsumu’s grip is strong, and Hinata is a certified fucking shrimp, so he holds him still and starts tearing through the contents of his pack.

“Ya don’t need all these clothes, you’ll pretty much always be in uniform. Lose the robe too, it’ll catch a gust up there and tear you right off yer feet. They’ll give ya a flight jacket if ya manage to make it past the first week.” He throws all of the soft white fabric to the floor, letting them fall to the mud. Hinata looks at him like he just kicked his puppy.

Atsumu doesn’t care if this guy thinks he’s a dick—as long as he doesn’t have to see him fall to his death.

He continues his digging, throwing out everything he deems unnecessary, ignoring Hinata’s screeching protests. He finds a single dagger wrapped in a red cloth. Finally something that can actually help. “Keep this on you at all times.” He pulls it out and shoves it toward Hinata. Not with the sharp side, obviously. “Hopefully you know how to use it.”

“I know how to use it,” Hinata snaps back, snatching the blade from Atsumu’s hand and tucking it into his belt.

“Good. The other cadets aren’t allowed to hurt ya outside of trainin’, but that sure as shit doesn’t mean they won’t try. Don’t give ‘em the opportunity.”

There’s always more riders than dragons willing to bond each year. Thinning the herd before Threshing is all too common. Plus there are plenty who think that weak links need to be weeded out too.

Beneath the layers of clothes and trinkets in Hinata’s bag is the absolute dumbest thing Atsumu could imagine lugging across the parapet.

“Books? Ya stuffed this thing half yer weight with fuckin’ books?”

“Don’t touch those!” Hinata manages to snatch the stack of texts from Atsumu’s grip. “I can carry them!”

“No. Ya can’t. The crossing is barely 18 inches wide, and yer gonna be two hundred feet above the ground. Ya already proved that a good gust of wind will blow ya right over, and ya don’t need 50 pounds of fuckin’ books ta help tip the scales.”

“But these are important.” His voice is quiet and shaky. Gods, please don't let him start crying.

“Look at me." Atsumu grips Hinata's shoulders. "Look at me.”

Hinata’s watery eyes flit up to meet Atsumu’s.

“Nothing in this pack is worth losing yer life, ok? Nothing. This shit isn’t a joke. The parapet claims fifteen percent of new recruits on a good day. They aren’t gonna take a fuckin’ rain check, and yer carrying way too much. Unless you want to join the other dead candidates on tomorrow’s Death Roll—ditch the books.”

Hinata may seem a bit naive, but thank gods he isn’t actually stupid. He grabs the books from Atsumu’s hand and flings them over the staircase railing one by one. But when he reaches the last book he hesitates. It’s a small, well-loved collection of fairy tales and children’s stories.

“I can’t lose this one. My father gave it to me,” Hinata whispers, ghosting his fingers over the soft leather cover.

“Bein’ sentimental is a waste of time. Yer here now, focus on the path ahead. Ya don’t need the memories.”

There is a small stack of letters tucked in Atsumu’s right boot that call him a hypocrite.

“I can handle this one book, it’s light. I’ll throw everything else out. I can make it.” Hinata looks fiercely determined—Atsumu almost believes him.

He sighs, caring this much is getting exhausting. But since Hinata’s pack is significantly lighter now, Atsumu feels confident enough to nod his head.

They resume their climb in silence, nerves winning out over conversation.

Once they reach the top of the stairs, Atsumu folds over, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. A small huddle of candidates wait in the large turret tower, enjoying the small respite from the wind and rain. A bored looking Second Year in all black waves them through in spaced intervals. Just as Atsumu and Hinata move to step back in line, a sharp scream rings out from beyond the tower. At that moment, all of the air is sucked from the room. Hinata’s fingers wrap around Atsumu’s wrist, and they both freeze, hair standing on end. The scream fades away as fast as it came. Atsumu didn’t need to see it to know that somebody fell. Not five minutes before he’s supposed to cross himself.

“I wonder who that was,” Hinata whispers.

A haughty voice rings out from behind them to say, “Someone so weak that a little breeze took them out.”

Pure shock runs through Atsumu and his head snaps toward the voice. It belongs to a tall, slender boy who’s attempting to detangle his mousy brown hair with his fingers.

“The fuck is wrong with ya?” Atsumu spits out.

“Oh there’s nothing wrong with me. That’s why I’ll be on the other side getting fitted for my riding leathers, while trash like that sits at the bottom of the ravine.”

“Someone literally just died out there.”

“One less person to get in my way.”

“Who the hell do ya think ya are?”

“The name’s Oikawa Tooru. Make sure to remember it—I’m going to be a Wingleader some day and you’ll be dragon food along with little chibi-chan there.” He gives them a disapproving once over, “and that’s assuming either of you live long enough to even see a dragon.”

Hinata crosses his arms and lifts his chin defiantly. Atsumu’s hand balls into a fist, his teeth grind against each other. Gods he wants to hit the smirk off this guy’s face so fucking bad. He takes a deep breath in, counts to three and breathes out. He needs to keep his cool—he doesn’t have time for this shit.

“Come on Shoyo, we don’t need to listen to this prick. He’ll quit the second he figures out how much ridin’ fucks yer hair up.”

Oikawa gives a sharp laugh, runs his fingers through his hair, blows a kiss and walks off.

Atsumu seethes, blood boiling beneath his skin. He always knew the Rider’s Quadrant attracted some of the most cutthroat bastards in Navarre, but that guy is something else.

Atsumu works on his breathing while they wait their turn, trying to cool off the heat in his veins. He needs to keep his emotions under control. The gravity of the test is settling over him and he’s starting to feel a little nauseous. Next to him, Hinata’s foot taps incessantly on the ground. Atsumu’s eyes travel down towards the motion and he groans as he notices what his new friend chose for footwear.

“Fuck kid, the hell’d ya get those shoes?” he asks.

This guy is fucking helpless.

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Hinata looks down at his feet, enclosed in light brown scribe slippers.

“What’s wrong is yer gonna take one step out on the ledge and slip right off the damn thing.”

“Oh.” He gulps and looks up at Atsumu, panic swimming in his eyes. “But these are the only ones I have.”

“Next,” the Second Year calls out.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Atsumu quickly pulls Hinata to the side and starts unlacing his left boot. 

“What are you doing?” Hinata hisses, checking over his shoulder to see the instructor staring at them with an impatient look. 

“What size shoe are you?”

“Umm size 8 I think?”

Fuck, that’s small. But Atsumu’s mind has already been made and he rips his boot off and shoves it into Hinata’s chest.

“Take yer left shoe off, and switch me.”

“What?”

“It won’t be a very good fit, but ya don’t stand a chance out there in those slick-soled scribe shoes.”

Hinata looks back at the boot with wide eyes. “No, I can’t, I-”

“Just hurry up and switch me, unless ya wanna end up at the bottom of the ravine. Take yer sock and roll it up in the toe ta help it fit.”

Hinata straightens his back, swears under his breath, and rushes to untie his shoe. He hands it over to Atsumu.

“Are you sure about this?” Hinata asks.

“Absolutely. Ya can give it back when we reach the other side.” Atsumu hopes that came out confidently. He really would hate to lose a boot…

A harsh hand hits Atsumu’s shoulder, shoving hard and knocking him off balance.

“Keep it moving, some of us are actually going make it across, and we’d like to do it sometime this century,” the jerk from earlier jeers, voice instantly grating on Atsumu’s nerves.

“Keep yer bloody fuckin’ mouth shut or I’ll pull ya down with me,” he snaps back.

The boy’s eyes sharpen and he scoffs. “Watch what enemies you make hothead, you never know which will be your downfall.”

Atsumu has plenty of enemies already, and this prick doesn’t even make his list.

“Before ya know it, I’ll be waitin’ on the other side ta give that pretty face a yers a right fuckin’ hook.”

The douchebag’s lips quirk up but his eyes stay sharp as a blade. “We’ll see about that.”

Atsumu scoffs, and walks to the opening of the turret leading to the parapet. This thin strip of stone is what will determine which candidates will even have a chance of being cadets.

It’s Hinata’s turn to go.

“Don’t fall,” Atsumu offers as a last bit of advice.

Hinata turns his head to smirk back at him. “And don’t underestimate me.” And hops down.

Atsumu gasps and rushes forward to see Hinata already strides ahead, keeping low from the wind and moving as fast and sure as a cat with 9 lives. His figure blurs as he recedes farther into the rain.

Damn, the kid’s got guts—he’ll give him that. 

Atsumu spent so much time worrying over Hinata that he forgot about his own nerves. They return now in full force as he peers down over the ravine. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, stealing a brief moment to take stock of himself. The rain’s making his clothes hang cold and heavy on his frame, the extra weight of it threatening to drag him down. He decides to shuck his jacket despite the bitter chill, and tosses it to the floor. At least now he can blame his shivering on the cold. His hands rub over the smooth leather of his vest, checking for the four sheathed daggers hidden along his ribs. He can feel the small stack of letters rolled around his calf under his right boot, he gives a few small kicks to test the grip and finds it promising. He doesn’t even want to think about his left foot. His toes are curled under themselves, jammed up at the edge of Hinata’s shoe. It hurts like a bitch, but he’s made his bed now. He just hopes that all of this wasn’t a horrible decision. 

He brings his necklace to his lips for luck. 

Don’t let fear stop you. You have a job to do.

“I am not going to die today,” he whispers to himself as he takes the first tentative step off the platform.

— ⚡︎ —

He might die today.

The second his foot hits the narrow bridge, he slips. His face rushes towards the stones and he’s barely able to catch himself. His knee slams down hard in a sharp flash of pain. His fingers grip tight into the cold smooth surface as the wind howls above his head. Shit. Stay calm, stay calm. He takes a few deep breaths and tries to settle his nerves. His eyes can’t help but drift towards the horrifying drop below. The ground isn’t even visible through the hazy mist and heavy rain. If Atsumu falls off, it’s game over. He doesn’t care about dying, but he can’t die today. He will cross this stupid bridge no matter what.

“I guess getting rid of you will be even easier than I thought!” Oikawa’s voice sings from behind him.

This fucking guy.

With the reminder of danger at his back, Atsumu steels himself to press forward. His heart races as he slowly stands, arms out for balance. His knee hurts like hell, the pain throbbing beneath his skin. He tries a small step forward again, this time with his good boot, and it holds. He tries for a step with his left and feels it give once again, lurching him backwards. Hinata’s shoes were even worse than he thought—who bothers to make shoes with literally zero bit of traction? He’s able to steady himself before falling this time, but he’s only three steps in and his confidence has vanished into the mist.

Balance is a skill that Atsumu never cared much to hone. He wasn’t going to be a rider, so he didn’t see the merit of it. Brute force always served him much better. Now the regret floods in, leaving him as unsteady as he used to feel on the ropes course in grade school.

He inches forward slowly, leading with his right foot, then slides his left behind him along the uneven cobblestone. Ok, that seems like it’s working. If he can keep his weight on his good side, he might be able to do this. 

That irritating voice calls from behind him. “Need a little motivation Blondie?”

Shit, that voice is a whole lot closer than it should be. Atsumu dares a glance backwards to see Oikawa gaining on him—hands raised menacingly.

Holy shit, he’s going to push me.

Atsumu’s heart drops. He cannot fall off this stupid bridge. Especially not at the hands of some insignificant wannabe.

Not today, asshole.

He quickly reaches to his side to pull a dagger free from his vest. Pulse racing, he crouches down to steady himself with one hand against the slick stone and turns to face Oikawa. He uses the back of his arm to wipe the rain from his eyes, takes a deep steadying breath and throws as hard as he can. The blade flies a fast but wobbly path towards its mark. Atsumu aimed for the throat, but his finesse is shaky, and it sails past Oikawa’s ear, taking a small shave of light brown hair with it. It works just as well though, since he whips his head to the side to dodge. The quick movement knocks him off balance just as a large gust of wind comes to finish the job.

Atsumu mourns the loss of his blade as it sails down, disappearing in the mist below. He is now down to just three daggers. He can’t afford to waste any more.

Unfortunately, the loss may have been in vain. That cocky bastard’s reflexes are next fucking level, and he manages to swing a leg around in time to lock a knee up and over the ledge. He is now hanging upside down, back flat against the castle wall instead of splattered flat on the ground.

Shit.

Oikawa holds strong with his legs as he folds his torso up, fingers scrambling for a grip on the cobblestone ledge. He’s managing to hang on, but isn’t able fully pull himself up and out of danger. The candidate behind him hurries to catch up to where he’s perched, muscles straining to hold on. She’s a tiny thing with shoulder cropped blonde hair that’s whipping in her face. When she reaches Oikawa, she dips down to offer him a hand. He takes it and pulls himself back up, then flashes a wicked smile as he pulls her down simultaneously. Atsumu gasps as she tumbles over the edge. Oikawa is now back atop the bridge in a feline-esque perch, rage burning in his eyes. 

The girl screams the whole way down.

Atsumu curses under his breath and quickly turns back around. He can hear Oikawa screeching behind him.

“You are so fucking dead!” 

Not yet. I can’t die yet.

Atsumu chants the mantra in his head as he wills his body forward. His father always warned Atsumu that his mouth would be his downfall, and fuck, he might have been right. He needs to get to the other side of this death trap, now. He stays crouched, using his hands to steady himself as he pushes his way forward. It’s hardly becoming of a rider to crawl their way across the parapet, but pride be damned. His pride is worthless to him now.

Stay calm. Move forward. You will not die today.

Oikawa is screaming threats and obscenities behind him, utter contempt lacing his voice, the voice that’s getting closer and closer by the second. But Atsumu doesn’t dare look back. He’s just a few steps away from the end of the bridge, where beautiful, wonderful ground is waiting for him.

Atsumu can feel the fierce presence behind him now, rage almost burning off the stinging rain. But he’s so close he can taste the finish line. Just as Oikawa’s hand reaches out for him, Atsumu lunges forward the last few feet, and his hands mercifully land against the tower walls. The second his hand touches, he grips the wall and spins back around, free hand reaching for his vest. He turns to find Oikawa skidding to a hault, chin turned up and eyes blazing. The power dynamic shifts in an instant, as Atsumu’s blade kisses his throat.

“Yer move pretty boy, but I’d rather not waste another blade on ya,” he spits. His heart pounds under his ribs, but his stance holds firm as stone.

From the safety of the tower, Atsumu holds his position, effectively blocking Oikawa’s path to salvation. Tense seconds pass as they assess each other. Oikawa’s mind is no doubt running through all the possibilities of how he can tip the scales back to his favor. Atsumu narrows his eyes and pushes his blade just a hair further, threatening to break skin.

Fear surges in Oikawa’s eyes, and then resignation. In a flash he’s back to his default, haughty asshole expression.

“Then it seems we have a truce,” his eyes sharpen, “for now.”

Atsumu glares back, wishing he could read minds. He has no clue whether or not this so-called truce is genuine, or if he’ll be getting his neck snapped the second he turns his back. Something in his gut decides to take Oikawa on his word. It could be a huge mistake, but he prays the bastard will leave him alone at least for today.

“Fine," Atsumu says. "Truce."

Atsumu hopes that one day will be all he needs.

They stay frozen for a moment, neither party daring to break eye contact or relax the tension in their muscles.

“Now are you going to let me through?” Oikawa asks, blinking first and folding his arms. “I’d rather not hang out up here all day, if it’s all the same to you.”

Well, this won’t be the first questionable decision Atsumu’s made today, but he slowly lowers his blade and steps back to the safety of the tower. He presses himself up flat against the stone wall for Oikawa to pass. No reason to give the bastard a clean shot at his back- just in case he’s feeling stabby after all.

“Thank you.” Oikawa hops down to the tower and saunters past. As he crosses Atsumu, he leans in to whisper, “I won’t be losing to you, you know.”

“It’s not a competition,” Atsumu says with a tick in his jaw, knife still clenched in his fist.

Oikawa gives a mirthful laugh. “Everything is a competition. See you around Blondie.” A promise and a threat-Atsumu will need to keep one eye open around that guy. He certainly lives up to the Riders Quadrant’s Ruthless reputation, and he won’t be the last one here to do so.

Only after Oikawa disappears into the crowd does Atsumu dare to leave the turret tower and walk into the main quad. The millisecond after stepping out, Atsumu is nearly knocked over by an orange blur.

“We did it!” Hinata screams. Loudly. Right in his ear.

Atsumu laughs, finally allowing the tension to seep out from his bones as he hugs Hinata back. “Yeah kid, we sure did,” he says. The massive adrenaline rush finally peters out and it’s leaving him feeling light and floaty. “Now give me my shoe back before my foot goes completely numb.”

After quickly trading back shoes, they shuffle over to the line of freshly minted cadets to have their names officially added to the Rider’s Quadrant. They reach the front of the line where a familiar, war hardened face waits with a scroll, ready to sign their lives away. His stark white hair contrasts his black riding leathers. He has a dignified look accompanied by an air of superior confidence that all riders seem to have. Atsumu supposes being bonded to a 15-foot fire breathing war machine will do that.

“Name?” he asks.

Atsumu nudges Hinata’s shoulder, urging him forward while his own head hangs down.

“Hinata Shoyo sir!” he squeaks as he steps up with head held high.

The instructor nods and jots the name down onto the scroll. He turns to Atsumu and both eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Miya Atsumu,” he says, sounding more like a question.

Hinata gasps, “Miya? As in General Miya?”

“The one and fuckin’ only,” Atsumu sighs.

Atsumu’s neck heats as all around him, deadly eyes shoot his way. Shit. So much for staying under the radar. Atsumu supposes it was a long shot that he wouldn’t be outed, seeing as his father is the commander of this entire place. He just hopes that none of the other cadets try to kill him before he finds who he’s looking for.

“I can’t say I expected to see you today. The General didn’t say anything,” Colonel Kita Aetos says.

“After much contemplatin’, this is exactly where I needed ta be sir.”

“I’m glad you came around. I’m sure your father is very proud of your decision.”

Atsumu shrugs. He doesn’t really give a damn what his father thinks. 

“Hey!” Hinata pipes in, “can’t General Miya control the weather or something? You’d think he would’ve dried this storm up for you to cross today!”

“Must not want to be seen playin’ any favorites,” Atsumu laughs nervously.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Hinata that the fact he’s crossing today is exactly why it’s storming. Miya Ichiro has no tolerance for weakness, and he’s forcing Atsumu to prove himself worthy of their family name. As if the family legacy meant shit to him. The only Miyas worth a damn are gone now.

He returns his attention to Colonel Kita. “Is Shinsuke around here somewhere?” Atsumu scans the Quad, clocking plenty of second and third years in their leathers, but no familiar head of white and black hair.

“He’s running an errand for me today, but I’ll make sure to tell him you’re here and get you assigned to his squad. He’s Squad Leader for Second Wing,” he says, beaming with pride. “I’ll make sure he looks out for you. Looks like we got an especially mean crop of recruits this year.”

Of course Kita would have made Squad Leader already, he’s the best leader material Atsumu could think of. He’s kind and brave, and ok—maybe a little bit bossy too, but in a good way. Atsumu breathes a short sigh of relief knowing he will have a guaranteed friend here. He’ll need it if Plan A fails and he actually has to stay in this hellhole.

“Ah thank ya sir, that’d be great.” Atsumu gives a slight bow and turns to leave.

“Atsumu, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Atsumu’s shoulders immediately tense. He was hoping to avoid shit like this, all it’s served to do so far is make him feel nauseous. All of the sorrys and well wishes in the world can’t bring back the dead.

“I appreciate that Sir." Respect is the only thing pushing the words out. Hinata’s eyes flit towards him, filled with sympathy, but he at least has the decorum not to ask who died. They walk off in silence, melding into the swarm of excited new recruits and the seasoned cadets who are sizing them up.

Each one of Atsumu’s muscles are on high alert. An itch starts to crawl beneath his skin as anticipation sets in. His little orange shadow is making him even more anxious, as nice as the little guy is, it's time to shake him.

“Hey Shoyo," Atsumu says, "mind if I catch up with ya later? There’s someone I gotta find.”

“Yeah, sure!” Hinata smiles, before resting a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. “Hey Atsumu, thank you for helping me. You’re a really good person, and I’m happy I met you. Just know that I totally have your back from now on!”

Atsumu could probably count on one hand the amount of times he’s been called a good person. It makes him feel a little warm and fuzzy, emotions that are completely at war with everything else swirling in his chest.

Hinata really looks like he means it too, with a sweet sincerity that makes it impossible not to smile back. At least a little. 

“I’m just glad ta see ya on this side of the parapet.”

“Oh man, me too! Hey maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get assigned to the same squad!”

“Yeah maybe.” Atsumu hasn’t thought that far ahead, but he wonders if Kita could pull any strings for him there. After getting a taste of the lovely fucking people around here, he thinks having a few allies around could be helpful after all. 

They exchange briefs “see you laters” and the orange blur that is Hinata Shoyo disappears into the crowd.

Atsumu roams around a bit, he spots a familiar head of mousy brown hair peeking out of the crowd, then promptly chooses another direction. Some people whisper to each other as he crosses by; he ignores it.

There aren’t any dragons in the Quad today, but they occasionally fly by overhead. Some with riders, showing off; some without riders, scouting out the fresh meat. Atsumu spots a familiar, fierce brown swordtail perched on the outer wall. Sitting atop its back, is the legend himself, General Miya Ichiro. Their gazes meet and suddenly the clouds break and the rain dissipates. 

Asshole.

Atsumu scowls and goes back to doing what he does best, ignoring his father. His eyes keep scanning the quad, but he doesn’t actually know what to look for.

Where is he?

His attention is grabbed by some odd movement in the crowd. People are adjusting their paths, giving a wide berth to a small huddle of intimidating Cadets. An air of apprehension surrounds the bubble and Atsumu moves in closer to investigate. And when he does, he is stopped dead in his tracks by the most gorgeous man he has ever seen.

Not just gorgeous, absolutely exquisite. Atsumu’s heart skips a beat as he drinks the tall, leanly muscled frame. First of all, any guy that has all 6’1 of Atsumu looking up can get it. And that’s before you count the windswept curly black hair, pale milky skin, sharp jawline and piercing black eyes. His expression screams “don’t touch me”, and it has Atsumu’s fingers itching to do just that.

The man looks like a damn statue, with every curve and angle meticulously carved by the gods. The sweeping perfection is only marred by two small moles sitting atop his right eyebrow, nearly bisected by a thin scar that cuts straight through the brow's high arch. The small, charming details somehow make him even hotter.

‘Gods, he’s pretty,’ Atsumu thinks.

He shakes his head to clear it. He can't afford distractions like that. He came here for a reason, and he’ll be damned if anything gets in the way.

The crowd parts as an energetic boy with warm brown hair and, really weird eyebrows, bounds up to the group and shouts out, “Hey Kiyoomi! What do you think of the newbies so far?”

The air rushes from Atsumu’s lungs. That name…Kiyoomi, as in Sakusa Kiyoomi. Standing before him, scowling down at the gaggle of new recruits, is the reason he came here.

At the call of his name, Sakusa turns his head—revealing the dark swirls of his rebellion relic crawling up the side of his neck. Those tattoos mark him for the traitor he is, and that’s all the confirmation Atsumu needs.

It doesn’t matter how pretty this guy is, he’s about to be a pretty fucking corpse.

Chapter Text

“ The signet is the unique ability derived from the bond between dragon and rider.
It is therefore only natural that the more powerful the dragon, the more powerful the signet its rider manifests.
Many riders manifest the same signets, ice wielding and fire wielding are a few of the common powers.
Then there are signets that make riders stand apart; make them extraordinary.”

-Major Afendra's Guide to the Rider's Quadrant

Ice fills Atsumu’s veins. The storm in his chest roils against his ribcage as he stares down the person responsible for ruining his life.

He only knows three things about Sakusa Kiyoomi. The first is that his father, Sakusa Fen led the failed rebellion against their kingdom. The second is that his own father, General Miya Ichiro oversaw the subsequent execution of said rebellion leader. The third thing, the only one that matters, is that Sakusa Kiyoomi is the reason Miya Osamu is dead.

Atsumu felt like his own life ended the day Osamu died. He felt his soul rip in half before he even received word of his twin’s passing.

The worst part of it all is that Atsumu wasn’t there when it happened. Osamu had gone to Basgiath without him, and he had refused to follow. Each waking moment Atsumu is plagued by the thought that if he had just been there, maybe things would have been different.

It’s not enough, but at least he’s here now. He couldn’t save Osamu, but he sure as hell can rip apart the bastard responsible.

Atsumu’s heart pounds. Adrenaline courses through him as he draws two daggers from his vest. He takes a moment to ground himself by running his finger over the small sun engraved in the dagger’s hilt. Revenge stands just a few mere feet away, wearing all black and sporting a pinched up scowl.

‘This is it. I’m going to kill him,’ he thinks. Almost the moment he puts the thought out to the universe, onyx eyes snap his direction. The moment their eyes meet, lightning cracks in Atsumu’s chest.

He throws his first two blades in quick succession and sprints forward, following their flight path. This time, his aim is dead on, and the blades fly directly at his target. Or at least they fly directly where his target used to be. As if sensing the attack, Sakusa throws his head back to dodge the first blade and draws his arm in front of his chest, blocking the other with his bracer.

Before the second dagger even clatters to the ground, he vanishes. Suddenly the quad is swallowed up by a cloud of darkness, and Atsumu is stopped dead in his tracks. All he can see is a small circle of cobblestone beneath his feet; all he can hear is the frantic beat of his heart against his chest.

Fuck. Atsumu knew his target would have magic on his side, but he had no way to prepare for what kind of signet he would have. He certainly never expected something as rare, or as dangerous, as a shadow wielder. Thank gods Sakusa didn’t have his dragon with him today. Any dragon channeling this much power into their rider has to be an absolute monster.

Miya Atsumu is no stranger to half baked plans. He rarely considers all the angles before diving in head first, and today was no exception. There’s a very good chance that all of this is going to bite him in the ass.

Atsumu holds his dagger tight in his fist, he braces himself for an attack. He spins slowly, swiveling his head side to side as he waits for the ambush.

Suddenly he’s grabbed from behind with an arm around his neck and another reaching up to his head. Atsumu ducks down through the arm and thrusts his elbow back into his attacker with enough force to avoid ending up in a headlock. He whips around and stands his ground a few feet from the assailant, blade poised and ready.

Sakusa stares back at him with fire burning in his coal black eyes, body tensed to fight. Then something shifts in his gaze-his face goes pale, his eyes grow wide and he lets out a small gasp of recognition.

“What’s wrong? See a ghost?” Atsumu snarls, using the brief hesitation to his advantage and throwing his weight into another attack. He lunges towards Sakusa, blade aimed directly at his heart.

Unfortunately, his upper hand is short lived because the bastard is fucking fast . He spins his body to match Atsumu’s momentum, dodging the attack while thrusting a hand to Atsumu’s back and pushing him hard towards the ground. At least Atsumu isn’t totally helpless when it comes to hand to hand combat, and he shifts his body weight, rolling to the side instead of smashing into the floor. He pops up out of his roll and lashes back with his blade. Sakusa pulls back, but Atsumu is quick enough to graze a small cut over his cheek. Just as the blade glances off his face, Sakusa catches Atsumu’s hand and bends it backwards. Atsumu screams as he hears a sickening crunch in his wrist, searing pain shooting up his entire arm. Sakusa’s eyes stay locked hard onto Atsumu as he presses the hand back again. Atsumu grits his teeth against the blinding pain pulsing through his hand, but he can’t maintain his grip on the weapon, so it falls to the floor.

Once Atsumu is disarmed, his feet are yanked out from under him by a ripple of shadows. The back of his head head slams into the hard ground, erupting in pain. Sakusa follows him to the floor, swiftly positioning himself so he’s straddling Atsumu and pinning him down by the wrists. The scent of jasmine and musk washes over him.

Fierce eyes rove over the planes of Atsumu’s face, then flit up to his hair. Confusion knits in Sakusa’s brows.

“What’s your name?” Sakusa's voice is husky and low, which might have been sexy under different circumstances, but right now it just sends chills down Atsumu’s spine. Gloved hands grip tight around Atsumu’s wrists, digging them into the ground, adding a little extra pressure on the broken one. Bastard.

Atsumu bites his tongue, amber eyes filled with rage. He pushes back against Sakusa’s weight, but then a knee presses hard into his stomach; keeping him firmly in place against the damp cobblestone. 

Sakusa releases his grip on one hand to punch the blonde hard across the jaw, and brings his face up with a harsh fistful of hair. “Answer me.”

Atsumu’s mouth pools with the metallic tang of blood. He turns slightly, pulling against Sakusa’s grip to spit it out on the floor. Fuck, he’ll probably die anyway- should’ve just spit in his face.

He pushes the answer through bloody clenched teeth. “Miya Atsumu.”

“Hmm,” Sakusa’s gaze turns cold and calculating, Atsumu squirms under its scrutiny. “I didn’t know there was another Miya.”

“Surprise, asshole.”

“Your father killed mine.”

“And you killed my brother.”

“Did I?” his head cocks to the side, looking as if he’s almost bored with the conversation.

Rage swallows Atsumu’s vision-the world tinting into a violent crimson, tunneled black at the edges.

This guy ruined Atsumu’s life, took away the only person who he truly cared about, and he couldn’t care less.

With Sakusa’s grip now in his hair, one of Atsumu’s arms lay free at his side. Thankfully it's not the broken one. It discreetly makes its way back towards the hidden sheaths in Atsumu’s vest.

“Allow me to jog yer fuckin’ memory!”

He reaches for his fourth dagger to make his final strike and-shit. It’s not there. His fingers pause at the spot where his blade should’ve been, grasping nothing but an empty pocket. His final chance at finishing this lay at the bottom of the ravine with that damn dagger.

Atsumu swears under his breath. Sakusa seems to notice his predicament and barks out a soulless laugh. “I’m almost offended that you’re so ill prepared. Then again, you could’ve hidden an entire armory along your sides,” he traces a slender gloved finger down the length of Atsumu’s armor, “and this would still end exactly the same.”

Wisps of shadows from the air wrap their way around Atsumu’s neck, pressing in on his windpipe. He claws at the dark tendrils, desperate to pry them from his throat, but his hands just slip through like nothing’s there.

He manages to cough out an “I’ll kill ya,” before his air is fully cut off.

Shining black eyes bore into Atsumu as his vision goes spotty. The man above him flashes a dazzling, deadly smile.

“You’re certainly welcome to die trying.”

Those are the last words Atsumu hears before everything goes black.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu hears the world come back into focus before he sees it. The shuffling of feet and the murmurs of voices float into his ears. Those are the first signs that he’s actually still alive. He jolts up and his eyes fly open.”Fuck!” He yelps. The second sign is the absolute agony coursing through his body. His head pounds, his joints ache, and his lungs are on fire. He touches his jaw tenderly and winces as his fingers prod the growing bruise. When he pulls his hand back, he catches sight of a tan brace wrapped around his wrist. Miraculously, his hand is the only place he doesn’t feel pain. There’s a very faint dull buzzing deep in the bone, but other than that- nothing. Atsumu flexes his fingers in awe-he’s almost positive he heard, and felt, the bones snap in his wrist when Sakusa disarmed him. Did he imagine it? The whole fight was a blur. All he remembers is darkness, rage, pain, and those ferocious black eyes.

But-he’s alive. Each breath feels like sandpaper against his throat, but that means he’s still breathing.

Atsumu takes a moment to survey his surroundings. It’s a large, plainly decorated room. Neat rows of sterile white cots line the space. A few people mill about wearing pale blue robes, tending to the few lying in the cots. There’s an overwhelming smell of antiseptic, with a faint underlying note of blood. The Infirmary.  

They must have taken Atsumu here after he passed out. Did someone stop Sakusa from killing him? Did he stop himself? Atsumu shelves the questions for now. He can work it all out when he’s able to chase down some more information. And when his head isn’t pounding so fucking hard.

He sighs and slumps his shoulders. There’s a small table to the side of his bed, with a glass of water waiting for him. Atsumu snatches the glass and gulps the water down. Swallowing is pure torture to his aching throat, but he manages to down the entire glass. It’s lukewarm, like it’s been sitting for a while.

Atsumu glances to the cot next to him, where he hears a steady string of grumbling. A guy with spiked white and black streaked hair sits at the edge of the bed-an absolute beast of a guy. His broad shoulders hunch over as he holds an ice filled cloth to his mouth. His eyebrows are tucked tight and furrowed as he frowns at the floor.

Not keen on making any more enemies today, especially not giant ones, Atsumu sets down his glass and makes an attempt at some friendly small talk.

“Guess I’m not the only one picking fights on the first day,” he says, then quickly coughs to clear his throat once he hears how hoarse his voice sounds.

His neighbor looks up, expression shifting dramatically to big yellow owl eyes and one eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead.

“Who, me?” he asks.

Atsumu nods. “That’s a hell of a fat lip. But let me guess, I should see the other guy?”

The boy barks out a laugh, intimidating aura vanishing in a flash of pearly white. “Oh no, there’s no ‘other guy’. My face had a fight with the floor the second I stepped into the Quad. I was steady as a rock the whole way over the parapet, and then SPLAT!” He claps his hands for effect. “Slipped right in front of everyone.” 

Atsumu stifles a laugh-it’s a funny mental image. Even if the other boy is laughing himself, Atsumu doesn’t want to chance landing on his bad side.

“What about you? How’d your other guy make out?” the boy asks.

Atsumu sighs, tongue tracing over his bottom row of teeth. They throb in his gums, but they're all still in their right spots. “Let’s just say I’m here and he’s not.”

The guy lets out a low whistle. “Tryin’ to look tough by going after one of the big guys?”

“Something like that.”

“Ahh, you see the secret is to only pick fights you know you can win!”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“That’s why I only start fist fights with scribes. And cats. And small children.”

Atsumu laughs. “Ya know, I saw a few kids at the bottom of the steps, just ripe fer the kickin’.”

“Damn I must’ve missed them!” His big toothy grin now seems to be a permanent facial feature, and the earlier tension bleeds out of the room. “I’m Bokuto Koutaro.”

He sets down his ice pack to hold out his hand. Atsumu goes to shake back, then catches sight of his wrist brace again. He freezes the motion and makes an awkward twisted grab with his left hand insead. He gives Bokuto’s hand a little shake and they both burst out laughing again.

“I’m Atsumu.”

“Good to meet you! Are you here for the rider’s quadrant?”

“Yup. I doubt the Scribe’s Quadrant has many members sleeping in the infirmary on the first night.” He gives a fox-like grin. “Unless they run into you, of course.”

Bokuto bellows out a laugh. “You got that right buddy!” He holds his fists up by his face to flex his, freaking huge, muscles. He has an incredibly boisterous laugh that shakes his whole body. It makes Atsumu feel a little better, a little lighter after this hell of a day.

Buddies, allies; whatever Atsumu is making here, it’s just nice not to feel completely alone.

Once again Bokuto’s expression flips in an instant and he’s anxious, sitting rod straight and looking at the floor.

“Oh shit, pretty healer’s coming back,” he says under his breath.

“Huh? Who’s-”

“Don’t look!” he hisses.

Just then a healer with dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes walks over to them. Damn, Bokuto wasn’t lying about him being pretty. A little delicate for Atsumu’s tastes perhaps, but he has Bokuto turning red and squirming in his seat.

The healer turns to Atsumu. “Oh good! You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Like dog-shit if I’m bein’ honest.”

He gets a small smile from the crass comment.

“Mender Nolon has been incredibly busy today, so he was only able to fix your hand. The rest of your injuries will have to heal on their own.”

Atsumu nearly forgot about Nolon. The training here is so brutal there’s the college mender is probably run ragged daily. He'd patched Atsumu and Osamu up countless times as a kid, it's a shame Atsumu wasn't awake to say hi. Menders aren’t part of the Healer’s Quadrant, they’re riders. It’s an incredibly rare signet ability that can restore anything to its original state- broken bones, torn cloth, even pulverized buildings if they’re strong enough. 

Atsumu remembers the letter Osamu sent him after his signet manifested- turns out he was a mender. It was poetic that he would be- always the one wanting to fix the broken. Atsumu tended to be the one doing the breaking. No doubt if he had time he could’ve been one of the greatest menders Navarre had ever seen. He probably worked with Nolon for the few short months before-well just before.

The healer’s voice snaps Atsumu back to reality again; he held out two small pills and a fresh cup of water.

“For the pain.”

Atsumu thanks him and washes the pills down. He hopes they work quickly.

“You’ll be sleeping here tonight so we can keep an eye on you. Hypothetically you’re all patched up, but with any head injuries we want to observe for at least 12 hours to make sure nothing’s wrong.”

Atsumu nods his head and settles down into his bed. He’d rather not face a dorm filled with cutthroat cadets who most likely saw him get his ass kicked today. He isn’t looking for an encore.

The healer turns to Bokuto and says, “You’re clear to return to the Rider dorm Bokuto-san. I hope not to see you back here too soon.” He gives a mirthful smile like they’re already sharing inside jokes after a few short hours.

Bokuto gives him the biggest grin back, eyes sparkling. “I think I’m just starting my klutzy streak actually. Might as well sign up for my own personal cot- as long as you’re here Akaashi.”

The healer laughs behind his hand and sends Bokuto off so Atsumu can rest. Bokuto gives a dramatic goodbye and promises to ‘find you again someday Tsum-Tsum ’.

Atsumu lays back in his cot, staring at the ceiling. He wishes his mind would calm so he could sleep, but his fight with Sakusa plays in his head again and again. He had been wildly outmatched from the get-go. He essentially brought a knife to a magic fight- and he’s man enough to admit it was a pretty stupid plan. He had never seen a shadow-wielder in person before, much less tried to fight one. And judging by Sakusa’s demeanor, and how quickly their fight ended, he barely caught a glimpse of how much power he wields. Taking him down feels like an insurmountable task. 

But he just has to find a way. It’s not fair that Sakusa gets to keep breathing while Osamu doesn’t. It’s a wrong that Atsumu has to right, if there’s any semblance of righteousness or good left in this world.

Atsumu may be a bit out of practice, but that doesn’t erase the years of training his father put him through. Back at Inarizaki he was the top fighter in their program. The only person he’d ever lost to was Osamu, and that only ever happened when the scrub was obviously cheating. A few good weeks of rider training and he should be back in fighting form. 

But then again there’s Sakusa’s signet to deal with… and maybe even his dragon too.

Dragons!

Atsumu mentally slaps himself. He’s been on such a one-track mind he forgot where he is, what this place is for. All he has to do is make it to Threshing, find the biggest most badass dragon there, and get bonded himself. Once he’s able to channel his own magic, he can take Sakusa on again. Surely he’ll be able to kill him then.

With some semblance of a plan mapped out, at least by Atsumu’s meager standards, his mind is finally able to settle enough to sleep. Thankfully the drugs kick in quickly after, and Atsumu is dragged back into blissful unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

The unlikely partnership between humans and dragons is the key to protecting both species. They need us to bond and manipulate their magic to power the protective wards around Navarre and the Vale. If it weren’t for this tentative treaty, they could simply eat us all and be done with it.

-Major Afendra’s Guide to the Riders Quadrant

Sakusa Kiyoomi takes in his reflection in the mirror, tracing a soft line over his cheek. He hisses at the sting when his bare finger passes over the angry red cut. It’s not very large, not even deep enough to permanently mark him- but still, no one has gotten a scratch off him since Sgaeyl gave him his scar at Treshing. After rinsing off the bit of dried blood, he twirls the iron blade in his hands- admiring the fine craftsmanship. He would expect nothing less from a General’s son. There’s a tiny sun engraved in the hilt, inlaid with gold. Gold like the flash of hair barreling towards him in the quad. Gold like eyes glittering with hate.

So, Miya Osamu’s brother has come to Basgiath. Come to kill him.

The man was impulsive and sloppy, but still—there was this unmistakable spark in his eyes. A spark that says Miya Atsumu is a threat Kiyoomi can’t afford to ignore. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

He sighs, placing the knife neatly in his armoire among the small army of blades he’s collected over the past three years.

‘Well this should certainly be interesting.’

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu wakes from his sleep, confused and shaking. Scratch that-he’s woken from his sleep by Kita Shinsuke shaking him by the shoulders. The infirmary is dark and quiet; just a few spaced torches providing spots of dim yellow light. Once Atsumu’s eyes adjust enough to see the bright smile looking back at him, he’s hit with a surge of happiness.

“Shin!” Atsumu exclaims, sitting up straight and wincing when the pain hits him again. It’s dulled a bit since the last time he woke up, but it’s far from gone. He wonders how long he’ll need to live with the aching reminder of Sakusa Kiyoomi lingering in his body. He shakes it off to dive into his friend’s arms and hug him as tight as his aching muscles allow. Kita holds him back and doesn’t pull away until Atsumu does.

Kita looks just like Atsumu remembers. Straight white hair dipped in black falls gracefully over his forehead. He’s just as handsome as ever, with his milk chocolate eyes shining in the flickering torchlight.

Kita brings the back of his hand up to Atsumu’s forehead, then softly grips his chin to turn his head side to side. His thumb lightly passes over the bruise on his jaw and he asks in a soft voice, “Atsumu, what are ya doin’ here?”

Everything in Kita’s voice—the accent, the warmth, even the gentle concern—reminds Atsumu of home.

He holds his braced arm up sheepishly and responds, “Uhh, hurt my hand?”

He gives a small, guilty smile, and they both know he’s avoiding the real question.

Kita shakes his head, pouring Atsumu a glass of water from the pitcher on his nightstand. “Not the Infirmary. Basgiath. I never thought I’d see ya here.”

Atsumu takes the glass from Kita’s hand, and stares down into the clear water, as if it holds all of the answers he doesn’t want to admit. He rubs a fingertip around the rim of the glass. 

“I had ta come.”

Kita nods sagely, compassion filling his eyes.

“Do ya know what happened? I tried pryin’ out more information from my father but he just said that he can’t share any details from War Games while I’m still a cadet. His reasoning was that it would ‘give me an unfair advantage’ fer future games, but that was a lie.”

“I know enough.”

Atsumu’s foggy brain takes a second to catch up, but something about Kita’s response strikes him as odd.

“Wait, how would you know yer old man was lyin’?”

Kita's eyes shine and he flashes a teasing smirk. “It’s my signet.”

Atsumu’s jaw drops. No way.

“Yer a truth-sayer? That’s fuckin’ amazin’ Shin!”

It’s an incredibly rare and valuable signet that will more than set Kita apart from his peers. It’s not flashy or particularly useful in combat, but a power like that will make Kita an invaluable interrogation tool in Navarre’s arsenal. Atsumu can’t think of a more useful signet for Intelligence. Other than Inntinnsics of course- but any cadet who manifests mind-reading powers is executed on the spot. Clearly Kita’s abilities are still controllable enough not to warrant him a security risk. As long as the higher ups are able to keep their own secrets, then he can be an incredible asset to the war effort.

“Just make sure ya don’t tell anyone, okay? They’re keepin’ it confidential.”

Kita taps at the patch on his right breast pocket- a small compass to signify a classified signet. Atsumu marvels at Kita’s carefully embroidered flight jacket—the real thing. They aren’t playing Dragon Riders on the playground anymore, he’s actually bonded. To an actual dragon. And has actual fucking magic.

“Oh wow, yeah of course. I won’t tell nobody. Damn Shin, of course you’d be a truth-sayer.”

The power feels perfect for Kita, Atsumu was never able to get much past him anyway. Plus he likes knowing everything. It’s weird looking into a face that’s almost the same, yet knowing the person wearing it has changed so much.

“So since now ya know ya can’t lie to me- what are ya really doin’ here? Ya swore you’d never join the Riders.”

Atsumu decides that now is the perfect time to chug his entire glass of water. He savors the few precious seconds before wiping his mouth, screwing his eyes shut and admitting, “I’m here to kill Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

He opens one eye slowly to see Kita staring back at him slack-jawed. He’s frozen for a minute, then looks around the room hastily.

“What? Are ya out of yer mind?” He whisper-yells, to get his point across while not waking anyone else in the Infirmary. Luckily the few lumps of blankets in the other cots don’t seem to stir.

“He killed Samu.”

“He—what?” The blood drains from Kita’s face. 

The details of that day aren’t public knowledge. Atsumu himself wouldn’t have any clue what happened if he didn’t shake it out of his father. 

“Ya don’t just die during War Games Shin—ya get killed.”

“Atsumu, six people died during last year’s Games.” His voice goes soft again. So soft, as if just a harsh word could break Atsumu into pieces. He gently pries the cup from Atsumu’s grip and replaces it with a warm hand.

Atsumu squeezes back tight, but shakes his head.

“Not Samu. He wouldn’t just die durin’ a damn trainin’ exercise—ya know how strong he is.”

They both wince at the slip up. Osamu’s no longer an is, he’s a was.

“How do ya know it was Sakusa?”

“It was him.”

The words from Atsumu’s father ring in his head, words that sent him down a path of destruction. ‘If you’re looking for someone to blame, that honor belongs to Sakusa Kiyoomi.’

“No doubt he waited fer an opportunity so it’d look like an accident. Used War Games as a cover so he didn’t face execution or the wrath of General Miya,” Atsumu follows up.

“And ya want revenge? Atsumu- ya don’t understand. Sakusa is powerful. Even if he didn’t bond with the most vicious dragon I’ve ever seen, he’s a crazy fighter on his own. And that shadow signet...”

Kita’s eyes rove over Atsumu, going wide when he stops over the injuries.

“Oh gods, Atsumu- did ya attack him?!” His voice rings out far too loudly in the stillness of the Infirmary. Kita’s nails suddenly bite into the skin of Atsumu’s palm, fear gripping his features.

“I had to try.” Atsumu’s voice comes out small and weak.

Kita shakes his head. “Atsumu, that was so, so stupid. Yer lucky to still be alive. He’s not just strong physically, he’s a Wingleader. You could be executed fer attacking him, it’s against the codex.”

Sakusa is a Wingleader? Shit. As if he wasn’t untouchable enough already. Atsumu brushes it off. He’ll gladly face execution as long as Sakusa meets Malek before him. 

“I don’t give a shit about the codex.”

“Well ya should!” Kita yells as he jumps to his feet. Atsumu’s eyes dart to the lumps in the beds around him, but they lay still as rocks. Thankfully those pain killers seem to be pretty strong. He isn’t eager for an audience.

Kita is now pacing back and forth, quickly mumbling to himself. “This is bad. I don’t think he reported anythin’, I would’ve heard about it by now. Did anyone see the altercation?”

“I mean… it was right out in the quad, but everything was dark. I think he blocked anybody from seein’.”

“Why would he do that? He would’ve been in the clear killin’ ya in self defense, especially with witnesses.”

“I-“ Atsumu stops. That’s actually a great question. Why didn’t Sakusa kill Atsumu? Or report the attack? He could’ve eliminated a threat while getting another helping of revenge against the Miyas.

The hairs on Atsumu’s neck stand straight. He has an unsettling feeling- like he’s a puppet who doesn’t know which way his strings are going to be pulled next. His fists ball up around the starch-stiff blanket draped over his lap.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Kita stops his pacing, and drops his head, hands landing softly on Atsumu’s shoulders. His voice once again returns to the soft gentle tone he had earlier, “I don’t want to lose ya too.” His grip tightens and his gaze turns fierce. “Promise me ya won’t attack him again. Promise ya won’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Atsumu looks back sheepishly at his oldest friend. He hates disappointing Kita.

“I promise. I won’t do nothin’ stupid.”

“Oh Atsumu,” Kita drops his hands and shakes his head, “I think I’ll miss when you were able to lie to me.”

— ⚡︎ —

In the morning Atsumu is cleared to leave the Infirmary. The healer on the morning shift trades out his wrist brace for a much lighter hand wrap in a crisp white linen. It feels silly to even bother- his hand is the only part of his body that’s not screaming in pain. But the extra energy it would take to argue over the wrap outweighs the far simpler option of ‘shut up and do as you’re told', so he just gives the healer a curt thank you and scurries out.

As he makes his way out of the Healer’s Quadrant, Atsumu takes his time crossing the flight field. He’s visited Basgiath enough times to navigate the grounds in his sleep, which is fortunate since his brain’s still a slight bit fuzzy from the pills. Gravel crunches under his boots as he leaves behind soft imprints in the morning frost.

As he passes by one of the massive stone dragons guarding the space, he imagines what climbing up its back would be like. The statues are only half the size of a real dragon, yet it still feels like an impossible task. It’s pointless to think about anyway. Everything here feels impossible and pointless. The dragon looks down on Atsumu with disdain, as if he’s just been a huge disappointment so far. Like he always fucking is. “What are ya lookin’ at, huh?” Atsumu shouts up at the beast. He grabs a handful of gravel to chuck at its stupid face, daring it to roast him then and there. But the dragon just sits there, because it’s just a dumb statue. Atsumu growls at it one more time before scurrying away from its judgmental gaze.

As he keeps walking, Atsumu easily spots the small garden that landmarks where to turn for the Rider’s dorms. The small oasis of color sticks out among the sea of gray stone buildings like a beacon. Atsumu rushes up to the little bit of life sprouting up from the stone. This was his and Osamu’s favorite spot whenever they were dragged along to visit the college. They would climb in the trees to hide from their father- not that he usually bothered to seek them out anyway. But they always felt so safe tucked away in the leaves and shadows. Like nothing could hurt them.

Truly it’s some sort of miracle that anything can even grow on this godsforsaken mountain. Atsumu suspects that someone’s magic is responsible. In the center of the grove lies a simple glass domed building, bordered by two neat lines of fruit trees. Their branches are weighed down with beautiful colors of lemon yellow, apple green and plum red. Sadly there are no flowers in the garden- the higher ups would never allow something so needlessly pretty. Even the brightly colored fruit trees are only allowed residence because of their practicality. As Atsumu crosses the threshold of the grove, a rush of warmth cuts through the frosted air. Yep, definitely magic.

The trees welcome him like an old friend and he can’t help but wander about for a short spell. The tips of the leaves are just starting to turn color- soon they’ll be the vibrant orange and yellow of dragon’s fire, marking his favorite time of year. Atsumu runs his hands along the trunk of a massive lemon tree, letting the scratchy bark tickle against the calloused pads of his fingers. He’s incredibly tempted to hide away among the sweet smelling branches and ditch out on the overly dangerous bullshit they call training. His fingers itch to pull himself up, but he clenches his fist against the impulse. Like it or not, he’s a cadet now and he can’t just hide from all of his problems like he did as a child. He suspects that tree climbing wouldn’t be as much fun without Osamu anyway. With a final deep inhale of crisp citrus, he turns away to walk down the dreary corridor leading to the Rider’s dorms.

By the time he arrives at the large cobblestone room where they stuff all of the first years, most everyone is awake and buzzing about. His nose laments the loss of the fruit grove, since it’s now accosted with an unpleasant mixture of iron, leather and sweat.

Atsumu rolls his eyes when he takes in the charming décor of the Rider Barracks. The curtains are black, the rugs are black and the bedsheets are black. The only bit of visual interest comes from a few hanging tapestries embroidered with silver threaded dragons. But the bodies of the tapestries are also black. Whoever designed the space certainly knew how to stay on theme. Maybe they thought if there was any hint of color here it would make the cadets think that life is more than just duty, obedience and death. Or maybe they just grew tired of scrubbing out the bloodstains.

Nobody gets their own room until after Threshing, so all of the first years are canned in here like sardines. If the nerves bouncing around the room didn’t give them all away as fresh meat, the hope and life in their eyes surely does.

Atsumu shuffles his way past the tightly packed beds, looking for one that’s unclaimed. He catches a few glares from malicious looking cadets for… existing near them, apparently? He refuses to believe anyone knows about his father, or his fight with a wingleader on day one. It’s easier to embrace the simple, slightly less threatening reason for the stares- they’re all a bunch of assholes. Atsumu juts his chin out and walks on, refusing to grace any of them with his acknowledgement. Bed after black fucking bed are all filled with cadets, or covered in personal belongings, marking them as spoken for.

At least today will be the worst of the crowding and claustrophobia. The weaker cadets will be weeding themselves out sooner than later. Atsumu winces at himself for having the thought- this place is already trying to turn him as cold and hard as the rocky cliffside it sits on.

Right and wrong, compassion and weakness, justice and honor—it all seems to twist and flip in this gods’ forgotten place. He’ll need to keep his guard up if Atsumu wants to leave here resembling anything remotely human.

As he nears the far end of the room, still not seeing any free bunks, he starts to feel nervous. Will he have to sleep out in the grove tonight? He could always try faking a stomach ache and see if his acting is good enough to snag a bed in the Infirmary again. Just as his Plan B’s start forming, he hears his name.

“Atsumu! Over here!” Hinata’s bright cheery voice rings over the general chatter of the room and Atsumu’s eyes find his messy mop of orange hair immediately. He’s tucked by the back corner, sitting on his bed. Instead of yesterday’s white billowy getup, he’s wearing a standard black Rider’s uniform- they must have issued them out already. Honestly, the black really suits him. He already looks so different from the doe eyed scribe Atsumu met at the bottom of the stairs.

“I saved a bed for you! Had to fight some a-holes off for it, but I held my ground just fine. Where’d you go last night?” He grabs his rucksack off of the bed next to him and pats over the black covers.

“Just had to take care of some stuff. Thanks fer doin’ that Sho, yer a life saver,” he says with a sleepy smile, relief flooding through him.

“Aw, well I’d hardly call us even on the life-saving front, but I’ll keep working on it. I asked about getting you a uniform too, there’s a bunch of sizes still left in the closet back there.”

Atsumu’s current outfit is more or less the same as a rider’s uniform, just some pieces he strung together from his days at the Inarzaki Training Academy. But they feel stiff and sticky from the absolute hell of a day yesterday. Changing into something fresh sounds wonderful. A shower would be even better, but he’s running out of time before Morning Brief. The change of clothes will have to do. He heads for the uniform closet and grabs a standard issue outfit in a lovely shade of depression black. His hands hesitate as he starts untying his riding boots, the rolled up stack of Osamu’s letters start to fan out as they slide off. Atsumu quickly snatches them up and rerolls them, tucking them safely down at the toe of his now empty boot. He changes quickly and slips his feet into lightweight black trainers. He throws his old clothes at the laundry bin but wraps his mud-stained boots up in an extra shirt and holds the bundle close to his chest.

When Atsumu gets back to his bunk, he stashes the black lump as far under the bed as it can go. Hopefully nobody here would be interested in stealing his dirty old shoes. Then again, someone might steal his shoes, just to fuck with him. But he can always grab a new pair from the closet, so it wouldn’t be a very good prank… Would the letters be safer tucked under the mattress? Or is that the most obvious hiding spot ever? Fuck, it’d be nice to have his own room.

Atsumu is so preoccupied worrying that he almost misses a flash of black and white streaked hair from the corner of his eye. He leans around Hinata and sees another familiar face on the bed behind him.

“Hey hey hey!” Bokuto’s voice rings out, fists pumping up in the air.

“Oh, hey man! Good ta see ya.” The swelling on Bokuto’s lip has gone down considerably, there’s only a small cut left from his tumble yesterday. He seems to have ripped the sleeves off of his own uniform, no doubt his bulging biceps needed the extra room. It’s not regulation, but he’s far from the only one in the room to have made his own alterations. The rules for the Riders have always been a bit on the looser side. Things around here run much different than the very strict dress code for Infantry grays, or even the flowy white robes of the Scribes. As long as a Rider is wearing black, Administration doesn’t care much. It’s probably their way of making up for the fact that so many die before graduation. When you’re risking your life on the back of a dragon, it hardly matters that your jacket patches are sewn in a neat line over your heart, or that your pant hem is two inches above the ankle.

“You know Bokuto-San?” Hinata asks, turning from side to side so he can look at the both of them.

Bokuto has a stack of shirts folded next to him on the bed and seems to be hard at work  cutting all of the arms off with a large saw-tooth knife. His attention is focused on inspecting the frayed seam of a freshly sleeveless shirt as he chimes in. “Me and Tsum Tsum go way back! He gave my uncle’s cousin’s sister’s hampster a kidney.”

The bewildered look on Hinata’s face is priceless. To save his brain from overheating, Atsumu explains, “we met in the Infirmary last night.”

Hinata’s eyes catch on Atsumu’s wrist, the stark white linen sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Oh my gods, Atsumu! What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yeah ‘m fine. Me n’ Bo just got into a tussle with a pack of scribes fer lookin’ at us funny.”

Bokuto barks out a laugh at the inside joke, accidentally slashing a massive hole into one of his shirts. He curses and chucks the fabric under his bed.

“What! Which scribe?” Hinata squeaks. “Did he have black hair and a stupid face?”

“What?” Atsumu laughs, not having given much thought to what his imaginary scribe opponent looks like. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, testing out the mattress with a few light bounces. It’s hard as fuck.

“Cuz if you ever run into someone like that—you have my full permission to kick his butt. He could use it.”

“Damn that’s cold Sho, turnin’ on yer own kind after just one day.” Atsumu shakes his head in mocking disappointment.

“Just Baka-yama, the rest of my scribe friends are awesome! But I’m not a scribe anymore, remember?” He pounds a fist at his chest, covered in rider’s black. 

Bokuto sets down his fashion project and pounces on Hinata, gripping him from behind in a tight bear hug. “That’s right Shoyo, you’re one of us now! I will personally take you under my wing and protect you from anyone who would ever dare to make you read again.” He grins and tussles Hinata’s orange mop a bit. Hinata pushes him off with a good natured shove, laughing brightly.

Their merriment is cut short as a bell rings out through the room, signaling time to gather in the Quad. Bokuto and Hinata hop up and make their way out of the Barracks. Atsumu shuffles along behind them, stopping when he passes a full length mirror by the exit.

Atsumu scowls at his all black prison outfit. His uniform feels uncomfortable- like it’s too tight and too loose in all the wrong places, despite the fit being perfect. He pushes his disdain for his clothing out of his mind, about to walk away, then gasps when he sees his face.

Evidence of his failed assassination attempt is written all over him. His eyes are bloodshot with dark bags hanging underneath them. The bruise on his jaw is an angry mix of purple and yellow splotches. It doesn’t even make him look tough since the rest of him looks so worn down.

Atsumu gently runs his fingers down the column of his neck. His throat hurts the worst, but amazingly the skin there looks perfectly fine despite burning every time he tries to talk or swallow. Apparently Sakusa could choke a man to death with his shadows and it wouldn’t even leave a trace. That’s unnerving. 

Atsumu reaches up to try and smooth out his bedhead, at least a little bit. The golden ends of his hair are sticking up in all different directions, adding to his overall shitty appearance. He can’t help but curse out loud when his fingers pass over a large, tender bump near the back of his head. A souvenir from being slammed into the ground by Sakusa. Another reminder of how pathetic Atsumu’s attempt at killing him was. A reminder of how unmatched they truly are. Lovely.

Atsumu gives up on his hair and stalks out of the Barracks.

Atsumu joins the last straggling cadets walking into the Courtyard and mixes into the crowd. Someone blows a horn and everyone goes quiet. Atsumu recognizes the two uniformed men walking up to the stone stage at the front end of the courtyard. The one on the left is Commander… something. Atsumu never actually cared to remember much about the stern, red haired man past the fact that he was a dick and his breath always smelled. The one on the right with the bald head and the salt and pepper beard is Commander Pancheck. That name he only remembers because Osamu called him Commander Pancake the first time his father introduced them. The twins continued using the nickname in secret, long past the age where it was cute and had just become delightfully stupid.

It takes a minute for the formations to tighten up to semi-acceptable levels, and then Commander Pancheck moves to the front to face the crowd. 

“Three hundred and one of you have survived the parapet to become cadets today,” he says with a light smile. “Good job. Sixty-seven did not.”

Atsumu’s brain short-circuits. He doesn’t care to do the math, but he knows that percentage is a whole lot higher than usual. Was it the rain? His chest clenches at the thought that he could be responsible for some of those deaths. It would’ve been a beautiful, sunny day to cross the parapet had he not been crossing himself. Atsumu doesn’t stop to wonder if his father feels responsible for their deaths too, he knows he doesn’t.

“As the Codex states, now you begin the true crucible!” Pancheck shouts, voice carrying over the few hundred people standing in the courtyard. “You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. If you survive to Treshing, and if you are chosen, you will be Riders. Then we’ll see how many of you make it to graduation.”

That won’t be many. Probably about a quarter of this crowd will make it to graduate, perhaps 30% if it’s an especially tough batch. Every cadet in this courtyard thinks they have what it takes to make it on the back of a dragon and it’s sickening to think about how many of them are wrong.

Commander Something, the douchebag with the red hair, chimes in. “Your instructors will teach you, test you, and form you. It’s up to you to learn, and learn quickly. Discipline falls to you units. Familiarize yourself with the Codex and live, or die by its rules. Your Wingleader is the last word and their orders are as binding as the Codex itself. Work out your own petty squabbles, and if I have to get involved…” A slow, sinister smile spreads across his face. “You don’t want me involved.”

“With that said, I will leave you to your Wingleaders. My best advice? Don’t die.” Commanders Douchebag and Pancake stalk off the slab, leaving only the stone dragons on either end of the stage to look down on them.

Four deadly looking cadets make their way onto the stage. One of them is tall with curly black hair and a rebellion relic marking the side of his neck. Shit. Saskusa really is a Wingleader. The man looks every bit as fierce and cold as the stone dragons towering behind him.

Well at least there’s four different Wings. The chances of Atsumu being assigned to Sakusa’s is… still a lot higher than he’s comfortable with. He works his way deeper into the crowd and keeps his head down. It’s been a while since Atsumu has prayed to the god of luck but he throws out a quick one, just in case the gods decide to give a shit today.

‘Zinhal don’t fail me now.’

A pretty raven haired woman with glasses and a beauty mark steps forward. She calls out, “Section Leaders and Squad Leaders, take your positions.”

Commotion stirs as the second and third years start moving into formation. Once all of the Squad Leaders are settled, she shouts out, “Listen up cadets! My name is Kiyoko Shimizu, Wingleader for First Wing and Senior Wingleader for the Quadrant. When your name is called, take up formation behind your squad leader. Keep quiet so we can get through this quickly and efficiently.”

Another girl, this one with long icy blonde hair braided tightly behind her back, steps forward with a roll sheet. One by one the cadets are called and assigned to their squad. Atsumu would normally be making snap judgments about the people he sees walking by, assessing them by first impression, but his mind is too worried about where he will be placed. He chances a quick peek at Sakusa and his breath catches when black eyes meet him back. Fuck. He looks away quickly, telling himself it was just a trick of the light and Sakusa didn’t find him in the crowd already. His heart slams against his chest and he keeps his eyes down until he hears his name called.

“Miya Atsumu- Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.” Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief when he steps forward and his line isn’t the one belonging to Sakusa. He feels even better when he sees Kita standing at attention in the front of his group, plus Hinata and Bokuto behind him. Kita must’ve pulled some serious strings, or maybe the gods chose today to end their lifelong vendetta against Atsumu.

Hinata smiles and does a tiny, quiet version of a happy dance. Bokuto pumps his fist in the air. Atsumu smiles back and tries catching Kita’s eyes to give him a smile too. But Kita looks dead ahead, not acknowledging any of them. Oh. Atsumu frowns at the cold shoulder, but then quickly reconsiders. He’ll already have enough heat on him for being the General’s son, he doesn’t need more accusations of special treatment for being old friends with his Squad Leader too. It makes sense that Kita would be acting that way, it would be important for him to seem impartial towards his Squad members. But it still stings.

They remain silent as the rest of the names are called. When they start assigning the second years, two unfamiliar cadets join their group. There’s a tough looking guy with a buzzcut and a girl with a short honey blonde bob and bangs that stop halfway down her forehead. They have the same sharp brown eyes. Atsumu briefly wonders if they’re related, but he didn’t catch their names while they were being called. The girl’s ears are filled with dozens of silver studs and her stance is full of confidence. Back when Atsumu still thought he liked girls, she definitely would’ve been his type. Both second years have tightly packed muscles bulging underneath their uniforms that suggest they’ve been training long before coming to Basgiath. Atsumu wonders what they’re like, hoping for a few more decent people in his squad since he’ll be training with them everyday. Basgiath isn’t exactly known for churning out decent people though, so he’s not holding his breath.

The girl eyes Atsumu curiously and whispers something to the boy, who’s eyes widen and brows knit when they look his way. Kita shushes them with a stern look, and they quickly put a stop to their hushed conversation. Atsumu crosses his arms and turns away-suddenly far less interested in finding out their names.

Atsumu schools his attention back to the stage and his breath catches when he sees Sakusa’s eyes still on him. He watches Atsumu with a cold, calculating look. Atsumu sticks his chin out and narrows his eyes, watching right back. Sakusa cocks his scarred eyebrow, and turns to whisper something to Second Wing’s Wingleader. They seem to be arguing, but their voices are too low to make out any of the context. The other Wingleaders join in, and even call over the ice blonde with the role sheet to join the heated discussion.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Hinata whispers.

“Quiet,” Kita hisses, giving Atsumu another glimpse into his Squad Leader persona-a stickler for rules and respect. Kita can easily come off cold at first, but underneath he is one of the most caring and genuine people Atsumu has ever met. Even if he can occasionally act like a stick in the mud, he will make a great leader. Hinata snaps his mouth shut immediately and his face goes red. Bokuto shoots him a look that says 'ooh you’re in trouble .' and Hinata looks dead ahead and stands up tall. Well, tall for Hinata.

After a few minutes the Wingleaders finally turn around to face the assembly. Sakusa’s dark eyes land on Atsumu for a brief second before swinging lazily back over the crowd.

“Kita Shinsuke, your squad will switch with Hajime Iwaizumi’s, Wingleader’s orders,” the blonde girl calls out.

Kita’s posture stiffens and he nods his head. He turns to his squad and orders, “Everyone, follow me.”

He gives Atsumu a wary look as he walks them over to their new line. Fourth Wing, Claw Section, First Squad. Sakusa’s Wing.

Atsumu’s pulse jumps. The gods weren’t on his side after all, they were just fucking with him. Every step towards Sakusa’s line feels like his shoes are made of lead. His squad steps into their new formation at the front of Fourth Wing.

Sakusa glares down at his Wing and when his eyes pass over Atsumu, there’s an unmistakable tilt to his lips. The smirk on his handsome, arrogant face boils Atsumu’s blood in an instant.

Kita breaks his stoic facade to lean in and whisper to Atsumu, “What do ya think he’s up to?”

Atsumu tries not to squirm in his spot. Sakusa’s conspiratorial gaze feels like dragon’s fire down his back.

“Keep yer enemies close, I guess.”

Atsumu may have been the one who started their deadly dance, but now it seems that Sakusa has taken the lead.

Sakusa finally breaks their staring contest and steps forward to address the crowd.

“You’re all cadets now. There’s only eight short weeks until Threshing. You have eight weeks to learn as much as you can and prove yourselves worthy. Want a dragon? Earn one.”

Cheers erupt from the crowd, and the sound gets louder and louder. No, not just cheers, it’s the sound of wings beating the air into submission.

“Oh wow, they’re beautiful,” Hinata whispers as a riot of dragons come into view.

It’s hard not to feel impressed. They’re all as magnificent as they are deadly. The brightly colored dragons weave through the sky, scales glistening in the morning light of the sun. Massive semi-translucent wings cast shadows over the Quad, showing just how much grander they are than the unimpressive crop of humans beneath them.

They fly straight down towards the crowd, sending a massive gust of air overhead. Some people scream and duck their heads, some ooh and aww at their sheer power and brilliance. Just before reaching the cowering group of cadets, the dragons swoop up and stall out to land on top of the semi-circular outer wall of the quad. No wonder the walls are 10 feet thick here, the edge of the fortress is a damned perch.

Four of the dragons begin crawling down the side of the wall. Their unbreakable talons pierce into the stone, causing chunks of rock to crumble beneath their claws. Atsumu has seen dragons plenty of times throughout his life, but the shock of their overwhelming presence never seems to lessen. Especially up this close.

The four dragons reach the ground with an earth-shaking thud, and take their places behind the four Wingleaders. Atsumu recognizes the navy-blue one as the dragon that flew by them on Conscription day. It looks especially vicious, with narrowed gold eyes casting judgment down over the assembly. Of course it’s also the one positioned right behind Sakusa.

Oh, shit. His dragon is seriously fucking scary.

Just as the thought crosses Atsumu’s mind, it blasts a massive ball of fire straight up into the air. He covers his face to shield from the heat.

A fresh cadet from Third Wing bolts out of line screaming and scrambling to get towards the exit of the Quad. Everyone turns to look as he sprints for the giant door carved in the wall.

Sakusa’s dragon opens its mouth, revealing massive, razor sharp teeth. Fire erupts along its tongue and shoots out towards the fleeing cadet. He turns to ash on the gravel before he even makes it to the threshold of the keep.

A swift and merciless execution for abandonment. Sweat starts to drip down the back of Atsumu’s neck, and not just from the heat. He swallows, feeling the weight of his decision to come here.

“Anyone else feel like running?” Sakusa shouts over the crowd of silent, wide eyed cadets. “No? Good.”

Sakusa’s dragon turns back to the crowd, blowing hot steam from its nostrils. The air blows Sakusa’s curls forward, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Your only chance to quit was on the other side of the parapet,” he continues. “Now that you’re cadets, the only ways out are graduation or death. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The trials here are designed to break the links that would put the strength of our unit at risk. Roughly half of you will be dead by this time next summer.”

Sakusa takes a few long deliberate steps to the side, then runs full force, reaching an arm out and masterfully mounting his dragon. He makes it look deceptively easy. The other Wingleaders follow suit, swinging gracefully up to the backs of their beasts.

As Sakusa sits atop the fierce Blue Daggertail, his stoic mask slips to show disdain for his next words. “Good luck and welcome to the Rider’s Quadrant.”

His dragon shoots up into the air, followed closely by the other three. They loop the airspace above the Quad, shooting streams of bright orange fire into the air, bobbing and weaving around each other in a beautiful, perilous dance.

Some cadets whoop and holler, eagerly awaiting their chance to be the ones flying. Some cadets shake in their boots, the reality of their choices just now seeming to hit them. Atsumu doesn’t jump or cheer. He thinks of all the hopeful young candidates who fell off the parapet yesterday. He thinks of the pile of ash that was a person not five minutes ago. He thinks of Sakusa’s deadly gaze and his even deadlier dragon. He thinks of his brother. When he thinks of his chances at ever leaving this godsforsaken place alive, he doesn’t feel excitement, or fear, or the thrill of the challenge ahead—he just feels sick.

Chapter Text

The Sparring ring is where riders are made or broken. After all, no respectable dragon would choose a rider who cannot defend themselves, and no respectable cadet would allow such a threat to the wing to continue training.

-Major Afendra’s Guide to the Riders Quadrant

Hey Tsumu,

Feel free to tear this letter up, or toss it in the ocean, whatever you need to do. I doubt you want to hear from me, but it’s weird not having you around to talk to everyday- so I’m writing anyway. Deal with it.

Atsumu blinks back the mist in his eyes as they scan the yellowed parchment. His fingers trace over the chicken scratch handwriting and he tucks his face into the letter, as if his brother’s scent hadn’t faded from the fibers long ago. 

Some days reading Osamu’s letters feels like a soothing balm to the scars left on his heart. Other days they threaten to break whatever’s left of him. Today feels more like the latter.

Atsumu hastily re-folds the letter before any fellow cadets wake up. He stuffs it back down his boot with the others, and stuffs his pain down along with it.

‘Emotions show weakness. If your enemy knows what you care about, it’s ammunition to be used against you.’

He follows General Miya’s number one rule: pack your feelings away. It’s the lesson Atsumu always struggled with most, and the one his father was most determined to beat into him. At least he should have a good long while for his eyes to dry and his nose to stop sniffling. Once the morning bells chime, then it's back to being the stone soldier. 

It’s Atsumu’s second day at Basgiath War Prison. He’s alive today- so that’s… something. After being assigned to Sakusa’s Wing, he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He felt like every person who bumped into his shoulder was the Wingleader, poised to press a blade between his ribs. He felt like every shadow from the corner of his eye would wrap itself around his throat. But by the time the moon rose and he crawled under his stiff black bed sheets, nothing had happened. It was just a typical orientation day; classes droned on, people buzzed about, everything was uneventful and quiet.

But today is a new day. A new day to look over his shoulder every five seconds. A new day to play the mouse hiding from the deadly black cat. He’d almost rather Sakusa just outright attack him during breakfast. It would be so much better than this .

He can’t guess at Sakusa’s plans or motivations, Atsumu just needs to keep his defenses up until he can make some plans of his own. For now he’ll just keep his head down and keep moving forward.

‘I will not die today,’ he thinks.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu tip-toes out of the barracks past all of the snoring black bunks, and walks to the grove.

When Atsumu slips past the frosted glass door of the greenhouse, he spots Kita near the back inspecting a bed of tea plants. As he gets closer, Kita looks up with a smile in his eyes. His cheeks are a pretty wind-chapped red, and his hair’s an adorable mess.

“Mornin’ Shin, got yer note” Atsumu says, holding up the small piece of paper with ‘Greenhouse 6:30 ’ written in neat block lettering. It’s actually 6:20, but Atsumu couldn’t sleep any more and he knew that Kita would be here early anyways. He’s just like that.

“Good mornin’,” Kita returns.

Atsumu shoves the note back in his pocket and reaches for one of the plants. He manages to rip a single leaf off before getting his hand smacked. He opens his mouth and sticks the leaf on his tongue- it’s earthy and sweet.

“Were ya out flyin’?” He asks, hopping up to sit on the small wood ledge of the planter box.

There’s a faint oval line pressed into the skin around Kita’s eyes; Atsumu suspects that flight goggles are the culprit.

“Yeah,” Kita says. “Just practicing some new maneuvers with Cath. She’s been giving me an earful fer digging’ my boots in too hard when she flips midair. I keep tellin’ her it’s the only way I can keep my seat, but she’s convinced I’m not doin’ it right on purpose.” He shakes his head.

Cath. Kita’s dragon. Who he telepathically talks to. It’s amazing how that’s just a normal, casual thing around here, and not a monumental feat of nature.

“She sounds… nice.”

Atsumu bats away a long vine of a gooseberry plant that’s escaped the confines of its hanging pot to tickle his ear. He scoots over a few inches, so he’s out of range then glares at the offending vine.

Kita laughs, “she just wants things done the right way. Can’t say I blame her.” He carefully cuts a few tea leaves from their stems and drops them into a scorched metal thermos. “She actually is pretty nice- to me at least. Other humans…” he makes a face. “Well, just make sure ya don’t get too close to a dragon that ain’t yers.”

He raises a hand over the water and the leaves start swirling around in slow circles. The light telekinetic maneuver is one of the lesser magics, Atsumu is mesmerized by it. Steam rises from the liquid and Kita drops his lips to the rim and blows off the top layer of heat. The light, crisp smell of tea wafts through the air. Atsumu sucks at his leaf some more, savoring the same flavor, but wishing he had a warm drink to heat his bones instead.

“Where d’ya get hot water around here? Thought the caf didn’t open till seven.”

“Oh, Cath heated it fer me.”

What the actual fuck? Out of all the ridiculous things Atsumu has seen and heard around here, that takes the cake. The thought of a massive fire-breathing dragon, using said fire-breathing power to heat up Kita’s morning tea? It’s just so impossibly domestic that it makes no sense whatsoever.

Kita hands Atsumu the thermos to take a sip. Atsumu marvels at the steaming cup in his hand- the cup full of fucking dragon-fire tea.

“Huh.”

He’s heard his father talk about his own dragon plenty of times; Aimsir’s strategic mind for battles, his power and ruthlessness, but never anything like this.

Atsumu has always reluctantly admired dragons, but never actually considered the thought of one having an actual personality.

“Well I would say I’d like ta meet her but- can’t get too close.” He kicks his feet back and forth in the air and takes a cautious sip of the steaming tea- it’s incredible.

Kita huffs a laugh through his nose, but his mood turns solemn as his eyes cast themselves down.

“I’m sorry ‘bout the whole Squad Leader bit yesterday. I’ll be able to ease up the longer yer here, but I didn’t want ta paint another target on ya right away.”

“I get it.” Atsumu had already forgiven Kita for his cold shoulder yesterday, but the apology is still nice to hear. He takes one more sip of hot tea before passing the cup back.

“So…” Kita says, re-capping his thermos and setting it down. His voice goes so low, Atsumu has to lean in to hear him. “I’ve been thinking about Sakusa. ‘Bout why he hasn’t killed ya yet.”

Atsumu swallows. The sweet tea on his tongue turns bitter as it slides down his throat.

“He’s powerful, but he’s also ambitious. There’s a reason he rose the ranks to Wingleader despite bein’... who he is. Makin’ a public enemy of yer father would be detrimental to his rank. Maybe even his life.”

“So ya think he’s biding his time? Waitin’ fer the right opportunity?”

Kita nods his head. “I think that’s what he did with Osamu too. War Games were a perfect cover. They’re already known for being deadly, plus he had the added bonus of being off campus with only a handful of potential witnesses.”

Atsumu swears. “Any thoughts on his next master plan to rid the world of the Miyas?”

“My guess would be gettin’ someone else ta do it.”

Great. Now Atsumu doesn’t just have to watch out for Sakusa, he has to watch out for everyone.

“Be especially careful around the other Marked Ones, I think they all report back to him.”

Oh, of course . Atsumu didn’t even think of the others. Sakusa’s not the only one with good reason to hate him, there are dozens more whose parents were executed by his father. After the rebellion was quelled, the terms of surrender required that the children of the rebel leaders be marked with the swirling black relics, and they would be conscripted to the military when they came of age. Many argued for them to be executed alongside their parents, but it was ultimately decided that they would serve Navarre’s forces in the Rider Quadrant. Those in favor of execution only agreed since the death rate is so high for cadets. Those children are the only riders in history not to have volunteered.

Atsumu thinks back to all of the side eyes and dirty looks he’s gotten since he’s been here. Did any of them have rebellion relics? Did all of them? Shit , Atsumu hadn’t paid anyone all that much attention. He will now.

The morning bell rings out, cutting their conversation to an end. Kita packs up a small satchel with his thermos, clippers, and a small drawstring bag of extra tea leaves. He whispers quickly, “I’ll keep an ear out and report back if I catch wind of anything.”

“Thanks, Shin.” Atsumu says, hopping down to the ground.

“Of course. Atsumu, I won’t let him hurt you too.”

It’s a nice thing to say, but it’s not like either of them have any fucking control in this situation. Sakusa has power, authority, and a gang of spies in his network. Atsumu can’t even try to hide and watch from the shadows, because the fucking shadows work for the guy too.

But for a moment Atsumu tries to believe the words. If they end up being lies, then at least he’ll get to see his brother again soon.

They head to the quad for Morning Brief, and then to the cafeteria for breakfast. Kita insists that the whole squad sit together for ‘bonding’ or whatever. It’s perfect for Hinata because he can’t seem to decide if he wants to stay glued to Atsumu’s side at all times or Bokuto’s side at all times. Atsumu feels thankful for the new joint custody arrangement, now he can spend a fraction less of his time worrying over Hinata.

He really needs to worry about himself. Not to make sure he stays alive, but just so he stays alive long enough to kill Sakusa.

His eyes scan over the cafeteria, looking for any suspicious characters. The room is packed full of a bunch of scary looking motherfuckers, but none that are currently giving him the stink eye. With the morning chill still hanging in the air, most cadets are wearing long sleeves or jackets, hiding any swirling black marks from Atsumu’s view.

“Ooh, killer bruise blondie, making lots of new friends I see?” Oikawa materializes next to Atsumu in the food line. He’s in the same all black uniform as everyone else, tight sleeves down to his wrists, so Atsumu can’t tell if he’s sporting any relic marks. His light brown hair looks way too shiny and feathered for their current setting. Did he manage to cram a whole salon in his pack or something? Who has time to care about that sort of shit here?

“None quite like you, buddy,” Atsumu says, returning his attention to the tables of mediocre food in front of him.

“Oh but of course not!” Oikawa barks a sharp laugh and leans in to whisper right in Atsumu’s ear, “So… a little birdie told me that you’re General Miya’s son.”

Atsumu grimaces. He loads his tray with another spoonful of pale, watery eggs. 

“I don’t know if that means I should kiss your boot, or slit your throat.”

“Ooh, first one definitely. Let me just find some dragon shit to step in first.” Atsumu brushes past Oikawa to the only semi-decent looking food option; a large bowl of brightly colored fruit. He reaches for a particularly nice pink and yellow apple.

Oikawa cackles, giving Atsumu’s arm a punch that’s just too hard to be friendly. Luckily, his reflexes kick in to keep the overstuffed tray from falling to the floor.

“Oh you’re too funny little Miya. I think we’ll be great friends after all.”

He sounds about as friendly as a viper. Atsumu gives a sarcastic smile in response. “Can’t wait.”

“Hope I get to see you on the mats later.” Oikawa cracks his knuckles. “You’d look great with a black eye to match that bruise, and I’m in the mood to break something pretty.” He steals Atsumu’s apple before skipping off.

Atsumu sits with Kita, Bokuto and Hinata, chatting lightly over their food. Both Hinata and Bokuto finish their first plates by the time the rest of their squad comes over, and hop up to get back in line. Kita’s plate is barely picked over, but he seems to be more interested in periodically sipping at his tea than finishing his tray. Remembering the lovely taste, Atsumu almost asks for another drink, but then he remembers that they have an act to keep up. So instead he sips begrudgingly on his lukewarm cup of sour apple juice.

“Hey squad mate!” The blonde second year from his squad drops her tray on the opposite side of the table. Atsumu learned her name from Kita this morning- Tanaka Saeko. Her brother- Tanaka Ryunosuke, takes the seat next to her and starts diving into his breakfast with a disinterested huff for a greeting.

“Sorry if this sounds weird or anything, but I have a question for you.” Half of Saeko’s hair is pulled up into a messy bun at the back of her head. The cluster of silver earrings she wore yesterday are missing- probably since they have their first sparring sessions later today.

Atsumu raises a brow and waits for the question, pushing his food around the plate. He hasn’t been feeling particularly hungry these days, and the unappetizing gray-tinged food isn’t helping.

“Did you know a Miya Osamu?”

Oh. Atsumu blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. He feels the ghost of Osamu’s presence all around the college, but he’s yet to come across anyone who’s directly mentioned it to him.

Atsumu clears his throat. “Yeah, he’s my twin brother.” His tongue still seems to refuse the word was . It hurts too much.

“I knew it! You two look exactly alike. Stormy expressions and handsome as hell,” she grins. “Except for the hair of course. I see that you’re the gold model and he was the silver. Bet ya used to lord that over him all the time, huh?”

Osamu had the same unique hair quirk as Atsumu, though the ends of his hair faded to a bright silver instead of gold.

“Ya know Osamu?” Once again, he can’t help but compulsively use the present tense.

“Yeah! Sweet kid. Met him last year. I can’t believe he never told me he had a twin!”

Atsumu bristles at that. It’s the second time someone’s been surprised that Osamu had a brother. Atsumu knows he deserves it, but it still hurts his heart to think of his twin erasing him when he came here.

Saeko barrels on- she’s quite friendly. “Not that we were ever really that close, but you would think it’d come up since we’re twins too.”

Atsumu’s eyes look to the boy sitting next to her. Atsumu guessed right on them being related, but beyond the eyes there’s almost no other resemblance. The permanent scowl on his face is in stark contrast to the mischievous smile over Saeko’s. He would’ve guessed siblings, maybe, but not twins.

“You two?” Atsumu asks.

“Fraternal obviously,” she leans in to mock whisper, “I ate up all the pretty genes in the womb.” She winks.

The boy Tanaka chimes in around a forkful of hashbrowns, “ate up all the bitch genes too.”

He almost spits his food out when he’s promptly hit in the back of the head. “Looks like you got plenty of those too Ryu.”

Apparently all twins taunt eachother like that, bragging over who’s better. Normally Atsumu would say something to the same effect, but it feels wrong to bad mouth Osamu now.

Saeko rests a gentle hand over Atsumu’s on the table and her eyes grow soft.

‘Oh great here it comes.'

“I know it’s probably annoying as fuck to hear, but I’m really sorry about what happened. I couldn’t imagine the pain of losing your twin, that bond is just-“ she lets out a hard breath, closing her eyes against any oncoming tears. Even the other Tanaka looks a little sad at the thought. Behind the scowl.

For once Atsumu feels himself accepting the condolences, if anyone could understand what Osamu meant to him, it would be another twin.

“Thanks. Don’t like talking about it much.”

“Of course, I won’t bring him up again. Just know that my heart goes out to you.” Saeko says softly, giving his hand a squeeze.

Atsumu goes to squeeze her hand back as a thanks when he notices the sleeve of her leather jacket has ridden up a smidge. On the inch of exposed skin, he can see black swirls curling around her wrist- the beginning of a rebellion relic. He jerks his hand back and nearly falls out of his seat. He scrambles out of his chair, looking wildly around the room. Saeko looks shocked, but then notices her sleeve and pulls it down immediately, shoving her hands into her lap. Her face flushes and her eyes drop to the table.

“I have ta- I forgot somethin’, I gotta go.” Atsumu stammers out and then rushes past a confused Bokuto and Hinata who had just gotten back to the table with their seconds.

Atsumu thinks he hears Saeko try to say something, but he’s out of his seat and across the room in no time flat. He bursts through the cafeteria doors into the cold air of the Quad.

Sakusa has eyes and ears everywhere.

Fuck, man. Atsumu promised Kita that he would be more careful, and he’s already making stupid, careless mistakes, like trusting people just because they didn’t threaten him right off the bat.

When he makes it to the far side of the Quad, he crouches to the ground, pressing his head between his knees. He tries to steady his breathing and quell the nausea deep in his gut.

Sakeo seems so nice. Her words felt incredibly genuine when she was talking about Osamu too.

‘Just because someone has a friendly face doesn’t guarantee they aren’t hiding a knife behind their back.’

Atsumu really hates how many of his father’s teachings have proven themselves right so far.

— ⚡︎ —

“Welcome to your first sparring sessions. While most of your combat after graduation will be through signets and on the backs of dragons, don’t discount the importance of hand-to-hand fighting. If you find yourself off of your dragon and behind enemy lines, you will need the skills honed here to survive.” Instructor Ukai calls out. He’s about late-twenties, with dark eyebrows and light hair pulled back by a thin headband. Everyone is gathered around the gym, standing straight and listening quietly as he talks.

“For any of those sustaining injuries,” Atsumu crosses his arms when the Ukai's eyes flit to him, “there will be no sitting out of training. You are here to be honed for war. The enemy will not show mercy to those who are hurt; in fact they will gladly use your weaknesses against you. Learn to fight through your pain and overcome your disadvantages. Find a way to be the victor, or else you will only find Malek’s embrace.”

Atsumu already knew that he wouldn’t be receiving any accommodations. His mind flashes back to the hot summer day he was climbing trees with Osamu and the limb snapped from under his grasp. When he hit the ground he broke two ribs and sprained his wrist, but his father still forced him to run laps the next morning. He was only ten.

“Today is just an assessment, so no blades and no signets. However, that doesn’t mean you should hold back. This is an opportunity to show us, and your fellow cadets, what you’re made of.”

He nods to Wingleader Kiyoko, who calls up the first twelve names to fill the six fighting rings laid around the gym. Now with the entire squadron in fighting leathers, gym clothes, or shirtless, Atsumu is shocked by the sheer amount of relic marks he can see. He starts feeling dizzy once his count gets past thirty.

If these cadets graduate, that means they’ll all have magic and dragons at their disposal. Many already seem to be bonded, as Atumu can see various colored dragon marks painted on their skin along with their rebellion marks. If the higher ups were really worried about the children taking up their parent’s cause, someone’s brilliant plan has clearly backfired.

Atsumu feels weary of the marked ones, but with good, personal reasons. So what’s the excuse for all the others giving them dirty looks and a wide breadth? If the rebellion was quelled over 5 years ago, most of the marked ones were teenagers or younger when it happened. Hardly the masterminds behind the movement, yet most other cadets are looking at them like they threatened the King personally.

It occurs to Atsumu how easily he could’ve been in their position. No doubt his father has committed heinous acts of war, equal to or possibly worse than any rebellion members. And yet, Atsumu’s skin remains unmarked, and his father’s head remains on its shoulders for the simple fact that he chose the winning side.

He chances a glance at the Tanakas standing next to him. Ryunosuke has forgone his shirt entirely, and Saeko is in leggings and a black leather sports bra, both of their relic marks now on full display. 

Ryunosuke catches Atsumu staring and bears his teeth, “Got a problem, pretty boy?”

Atsumu shakes his head. Saeko smacks her brother on the arm and whispers, “be nice.”

Hinata’s been staring too, and Atsumu wonders how much he knows about the rebellion relics. But apparently, Hinata wasn’t interested in the swirling black marks going down their arms, but rather the matching brown dragons flying across their ribs.

“Wow you guys got matching dragon tattoos? That is wicked cool!” he beams.

Kita cuts in, “They aren’t tattoos, they’re dragon relics. It’s what lets us channel magic through the bond. You’ll get one too, after Threshing.” Atsumu appreciates that Kita didn’t use the word, if . He wants Hinata to feel confident enough to end up with his own dragon mark.

“I want mine on my bicep so it can dance when I flex!” Bokuto says, holding an arm up and flexing his muscles for practice.

Saeko says, “You don’t exactly get a choice. Ours only match because the gods can’t seem to let me have anything for myself.” She looks to the sky and shakes her fist dramatically.

Ryunosuke mutters under his breath, “like we had a fucking choice with either mark.”

Atsumu wonders what Osamu’s dragon relic looked like. Would it have been one more thing to set them apart? Or would their marks have matched too, if they had come here together?

“So they don’t always look like that?” Hinata asks.

“Right,” Kita says. “They will resemble the color of your dragon, but the placement can be anywhere. See?” He pulls his arm through his shirt and lifts the corner up over his arm to uncover his own mark. Bokuto and Hinata “ooh” at the red dragon curling around his shoulder. Atsumu gawks at Kita’s relic, and the rest of his tightly muscled frame. Respectfully, of course. Kita was Atsumu’s first proper crush at the academy, and while he’s mostly gotten past it, that doesn’t mean he can’t still enjoy the view.

Kita catches Atsumu staring and suppresses a shy smile before setting his shirt back in place. Atsumu shifts his focus back to the fighting ring, and hopes that he isn’t blushing.

As Atsumu watches the fighting mats, he feels a rush of anticipation. Sparring was always something he excelled at. Being able to punch a jaw or two might help him feel a little more in control and a little less like a loser.

He catches a glimpse of Oikawa on the far mat, twisting his opponent into a pretzel and crashing a knee into their gut. He’s in a black fitted tank top, so Atsumu can finally get a good look at his arms- pale and unblemished, not a mark to be found. Guess the guy is just an asshole for fun, then.

A shriek rings out from the mat in front of them, instantly grabbing Atsumu’s attention. There’s a mean looking guy with short bleached buzzed hair with two dark stripes running down the sides. He has his opponent in a headlock, batting furiously at his arms to try and get them to release.

“Watch out fer that guy,” Kita whispers. “He got the nickname Mad Dog last year fer obvious reasons. He wasn’t chosen during Threshing, and looks like he’s twice as angry this year.”

Damn, not bonding and having to repeat the entire first year’s course again? That’s rough. Unbonded cadets are allowed one more chance before being relegated to Infantry. Atsumu feels a little sorry for the guy.

That is until a sickening crack rings out. Mad Dog jerks his arms around his opponent’s head, breaking his neck in one neat twist. The boy slumps to the floor of the training mat, lifeless eyes wide open. Atsumu takes in a sharp breath, matching the collective gasps all around him. Bile rises in the back of his throat. Safe to say, he’s no longer feeling sorry.

Ukai shouts out, “Hey! It’s just an assessment day!”

Mad Dog shrugs, “how was I supposed to know his neck was so weak?”

Since it’s technically training, killing your opponent isn’t against the codex. But still, it’s fucking brutal. And on the first day of fighting?

Hinata’s face is green, and even Bokuto seems paler than normal.

Atsumu winces and says, “I don’t think I can ever get used to that.”

Sympathy washes over Kita’s face, less for the guy who died and more for his squadmates having to see it. “It’s never pretty. You don’t have to get used to it, but you’ll need to learn how to function through it.”

Ukai yells out, “I didn’t think it warranted mentioning, but no killing today. The real matches will start in two weeks and you can unleash all your pent up fury on eachother then.” He huffs as he drags the limp frame away from the mats.

The real matches. Where cadets can straight up kill each other if they’re wanting and able. Not everyone here wants to kill their opponents of course, but the handful that do…

Atsumu shakes the thought from his mind. He’s a strong fighter. He has nothing to worry about. The sparring ring may actually be the one place where he’s most in control of his fate.

As the boy’s lifeless body is dragged from the ring, they immediately call two more cadets to refill it. There wasn’t any blood, so no one even bothers to clean it first. Killing and dying is just business as usual around here.

It’s Saeko who’s called next, to face another second year boy. He’s tall and thin with brown hair and fox-esque green eyes. He has a matching green dragon relic splayed across his chest, and a rebellion relic swirling down his arm. He looks a little sleepy as they get into position, but when Saeko makes the first move, he’s quick to retaliate.

Man, Saeko is tough. She’s holding her own against the guy despite being nearly a foot shorter. They exchange blows and blocks, dancing around the ring with neither party gaining much ground. They end up in a lock, hands intertwined, pushing back against each other for dominance. After a minute of struggling, Saeko’s strength finally seems to give out as he pushes her down to her knees.

“Suna! No signets!” Ukai yells.

The other marked boy- Suna apparently, calls out, “Sorry coach!” before letting his hands go and hopping back. As soon as Saeko regains her feet, he’s diving back at her with a renewed spark in his fox-like eyes.

Atsumu wonders what the guy’s signet is; he could’ve sworn he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Suna moves impossibly fast as he dodges a punch from Saeko, grabbing her by the wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. She’s panting hard and struggling to escape the hold, but Suna grins and pushes her hand back further until she yields.

Atsumu’s wrist throbs with the memory of his own snapping bones, so he gives it a few experimental twists. Logically he knows it’s all patched up, but thinking about the searing pain has Atsumu undoing his bandage to re-wrap it nice and tight before his own fight starts.

As soon as Saeko catches her breath she yells out, “Suna, you fucking cheater! Next time, your ass is so mine.”

“If you want my ass so bad, all you have to do is ask,” he shoots back with a shrug and a wink.

She laughs and he smiles as they shake hands, skipping off of the mat.

‘Are all of the marked ones friends?’ Those two certainly seem to know each other, at least. Atsumu watches the boy walk off as he finishes unspooling his bandage.

“Hello Assassin.”

That deep gravely voice sings over his shoulder, shooting ice straight down Atsumu’s spine. He keeps his eyes down, focusing on re-spinning the white fabric around his wrist, unwilling to look Sakusa in his evil, gorgeous face. Atsumu doesn’t want to play into whatever Sakusa’s sick game is, but ignoring him completely somehow feels like losing, so he keeps his answer straight and short.

“It’s Atsumu.”

“Assassin suits you better. But on second thought, I suppose ‘Failed Assassin’ would be more accurate.”

Atsumu pulls his hand wrap so hard that it digs into his skin and threatens to cut off his circulation. He ties it off and flexes his hand a few times, growling back through gritted teeth, “Better than ‘murderer’.”

“At least when I go to take a shot, I don’t miss.”

Sakusa’s minty breath hits the back of Atsumu’s ear like a hot brand, and he spins to push him back.

Atsumu gives a pretty good shove to his chest, but Sakusa doesn’t move a fucking inch. It’s like the guy is a literal statue. Unmoving, unfeeling, marble white skin and a stone cold face.

He smiles down at Atsumu, mirth dancing in his soulless black eyes. Having to look up to make eye contact is no longer hot, it’s only infuriating. Though Atsumu suspects that Sakusa would find a way to look down his nose at everyone even if he wasn’t a solid 6 '4.

Sakusa isn’t wearing his flight leathers anymore, but rather a tight-fitted black shirt with a high neckline. It’s sleeveless, so the toned muscles of his broad shoulders are exposed. Without the leather jacket, you can see his rebellion mark traveling from his neck all the way down his right arm to end at his wrist. Up this close, Atsumu notices more dark moles scattered across the pale expanse of open skin. His attention snags on a particularly attractive group of three decorating the slender column of his neck. 

Why Atsumu’s brain cares to notice anything besides his aura of evil means the blow to his head was worse than he thought.

At least Atsumu can take a small pleasure in seeing the angry red scratch over Sakusa’s cheek. The fact that he was able to mar the statuesque face proves that the man actually is human. Barely.

Atsumu freezes as cool leather glides over his jaw. Sakusa presses into his bruise with a gloved finger. He purses his lips and says, “Ouch, that looks painful.”

The pain shocks Atsumu’s system back into gear and he goes to smack the offending hand away. Sakusa pulls back faster than Atsumu can touch him, holding his hands behind his back.

“Are you fit to fight today, cadet?”

“I’m just fuckin’ fine, thanks.” Atsumu spits out.

“Good. Now, let’s see if you’re always so fucking pathetic.”

Before Atsumu even has a chance to respond, or try to leave any other marks on Sakusa’s flawless face, the bastard pushes past him, knocking their shoulders. With his back turned, Atsumu can make out two navy blue wingtips poking out of his shirt, resting over his shoulders. Sakusa strides away on mile-long legs, and when he reaches the viewing stage he ducks under the rail and pulls himself up, muscles flexing in his arms. When he’s situated at the top, he curls his gloved hands over the metal bar and takes a seat perched on top of the railing. He yells out, “Miya! Kentaro! You’re up.”

At the command, Atsumu strips his shirt- one less hold point for his opponent, and steps into the black padded ring. The cool air kisses over his skin, and he gives his arms a few shakes and rotations to limber up. He bounces back and forth a bit, feeling his necklace bounce against his collarbone. He quickly unfastens the clasp and tucks the silver chain inside his shoe. His eyes stay trained on Sakusa the whole time.

Sakusa cracks an almost imperceptible smile just as Atsumu hears his opponent step into the ring.

“Hey! Eyes over here asshole,” a gruff voice calls out.

Atsumu turns to see dark lined eyes glaring at him from under furrowed brows. His opponent has short bleached hair with two stripes running down each side. The man assumes a wide fighting stance and flexes his hands- hands that just snapped a guy’s neck like a twig.

Fuck.

His first match is against Mad Dog.

Atsumu laughs internally. It’s almost poetic, really- Sakusa sending a dog after him instead of fighting himself. He grits his jaw and assumes his own fighting stance, fists up by his face and heels hovering lightly over the ground. He lowers his head, setting his full attention on his opponent. Blood races beneath his skin, heating his body against the frigid air. His focus narrows down to the slight back and forth movement of the man in front of him.

He doesn’t bother to check if Sakusa’s still watching, he knows he is; and Atsumu’s gonna show that fucker exactly what he’s made of.

Mad Dog’s arms are clear of any rebellion marks, but they are clearly still a threat as they lunge out for Atsumu. 

Atsumu rotates his shoulders, knocking the fist off course with his forearm and countering with his own to smash Mad Dog’s nose. He hears a satisfying crunch as pain shoots up through his hand. He could’ve landed that a little cleaner, but he’s still working on shaking the rust off. The bleach buzzed head snaps back and hands fly up to his face. Shock crosses over his features as he lowers his hands and takes in the blood smeared across his skin.

Atsumu smiles a fox grin at his opponent. Seems like he wasn’t expecting an actual fight.

“Aww ya ain’t so scary up close Mad Dog,” he says, resisting the urge to shake his hand out. “More chihuahua than pit bull, huh?”

The shock on Mad Dog’s face quickly turns to rage. He throws two more punches, which Atsumu knocks off course and counters with his own uppercut to the stomach.

Mad Dog steps back for a breath, then lunges for Atsumu who ducks just enough to miss the next blow. As his hand passes back over the top of Atsumu’s head, he grabs a harsh fistful of hair, pulling him in.

Perfect.

“Weird hair,” Mad Dog says. “Good hold point though.” He pulls Atsumu’s head down and thrusts a knee up towards his face.

Atsumu blocks with crossed hands and spits back, “Yeah, well I thought about shaving it off and dying in some racing stripes, but I didn’t want to look fuckin’ stupid.”

The guy snarls, tightening his grip and pulling Atsumu’s hair even harder. Atsumu smiles, looking up through his lashes. His taunting isn’t just for fun, his Father often said that the moment you let emotion enter a fight, you’ve already lost. Atsumu has a special talent for getting under people’s skin, and it’s helped him tip the scales to his favor many times before. This guy is making it too deliciously easy.

Atsumu had always refused to cut his hair anything shorter than a few inches to show off his golden blonde ends, so learning to get out of a hair hold was an absolute necessity. It actually became one of his favorite maneuvers to catch an opponent off guard.

“This is real sexy n’ all, but I’m not actually that into hair pullin’ so-” he grips both hands on Mad Dog’s wrists, pushing his head forward into the hold. Mad Dog’s balance is tipped as he’s pushed backwards. Atsumu uses the distraction to slide one hand up and under to wrap around the little finger and snap it back full force. He hears a nice pop and his hair is magically free once again. He shakes his head a little as he hops back.

Mad Dog ignores his broken pinky and lets out a flurry of attacks. Each one ends with Atsumu artfully dodging and the angry guy growing a new shade of red. Atsumu doesn’t throw a punch of his own until he’s sure of an opening. He manages to get three solid hits in- one being an extra hard smash to his little doggy snout.

As the fight goes on Mad Dog gets angrier and sloppier. Actually, he’s been sloppy from the start- Sakusa should’ve sent someone better after him.

When Atsumu feels like the pup has been adequately played with- he moves in for the kill, wrapping Mad Dog in a headhold. He squirms against the grip, scratching at the arm around his neck. After a few seconds of desperate clawing, he knocks the end of Atsumu’s bandage loose. As it starts to unravel, Atsumu is briefly distracted enough for Mad Dog to slip out of the hold. He jumps back and throws another fist.

As fast as lightning, Atsumu grabs the loose end of his wrap with his other hand and pulls it tight, holding it up to parry the blow. As the arm flies past his cheek, he pushes down above the elbow to force Mad Dog’s momentum down. In one swift motion he presses the cloth against the side of his neck, wraps his far hand around it, and twists his own body back around. When he’s finished his maneuver he’s standing behind Mad Dog with a firm chokehold wrapped around his neck. He kicks at the back of the dog’s knee to drop his weight while pulling up on the wrap at the same time.

Atsumu pulls hard, choking off any air Mad Dog tries to swallow.

“Yield,” Atsumu leans down to snarl into his ear.

He has no chance of escaping the hold. Blood drips down from his nose, splattering on the mat as he thrashes wildly.

“Fuckin’ yield!” Atsumu yells as he pulls the wrap even tighter, muscles tensed and twitching to keep the pressure up.

After three long seconds of useless struggling, Mad Dog taps Atumu’s forearm twice.

Atsumu releases the wrap, and drops the loser to the mat along with it, sputtering and sucking in deep hard breaths. He looks back at Atsumu, eyes burning with rage as he wipes the blood from his nose. But Atsumu’s attention is already back at Sakusa sitting on the railing. Atsumu’s chest heaves and his hands shake from the leftover adrenaline.

‘Guess your shot missed after all. Do I still seem pathetic to you?’ he thinks as Sakusa’s impassive stare holds his own. Sakusa answers with a slight raise to his brow, which feels like even more of a victory than his opponent tapping out.

Something catches Atsumu’s attention from the corner of his eye. He dodges back and right- barely avoiding Mad Dog’s blade as it swings for his throat. He catches the hand mid-air, crouches and pulls Mad Dog over his shoulder, flipping him to the ground. He slams his foot down on his chest, hopefully hard enough to break one of the coward’s ribs. Atsumu digs his thumbs into the pressure point of his wrist and pries the blade free from his grip.

“Aww how’d ya know I needed a new knife? Thanks little pup,” he says, throwing Mad Dog’s arm to the floor and tucking the blade into an open sheath at his thigh. He pushes his foot down one more time before lifting up, punching one last grunt from the bastard’s lungs.

The anger in those beady, shit brown eyes says that Atsumu will be adding a new enemy to his ever growing list.

‘Get in fuckin’ line pal.’

When Atsumu looks back to Sakusa, his attention is on another sparring ring- as though he’s already grown bored of Atsumu’s little performance.

The guy ordered a damn hit on Atsumu and he can’t even be bothered to watch it fail. Atsumu wants to scream and kick- to make Sakusa notice him. He wants to show that he’s not afraid. That he is a threat. He wants to make that pretty bastard sweat, to sleep with one eye open knowing he messed with the wrong fucking guy.

If Atsumu goes way too hard the next few rounds, if the skin breaks over his knuckles and his opponents get carted off to the infirmary- well it’s all Sakusa Kiyoomi’s fault.

Chapter Text

A squad, a section, a wing is only as effective as its weakest link, and if that links breaks, it puts everyone in danger. Cadets have only a few short weeks to prove their strength, or they surely will be broken.

-Major Afendra's Guide to the Rider's Quadrant

The cool morning air coats the inside of Atsumu’s lungs as he sucks down breath after breath, pushing himself to go a little bit faster, a little bit farther. His thighs burn against the sharp incline of the winding mountain path, each step pounding hard into the slate lined ground.

Every time he slows down, he feels his twin’s ghost at his heels–pushing him to run faster, work harder, be better.

Osamu had always been the whetstone that Atsumu sharpened his skills against, and it seems as though his memory is just as fine a grit.

He cuts through the dense layer of mist hanging between the towering cliff sides. As he skids around a particularly sharp bend, the fine layer of rocks give way beneath his feet. He throws his hands out, slamming into the sharp ground, shredding the top layer of his palms. The skin of his thigh is only saved by the thick black joggers that tear apart instead.

Atsumu only winces before popping back up and pushing even harder. He relishes the sting as his hands ball into fists over the raw skin.

Each day, grief hangs over his shoulders like a cape. As long as he keeps running, keeps moving forward, he can temporarily escape its crushing weight on his back. But the moment he stops and the world is quiet, it settles back over him again.

So he runs. He banishes the pain from his mind and sets a brutal enough pace to cast out all other thoughts beyond the fall of each foot.

He doesn’t let up until he crests the mountain’s peak.

The dark, towering cliff sides stop abruptly, making way to an open endless sky above and below. The small plateau at the top of the mountain is barely a dragon’s width if it were to curl up in a ball. It also has to be one of the most breathtaking views Navarre has to offer.

The land below stretches out infinitely. This peak is just one knob on the endless spine of the ancient mountain range. It bends, twists and curves round to create a massive circle of protection around the valley below. The inner bowl of the mountain range holds a thick layer of fog obscuring the Vale–home of the dragons.

Basgiath War College is the closest human settlement to the dragon’s mysterious domain, yet no human has ever seen it. Or at least lived to talk about it.

Atsumu is sure that the thick layer of smoke is some sort of protective magic. It never dissipates, never wavers, despite the changes in the weather. Even today, the sky outside the mountain range only holds a few sparse puffy clouds, while the inner circle remains an impenetrable blanket of white.

Catching his breath, Atsumu drops to the ground, hanging his feet over the sheer drop of the cliff’s edge. He takes this small moment each day to simply let himself feel. Anger, despair, regret; whatever his aching soul decides to focus on that day, he lets himself wallow in it.

He lays back and finally sets about picking the small bits of gravel from the torn skin of his palms, hissing as each jagged piece is brushed away. Physical pain is always a nice reprieve from the emotional–he wishes the cuts were deeper.

A large shadow passes over him, engulfing the entire clearing in a blink of darkness. He squints up to catch a flash of early morning sun bouncing off of bright green scales. Atsumu watches the dragon circle a few distant loops overhead before dipping down into the ocean of clouds.

It must be nice to fly. Surely Atsumu could outrun all his problems then–just leave everything on the ground and disappear into the sky. He closes his eyes, imagining himself on the back of that dragon, sinking away into the mist.

Atsumu finishes picking out the last bit of gravel just as a light set of footsteps round the corner. Hinata barrels through the narrow opening into the lookout, scrambling to stop his momentum before he hits the cliff’s edge. He frowns down at Atsumu, already settled in his usual spot.

“Jeez Atsumu, it’s not fair that you’re strong and fast! I thought that speed would be my thing.” Hinata whines. His face is flushed red, but his breathing seems hardly affected by the steep two mile run.

Heavy, pounding footsteps follow suit a few seconds later as Bokuto crests the peak just behind him. “Aww don’t worry Sho, Tsum-Tsum just has to stay fast so he can outrun all his demons.”

Atsumu squints up through his fingers. Bokuto’s chest is heaving with laughter, but the joke hits eerily close to the truth. Atsumu wonders if it’s a coincidence, or if he’s been giving the man’s observational skills far too little credit.

He hasn’t specifically talked to either of them about Osamu. Or Sakusa. Or his father. Nothing that would bring the mood down, really. He likes the lightheartedness he shares with his new friends. He doesn’t want to muck it up with all of his stupid problems.

“Well ya better hope ya don’t have ta fight me and my demons on the mat, Bo!” Atsumu flicks a tiny piece of gravel up at him.

Bokuto clutches his chest and drops to the ground with a thud.

“Oh, great and powerful Miya, please have mercy and leave some skills for the rest of us!” He folds his hands into a mock prayer, and Atsumu leans up to punch his arm.

As if Bokuto wasn’t right next to him at the top of the first-year rankings. If they were to be matched up, it’d be a coin toss on who’d come out winning.

But still–Bokuto’s words have Atsumu fighting off a smile. He’s been bouncing back better than he expected after his year off. He hasn’t lost a fight since the Sakusa debacle on day one.

He may be a swirling mess of anxiety, but once a match starts, his focus narrows and instincts take over. The cracking of bone beneath fist is the only reprieve he’s been able to find for the rage clawing at his ribcage. Even when his opponents get a lucky shot in, the pain is a welcome friend–at least it means he can still feel something.

Atsumu feels a little bad for those misfortunate enough to face him while Sakusa’s calculating eyes are watching. It charges his inner storm clouds with electricity. And since he can’t lay a hand on who he really wants, he throws everything at whoever is in front of him. Each time Atsumu lands a particularly nasty move on the mats, he’s rewarded with an annoyed look from the Wingleader. It makes his blood sing. It makes him want to crush his opponents again and again, just to see the vein in Sakusa’s neck twitch.

“Ugh, don’t remind me about sparring,” Hinata says, climbing up a large rock to the little perch he likes, nestled in the cliff. “I’ll never win a match.”

Hinata’s natural speed and reflexes are amazing. He has a decent instinct for fighting too–but he was raised as a scribe his whole life. Most of the other cadets in the quadrant have years of physical training on him. It’s rough.

“You’ll get one soon, Sho. We just gotta keep practicin’,” Atsumu says with conviction.

Ever since being assigned to the same squad, Atsumu, Hinata and Bokuto have been doing pretty much everything together. They run up the mountain in the mornings, share notes in class, and squeeze in extra sparring practice and weight lifting before bed. The training regime in the Rider’s Quadrant is already pretty brutal, but they all aim to push themselves even further. Atsumu so he can challenge Sakusa, Hinata so he can speed up his progress before Threshing, and Bokuto–well he just has a crippling fear of missing out. He already showed up here as a finely tuned monster. He claims that the extra hours in the gym are all to ‘help his young prodigy to reach his true potential’ and the fact that Hinata lets him copy his History homework just so happens to be a bonus.

Hinata kicks at the cliff and slumps down to put his chin in his hand.

“I’m bringing the whole squad down.” He frowns, twirling the tip of his dagger into the rock below him. Hinata hasn’t won a match yet, but he hasn’t lost his weapon yet either, which is a pretty impressive feat on its own.

“You still have the highest marks in our other classes!” Bokuto exclaims. “That factors into squad score too.”

“Yeah!” Atsumu adds on. “Yer probably the only one savin’ us there.”

Hinata spends at least an hour a day in the Archives, studying and reading all that he can. Atsumu’s been twice, both times to research signets and defense techniques against them. Bokuto couldn’t even tell you what color the place is.

Squad scores are just a cruel way to pit the new cadets against each other. The top squads get to enter Presentation and Threshing first, but it doesn’t guarantee that you get the best dragons. Or any dragon at all–since they certainly don’t give a shit about squad scores. It only really matters at graduation for Rank and Assignment. But scores change wildly by then– it’s all about the strength of your dragon and the usefulness of your signet.

Hinata gives them a tight-lipped smile. He’s acing all their classes–but they all know that good grades aren’t enough to keep you alive.

“Well, we aren’t gonna make top squad by sitting around on our butts all day!” Hinata’s mood flips, and he’s smiling as he tucks his knife away and slides back down the rock. “Last one back has to do Bo’s laundry!”

Before Atsumu can even look back, Hinata’s gone and the sound of his sprinting steps are fading away.

He and Bokuto scramble to their feet, but Bokuto pushes him back down before he’s all the way up.

“Hey!” Atsumu yells at his laughing back.

“You snooze, you lose, Tsum-Tsum!”

"You guys are such dicks!" Atsumu shouts with a smile on his face, as he takes off after them. It stays there the whole way down.

— ⚡︎ —

“Keep the temperaments of each specific breed in mind when you decide which dragons to approach, and which to run from, at Threshing.” There's a serious edge to Professor Kaori's voice as his dark eyes scan the class, making sure that all ears are listening.

While there’s sure to be a large number of casualties during Threshing, they don’t have to be stupid ones.

Atsumu both loves and hates this class. He loves it because Kaori’s illusion signet allows him to project images from his mind, creating an incredibly dynamic visual learning experience. He also hates it because it’s super fucking cool, and he’s still fighting against enjoying anything about this place.

He sifts everything at Basgiath through a single-minded filter, organizing them into two camps– things that could help him kill Sakusa, and other useless bullshit.

Most of his class time he spends daydreaming–specifically about snapping Sakusa’s long pretty neck. But he always turns his brain on for Dragon Studies. Since his entire revenge plan hinges on bonding the most badass dragon they’ve got–he even takes notes.

“When approaching a Green, keep your form in mind. They are one of the more agreeable breeds, but they do not tolerate ill manners or disrespect. A low bow is a good place to start, and avoid eye contact until they make the first move. Touching one who’s not willing to bond you is a quick way to lose an arm, so–don’t do that.”

A soft laugh fills the room. Because dragons eating people’s arms is funny here. Atsumu jots it down in his notebook, next to a very poor drawing of a dragon he scribbled down during Battle Brief.

The projection switches from a Green Daggertail to a Red Scorpiontail.

“Now, red dragons are the quickest to temper. So if you offend one of them, you’re-”

“Lunch,” Bokuto says, making the room fill with laughter. Even the Professor cracks a small smile despite the interruption.

“Precisely,” he responds. “So, what’s the best way to approach a Red?”

Hinata answers the moment his hand raises into the air.

“They prefer you to approach from the front and left! If possible. And remember to stand tall and hold your ground.”

Hinata’s dragon knowledge when he got here was pretty much limited to, “they’re so cool”, but he’s been burning through all the dragon books the Archives have to offer at an alarming pace. And with three story high shelves packed to the brim, there’s a lot to read.

“Better hope you don’t run into one of those then.” Oikawa sneers from the row behind them. A few of his slimy squadmates snigger, but Hinata lets it roll off his back without even turning around. Atsumu isn’t so virtuous, so he shoots back a dirty look in Hinata’s place. Oikawa sticks his tongue out and leans back in his chair. Next to him, Mad Dog growls at Atsumu before going back to picking under his nails. Somehow the two biggest dicks in the whole college ended up in the same squad.

Professor Kaori continues with his lesson, already used to ignoring the snippy commentary from the peanut gallery.

“Excellent. The best way to handle a Red is to show it that you have no fear.”

Kita’s dragon is a Red. Atsumu can’t help but feel even more impressed, looking at the terrifying projection whipping its tail and snapping its teeth. He wonders what breed Osamu bonded. He talked about his dragon in a few of his letters, but nothing very specific. Maybe he’ll ask Kita about it sometime.

“What kind of signet would a Red get you?” one of Oikawa’s dumb squadmates asks–the one with the short, strawberry tinted hair.

“Signets are the result of the unique chemistry between the rider and dragon. It usually says more about the rider than the dragon, so there’s no way of predicting what type of magic will manifest. The stronger the bond, and more powerful the dragon, the stronger the signet.”

Atsumu’s mind drifts back to Sakusa and his dragon. The power they hold is remarkable. Blues are incredibly rare and powerful. Hopefully there’s something out there even stronger for him to bond with. He’s going to need an absolute badass of a dragon to even stand a chance.

“You all ought to focus on this lesson first,” Kaori says harshly. “You can worry about signets after you actually manifest one. While we have a few incredible healers here, there are no signets capable of resurrection. Approaching a dragon in the correct way will increase your chances of flying out of the field at Threshing.”

“What tail type is the deadliest?” Strawberry head asks.

“They’re all incredibly lethal in their own way. Though I suppose a Morningstartail would be one of the nastiest, since they have the power of a Clubtail paired with the slicing ability of a Daggertail. The only breed who couldn’t kill you with their tail alone would be a Feathertail.”

“There’s dragons with feathers for tails?” Oikawa interjects, dropping the front legs of his chair to the floor.

“We don’t know much about that particular breed, since none have left the Vale in over a century. But yes, that’s correct.”

“Who the hell would ever bond a Feathertail?” The disgust in Oikawa’s voice is palpable.

“Reportedly they abhor violence, which makes them unsuitable for bonding anyway. There won’t be any at Threshing.”

“How can you tell which dragon has which tail?”

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Atsumu thinks. Something his father told him ages ago when he would warn about Threshing.

“Would anyone else like to answer that?” Kaori asks, looking around the room.

After an awkward minute of nobody answering, the Professor’s eyes land on Atsumu. He keeps his lips zipped tight until his teacher’s face turns hard–unspoken command. With a roll of his eyes, Atsumu pops the bloated silence.

“Don’t worry ‘bout the tail. Never approach a dragon from behind.”

“Very good Cadet Miya.” Kaori smiles at him. All of the teachers here are way too nice to him considering his obvious lack of effort. But as much as Atsumu hates it, he can’t hide who he is. Who’s family he’s from and the weight that it carries here.

“Kiss-ass,” a gruff voice mutters from behind them.

Well, the weight isn’t always positive.

Atsumu turns around to glare at Mad Dog. Apparently kicking the guy’s ass once wasn’t enough to get him off his back. Atsumu’s hand reaches towards the sheath at his side as he mutters, “maybe if you actually did yer homework last year, ya wouldn’t have walked out of Threshing empty handed.”

“The fuck did you say to me?” Mad Dog jumps out of his chair, grabbing at Atsumu’s collar. Atsumu slides a dagger from his armor and jams the flat edge up underneath the curled fist in his shirt. Mad Dog’s hand snaps back when the point of the knife pricks into his palm. His eyes flash red, clearly recognizing the blade as his own. A reminder of who’s stronger between the two of them.

A blast of orange fire engulfs the room, causing both boys to yelp and pull away. Atsumu’s heart pounds in his chest, but when he looks down, he’s surprised to find himself perfectly un-burned. When his brain has a moment to catch up, he realizes that the fireball wasn’t even hot.

“There will be no fighting in my class!” Professor Kaori yells, his Scorpiontail projection growling and puffing out residual smoke. “Leave it for the mats.”

The bell signaling the end of class rings out, dissolving the remaining bit of tension. Professor Kaori waves them off with a frown. The class collectively packs up to leave around them, while Atsumu stays locked in his staring contest.

“What do ya say puppy? Wanna hit the mats again? Worked out real well fer ya last time.” Atsumu smiles as he flips Mad Dog’s dagger in the air. Bokuto and Hinata stand up behind him, crossing their arms.

“Whatever,” Mad Dog spits back, stalking out of class. He’s followed out by a sneering Oikawa and their merry band of asshats.

“Gods, those guys piss me off.” Atsumu mutters as he packs up his own thing into his satchel.

“I’m sure they’ll back off eventually,” Bokuto says as they begin their walk back to the dorms. “But if not, I’d be happy to help you knock their heads together anytime.” He hits his fist into his palm, smiling.

“Me too!” Hinata grips the sides of his backpack, now re-stuffed completely with books and notes.

Atsumu smiles at them to say, “best squad ever.”

They both sing back the dumb little chant they made up on the first week. “Best squad ever!”

— ⚡︎ —

Since the week’s official matches are over, their gym time is spent learning new hand-to-hand maneuvers. Coach Ukai walks up to the railing of the viewing platform to lead the lesson.

“Now, we have a real treat for you all today,” he says in his booming Instructor voice. “Wingleader Sakusa has agreed to demonstrate for us. He’s one of our best fighters, so make sure to watch carefully. Can we get a volunteer to partner for the demonstration?”

Atsumu’s hand twitches, but he holds it at his side. His body is constantly itching to take a swing at the bastard, but he needs to bidehis time for the right opportunity. Plus, he hasn’t had a chance to see Sakusa fight from an outside perspective yet, it could be useful.

“I’ll do it!” A haughty voice calls out, and Atsumu turns to see Oikawa walking up to the center mat, opposite Sakusa.

Ukai explains today’s hold step-by-step. It’s a fairly basic one, something Atsumu learned at the academy years ago, but he watches intently hoping to dissect any gaps in Sakusa’s fighting style. They go through the steps slowly several times to show the proper technique. Oikawa twists Sakusa into an arm lock behind his back and pushes him to the ground in slow motion. They take turns attacking and defending, neither putting their strength into it.

When they’ve shown the move several times, Ukai says, “it’s a simple move, but much more difficult when your opponent is fighting back.” He nods for them to start again, for real this time.

Atsumu watches intently, dissecting every movement and taking mental notes.

Unfortunately the notes are entirely unhelpful.

Form: perfect. Speed: fast as fuck. Weaknesses: none.

The graceful movements of Sakusa’s body makes it look more like he’s dancing than fighting.

Of course, there aren’t any obvious flaws in his technique, he’s a wingleader for a reason after all. He easily locks Oikawa in the hold and folds him into submission. Oikawa thrashes in his grip, but can’t break free.

Ukai calls out and Sakusa releases his hold, causing Oikawa to stumble forward. He catches himself before falling and pushes the hair out of his angry red face.

“Now, switch positions. Oikawa, you’re on offense,” Ukai directs.

Oikawa rushes at Sakusa’s back. Instead of dodging, Sakusa allows his arm to be yanked behind him into the lock. Oikawa smirks as he presses in, folding Sakusa’s hand back unnaturally far. Atsumu winces just watching it bend. But Sakusa doesn’t even seem to blink at what has to be his wrist breaking. Instead, he coolly steps out to the side, twisting to break the hold. He grips his other hand over Oikawa’s wrist to pull him in, while simultaneously driving his knee up to smash him in the gut. Once he’s doubled over, Sakusa curls an arm around and throws him to the mat in one neat swoop.

Atsumu’s eyes must be malfunctioning. There is no way Sakusa’s wrist didn’t break just now. The way it was bent, was not right. The guy’s face never gives much away, but surely there must be limits? Could he really be that good at hiding his expressions? Add it to the list of things that make Sakusa Kiyoomi feel eerily unhuman.

But Ukai puts them back in position and Sakusa easily drops Oikawa to the mat again, both hands still in perfect working order.

“Our Wingleader’s kind of scary,” Hinata whispers behind his hand.

Atsumu snorts. He doesn’t even know the half of it.

“Have you seen his dragon too?” Bokuto asks. “I want one as terrifying as that!” He growls into the air, holding his hands up to imitate claws.

Kita shushes them, but shoots Atsumu a wary look.

After the demonstration ends, Oikawa grumbles, doubled over with a hand on his stomach. The fact that he isn’t headed to the infirmary is actually a testament to how good Sakusa is. His control was spot on to complete the moves without inflicting serious damage.

How infuriating.

Sakusa’s coal black eyes found Atsumu, each time Oikawa’s body slammed into the mat. The two of them haven’t spoken or interacted in weeks, but their eyes always seem to find each other with ease. The smirk on Sakusa’s face feels like an invitation to a game. A very dangerous one. Atsumu fully intends on accepting, but not until the odds swing further to his favor. He can’t afford to fuck up again. He might not survive their next encounter. Atsumu scowls as Sakusa steps off the mat, giving him that evil, cocky bastard smirk that he’s so fond of.

Fucker.

At least Atsumu can enjoy the sour look on his other rival’s face. Oikawa pouts like a wounded puppy for the remainder of their gym time.

Small victories.

After class, their squad stays at the gym to keep working at it. Normally it’s just him, Hinata and Bokuto, but the second-years had their signet class canceled that evening, so they hang around too.

The Tanakas practice in the far ring, exchanging quick hits and blocks, mirroring each other’s movements.

While Atsumu still feels uneasy around the Marked Ones, it’s impossible to avoid the two in his squad. They get along genuinely well with Bokuto and Hinata, while him and Kita do their best to pretend there isn’t any tension. As far as Marked Ones go, they’re probably the least dangerous to Atsumu, seeing as killing within your own squad is against the Codex. On top of that, Saeko is impossible not to like. She’s feisty and thoughtful and an absolute badass. Even Ryu is starting to grow on Atsumu. When he isn’t growling at him.

Kita keeps a sharp eye on them anyway, but he hasn’t sensed any dishonesty yet. Unless you count the time Ryu tried to convince them all he was 6 feet tall.

Even while being friendly, Atsumu remains cautious. Just because they’ve developed a sort of repertoire, doesn’t mean they can be trusted. They could be spying for Sakusa. They could be conspiring to kill him. They could be part of a whole new rebellion for all he knows.

Neither Hinata or Bokuto know of the underlying tension and history between Atsumu and the Marked Ones, so they’ve happily bonded with the twins like any other squadmate. Ryu even acts protective over Hinata, threatening people who try to mess with him. They’re all a little protective of Hinata, really. He’s like the squad mascot, holding them together like happy orange glue.

Atsumu and Kita take a break from their sparring to sip some water and watch Bokuto drilling Hinata on the moves they learned today.

Saeko walks to the side of their mat, shaking her head. “You’re teaching him to fight like a 6-foot tall war machine. It’s never going to work.”

“But this is how Ukai showed us.” Hinata frowns.

“There’s more than one right way to do something. You need to use your opponent’s size against them.” She steps up to the mat in front of Bokuto, shooing Hinata off to the side. “Use your own size to your advantage. You were a scribe right? Stop fighting hard and start fighting smart.”

She nods at Bokuto to start the attack again. Saeko is even smaller than Hinata. Next to Bokuto she almost looks like a child. Bokuto doesn’t bother to treat her like one and barrels in head first. She waits until the last second, then ducks under his arms. She throws her weight to the side and kicks back at the ditch of Bokuto’s knee, causing him to stumble forward. Before he can catch himself, she turns to hook her arms under his knee and jerk up. His face crashes into the mat and she pushes in after him, twisting his knee in an unnatural looking way. Bokuto’s face contorts, and he taps at her hands to release the position.

She waves Bokuto at her again. He doesn’t go for a full charge this time, adapting his own methods for her speed. They dance around each other, Bokuto throwing out punches that Saeko weaves around seamlessly. She feints and kicks, keeping her head out of Bokuto’s reach. After a while Bokuto’s hits grow slower and less frequent, allowing for Saeko to weave in and jab his weak spots between bouts. After a particularly nasty kick to the stomach, Bokuto yields to catch his breath.

Saeko turns back to Hinata. “You have good stamina. Probably better than most. Just stay out of reach until you spot an opening. Hit hard and fast, then go back to dodging.”

“You really think that could help me win?” Hinata asks.

“Definitely! But don’t be too focused on winning, just worry about staying alive until Threshing. Once signets come into play–it’s a whole other ball game.” She grips into Bokuto’s shoulder and grins. Bokuto’s eyes go wide as she yanks him over her head and throws him clear across the room. Atsumu and Hinata gasp as his body slams into the pile of rolled up mats in the corner. She threw him as if he weighed no more than a balled up piece of paper.

The second years have separate classes for their signet training, and for some reason it feels almost rude to ask about, unless they bring it up first. None of them had seen or asked about Saeko’s signet yet–it’s fucking awesome.

“How did you do that?” Hinata asks, eyes big as saucers.

“I can change the weight of objects to be as light as I want.” She beams, lifting up a training dummy and balancing it over her head with one finger.

Bokuto scrambles free from the tangle of mats and jumps into the air. He floats all the way up shouting, “this is awesome!”

“Careful–it only lasts a few minutes at a time,” Saeko warns, watching Bokuto spider-crawl over the cobblestone ceiling.

Bokuto pouts, but gently pushes off to land back on the ground again.

“That’s amazing Sakeo!” Hinata exclaims. He turns to where Ryunosuke is standing next to Atsumu. “What’s yours Ryu?”

“The opposite,” he says with a smirk in his voice.

A hand lands on Atsumu’s shoulder and his body turns to lead. Gravity crushes down on him, forcing him to the ground. He strains to lift his head up, using every bit of strength he has and getting absolutely nowhere.

The second the hand is removed from his shoulder, the weight is lifted. Atsumu’s head flies back and he lands flat on his ass.

“Woah,” Atsumu says, trying to regain his feet, feeling strangely off-balance.

“You guys are so cool.” Hinata’s eyes sparkle in admiration.

Both Tanakas chime back in unison, “we know.”

“Kita! Show us your signet!” Hinata bounces back and forth on his feet. He’s asked no less than fifty times by now, clearly not worried about it coming off as rude.

Kita shrugs and says, “sorry. Still classified.”

“Wahh! That just makes it double cool!”

Atsumu elbows the squad leader in the ribs. “Yeah, yer so cool Kita.”

A small smile plays over his lips. Even if Atsumu is teasing, Kita knows that the words are true.

It’s such a relief to be able to act more normal with each other now that their whole squad has gotten closer. Being around Kita fills a tiny part of the jagged, gaping, Osamu sized hole in his heart. He never wants to take it for granted again.

“Atsumu!” Saeko yells. “Quit flirting, and come here.” She points to the spot in front of her at the center of the mat, then steps off to let Hinata take her position.

Atsumu’s face heats and he grumbles back, “I wasn’t.” But he stands up and marches over to stand opposite Hinata.

“Ok Shoyo, now try it out,” she says.

They circle each other slowly. Atsumu watches the gears turn behind Hinata’s eyes and keeps his body tensed for whatever’s coming. After a minute of nothing, Atsumu charges in.

He’s expecting the same kick move that Saeko just showed them. What he’s not expecting is for Hinata to grab back on to him, pushing his head into his shoulder. Atsumu leans in hard to push him down, but then the pressure against him dissappears when Hinata pulls back. Atsumu’s momentum drags him forward. Hinata ducks underneath, swinging a leg through to drop to the floor. Hinata pushes Atsumu’s elbow forward over his head and spins around to grab his back as he crashes into the mat. Atsumu grunts as he hits the floor, and his arm is yanked back into the hold Ukai showed them. From his position beneath Hinata, he can’t break out. He’s pinned to the floor until he taps.

“Fuck yeah, Shoyo!” Saeko squeals from the sideline, looking like a proud mom.

Kita, Bokuto and Ryunosuke start clapping for him.

Atsumu grins up at Hinata, too happy to mind the ache in his cheek from hitting the floor. “Top squad here we come.”

“Best squad ever.” Hinata beams, holding a hand out. Atsumu accepts the help, only groaning a little as he’s pulled to his feet.

They all sing back, “best squad ever!”

And really, it just might be.

Chapter Text

Dragons are the ultimate power, everything about them is designed to kill--teeth, claws, the ability to breathe fire. In the cases of Swordtails and Daggertails, the knifelike spikes at the tip of their tail can disembowel an enemy with one flick. One should never be approached outside the context of Presentation or Threshing. Unless you have a death wish.

-Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

Sakusa Kiyoomi stands at the front of his Wing, posture stiff and eyes forward as General Pancheck reads off the morning Death Roll. His face remains passive as three names are called. It remains passive even as they call hers.

“Eya Cardulo.”

He didn’t know it before, but he now commits the name to memory. Another Marked One commended to Malek. Another failure on his shoulders.

The sting of her name scrawled on that list burns into mind. He reminds himself that losses are inevitable. He reminds himself that he couldn’t have done anything to stop it. Yesterday’s sparring matches were absolutely brutal. He had to watch silently as the blade sunk into Eya’s belly and ran clean across her front.

Being a Wingleader was supposed to give him some sort of power in this place. But the only power he had during that match was to congratulate the winner for spilling her guts all over the mat.

“We commend their souls to Malek.” Pancheck finishes his speech and gives the floor to Varrish to complete the day’s announcements.

Kiyoomi’s shadows snake along the floor to gently tug at Suna’s ankle a few lines over. When he catches Suna’s eyes swinging towards him, he flashes a small hand signal. Suna nods his head, slight enough to not rouse attention, then turns his gaze back to the front.

They can’t put the meeting off any longer.

Before the Morning Brief ends, Kiyoomi’s shadows do their cursory check on Miya. The morning sun hasn’t climbed past the mountain’s peak yet, so they are free to scurry about the Quad undetected. Miya is in his usual spot, but his aura feels off today. Subdued. The golden static that’s usually bouncing around him is nothing more than a dull buzz. Nothing in Miya’s slumped posture suggests a threat, but any deviation from the norm is unsettling nonetheless.

Even if it seems safe for Kiyoomi to drop his guard, he won’t. He never does.

— ⚡︎ —

When Miya Atsumu had woken in the middle of the night after three weeks and one day at Basgiath, he knew it would be a bad day.

He tries to joke around with his squad at breakfast, but his laughs come out hollow and his quips all fall flat.

His heart just isn’t in it.

His eyes periodically flit to Sakusa’s table on the other side of the room. They always seem to do that, looking for him in any space Atsumu enters. Keeping tabs on what Sakusa does and who he talks to. He’s eating with another Wingleader and a few other Marked ones, not doing anything particularly evil or ominous today. But looks can be deceiving.

Atsumu ropes his attention back to Saeko’s dramatic retelling of the first time her signet manifested.

“My bed floated all the way to the ceiling and I didn’t know how to get it back down!” Saeko’s hands fly wildly in the air as she talks. A few times it looks like her brother is going to get smacked in the crossfire, but he artfully dodges each time like a practiced dance. “It was way too high to jump. I had to wait with my back pressed against the chandelier all night!” Her hands fly to her mouth when she starts giggling uncontrollably.

Objectively, it’s a hilarious story, but Atsumu’s focus keeps drifting in and out. He hums at what he hopes are appropriate intervals, and times his laughs to match everyone else’s. They dart through different topics at a lethal speed; from which signets could pull the best pranks, to what type of tail they would each have if they were dragons.

After a while, Atsumu gives up on the charade of engaging in his table’s haphazard conversation. He robotically shovels food in his mouth, barely chewing at the ash on his tongue before washing it down with large gulps of warm water.

“Tsum-Tsum?”

“Huh?” Atsumu jerks to attention.

It feels like waking up-but his eyes have been open the whole time... Haven’t they?

Bokuto looks at him from across the table, brow raised and head tilted.

Oh fuck, he probably asked a question.

After a few awkward seconds of Atsumu blinking helplessly, Bokuto repeats himself.

“Your pudding? Do you want it?”

Oh.

Atsumu looks down at his tray. He didn’t even realize he’d been avoiding it.

It’s stupid. It’s a habit he acquired over the years, leaving his pudding for last. It started back at the Academy because every day, without fail, Osamu would ask him for it. There was a bottomless pit where his brother’s stomach should’ve been. He used to whine about it during every meal, pestering Atsumu for his leftovers. Pudding was Osamu’s favorite. Atsumu likes pudding too, but the sweet taste was never worth quite as much as the dopey smiles he traded it for.

He silently moves the cup of wiggling vanilla over to Bokuto’s tray.

“Thanks buddy!” Bokuto beams, wasting no time before groaning in pleasure over a large spoonful.

“Yeah, sure.”

Suddenly the rest of Atsumu’s plate goes from mildly unappetizing to downright nauseating. He pushes the tray away from him and rests his head on the table between folded arms.

“Umm Atsumu, are you feeling okay today?” Hinata asks.

Right on cue, Atsumu’s body conjures up a long yawn.

“Tired,” he says, jumping on the easy excuse. “Didn’t sleep much.”

If he had to guess, Atsumu would say he woke up exactly at midnight, as if some sort of cosmic alarm went off in his head. He then spent the rest of the night tossing, turning and staring daggers into the pitch black ceiling.

The small comforting hand that lands on his back makes Atsumu screw his eyes shut. He doesn’t want anyone seeing him like this. Even his wonderful, supportive friends.

At least Kita’s big brown puppy eyes are off doing some sort of secret squad leader shit this morning. Atsumu is a dam about to break, and Kita would easily knock it down with a single sympathetic smile.

“Maybe you can try reading before bed? That always helps me fall asleep.” Hinata’s hand starts rubbing small circles over Atsumu’s back. It makes Atsumu feel like a child, but he doesn’t dare shrug away the small comfort.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I can find you some good books! The Archives have literally everything, it’s amazing.”

“Thanks Sho.” Atsumu manages to lift his head high enough to send Hinata a small smile.

“When you hit the Archives, say hi to your scribe boyfriend for me!” Saeko sing-songs from across the table.

Hinata’s entire face turns as red as his hair. “Kageyama is not my boyfriend!”

“I never said names.” She throws him a cheeky smile over the edge of her water glass.

Bokuto butts in, wiggling his eyebrows. “No one would willingly spend that much time in a library if they weren’t trying to get some.”

“I like reading!” Hinata gulps down half his water in an attempt to cover the crack in his voice, but only succeeds in choking on it and giving himself the hiccups.

“They are so boyfriends,” Saeko stage whispers to Bokuto, both grinning maniacally.

Hinata complains about the Kageyama guy way too much for him to be ‘just a friend.’ Normally Atsumu would jump in on the friendly teasing, but all he can muster now is a tired half-laugh. 

When Atsumu’s eyes inevitably dart to Sakusa’s table again, they can’t find him anymore. Before he can scan the rest of the cafeteria, he notices one of the other Marked Ones staring at him. It’s the tall one with the brown hair who fought Saeko on assessment day. The guy doesn’t look away when their eyes meet, clearly unbothered that he was caught staring.

Atsumu’s eyes zip back down to his half-eaten tray.

He wonders how rare invisibility signets are. The constant feeling of being watched is starting to wear on his nerves. He always tries to keep a vague awareness of the Marked Ones and their proximity to him. Clearly they are keeping an eye on him too.

The bell rings out through the room, signaling the end of lunch. Atsumu offers to clear the table, stacking up everyone’s trays as they skip away, still teasing Hinata lightly.

His feet drag on the floor to soak up an extra minute of silence once the cafeteria clears out. As his mountain of trays clatter into the wash tub, another falls immediately behind.

When Atsumu’s head whips to the side, he’s met with narrowed green eyes that are now calculating him from a foot away.

“You look like shit,” the stranger says, completely unprompted.

“Excuse me? Do I fuckin’ know ya?” Atsumu snaps back.

What exactly did he do to deserve a random insult this early in the morning? Is Sakusa sending his lackeys to wage psychological warfare on him now?

“Sorry.” He shakes his head, looking embarrassed. "I meant like, are you okay? And I’m Suna Rintaro.” An expectant open hand raises up between them.

Oh right. The name sounds familiar. Atsumu’s not sure why this Suna guy bothered to give him a first name too, he has no intention of becoming friendly enough to ever need it.

Atsumu looks down at the bony outstretched hand, then back up with a scowl.

“I was better before some random fuck chased me down to insult me," he says, crossing his arms and making a show of leaving Suna’s hand hanging in the air, unshaken.

Suna’s fingers wrap into a fist and he tucks his hand in his pocket. “Ah, right. Sorry, again.” He pulls his hand back out to tap his lips twice. “Broken filter.”

“Okay…well, bye.” Atsumu has no intention of seeing this conversation through to find the actual point of it. He brushes past Suna, taking care not to bump shoulders, and ignores the feeling of eyes on his back as he scurries out of the cafeteria.

Thankfully, Suna doesn’t follow to finish whatever mind-game or threat Sakusa sent him to deliver.

The odd encounter leaves Atsumu unsettled.

He pushes through the exit doors and relishes the cold as it hits his face. He takes a large gulp of Autumn air, seeing a few straggling cadets heading left across the field. He should turn left too, head to Battle Brief. He’s already running late. But the thought of sitting in the overcrowded lecture hall seems positively suffocating today.

Before he makes the conscious choice, his feet start heading right towards the towering, serrated silhouette of Basgiath mountain.

Atsumu missed his run this morning. For the first time since he arrived, he was the last cadet to peel out of bed. And even then it's because Bokuto and Hinata did the peeling for him.

As he steps outside of the college’s walls, he feels another knot of tension release in his chest. He decides to head up the narrow path and complete his mountain trek after all. Just to get away for a while. He’ll likely get in huge fucking trouble for skipping his classes, but that’s a problem he can worry about later.

He forgoes his typical dust pounding sprint for something barely above a shuffle, and the familiar winding path passes slowly beneath his feet.

He doesn’t mind if Osamu catches him today.

At this speed, the trail feels wonderfully endless. What’s normally a blur of gray rock becomes an intricate array of details carved into the mountainside. Today the cold, dark path feels rich and alive.

The undisturbed layer of mist swirls and hugs each curve of the mountainside. Atsumu runs his hand along the weeping cliff. Moisture bunches up beneath his fingertips to send thin streams of icy water down the vertical rocks. Small yellow birds occasionally flock to the fresh pools collected in the ditches. They drink happily, undisturbed by Atsumu’s presence as he strolls by.

Every so often, glittering veins of multicolor ore snake their way through the gray walls.

Atsumu has never seen them before. He’s never cared to look.

His eyes trail a long zig-zagging strip of glittering blue and purple. It seems to go on forever until its path is hidden behind a tall boulder wedged against the wall. The ground below is deeply recessed, as if the rock is sitting in its own hand-carved bowl.

Well that’s fucking weird. Even if the rock fell from the top of the mountain, it wouldn’t make a crater like that. At least not without breaking into a million tiny pieces.

Someone must have placed it there.

Atsumu peers around the side. He can barely make out a sliver of an opening in the cliff face before it’s covered by the boulder. Beyond that is only blackness, with no discernable details to make out.

He gives the rock a cursory push, but it doesn’t budge from its shallow ditch. The thing must weigh a ton.

He inspects around it to see if there’s a hidden leverage point or a magic button or something. He’s about to give up when he spots a faded image painted low on the side–a blood red eye. It stares Atsumu down, digging up some deep rooted fear he’d long forgotten the source of. A shiver runs down his spine as he runs his finger over the eye.

Why is this here?

Well, without a sledgehammer or super-strength, he won’t be finding out much more. He peels his fingers away, reluctantly giving up the mystery.

The eye watches him as he walks away.

It takes nearly half an hour to trudge up the rest of the mountain trail. By the time Atsumu reaches the top, his shoulder’s sag and his head hangs low. Exhaustion finally caught up to him about a half mile back, and he’s been dragging his feet ever since.

Once he steps into the light of the clearing, his body sags to the ground. He turns his face towards the midday sun, closing his eyes and soaking in its pleasant warmth. He lies down, curling into a ball with his head resting over his arm.

It doesn’t take long for sleep to pull him under.

His dreams are filled with rose colored memories. His mother pets his hair and reads their favorite folktale for the hundredth time. She presses a kiss to the top of his golden head, then another to a similar silver one, and extinguishes the light. Osamu refuses to return to the top bunk, scared of the red-eyed creatures from her story. Atsumu holds his hand and promises to always protect him. Osamu promises the same.

Too bad they’re both liars.

Atsumu sleeps surprisingly deep considering his bed is the rocky ground on a cliff’s edge. So deep, that he barely stirs when a hot blast of air hits his face.

When a second scalding woosh washes over him, his subconscious shoves him awake. He props himself up to his elbows and shakes the sleep off. When his vision finally clears, the ground below him is cast in darkness.

Did he sleep the whole day?

Another blast of hot air hits the back of his neck.

His eyes immediately dart towards the source, passing over three long curled claws, scraping over the ground. His head can’t stop its trajectory upward. He’s met with two massive silver eyes, bisected by long thin pupils.

Kita’s voice sounds a warning in his head ‘Don’t get too close to a dragon that ain’t yers.’

And here Atsumu is. Alone. Unprotected. Way too fucking close to a dragon that isn’t his.

He gapes up at the massive green dragon leering back at him. Its body takes up the entire space of the clearing, blocking out the sun and enveloping Atsumu in a deadly emerald-scaled cave. Atsumu scrambles back but almost instantly hits rock. His eyes scan around for the trail exit–the only way out besides jumping off the cliff. It’s blocked by the beast’s leg, a solid trunk of muscle, wider than the opening and taller than Atsumu himself. He looks back to the edge of the clearing, where the rock drops off to the valley hundreds of feet below. Would jumping be a better death than burning alive?

While Atsumu’s mind whirs, a translucent green wing spreads out to block the entirety of the cliff’s edge.

So much for Plan B.

The dragon’s massive silver eyes narrow down at Atsumu. It tilts its head in appraisal.

What did Professor Kaori say about approaching Greens? Something about losing a fucking arm? No, no–what was the important part? Something about manners?

Shit–he’s already blown it.

Atsumu drops his head to the floor in as low of a bow as he can manage. His heart thunders. It beats erratically, as he sucks in what could very well be his last few stuttering breaths. Sweat drips down from his neck, past his face, but he doesn’t dare wipe it. He doesn’t even dare to flinch each time a razor tipped claw stretches and scratches against the ground.

He didn’t tell anyone where he went.

Would they call his name on the Death Roll tomorrow? Or think he ran away?

A soft growl rings out above him.

Atsumu presses his forehead further into the ground, nearly grinding his skin down in an effort to sink his forehead into the rock.

After a long while of bowing, and panicking, and miraculously not being roasted alive–he hears a soft chuff from above.

What does that mean? Is that a sign of approval?

It wasn’t a blast of fire, which seems about as good a sign as he can hope for. Very slowly, Atsumu peels his head off the gravel and shifts to his knees. He keeps his head down just in case and waits another long, tense minute. He hears the chuff again and lets out his own deep, slow breath.

Here goes nothing.

He raises to his feet, waiting until he’s fully upright before lifting his eyes. When he does, the dragon is staring back at him. Not snarling, snapping, or posturing–just staring.

Before him is a spectacular collection of beauty and lethality. When the scales catch the light, they shine like hundreds of polished emeralds encasing the beast’s body. Scaled spikes poke out along the sides of its face and down the back of its neck. Over its shoulder, a sword tipped tail whips out, slicing through the air.

Touching the rogue dragon would be a very, very bad idea, but Atsumu’s palm reaches up as if pulled by an invisible string.

He’s being stupid. He’s being reckless. He can’t stop himself. Something in the beast’s eyes is calling out to him–an odd sense of familiarity ringing through his bones.

With bated breath and an outstretched hand, he waits. Waits for what exactly? He’s not sure. A snap of teeth around his arm? A blast of fire down his front?

The dragon’s silver eyes close and its head lowers almost imperceptibly.

Is it bowing back?

Then a cold, scaled snout pushes into Atsumu’s hand.

His breath catches in the back of his throat. 

“Umm, hi-” Atsumu squeaks, having no fucking clue what he’s supposed to do next.

The dragon’s eyes flash open and it pulls its head back. Its massive wings spread out, blocking the whole sky in their span. They beat down and crush the air over Atsumu’s head, forcing him to his knees. Atsumu shields his eyes from the stinging wind as the dragon takes off, shooting straight into the air and flipping backwards to speed off into the sky. The massive beast becomes a glistening green speck in the distance before there’s even time to blink.

Atsumu is left on the mountain bewildered and alone. Once the dragon slips from his view, the strange calm spell snaps, and the horrific reality of what just happened slams into him. The adrenaline running through his body has nowhere to go, leaving him shaking violently on the ground. He would’ve gladly spent several long minutes sitting there, catching his breath, but the thought of the dragon coming back, or another one finding him there has him racing directly towards the mountain path. Everything is once again a blur of gray, as Atsumu pounds into the gravel. His only goal is getting the fuck back behind the walls.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu hits the bottom of the path in record time. He places a hand on the wall bordering the college and sets about catching his damn breath. That was the single most terrifying moment of his life, and he’s still debating whether or not it even happened. If it did, there’s no logical explanation for him being alive right now.

Seriously, how is he alive right now?

Nearly the moment Atsumu steps back into campus, an officer finds him. All at once he remembers where he should’ve been this whole time, and how dangerous disobeying orders is.

“Cadet Miya, General Miya would like to see you in his office,” the young man says.

Fuck.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Oh, uhh thanks fer lettin’ me know,” Atsumu stammers. “I’ll make sure ta head up there after-”

“Immediately.”

Double fuck.

He tries to wave off the Officer’s escort, but apparently his orders specifically included walking Atsumu the entire way. The long sword strapped to the man’s back has all escape plans flying out the window.

Their prison march leads Atsumu through the winding hallway that he’s specifically avoided until now. When they reach the large studded door to the General’s office, the man waves his hands across the keyhole to unlock the magical ward protecting it. He waves Atsumu through before posting up in the long hallway.

Atsumu passes through the door, feeling like a mouse forced head first into a glue trap. The room is immediately sealed behind him. He hears the distinct click of a deadbolt sliding into place, locking up the only possible escape route.

There isn’t even a window to try and throw himself out of.

The stuffy office has barely changed in the twenty years it has belonged to Miya Ichiro. Hardly any of the cobblestone floors or walls are visible behind the sheer amount of random bullshit crammed into the space. Atsumu turns away from the imposing array of perfectly polished and sharpened weapons hanging around the door, as if threatening against any attempts at leaving.

Sturdy wood bookcases cover both side walls from floor to ceiling, stuffed full with hundreds of books that surely serve as little more than decoration. Soft orange mage lights bounce lightly against the ceiling, casting a deceptively warm light into the space. When one of them drifts too close to Atsumu’s face, he bats at it until it stops circling his hand and floats back up to the ceiling in defeat.

Atsumu takes a seat on the simple iron chair situated on the front side of the desk. A much plushier, nicer chair sits on the far side, but he’s fairly sure that if his father ever caught him sitting there, he would take the mace off the back wall and knock Atsumu’s ass clean out of it.

His foot taps over the ornate red and brown rug that spans the majority of the room. It’s at least as old as Atsumu is, yet has remained perfectly clean over the years, each fiber strictly maintaining its proper position.

Although Atsumu was required to answer his summons “ immediately” , his father doesn’t seem to be in any hurry of his own.

Since there’s nothing else to do, Atsumu’s eyes drift around the large Battle Map on the wall behind the desk. It’s just like the one in Battle Brief, with green and yellow dots littering the Navarrian borders. The yellow of Poromiel Gryphon Fliers is still vastly outweighed by the green markers of their own forces. That’s comforting. Although Atsumu doesn’t personally give a shit about the war, there’s a very likely chance he’ll be a part of it in a few short years. Maybe they’ll just broker a peace treaty by then and he can take it easy on a coastal outpost, enjoying his sizable Rider’s pay.

Except…the map isn’t the same as the one in Battle Brief. Granted, Atsumu doesn’t pay very good attention during their daily war updates, but he’s never seen red dots before. On this map, there’s a few sparse pockets on the border outskirts, but the southernmost tip of the continent is practically dripping in the blood-red battle markers. There’s nothing out there as far as Atsumu knows. It’s all barren wasteland that was destroyed in the war decades ago. Maybe they would’ve explained it in Battle Brief today if he hadn’t skipped.

His eyes snag on a small scorch mark over the former capital of Itchiyama. When Navarre’s dragons burned the city to ash, it was the final nail in the rebellion’s coffin. It’s almost as though their fire had singed through to this map as well. 

When bouncing his knee and chewing his fingernails is no longer enough to dispel Atsumu’s nervous energy, he stands up to wander around the room.

Today, the large intricately carved desk in the center of the room is oddly clear of papers. There is just a small brown-paper parcel tied with a white string sitting at the corner. The wrapping is too intricate for Atsumu to be able to recreate, so he lets it be as he walks about aimlessly.

The thin strips of exposed wood at the front of the bookshelves are covered in a light layer of dust. He wonders how long it's been since any of the books have even been opened. Atsumu’s finger traces over the multicolor book spines, until he spots a clean streak on the dusted shelf. He pulls the dark red hardcover from its spot, and a metallic sound clatters at his feet. He looks down to see a blade tip peeking out from a blood-red cloth. He scoops the bundle up, re-wrapping the weapon and setting it gently on the desk. Before he has time to inspect the book further, or even read the title, Atsumu hears voices from the other side of the door.

Shit.

He stuffs the book back in the empty spot on the shelf. When he turns, the red cloth on the near-empty table stands out like a beacon. He panics, snatching it off the desk and quickly tucking it in his boot. It’d be better for the General to think he’s lost the blade than to find it in a spot where it obviously shouldn’t be.

He barely manages to park his ass back in the iron chair before the handle turns, and the door swings open.

“Atsumu.” His father pauses at the entryway, looking down his nose as usual. Atsumu does his best to breathe normally as his heart pounds under the scrupulous stare.

Miya Ichiro shuts the door behind him, crossing the room in quick, efficient strides to sit in his special General chair behind the desk.

For the second time that day, Atsumu finds himself face to face with a cold-blooded, fire-breathing monster.

They sit in silence for a moment, the General leaning back in his chair with folded hands. 

To Atsumu’s dismay, he actually gets a lot of his looks from his father. The same bushy brows, hooded eyes and strong jawline. Ichiro’s short brown hair used to match the dark chocolate roots of Atsumu’s exactly, but it’s now peppered with a few light strands of gray near the temple. He may have been handsome in his youth, but all Atsumu can see now is deep frown lines and a perpetual aura of bastard.

Tired of the quiet, judgey silence, Atsumu breaks first.

“Is this about me skippin’ class?” 

“I’ve sent a pardon to your Instructors, telling them you’re assisting me for the day.”

“Oh.”

It’s almost a nice thing to do, if it weren’t blatant self-interest drenched over the act. The General wouldn’t bother stepping in for Atsumu if his own image weren’t at stake.

If he’s waiting for a thank you, they can sit in this stilted silence all damn day.

“I have something for you.” Ichiro taps two battle scarred fingers over the paper wrapped package on his desk.

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s from your brother.”

“Samu?” Atsumu snatches the bundle and hugs it tight to his chest. At his father’s confirmation, he tears it open, tossing the paper scraps hastily to the floor.

He holds up the contents of the package, eyes attempting to take it in despite the sudden moisture they seemed to have collected. It’s an armored leather vest, with a braided black cord lacing up the center. Or, not just leather. When Atsumu turns the cloth to the side, there’s a faint green color hidden under the top layer of black woven fabric.

“He had this made for you last year,” Ichiro explains. “Reinforced with dragonscale. How your brother managed to charm the scales off a dragon is nothing short of a miracle.” He gives a small laugh at that. “Tienne must have been very fond of him.”

Atsumu ignores the warmth in his father’s tone that has never been directed his way. He never seemed to hate Osamu quite as much as Atsumu, but that fact stopped hurting years ago.

He runs his fingers along the hard shimmering scales woven into the fabric. Tienne.

The deep emerald green peeks through the black cross-hatched stitching, glinting in the mage lights overhead.

A very familiar shade of emerald green. 

It had to be a coincidence, right? The dragon on the mountain couldn’t have been Osamu’s. All Greens probably look the same. Then again, that Green didn’t roast him into a pile of ash. Atsumu even touched the damn thing without losing a hand. So far, he hasn’t been able to think up a single reason why.

Was that Osamu’s dragon? Was she missing him today too?

“Ya kept this from me?” Atsumu crushes his hands into the fabric, giving his father a hard stare.

“You hardly had use for dragonscale armor sleeping around and drinking yourself through every bar in Navarre.”

He makes it sound like Atsumu has been at the absolute lowest dregs of society, and not just doing what every other normal twenty year old would get to do.

“Real nice fuckin’ chat Pops, see ya again next year.” Atsumu pushes up out of his chair–his tolerance level for family time extinguished in a few short minutes.

But one constant about Miya Ichiro is that he always has to get the final word in.

“This is the last time I’ll cover for you, Atsumu. I will not tolerate you embarrassing me in the future.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Atsumu spits back, not stopping his quest to flee this viper den. “I didn’t come here fer ya or yer precious legacy.”

“I know precisely why you came here. So why then, is Sakusa Kiyoomi still breathing?”

Atsumu freezes at the door, hand gripping tight over the brass handle. He grits his teeth hard enough to break.

“I‘m workin’ on it.” 

“I should have expected you to fail me in this.” A deep sigh releases into the air. “But for some reason, I keep holding out hope that one day you’ll surprise me and actually do something right.”

‘You and me both.’

Atsumu hates how much the voice in his head sounds like his father’s. But it’s not wrong. He’s done nothing but fuck around and get his ass kicked since he came here. Even after weeks of bone-breaking training, he’s nowhere close to avenging Osamu.

Atsumu doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he opens the door and slams it behind him, startling the officer posted outside. “Sorry,” he murmurs at the shocked face, not stopping for a proper apology. He hugs Osamu’s gift as he stomps down the hall. 

After he’s halfway to the safety of the dorms, he stops to shrug off his vest. He loosens the ties on his new set and wiggles it over his head. Once the cool leather settles on his shoulders he lets out a deep breath. He closes his eyes as he pulls at the laces–until they’re tight enough that he can feel Osamu with him at each push of his lungs.

He starts removing all of the weapons from his old vest and re-arming the new one. Atsumu has collected a decent amount of blades in his sparring matches over the past weeks. It’s a bit of a game here, to disarm your opponent and keep their weapon as a trophy. None are as nice as the ones he lost on the first day, but each one added to his collection helps boost Atsumu’s confidence. As he tucks the array of different blades into the various sheaths of his new armor, he can’t help but smile. There’s so many hidden pockets. Osamu must have really believed in his fighting skills to add them all into the design.

But he’ll never get to see Atsumu fill them.

The happy feeling quickly sours into despair, as his thoughts of Osamu often do. Atsumu walks the remainder of the halls with his fingers gripping over the top of his vest, fighting to keep himself from balling up on the floor.

As he rounds the last turn, there’s a small prick at his heel, reminding him of the newest acquisition shoved in his boot. Or rather, the weapon stolen from the head General of Basgiath’s personal office… oops.

He reaches to pull the cloth out and examine it closer. When the fabric falls away from the blade, Atsumu takes a sharp breath in. He’s never seen anything like it. The metal shines with a mesmerizing purple-blue hue that shifts color when he spins it in his palm. Intricate rune-like patterns are carved into the hilt, swirling down the entirety of the jewel-studded handle. It has to be some super strong or magic-infused metal, his father surely wouldn’t own anything just for the sake of beauty.

Well, Atsumu sure as fuck isn’t going to run back and tell his dad that he took it, so he tucks the blade along his ribs with the others, feeling a strange energy radiate from the spot.

Judging by the sun’s position behind the mountain, it’s probably right about dinner time. Atsumu doesn’t feel hungry, so he ducks into the empty barracks to lie down. When he reaches his bunk, he notices a stack of books on the bedside table. Hinata must have put them there sometime during their free period. Atsumu picks up the top book on the pile and drags a thumb across the edge to flip the pages. He breathes in that unique dusty parchment and leather scent. The smell of books always reminds him of his mother. He’ll have time to actually try and read some later, but the smell is a small comfort on its own. As is the thoughtfulness of Hinata going through all that trouble for him.

For now, the bunched up black comforter and hard black mattress are calling to Atsumu like the finest inn coin can buy.

Before falling into the black abyss, he kneels down to reach under the bed. When his fingers finally hit cold leather he yanks up his boot to peek inside. His letters are still there, nice and safe, rolled into a tight spiral. He kicks off his shoes and crawls into bed, pulling the covers over his head and clinging the muddy boot tight to his chest.

His fingernail traces up and down the sides of his new armor, catching occasionally in the grooves between scales. He whispers a small thank you to the gods for this gift from his twin. If he’s lucky, the over-tight laces running down the front might be enough to hold him together.

He closes his eyes in vain, as sleep decides to elude him once again.

Even fully clothed under the thick blanket, Atsumu feels cold. Unshed tears sting the backs of his eyes and exhaustion weighs over his body. He doesn’t have anything to wipe his nose on, causing him to sniffle every few seconds. Why can’t he just sleep? He’s ready for tomorrow. Ready for it to stop being today.

A faint shuffling appears in the distance, interrupting the blissful silence of the barracks. As the sound grows louder, it turns into footsteps. Atsumu peeks his head out of the covers just enough to see Kita walking up with his hands behind his back.

“Missed ya today,” Kita says, sitting at the edge of Hinata’s bed. He leans his head down to make eye contact, hair flopping over the side of his face.

“Apparently I was helpin’ my dad with somethin’ or somethin’.” Atsumu waves his hand flippantly.

Kita doesn’t call him on the lie, even though they both know it was a pretty weak one. He turns to fiddle with something that Atsumu can’t see.

When he turns back, he’s conjured up a white porcelain plate, setting it down on the small bit of empty bed by Atsumu’s pillow. On the plate lies a single piece of chocolate cake with three small mage lights bouncing above it, like makeshift candles.

“Happy birthday Atsumu,” Kita says quietly, a gentle smile on his face.

Atsumu frowns at the cake for a moment, then throws the blanket back over his head. He buries his face into his pillow and grunts out, “I don’t feel like celebratin’.”

Atsumu knew today would suck. Because it’s not just his birthday–it’s Osamu’s too.

Kita’s muffled voice worms itself through his blanket cave. “I figured as much. But happy birthday anyway.” He pats over the blanket in a close approximation to where Atsumu’s head should be, but lands over his balled up fists instead. 

Atsumu groans, tossing the blankets off his bed completely and frowning up at Kita. Of course his friend would remember what day it was, and plan something thoughtful like this. Atsumu wishes he hadn’t. There’s nothing to celebrate.

A lone cadet walks through the barracks entrance, eyeing them curiously from across the room.

Ugh, this place is probably minutes away from all the first-years pouring in.

“Hey Shin, do ya think you can cover fer me?” Atsumu sits up quickly, then almost falls back over when a wave of dizziness hits him. He shakes it off, pulling the letters from his old boot and stuffing them down the one he’s currently lacing up.

Kita doesn’t look particularly pleased with the notion, seeing as curfew is coming up and rules are his reason for living.

Atsumu puts on his best puppy dog eyes as he finishes double-knotting his shoelaces. “I just wanna be alone with Samu fer a while.”

Kita has built up an impressive immunity to the twin’s begging over the years, but Atsumu suspects that the real water building up in his eyes helps tip the scale to his favor.

“Fine,” Kita relents. He holds out a small metal fork, pointing the handle towards Atsumu. “But only if ya eat yer cake.”

“I ain’t hungry,” Atsumu pouts. 

“Have ya eaten anythin’ since Breakfast?”

“Yes-”

“Liar. Cake. Now.” He pushes the fork closer, wiggling it between two fingers.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, but he grabs it to take a small bite off the corner. It’s mostly frosting, but hands down the best tasting thing he’s had since coming here. He swallows it down and holds the fork back out to Kita. “Ya gotta have some too.”

“No, it’s yours!” he protests.

“I can’t be the only one eatin’ my birthday cake! It’s depressin’.” Atsumu pushes the fork through the opposite corner of the cake and offers it again. Kita narrows his eyes, but leans in to take the bite anyway. Atsumu smiles and finishes the rest of the plate in under a minute. He even licks it for good measure and holds his work up for approval. Kita’s face scrunches at the spit covered plate, but he takes it from Atsumu’s grasp and waves him off.

“Don’t stay out too late,” Kita warns.

“Yer the best Shin, I really mean it.” Atsumu wraps him in a tight hug, then ducks out of the barracks before they fill up for bedtime.

Atsumu won’t admit it because Kita doesn’t need any further motivation to be the mom friend, but the cake really did make him feel better. Just a little. His brother’s still dead. His dad’s still a dick. And he’s still in a high stakes game of life or death against a heartless shadow demon.

But at least the cake was good.

He takes the familiar path to the grove, beelining towards the lemon tree at the back. It was the only tree strong enough to hold both Atsumu and Osamu as they grew, so it became their default hiding spot. He reaches for the steadiest looking limb and hoists himself up. He has to hug the trunk several times on his ascent, his weight and balance are a lot different since the last time he climbed it. They used to go much higher up, but Atsumu calls it quits when he finds a branch big enough to rest on, while still being sufficiently hidden in the thick foliage.

He pulls the papers from his boot and reads Osamu’s precious inked words.

Threshing was today. Our squad entered the forest third. (Dad gave me an earful about not ranking first, but the people here are literally nuts, we were glad to be in the top 5 at all) 

A random Orange almost roasted me right in my boots, but then a Green came by and fought it off. When she looked at me, it’s like we both knew. I could feel the bond snap into place instantly.

Atsumu’s hands run along the scales at his sides. He’s almost positive the dragon he saw today was Osamu’s. He wonders if somehow, some way, Osamu had sent her to visit him. He keeps reading through his stack, feeling the warmth of Tienne’s scales wrapped around him like a hug.

I can’t stop thinking about what would be different if you were here. When I pictured all of these moments in my head, you were always there too. It’s weird doing it on my own. I never thought I would miss you annoying the crap out of me 24/7, but I don’t like the quiet as much as I thought I would.

There’s another set of twins here–they bonded matching Browns.

Do you think our dragons would’ve matched?

Even if they did, mine would be cooler. She’s a major badass.

The next letter is dated a few weeks later.

Flying is amazing. It’s the most free I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s probably way cooler than whatever dumb shit you’re doing.

Not that I would know what that is. I’m sure it’s stupid. But it’d be cool if you wanted to tell me about it.

Being bonded is wild. My dragon can talk right into my head, how freaky is that??

It’s like that twin telepathy shit you always used to tell people we could do. HAH. I swear to gods, Aran is still convinced that our brains are linked. After I bonded, he asked if it felt like the link you and I had. Then he asked if you've sent me any mind-messages for him. (So if there’s anything you want to tell him, let me know and I’ll pretend you beamed it over to me.)

Atsumu flips to the last page dated a month after that. The letters grew shorter and less frequent as time stretched on between them–this one is just a few short lines on a mostly empty page.

I feel like I’m just talking to a wall with these letters. Can you write me back, Tsumu? Please? Just once, so I know you’re okay. You can use the whole page to yell at me if you want.

There’s a few more lines written beneath that, but each one is scratched over too heavily to make out the words underneath. Then at the very bottom of the page is a small scrawled line.

I’m sorry.

It’s the last letter his brother ever sent him. Atsumu received it the same time he received word of Osamu’s passing. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to reread it until now. Tears stream down his cheeks. Grief and regret sit so heavily on his chest, it’s a miracle his heart can still beat beneath the weight of it all.

He doesn’t know if he would’ve been brave enough to write Osamu back then, but now he’ll never get the chance.

Atsumu doesn’t know how long he sits crying in the tree, but his body is stiff and sore from holding his balance on the branch. Just as he decides to climb down, his ears perk up. It’s well past curfew, so he is completely caught off guard when he detects the faint sound of footsteps heading his way. He quickly tucks his letter back in his boot, and presses his body flat against the tree trunk. For once he’s thankful for his all black uniform, praying to Zinhal it's enough to hide him among the shadowed branches. His Father already confirmed that he wouldn’t let Atsumu out of trouble again, and he’s not keen on finding out what an actual punishment looks like around here.

He wipes furiously at the water on his cheeks and pinches his nose to try and cut off the sniffling. Atsumu just hopes that whatever instructor is stuck on guard duty tonight doesn’t bother to look this far up.

Three figures in black cloaks cross into the magic threshold of the garden, stopping almost directly under Atsumu’s tree of choice for the evening.

It only takes about two seconds of focused squinting to realize that the figures aren’t instructors.

The night grows impossibly blacker as a dark mist radiates out from the tallest cloaked figure, spreading over the garden grounds like a barrel of spilled oil. The man lifts leather clad hands to the hem of his hood, slipping it back down over messy black curls to rest bunched over the broad shelf of his shoulders.

Sakusa.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

In Addition to last year’s changes, marked ones assembling in groups of three or more will now be considered an act of seditious conspiracy and is hereby a capital offense.

-Addendum 5.3, Basgiath War College Code of Conduct

Every time they meet it’s a risk. Every step Kiyoomi takes within these towering stone walls has to be calculated to a tee. Any loss of control or scrap of information in the wrong hands could be lethal.

As part of the treaty that gave the marked one’s their relics, it also made gathering in groups larger than three a capital offense. It’s seen as a suspected act of rebellion.

Wiping your ass with a relic mark on your arm can be seen as a suspected act of fucking rebellion here. Those who were in favor of killing all the Separtist’s children still lust for their blood, and are always looking for other reasons to cleave their heads from their shoulders.

Kiyoomi has had to fight, lie, kill, and watch over every godsdamn step each one of them takes to keep it from happening. And it still happens anyway.

That’s why he has little patience for careless idiots who seem to think that ‘meet at twelve' means ‘meet whenever after twelve is most convenient for you’.

He said fucking twelve.

His shadows jump and skitter around his heels, feeding off his irritation.

A warm pressure grips into his shoulder. Kiyoomi almost reaches to break the offending hand for touching him, but then he turns to see that the reassuring squeeze is coming from his cousin.

He forces some of his tension out through a hard breath. He really needs to relax before he jumps out of his own skin. Or hurts somebody.

“Kiyo, I’m sure they’re on the way," Komori says. "Just give it another minute."

“Lower your voice,” he chides, gently removing the hand from his shoulder. At the last moment he decides to give it a small squeeze before letting go, a reassurance that his anger isn’t directed at him.

Logically, Kiyoomi knows that Komori’s protective wards are up around them, so no sound should escape the confines of the garden, but it still makes Kiyoomi’s neck itch to hear any sound above a whisper. The more layers of safeguards they can stack over this illicit meeting, the better.

His cousin apologizes with his eyes and goes blessedly quiet.

Kiyoomi’s shadows spread out over the ground, searching for signs of life in the vicinity. After a few more agonizing minutes he feels the final three sets of footsteps scurrying towards them. His shadows taste the familiar black tinged aura all of the Marked Ones seem to carry, and he lets his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. He can’t feel anyone else nearby, but he keeps his shadows stretched to their max just in case. If anyone trips the black perimeter, he’ll know.

Saeko lowers her hood as she steps into the garden with two first-year girls in tow. “Sorry,” she says. “We almost ran into Varrish and had to double back around the flight field.”

Kiyoomi looks around at all of the first-years. There’s eighteen of them, staring wide eyed back at him. The year started with twenty.

As their numbers grow, the uncertainty of their situation does as well. 

“Welcome to your first family meeting.” Saeko claps her hands, gathering everyone’s attention.

A burly boy scoffs from the back. “Some fucking family.”

“And just like family, you don’t all have to like each other. But we do have to stick together until graduation. You’ve barely gotten a taste of what we’re up against here, and you won’t stand a chance on your own.” She puts her hands on her hips, having effectively silenced the smart-mouth boy.

“What if they find out we’re meeting?” One of the first year girls asks. Kiyoomi hasn’t bothered committing First Year’s names to memory–it’s pointless before Threshing. Judging by the shake in the girl’s voice as she asks the question, he’s not convinced he’ll be learning it at all.

“We’ve done this for two years and they’ve never found out,” he says before dropping his voice to a low growl. “And they aren’t going to, unless one of you tells. And if you tell, I’ll know.” Kiyoomi hopes the threat in his tone is clear. So far fear has been his best tool for maintaining control–it’s an incredibly valuable motivator. Keeping all of the Marked Ones in line is getting more difficult the more of them there are, but it’s essential to all of their survival. “We’ve already lost Sutherland, and after what happened to Eya-”

“You mean when that guy slaughtered her in broad daylight?” A small, blonde first-year girl asks, arms crossing in front of her chest. She’s so tiny, Kiyoomi could probably blow her over from where he’s standing, but at least there’s some fire in her eyes. She’ll certainly need it.

“Welcome to Basgiath,” Suna says bitterly, barely looking up from his hands where he’s cleaning under his fingernails with a dagger tip.

“We need to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Kiyoomi says, shooting Suna a look.

“Everyone look at your arms.” They all move to scrunch up their sleeves and reveal the swirling black mark wrapping around their skin.

Sakusa pulls down his own sleeve and sticks his fore-arm out to the moonlight. “This-” he watches their eyes glue to his own rebellion relic. “May as well be a fucking target painted on your back. But, it’s also what binds us all together. Each time you see it, remember that.” He looks around the circle to make sure his words are sinking in. “For everyone else the war begins after graduation. For us–it’s already begun. The odds were stacked against you from the moment you climbed up the first step. Trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will be looking for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail.”

“I can’t do this.” A trembling first-year boy blurts out.

“What do you mean?” Kiyoomi asks, more harshly than intended.

“I mean I can’t do this! The death, the fighting, any of it! I want to go home, can you help me with that?” His eyes are frantic, face paler than it should be, even in the bluish tint of the moonlight.

“No.” Kiyoomi shrugs. “You’re not going to make it. Best accept it now and not waste any more of our time.”

“That’s a little harsh, cousin.” Komori cringes in Kiyoomi’s periphery.

“What do you want me to say? I can’t save everyone, especially if they aren’t willing to try and save themselves.” He turns to the shaking first year and doubles down on his words. “We’ve already lost two first-years to their own negligence. Pull your shit together if you want a chance at flying out of here. I’m not here to hold anyone’s fucking hand.”

“Your pep talks are getting better and better, Kiyoomi,” Suna chimes in, giving two thumbs up high in the air, fist still wrapped around his dagger.

Truly, someone else should be the responsible one here. Why does Kiyoomi have to be the dad of their fucked up little family? He isn’t the warm, fuzzy, coddling type.

“I’m not about to make a bunch of bullshit promises about happy endings,” he says. “While the truth may hurt, it’s far more valuable.” He turns back to the first year, who judging off the pallor of his skin and the bob of his throat, is not taking his pep talk very well. “If you don’t like what I have to say, get to work and prove me wrong. Just make sure you don’t drag the rest of us down with you.”

Kiyoomi tears his gaze away from the water brewing in the first year’s eyes before the inevitable flash of guilt hits his chest. He won’t take the words back. He means each and every one. All he can do now is hope that the boy can rise to the challenge.

“Now does anyone have any problems we can actually deal with? Who’s been struggling in hand-to-hand?”

Kiyoomi buries his face in his palm when half a dozen hands shoot into the air. A few of them were lucky to be fostered by families who put them through some type of physical training, but so many weren’t prepared coming here at all.

“I can work with the girls,” Saeko offers.

Kiyoomi nods. “Good. Suna, you train with them too. So they can practice taking down bigger opponents.”

“So what, I’m just a glorified training dummy?” Suna raises a brow.

“I think it’s a great idea!” Saeko turns to Suna and sticks her tongue out. “Seeing as I owe you for Assessment Day, and you’re already a dummy.”

Suna flips her off with his knife hand and sticks his own tongue out.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. He should be used to all of the bickering by now, but there’s a headache brewing behind his temples. Plus his stupid knees hurt again. The dull pain in his joints is grinding down his already precarious patience. The wraps he applied earlier are barely helping, and he has to keep shifting his weight so he doesn’t accidentally lock them the whole time and risk passing out.

“Switch off days so the groups are always three or less,” Kiyoomi reminds them. “Ryuunosuke, Komori, you split up the rest of the boys and work with them every day after dinner.”

“Every day?” Ryuunosuke groans.

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says, not willing to debate it. “At least until Threshing.”

Even with the extra training, it might not be enough. But at least it will be something.

Kiyoomi rests his back against the trunk of the lemon tree while Komori and Ryuunosuke overcomplicate how to split up their training groups. His shadows feel restless tonight. Beyond checking and double checking the perimeter, they won’t stop swirling and bouncing around the grove, matching the nervous energy bouncing around inside Kiyoomi’s stiff frame. A stray wisp whips high into the air, and when it coils through the branches above him, Kiyoomi senses a familiar golden static. One he hasn’t felt since this morning.

Miya.

Shit.

His whole body tenses. Kiyoomi could smack himself for being so careless, in his irritated anticipation for tonight’s meeting he didn’t have his shadows look up.

He may have just killed them all.

Kiyoomi fights every fiber of his body against lifting his eyes to search for the man hiding in the leaves. He can’t let the others find out. He’ll have to deal with Miya afterwards. Alone. There’s a good chance their little game will be coming to an end tonight. He may just have to kill the other Miya after all.

Kiyoomi’s thoughts are echoed when a nasty-looking first year raises his voice to ask, “So when do we get to kill Miya Atsumu?”

His shadows feel a small gasp ring out from high in the branches above. On their own accord, the dark tendrils curl themselves tighter around the crouching figure, assuring his concealment from the group below.

“Miya is mine. I’ll handle him.” His words come out strong and final, dripping in venom, so there’s no confusing the command for a debate.

“What? Killing one Miya isn’t enough for you? Why don’t we get a turn? His bastard father killed our parents too!”

A few other first years mutter their agreement, bloodlust flashing in their eyes. Saeko looks down at her feet and Suna scratches at the side of his neck.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot.” Kiyoomi stares down each of the first-years, aiming to sear his words into their minds. “If any of you touch a hair on Miya’s head, you won’t just have the General, or the Officers to deal with, you’ll have me.”

They rush through the rest of the meeting, assuring that everyone swears to keep their mouths shut and hoping that some of this might actually help.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu waits a good long while after all of the cloaked figures have exited the grove. When his muscles can’t possibly keep him in the tree any longer, he drops to the ground with a soft thud.

“Scream and you die.” The voice behind Atsumu comes out as black as the shadows wrapping around his mouth, sealing it shut. Each nerve in his body lights up like a live-wire.

“Have you been hiding in a tree all day?” Sakusa asks, expression shifting to curiosity when he gets a good look at Atsumu’s face. Atsumu is faintly aware of the lines pressed into his cheek from the bark, and his eyes and nose are surely still painted red. It’s a little embarrassing being caught in such a vulnerable state, but it seems to throw Sakusa off at least.

The shadows drop from Atsumu’s mouth to his neck so he can squeak out a defiant, “no!”

Kiyoomi stalks around the tree so they’re face to face. His black eyes narrow down at Atsumu in the small strip of moonlight.

“Just to spy on me then?”

“I was here first!” Atsumu snarls back. For once he has some sort of hand to play and doesn’t hesitate to do so. “Yer the one who didn’t bother ta check around before holdin’ yer secret, little, illegal club meeting.”

The word ‘illegal ’ causes Sakusa’s eyes to flash. He thrusts his forearm into Atsumu’s chest, pushing him back and trapping him against the tree. His shadows join in, wrapping themselves around his arms and legs, stopping Atsumu from grabbing a weapon, and effectively cutting off any attacks or escape attempts he may have gone for. In a clear threat, Sakusa presses the tip of his blade into the dip of Atsumu’s neck, just below the bobbing ball of muscle. He holds back at the last millimeter, but one flick of his wrist could end everything.

“Oh shit, are ya gonna kill me?” Sheer panic runs through Atsumu’s veins. Maybe threatening a murderous psychopath in a dark garden all alone wasn’t the greatest idea in the world. Sakusa could’ve ended his life at any moment since he arrived, but now he has 18 more reasons to go through with it. Atsumu battles the urge to swallow, keenly aware of the blade at his throat and wary to jostle it from its precarious position.

“That depends,” Sakusa says, pushing his blade a hair closer to breaking skin.

“On?” Atsumu breathes out, still cautious not to move a muscle.

“Are you planning to tell anyone about my little club?” Kiyoomi asks, tilting his head and sliding the blade tip slowly up Miya’s neck to the soft spot below his chin.

“No, I swear!” he yelps, craning his head further back into the tree against the offending iron. He clears his throat and sharpens his gaze to meet Sakusa’s. He repeats himself, firmer. “I swear.”

Sakusa stares at Atsumu like he’s flaying apart his skin, muscles and bone–attempting to look straight into his very core.

“I’d be executed,” he states carefully. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Maybe I want the honor of ending your life personally.”

Atsumu bites down on his tongue as Sakusa grabs a fistful of his hair and cranes his neck back even further. He curses his inability to think before opening his mouth, as the blade returns to its former position against his throat, pressing in until a trickle of hot blood runs down to his collar. Gods he’s so fucking stupid.

“How the fuck do you think that’s an acceptable answer? You have one more chance. Why wouldn’t you report the meeting?”

It’s an extremely valid question. Instead of going through the trouble of trying to kill Sakusa on his own–with a high likelihood of failure no matter how hard he trains, Atsumu could simply report what he saw tonight and have Basgiath execute Sakusa for him. It may be the best chance he has at ending Sakusa’s miserable life, there’s one reason not to do it. And it’s one Atsumu can’t bring himself to ignore.

“It wasn’t just you.”

They both know what he means–since they were gathered in a group much larger than three, all of the marked ones there tonight would be executed. Saeko and Ryuunosuke, all of those trembling doe-eyed first-years, people who definitely don’t deserve it. The consequences of tattling would far surpass getting revenge for Osamu, and he could never let innocent people die just to satiate his own vendetta.

“Ya weren’t conspirin’. Just tryin’ ta help some scared kids make it through this death camp. But they’d execute all of ya just the same. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Why do you care what happens to them?”

Atsumu’s eyes drop as he says, “children shouldn’t have ta suffer the sins of their fathers.”

He must have said something right for once, because after another long minute, the blade pulls away from his skin. Atsumu’s hands fly to his neck and he folds over in knee-sinking relief.

“Then unfortunately, it seems that I owe you a favor,” Sakusa says, tucking the dagger back into his belt.

“Kill yerself,” Atsumu spits without missing a beat, feeling his own hatred spark back to life.

Sakusa snorts out a startled laugh. Atsumu missed the part where he was joking.

“It’ll have to be something else, Assassin. My apologies.” He pulls the hood of his cloak back up over his head and turns to leave.

“So ya aren’t gonna handle me?” Atsumu calls after him.

“Not tonight!” A hand waves over his shoulder as he stalks away, shadows obscuring him into the dark of the night, leaving Atsumu alone and bewildered in the garden.

He looks down at his trembling hands. There’s only a small smear of red on his palm from the cut Sakusa left on his neck. Atsumu is keenly aware of how easy spilling all of his blood would’ve been tonight. He’s surprised that Sakusa believed his words, even though they were true. The Wingleader doesn’t seem like the type to leave loose ends around. Atsumu gingerly checks his neck with the pads of his fingers, but the bleeding has already stopped. His relief at being alive is rapidly turning into confusion and anxiety. There has to be a limit on how many chances to kill him Sakusa lets slip. He may have let Atsumu go tonight, but he isn’t even close to out of the woods yet. Their little killing game is becoming more tense and tangled by the day, and it’s only a matter of time until one of them can bring it to its inevitable end.

The sheer amount of adrenaline Atsumu has burned through leaves him feeling utterly spent. Hopefully that means he’ll be able to sleep through the few precious hours that are still left in the night. He takes his time sneaking back to the Barracks, making sure to check around every corner, sticking to the shadows to conceal himself along the way. He doesn’t see another soul, but he can’t shake the feeling of being watched until he’s tucked back beneath his scratchy black blanket. By then he’s too exhausted to keep caring. He hugs his arms around his armor and prays that tomorrow is far more boring than today.

Chapter Text

Not all attacks must aim to kill. If you can use them to pinpoint an enemy's weakness, then none of that effort has been wasted.

-Professor Ukai's Guide for Hand-to-Hand Combat

Atsumu sits back, balancing his weight on the back legs of his creaky wood chair. The auditorium fills in around him, the room already heating up from the sheer amount of bodies cramming into it. Battle Brief is the only time of day where the entire Quadrant is stuck in the same classroom, and stifling is a mild word for it.

His mind spins as he tips his weight back and forth to keep his chair suspended. It’s a miracle that he’s alive right now. Sakusa had every opportunity, and every reason, to finally end things last night. So far, Atsumu hasn’t been able to connect all of the dots that somehow ended up with him waking up this morning. None of it fits into the mental image he’s created for Sakusa. The monster in the shadows doesn’t mind flashing his claws, but has yet to actually use them.

And worse than just not doing something awful, he had been doing something… nice? Sakusa had risked his life with that meeting, just so he could help the other Marked Ones. Help them make it through training and not feel alone. He went about it in the most asshole way imaginable, but it was clearly just a form of tough love. Kindness at its core.

Atsumu refuses to believe that Sakusa has any admirable qualities like compassion or honor, so all of it must be tied to some evil, ulterior motive. It’s easier to see him as a one dimensional villain than to accept a reality where there’s any more to him.

He killed Osamu. That’s it. That’s the only thing about him that matters.

But those words keep looping in Atsumu's brain.

“Then unfortunately it seems that I owe you a favor.”

Having Sakusa in his debt does nothing to quell Atsumu’s anxiety. At any moment, Sakusa might decide to just kill him anyway, and avoid whatever favor he thinks he owes. The pros of burying his secret along with Atsumu’s body may prove too tempting to pass up. But Atsumu has been sleeping with one eye open since he got to Basigiath, so really, nothing has changed.

“Where were you yesterday blondie?” Oikawa saunters up, kicking the leg of Atsumu’s chair to throw him off balance.

Atsumu lurches forward as his chair slams to the ground. He quickly recovers to leer up at Oikawa. “Aww ya miss me?”

“When you didn’t show, I was hoping to hear your name on the death roll.” He clicks his tongue. “Bummer.”

“Sorry ta disappoint.”

“At least you’re consistent.” Oikawa gives a tight-lipped smile. “But I’m still waiting for an answer.”

Atsumu’s eyes flit to Hinata and Bokuto on either side of him, ignoring the fact that their ears have perked up. “I had to assist my fa-General Miya, fer the day.”

“Aww, how sweet.” Oikawa perches his weight on the back of the chair in front of them. “It’s so nice to see that nepotism is alive and well. Think you could get your daddy to write me a day pass too? I wouldn’t mind a trip into town.”

“Did ya run out of hair mousse already ? Damn, well I’m sure he’d make an exception for such a dire emergency.”

Oikawa lets out a sharp laugh before narrowing his eyes and dropping his smile. “What were you doing?” 

Atsumu folds his arms. “None of yer business.”

Why does Oikawa care anyway? Nosy bastard.

He hums, evaluating Atsumu with a critical stare as he walks away. Bokuto attempts to trip him when he does, but he hops past his foot without even looking down.

Bokuto knocks his fist into his palm and mutters, “Man, I can’t wait to get that pretty boy on the mat and break a nose or two.”

“Or two?” Hinata laughs from Atsumu’s left.

“Or three,” Bokuto confirms, nodding his head. Breaking the tension in that effortless way of his.

“So what were you doing with the General?” Hinata asks. Tone pure and curious.

“Ah, sorry Sho, it’s classified,” Atsumu says. “I’m not actually allowed to talk about it.”

Apparently you can just flash the word “classified” around here and it can get you out of almost anything.

Hinata’s eyes shine brighter than if he’d actually gotten an answer. “That’s so cool. You’re so cool.”

Atsumu laughs nervously, trying to shrug the conversation off. Luckily, the mage lights around the room blink out, leaving only a few at the center for Professor Devera to begin the Briefing.

While Atsumu is adamant about not getting wrapped up in it all, it’s hard not to get your interest piqued when a 20 foot, live map of the war is posted on the wall in front of you.

Huh. In all the excitement of yesterday, he forgot about the map in his father’s office. This one has near-identical green and yellow markers as far as he remembers, but not a single red. So the General’s map has different information after all. He’d maybe ask his father about it, but then he’d be showing an interest in this stupid place. It’s probably all “classified” anyway.

Whatever.

Battle Brief is where Atsumu usually likes to catch up on his sleep, and his eyelids are already growing heavy out of habit. The war doesn’t concern him. It’s been going on for over 100 years, for gods know why. As long as their defenses hold, they are all safe within Navarre’s protective wards. And since the lecture hall is massive enough to cram the entire Quadrant inside, Atsumu can usually close his eyes for a minute or two without being scolded.

Professor Devera starts off with her usual spiel. “You are here to understand the politics of our enemies, the strategies of defending our outposts, and obtain a thorough knowledge of recent and current battles.” She wears a Flame Section patch on her shoulder and a purple instructors badge over her heart that perfectly matches her pixie-short hair. She stands in the center of the recessed lecture hall, commanding quite a presence, despite her 5’3 frame. The longsword on her back glints against the mage lights hovering above her.

“This is so crazy, hearing the updates as they happen. I’ll never get over it,” Hinata whispers, furiously scribbling down notes. Guess you can take the scribe out of the library, but you can’t make him any less of a nerd. “We used to practice recording battles for the archives, but they were all years old by the time we were given access.”

Atsumu hums, then kicks his feet up, folds his arms, chews at his nails–essentially whatever behavior he can think of that a teacher’s pet wouldn’t do.

A man in cream colored robes steps forward next to Devera, clearing his throat with a pale bony fist before speaking. “I am Professor Markham, head of the Scribes Quadrant. It is the duty of the scribes to not only study and master the past, but also to record the present.” He drones on for ages about ‘scribes are the best, we control everything behind the scenes, I haven’t been laid in twenty years, blah blah blah.’ Honestly, Atsumu tends to tune him out whenever his thin, chapped lips open up.

Atsumu occasionally chances subtle glances around the room to see if he can spot Sakusa among the masses. He’s usually brooding somewhere in the back like a shadow on the wall, but there’s too many bodies to try and sift through without being totally obvious.

Professor Devera takes the floor back, flicking her hand to cast a mage light high over the map along the Eastern border. “The Southern Wing experienced an attack last night, at the village of Fukurodani by a Drift of Gryphon Fliers.”

The update itself doesn’t grab Atsumu’s attention much, but the gasp from his right certainly does. The shock and concern on Bokuto’s face plainly state what village he came from.

Atsumu sits straight in his seat and actually listens.

“Naturally some information has been redacted for security purposes, but we can tell you that the wards faltered along the line of mountains bordering the town,” she continues.

The wards, what now?

Dragons aren’t the only creatures in Navarre that can channel magic. Gryphons from Poromiel also share the ability. Dragons are however, the only ones strong enough to power the protective wards that render all other magic void within Navarre’s borders. If the wards ever fully went down, the whole country could be fucked. Atsumu had always thought the wards made their borders impenetrable, so it’s incredibly concerning to learn that they can falter. Maybe all the effort put into training Navarre’s militia isn’t as excessive as he thought.

“Based on that information, what questions would you ask? Let’s hear from some first years.” 

Bokuto raises his hand immediately and she nods in his direction.

“How many civilian casualties were there?” Bokuto asks. Atsumu can’t blame him, he’d be asking the same if Inarizaki were attacked.

“Thirty-seven.” Devera answers.

Bokuto swears under his breath. Under the cover of another first year’s question, Atsumu leans over to whisper, “yer family?”

“Ma and my sisters traveled here with me to drop me off,” Bokuto says. “They were going to visit my aunt in Nohebi before heading back. I don’t think they’d be home for a few days now. But my Pa…” Bokuto gulps, “he had to stay for work. I always thought that gryphons couldn’t fly that high, that our village was as safe as it got.”

Attacking in the Fukurodani mountain range, one of the highest in the continent, does seem pretty odd for gryphons. The half-lion, half-eagle creatures don’t tolerate the elevation nearly as well as dragons do. Something to do with their feathers and the thinner air density. It’s another reason Navarre has been able to fend off every major assault on the territory over the last hundred years–dragons are simply more powerful. It seems useless for the enemy forces to keep attacking when the country’s defenses are so strong. But greed is a powerful thing, and rarely has man been content with what he has. Atsumu doesn’t pretend to understand the minds of those who thirst for war. On either side.

“Atsumu, what if they got home early?” The panic in Bokuto’s voice has Atsumu’s heart racing too.

“Hey Shoyo,” Atsumu says. “Give us some paper.”

“Yeah, here,” he whispers back, flipping to the back of his notebook and ripping out a clean page, and offering his freshly inked quill along with it.

“Write yer family a letter, I’ll make sure it gets back to them.” Atsumu passes the quill and paper over to Bokuto.

“How?” Bokuto asks. “I thought first-years couldn’t write home.”

“Let me worry about sendin’ it–you just write.”

Bokuto nods and starts furiously moving his quill.

The rest of the hour is a blur as students throw questions to the front and Devera answers in her detached, matter-of-fact tone. Like the casualties, burned buildings, and stolen weaponry are all just statistics that have nothing to do with real people.

Once they’re let out, Atsumu takes Bokuto’s letter and sprints through the halls as hard as he can. He pounds his fist on the giant studded wood door until it opens, and he’s back in his father’s stuffy office much sooner than he ever wanted to be.

“I need ya to get a letter out fer me.” Atsumu says, skipping over formalities.

“You should know better than to expect special treatment,” his father says, striding back to his desk and perching his glasses on the tip of his nose. “You can send out letters next year like the rest of the cadets.”

“I know ya did it fer Samu.”

Atsumu doesn’t actually know that for a fact, but it’s a pretty good guess. He can’t for the life of him figure out a different way Osamu could’ve sent his letters as a first year.

“Your brother earned that privilege. Win your next three sparring matches, and we’ll talk.” His eyes drop back to the papers littering his desk.

“I need it sent sooner.” Atsumu slams the letter down over whatever missive he’s trying to sign.

The General gives him a look that would wilt a lesser man into the dirt.

“I already won four!” Atsumu throws his arms up.

Gods, why does his father have to be so fucking difficult?

“Three new matches. Non-negotiable. I’m sure whatever little tavern whore you’re writing to can wait a few more days.” He flicks the letter off his desk with the back of his pen.

Atsumu’s eye twitches and he snatches it off the floor. The deal is insulting and maddening, but it’s the best one he’ll get.

“Fine,” he says, slamming the door on his way out.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu lucks out with the first match-up. His opponent is a tiny blonde girl who flinches at each hit Atsumu throws out. Most of the other women in the Quadrant are just as strong and ruthless as the men, so he wonders why this one is here at all. That is until he has her in an armlock and her sleeve rolls up to show a rebellion relic. Definitely not a volunteer then. Was she one of the first years in the garden that night? He doesn’t remember her specifically, but she must have been there. Clearly the extra training sessions aren’t going very well. Atsumu does his best to secure his win without roughing the poor thing up too much. He sticks to disarming moves and wrestling holds rather than his usual kicks and jabs. He thinks he does a decent job holding himself back, but when she finally yields, the look she gives Atsumu is so filled with hate that he leaves the mat feeling unmistakably shaken. She’s clearly holding her parent’s grudge against the Miyas. She’s probably angry that Sakusa hasn’t handled him yet.

His second opponent is arguably even luckier–Bokuto himself. Atsumu had explained the deal with his father, so they made a pact ahead of time for Bokuto to throw it. Neither of them have lost a fight yet, and everyone was buzzing for their matchup. They’re both strong, and skilled, so it would all come down to size versus speed. Bokuto ends each of his matches with sheer overwhelming force–even if his opponents all somehow manage to get off a decent enough blow in to send him to the Infirmary for a couple hours. Atsumu has mastered dodging and striking to a degree that he hasn’t set foot into the Infirmary since they fixed his wrist.

Atsumu’s a little miffed about the situation–he would’ve loved to see who’d win in a real fight between them. But for the time being, it’s more important that Atsumu is named the victor. They start off giving it their all–just for fun.

After a few heart pounding minutes of punching, blocking, swearing and sweat, Bokuto taps him twice on the leg.

Their eyes meet and Bokuto’s strength kicks down enough for Atsumu to toss him to the floor, like they practiced. Atsumu quickly jumps down to twist an arm behind Bokuto’s back and pin him there. Hopefully it looks convincing.

“Hey Atsumu,” Bokuto says under his breath, cheek smashed against the mat. “Break my hand.”

“What? No!” Atsumu hisses. Nothing like that is part of the plan, all Bokuto needs to do is yield.

“Please?” Bokuto whines as he wriggles around, making a show of trying to break free.

“Why would ya want–oh my gods.” Suddenly Bokuto’s klutzy streak becomes all too clear. “Bo. Is this so ya can visit Pretty Healer?”

“I need a good reason!”

“Ya don’t hafta maim yerself just ta talk to a cute boy.”

“Aww come on–just a finger?”

Atsumu shakes his head in exasperation.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.” He releases the hold, twisting Bokuto back just enough to crash a hard fist into his nose. Bone cracks beneath Atsumu’s knuckles, and he coils his hand back against the pain. It’s like punching a cast iron pan. Bokuto grunts at the impact and taps the mat to yield. He skips off to the infirmary with a crooked nose and blood streaming down over his smile.

Crazy bastard. Well, if sneaking off to see his crush helps get Bokuto’s mind off his family situation, then Atsumu’s happy to help.

Two wins down, one to go.

Atsumu’s feeling pretty good about his chances of meeting his father’s challenge the next time they all gather in the sparring ring. He rolls his shoulders and waits for his opponent to step up.

“Sorry, Miya.” Professor Ukai walks up instead, scratching at the dark stubble on his chin. “You were supposed to challenge Hanamaki today, but he’s stuck in the Infirmary retching his guts up.”

Ew. Was the visual really necessary?

Wait.

“Does that mean I win?” Atsumu perks up.

“Unless we can find a replacement then-”

“I’m happy to step in.” That voice. That tone. That motherfucker.

“You sure?” Ukai asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

Atsumu’s stomach hits the floor.

And Sakusa walks onto the mat.

No. No no no no.

Godsdammit. The one person Atsumu isn’t sure he can beat, in fact the only person he’s sure he can’t beat, is the one shrugging off his flight jacket and stepping into the circle. Sakusa tightens the wrist straps on his leather gloves and rolls his neck in a slow, easy motion.

Atsumu’s mouth hangs open, but he’s forgotten how to speak in the face of his perfect record getting trashed, and Bokuto’s letter collecting another week’s worth of dust. He doesn’t even know if his father’s deal would be back on the table next week. It might even get bumped to the next three matches, since his father is a word-twisting, promise-breaking bastard like that.

They are so fucking screwed.

“How is that a fair match up?” Kita argues from the sidelines, attempting to mask his concern with logic. “A first year shouldn’t have to fight a Wingleader.”

“Yeah, that’s fucked up!” Bokuto shouts from behind Kita’s left shoulder, with Hinata nodding emphatically behind his right.

Ukai shrugs off their concerns with a wave of his hand. “Miya’s been sweeping the floor with the other first years. I’m sure he relishes the opportunity for a real challenge!”

No. He doesn’t. He really fucking doesn’t.

“Atsumu hasn’t even bonded yet.” Kita’s voice rises. “I hardly think it’s fair–”

“No one asked you to think, squad leader,” Sakusa challenges, shooting Kita a glare to rival any dragon’s. “And I won’t use magic.” He moves to the side of the mat, discarding every weapon on his body and pushing them into the arms of his cousin. The sheer amount of blades hidden along his skin-tight fighting leathers has to be some sort of magic trick. “Or weapons. That fair enough for you?”

Something flashes over Kita’s expression, and he’s about to speak when Ukai cuts him off. “That’ll be fine. Everyone, relax. I trust that Sakusa knows when to hold back.”

Trust? Hah. Atsumu trusts Sakusa to hold back about as much as he’d trust a momma dragon to hold back when she catches you stealing her eggs.

But Ukai gives the final order, so Atsumu shakes out his shoulders, resigned to his fate. Maybe he can win. Somehow. If he’s super fucking lucky. Or maybe if…

“Look,” Atsumu says, lowering his voice so only Sakusa can hear him hurling his pride off a cliff. “I’d rather jump off the fuckin’ parapet than be askin’ ya this right now, but…” he closes his eyes, every fiber of his being fighting against his next words. “Will ya let me win?”

“Excuse me?” Sakusa might have looked less offended if Atsumu had spat in his face.

“Just– fuck, please?”

“Take your stance, Cadet.”

‘I’m so fuckin’ sorry Bo.’

Atsumu groans, taking his place with lead feet. He bends his knees and holds up his fists, one curled tight around the sharpest dagger he has.

His vision narrows down to the twenty foot black circle, and the smiling demon inside of it.

Here goes nothing.

Atsumu rushes in, slashing towards Sakusa’s stupid flawless face.

Sakusa blocks the strike and knocks the knife from Atsumu’s hands.

“Going for blood today, Assassin?” Sakusa coos. “I think I’ll keep mine inside my body actually, but nice try.” He kicks the blade off the mat, not bothering to take it for himself.

“Aww but ya bleed so pretty,” Atsumu taunts back, pulling another knife from his side. The cut on Sakusa’s cheek has long healed since Atsumu gave it to him, but he holds on to the memory as a reminder. Sakusa’s not impervious. Atsumu can hurt him.

For some reason Sakusa balks at that, and Atsumu uses that half-second to strike again, straight for the heart. But Sakusa twists in time for the blow to glance off his chest, barely nicking the leather. He darts back and slams one hand into Atsumu’s wrist while the other smacks at the back of his hand, forcing the second blade to clatter to the floor.

Sakusa isn’t even bothering to take the weapons and use them. He’s disarming Atsumu to prove that he can.

Asshole.

“How many blades have you got left, Assassin? I’m trying to mentally organize my closet, so I need to know how much space I’ll need.” Sakusa smiles, waiting back for his taunts to spur Atsumu into the next strike.

“Why don’t ya come and find out?” Atsumu pulls another blade–five more are still hidden in his armor. He’s happy to give them all to Sakusa as long as one is given through his heart. Or throat. Or any vital organ, really. He’s not picky.

Atsumu stalls, blade ready, bouncing on his feet. He lifts an eyebrow and curls a finger, beckoning Sakusa to move first this time.

Sakusa flashes a grin and dives in. Atsumu thrusts his hand out to meet Sakusa’s body with his blade, but Sakusa takes the hit to his shoulder guard and pulls Atsumu’s arm forward to follow his momentum. With his balance knocked off, arms wrap around the backs of Atsumu’s knees and haul him into the air.

In a flash, Atsumu is slammed flat on his back, losing his breath and landing face to face with Sakusa’s pure black eyes.

Huh.

He’s never noticed before, but Sakusa’s eyes aren’t actually pure black. There are little gold flecks dancing along his irises, catching the light like little shining stars. What little air Atsumu has, catches in the back of his throat.

‘Gods, why does he have to look like that?’

It’s honestly infuriating.

Sakusa is a monster. He should have horns and fangs and scales, not smooth skin, shiny curls and gold fucking sparkles in his eyes. 

Everything around them fades away. The world narrows down to the smell of jasmine and the arrogant glint in Sakusa’s eyes. He’s all that Atsumu can see. All he can feel. A strange heat crawls up Atsumu’s neck as Sakusa glides a gloved thumb up his forearm. Something about the move almost feels like a caress, lighting up each nerve ending it passes. Atsumu pulls against his body’s innate desire to lean into it. He’s feeling dizzy, but it must be from getting his wind knocked out. Right?

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Something in his wires are getting crossed from the way Sakusa’s straddling him and pushing down his weight. Something that has Atsumu gasp as the thumb digs into his pulse point and forces another knife to the ground.

Atsumu’s body having that type of reaction to Sakusa Kiyoomi is completely unacceptable. Through sheer fucking will, Atsumu manages to throw him off and suck in a few quick, labored breaths.

Hot shame burns through Atsumu’s body, and he uses that fire to unleash absolute hell. This time, he doesn’t think. He just acts.

Sakusa’s a bit off balance as he rolls to his feet, but he still manages to put up a near-flawless fight. Atsumu sticks to kicks and jabs and swipes with his blades–anything to maintain some space between them and give his head a chance to clear up.

“Ooh, there’s the spark I’ve been waiting for,” Sakusa says with a manic grin as Atsumu stabs at his ribs and loses another knife in the counter.

Atsumu’s done with the talking and the taunting and the bullshit. He lets the rage boil through him and delivers a relentless flurry of attacks. He manages one solid uppercut to Sakusa’s stomach, and relishes the satisfying grunt he wrenches out. Sakusa doesn’t let it happen twice though, and every time Atsumu goes for what could be a killing blow, he’s blocked immediately. Atsumu takes a few hard hits in the whirlwind, but his adrenaline is running so high that he can barely feel them. Through each block and dodge and counter, Atsumu watches carefully. Trying to find a chink in the armor.

It’s endless minutes of exchanging blows that gain neither side ground. Sweat drips down Atsumu’s eyes, and his lungs heave for air. Sakusa’s face remains cool and collected, but he can’t hide the exaggerated pull of his chest–proof that he’s getting tired too. Besides the slight exhaustion, there’s one more thing Sakusa can’t seem to hide. It’s subtle, and Atsumu might not have noticed if he didn’t spend an exorbitant amount of time analyzing the man, but–Sakusa’s been favoring his right leg.

Atsumu unleashes a storm of punches aimed towards Sakusa’s head. Sakusa’s attention stays up on his fists as Atsumu sweeps a leg out below. At the last second, Sakusa seems to catch on to the plan, but he can’t break his defense to dodge it. Just as Atsumu’s foot is about to slam into the side of Sakusa’s knee, it’s yanked away by a dark wisp of shadow.

The shadow stays curled around Atsumu’s ankle as Sakusa slams into his shoulder. The air is punched from his lungs as Atsumu’s back slams into the mat again.

“Hey!” He’s barely able to squeak with the crushing pressure from the very knee he’d just tried to knock out. “Ya said ya wouldn’t use magic!”

“And you believed me? That’s so cute.” Sakusa leans his weight in more, renewing each spark of pain in Atsumu’s chest. “You shouldn’t trust anybody here.”

“Not even someone who owes me a favor?” Atsumu tries his supposed “favor” card one more time, praying to whoever that Sakusa chooses to take it. For a split second he thinks it might’ve worked, since Sakusa’s weight lifts ever so slightly. But then he’s forcing his knee back down and swiping all the remaining blades from Atsumu’s armor. One by one he tosses them outside of the mat, pausing when he pulls the final one.

“Where’d you get this?” Sakusa’s eyes narrow at the ornate dagger, glinting blue and purple in the sunlight.

“Who fuckin’ cares?” Atsumu spits out. He can’t exactly admit that he stole the dagger from his father’s office, but he’d rather die than sate Sakusa’s curiosity anyway.

“Hmm. I’ll let you keep this one.” He presses the jeweled hilt into Atsumu’s palm and rolls Atsumu to his stomach. He’s got Atsumu in a twist, but it’s a hold he’s fairly familiar with. And knows exactly how to get out of.

He thrusts his knee forward, pushing his weight back and cranes an arm around the back of Sakusa’s head. He slams a hand to the mat and swings his leg under his body to throw Sakusa over his shoulder. He thrashes with all his might as they roll in circles, grappling for dominance.

This time Atsumu’s lands on top with his blade poised over Sakusa’s heart.

Holy shit. He could do it. He could kill him. Right now. It’s an official match, so it wouldn’t even be against the codex. His mind whirs, pricking over with ice as he stares down those black and gold eyes.

Just as Atsumu’s dagger is about to press in, his hand is slapped away.

“I yield,” Sakusa shouts, rolling his eyes–a gesture only Atsumu can see since he’s inches away.

Atsumu’s grip falters and Sakusa easily throws him off.

Sakusa whips up to his feet and stalks off the mat, leaving Atsumu flat on his back and utterly dumbstruck. He thought he had Sakusa pinned, but he threw him off like it was nothing. If Sakusa wasn’t really out, why did he yield?

That shadow-drenched voice rings in the back of his mind.

“Then unfortunately it seems that I owe you a favor.”

Atsumu may have just cashed in his favor after all.

Did he ever even have the upper hand?

By the time Atsumu’s brain comes back to earth, Sakusa has gathered up all the scattered weapons and tied them into a bundle in his flight jacket. He stalks away, clinking bundle slung over his shoulder, cutting his way through a sea of shocked faces. Atsumu follows the cleared path, sprinting from the gym. He chases the lanky shadow disappearing behind each corner, until he finally catches sight of Sakusa’s back stalking down the corridor.

“Hey! Ass face, wait up!” Atsumu yells.

Sakusa stops in his tracks and turns back. “Did you just call me ass face?”

“You fuckin’ let me win!” Atsumu slams his palms into Sakusa’s chest. Yet again, it does absolutely nothing to move him.

“You-“ Sakusa gives him a confused look, dropping his leather bundle below his waist. “Literally asked me to.”

“Well, yeah but-“ Atsumu sputters, unsure what to say. He had asked Sakusa to throw the fight, but once they started he forgot all about his promise to Bokuto and just wanted to claw his stupid gold flecked eyes out.

Knowing he couldn’t actually win on his own merit is infuriating. But then again, he already knew that. That's why he asked.

“Consider your favor repaid,” Sakusa says. “We’re even.”

“Even? We will never be even. Not until yer black fuckin’ heart stops beating, and I’m the one stoppin’ it.”

“Bring it on Assassin. But you’ll need to start getting more creative–that’s the last time I ever plan on letting you win.”

Atsumu thrusts out his blade at Sakusa’s exposed collar, but his wrist is halted mid-air and Sakusa’s fingers curl in tight.

“I told you to keep that one. It’s pretty.”

“It’d look prettier in yer fuckin’ neck.” Atsumu pushes against Sakusa’s weight, gaining a precious centimeter between the blade and his face.

“Hmm. Too bad we won’t ever find out.” Sakusa neatly twists his hand, releasing the blade from Atsumu’s grip and catching it before it hits the floor.

“I fuckin’ hate ya,” Atsumu spits, cradling his wrist.

“That doesn’t make you special.”

“I stay up at night thinkin’ of all the ways I could kill ya.” Atsumu bares his teeth right up in Sakusa’s face.

Sakusa gingerly slides the blade back in the sheath at Atsumu’s ribs. His fingers linger there as he leans over to whisper, "and I sleep like a baby, not thinking of you at all.”

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu bursts through the doors to his father’s office. He ignores the surprised faces of the Admirals and Officers huddled around the War Map and slams Bokuto’s letter down on the desk. He meets his father’s irritated gaze with a scowl of his own.

“Send it. Fast. And let me know the minute there’s a response.”

Chapter Text

Riders are the finest weapons in all of Navarre, and the Gauntlet will test which weapons deserve to enter our arsenal. Either they succeed to go on and meet their dragons, or they fail and meet Malek.

-General Ichiro's Unofficial Guide to the Rider's Quadrant

Unease settles in Atsumu’s gut as he gazes up. And up. And up .

“Woah,” Hinata says under his breath.

“Yeah,” Atsumu sighs, as they take in the Gauntlet.

The menacing obstacle course stares him down like an opponent across the mat–his greatest one yet. All of the fear and anxiety he had while crossing the parapet comes back tenfold. At least the parapet wasn’t actively trying to throw him off when he crossed it. This new and improved death trap zig-zagging up the cliffside features spinning posts, shaking pillars and a near 90 degree ramp at the top. Even just halfway up the course, a fall would be high enough to kill you.

Atsumu knew this was coming, but he’s been actively trying not to think about it. It’s not that he’s scared of heights. Exactly. He just prefers the safety and stability of being on the ground.

“Cooler than a library, eh?” Bokuto says, nudging Hinata’s shoulder. “And only ten times deadlier!”

“It’s amazing,” Hinata says, eyes sparkling at the vertical minefield. His hands are absent-mindedly flipping his new dagger around as they wait. He’s barely put the thing away since he nabbed it during his first winning match.

Atsumu slaps a hand on Hinata’s shoulder and says, “Yer fucked in the head, kid.”

“No, he’s right,” Bokuto says, face splitting into a grin. “It’s amazing.”

Atsumu shakes his head–he’s surrounded by crazy people.

“Welcome to the Gauntlet,” Ukai calls out to the small group of first years. Atsumu’s squad is one of three gathered for the first practice session of the day. Their squad just managed to sneak into the third place after the last round of sparring matches were factored into squad scores. The second place squad is from First Wing–a bunch of mean looking bastards that Atsumu has yet to have the displeasure of meeting. And, of course, the squad in first place is godsdamn Oikawa’s.

“The course is designed to mimic the challenges you’ll face as a rider,” Ukai continues. “If you think keeping your balance is hard here, try doing it on the back of a dragon and even higher up.”

“What happens if you fall?” One of the First Wing cadets asks.

“There are ropes every six feet that run from the top of the cliff, to the bottom. So if you start to fall, reach out and grab a rope. But try not to over-rely on them, they’re only here for practice sessions. They’ll be gone once it’s time for the real thing.”

“Seriously?” The guy’s mouth drops open.

“Dragons don’t have safety ropes either.” Ukai shrugs. “Presentation is in three days, and the only way up to the field is through this beauty.” He gestures towards the far-from-beautiful obstacle course climbing the sheer cliffside.

“I mean… there’s a perfectly good set of steps over there.” Atsumu points to the steep staircase carved into the cliff right next to it.

“Stairs are for Riders,” Ukai says, putting his hands on his hips. “No shortcuts until after you’ve proven yourself.”

Eh, it was worth a shot.

“Why’s all this shit even necessary? Don’t dragons just pick who they want to bond with anyway?” The dumb pink-haired cadet from Oikawa’s squad asks, rubbing his hands against the mid-morning chill.

“To ensure dragons keep coming to Threshing by weeding out the weaklings,” Oikawa says, smacking his squadmate over the chest. “Don’t be such a wimp, Maki.”

“He’s not wrong,” Ukai says. “The course is designed to test speed, strength, agility, and balance. All traits you’ll need if you ever expect a dragon to see you as more than just a snack.”

“But once this is over we get our dragons, right?” Someone asks from the back.

“The skill you need to pass the Gauntlet is the minimum requirement to make it to the Presentation Field. It doesn’t guarantee that you’ll be chosen for bonding.”

“Ain’t that right, pup?” Atsumu says over Mad Dog’s shoulder.

“I guess the dragons do have discerning taste,” Bokuto adds, going as far as throwing an arm around Mad Dog. He nearly catches a black eye in the retaliation, but manages to dodge the rogue elbow and wrestle Mad Dog into a headlock and rub his knuckles into his head.

“But think of it this way,” Ukai says, effortlessly separating the two before it escalates to a full-out brawl. “Once you pass the Gauntlet, there’s nothing else left between you and your dragons. Now everybody line up! You’ll only have an hour on the course each day, and I won’t let you waste it all fighting and yapping.”

They follow Ukai to the bottom of the Gauntlet. Atsumu’s groans against the stiffness in his muscles, wishing they had some more time to warm up.

The morning sun has just crested the mountain peak, but the valley under the cliffside remains cast in a long, icy shadow. Atsumu’s hands flex and unflex, trying to pump up a little extra blood flow. His foot lurches as he steps from the gravel to the polished granite of the starting platform–courtesy of the late Autumn frost webbing the entirety of the shadowed valley.

Ice. The perfect finishing touch to a demented obstacle course where slipping equals death.

“You’re looking a little green there, Blondie,” Oikawa says as they climb the short set of stairs up the platform. “Scared of heights?”

“I ain’t scared of shit,” Atsumu lies, turning to hide whatever his face is doing to give it away.

To deflect some of the attention, he steps to the side and holds his hand out for Kentaro, “why don’t ya go first Mad Dog? Show us how it’s done since none of this is new fer ya.”

Mad Dog scowls and cracks his knuckles. “Have fun eating my fucking dust,” he says, pushing his way to the front as the rest of the group falls in line behind him.

“Ready, Kentaro?” Ukai waits on the starting platform with his arm raised in a fist.

Mad Dog takes his stance and nods.

“And…” Ukai chops his hand down in the air, “go!”

Mad Dog is off like an arrow. He easily runs the fifteen feet across the parallel spinning log and shoots straight up the following set of stone pillars.

Atsumu watches, reluctantly impressed. His eyes follow Mad Dog up the course as he takes each section on without an ounce of hesitation.

Skipping Breakfast was a good call seeing as nausea stirs Atsumu’s stomach as Mad Dog’s figure grows smaller and more cadets enter the course to start their ascent.

Then far too soon, the path ahead is clear and it’s Atsumu’s turn to go. He steps up to the starting line and shakes his limbs out.

‘If you don’t have what it takes to make it through the Gauntlet, you don’t have what it takes to be a rider.’  

Atsumu’s father never bothered to give him much detail for this particular task, much less advice on how to conquer it. But if Osamu was able to make it through, then Atsumu is determined to make it as well. And at the end of the day, it’s not like he really has a choice.

But, like Ukai said, this is the last test standing between Atsumu and his dragon. Soon he’ll be able to face Sakusa from an even playing field. Then can finally finish what he came here to do.

He’s beaten every other opponent he’s faced. He’s made the top three squads for their year. He can do this.

Ukai’s arm goes up. “Miya…”

‘I will not die today.’ Atsumu thinks.

“Go!”

With a kiss of his necklace and a fantasy of Sakusa taking his last fucking breath, Atsumu races up the ramp to the first spinning log. In an instant, all of the confidence he’s been building the past few weeks, all of the hope he’s dared to gather, it all blinks away.

He falls.

On the first obstacle.

It happens so fast that Atsumu doesn’t even have a chance to grab a rope before plummeting the eight foot drop to the ground. He barely manages to tuck his knees in and throw his momentum into a roll as his toes touch down. He’s lucky to fall in a bed of gravel that cushions the impact but it also shreds the skin of his palms. Knowing how to properly break a fall will only help him on the first two obstacles. The third one is already 20 feet up.

Most of the others are already on the course, too focused on their task to pay Atsumu any mind, but he doesn’t miss the haughty smirk from Oikawa as he trudges back around to re-enter the line.

On Atsumu’s second go, he manages to keep his footing as he runs across the spinning log. He adjusts his angle to run against the turn as well as forward, and he skips over the log in six long strides.

Next is a simple rock climb up increasingly steep pillars. Not particularly difficult, but it’s an extra drain on time and stamina compared to a straight shot to the next obstacle. Or, you know, stairs.

Atsumu catches his breath on the granite platforms between obstacles, making sure to take a mental note of each safety rope’s location, so he always has his escape route ready.

There’s a set of giant metal rods hanging parallel to the cliff wall, each one about a foot higher than the last. The safety rope hangs about halfway through, so it’s reachable at any portion of the obstacle. Atsumu’s hands threaten to slide down each one as he swings, but he manages to avoid the rope and make it smoothly to the other end.

A large cargo net spans the gap between him and the next obstacle. The spaces between knots are big enough to fall through, but Atsumu takes a slow spider crawl, making sure to distribute his weight evenly to prevent the net from trying to tilt or spin. Easy enough, but it has the potential to be deadly if you rush it.

The next challenge is all about speed and timing. It’s a leap to a giant wooden wheel, with only one entrance/exit that loops around with each turn. He counts the number of seconds between rotations, and leaps through the opening the moment it crests over the platform. He rolls down the inner wall and hops to his feet, immediately shifting into a jog against the counter-turn of the wheel. He keeps an eye on the opening as it circles back around, and breaks into a sprint as it descends. With quick feet, he manages to run and pull himself through the opening to the other side just as it passes the exit platform.

Ahead is a sequence of iron cannonballs hanging from large iron chains. Atsumu’s eyes can’t help but drop to the empty air beneath the cannons. The height of the drop is sickening.

The nearest safety rope for the cannons is essentially at the far end. It’s just a hair short of the platform, so you can grab it if you don’t make the final jump, but there’s no other way out if you lose your momentum or slip along the way.

Atsumu’s on the second-to-last ball when his momentum peters out. It’s too far a reach for the final one, and when he pumps his legs to get his momentum back, his hands slip down the chain to the slick metal surface of the ball. His fingers can hardly grip so instead of going for the next ball, he quickly leaps to grab the next best thing–the safety rope.

Damn, he should’ve worn gloves.

The thought occurs to Atsumu as he grips into the rope and his weight drags him down a foot of length. Fire burns in his hands as he slides as the coarse fibers tear into the small cuts littering his palms. He squeezes his legs tight around the rope to stop his descent before his hands try to jerk away from the pain and send him into free fall.

He makes his way slowly down the rope and takes another minute to rest before his next run.

By the time Atsumu’s jumping back out through the wheel and is facing down the cannons, the sun has drenched the valley. Sweat pours down his forehead and pools up in his palms.

Atsumu wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve and rubs his hands over his pants. He takes his time analyzing the spacing of the chains, trying to determine what he needs to change this time around.

The course is swallowed in shadow again as a massive orange dragon flies overhead. Atsumu gawks at the sky as orange wings swoop down near the edge of the cliff before soaring back up.

Can you ever really get used to that?

As Atsumu watches the dragon fly back towards the Vale, someone knocks into his shoulder. He bites his tongue as his cheek smashes into the rock.

Oikawa rushes past him to begin his second full run through the course.

‘It’s better to be embarrassed than dead.’ Atsumu tells himself as he pushes off the cliff and spits a mouthful of blood on the platform.

“Let me know how the rope burn feels on your way down,” Oikawa taunts as he jumps out to reach the chain above the first iron ball and swing effortlessly to the next. He pumps his legs between balls to build up the right momentum to reach for the next chain. When he reaches the last set, he pulls the final chain back as high as he can, before shifting his weight to swing down and vault the remaining breadth of air. His feet skid to the platform with ease, and he shoots a vulgar gesture back at Atsumu before moving on.

Watching Oikawa complete the course in front of him is aggravating, but also enlightening. He has natural speed and balance, but the way he tackles each obstacle is ingenious too.

As Atsumu goes again, he tries to emulate Oikawa’s movements. At the last leap, he mimics pulling back on the final chain and flings his body towards the platform. The technique seems solid until he realizes midair that his jump still wasn’t good enough. The soles of his feet glance off the corner of the pillar and he starts to fall. He kicks off the granite to propel his body back towards the safety rope and claws on to it.

As Atsumu climbs back down, he sees Hinata descending another rope across from him. Atsumu squints up, wondering which obstacle managed to throw him off course.

“Chimney,” Hinata says as they meet up on the ground. “I can’t reach both sides at the same time. You?”

“Cannonballs,” Atsumu says, scowling up at his newfound nemesis. He hadn’t even reached whatever the chimney is.

As they trudge back towards the line, a horde of second and third years begin descending the staircase that flanks the edge of the Gauntlet. They’re coming from the flight field at the top of the cliff, most likely on their way back from flight practice. Almost all of their eyes are glued to the course as they walk, watching the first-years run through and whispering in each other’s ears. Atsumu spots Kita slipping out from the crowd and waves him down to meet at the base of the cliff.

“How’s practice goin’?” Kita asks.

“Not so great.” Atsumu holds his chewed up hands up and Kita winces.

“I shoulda warned ya to wear gloves.” Kita sounds sheepish, scratching at the back of his neck.

Atsumu tries waving his guilt off. “Nah, it’s not yer fault. It’s those stupid fuckin’ cannonballs. I can’t seem ta get my swing right.”

“Yeah, that’s a rough one. Just wait until ya get to the tails, I nearly lost a finger on my first try.” Kita laughs and wiggles his little finger in the air.

Atsumu groans. He has who knows how many other obstacles to worry about, and yet he can't get past some stupid balls.

“Just keep workin’ at it,” Kita says, placing a hand on his arm. “No one feels good about the Gauntlet on the first day. Osamu struggled with the cannons too, but he still made it.”

And gods know why, but that thought is comforting somehow.

Atsumu nods and Kita gives his arm a squeeze before running back to rejoin the crowd.

He looks back up at the Gauntlet with renewed fire in his belly. A reminder of who he’s doing this for, and why he can’t allow himself to fail.

Suddenly, his vision goes black and he shakes his head to try and clear it. He waves his hands in front of his eyes, fingers clawing through a cool pocket of mist. A strong whiff of jasmine hits his nose, and a shiver slips down his spine.

“Hi,” Sakusa chirps into his ear, dropping his shadows from Atsumu’s eyes down to his shoulders.

“Get yer nasty fuckin’ shadows off of me!” Atsumu swipes angrily at the cool tendrils of mist surrounding him.

Kiyoomi holds his arms up in surrender, shadows slinking back to hover and swirl behind his hands.

“What do ya want?” Atsumu snarls.

Sakusa shrugs his shoulders. “Who says I want anything?”

“Cryptic bastard,” Atsumu mutters, eyes flitting to Professor Ukai as a reminder that he can’t attack his own Wingleader out in the open. “Ya here to ‘handle me’ now that yer little favor’s over?”

Sakusa looks down at the obvious rope burn on Atsumu’s hands and scoffs. “Why should I waste the effort when the Gauntlet will do it for me?”

“Scared ta get yer pretty little gloves dirty?” Atsumu curls his hands into fists, both hiding and aggravating the welts on his palms.

Sakusa stares Atsumu down coolly, adjusting the straps on his stupid fucking gloves. “I can’t wait to see the General’s face when his son fails out before Threshing. How embarrassing for him.”

A clap of anger hits Atsumu’s chest, but Sakusa is already wiggling gloved fingers and walking away before Atsumu can think of a decent response to yell back.

He trudges back to the bottom of the Gauntlet, but before he can step up to try the course again, Ukai blows his whistle and declares their practice time over.

An entire day gone, and Atsumu didn’t even reach the top third of the course.

Passing the Gauntlet is the only way to get to the flight field for Presentation. No Presentation, no Threshing. No Threshing, no dragon, and no chance in hell at ever killing Sakusa.

In fact, when it’s time for the actual Gauntlet, all of the safety ropes will be removed from the course and Atsumu will end up splat like a bug at the bottom. 

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu ends the day thoroughly exhausted, with groaning muscles and raw, red palms.

By all accounts, he should pass right out when his head hits the mattress. Unfortunately, his mind is still doing that really awesome thing where it won’t turn the fuck off and let him fall asleep. He needs sleep so badly. Gods know how long his body can manage to run off spite alone, but he suspects that he’s nearing the edge of that cliff sooner than later.

‘Just get past Threshing,’ he tells himself.

The barracks are pitch black for bedtime, but Atsumu’s eyes adjust to the dark after half an hour of staring into it. He looks for patterns and shapes in the cobblestone ceiling–a game he and Osamu used to play when they were little. After the fifth rock that Atsumu’s mind interprets as a fucking cannonball, his eyes rove around the rest of the cavernous room. Only a few black bunks occasionally move–bodies shifting in the sweet, deep bliss of sleep.

His attention turns to the tall black rectangle on his tiny end table. He sits up to thumb through the stack of books, until he gets to the bottom and feels a worn, leather-bound cover. If it’s been checked out of the Archives enough times for the spine to be this broken-in, it must be a good one.

He tucks the book under his arm and tiptoes over the ice-cold stone. He feels along the far wall until he reaches the gnarled wood door to the barrack’s closet. The door groans open and Atusmu slips inside, closing it slowly behind him. There’s a fair bit more stumbling around the dark before he locates the box of matches and lights up the lone torch by the door.

Once Atsumu’s eyes adjust to the newfound light, he sees that the book in his hands is the same one Hinata brought across the parapet–the one he risked his life for.

He tucks up a pile of fresh shirts in the corner to rest his back on and lowers himself to the floor. The cold stone instantly leeches the heat from his body, so he pulls an extra two jackets down, one to sit on and one to drape over his lap.

He cracks the book open to the cover page, illustrated with a blood red eye at the center and the title below in intricate, hand-written letters.

Tales of the Barrens.

There’s an area in Navarre that people use the same word for– The Barrens. It’s a desert wasteland to the south that was destroyed in the war decades back. It’s not a place anyone goes anymore, so it makes sense that the sense of dread saddled to the name would be a fitting setting for a bunch of scary folktales.

Atsumu hastily flips through the book, noting that it’s a collection of short stories with interspersed ink illustrations etched between each one. His attention is snagged by a particularly menacing drawing of a large winged creature. One that’s bigger than a dragon, even scarier looking, and missing the front two legs–a wyvern. A bell of familiarity rings in his mind, so he turns to the following page and starts reading from there.

Even as the strength and power of the venin grew–it never seemed to be enough.

Venin! That’s the name of the evil red-eyed monsters that Atsumu couldn’t remember. The ones that Osamu always had nightmares about. He used to cry thinking that venin would steal him from his bed and force him into joining their evil army.

With that unquenchable thirst for power, a great evil spread across the continent, draining all life from the land, leaving it dusty and cracked and barren. While the venin sourced their dark magic from the earth, they still desired mastery of the skies, so they created an army of flying beasts to aid them in their quest for power.

The voice in Atsumu’s head turns into his mother’s as he reads along–the stories are the very same ones she used to tell him and Osmau as a child. She always recited them from memory, and Atsumu can’t recall if they ever had their own written copy, but each word feels so achingly familiar that they have to be the same. Oddly enough, their mother would continue to tell them the stories each night, no matter how much it scared them or how many nightmares it created. She would wipe their tears away while insisting that the folktales needed to be kept alive–that losing the links to our past could bring disastrous consequences to the future… But now Atsumu suspects that her mind was already slipping away by then.

The wyvern were nothing but puppets for their masters–snapping, snarling terrors with no minds of their own. The foul beasts were born from the ground, and once their masters fell, the ground is where they returned.

Although the stories are the kind designed to give children nightmares, they eventually manage to coax Atsumu into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Atsumu wakes on the floor with a crick in his neck and the book splayed open on his lap to an illustration of an ancient war. Dragons and wyverns fight in the air and two large armies fight on the ground. One side has normal looking soldiers, while the other hosts a sea of deathly-looking, red-eyed venin and a wake of dry, cracked land behind them.

He lets the stories float to the back of his mind as he closes the book and stretches out his muscles. For sleeping a few short hours on the floor of a cramped closet, it wasn’t actually half bad. The sounds of stirring echo from the other side of the wall and Atsumu leaps to the door before he’s caught sleeping in the closet–not the most intimidating look. Just as he’s leaving, he feels the pulse of pain in his palms and snatches a fresh set of gloves.

After breakfast, he steps up to the starting platform with a spark in his step, fingerless leather gloves and a grudge to settle with some iron balls.

— ⚡︎ —

The second day of Gauntlet practice goes better. Sort of.

It takes eight tries and forty minutes for Atsumu to make it past the cannonballs successfully. By then, he's determined to speed through the rest of the course so he can at least get a glimpse of the final section. The shaking set of pillars are way more of a nightmare than he imagined them to be. The force of the quake instantly throws him off his feet and he has to take the ropes down, yet again.

Luckily the gloves are a massive improvement on the rope burn, and climbing down isn't nearly as painful.

The most infuriating part of the day isn’t even the actual Gauntlet, but the fact that Oikawa times his runs to pass up Atsumu every time. Whenever that nettling voice comes up behind him, Atumu has to repress the wave of aggravation.

Their time runs out just as he reaches what Kita lovingly nicknamed “the tails”. Another horizontal spinning log, with five deadly poles swinging across its length, each modeled after a different species of dragon’s tail. But it's fine, Atsumu will have plenty of time to figure out the timing tomorrow. And after that is just the chimney and the end ramp, two obstacles he isn’t particularly worried about given his height and climbing ability.

At the end of their classes, his squad switches their extra nightly training from sparring to more Gauntlet practice. The second-years all pitch in to help, offering advice and strategies for different obstacles, and running through mock courses in the valley below the college.

“Atsumu! Quicker feet!” Saeko screams as her and Kita spin a massive log floating under his feet and over the ground. Just as her warning hits Atsumu’s ears, a rock pelts his shoulder. 

“Now imagine that’s a swordtail!” Ryunosuke shouts from the sideline. “You just lost an arm!” He picks up another rock and chucks it.

Atsumu throws his weight back to dodge the rock’s path towards his face, but his feet slip out from under him and he crashes to the dirt.

“And now you’re dead,” Saeko says, pulling Atsumu back to his feet and helping brush off the dust.

Bokuto hops on the log next, easily skipping down it as it spins and dodging every rock with a sixth sense. Bokuto, Mad Dog and Oikawa are the only ones from their group to have completed the Gauntlet in its entirety so far. Watching Bokuto’s innate talent is always an incredible sight, it’s like he was literally born for this. Atsumu wouldn’t be surprised if one day he reveals that he’s actually part dragon.

They set up shop near two trees that near-perfectly emulate the distance and height of the chimney obstacle. Hinata’s been at it all night, trying different methods that don’t require him to reach both sides at the same time.

“Well, it’s a whole lot easier this way!” Hinata laughs as he leaps from trunk to trunk, disappearing into the high branches. After the fifth failed attempt, Saeko used her signet on him so he could practice the movement without gravity dragging him down.

“Hey Saeko, how long does yer signet last?” Atsumu asks, watching Hinata scale the trees in seconds.

“It’s getting longer the more I train it. My best record so far is about eight minutes.” Saeko flexes her hands and lets the log drop with a ground-shaking thud after Bokuto hops off.

“Shoyo, what’s been your best time up the Gauntlet so far?” Atsumu asks.

“I think around ten-something.” Hinata slides down the tree trunk as Saeko’s magic starts to wear off. “Why?”

“Think ya could shave it down ta eight?” Atsumu grins.

“Maybe…” Hinata says cautiously, smacking the bark debris from his uniform. “What are you thinking?”

Atsumu turns towards Kita. “Shin, ya might want to cover yer ears fer this one. It isn’t exactly…Codex approved.”

Kita shakes his head. “We succeed or we fail as a squad. Whatever the plan is, count me in.”

They all huddle in a circle and Atsumu lays out his plan.

— ⚡︎ —

On the third day, three more names are called on the Death Roll. Even with the safety ropes out, the Gauntlet took three more lives. And it’s the last day the ropes will be in place. What will the death count be tomorrow?

Atsumu still isn’t confident enough to eat breakfast at risk of it all coming back up.

“So, goals for today?” Kita asks from across the table as Atsumu throws back his cup of water.

“Eight minutes!” Hinata chirps.

“Seven minutes!” Bokuto slams his hands down, making all their trays jump. He’s completed the course each time he’s tried it, and now he’s going for the fastest time so he can nab the Gauntlet patch for his flight jacket.

“Show offs,” Atsumu mutters. He spares a quick glance towards Sakusa’s table, but doesn’t allow himself to think about the Wingleader beyond that. All of his energy and focus needs to stay on the Gauntlet. He can let Sakusa enjoy a few days of peace, seeing as those days are finally numbered.

“Atsumu?” Kita prompts.

“Actually finish the damn course…” Atsumu sighs, tearing his eyes away from the back of Sakusa’s head.

“That’s the spirit, kiddo!” Saeko says, punching him in the shoulder.

They finish up their meal and the second years head to flight practice while Atsumu, Hinata and Bokuto make their way over to the Gauntlet. As they approach the cliff, they see Mad Dog and Oikawa sitting at the bottom of the course playing tic-tac-toe in the gravel with daggers as markers.

“Mornin’,” Atsumu says, kicking the gravel to mess up their game board. “Oops, sorry.”

Mad Dog yanks a dagger from the ground and stabs it at Atsumu’s boot. Atsumu jumps away before it hits, and Mad Dog mimics back, “oops, sorry.”

Atsumu grumbles as he walks away, making sure to kick up a little extra gravel with his heels.

“Are you guys coming?” Bokuto asks, stopping when he notices that Oikawa and Mad Dog still on the ground.

“Nah.” Mad Dog says, stretching his legs out like he’s getting comfortable.

“Nah?” Atsumu balks.

“We know the course like the backs of our hands.” Oikawa shrugs and goes about re-drawing their game lines in the gravel. “No point in wasting the energy.”

Atsumu shakes his head. The gall of these guys is incredible.

Ukai doesn’t seem to care that two of his students are sitting out, since he starts waving cadets through the course as usual. Atsumu steps into line, hopping around to warm up his muscles and focus his mind on today’s goal– actually finish the damn course.

Let those other guys waste their last practice day, at least Atsumu doesn’t have to deal with Oikawa pissing him off during his runs. 

At least he thinks that’s true, until he climbs the first set of pillars and moves on to the iron bars.

“Hey Miya! Don’t fall!”

The booming voice ringing up the rocks nearly makes Atsumu slip. He regains his grip on the iron bars and continues on, pausing to pump his fingers on the next platfom–still stiff from the morning chill.

“What’s the hold up?” Suddenly Oikawa’s voice is at full volume, and Atsumu turns to realize that he’s being followed up the course. 

“I thought ya didn’t need the practice,” Atsumu says, pressing his back against the rock and waiting for Oikawa to pass.

“It looked like you could use the extra motivation, seeing as you haven’t finished the whole course yet. I’d be happy to show you how it’s done–gain some brownie points with the general for helping his pathetic waste of a son make it to the top.”

“‘M fine, thanks.”

Atsumu glares, waiting for Oikawa to move on. When he doesn’t, Atsumu rolls his eyes and starts on the cargo net. The moment his full weight is suspended, Oikawa jumps over him, jostling the net and speeding across next to him. Atsumu grips tight and waits for Oikawa to jump off before resuming his reasonably paced crawl.

Oikawa waits for him at the end, offering a mocking hand out that Atsumu slaps away. Oikawa laughs and gestures for Atsumu to move ahead of him.

Great.

It’s the final day of practice, and an irritating shadow is the last thing Atsumu needs.

Once again, Oikawa waits for Atsumu to reach the next obstacle, then rushes behind him to do it faster. He drags Atsumu back by the shirt and jumps into the wheel ahead of him. Atsumu bites his tongue as he waits for the opening to come back around, hearing Oikawa whistle an annoying tune from the other side.

As Atsumu jumps out of the wheel, Oikawa is waiting for him on the platform, checking his nails.

“Gods, did you have to take all day in there?” Oikawa asks.

Atsumu brushes past him to get to the cannonballs, repressing the urge to punch him in the face.

Fucking asshole.

“Pardon me,” Oikawa says as he pushes by Atsumu again–this time knocking him down so his palms smack the stone.

Fury floods through Atsumu as Oikawa sails past–all of his frustration coalescing into hatred as his vision tunnels in on the bastard. He reaches for his side, yanking out the first hint of metal that crosses his fingers. Just as Oikawa’s hand stretches out for the final chain, Atsumu’s blade sinks right into the soft flesh. Oikawa yelps. His hand jerks back before he’s able to grab hold, and his body drops through the air. He hastily grabs hold of the cannon instead, stopping his fall for a moment before slipping off the smooth, round sides.

There’s a beautiful second of free fall before Oikawa claws onto the safety rope.

Now the bastard can finally get a taste of taking the damn ropes down.

“How’s that rope burn feel?” Atsumu calls down.

Oikawa glares up at him with cold, hard murder in his eyes. He rips the dagger from his hand and bites it in his teeth. Instead of sliding down to the bottom of the cliff, Oikawa grips his legs into the rope and starts climbing back up . Blood streams down his arm as he brings his feet up to the edge of the ending platform and pushes off, using the rope to swing himself back towards Atsumu.

“Oh, fuck.” Atsumu scrambles to his feet, running backwards down the Gauntlet. He pushes past another cadet as Oikawa barrels down the path, screaming.

“Miya, you little shit!”

Atsumu’s feet skid the granite as he approaches the impenetrable facade of the giant wooden wheel–the lone opening far from view. He’s knocked to the ground, head hitting dangerously close to where the wheel digs into the stone. Oikawa pushes his face down towards the gap and Atsumu strains against him–trying to keep his head up and his skull from being crushed. The rumbling roar of wood slats grinding into stone keeps him fighting with everything he has. Just before Atsumu loses strength, the opening comes down over him and he tumbles back inside.

Oikawa misses the brief chance to slip in behind him, giving Atsumu a few precious seconds alone in the belly of the wheel. He darts to the other side, quick as lightning with the now-forward momentum of the wheel. But when he reaches the far side, it dawns that the exit angle is completely different going backwards. He isn’t high enough up the side when the chance to escape rounds the entrance platform.

Atsumu slides down the curved wall, clawing his nails in the wood and crawling against the rotation. He looks helplessly up at the escape window passing him by and looping back down the other side. As soon as the hole hits the far end again, Oikawa’s sliding through it.

Shit.

“Why are you running, Blondie?” Oikawa rides the wheel towards him, flipping his blade in his uninjured hand. “I thought you wanted to play.”

Atsumu wishes he could run, but there’s nowhere to go. He jumps to his feet and Oikawa darts towards him, blade held over his head. Atsumu pulls another weapon from his armor and glances the blow of sharpened steel just as it swings towards his face.

“I thought ya wanted brownie points with the general?” Atsumu spits as he kicks Oikawa back.

The hole comes up under them and Atsumu pushes Oikawa towards it. Oikawa jumps back, clean over the death drop, pulling Atsumu’s sleeve to yank him down. Atsumu skips over the hole too, ramming his head into Oikawa’s stomach and tackling him off his feet. They tumble back in a grapple, rolling around at the bottom of the wheel.

“Changed my mind,” Oikawa says as he throws Atsumu off and they both scramble back up to their feet. “I’d rather just fucking kill you.”

They fight–kicks and swipes and jerky movements as the floor spins under their feet. Atsumu blocks and parries each attack, all while keeping half an eye on his escape.

As the hole comes back around, Atsumu drops down and stabs his blade into the wood planks just ahead of it. He kicks Oikawa back as hard as he can, and this time Oikawa trips over the lip of the opening. He manages to roll back and avoid falling through, but by the time he’s regained his footing, Atsumu is gripping the hilt of his weapon and riding the wheel back up.

Once he’s high enough, he drops his legs to swing through the opening. Before he’s all the way through, a sharp pain cuts down his calf–Oikawa’s blade finally hitting its mark. Atsumu grits his teeth, and tumbles out to the platform. The bottom of his joggers immediately soak through with blood.

There’s only a few precious seconds of reprieve while Oikawa’s stuck behind him in the wheel, so there’s no time to waste by checking the damage. Atsumu shimmies down the rock wall, gritting through the pain as he drops the final few feet instead of climbing down properly.

The nearest safety rope is on the other side of the cargo net–as in, the one obstacle where you actually need to go slow. Atumu drops to a squat and presses his palms on the first two cross-sections, crawling down it faster than he ever has, even with the pain burning down his leg.

Before he can reach the other side, Oikawa tackles him. Their limbs slip and tangle in the net as Oikawa slashes with his knife. Atsumu pushes him off, catching a glance of steel off his dragon armor. The knife catches an edge of the net instead and Atsumu’s stomach lurches as his body falls through.

He grabs blindly at the net and there’s a terrifying second of gravity before Atsumu’s arms yank his body to a halt. He crosses the final distance of netting with his body dangling underneath while Oikawa crosses on top, trying to stab at his fingers.

When Atsumu reaches the end, he leaps for the safety rope and starts climbing. He’s only a few scant feet down when the rope jerks wildly in his hands. He yelps and squeezes his thighs together to keep from flying off. When he looks up, Oikawa is above him rattling the rope away from the wall. When he doesn’t succeed in shaking Atsumu off, Atsumu gives him a haughty grin and sticks out his tongue. That’s when Oikawa pulls up his knife. Atsumu’s heart leaps to his throat as glinting metal meets braided fiber. He scrambles to climb again, racing against Oikawa’s blade sawing into the rope. The rope sways with each drag of steel, and Atsumu is still way too high up to survive the fall. Atsumu lets his legs drop and gravity take him. His hands stay clenched, fire sparking under his gloves as he barrels towards the ground.

His hands are still holding tight as the rope goes slack.

There’s a crack of bone and a flash of pain as his feet hit the ground. Atsumu immediately curls to a ball, howling as the pain shoots up his leg and through his body. Bokuto and Hinata are there when he hits down, having seen the scuffle and slid down the ropes to help. They keep Oikawa away as he tries to finish his attack on Atsumu’s battered body. Atsumu hears a thud and a screech. He looks up to see Oikawa reeling backwards with his hands over his nose and Bokuto shaking out his fist.

“All right! Break it up!” Ukai shouts, pulling Oikawa away from Bokuto and leaning down to check on Atsumu. “You okay, Miya?”

The pain surging through Atsumu is unbelievable, but he’s still alive, so “okay” about covers it.

He manages to sit upright and give Ukai a nod.

Without as much as a slap on the wrist, Atsumu and Oikawa are waved off to the infirmary. Bokuto helps carry Atsumu there, an arm slung around his shoulder as he supports the weight of his broken foot. Hinata tries coming along too, but Atsumu forces him to stay and keep practicing. If Hinata can’t shave his time down, their entire plan for tomorrow will fall apart. Atsumu would never forgive himself if Hinata fails the Gauntlet. He’s almost more invested in Hinata’s success than his own.

In fact, Atsumu really doesn’t want to think about his own chances now. He couldn’t even complete the course in its entirety and now he somehow has to do it with a broken foot? Maybe with enough painkillers he can push through. He’ll surely get the worst time of the whole year, but maybe, just maybe he can do it.

No, he can’t let himself think that way. He will do it. He will not fail. He’ll crawl up the fucking Gauntlet if he has to.

Atsumu waits in the infirmary with a bag of ice under his foot. They bandaged up the cut on his leg, luckily it was shallow enough to only need a few stitches. But the throbbing pain from his shattered heel still pulses all the way up to his teeth.

More cadets are brought in throughout the day–victims of the Gauntlet. When the ropes are gone tomorrow, how many of them won’t make it?

Atsumu hadn’t even gotten to finish the entire course thanks to Oikawa. They’re both in beds on opposite sides of the infirmary, and Atsumu shoots him a dirty look whenever the rage boils back up inside of him. Seeing Oikawa’s broken nose and wrapped up hand makes Atsumu feel a little better.

— ⚡︎ —

When the dark of night spills through the windows and the torches are lit around the walls, an older man hobbles through the doors of the Infirmary. He has deep brown skin, thinning gray hair and he’s wearing head-to-toe rider’s black. As he walks, his weight is supported by a long iron cane, carved intricately to look like dragon scales. It’s only been a few years since Atsumu has seen him, and those years seem to have taken their toll.

“Hey, kiddo,” Nolon says as he sits at the foot of Atsumu’s cot, folding back the sheets to see his leg.

His eyes look tired, with deep dark bags hanging under them, but the warm honey color is exactly the same as Atsumu remembers. A pang of empathy shoots through him as he takes in the deep cracks etched in Nolon’s face. It’s like he’s aged twenty years in the past five.

“Hey, old man,” Atsumu says with a smile.

Atsumu and Osamu had more than their fair share of encounters with Nolon growing up. Their father used the college’s mender as an excuse to up the stakes of their training. Knowing any injury, short of death, could be fixed in a matter of minutes negated the need for caution or restraint. Whenever they were hurt, they were taken to Nolon. He was always kind, making them laugh as he mended their breaks. Once, Nolon even tried to step in with their father on their behalf. It was after an especially bad concussion that Osamu got while training with the blunted greatswords. Nolon argued with Ichiro about the relentless training, pleading on behalf of scared little kids with so many broken and mended bones that they’d long lost count. Atsumu never learned what it was his father did to Nolon, but it's what spurred the need for a cane. That was the day the twins learned what their father was truly capable of–the type of power and cruelty that he wielded. They also learned that menders aren’t able to mend themselves…The incident was never mentioned again, but Atsumu has carried a seed of guilt around the man ever since.

“It’s been a rough few days around here,” Nolon says, stretching his arms over his head, old joints cracking all the way up. “Damn Gauntlet. I only have enough juice left for one more patient today, and it just so happens to be my favorite one.” Nolon gives a warm smile as he takes Atsumu’s foot into his weathered hands. Atsumu jolts at the touch–the old man’s fingers still feel like icicles.

“Why me?” Atsumu asks, looking around at the countless full beds of cadets, plenty of them equally fucked up, and some even worse off.

Nolon gives him a wry look and Atumu’s face heats in mortification.

“Oh, right.”

Nolon still reports to his father, and it’s not like there are any other patients here named Miya.

Atsumu would refuse the offer if he thought he stood the slightest chance of passing the Gauntlet on a broken foot. But the odds of failing are already too high, even with his body in perfect condition. So he swallows his pride for now–ignoring how bitter the taste is.

“Have you heard from Aran lately?” Atsumu asks. The warm honey-brown of Nolon’s eyes is so similar to his nephew’s that it makes Atsumu's heart ache.

Nolon nods. “He’s doing just fine. When you’re able to send letters, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you. The boy worries.”

Atsumu winces at that. When he and Osamu split ways, he ran away from everything that had to do with the Rider’s Quadrant–including his friends from the academy. He was so determined to wash his hands of Inarizaki and Basgiath, that he never wrote them or made the effort to keep in touch. Aran was a third-year and a Wingleader when Osamu and Kita joined the Quadrant, now he’s graduated, an officer stationed at some outpost along the border.

“Yeah, of course.” Atsumu says, making a mental promise to reach out. Assuming he survives long enough to get letter writing privileges.

They fall into silence as Nolon closes his eyes and begins mending. The warm buzz of magic starts coursing through Atsumu’s foot. The relief is instant. All of his pain evaporates and he can actually feel his bones fusing back together. A pleased sigh passes Atsumu’s lips.

That seriously is some signet. Oh, that reminds him…

“Hey, Nolon. Ya worked with Samu last year, right?” Atsumu asks.

Nolon’s mouth turns down as he responds. “Yes. Osamu had so much promise. It’s a shame that we’ll never get to see his full potential. I would’ve loved another mender around here to lighten my load.” He huffs a small laugh at his own joke, before turning serious again. “Your brother will be sorely missed.”

“Yeah…” Atsumu wants to ask more, to gather some missing pieces of his brother’s time spent without him, but all of the questions that flit through his mind end up stuck in his throat.

“Maybe, could ya tell me about it another time? Samu’s time here. With the mendin’ and stuff..”

Nolon nods, a warm smile returning to his lips. “I would like that very much.”

Atsumu smiles back, feeling so achingly much like a kid again. Under Nolon’s cold hands and warm magic, making sure everything will be alright.

When Nolon is finished, he gives Atsumu a few consoling pats on the shoulder and takes his leave.

Akaashi steps in from where he’d been hovering a few beds away.

“How are you feeling?”

Gods, what a loaded question. Atsumu feels so fucking much all of the fucking time. He’s sad from thinking about Osamu. Pissed at getting special treatment. Grateful for the special treatment anyway. Worried about the Gauntlet–whether or not he and his squadmates will be able to make it.

Finally he settles on answering with, “My foot feels better.”

Akaashi gives him a wry smile. “You can stay here tonight, if you’d like,” he says, handing Atsumu his customary pain killer, water glass combo.

One look at Oikawa’s death glare from across the room has Atsumu shaking the offer off. “I feel fine ta head back. Thanks though.”

“Good luck tomorrow. And will you tell Bokuto-san good luck from me too?”

“Sure thing.” Atsumu gives him an appreciative smile and slips out of the Infirmary.

— ⚡︎ —

Either Akaashi’s blessing worked like a charm, or the god of luck decided to exist again, because on the morning of the Gauntlet, Atsumu manages a fast and flawless run all the way up to the tails. He even sailed right through the cannonballs without breaking a sweat.

He can hear part of his squad cheering from the top of the cliff as he trots up to the platform to the tails.

“Go Atsumu!” Kita hollers, uncharacteristically animated.

“Yeah, Tsum Tsum! You can do it!” Bokuto’s bellowing echoes down the cliffside and reverberates confidence right through Atsumu’s bones.

Seeing his friends at the top of the cliff fills Atsumu with motivation.

Bokuto had already completed his run earlier–fast and flawless as expected. Atsumu doesn’t know his exact time, but he’d be surprised if Bokuto doesn’t end the day with the Gauntlet patch sewn into the breast of his flight jacket.

Hinata’s still at the bottom of the valley, waiting on his own turn to go. Saeko and Ryunosuke are with him, ready to enact their plan to help Hinata through the course.

“Or you could just fall!” Oikawa calls down, sneering down at him.

And you know what, seeing his enemies at the top might be even more motivating.

Speaking of enemies, Atsumu spots the curly black mass of Sakusa’s head peering over the cliff as well. As Atsumu’s Wingleader, he’s in charge of tracking his time through the course. Suddenly Atsumu wants to do more than just finish the Gauntlet. He wants to demolish it.

Atsumu wrangles his focus back to the task at hand, no time to waste.

The daggertail slices the air in front of him and he waits on the platform, counting the time between swings.

One, two, three– and on the count of four, he lunges forward to the spinning log. He darts past the first pole and lands in the small space between the daggertail and the swordtail, keeping his feet moving against the steady rotation beneath him.

Atsumu counts again, ready to go on four, but the weight of the swordtail swings the pole back faster than the one before it. He stutters his steps, pulling back in time to avoid being cleaved in half, but not fast enough to avoid the razor’s edge completely. It knicks the side of his hand, slicing right through the leather of his glove and into the meat of his palm.

Atsumu yelps, drawing his hand back. The split-second of hesitation costs him, and his foot slides down the log. He lurches forward to catch himself, hands slamming into the wood. He scrambles to flatten himself before the next pole–a giant clubtail, swings back towards his head. His body is spun to the side of the log just as the club flies by–close enough to catch the club’s wind on his cheek.

Atsumu’s knees dig into the log. His arms can barely reach around and he’s turning in circles like meat on a spit. Blood is already seeping from his glove and pooling up under his palm.

He’s so fucking high up, and his grip is faltering as he spins to the underside of the log.

Just as his bloody hand starts to slip, a dark swirl of shadow wraps around it.

It could almost be a trick of the light, some errant bit of shadow warped by the swinging poles overhead. But the telltale cool sensation around the bare slit of his wrist means one thing only–the shadow belongs to Sakusa.

Atsumu’s stomach drops. He had been so worried about the Gauntlet, that he’d lowered his guard against the real threat. Apparently Sakusa hadn’t forgotten about him. In fact, he figured out the perfect opportunity to get rid of Atsumu for good, and not a soul will even notice.

'Why should I waste the effort when the Gauntlet will do it for me?'

Atsumu swallows as time slows to a stop. He pinches his eyes closed as he waits for the drop.

But the seconds tick on, and nothing happens.

As Atsumu peels his eyes back open, he sees that the shadows aren’t trying to throw his hands off the log. They’re holding him up.

Atsumu blinks, frozen in disbelief, still clutching to the log. There’s a small tug on his wrists, like a reminder to keep moving.

Once he’s hanging safely on the underside of the log, he starts inching his body forward. He’s balled up between the clubtail and the morningstartail when he’s turned back upright. The shouts from above fade beneath the sound of blood pounding in Atsumu’s ears. His arms start to shake, but he clings tight as the log keeps spinning.

He almost slips again as his body curls over the side, but the shadows yank him back in place. Once he’s back underneath the safety of the log, Atsumu inches forward the last bit of distance. The second he’s spun upright, he pushes off with his feet and leaps towards the platform.

His palms smack the stone as the morningstartail cuts down the air behind him. Sweat pours down his face and his arms shake violently–but holy shit, he made it.

Atsumu hops to his feet, the eruption of cheers hitting his ears again. Instinct pulls him to look back up at Sakusa, but he fights off the urge, too rattled to face whatever he might see there.

He’s on the final ascent, and in entirely new territory. Just two obstacles left.

He trots over to the chimney with his head down. He jumps up the opening at the bottom, throwing his arms and legs out to position his body into an x-shape. Atsumu can see where Hinata would have trouble here. His own wingspan must be around six feet, but he’s still barely able to flatten both his palms against the walls of the chimney. With small, upward hops, he works his way skyward, the grippy soles of his shoes working overtime to keep him from slipping.

Atsumu’s eyes are trained above him as he feels a wet trail running down his forearm. His right hand slips down the stone and he braces his legs to keep from falling. Looking down he sees a line of blood dripping from the bottom of his glove all down the side of the stone.

Shit, the tails got him good.

The smooth leather surface of his glove is already soaked slick in blood. He bites it off with his teeth and wipes his hand on his pants, ignoring the sharp flare of pain. He switches to only using the tips of his fingers–much trickier to get leverage, but necessary to avoid slipping in his own blood trail.

Keep going. You will not die today.  

Sweat stings his eyes, but Atsumu keeps inching his way up the chimney. His heart pounds as the top of the walls come into view. He kicks off and throws all of his weight to one wall, and hoists himself up. He hops out with a shout, clenching his good fist in the air when he lands on the exit platform. The cheers finally come back into focus and he lets their energy fuel him.

Ahead is the ramp. He wastes no time thinking it over and sprints like hell. His stomach drops as he reaches the near-vertical end. Before gravity can pull him back, he throws his arms up, fingers barely cresting the ledge. He holds there for a breath, then tucks his knees up under him and jumps the rest of the way.

Atsumu vaults up to the final platform, tumbling over the granite and landing flat on his back.

Holy shit.

He did it. He finished the damn course!

Without even dying!

Atsumu’s chest heaves and he’s instantly smothered by Kita and Bokuto–their screaming loud enough to blow his eardrums.

Laughter bubbles up his throat. He’s giddy with the leftover adrenaline and electric rush of victory. Kita pulls him to his feet for a hug and Bokuto punches him in the shoulder.

Sakusa pushes his way through the crowd, with a bored look carved on his face.

“Miya. Nine-oh-six,” Sakusa says, marking the time down on his clipboard.

Atsumu’s lips draw a small smile. Even with his hiccup on the tails–it’s a great time.

As Atsumu watches Sakusa’s hands scrawling the numbers down on the parchment, a brief wisp of shadow whips off around his leather glove. It dawns on Atsumu that right now, Sakusa could be writing his name down for the death roll, instead of writing his time.

But he didn’t use his magic to kill him…he actually used it to help. Atsumu still isn’t sure if he imagined the whole thing.

As Sakusa walks away, Atsumu slips free from his squad to follow him.

“Hey,” Atsumu says, pulling at the hem of Sakusa’s shirt that’s peeking from under his flight jacket. “Did you-”

Sakusa spins around, cutting Atsumu off with a slap to his hand and an unimpressed scowl. “Don’t fucking bleed on me.”

Atsumu pulls back, blinking at the damp spot on Sakusa’s shirt, then to his hand–coated a bright cherry red.

Oh, oops.

“Shit,” he mumbles, wincing as he prods the cut to see how deep it is. A fresh, red rivulet travels down the side of his palm and trickles down to his elbow.

A black ball of cloth smacks him in the face.

“Might want to fix that,” Sakusa says, shrugging his flight jacket back on and zipping it back over his bare chest. There’s a quick flash of swirling black over his shoulder before it’s covered by the black leather.

The blood should wash out of the shirt just fine–that’s kind of the whole point to rider's black. But if Sakusa doesn’t want it back, then Atsumu may as well use it instead of ruining his own clothes.

The shirt is still warm in Atsumu’s hands as Sakusa walks away.

Kita helps him cut the shirt into long strips and wrap his hand up. Atsumu lets him work while trying to ignore the overwhelming stench of jasmine clinging to the fabric.

Atsumu thinks about telling Kita what happened. But he’s still so thoroughly confused by Sakusa’s actions, that he decides to keep the secret to himself for now.

They’re focused on the task while the next cadet starts their ascent. Atsumu is just about fixed up when a collective gasp of horror springs from the spectators. A wicked chill runs down Atsumu’s body, and he knows that another name was just added to the death roll.

Atsumu’s stomach churns as the body is cleared from the bottom of the course. He doesn’t look until Kita tells him that it’s over.

The next cadet to go, and the final one of the day, is Hinata.

They went over the plan ten times that morning. Right before Hinata is set to go, Saeko will use her signet on him. He’ll have two small rocks in his pockets, weighed down by Ryunosuke, to counteract the weightlessness of his body. That way his balance won’t be affected until it’s time for the final two obstacles.

It’s a foolproof plan. It’s also cheating, and it could end up being an absolute shit show if he’s caught. But if Basgiath doesn’t play fair, why should they?

Atsumu’s palms starts to sweat as the starting horn sounds off and the little orange dot starts moving up the Gauntlet.

Hinata’s crawling past the cargo net as Saeko makes her way back to their squad, catching her breath from her run up the stairs.

“We good?” Atsumu asks.

She nods. “I had to use it on someone else first. But now we know it’ll work.”

Atsumu’s stomach sours as Saeko’s eyes flit towards the tiny, blonde first year with the swirling black marks peeking from her sleeve.

“If you had enough juice left.” Atsumu can’t help the hard edge to his voice. He should care about anyone failing the course and facing their death, not just the ones close to him…but dammit –if Hinata dies because Saeko used all her magic on somebody else, that just might break him.

“I replenished my magic beforehand,” Saeko says, trying to reassure him.

As far as Atsumu knows, the only way to replenish magic stores is time, and there hasn’t been nearly enough of it.

“How’d ya–”

She flashes some sort of object at him–a small glass orb with a faint spark of light at the center. She puts it back in her pocket with a pointed nod, like Atsumu is supposed to know the significance of whatever the hells that thing is.

“He’ll be fine.” The surety of Saeko’s words don’t match the furrow in her brow as her eyes follow Hinata through the course.

The rest of Atsumu’s questions whisk away as his attention drops back down to the Gauntlet. He had only looked away for a second, and Hinata is already soaring past the cannonballs and on his way to the set of shaking pillars.

He’s making incredible time.

“Yeaaaah Shoyo!” Atsumu shouts down the cliff.

“You got this!” Bokuto screams beside him.

Hinata chances a brief look up to shoot them a thumbs up.

Atsumu’s nerves finally start to settle as Hinata flies through the Gauntlet with ease—that is, until one of the rocks slips from Hinata’s pocket. It tumbles over the granite and down the cliff-face. Hinata lurches to the side where the other counter-weight still sits in his pocket. His hands splay out on the platform, skidding to a stop right on the knife’s edge.

Saeko’s hand clutches Atsumu’s. He grips it back, holding his breath as they watch Hinata wobbling back to his feet, equilibrium clearly off-kilter. He looks up at them, panic flashing over his face.

If Hinata loses his last rock before the chimney, he could over-jump an obstacle. Hell, if he jumps too hard he might even start floating away. It’d be pretty hard to explain that one.

The danger of being caught is just as severe as the danger of failing. The outcome for either is death.

Hinata pauses, seemingly weighing his options, but he doesn’t have the option of wasting any more time. He draws his dagger and stabs into the wall of the cliff, shearing off a chunk of rock and stuffing it in his pocket. It was quick, and hopefully innocuous enough not to raise suspicion.

Atsumu’s eyes shift around him, but nobody seems to notice or care about the strange behavior.

In a blink, Hinata’s back on his feet and sprinting through the tails, snaking through them with an uncanny sense of balance and timing.

Saeko’s nails dig into Atsumu’s palms when Hinata makes it to the bottom of the chimney. Hinata subtly shakes the rocks from his pocket. He jumps into the channel, kicking off the sidewalls and springboarding up and out of the chimney in no time.

Their squad erupts into cheers as Hinata skids up to the bottom of the ramp. The very last obstacle.

“Go Shoyo! Go!” Saeko screams from Atsumu’s left.

“You got this buddy!” Bokuto shouts from his right.

Atsumu holds his breath.

Hinata sprints up the ramp, so fast it looks like he’s flying. His legs carry him all the way to where the ramp goes vertical and they leap off the last bit of curve, hands reaching for the edge.

Then Atsumu sees it–the split second that Saeko’s magic wears off.

Hinata’s momentum stutters midair, gravity clutching him with a vengeance. He slides back down the ramp, skidding on his hands and knees.

Saeko’s face burrows into Atsumu’s shoulder and he rests a hand on her head. All of the fear he felt during his own run comes back tenfold as Hinata slides back to the platform.

Hinata looks up at the ramp, then backs all the way up, securing every available inch of ground. His hand reaches down to his hip, a shine of sunlight hitting metal as he draws a dagger from his belt.

He darts up the ramp, a drumbeat pounding beneath his feet. He leaps up at the last second, ramming his dagger into the soft wood of the ramp, and flinging himself the last foot upward. It’s just enough for him to hook and elbow over the ledge and pull his body up.

“Hells fucking yes!” Atsumu shouts as Hinata pulls his dagger back out of the ramp and jumps up to his feet, holding his arms above his head in victory.

Saeko’s knees buckle at Atsumu’s side and he steadies her back to her feet.

“Oh thank gods,” she breathes.

“Best squad ever!” Ryunosuke yells, fists pumping into the air.

“That’s my boy!” Bokuto screams into the air running over to Hinata’s side.

“He can’t do that!” Oikawa shouts, pushing through the crowd.

“Yeah, well he just did!” Bokuto shouts back, wrapping Hinata protectively in his arms.

“Back up, Oikawa,” Kita says, stepping in and cutting him a stern glance.

Then Sakusa is breaking through the crowd, and heading their way. His face is blank as stone.

“Hinata,” Sakusa says, looking down at him. “Eight-thirty-three.”

“You’re seriously counting that?” Oikawa shouts. “He cheated!”

Oh shit. Was he able to notice Saeko’s interference?

Oikawa’s arms fold over his chest. “You can’t use foreign objects on the course.”

Oh. Phew. At least this is about the knife and not the magic. But it might be just as bad…

Hinata pipes in, “A rider may only bring to the quadrant the items they can carry, and once carried across the parapet, they are considered part of their person.”

“What the hells are you talking about?” Oikawa spits.

“Article Three, Section Six of the Codex. Specifically Addendum B,” Hinata says, the words almost running over each other as he hurries to get them out. He looks up to Sakusa, holding out the dagger. “This isn’t a challenge blade. I brought it across the parapet, and by way of the Codex, it's considered a part of myself.”

“Why would that even be in there?” Oikawa asks.

“That Addendum was designed to make thievery an executable offense,” Kita says. “It may be a technicality, but it’s still written in the Codex.”

“That’s a loophole.” Oikawa complains. “If he can't make it up the course on his own, then he should be disqualified.”

“It’s a gray area,” Kita admits. “But it’s up to his Wingleader to make the call.”

Fuck. Hinata’s life now rests in Sakusa’s merciless, leather-clad hands.

Sauksa looks at Kita, then Oikawa, and studies Hinata for a long moment, tapping a finger over his clipboard.

Then for some reason, Sakusa’s gaze falls to Atsumu.

Atsumu stares back, all but begging with his eyes. But he’s done everything in the world to make his Wingleader hate him, and he’s all out of favors.

Sakusa’s black eyes hold him for an infinite second before settling back on Hinata. “I’ll allow it.”

“Really?” Oikawa shouts.

‘Really?’ Atsumu thinks. His entire body slumping over in relief.

“If he isn’t meant to be here, the dragons can decide that for themselves.” Sakusa says with finality before turning to walk away and report Hinata’s time to Commander Pancheck.

Hinata’s face lights up and Atsumu crushes him in his arms. Bokuto rushes over, lifting them both off the ground and spinning them in the air. Once their feet land back down the rest of his squad is running to join in and they end up in a tangled pile, laughing on the floor.

Atsumu’s head breaks free from Ryunosuke’s armpit and his eyes find Sakusa’s back as he walks away.

An odd mix of hatred and gratitude churns in his stomach.

Not only did Sakusa save Atsumu’s life today, but he saved Hinata’s too.

Atsumu still doesn’t know what Sakusa’s end game is. But he has the unsettling feeling of the scales tipping balance, and the debt now falling on his shoulders.

He really doesn’t like it.

But Atsumu can’t let any of that sway him. It doesn’t matter how many good deeds Sakusa adds to his ledger. His sins can never be forgiven. Not in Atsumu’s eyes.

For now, Atsumu turns his attention back to his squad, to revel in today’s victory.

“I was the last one to go, right?” Hinata asks, a smile still stuck to his face.

“Yep,” Kita says. “So now it’s time for–”

He’s cut off by a low rumbling coming up from over the Vale. In the distance, the sky blackens behind a sea of stretched-out wings. The glimmering, multicolor mass grows larger as it speeds towards them.

The air is whipped to a frenzy and the ground shakes under the weight of a hundred massive bodies crashing down in clusters.

Just over the hill, they’re about to be paraded past a host of merciless, fire-spitting giants. Ones who are ready to play judge, jury, and possibly executioner, the very thing each one of the awestruck cadets are here for–dragons.

Chapter Text

Presentation Day is Unlike any other. The air is ripe with possibilities, and possibly the stench of sulfur from a dragon who has been offended. Never look a red in the eye. Never back down from a green. If you show trepidation to a brown…well, just don’t.

-Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

As the dragons settle in the valley, a buzz stirs around the flight field. Whispers run through the crowd–something about feathers and gold. Atsumu ignores the chatter, much more concerned with fire and fangs.

Presentation always ends with fewer cadets than it starts with. Despite the grit and effort needed to make it to the field, at any moment, a random dragon can simply decide it’s not enough and end your journey there.

There’s a reason the procession leaves six feet of space between cadets–it’s a hair past the width of a firestream.

There’s a ten minute wait as the Gauntlet times are recorded and the final squad scores are calculated. It’s just enough time for Atsumu to recall everything he’s learned from Dragon Studies, plus an extra nine minutes to worry that he’ll forget all of it once his boots hit the grass.

“Any advice for us, Kita-san?” Hinata asks their squad-leader as they wait.

“Be confident,” Kita says. “All of ya were strong enough to make it this far. Remember that.”

Hinata’s chest puffs with pride, and his wide eyed grin warms Atsumu’s heart. Watching the little scribe come so far makes Atsumu feel kind of like a proud father. Not that’d he’d know what that looks like, but he can imagine.

Kita adds on, “oh, and talk to each other while ya go through. Helps the dragon’s get a sense of yer personality, and there’s the added bonus of focusing on something other than all the massive eyes on ya.”

“Speaking of eyes, try not to make eye contact,” Saeko warns. “You can still look at them, especially if they engage you first, but if you piss the wrong one off…”

“Then you’re roasted,” Bokuto says. “Got it.”

Atsumu’s knees buckle and he catches himself on Kita’s shoulderguard. “Great,” he murmurs, throwing a sarcastic thumb up. “Nothin’ ta worry about then.” 

“It’s easy, just don’t get roasted,” Ryunosuke suggests with a shrug.

“Tsum-Tsum.” Bokuto slaps his hands over Atsumu’s shoulders. “Look at me. We totally fucking got this.”

Atsumu huffs. Sure, just don’t get roasted.

“Say it,” Bokuto insists.

Atsumu claps his hands over Bokuto’s arms, trying to soak in his squadmate’s confidence. “We got this.”

“Fuck yeah, we do!” Bokuto reels an arm back to punch Atsumu in the shoulder. Which shouldn’t be something that makes Atsumu smile, but it does. 

Atsumu takes a backseat to the rest of his squad’s pep talks to clear his mind and set his focus on the task ahead.

As he absent-mindedly picks at the makeshift bandage spun over his hand, his father’s voice pops into his head.

‘Never show weakness.’

The dragons can smell it a mile away.

Wait, would a dragon be able to smell the blood on him?

Shit.

Atsumu gently tugs his shredded glove back over his wrapped hand for an extra layer, hoping it’s enough of a barrier to hide his cut from discerning nostrils.

Once his gloves are secure, he feels the strange compulsion to straighten his jacket and fix up his hair. Not that the dragons should give a shit about stuff like that, but it helps Atsumu feel more put together. His hands are smoothing back the gold-tipped tresses when the deep sound of a horn blows from the center of the flight field.

The crowd shuffles in and Commander Pancheck announces the top Gauntlet times, along with their new squad rankings. “In first position, we have First Wing, Tail Section, Third Squad.”

Atsumu holds his breath for his own squad’s ranking. This determines the order for Presentation and Threshing, and it goes a long way to be among the first cadets to enter either.

He doesn’t need to hold his breath long because Commander Pancheck is already reading out second position as, “Fourth Wing, Claw Section, First Squad.”

Second. They placed second out of thirty two squads.

“Hells fucking yeah!” Bokuto shouts, curling his hands into fists and throwing them in the air.

“Holy shit!” Hinata gasps.

Atsumu’s head whips towards him, it’s the first time he’s ever heard the ex-scribe swear. “Sho!”

“Sorry,” Hinata covers his mouth, smile spilling out the sides. “But oh my gods, holy shit!”

On any other day, Atsumu wouldn’t give a shit about his rank, but if there’s any day to care about it, it’s today. If he wants to bond with the toughest dragon out there, this is a massive advantage on his side.

Atsumu half-listens to the rest of the rankings, but he doesn’t really care about anyone else right now. All that matters is his squad and second fucking place!

To no one’s surprise, Bokuto landed the fastest time of the day–if it weren’t for his cheerful disposition, he’d be the poster child for war. And with Atsumu and Hinata each managing to put up great times despite their struggle, their squad’s score shot up just enough.

When the list is complete, Commander Pancheck orders everyone into formation, in order of their new ranking.

Atsumu gets a small rush of satisfaction from crossing in front of Oikawa to enter the line.

With his injury, Oikawa essentially ran the Gauntlet one-handed–an incredible feat honestly, but his time was fucked enough to drop his squad down to fifth. That and the fact his squadmate spent a good five minutes dead-hanging off the cargo net before managing to pull himself back up. His eyelid is now swollen and shiny–the beginnings of a nasty black eye, courtesy of Oikawa’s good fist when he finally reached the finish.

Oikawa’s dagger-sharp glare follows Atsumu the whole way.

Commander Varrish waits at the front of the line, passing cadets through one at a time up the hill and into the Presentation field.

“Have a nice stroll,” Varrish says with a pompous smirk as he waves Atsumu through.

Atsumu starts up a pep talk in his mind as his feet trudge forward.

‘Chin up. Act tough. Don’t show your weakness. Don’t show your fear.’

But once he crests the top of the hill, his thoughts and his breath are both swept off by the view.

Brilliant gold stretches out for miles. Flaxen grass blows gently in the breeze on either side of the dark gravel path, carving a stark, snaking river through the field. The towering peaks of Basgiath mountain encase the valley, haloed by a kiss of white fog coming from the Vale beyond.

And then…there’s the dragons.

They wait in a formation of their own–an imposing palisade of multicolor scales, taller than the twenty foot battlements that surround the quad. They’re posted up a few feet back from the path, close enough to observe and pass judgment as their prey pass by. They sit, still and stoic, ready to determine those worthy of being their riders, and smite the rest in their boots.

The sun hangs low in the back of the sky, sitting just above the peak of the mountain. It shimmers off the dragon’s scales and stretches their shadows twice their length across the path and into the field.

Atsumu follows Hinata down the hill and into the procession line. When his toes crunch the edge of the gravel path, he waits for the customary six feet to stretch out between them. Then with a deep breath of crisp Autumn air, he steps out onto the field.

The length of the path takes a slight bend to the left, allowing Atsumu to see down the rainbow line of dragons on its right. Sharp, spiked heads block out the massive golden oaks bordering the field, already tilted in appraisal of the first squad marching down the line.

Atsumu winces as he watches Hinata pass by the first dragon in the line–a stocky red whose talons are nearly half his squadmate’s height.

In six short steps, Atsumu passes the massive red himself, and has to suppress the violent urge to turn tail and run. He has been around dragons his entire life, yet he still can’t avoid the current of fear and awe that zips through him each time he’s up this close.

‘Chin up. No fear. Chin up. No fear.’

Atsumu grits his teeth and holds his head high. His fingers curl over the collar of his armor, resting there casually, and he slides on an air of nonchalance as he swaggers down the path.

As the next dragon comes into view, Atsumu’s heart leaps into his throat. It’s a beautiful green with vibrant scales of polished emerald. He clutches his necklace and his head snaps up before he can stop it. 

Oh. Atsumu’s heart sinks as fast as it lept. The dragon is just a random green.

For a second he thought it was…

Bokuto’s voice calls over Atsumu’s shoulder as he falls into line another six feet back. “Soooo, what should we talk about?” 

“Anythin’ I guess.” Atsumu shrugs, shaking off the misplaced disappointment. He trudges on, not-at-all-nervously glancing at the rows of shiny, scaled shins at his eyeline.

“Hey Atsumu,” Hinata says as he skips along ahead, seemingly undisturbed by the giant eyes following each of his peppy steps. “What part of the book are you on now?”

Atsumu pretends like he’s undisturbed too and thinks back to the page he fell asleep on the night before. “The birth of the first wyvern.”

“Ooh that’s such a good part! Wyverns are so cool.”

A brown dragon breaks the line by stretching its spiked neck out over the path and tilting its head at Hinata. Hinata flinches, bowing his head and chirping out, “not as cool as dragons obviously!”

“What are you guys talking about?” Bokuto asks from behind.

“Wyvern!” Hinata shouts back, gracefully skirting around the dragon’s giant head jutting into the pathway.

“What- vern?”

“You don’t know what a wyvern is?” Atsumu asks. He trains his eyes to the ground as he slowly passes the curious dragon, as not to make any unwanted eye contact. Which is easier said than done, considering the eyes he’s avoiding are the size of fucking dinnerplates.

“It’s folklore!” Hinata explains. “They’re kind of like dragons, but bigger. They have two feet instead of four, and razor-sharp feathers down their necks.”

“Plus they’ve got a taste for human flesh.” Atsumu turns back to wiggle his fingers menacingly.

Bokuto ponders this and asks, “so not like dragons, how?”

A small chuff sounds out to their right. Atsumu looks up to see a tall, sleek blue staring amusedly down at Bokuto. Guess it liked the joke.

“They’re more like giant, living weapons,” Atsumu says. “They don’t think for themselves the way dragons do, they’re entirely controlled by their makers.”

“Makers?”

“They’re called venin. Evil, red-eyed humans, corrupted by their greed for power.”

Bokuto snaps his fingers. “Wait, I’ve heard of those! My mom used to tell me and my sisters scary stories as kids to keep us in line, and the venin were a go-to. Said that they’d pluck us from our porch one by one if we fought too much or snuck too many cookies.” He laughs. “Little did she know our dad was the one who was sneaking them for us.”

Bokuto’s laugh cuts off suddenly and Atsumu’s head whips back to find him stopped dead in his tracks, the entire procession halted behind him. The cadet twelve feet back folds his arms and waits, maintaining the safe buffer of space.

Bokuto’s face has fallen at the mention of his family. “No matter how angry Mom got, Dad kept sneaking us cookies anyway.”

Shit. Atsumu feels for Bokuto, he really does, but this is not the time to let your emotions get the better of you. Before he can think it through, he’s jogging back down the line, bridging the gap to squeeze Bokuto on the shoulder. “I’m sure they’re fine,” he whispers.

“We should’ve heard back by now.” Bokuto’s lip wobbles, eyes focused on some far off place.

“We’ll hear back soon. It just takes time.” Atsumu assures him. He sneaks a glance behind his shoulder, where the next dragon scratches its claws on the ground, huffing at the interruption. When Bokuto still doesn’t move, Atsumu bites his lip and says, “I’ll check up on it tonight. See if there’s any updates.”

“Thanks Tsum-Tsum.” Bokuto squeezes Atsumu’s forearm, takes a deep breath and smooths out the worried crease in his brow. When Bokuto’s eyes find their focus again, Atsumu gives him a reassuring slap on the shoulder.

Atsumu jogs back to his place in line, pointedly keeping his head down. If that dragon is going to punish him for holding up the line, then he’d rather not see the flames coming.

When his head finally pulls up, he’s surprised to see Hinata in the same spot as before.

Hinata is squirming in place as he watches the two cadets who are stopped in front of him. Atsumu can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re clearly squabbling over something, having broken the line to get in each other’s faces.

To the right of the cadet’s position, an orange head stretches up past the line. A large battle scar twists down the dragon’s neck, scar tissue bulging in gnarls between chunks of missing scale.

Damn, that thing is a monster. Of course, all of them are, but this one’s something else. Clearly the thing is a fighter, plus it’s a good head taller than the other dragons they’ve passed so far.

Atsumu adds the orange to his mental list of options–all the extra scary ones with potential to give Sakusa and his blue a run for their money.

One cadet shouts something and pushes the other.

The orange dragon’s nose tips towards the sky. When it comes back down a massive line of fire shoots across the field.

Heat blasts Atsumu’s face, even from where he’s standing twelve feet back.

The fire sustains its intensity until the screaming ends.

The path directly ahead of Hinata has been scorched into a sea of black–the golden grass burned away in a line stretching out twenty feet long.

Two fresh lumps of ash lie on the gravel, taking the place of the two human beings who were there only seconds before.

Atsumu swallows back a scream. He can’t show fear. Or even disgust. The dragons are looking for warriors, not weak stomachs.

To Hinata’s credit, he doesn’t scream either, just casts a wary look over his shoulder, face a shade or two paler.

They wait for a moment and when the last kicks of smoldering embers die out, they walk straight through.

Atsumu keeps his head up as his toe hits the soft pillow of ash. If he feels a crunch of bone beneath his boot, he doesn’t let his face betray the horror of it. 

Any attempt at lighthearted conversation is effectively killed, all of the air sucked away by the fire.

The tense silence leaves Atsumu’s mind undistracted, and the giant eyes taking him in all the more intimidating.

The walk starts to feel like a funeral procession. The threat of it becoming their own funeral hangs heavy in the air as they march.

Atsumu should be focusing on sizing up his dragon choices, but he can’t lift his gaze any higher than their bellies. Their legs pass by in a sea of scales. Blue, brown, green, red, orange–it all begins to blur together. Or maybe that’s the lingering effect of smoke clouding Atsumu’s eyes.

The only time Atsumu looks up is when he passes by a wall of green, but he nevers sees the familiar face he’s looking for.

It’s ludicrous to think that Tienne would be here. It’s entirely out of the ordinary for dragons to re-bond the year after losing their rider, but a small, stubborn part of his heart keeps thinking he’ll see her. Keeps hoping that maybe she would want him and he could weave some new tether to his brother.

He’s close to the end when he sees the last set of greens. It’s another secret disappointment as he passes them by.

Atsumu’s feet stutter as a thundering crash sounds behind him. He jumps to turn and sees a giant, clawed foot bisecting the path between him and Bokuto.

There’s another slam at his back. Atsumu turns again to meet Hinata’s wide eyes, barely visible above the massive clubtail now crushed in the path between them.

Hinata’s eyes draw up over Atsumu’s head. “A-Atsumu-”

A blast of steam hits Atsumu’s neck, causing his shoulders to catapult up to his ears.

He’s locked in a scaly green cage, spiked clubtail in front and spiked claws behind.

Atsumu looks up slowly. Neither green is Tienne, but they regard him with the same curiosity as she did on the mountain. He remembers his lessons this time, and bows his head as low as he can while still standing.

There’s a soft chuff, and just as Atsumu begins to stand from his bow, the dragon sticks its face up under Atsumu’s ribs.

There’s a strangled yelp in the back of Atsumu’s throat as the dragon proceeds to sniff him.

Shit, he hopes he doesn’t smell like lunch.

Atsumu holds his breath, catching himself as the dragon’s snout pushes his side and knocks him off balance.

The dragon pulls back, looks at its companion and chuffs. The other one chortles back, like they’re having a conversation. Most likely about which end to eat first.

Atsumu stands still as a stone.

Oh gods, can’t they kill him any faster? At this rate he’ll have a heart-attack before they can take the first bite.

The other dragon leans in now, sniffing up Atsumu’s torso. It lifts up the hem of his jacket to graze along the edge of his armor.

His armor!

“Oh.” A maniacal laugh bubbles up Atsumu’s throat. “Ya smell Tienne, don’t ya?” 

The dragon pulls its head back, chuffing to its companion again. The two regard him thoughtfully, giant gold eyes blinking down at him.

“She was bonded to my brother,” Atsumu says softly. His fingers smooth down his sides, swelling and sinking along the woven pockets of emerald scales. Something like a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, thinking back to Osamu’s letters about his dragon. “I think he loved her a lot.”

Atsumu’s lost in thought until the massive clubtail lifts at his side. It arches over his head before scooping under his knees and pushing him back towards the procession. The tail whips behind the green’s back and it gives an impatient flick of its snout, shooing Atsumu along.

Atsumu grins back at the dragons, giving them another quick bow before resuming his walk.

“Oh my gods,” Hinata squeaks, as Atsumu comes back into earshot. “I thought they were going to eat you!”

“Me too,” Atsumu says. Sweet mother of Malek.

“Dude!” Bokuto runs up, breaking his place in line to crush Atsumu in his arms. “That was so fucking scary.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu exhales, pulling back to watch his hands shake in the air. “Tell me about it.”

“What the hells was that about?” Bokuto asks.

Atsumu lowers his voice and tells them, “my armor has dragon-scale woven in, I guess they could smell it on me.”

“Wah!” Hinata lifts the edge of Atsumu’s jacket to poke a finger at the emerald scales woven into his vest. “That’s so cool, I want dragon-scale armor!”

“Maybe you’ll bond one who won’t mind lendin’ ya some when they start moltin’.”

“That would be awesome. Could you help me make it into armor if I get some?”

“Oh, I didn’t-” Atsumu’s cut off when a shout comes from the cadet behind them.

“Can you guys quit it with the fucking tea party and get moving?” It’s one of the Marked Ones–specifically the mean-looking one with the copper hair who asked about killing Atsumu that night in the grove.

“Hey man, fuck you!” Bokuto shouts back, flashing both of his middle fingers in the air.

“Let’s get goin’,” Atsumu says before Bokuto can start up a real fight. He doesn’t need to tempt the guy into breaking Sakusa’s orders and sticking a knife in his neck anyway.

They spread back out and continue their leisurely walk past the wall of deadly, judging eyes.

It’s not long before the end of the path is in sight, just a few more dragons to go.

Atsumu is about to careen left, where the gravel leads back towards the safety of Basigath’s walls, when his breath catches in his throat. If he had turned any faster, he might have missed it.

Barely visible against the broad golden backdrop, a tiny gold dragon sits at the end of the line.

In all of the years visiting Basigath, Atsumu has never seen a dragon that’s gold. It has to be one of the rarest dragon sightings in Navarre’s history.

Getting to see the dragon feels special. Something precious. Atsumu is filled with a nostalgic awe, one he hasn’t felt around dragons since he was a kid–the wonder that something so captivating even exists in the world.

Hinata is stopped at the end of the path, gaping at the little gold dragon. Atsumu nearly runs into his back, when the dragon’s tail whips out from behind its back and catches in the deep sunlight. 

Holy shit, a feathertail.

“Didn’t Professor Kaori say that feathertails are unsuitable for bonding?” Hinata whispers as Atsumu stops behind him.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. He’s entranced by the golden eyes blinking back at him, from just barely above his own eye-line. His eyes snap to the floor once he realizes what he’s doing. “It’s probably just curious. There’s never been a feathertail in service before. They don’t like violence, right?”

What’s this one doing here then? Are all Feathertails that small? The dragon is hardly taller than Atsumu himself, would it even be able to carry a rider?

“It’s so pretty,” Hinata muses, reluctant to tear his eyes away and exit the Presentation field. But Atsumu gently pushes him along, lest they hold the line long enough to earn a dagger in the back.

His mind whirs as his back turns on the little gold dragon.

Poor thing. It shouldn’t be here. It wouldn’t stand a chance against a gryphon. The size advantage between the two magical creatures is usually tipped in the dragon’s favor, but this one could get its slender neck snapped by a feathered beak in an instant.

The dragon must only be here for curiosity’s sake. Surely, it wouldn’t enter into service. Right?

An odd, protective chill runs down Atsumu’s back, thinking of something so pure and beautiful being thrust into war.

If the feathertail really is there to bond, gods help it. And while they're at it, gods help its rider too. 

— ⚡︎ —

The first-year barracks are buzzing after dinner. Cadets chatter amongst themselves and lay claims on dragons they want to bond, as if they have a real say in the matter.

Atsumu’s weapons are all laid out on his bed. He checks and rechecks each one, stropping them over an old leather belt until every edge in his arsenal could cut at a glance.

“Which breed of dragons are the most unpredictable?” Hinata asks, reading off the notes spread across his mattress like a blanket.

“Orange,” Atsumu answers, re-sharpening the impeccable edge of his fancy purple dagger.

“And therefore?”

“Umm.” Atsumu’s hands stop mid-stroke, mind drawing a blank. “The unpredictable-est?”

Hinata’s been quizzing them all week and Atsumu still can’t keep it all straight in his mind.

“The riskiest to approach,” Bokuto supplies from where he’s picking invisible lint off his flight jacket, making sure it’s perfect to match the bright new Gauntlet patch sewed on the breast.

“Right!” Hinata chirps. “And blues are?”

This one Atsumu remembers, thinking of the vicious blue daggertail and its curly-haired, shadow-clad, demon rider. “The most ruthless.” 

Hinata nods. “And the least likely to play by the rules. Even their own kind’s.”

Atusmu runs through the parade of dragons through his mind. He only counted six blues in the lineup, all monsters of course, but none half as intimidating as Sakusa’s. He doesn’t know a whole lot about dragon’s interpersonal relationships, but if he bonded a dragon from the same den, he’s not sure how happy they’d be about killing their kin’s rider.

Presentation should’ve given him a good idea on which dragons to approach, but his brain is far too muddled to form any clear-cut plans. He’ll just have to wing it. Charge into the forest and look for big, mean and scary.

He ignores the fact that dragon bonds are for fucking life, and focuses on the short-term.

The pair of greens towards the end almost seemed nice. But maybe too nice? They were certainly intrigued with Atsumu, although that may just be from catching their friend’s scent along the scales of his armor. But if they didn’t want to eat him on the Presentation field, hopefully that means they wouldn’t try and want to eat him during Threshing. So that’s a plus. But would they not want to eat Sakusa, then? Ugh.

There’s the orange with the scarred neck. Big, strong, clearly capable of killing…but when Atsumu thinks of the ash piles littering the gravel in front of it, he nearly loses his dinner.

Which is stupid. Atsumu’s only bonding for firepower. He can’t let his emotions cloud his decision.

If he has to bond a monster to beat a monster, then so fucking be it.

“How are you boys faring?” Professor Ukai asks as he strides up to them. “Nerves under control?”

“Yes sir!” Hinata says, sitting up straight as a rod.

Well that makes one of them, at least. Atsumu’s nerves are bouncing around his body like lightning in a bottle. He gives Ukai a half-hearted smile and works on re-equipping his armor, testing which spots give him the best maneuverability while still maintaining ease of access.

“You lot will be fine.” Ukai slaps Hinata and Bokuto on the backs. “Just make sure you-”

“Don’t get roasted,” Atsumu finishes for him, sliding the final blade between his ribs.

Ukai laughs, a full-bodied shake with a hand at his belly. “Well, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Easy peasy!” Bokuto beams. And he doesn’t even sound sarcastic either, the dragon-brained maniac.

“Oh, Miya,” Ukai turns to him. “The General wants to see you.”

“Thank ya Sir,” Atsumu says with a small bow. “I’ll head right there.”

Bokuto’s spine straightens, and his hands crush the edges of his flight jacket. He mimes a rectangle with his hands and mouths the word ‘letter’ at Atsumu.

Atsumu gives him a firm nod before he’s escorted from the Barracks.

— ⚡︎ —

“Threshing is tomorrow,” Ichiro says from his fancy General’s chair, not bothering to stand when Atsumu enters his office.

‘No shit,’ Atsumu thinks with tight lips, taking his usual cold, metal seat at the front of the desk.

When his father refuses to continue, Atsumu gives a curt nod as acknowledgement.

Satisfied with the silent demand being answered, Ichiro asks him, “are you prepared?”

Atsumu nods again.

Ichiro taps his fingers over the desk, lips pursed and eyes flaying Atsumu apart. He’s probably running calculations on how true the nod is, if Atsumu is ready for any of this. By the frown that spreads down his face, Atsumu doesn’t get the sense that he passed.

Ichiro sighs and tosses something across the desk.

Atsumu perks up. His eyes widen at the wax-sealed letter in front of him. “Is that mine?”

Ichiro nods and Atsumu snatches it before it can be used as some asinine bargaining chip against him. His fingers trace the triangle edge of the envelope, dipping past the bright gold wax, imprinted with the image of an owl. He’s half-surprised to find the seal unbroken, but silently grateful he doesn’t have to explain the contents to his father.

Ichiro continues his speech as if there’d been no interruptions. “Don’t assume that all dragons are equal. The amount of magic you can channel is directly related to the power level of the dragon you bond with. While all dragons are strong in their own right, there’s still a clear hierarchy amongst their kind.”

Atsumu deigns to listen for once. His father’s dragon is the biggest, baddest one Atsumu’s ever seen. He may not be a fuzzy, feelings-sharing type of father, but the man lives for the Rider’s Quadrant, and he knows what he’s talking about.

“That orange swordtail looked particularly vicious,” Ichiro says with a wicked grin.

Atsumu didn’t get a good look at many tails, but he can safely assume that his father means the scary fucking orange that amassed a massive pile of ash on his section of the pathway. Besides the two cadets that Atsumu watched burn alive, three more didn’t make it past the scrutiny of the scarred orange. Of course Ichiro would mark that as a pro in his book.

“While you’re on the mountain, keep an eye out for the bigger, stronger dragons,” Ichiro continues. “Ultimately, the choice belongs to them, but having the guts to take the more treacherous path can go a long way in their books. So don’t discount your own role when it comes to Threshing.”

Atsumu tucks the advice in the back of his mind. He needs the most powerful dragon he can find if he wants a chance in hells at facing down Sakusa. If he has to team up with a ruthless killer, it’s probably for the best. Hells, maybe he’ll get lucky enough that his dragon will want to do the job and roast Sakusa for him.

As if reading Atsumu’s mind, Ichiro tells him, “remember your goal. You won’t be able to kill that boy without a monster of your own on your side.”

Atsumu bristles, biting down on his tongue. Something sour bubbles in his gut. Reducing his purpose, his vengeance for Osamu into a fucking errand for his father? It almost makes him question the decision.

Ichiro stands to pace behind his chair, a hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. “Even with the strongest dragon at your back, you’ll have a tough fight ahead of you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Atsumu mumbles, sinking in his chair and kicking his toe at the rug.

“Do not underestimate him. Sakusa’s are ruthless killers. That boy murdered two other cadets at his own Threshing, before he even had magic on his side. His dragon is the fiercest blue we’ve seen in decades and his father nearly led the entire country into ruin with that little rebellion of his.” The words are hissed through clenched teeth as his father glares down the scorched mark of Itchiyama on his battle map.

Atsumu doesn’t care about that. Sakusa could slaughter hundreds like his father, and Atsumu still wouldn’t care. He only cares about one life that Sakusa took.

Ichiro turns back to level Atsumu with a silent, drawn-out stare before turning back to his precious map. “You’re dismissed.”

Atsumu bites his cheek, pushing to his feet and tucking Bokuto’s letter into his belt.

“Be careful tomorrow,” Ichiro adds as Atsumu turns for the door. Atsumu blinks back his surprise hearing something so close to fatherly concern. “Whether or not you believe it, I’d rather not commend both of my sons to Malek.”

Ah. Then he’d be left without an heir, a swift end to the exemplary line of Miya. It’s not like he would even give a shit what happens to Atsumu if his better son was still around.

Atsumu’s blood steams beneath his skin. The venomed words slip past him as he reaches for the doorknob. “That’d sure be an embarrassment fer ya, huh?”

Ichiro turns back, jaw ticking under the shadow of his stubble. “Get the fuck out, Atsumu.”

“I was already fuckin’ leavin’,” he grumbles as he storms out the door.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu huffs down the halls back towards the Barracks, simmering in the irritation that always comes with speaking to his father.

His ears perk up just before he rounds the corner. Voices.

Somebody’s out past curfew.

Atsumu slides his feet silently towards the edge of the hall. He lets the shadows conceal him as he peeks his head around the corner, fingers curling around a cool kiss of cobblestone.

“There has to be something more we can do,” a voice says. It belongs to the Marked One with the odd eyebrows, who Atsumu has since learned is Sakusa’s cousin, Komori Motoya.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Sakusa argues back. His cloak is pulled over his head, hiding his face in shadow, but the harsh, low voice is unmistakable. “We still have our own problems to worry about.”

That Suna guy’s there too. He hasn’t bothered drawing his hood from the torchlight, despite engaging in a clearly suspicious meeting. He rolls his eyes and hisses, “we’re breaking our fucking backs here, I say that’s more than enough. If they really want-

“Shh,” Sakusa snaps, holding his hand up and swiveling his head around the corridor. Atsumu flattens himself against the wall, but Sakusa doesn’t seem to notice him in the dark.

“We can argue this more later,” he says, cutting the conversation short. “Get back to your rooms before anybody sees you.”

When Suna and Komori leave, Sakusa stalks down the opposite direction.

For reasons far beyond him, Atsumu’s feet decide to follow.

Sakusa seems to be heading back to the Third Year dorms, so unless there’s another top secret meeting along the way, there’s no real reason to be tailing him. But Atsumu’s feet do it anyway, as if pulled by an invisible tether.

Just before Sakusa makes the final turn towards the third-floor stairwell, Atsumu wiggles a random blade out from its sheath and chucks it at the back of his head.

Sakusa artfully and expectedly dodges, letting the blade clatter to the floor somewhere down the hall.

He pauses his steps to peer over his shoulder with an unimpressed glare.

“I see that we’re back to our regularly scheduled murder attempts.” His lips curl back into a vicious grin before turning into a fake pout. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

Sakusa occupies so much of Atsumu’s brain so much of the time, the words almost make him laugh.

Rippling shadows slink down the stone corridor, plucking the discarded blade from its resting place. They suck back in towards Sakusa and gracefully tuck the blade in his belt, without him even needing to lift a finger. “While we both know your assassin skills are severely lacking, I think you can do a little better than that.”

Sakusa’s casual attitude towards everything pisses Atsumu off. He wonders what exactly it would take to make the guy get serious. For now Atsumu indulges in the fake show of civility.

“Sorry, it slipped,” Atsumu says with an equally casual shrug.

The throw was more of an impulse scratch than a real attempt at anything. It would have been nice if the blade had sunk into the back of the bastard’s curly head, but it’s not exactly a surprise that it didn’t.

In a single blink, Sakusa’s hand twitches towards his belt and a whip of air lashes Atsumu’s face. To his credit, Atsumu doesn’t flinch when the dagger flies by, embedding itself into the stone behind him. It’s so close a shot that if he were to turn and look, the cool kiss of iron would brush against his cheek.

“Ooh you’re right,” Sakusa says, pulling his hood to his shoulders and smoothing a hand through his curls. “They do make these darn knives so slippery these days.” His gaze turns cold. “You ought to be a bit more careful, Assassin.”

Atsumu crosses an arm over his shoulder to wrap a fist around the handle and rip the knife from the wall. His thumb slides gently down the blade’s edge, pleased with the sharp prick against his fingertip, in case he has another opportunity to throw it back. The blade feels right in his hand—familiar. Atsumu rolls the blade over his knuckles for Sakusa to see and gives him a venom laced smirk of his own. “I’m not exactly the cautious type.”

“Or the intelligent type.” Sakusa watches the blade dance with condescending amusement, like Atsumu is nothing but a child showing off a parlor trick. “Well lucky for you, I’ve got places to be right now.”

Sakusa starts to saunter away, and Atsumu grinds his teeth.

Sakusa better not think that his little trick on the Gauntlet means their score is settled. Or worse—that Atsumu owes him shit.

Just before he hits the bottom of the staircase, Atsumu shouts out after him, “don’t you dare think we’re even!”

Sakusa stops in his tracks, glancing back at Atsumu with a quirked brow.

Atsumu’s fingers squeeze the iron hilt in his palm. “I’m still gonna kill you.”

“So you’ve said.”

“So why’d ya do it?”

Sakusa tenses, lips drawing into a tight line.

“On the Gauntlet,” Atsumu presses, needing to hear the answer while he has the nerve to ask. “I know ya used yer magic ta help me. Why the fuck would ya do that?”

Sakusa closes the distance between them in six long strides. He leans in close enough that Atsumu can feel the searing heat of his next words whispered in his ear.

“Maybe I want the honor of killing you personally.”

It’s a mimic of what Atsumu said to him in the garden—twisted and tossed back with narrowed eyes and a dangerous smile.

But on Sakusa’s tongue it’s a bold-faced lie. He’s had a million chances to end Atsumu “personally” and he hasn’t taken a single one. Atsumu puffs his chest and tilts his head, a surge of confidence flowing through him.

He ghosts his own lips over Sakusa’s ear and taunts with a growl, “then why won’t you?”

“You’re awfully hung up on me killing you. It’s like you’re begging me to do it.” Sakusa’s hands curl softly around Atsumu’s throat, warm even through the thick layer of leather. “Is this what you want, Miya?” Sakusa’s eyes turn dark and his fingers press in ever so slightly—just enough for Atsumu to feel the pressure on his airway. “For me to be the monster you expect?”

“Better than lyin’ about the monster that ya are.” Atsumu presses the blade tip to Sakusa’s stomach, in the slice of skin above his belt and beneath his jacket.

They’re frozen in the stand off for what feels like eternity. The endless night of Sakusa’s eyes flay him to the bone.

“Think ya can choke me out before I spill yer guts?” Atsumu asks with a strange sense of calm.

Sakusa’s jaw ticks. “I know that I can.”

“Then why— “ Atsumu shoves the blade forward, while Sakusa curls his torso back avoiding it, “won’t you?”

They’re alone in the dark, after curfew. Sakusa has his hands around Atsumu’s fucking neck and he still isn’t taking the opportunity. It doesn’t make any sense. The more Atsumu tries dissecting Sakusa’s motivations, the more confused he becomes.

Fire sparks in Sakusa’s eyes for just a second, before they glaze back into half-lidded boredom.

“Tempting,” Sakusa coos as a leather-clad thumb scrapes over Atsumu’s collar, lightly tapping a hand on his cheek. “But as I already said, I have places to be right now. We’ll have to play our little game another time.”

Atsumu shakes his head in bewilderment.

But two can play at Sakusa’s little mind-games. He pulls the blade back for another twirl and says, “I’ll be countin’ down the minutes. Ya just go ahead and let me know what a good day ta kill ya would be.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar." Sakusa drops his hands and starts walking towards the stairwell. "Now scurry off to bed before your Wingleader catches you out past curfew.”

Atsumu snorts. “Wouldn’t want that. My Wingleader’s a real asshole.”

Sakusa looks back with an annoying fucking grin carving his marble face. “All the more reason not to get caught alone. At night. Again.”

This time Sakusa’s words are accompanied by a whip of shadow kicking out Atsumu’s feet and tossing him to the ground.

Atsumu grunts, dropping the dagger and catching himself on his palms. He winces as his cut hand slams the stone.

“Gods, I fuckin' hate ya,” Atsumu spits, dropping the act and glaring at Sakusa from his knees.

“I’m well the fuck aware, thanks.” With a whip of his cloak, shadows swallow Sakusa up and he disappears into the spiral staircase.

Atsumu grumbles, reaching out to grab the blade from where it fell. 

He gives it another absent-mindedly twirl around his hand. The weight and shape feel familiar dancing along his knuckles. It has to be one of the daggers that Atsumu lost to Sakusa on Conscription day. Atsumu’s hands recognize the perfect balance and grace of Aran’s craftsmanship.

His fingers slide down to catch over the decorative inlay on the hilt. But instead of passing over a tiny golden sun, they snag in the indent of a small silver moon.

Atsumu’s heart slams against his ribcage as he gasps at the blade sitting in his open, shaking palm.

It’s not Atsumu’s blade, it’s Osamu’s.

It’s a threat. It’s a warning. It’s a cold reminder that whatever tentative truce they may have fallen into is nothing but bullshit. A ruse to keep Atsumu controlled.

They will always be enemies.

Fuck him. Fuck. Him.

“Sakusa!” Atsumu screams.

He charges up the stairwell, but halfway up, he’s blinded by shadows. The entire staircase becomes cloaked in pure darkness.

“Come out ya fuckin’ coward!” Atsumu yells into the black. He doesn't stop. He uses his left hand to navigate up the wall, while his right hand clenches his brother’s dagger, ready to plunge it into his enemy’s heart.

He knows he’s reached the top when his foot falls through a sickening stretch of air, with no more steps to catch it. He can’t see it, but he knows that this stairwell opens up into a long hallway, stretching out in both directions. Atsumu turns right, running headlong into the darkness, following the innate tether tied to Sakusa’s energy.

“Sakusa!” he screams, skidding to a halt as the black mist slinks away beneath a large wooden door.

“Come out and fight me ya fuckin’ coward!” Atsumu throws a fist at the door, and a massive wave of magic knocks him clear across the hall. His back slams into the far wall, erupting in pain as he slides to the floor.

He gets back up and braces himself for his next attack, digging his feet in so they won't go flying again. His fists pound the wood again and again and again. Each strike is agonizing pain as the forcefield shocks through his bones and rattles his skull.

But the pain is nothing. 

He’s been in more pain in the last months than any person should have to bear. He just wants Sakusa to taste a fucking fraction of the hells he’s put Atsumu through.

“I hate you!” Atsumu screams, the magic seizing his lungs with each slam into the ward wall.

The magic makes him gasp and sputter, but he doesn’t care. It’s been months since he’s taken a proper breath. The weight on his chest hasn’t let up for a second.

Atsumu throws all of his rage at the door, but his fists only ricochet off the solid barrier of magic.

So much for breaking the door down, he can’t even catch a fucking splinter in his hand.

He winds back with Osamu’s dagger and chucks it full force at the door. It rebounds instantly, flying back towards Atsumu’s head. He ducks to dodge, barely avoiding a hair cut. Then he proceeds to throw every last knife he has uselessy at Sakusa’s door.

He pulls his last blade out of his boot, holding it high above his head.

“Fuck! You!”

He throws all of his fury into the final blow, and the blade slices through the ward, planting itself deep into the heart of the door. The elegant jeweled hilt sticks out from the wood and as soon as Atsumu’s hands pull back, it’s swallowed behind the hazy, purple film of magic. 

Atsumu’s chest heaves as he stares down the door, daring it to open.

It doesn’t.

Atsumu gives the wall one final kick, loud enough for Sakusa to hear from where he’s cowering on the other side. And then he gives up.

Stupid fucking magic.

He tucks Osamu’s blade at his ribs and leaves the rest littering the floor.

Soon he’ll be able to channel his own magic, and he’ll use every last drop of it to take Sakusa down. Once he rips out the shriveled black heart in Sakusa’s chest, he’ll be able to breathe again. He’s sure of it.

— ⚡︎ —

It’s well past curfew when Atsumu shuffles back into the barracks. Bokuto is already fast asleep and sawing logs, so he tucks the letter inside one of his books and slides into bed. His book stack goes otherwise untouched tonight, yet by some miracle, the gods allow Atsumu to pass out for the few scant hours before the sun returns.

His dream is another rose-tinged memory.

He’s in the grove with Osamu, halfway up an apple tree when a thunder of dragons slice the sky above their heads.

“Hey Tsumu, what do ya think talkin’ ta dragons is like?” Osamu asks him, chipmunk cheeks stuffed with half-chewed honeycrisp.

It was one of their last visits to Basgiath, right around the time where dragons stopped looking cool and started looking more like the monsters who ride them. When the promise of flying and magic dropped its mask of freedom, and revealed its true self to be nothing more than a fancy set of shackles.

Atsumu hugs the branch with his knees and swings upside down to enjoy the dizzy rush of blood surging to his head. “Why do ya want a dragon so bad? They’re just big, mean, scary lizards.”

“Oh, come off it. Ya think dragons are cool too.”

“Ya can think they’re cool without sellin’ yer soul to one.”

“What kind of riders do ya think they go for?” Osamu prods, nudging Atsumu’s knee with the tip of his boot.

Atsumu scoffs. “Well one of ‘em picked dad, so that tells ya plenty about dragon’s priorities.” He swings his body up, grasping the branch and tightening his core to pull back to a sitting position. “They don’t actually care about humans. Just need us ta maintain the wards and keep their nestin’ grounds safe. The only traits they value are ruthlessness, cruelty and strength.”

“They must look for more than that,” Osamu says, eyes still trained on the skies. “I’m sure they wouldn’t want to spend decades sharin’ thoughts with a bunch of assholes.”

“Not if they’re assholes too.” Atsumu shrugs, reaching up to pluck a fresh apple from the branch above. “Why do ya care so much? We aren’t joinin’ the riders, so all this dragon talk is pointless.”

“Just wonderin’ I guess.” Osamu finishes off his apple and tosses the core to the ground.

“We don’t need dragons anyway.” Atsumu holds the new apple out to him. “We’ve got each other.”

Osamu hums, taking the offering from Atsumu’s hand. He gives the same small nod he always does whenever Atsumu talks about their future.

The apple spins in his hands but he doesn’t take a bite.

Looking back, Osamu only ever nodded. Atsumu never heard him say it out loud…

The morning horn blares through his dreams, ripping Atsumu away from his brother.

It feels like Osamu leaving him all over again.

Atsumu watches daybreak bleed over the cobblestone ceiling with a hollow pit caving in his chest.

‘Snap the fuck out of it,’ he tells himself. Today is too important for distractions.

As he rips his blanket off, a symphony of metal clatters to the floor.

All of his weapons stare up at him, even the ones he lost on the sparring mat. How kind of Sakusa to return them. It’s a pleasant surprise they weren’t returned through the gut, but at least Sakusa’s morals are one step above killing Atsumu in his sleep.

Atsumu huffs, hastily plucking the weapons from the floor and tucking them all into his armor. He’s re-lacing the sides lung-crushingly tight when he notices his tower of books has been turned. A corner of the table is now revealed, where a crudely carved heart mars the smooth weathered wood–his blue and purple dagger stabbed right through the center.

Atsumu might laugh if he wasn’t fuming so hard.

He rips the dagger from the table, dragging it down to slash through the heart.

He has half a mind to track that shadow bastard down and throw each knife back until one sticks, but he’ll have to settle the score with Sakusa later. 

Right now, he’s got a date with a dragon.

Today is Threshing.

Chapter Text

"There is nothing quite as humbling, or as awe-inspiring, as witnessing Threshing...for those who live through it anyway."

-Colonel Kaori's Field Guide to Dragonkind

By the time the blue and purple dagger is tucked back at Atsumu’s side, the thrum of life has rippled through the barracks. The anticipation of Threshing pushing cadets from their beds in record-time.

“Today’s the day!” Hinata squeals in delight, hopping back and forth to shimmy his pants up his legs. The hopping continues as he gathers up his new dagger collection to fit across his belt. His recent hot streak in the sparring ring has his belt weighed down with so much iron, it’s a wonder his pants stay up.

Bokuto hastily flings his flight jacket on, and simply shouts–a full-volume hoot into the air. Atsumu’s face heats as the shout bounces off the walls and a dozen odd stares snap their direction. But a few other cadets holler back to pump even more raucous energy into the room, and quickly dispel any embarrassment.

Atsumu pulls his own flight jacket from the wood chest at the foot of his bed while Bokuto hauls up his mattress one-handed. He sticks the other hand underneath, and pulls out a long, black leather sheath. A swirling iron hilt sticks out the top, adorned with a chunky owl-head pommel, inlaid with topaz-jeweled eyes. The mattress thumps back to the frame and Bokuto lays the weapon reverently atop his blanket. The thing is huge, spanning nearly half the length of his bed.

“Woah.” Hinata dashes to the end of Bokuto’s bed, sparkling eyes fixed on the sword.

“Where the hells have ya been hidin’ that thing?” Atsumu squawks, as his own jacket settles on his shoulders.

“Under my mattress.” Bokuto shrugs casually, before his face breaks into a grin.

“Can we see it?” Hinata asks.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Bokuto’s grin gets impossibly bigger as his hand wraps the twisting handle. The blade pulls free with a bright metal scrape when it passes the silver throat of the scabbard. Atsumu gives a low whistle as it cuts free into the air. It’s a damn fine piece.

“My dad made it for me.” Bokuto beams as he twirls the sword around with hard-practiced grace. “He started blacksmithing when he retired from Infantry, now he runs his own shop. I’ve been saving this little beauty’s debut for a special occasion. Nothing more special than Threshing! Maybe it’ll impress that blue, since it matches!”

Bokuto steps towards a square of early morning sun casting through the dorm window and twists the blade back and forth. At first glance it seemed like ordinary steel, but when the edges catch the light, there’s the same blue and purple shine as Atsumu’s jeweled dagger.

“You’re going fer the blue?” Atsumu thinks back to the blue dragon that seemed amused by Bokuto during Presentation.

“If I’m gonna be bonded to a dragon for life, it needs to have a good sense of humor,” Bokuto says, face gravely serious before breaking out in more laughter.

Atsumu’s gut twits. He still doesn’t know which dragon he wants to approach today. He feels woefully underprepared–like the morning of a test he didn’t bother to study for. Even though they’ve been studying every free minute over the past several weeks.

“Wow!” Hinata gushes, running a finger down the fuller carved in the center-line of the sword. “It’s so awesome! What’s it made of?”

“It’s chalcopyrite,” Bokuto says. “There’s a big mine back in Fukurodani. It’s super rare and super strong. Some people even say it’s magic…or a good conduit for magic, or something like that. But the best part is how fancy it makes me look.” He offers the blade out for Hinata to inspect.

Hinata’s hands wrap around the handle, but the front end instantly smacks to the floor when Bokuto drops the weight.

“Maybe I’ll stick to daggers,” Hinata says with a nervous laugh as he heaves the tip of the sword off the floor and hands it off to Atsumu.

Atsumu inspects the metal closer. A warm hum brushes against his cheek, matching the warm hum coming from his own blade sheathed at his ribs. He gives the sword a satisfying swing, slicing through the air like hot butter. Despite its size rivaling a dragon claw, the weight of the blade has been balanced perfectly. “Holy shit,” he says, “this thing is epic, Bo.”

“Thanks,” Bokuto says as Atsumu hands the sword back to him. He rests the blade flat against his shoulder, confidently avoiding the razor-sharp edges. “Most of the time they only use this stuff for daggers and arrowheads since it’s so rare, but my dad had been saving up all his ore scrap for years so he could make something bigger for me. It was a present for when I left for the rider’s.” He drops his ass on the edge of his bed, cradling the sword in his hands like a newborn baby.

Atsumu almost mentions that he has a dagger made of, what’s it called? Chalcopyrite? But then he notices Bokuto’s eyes dulling the longer he stares down at his sword.

Bokuto stiffly slides it back in the sheath and secures it crossed over his back. His hands fist around the strap over his chest, knuckles turning white as he twists it in his hands.

“Umm, Tsum-Tsum. Did your dad say anything last night? About the letter?”

“Oh gods, I can’t believe I forgot!” Atsumu lurches for the top book on his nightstand and flips the pages until the letter drops out. He tucks it under his armpit, and glances around nervously.

If the other first-years see them with a letter from home, they’d be pissed. It’s a privilege only given to the second and third years, after the brainwashing sinks in enough to keep them from running off or divulging sensitive information.

The last thing Atsumu needs is more accusations of special treatment, so he asks Hinata to keep lookout, and leads Bokuto back to the uniform closet. Thankfully the closet is empty, most of the Barracks having already cleared out in the excitement of the morning.

He holds out the letter. Bokuto takes it from him, tracing a fingertip over the owl imprinted in the gold wax-seal, before tearing it open.

Atsumu holds his breath while Bokuto’s eyes scan the first few lines of the parchment.

“They’re okay,” Bokuto breathes out, before wrapping Atsumu in a bone-crushing hug. 

Atsumu would breathe a sigh of relief too, if he could fucking breathe right now. But he stifles the need for oxygen and lets Bokuto squeeze the life out of him, until he’s had his fill.

“What happened?” Atsumu coughs out as soon as Bokuto lets go and the air rushes back to his lungs.

Bokuto rubs the mist from his eyes before reading through the rest of the letter and giving Atsumu an overview. “Same thing they said in Battle Brief, it was a gryphon flier attack. They came in the night and ransacked our village. Some homes and storehouses were torched, a lot of people died since they couldn’t evacuate in time. My dad said his work was raided too. They stole all the weapons and burned down the building afterwards. But he was out brokering an ore shipment at the time, so he wasn’t there for the attack. And thank gods, my mom and sisters weren’t back either. My Aunt needed extra help with her new babies so they stayed an extra week in Nohebi. They didn’t get back home until well after the smoke cleared.” Bokuto slumps back against the wall, clutching the letter to his heart and letting out another long sigh.

“That’s a relief,” Atsumu says, the tightness in his chest dissipating.

“Thank you for this.” Bokuto shakes his head down at the letter. “I can’t believe you got a letter out.”

“It was no problem.”

“It was,” Bokuto says fiercely. He folds up the letter and tucks it under his leather chest-plate, at the spot right over his heart, like a good luck charm. “It was my problem and you stuck your neck out for me anyway. You’re a really good person Tsum-Tsum.” Bokuto’s relentless grip strength crushes Atsumu’s shoulders again.

That’s the second time that declaration has been made by his squadmates. The words sink like a pit in Atsumu’s stomach. He thumbs the opal nestled at the center of his necklace.

Would his friends still think he’s a good person if they knew his reason for coming here?

Does he think he’s still a good person?

— ⚡︎ —

Immediately after breakfast, Professor Kaori leads the black cloud of first-years up the stairs bordering the Gauntlet, past the graveled ground of the flight field, to the far end of the Presentation meadow. The thick bracket of oaks mark the starting line for Threshing, which spans all the way back to the towering spikes of Basigath mountain that crown the far end of the forest valley. Dozens of deadly dragons are already scattered throughout the area, lying in wait.

Bokuto stretches his arms up over his head, jostling the sword at his back. Atsumu’s eyes meet the little silver owl’s perched on the sword’s hilt, then they travel over the various glints of iron peeking out of nearly every black uniform in the crowd.

The delightful array of deadly weapons will do absolutely nothing against a dragon, seeing as the tougher-than-diamonds dragon scale is all but impenetrable. But the weapons aren’t for the dragons, they’re for each other. With everyone fighting over the same shallow pool of dragons, Threshing could easily turn into a bloodbath.

The first-years haven’t started heavy weapons training yet, so while some cadets arrived at Basgiath with prior training, Atsumu’s holding on to the hope that most won’t know what to do with all the extra, cumbersome iron.

Perhaps he should have tracked down a sword for himself…but at least he has daggers. He fights off the urge to be thankful to Sakusa, but he can’t help but feel immensely glad that he’s armed for Threshing. He didn’t consider the ramifications of losing all of his weapons the night before, impulse getting the better of him as usual.

All of the finely sharpened blades line the ribs of his armor, ready to grab at a moment’s notice, should the need arise. The only weapon out of place is Osamu’s dagger–tucked in his boot for luck, safe and away from the impulse to wield it. Even if a fight comes down to his very last blade, Atsumu would rather die empty handed than risk losing it.

He rolls his ankle in his boot, just to feel the blade’s sheath rub against his skin.

Kaori claps for attention and begins his speech.

“Congratulations on making it to Threshing,” he says with a bright smile and rose-tipped nose. “This year there are one hundred dragons willing to bond and one-hundred-forty-two candidates for them to choose from.”

So at least forty-two of them will end the day un-bonded. Or worse.

Well, a hundred dragons is plenty. Surely one of them will find Atsumu to be a suitable choice for a rider, so there's nothing to even worry about.

Then why won’t his damn neck stop sweating?

“Remember your lessons on how to approach the different breeds. In some cases, the dragons have staked their claims during Presentation and will be waiting for you. While you’re out there, listen to your heart.” He thumps a fist across his chest twice. “Let it guide you through Threshing.”

There’s a half-contained scoff from their side–Mad Dog rolling his eyes, a shiny, steel, massive battle-axe strapped to his back. Atsumu grimaces at the axe, but deigns to agree with the scoff. What the hell does “listen to your heart” even mean?

Atsumu focuses back on Kaori, who’s still speaking. “If a dragon has already selected you, you’ll be able to feel them calling.”

Pressing his hand to his chest, Atsumu frowns at the regular old heartbeat where the magical compass ought to be instead.

Is no one calling him?

“To ensure the prosperity of future Threshings, Wing, Section and Squad Leaders will be scattered around the mountain to observe.”

So, Kita and his dragon will be out there somewhere. They didn’t get to see Kita at breakfast since he was already out prepping for Threshing. Atsumu wishes he could’ve talked to him before. Gleaned some last minute advice. Or a reassuring hug. The thought of Kita being out there still brings comfort, even though they’re unlikely to run into each other.

Of course…that means Sakusa’s out there too–a far less comforting thought, that chills Atsumu more than the late-Autumn air nipping his nose.

“But keep in mind, they aren’t allowed to interfere in any capacity. No one is out there to save you, you must pass Threshing all on your own. If you decide to go in groups, you’re more likely to end the day incinerated than bonded.”

Hinata squeezes Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu squeezes back. They’ve done everything together up to this point, but now they’ll have to pass Threshing all on their own.

“You’ll be dismissed by squad rank in five minute intervals. You have until the sun sets behind the mountain. If you haven’t been chosen by then,” Kaori’s face grows grim, “then you haven’t been chosen.”

An ear-splitting horn blares out and the congregation steps into formation.

Kaori waves through the first squad of cadets, only two of them still intact after Presentation, and they sprint headfirst into the forest.

“Are either of yer guy’s hearts tellin’ ya anythin’?” Atsumu asks as his squad waits, puffing hot exhales into his hands to try and warm them up.

Bokuto pulls the sword from his back, pointing it out towards the northwest. “That way.”

“Really?” Atsumu asks, not at all jealous.

Bokuto shrugs and laughs. “Nah, don’t know what that heart shit means. But it’s as good a direction as any, right? How about you, Sho?”

“Maybe…” Hinata whispers with a hand laying over the center of his chest. His eyes are locked northeast, blazing with focus.

Atsumu’s eyes pass over the mass expanse of forest, each branch, leaf and bush indistinguishable from the next. Nothing gives him a clear idea of where he ought to go. Well, if they’re supposed to split up… “North fer me, then.”

After the five nerve-wracking minutes tick by, Kaori dismisses their squad.

“Good luck,” Kaori says with a kind smile crinkling his eyes.

Under his breath Bokuto adds, “and don’t get roasted.”

“Don’t get roasted,” Atsumu and Hinata echo.

With a final squeeze of their hands to signal good luck, they let go, split up and run.

— ⚡︎ —

‘I will not get roasted today.’

Atsumu chants the phrase in his mind with each pounding step. Again and again and again. If he thinks it enough, then the words will come true.

It’s over twenty minutes of jogging through the forest, the imposing mountain stretching to nearly its full height before Atsumu stops for a break. He leans his weight against a tree, and wipes away the sweat that’s sticking his hair to his forehead.

Supposedly, there are a hundred dragons out here, each one the size of a damn house–how could he not have seen any yet?

He’s almost crossed the entire forest already. Should he double back before he hits the mountain?

A faint screech rings out through the trees, and a blue clubtail shoots up the cliffside to the west–with a black speck of a rider sitting on its back.

Someone bonded already?

Fuck, that was fast.

Only ninety-nine dragons left.

Suddenly a hundred dragons doesn’t feel like that many.

Once his breath steadies out, Atsumu closes his eyes and whispers into his necklace. “Please help me make the right decision.” He hopes that Osamu can hear him, or that Malek takes mercy and passes the message along.

Atsumu resumes his jog, deciding to hit the bottom of the mountain before turning back and widening his search through the forest.

There’s a faint whiff of smoke to his east, and against every basic self-preservation instinct Atsumu has, he switches directions and heads straight towards it.

The sour scent of sulfur thickens the air as he weaves through the oaks.

Through the muddy sea of brown trunks and brambles, a peek of bright red stands out against the ground–Atsumu’s first dragon sighting.

Atsumu slows his gait and moves in closer, hopping from trunk to trunk to stay hidden. Once he’s close enough, he makes out a red swordtail curled in a freshly cleared alcove–edges still smoldering from where the dragon incinerated itself a place to sit.

Steadying his breath to a whisper, Atsumu observes the dragon from the safety of the forest. It’s playing with a charred heap of something, batting it around the edge of the clearing. After a few minutes of playing with its food, its teeth finally sink down. The dragon tosses its breakfast, a mangled mountain goat–not a person, thank the gods, into the air, snapping it down in a single bite. Blood drips from its maw and rolls down its neck as it swallows.

Atsumu doesn’t remember this particular dragon from Presentation, but how different can they all really be? It’s big. It’s here. Kita bonded with a red, so they’re probably semi-decent company.

The morning has barely started, but Atsumu already feels the pressure of the sun ticking down towards the mountain.

Would it be better to bond early so he doesn’t lose out?

The dragon lowers its head, wiping the blood off its snout in a soft patch of yellow grass, staining the ground as violently crimson as its scales.

Atsumu’s stomach lurches, but before he has time to chicken out, he decides to go for it and approach. After being quizzed all week, the voice popping in his head sounds just like Hinata’s.

‘Approach reds from the front and left! And remember to hold your ground.’

Atsumu circles the red with cautious steps and a wide breadth. When he’s at the front left of the beast he steps out from the treeline, plants his feet firmly in the wet, crimson grass and holds his head high.

And…nothing happens.

The dragon just blinks at him blankly, big copper eyes regarding him without a hint of emotion. No movement. No sounds.

Okay…how exactly do you bond with a dragon? Is it supposed to just happen?

Professor Kaori drilled them on every minutiae of every dragon species–history, temperaments, approach preferences, but Atsumu is just now realizing that he had been vague as fuck about how to actually bond them.

Atsumu waits another minute, barring his joints from their desire to shake under the dragon’s stare.

Godsdamn finally, the dragon starts to move. Its wings hike slightly above its back and his snout lowers slowly towards the blood-stained grass.

Uhh. Atsumu’s no dragon expert, but that doesn’t look like a good thing. It’s reminding him far too much of an alley cat poised to hiss. A twenty-something foot alley cat that breathes fire.

Maybe it’s a test?

‘Hold your ground,’ Atsumu tells himself. Gritting his teeth and staring back at the slits of vertical pupil bisecting the copper irises.

The dragon’s head lowers until it’s almost touching the ground, pushing its neck out so his snout is mere inches away. A breath of steam hits Atsumu’s front, the single exhale blasting his entire body in a wet, searing heat. It takes everything in him not to flinch away.

The dragon’s tail raises slowly over its back, the elegant edge of its swordtail slicing cleanly through the air.

Atsumu’s heart starts to race.

Hold your ground. Hold your ground. Hold your-

“Gahh!” Atsumu screams as he flings his body to the side, hurling himself towards the nearest tree as the dragon’s tail strikes out.

His back catches half of the blow, which is enough to knock him into the next tree over, ten feet away, at full fucking speed. Atsumu grunts as he smacks sideways into the trunk, body nearly wrapping all the way around before crashing to the ground. Another crash follows quickly behind.

He gasps for air as gold leaves flutter down around his head. The massive oak tree dimples the dirt between him and the dragon, cut clean-through by the swordtail.

Atsumu‘s lungs convulse for several agonizing seconds before he can catch a full breath and force his battered body off the ground.

He winces as he reaches a hand around to feel his back, expecting his life-force to already be bleeding out in buckets. There’s a large slash through his flight jacket, but the armor underneath is perfectly unscathed. It could very well be the only material in the world able to block that swordtail strike. Atsumu sends a silent thank you up to Osamu before shifting back to his knees. It’s torture pulling up to his feet. His ribs scream in protest as he stands, bruised beneath his armor from where he slammed into the tree. He takes one step forward and nearly blacks out from the pain in his chest. Shit, maybe his ribs are a little more than just bruised.

A growl reverberates through the brambles, so he grits his teeth and starts running–his vision coming and going in spots as he weaves through the trees. Each step threatens to topple him over, pull him fully into blackness, but he keeps on going. He runs until he’s far, far away. Safe from the horrid red dragon.

Atsumu checks over his shoulder every few stretches of forest, expecting a flash of red to be barreling behind him. Luckily, it seems as though the dragon doesn’t care enough to bother pursuing.

“Oh thank gods,” Atsumu says as he finally allows himself to come to a stop and drop to his knees.

He rips his jacket off to cool the fire stoked in his muscles and folds in half over the shredded leather. Sweat drips down his brow, salt stinging in his eyes.

His fingers dip through the long slash running down his jacket.

If that dragon had decided to use fire instead of its tail…Atsumu shudders.

Maybe going after the first dragon he saw was a less than stellar strategy.

Fucking Threshing. Fucking dragons.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Atsumu rips a dagger from his belt and stabs it into the dirt. He screams at the ground, pouring all his frustration out with it. “Fuck!”

Birds scatter from the treetops, scrambling every which direction to get away from him.

He slumps back over his jacket while he tries thinking up a new plan.

Kaori’s voice is the next one to visit his mind.

‘Follow your heart. Let it guide you through Threshing.’

Atsumu groans at the worthless advice mucking up his brain. He’s supposed to listen to his heart? It’s just thumping uselessly in his chest, giving him zero sets of directions on where to go.

If he ever makes it out of here, he’s giving Kaori an earful on being more fucking specific with his shitty-ass Threshing advice.

Atsumu yanks his dagger from the ground and pushes his arms back through his mangled leather jacket. The thought of abandoning it crosses his mind, but now that the adrenaline has burned off, the cold is back with a vengeance–exacerbated by the sweat soaking through his black, long sleeve undershirt.

His head swivels around like a compass needle too close to a magnet, unable to land in any one direction. From where he’s sitting, each way looks virtually identical.

He needs a better vantage point.

Spotting a particularly tall oak, he hooks an arm over its lowest hanging branch, kicks his feet up the trunk and starts to climb.

Atsumu’s stomach ties itself in knots the higher he goes. It’s weird. He and Osamu used to climb trees way taller than this when they were little and he doesn’t remember the height ever bothering him this much. He tries to think when this new fear crept into him. He’s fairly sure the unease began around the time he decided to come to Basgiath. Probably his mind’s way of protesting what he signed himself up for.

His hands shake as the branches under his palms get smaller and smaller. But he pushes past the invisible barrier in his mind, refusing to let fear keep him on the ground.

He stabs his dagger into the wood for an extra hold point–some added security as he climbs higher and the thinner branches start to bend beneath his weight. When he’s sure the next step would snap beneath his foot, he slashes away the last few branches, clearing his vision of fiery red leaves.

His eyes scan the forest for dragons. There’s an orange and a brown, nearly camouflaged in the autumn-colored trees. In the distance, a swatch of stark blue stands out against the warm colors.

But Atsumu doesn’t feel anything calling to him.

He’s relieved to see a few roving spots of black–other cadets wandering aimlessly about the valley. At least he’s not the only one.

The relief is short-lived when two more dragons shoot into the air, flying back towards the direction of the college. Two more dragons bonded. Two less out here for him.

Fuck. Where should he go?

There’s a plume of smoke to his left. So…maybe not that direction. After his first catastrophic attempt at bonding, he needs to be more careful with which dragons he tries to approach.

He waits and listens, but his stupid heart isn’t saying shit.

Maybe he doesn’t have a heart after all. Maybe he lost it the day Osamu died, and now there’s nothing but a dark, empty cavern in the space between his ribs.

A booming screech reaches his ears.

Towering above the entire Threshing field, an orange dragon sits at the tallest peak of the mountain, like a prize trophy on the top shelf. It shoots a stream of fire in the air, whipping its head and spitting out an impressive arch of flames.

In his bones Atsumu knows it’s the orange. The vicious killer with the scar down his neck.

Atsumu needs to kill Sakusa. So he needs a killer at his back.

Squinting at the mountainside, he notes a small rocky pathway starting halfway up the cliffside.

His father’s voice invades his mind.

‘Having the guts to take the more treacherous path goes a long way in their books.’

Surely his father didn’t mean a literal path, but it’s the only wisp of a plan Atsumu has, so it will have to do.

He marks the direction by the position of the sun and slides down the tree trunk.

Exhaling all of his fears, doubts, and morals, his feet hit the grass and start moving towards the mountain.

But as soon as he’s reacquainted with the ground, the thick foliage swallows up the sun, the mountain and all other means of orienting himself.

He’s all turned around and his feet start to stutter on where they ought to go.

There’s a whip of air and a flash of green zipping over the treetops, sending a host of leaves fluttering to the ground.

Atsumu’s heart skips.

He knocks the leaves from his hair and chases down the green blur with single-minded focus, winding his way through the trees until he reaches a small dirt clearing. There’s an outcropping of flat slate ringing the space, and a green swordtail sitting at the center.

The dragon levels its eyes straight at Atsumu.

Its eyes–silver like Samu’s.

Atsumu’s heart leaps out of his godsdamn chest.

Tienne.

She’s here. She’s actually here, and she’s–already flying away?

No, no no no.

“Wait!” Atsumu yells, stumbling over the rocks at his feet and chasing the emerald blur through the red and gold leaves. “Please!”

Something like a sob escapes Atsumu’s throat as he runs after the swordtail slicing through the treetops.

All other plans fly out the window as he chases down his brother’s dragon. All he wants is to get to her. He just has to get to her.

His eyes lose her, but his feet barrel on–as if pulled by a string around his heart.

When he finds her again, she’s sitting in another clearing–one she made herself by slicing down a trio of oaks that were standing in the way.

She looks back at him, her swordtail swishing. Beckoning.

“Tienne,” Atsumu says as he pulls himself up and over the felled tree, sliding down to her feet with a thud. “I know I’m not Samu, but–”

His hand lifts, taking another small step towards her and she launches back into the air, twirling once before speeding off again.

“Wait!” he yells. “Come back!”

Where the hells is she going?

He runs again, as fast as his feet can take him, barely able to keep an eye on the green flash as it soars over the trees.

In a blink, the green vanishes from sight, but he still doesn’t stop. He runs and runs, but eventually the invisible string gets tangled up in the trees, and he loses every sense of where his brother’s dragon went.

Atsumu’s heart feels like it’s breaking. He drops to his knees and curls into a ball, hugging himself and pressing his forehead to the cold, damp earth.

He is exactly what he's been since the day Osamu left him–hopeless and alone.

Tears start to fall. Clumping up his eyelashes and splashing in the dirt.

The floodgates open and the all-consuming grief seizes control of his body. He cries until he can hardly breathe between each broken sob, letting go of every last tear that he’s held back the past three months.

It feels nice to let go–even as the sobs ache his throat and the tears strain his eyes. 

A loud thud quakes the ground and shakes him from his child’s pose.

When Atsumu’s head pulls up, Tienne is back. Standing just ahead of him, ringed in spotted sunlight streaming through the leaves.

She hops into the air, stretching her wings out to glide a few meters before slamming back to the ground, where he can still see her.

Atsumu wipes his face and crawls after her. “Where are we goin’?”

He hobbles to his feet to keep up, but she doesn’t launch away from him this time.

The trees grow sparse and the ground grows rocky as he follows Tienne’s patient hops through the valley.

When they reach the edge of the woods, Tienne’s hops backwards, right over his head, and lands at his back. She dips her head to the ground and nudges Atsumu forward with her snout.

Telling him to keep going.

Atsumu turns back and the words from Osamu’s letter play through his mind, in a perfect copy of the voice he misses more than anything.

“When she looked at me, it’s like we both knew.”

As Atsumu looks up at his brother’s dragon, her bright silver eyes, so achingly similar to his brother’s, he knows too.

And it hurts like a dagger to the fucking heart, but he just knows.

She’s not his.

“Why?” He asks, heart cracking in his chest. “Why not you?”

She gives a small chuff and lowers her snout to nudge him again.

“Is it too soon?”

Atsumu isn’t sure how deep dragon bonds go, but he can’t imagine that moving on is that easy. He knows how much the Osamu-shaped hole in his own heart hurts, and he feels for the one Tienne must have in hers. As much as he may want that connection with someone who understands his pain, they can’t just fill that space for each other.

An overbearing wave of empathy washes through him. Tienne can’t give Osamu back to him and Atsumu can’t give him back to her.

But he does have something he can give.

He reaches down to his boot, feeling for the skin-warmed sheath tucked away by his calf. He pulls the blade free, taking a second to let his fingernail catch over the silver moon in the hilt one last time.

With a wet, shaky breath, he presses Osamu’s blade softly to his lips before setting it on the ground before Tienne. He backs away and wipes the final stray tear snaking down his cheek with the back of his sleeve.

He’s not sure what a dragon would want with a dagger, but it feels right for her to have it. This way she can have a piece of Osamu too.

Tienne eyes the dagger curiously.

Atsumu’s grip finds its way around his necklace, for the comforting prick of moon tips in his palm.

Tienne seems to understand, because she dips her head to the floor and delicately takes the blade between her teeth.

In a fit of insanity, Atsumu runs in to hug her. Specifically her leg, and his arms don’t even reach halfway around. He whispers, “thank you fer seein’ me anyway.”

Even if Tienne isn’t able to bond with Atsumu, he’s so happy that she came to visit. He doesn’t know if he could’ve bonded another dragon without ruling her out first.

It kind of fucking sucks, but now that he knows, he can try to move on.

Tienne huffs, shaking him off her leg and giving him one final push with her snout.

“Okay, okay. I’m goin’.” Atsumu laughs as the huff of steam tickles his skin.

“Goodbye Tienne.” With a soft pat on her nose, he steels himself, and turns away.

The wind of Tienne’s departure hits his back and pushes his steps along. He watches as she disappears into the sky, back towards the direction of the Vale.

Time to find his own dragon.

When Atsumu breaks out of the trees, he’s spit out right at the base of the mountain.

His heart starts thumping.

Is this where Tienne wants him to go?

He hears a fierce screech and looks up to find the source. It’s the big, orange dragon with the scar, flying circles around the mountain’s peak.

This is the dragon Atsumu had decided on…so why is his stomach threatening to cough up the half-an-apple he had for breakfast?

Tienne must know the orange is their best chance at avenging Osamu, and that’s why she led him here.

Atsumu grounds himself with a press of his necklace to his lips. Then he takes a tentative step towards the most approachable-looking rock face. He digs his fingers into the granite and starts to climb.

Barely into his ascent, voices start to echo off the cliff. Atumu peers down to see three cadets weaving their way through the valley.

“I saw it fly this way.”

“Shouldn’t we be looking for our actual dragons?”

“Five minute detour. Then I’m getting that orange.”

“I’m getting the orange. You can fight me for it.” A strangled cry, then the same voice again. “Ahh fuck! I was just kidding!”

Atsumu freezes when he recognizes the voices. Oikawa’s squad.

“You really think we can kill it?”

“Of course. Did you see it? Talk about pathetic.”

“Someone should’ve told it not to bring a feathertail to a sword fight.” A raucous cackle rings out from all three voices.

Wait, are they talking about the golden feathertail?

About killing the golden feathertail?

Killing a dragon? They’ve got to be out of their fucking minds.

The image of the little gold dragon flashes into Atsumu’s mind. It was pure beauty and innocence and–

There’s a shriek above the trees, another dragon torpedoing into the sky with a fresh new rider on its back.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. How many dragons are even left?

The orange screeches again, still circling the mountain peak, waiting to be claimed.

Obviously Oikawa saw the orange, but who else did? There could already be dozens of cadets scaling the other sides of the mountain.

The voices fade out as the squad continues on in their dangerous, idiotic quest for dragon blood.

The feathertail will be fine on its own. It’s probably impossible to kill a dragon anyway. Even one that tiny…and supposedly non-violent.

Following the trio of assholes would be a colossal waste of time…

Bokuto’s voice worms its way through Atsumu’s mind.

‘You’re a really good person Tsum-Tsum.’

Atsumu bites his cheek, shaking the thought from his head.

He’s here to kill someone. He can’t be a good person.

He turns his sights back to the orange, more determined than ever. His hand reaches up for its next hold, but instead of grabbing on, it curls to a fist and slams against the stone.

“Gods fuckin’ dammit,” Atsumu mutters as he lets go, skidding down all of the elevation he’s earned, until his feet hit the dirt at the base of the cliff.

He starts sprinting through the forest, hoping to intercept Oikawa’s posse before they reach the feathertail.

Somehow, his feet know exactly where to take him and he quickly reaches a wide circle of meadow. It’s big enough for ten-full size dragons, blanketed in soft grass, dotted with little white flowers and a crystal-blue pond. The little gold dragon is sitting alone at the center, like it’s a perfectly casual day to go sun-bathing. It’s as beautiful as Atsumu remembers. And it’s shining like a fucking beacon in the sunlit meadow.

Miraculously, Atsumu beat the others there, so he has time to warn the dragon off and ruin whatever asinine plan they have.

“Hey!” Atsumu shouts from the safety of the treeline. “Get out of here!”

The dragon’s head pivots towards him, and tilts its neck at what should be an impossible angle.

“Yes, you, Goldie! You’ll die if ya stay here!”

It just blinks its golden eyes and swishes its harmless tail.

“Go!” Atsumu shoos with his hands, stepping into the meadow to emphasize the motion. “Come on, fly!”

But their head start runs out too soon. The trees rustle from the south, and Oikawa and his Merry Band of Murderers come barreling into the meadow.

“Oh of-fucking- course you’d be here,” Oikawa says, slowing to a stop when he sees Atsumu and sighing up at the gods.

The dragon’s head spins their way, a low growl rumbling in its chest, at their brandished assortment of weapons.

What Atsumu does next is high on his list of the stupidest things he’s ever done.

He draws his own blade and steps out between them and the dragon.

“Beat it Miya,” Mad dog snarls, twirling his double-headed battle axe.

Their other squadmate, who’s name never seemed important enough for Atsumu to remember, steps to Oikawa’s other side, brandishing a sword that’s clearly too heavy for him.

Atsumu takes a step back towards the dragon, placing him uncomfortably close to its snout–you know, the end where the fucking fire comes out.

“Last chance ta make a run fer it,” he suggests over his shoulder.

The dragon does no such thing, keeping its wings tucked neatly at its sides.

Figures.

Atsumu turns back to Oikawa’s squad. They’ve spread out in a half-circle and are slowly closing in around him.

“Gods help me,” Atsumu mutters.

It’s three-on-one, and all he has to defend with is daggers. His survival odds are not looking super great…not to mention the dragon at his back, who could still strike at any moment, taking Atsumu out intentionally or not.

“Back the fuck up!” Atsumu yells with a scowl, stabbing the air with his tiny little knife.

“What?” Oikawa sneers, pulling a much more devious looking dagger from the sheath at his thigh. “You want to bond that fucking thing?”

“It matches his dumb fucking hair,” Mad Dog says with a snort. “They’re both so… yellow.”

“I say we let him. He’d have the weakest dragon in history!” Asshole Number Three cackles uncontrollably.

“You can’t be serious Miya.” Oikawa takes a slow step closer and points the tip of his blade towards the feathertail. “This dragon’s a pipsqueak, and a liability to the wing. Killing it now is a mercy.”

While Atsumu has no intention of bonding the little gold dragon, that doesn’t mean he’s going to leave the poor thing to die.

“I can’t let ya do that,” he says through clamped teeth.

“You think because you’re the general’s son that you’re the boss of us?” Mad Dog spits. “Well nobody’s here to save you and nobody’s here to save that.”

Atsumu swings at the air to the right when Mad Dog starts to close in. He snarls back, “you’ll touch that dragon over my dead fuckin’ body.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Oikawa’s voice sings right into his ear as something slams into his back.

Atsumu is punched forward and he twists to see Oikawa’s dagger glinting off the side of his armor. He hops back, swiping his own blade and catching Oikawa with a clean shave across the jaw.

Atsumu reaches back to feel his jacket. The new hole in the leather makes him gasp–it’s right over his kidney. If it weren’t for Osamu’s armor, the shot would’ve killed him.

“What the hells are you wearing?” Oikawa asks, smacking a bandaged hand over his face, just below the deep, purple bruising of his broken nose. Anger floods his face, as red as the blood flooding through the seams of his fingers.

“Asshole repellent.” Atsumu smirks before he’s struck square in the back. He’s knocked to the ground, forehead skidding hard into the grass. He quickly flips to see Mad Dog’s furious snarl above him. He’s heaving the axe behind his head for another swing, but the exaggerated move gives Atsumu time to roll out of the way, and the axehead sinks itself deep into the ground.

“He’s got some kind of crazy armor on!” Oikawa shouts, backing up towards the treeline and waving his lackeys forward. “Aim anywhere but the torso!”

Atsumu scrambles back as Mad Dog shimmies his axehead from the earth.

He dashes back to stand at the golden dragon’s side. “Come on Goldie, roast ‘em!”

The dragon doesn’t roast them. Of-fucking-course.

Mad Dog finally frees his weapon from the earth, showing off with a few quick swings circling his waist.

Other guy steps in cautiously, brandishing his sword with as much grace as a newborn deer.

“Okay…so no fire.” Atsumu relents, pouting at the dragon. “Maybe a little claw-action?”

The dragon chuffs and Atsumu spares a quick glance down at its claws, or rather–paws.

“Oh fuckin’ hells. Ya don’t have any claws? What kind of dragon are ya?”

There’s a low growl and an annoyed huff in response. Mad Dog hesitates at the growl, and Atsumu tucks himself further back towards the dragon. He sighs. “No violence. Got it.”

When the growl is followed by no other recourse, Mad Dog resumes his prowl. Atsumu hurls a dagger his way, but it’s blocked, ricocheting off the axe handle and flying off somewhere in the grass.

“Well, ya got wings don’t ya?” Atsumu huffs at the dragon, pulling his next weapon up. “Feel free ta fly away at any time!”

The dragon huffs back. Because apparently it doesn’t know how to do anything else.

This has to be the only dragon in existence who wouldn’t kill a human. Even in self-defense.

Guess it’s up to Atsumu.

“Gods help me,” he groans to the sky.

Please, just help him get through this and save the stupid fucking dragon.

Mad Dog charges, taking a wide swing at the dragon’s neck. The dragon dodges back and Atsumu tackles Mad Dog at the knees, throwing them both to the ground. He lifts his torso up and immediately slams his weight back down, to trap the axe-handle to the ground over Mad Dog’s head.

Mad Dog thrashes like a wild animal and lands a hard elbow to Atsumu’s battered rib cage. Atsumu jerks back with the blinding pain that claps his chest.

He shuffles back to put some space between them while his lungs try to suck down a full breath of air.

From the corner of his eye, Atsumu sees the guy with the sword take an uncoordinated swing at the feathertail. His attack is aborted as the dragon takes a quick snap at the air in his direction and he cowers, falling back on his ass.

Atsumu feels a split second of relief, but that’s all the time that Mad Dog gives him. As the next wide swing slices the air, Atsumu bends backwards to duck underneath. Then before Mad Dog can recover from the overpowered swing, Atsumu tucks knees, plants a foot and swings his leg around for a hard, round kick to the jaw. He log-rolls out of Mad Dog’s range, and resists the urge to hold his side as he pops back up to his feet. The pain is blinding, but he’s already shown too many cards.

Mad Dog stumbles back, spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground. His eyes blaze and he howls out, “we’re killing that fucking dragon wether you like it or not!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice rings from the edge of the clearing, freezing the fight in its tracks. His voice.

There stands Sakusa–tall, stoic, bored-looking, leaning back against a tree trunk with his navy blue daggertail posturing behind him like the world’s most terrifying guard dog.

Sakusa? Atsumu prayed for help and the gods sent motherfucking Sakusa?

Holy shit, the gods really do hate him.

Atsumu groans, ready for the fight to shift to a four-on-one despite the codex forbidding Sakusa from interfering. Why not add another murderous asshole to the mix? Atsumu’s only getting his ass mildly kicked so far.

But Sakusa sits back with crossed arms and a twitching smirk, content to just watch Atsumu die, even if it’s not by his own hands. In fact, he probably prefers just to watch. Cleaner gloves that way.

Oikawa sneers, puffing his chest out in haughty defiance. “We both know that you aren’t allowed to interfere, Wingleader.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Sakusa holds his hands up. “Just offering some friendly advice. Killing a dragon at Threshing has to be the dumbest plan I’ve ever fucking heard, but don’t take my word for it.”

“That thing-” Oikawa points to the feathertail with his dagger, “is barely a dragon.”

“Tell her that.” Sakusa nods back towards his own dragon. The blue looks absolutely murderous. She’s baring her teeth and curling her back, a pointed growl rumbling up her throat at each of the attackers.

“She can’t interfere either,” Oikawa says carefully, voice far less confident.

“You gonna stop us from killing him too?” Mad Dog spits again, growling over at Atsumu.

“I’m not going to stop anything,” Sakusa says, picking a stray leaf off the shoulder of his jacket and flicking it to the ground. “I’m just here to observe.”

“Then shut the fuck up and observe,” Oikawa says.

Before Oikawa finishes speaking, Atsumu uses the distraction to hurl a dagger at their other squadmate. The blade sinks right into his shoulder joint and he drops his sword with a screech.

Just as the next blade is poised to fly at his other shoulder, the guy abandons his sword and sprints straight into the trees.

Coward.

The victory is short-lived as the other two rush in.

Atsumu probably should’ve seen it coming, but he was a little preoccupied with Mad Dog’s axe hurling towards his face. Both Atsumu and Oikawa duck in time with the swing, and Oikawa stabs a dagger deep into Atsumu’s thigh.

“Fuck!” Atsumu screams as blade meets bone. He falls back, slashing out with his own dagger, and slicing through nothing but air. Oikawa flies at Atsumu to push him down and somersault over his head.

Oikawa lands like a cat, pinning Atsumu’s arms to the ground while Mad Dog winds up his next strike. Atsumu breaks a hand free, grabs a fistful of over-styled hair and yanks Oikawa’s head down over him like a shield.

The axe slices the grass next to them, Mad Dog narrowly able to change course before he dug the weapon into the back of his squadmate’s head.

Atsumu throws his other arm over Oikawa’s neck and locks him in like a vice.

Instead of trying to break free, Oikawa’s hands blindly splay over Atsumu’s armor and start plucking the daggers free from their sheaths. He tosses each one out across the meadow.

Once Atsumu realizes he’s being disarmed, he jerks his arms back and forth, shaking Oikawa around to distract him.

Oikawa braces in his hold, and slithers an arm down between them–and that’s when he yanks the dagger back out of Atsumu’s leg.

Atsumu breaks the hold immediately. The scream that bubbles up his throat is so visceral, he can’t believe it’s really his own. How can a dagger hurt more coming out?

Oikawa goes to stab him again, but Atsumu rolls away, taking the hit off his armor and leaping towards the treeline for safety.

Mad Dog follows behind him with a wild, sweeping swing. Adrenaline pushes Atsumu to move despite the throbbing pain in his side and lifeforce leaking from his leg. He ducks behind a nice fat tree and the axehead plants itself deep into it. 

Mad Dog tugs at the handle to gain his steel back, but it’s so deep in the wood that it doesn’t even budge. Atsumu feels at his sides–only two daggers are left. He pulls one and jumps out to slash at a flash of open skin above the collar. Mad Dog flies back, avoiding the strike and losing grip of his weapon. Atsumu steps in front of the axed tree and pulls the dagger up over his shoulder, threatening to let it fly.

“Fuck this shit.” Mad Dog cuts his losses, tucks his tail and runs the fuck out of there.

“Behind you!” Sakusa shouts.

Atsumu curls forward and narrowly misses the bloody dagger barreling towards the back of his neck.

“You aren’t supposed to interfere!” Oikawa shouts back at Sakusa, taking another stab with a dagger that Atsumu promptly punches out of his fist.

“I was only narrating,” Sakusa says with a shrug.

“Don’t need yer fuckin’ help,” Atsumu shouts at Sakusa. He picks up Oikawa’s dagger, soaked in his blood, and hastily chucks it in Sakusa’s direction. The margin he misses by is so pathetic, it doesn’t even garner a flinch. “So you can scurry the fuck off now!”

“And miss the show?”

The show–Atsumu’s death.

Of course Sakusa wouldn’t miss it.

Oikawa proffers an odd glance between the two of them, which is when Atsumu remembers that his animosity towards his wingleader is not common knowledge.

A graceful leg sweeps under Atsumu’s ankles, knocking him back on his ass and shooting a nauseating pain up his leg. He watches, frozen, as Oikawa sprints full-out at the feathertail.

Sakusa’s dragon snaps at the air between Oikawa and the feathertail before he can reach it. 

“Command your dragon to stay back!” Oikawa shouts, jumping back.

“Command her?” Sakusa asks, incredulous. “You have no idea how any of this works, do you?”

Atsumu lets them argue as he pushes back to his feet and digs his palm to his thigh in a futile attempt to staunch his stab wound. Fuck, there’s already so much blood. If he can’t stop the bleeding soon…He rips off his jacket and slashes a long strip out from the satin lining.

“It’s against the codex for you to interfere in Threshing,” Oikawa spits at Sakusa. “I’ll report you, and you can continue on the Sakusa legacy of being executed in disgrace.”

Sakusa ignores the comment referring to his father and responds with a flat, “I didn’t know piles of ash were capable of reporting anything.”

His daggertail’s wings hike up over its back and its snout parts to bare a threatening armory of pearly white.

Oikawa glares Sakusa down for a tense, infinite minute, parsing out whether or not the wingleader is bluffing.

Atsumu’s head slumps to his heaving chest. All of his hope crashes with his knees to the blood soaked grass.

Because he knows Sakusa. And Sakusa’s absolutely bluffing.

He wouldn’t risk breaking the codex, because his neck wouldn’t be the only one on the chopping block.

Sakusa’s dragon pulls back with a huff and Oikawa’s face carves into a sadistic smile.

“I thought so.” Oikawa’s calculating cat-eyes swing back to Atsumu. “Now where were we?”

Atsumu swears. The stand-off bought him nothing but an extra minute of bleeding out.

His slick, sticky fingers scramble to wrap the bandage over his leg.

Oikawa darts forward and slides across the grass, swiping the discarded longsword from the ground. Then he’s charging at Atsumu with the monstrous iron poised high above his head.

Atsumu can’t even finish tying the knot on his thigh. All he has time to do is drop the cloth, feel for the familiar hum at his side and pull the final dagger from his armor.

He thrusts the dagger up to meet the sword. A surge of energy sparks as the blade’s edges meet. It vibrates down Atsumu’s hands, the tremors traveling through his bones up to his teeth.

The sword shatters into a million pieces. Atsumu wrenches his eyes closed as shrapnel rains down, pelting his face in an iron hailstorm.

Oikawa screams in frustration as the blade crumbles in his hands. He flips what’s left of the handle, and strikes the pointed iron pommel fast and hard to the soft muscle above Atsumu’s armpit.

The entire arm shoots with needles before falling limp to Atsumu’s side. His fingers unfurl and his jeweled dagger drops to the ground.

Atsumu kicks it away before Oikawa can grab it, and rams his left elbow right between Oikawa’s eyes.

Oikawa flies back and Atsumu somersaults away to put more distance between them. He snatches his blade back as he rolls to his feet, tucking his limp arm tight to his side. His chest heaves as a fresh wave of blood gushes from his leg. When his gaze finds Oikawa again, he’s surrounded in a wavering tunnel of black. Sakusa’s shadows? No wait, that’s just Atsumu’s vision.

Fuck, how much blood has he lost?

His head whips in circles, searching for a blur of gold with whatever vision he’s still able to muster. When he finds it, he limps back to the feathertail’s side. With his left hand, he holds his dagger up in defense.

He whispers over his shoulder, “please fly away, Goldie.”

It doesn’t. Instead, the dragon tucks its snout into Atsumu’s side, burrowing under his dead-arm and lifting the weight off his bad leg.

Whatever happens, he won’t leave the dragon to die. He can’t.

Blood streams from Oikawa’s re-broken nose, down his curled lip as he tosses the sword handle to the ground. He walks a slow circle around the field, keeping eye contact and claiming each of the discarded weapons off the ground. Which is a fucking lot. Atsumu hobbles along with his steps, keeping himself firmly between Oikawa and the feathertail.

Once Oikawa has fit his belt with every piece of iron Atsumu has ever owned, he tops it off by planting a foot against the big oak and pulling Mad Dog’s massive steel axe free from the trunk.

Atsumu’s fingers tighten on his dagger and a wave of dizziness threatens to topple him over.

He’s a crap shot with his left arm, but maybe he can land the throw–if he waits for his target to come close enough. But he’ll only have the one last shot.

He’s not so sure he can win this time.

Hot tears start to roll down his face, salt stinging each nicked bit of skin along the way.

“I’m sorry, Goldie,” he says to the dragon. “I’m sorry, Samu,” he says to the sky.

At least he’ll see his brother again soon. The thought makes him feel warm as the tears on his cheeks and the blood soaking his pant leg.

With death at his doorstep, his eyes find Sakusa–frozen at the edge of the clearing, watching each move with his dark, soulless gaze.

“Ya got lucky, ya fuckin’ bastard!” Atsumu shouts at Sakusa’s blood-drained face.

Atsumu should be angry. He should curse the gods for allowing Sakusa to live while he has to die. But Atsumu can feel Malek’s breath at the back of his neck, the god of death waiting patiently to take him, and a miraculous peace washes over him. The warmth of it bubbles up his chest. Atsumu closes his eyes and laughs. He points the tip of his dagger at Sakusa and shouts his final words. “I’ll see ya in hell, motherfucker!”

Fury fills Sakusa’s face. He pulls a dagger from his belt and takes a single step forward.

But not towards Atsumu. Towards Oikawa.

Oikawa balks, taking a step back in turn. “You, you can’t-”

Before another of Sakusa’s steps can fall, an avalanche of air crushes the meadow, forcing Atsumu to stumble forward and his opponent to fall back.

Oikawa’s face draws up in an incredulous mix of awe and horror.

Before Atsumu can turn to see what caused it, a deep rumbling voice shoots through his head. “Step aside, Gold One.”

When Atsumu’s head is finished turning, there’s a giant, black mountain behind him. No wait, not a mountain, a dragon. Holy fucking shit, that thing is big.

“Step aside.”

Atsumu blinks. Wait. Did that dragon just talk to him? Or is he hallucinating from blood loss?

He lifts a dizzy finger to his chest, poking at his armor. “Me?”

“Yes. You. Now.” Just as the last word passes through Atsumu’s mind, the massive jaw unhinges and its mouth fills with a swirl of green gas. A spurt of adrenaline pushes Atsumu from the fire’s path just in time to fall to the ground and watch it incinerate a clean line down the meadow.

Sadly, Oikawa jumps from the firestream in the nick of time, but he drops the axe and runs for the hills.

The dragon’s giant golden eyes slant back towards Atsumu. Its nostrils flare. “You’re bleeding. Stop it.”

Atsumu looks down to the horrifying red pool beneath him. “Shit.”

There’s already so much blood, and keeps gushing from his leg in dizzying, rhythmic spurts. Atsumu’s no healer, but he doesn’t think that a makeshift bandage is going to cut it.

His eyes are pulled toward the white-hot axehead sitting in the black, smoking grass. His brain sparks up one of the worst ideas of his entire life–but it’s not like he has a lot of options. He crawls pathetically towards the weapon, alternating between shifting his weight from his butt to his left elbow, inching like a worm over the ground. Once the gold grass turns black beneath him, crunching and crumbling under his weight, he drops to his back and reaches up towards the half molten battle-axe.

The handle is only a dull, pulsing red, but it still manages to burn holes through his leather glove as his palm wraps around it.

Atsumu shakily brings the flat edge of the glowing axe to his leg and presses down.

The pain is a thousand times worse than when the blade sunk in.

Distantly, Atsumu hears himself scream.

The air is thick with smoke and the scent of his own bubbling flesh. He tosses the axe and rolls to his side, dry heaving to expel the taint from his lungs.

His teeth gnash and his cheek digs the line where the ground burned away.

Gold grass. Black ash.

Stretching black wings. A swishing gold tail.

A black uniform rushing to his side.

A cool, black mist wrapping over his leg.

Wide black eyes with little gold stars.

And then black is all there is.

— ⚡︎ —

Black black black black.

Atsumu is lost in the blackness for who knows how long.

When his eyes finally peel open, they immediately shut again, retreating to the safety and familiarity of the black. With a groan, Atsumu fights to keep them open despite the offending light and color that floods in.

His gaze finds the treeline where Sakusa last was, but both him and his dragon are gone.

Just before the black dragon came…Was Sakusa going to help him again?

Atsumu shakes his head. He probably imagined it.

He’s laying next to the pond in the meadow. The blood is washed from his clothes and there’s a fresh black bandage wrapped around the tender skin of his thigh that smells suspiciously like jasmine. The magic hum of his dagger is tucked back at his side.

“What the fuck,” he says at the sky, voice weaker than a mouse’s.

The sun overhead is dangerously close to kissing the mountain.

Threshing is almost over.

But Atsumu’s too tired to go looking for any more dragons. Maybe he can bond next year.

Or better yet, he can just lie in this meadow until the rest of the life seeps out of him and the worms come to eat what’s left of his body.

Let the black swallow him up for good.

He blinks at the sun dipping towards the shiny, black mountain.

Is he hallucinating, or did that mountain just move?

And now it’s blinking at him?

“Have you decided to stop dying then?”

“Shit!” Atsumu shouts, sitting up and falling back just as quickly with the shock of pain through his ribs.

It’s a dragon. Possibly the biggest dragon he’s ever fucking seen.

“If you’re finished with your nap, then we really should get going.” The dragon’s mouth doesn’t move, its voice speaks straight into Atsumu’s head.

“What?” Atsumu rubs his temples against the invasion of his mind.

“Hop on.”

“On?” Atsumu drags his head up to look at the dragon, who’s dropping its body to the ground and angling its back towards him. “On your back?”

“Obviously.” The dragon gives an impatient huff through his nostrils.

“Why?”

“You are my rider. It is time to ride.”

His rider? Is this dragon trying to bond with him?

Atsumu’s head thumps back to the ground, exhausted. He’s had enough dragon crap for one day. “Ya can’t bond worm food, buddy. Find someone else.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a bit late for that.”

“What do ya–”

And then it hits him–a presence that wasn’t there before. Something tethered to the beat of his heart. Pressing in on the corners of his mind.

Atsumu sits up ram-rod straight. “Did ya bond me?”

There’s a rumbly sound in Atsumu’s mind, oddly reminiscent of laughter. “Not particularly quick, are we gold one?”

Atsumu shakes his head and rubs at the ridge of his brow. “I’m still not sure I’m not dyin’, actually.”

Is the god of death really a snarky black dragon?

There’s another rumbly laugh in his mind, before the gruff commanding voice returns. “Now hop on, we haven’t all day.”

“But wait, where’s-” Atsumu’s eyes scan the meadow and he finds a curled up ball of gold right behind him.

“Goldie!” He shouts, as the feathertail flicks around his body to tickle at his side. “Fuck, I’m so glad ta see that yer okay.”

Atsumu breathes a massive sigh of relief at the bright gold eyes blinking back at him–all of his pain and effort wasn’t in vain after all.

The little gold dragon swishes its tail, seemingly glad to see him alive as well.

The big dragon chitters at the little one, and the little one spreads its wings to zip up into the air.

Atsumu watches the golden scales twirl towards the sun with his jaw dropped from its hinges.

So the damn thing can fly, godsdammit.

“Your turn,” the big dragon says to him, stretching its front leg out like a ramp.

Atsumu grits his teeth and pushes to his feet. He doesn’t seem to be dying anymore, but he’s a far cry from top shape. His entire being feels fuzzy, both brain and body. He approaches the dragon with slow, wobbly steps.

He places a tentative hand on the dragon’s shiny black scales. Each scale is the size of his palm, hard as diamond, woven into an intricate pattern that repeats down the beast’s entire body.

They’re surprisingly warm.

Atsumu strokes his hand down the dragon’s leg, basking in his ability to do so without turning to ash. His eyes meet the dragon’s–large gold saucers narrowing down at him. The dragon flicks its head again towards its back, a half growl huffing out the side of its snout.

Gods, so impatient.

Atsumu must have been passed out for a while, because there’s feeling back in his right arm now. It still stings like a thousand wasps as he lifts it up to pull himself up the dragon’s leg, but he manages to crawl his way up to its back.

He distantly recalls one of Professor Kaori’s lessons on dragon riding, and scoots up to the smooth divot between the wings. He settles between the two large vertebrae trapping him in place, and rests his hands over the hard bump of scales that Kaori calls a “pommel”.

The dragon stands to full height, bringing Atsumu’s eye level over the golden treetops circling the meadow. Fuck this thing is big.

Atsumu screams as the dragon shoots straight into the sky without warning, the adrenaline zapping his brain back to crystal sharp reality.

Holy shit. He’s actually riding a fucking dragon–he actually bonded a fucking dragon.

And they’re really fucking high up.

Atsumu tucks into the dragon’s spine, suppressing the overwhelming urge to scream again.

“Sit up. You’re embarrassing us.”

“Do ya have to fly so damn high?” Atsumu yells over the whipping wind.

A low laugh rumbles through his mind. “Scared of heights, gold one?”

“I can’t say they’re my favorite.” Atsumu’s eyes close against the sting of air trying to rush in. Not to avoid seeing the ground falling further away with each passing second. They should really pass out flight goggles before sending cadets to Threshing. “I could do with a bit less acrobatics.”

“You do realize what you signed up for?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Simple flight is hardly acrobatics. Care to see some?”

The bony black bastard then decides to roll his body like a barrel in the air. Atsumu barely manages to claw his fingers between scales and dig his knees in to keep from falling off.

“What the hell are you doing?” Atsumu shouts, using every ounce of his strength to keep from plummeting to the ground.

“Helping you conquer your fears. The first step is facing them.”

“Fuck–” Atsumu digs his knees in even harder as the dragon begins another spiral. “You!”

“I can’t hear you over the wind. Use your mind.”

Use his mind? Atsumu has been bonded for five fucking minutes, how is he supposed to know how to talk to a dragon with his mind?

The dragon keeps barreling through the air in tight rotations. Atsumu tucks down into the dragon’s spine, feeling like he’s back on the Gauntlet, spinning on a log.

“If you have no objections, then I suppose we’ll simply keep spinning.”

Atsumu grits his teeth. He closes his eyes and chases the dragon’s voice in his mind. He imagines a string to the dragon’s voice and follows it back through the chambers of his mind. When the tether pulls tight, he shouts his own thoughts down the bond.

“I said, fuck you!”

Another rumbly laugh, before the dragon levels back out to a smooth, easy glide. “You’re an odd little human.”

Atsumu holds a hand to his stomach, willing his breakfast to stay down as his head continues to spin. “Ya know a lot of humans?”

“Not many. But I’ve bonded before, and neither were scared of anything as silly as heights.”

They swoop down the cliff side, gaining even more speed before banking left around the trees and coming unnervingly close to clipping a few high branches.

Atsumu holds on for dear fucking life as their elevation climbs and the oppressive wind tries to drag him from his seat. “It’s a lot worse when ya don’t have wings, ya know!”

“Ah, but don’t you see, gold one? You have wings now too.”

When they soar back up, they break right through the cold mist of cloud-cover. The massive black wings spread out over the mountain and Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat.

The entirety of Basgiath lays out beneath them. The stark black mountains curling around the white blanket of the Vale. The entire college, from the archives carved into the mountainside to the parapet snaking through the valley. The sea of red and gold treetops clustered beneath sparse puffy clouds dotting the landscape. It’s like the view from his morning runs, but even better.

He’s on top of the fucking world.

Damn. Okay, maybe this doesn’t completely suck.

Atsumu marvels at the landscape beneath them as his hair rustles gently around his ears. It seems as if they’ve reached above the oppressive atmosphere that was pelting him with wind just seconds earlier.

“The name’s Atsumu by the way.” Atsumu pushes the words down the bond and sees the string in his mind sparking with light as the dragon answers back.

“Tairneanach.”

Atsumu tries repeating the name in his mind, just to receive an amused chortle from the dragon–from his dragon.

“Pronunciation could use some work. In the meantime, you may call me Tairn.”

“Tairn. Right. So, uhh, why’d ya pick me?”

“Because you saved her.”

To their side, a flash of gold weaves through the air. The feathertail is back again, dipping in and out of Tairn’s jetstream, brilliant scales streaking the sky like a comet.

“Goldie?”

“That’s not her name, but yes. The other little gold one.”

A smile crawls up Atsumu’s face as he watches the feathertail soar behind them. “Anyone would’ve done it. I just happened to be the one who was there.”

“Not all humans would have done it. Not even all dragons would have.”

Just then, his father’s voice blares in Atsumu’s head, almost as clearly as Tairn’s.

‘Dragons value ruthlessness and strength. Don’t show any weakness if you expect one to choose you.’

Tairn’s statement goes against everything Atsumu thought he knew.

“Ya don’t think that makes me soft?” he asks, scratching a finger down a hard black scale.

“While some of my kin may disagree, I am not of the mind that compassion equals weakness. And lucky for you, I care not for what anyone else thinks.”

Just ahead, the sun begins to dip below the mountain peak of Basigiath.

They make a wide circle and head back towards the college.

A handful of other dragons are in the sky, making their way back as well. Atsumu sees the big orange in the distance, a rider on its back. He can’t make out who–from here all the riders look like little black bugs hitching rides atop the massive creatures.

By the time they land in the flight field, the sky has darkened and the clouds have blushed themselves the color of dragon’s fire.

When Tairn meets the ground, the earth quakes at his feet. Whispers break out as Atsumu slides down his leg.

The feathertail lands beside them. Atsumu’s heart warms at the sight of it, safe and sound at the edge of the field. He walks over, trying not to limp under all the eyes glued his way. He smiles at the little dragon and says, “I’m glad ya made it.” 

“I’m glad I found you.”

Atsumu’s eyes blow wide, jaw unhinging at the bright, feminine voice ringing through his head.

“Aren’t ya not supposed to talk to humans if ya aren’t bonded to ‘em? Don’t go and get in trouble for me, Goldie.”

Seems like a big no-no. Navarre’s dragons are as notoriously rule-oriented as Navarre’s soldiers are.

She huffs. “I can do whatever I want.”

Atsumu laughs at that. “Oh can ya now?”

He lifts a hand to the air. She leans in without pause, allowing him to stroke down her slender neck in awe. The shiny gold scales sing beneath his hand–just as warm as Tairn’s.

“It was nice ta meet ya, I can't say yer like most dragons I’ve seen.”

“You aren’t like most humans, either.”

“Damn straight.” Atsumu grins as he continues to pet her.

The dragon’s eyes widen at something over Atsumu’s shoulder and she rears back, lowering her head in a defensive posture.

A hard hand grips into Atsumu’s arm and he turns to see his father, whose eyes are wide staring firmly up at Tairn.

“Atsumu, you bonded Tairneanach?” His father gawks up at the massive black dragon. The grin on his face falters on feral, a power-hungry glint surging in his eyes. “He’s a legend. How the hells did you manage to pull that off?”

Because no matter how hard he tries he can’t escape the fucking color black?

A laugh rumbles in Atsumu’s mind. Oh shit did Tairn hear that?

“We could always try painting my scales if you aren’t pleased?” Tairn asks. There’s another laugh and Atsumu’s face heats.

“Sorry.” Atsumu looks sheepishly up at Tairn, and is caught off guard at the sheer fucking size of him from his spot on the ground. He knew Tairn was big, but he’s easily topping the size of every other dragon on the field, and it isn’t even close. Atsumu chuckles under his breath. “I don’t think we could find enough paint.”

“Ah. Perhaps a festive sweater then?”

Atsumu snorts.

“Well done.” His father finally peels his eyes off the dragon and actually looks at Atsumu, something akin to pride on his face. Atsumu flinches against the sting of it.

There’s some alternate version of Atsumu out there who would be beaming with pride at his father’s approval right now. The tiny, hero-worshiping version of him would be vibrating at the praise off his father’s tongue.

Not this version.

“Well, now I’m the legend,” Atsumu thinks.

Tairn doesn’t say anything back to that, but a massive wave of pride rushes down the bond. It feels a million times better than anything coming from his father.

“Report to Varrish before the dragon changes its mind.” The command is accompanied by a long, cruel laugh.

Atsumu shrugs the lead-heavy hand from his shoulder and sprints across the flight field.

He swerves through the crowd of freshly-bonded riders, towards the dome of greasy, thinning red hair at the center.

“Miya Atsumu,” Varrish says mechanically, clearly exhausted after a full day of roll-keeping. “Please tell me the name of the dragon who chose you.”

With a puffed up chest, Atsumu proudly proclaims, “Tairneanach.”

“Tairn-” Varrishes eyes blow wide as his head snaps up towards the row of dragons, landing on the black one at the far end, towering over all the others. Varrish gasps. “He wasn’t on the list for bonding this year. Nobody’s seen him in over a decade.” He turns back to look at Atsumu, eyes studying him carefully. “How?”

Atsumu shrugs. It’s not like he asked for Tairn to enter the Threshing field.

“Very impressive,” Varrish reluctantly admits, staring up at the towering black dragon at the back of the field. He shakes his head and jots the name down on his clipboard. “Black dragons are incredibly rare and incredibly powerful. Good thing you two are on our side, eh? You can head back to the line.”

“Andarnaurram.” The soft, sweet voice sings into his mind and Atsumu’s head whips over to the golden feathertail who is stepping out of line and bowing her head at him. When it lifts, there’s a glint of humor, shining in her big golden eyes. “Andarna for short.”

Atsumu freezes. Under his breath he whispers, “what?”

“Miya, are you broken?” Varrish’s voice cuts through to him through the air. “I said get back in line.”

“Tell him.” The gentle voice of the gold dragon– Andarna, prods his mind.

“Uhh Tairn, what am I–?”

“You heard the little lady. Tell the roll-keeper her name,” Tairn echoes with authority.

Atsumu turns back to Varrish, clearing his throat. The words are thick and sticky coming up, but with a surge of reassurance flowing through the bond, he manages to push them out. “And Andarnaurram.”

“Both dragons?” Varrish squawks.

Atsumu nods.

And all hell breaks loose.

Chapter Text

The flight field is an absolute shit show. Everyone is talking about Miya and his dragon–or rather dragons.

It would’ve been one thing if he just bonded the feathertail, but of-motherfucking-course, things wouldn’t be that simple.

Kiyoomi hangs at the back of the field, keeping half an eye on the chaos while his mind plagues him with snapshots of the meadow.

Miya risking his own life to save the little dragon’s.

Miya yelling at Kiyoomi while the life bled out of him–the golden light surrounding him so close to blinking out.

Kiyoomi taking that dangerous fucking step.

He was being stupid, putting himself and countless others at risk, but he couldn’t bear to see that light go out.

Thanks gods Tairn showed up when he did–he stopped Kiyoomi from making a colossal mistake. But the damn dragon couldn’t just fly away after, could he? No, he had to go and complicate everything.

Now Kiyoomi is knee deep in shit again. All of the webs he’s meticulously woven are all tangling together, circling his throat and pulling tight enough to suffocate.

Why do the gods hate him so much? Will he ever atone for the egregious sin of being born?

“Oh, enough with the dramatics,” Sgaeyl’s voice huffs through Kiyoomi’s mind, clear cutting his rapidly spiraling thoughts. “This was the best possible outcome for the situation.”

“Best outcome for whom exactly?” Kiyoomi snaps back at his dragon, who’s opinion he didn’t fucking ask for.

“Neither of us wanted the gold ones to die. Tairneanach stepped in, so you didn’t have to.”

“But now he’s fucking bonded to–”

“Hey Kiyo!” Kiyoomi jumps as Komori comes bounding up out of nowhere. His cousin hasn’t gotten the jump on him like that in years, Kiyoomi’s shadows usually tip him off well in advance to anyone’s presence.

He’s so distracted by the fucking Miya mess, that his guard is slipping again.

Suna’s head peeks out from behind Komori for a second jump-scare.

“How was Threshing?” he asks with plainly feigned interest.

“Fucking wonderful,” Kiyoomi mummers. “Thanks for asking.”

Suna yawns into his elbow, a typical mirth in his perpetually bloodshot eyes. “Did you make lots of excellent observations to ensure the prosperity of future Threshings?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t waste his breath on an answer.

“Did you see that black dragon fly in?” Komori asks. “That thing is huge!”

Kiyoomi’s jaw ticks. “We’ve met.”

“You’ve met?”

Kiyoomi sighs. “That’s Tairn.”

“Tairn?” Komori’s eyes go wide as dinner plates. “As in your dragon’s m–”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi hisses before the godsforsaken word is spoken into the universe.

“Why are you so pissy about it?” Suna asks. “Who cares if the dragon bonded?”

Kiyoomi blows a harsh huff of air from his nose. “He bonded Miya.”

The duo stare at him blankly, before their faces break into uncontrollable laughter.

“Miya?” Suna asks between wheezes. “Like, Miya Miya?”

“The gold one?” Komori asks, grinning maniacally behind the cover of his fingers.

“No, the dead one,” Kiyoomi spits back. “Yes, the fucking gold one.”

“Oh man,” Suna wipes fake tears from his eyes, “this is way too good.”

Kiyoomi glares back. “I’m glad you both are enjoying yourselves.”

The pair continue to laugh in his face as Kiyoomi grinds his teeth, alone in his misery. Well, he supposes Miya is in the same miserable boat alongside him, he just doesn’t know it yet.

Kiyoomi scratches under his collar. The satin lining of his flight jacket is unbearably itchy against his bare skin, seeing as his undershirt is currently occupied with keeping Miya’s leg together as he hobbles to the healers tent.

“What are the numbers?” Kiyoomi asks, hoping for a silver lining to distract from all the gold mucking up his head.

“Seven dead,” Komori says. “Forty unbonded.” His face twists to something grim, and alarm bells shoot through Kiyoomi’s skull.

“And?”

“One of ours.”

Kiyoomi’s heart drops. “Dead?”

“Unbonded,” Komori quickly corrects, waving his hands back and forth.

“Fuck,” Kiyoomi groans. It’s better than dead, but it’s also uncharted territory–the first case of a Marked One going unbonded after Threshing. Unease sweeps his stomach, the too-familiar feeling of things flying outside of his realm of control. “Who?”

“Tynan.”

Kiyoomi had finally gotten around to memorizing the first year’s roster, and he instantly recognizes the name as the perpetually angry guy with the copper hair and a Miya shaped chip on his shoulder.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on him,” Kiyoomi says. “He’s a loose cannon already, and you know how people like that get when they don’t bond.”

‘How they get’, being worse. So much fucking worse.

In a paltry attempt at soothing Kiyoomi’s sour, and well-earned mood, Komori lands a light hand over his shoulder. “We’ll figure things out,” he says with an encouraging smile. “Just focus on the bright side.”

Kiyoomi huffs, shrugging off the uninvited hand.

The bright side…

His eyes travel across the field to where his shadows curl beneath the golden beacon. Miya is sitting at the medical tent, kicking his feet like a child as a healer rechecks Kiyoomi’s field work.

Miya’s aura is blinding tonight–fueled by two dragon’s worth of magic. Whenever Kiyoomi’s shadows venture too close, they can only hold for a second before shrinking back from the sting.

The golden light looks so much better now, a stunning contrast to the dim, flickering hum that clung to Miya’s life force as he passed out in the meadow.

Kiyoomi forces his eyes to the ground. He needs to keep his distance. And shake the aggravating impulse to keep saving the man who’s hellbent on killing him.

Miya is dangerous. Not in the way he tries to be–hurling knives and threats at Kiyoomi with no more danger than a child throwing a tantrum.

What he is, is a distraction.

Which is so much fucking worse.

And there Kiyoomi’s eyes go again. Back to Miya. Always back to that beautiful, blinding fucking light.

In spite of Kiyoomi’s efforts, Miya just may be the death of him after all.

But if Kiyoomi ought to focus on the bright side…it’s sitting right there across the field.

Miya’s still alive. The golden light didn’t go out.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu thanks the healer as he throws back the small cup of medicine. When the bitter taste clears, the warm spark of magic tickles his mouth. Guess he qualified for the good stuff today.

“Your bandages look clean,” the healer tells him, wiping her brow with a light blue sleeve. “I think it’s best to leave them for now, than risk aggravating the skin so soon.”

Atsumu nods, eyes avoiding the neat, black bandage tied around his leg. The one he doesn’t  remember wrapping.

“Are we in trouble or somethin’?” Atsumu asks his dragons as his eyes flit about the huddle of officers shouting at the center of the field. They’ve been at it for ages, since Atsumu declared the name of his second dragon.

A long breathy sound comes from Tairn that can only be interpreted as a sigh. “That has yet to be determined.”

“It doesn’t look too good from where I’m sittin’.”

“Not by them,” Andarna huffs, an extra dose of sass tacked on to the word ‘them’.

Deafening thunder rolls by overhead. Atsumu instinctually looks up, but the sky is blocked by the rippling cloth pitched above him. At the peak of volume, the tent begins to shake in earnest, threatening to blow right over.

“The hell is that sound?” Atsumu asks, flinching away from the flimsy, waving tent flaps.

As the wind dies, Tairn’s voice replaces the cresting roar. “The Empyrean is meeting. Stay put,” he commands. “This might take a while.”

“What are ya talkin’ about?” Atsumu asks.

Andarna’s bright voice answers, “you!”

Atsumu blinks back his shock. “Yer kiddin’-”

And his mind goes still as water.

The Empyrean…it’s the leadership amongst all dragonkind. And they’re meeting about Atsumu.

They aren’t the only ones discussing Atsumu’s overly-eventful Threshing. He leans forward to peer out from the open end of the tent again. And, yep–half the quadrant is still staring at him.

Atsumu’s head sinks to his hands with a groan. With no effort on his part, he has become the center of everyone’s attention. The five-year old version of him would be out of his mind giddy right now. But the five-year old version of him didn’t know shit about shit–being a famous dragon rider isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The right-now version of him wishes he could blend into the shadows instead–disappear until the college finds someone else to obsess over.

None of the riders bother to hide their whispers and dirty looks. At least the healers had the decency to hold their shit talk until they thought Atsumu couldn’t hear them.

Atsumu squirms in place as the healer returns to rush through the rest of her checklist. Since he’s in fine enough shape to walk himself out, she sets him free with little fanfare.

The moment Atsumu exits the tent, a hand wraps around his arm and pulls him around the side. Once he realizes who it is, he jumps straight into Kita’s arms.

“I did it,” Atsumu breathes out.

“Of course ya did,” Kita says, squeezing back–like he had far less doubts in Atsumu than Atsumu had in himself.

Long before Atsumu’s had his fill, Kita pulls back to look at him. “Lots of eyes on ya, huh?”

Atsumu shrugs under the hands still on his shoulders. “Only slightly more than usual.”

“So the rumors are true?” Kita quirks a curious brow.

Atsumu can barely contain his brewing smile. “Nope.”

“Liar!” Kita pushes Atsumu back with a grin. “Two dragons? Atsumu, that’s incredible!”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, surely it’s happened–” his words die at Kita’s shaking head. “Wait, seriously?”

“You’re the first. Ever.”

That’s…honestly fucking wild.

“Shit,” Atsumu laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’d be pissed at me too. We sure that bondin’ two dragons is even allowed?”

“I suppose that’s what the meetin’ is for.”

Poking his head out from behind the tent, Atsumu swallows.

“I’m a little relieved it ain’t up to them,” he says, gesturing towards the red-faced circle of officers, his father’s battle hard scowl smack dead in the center.

Kita’s tilted head follows suit. “I think most of them are on yer side, actually. The officers are all salivating over Tairneanach returning to service.”

Atsumu hums. From the snippets of rumors he’s overheard, his new dragon is some kind of celebrity war hero or something.

“I bet Kaori would be distraught if they didn’t let ya bond the feathertail too,” Kita adds. “Assuming ya choose Tairn.”

Atsumu’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “Wait, ya think they’d make me choose?”

He doesn’t want to choose.

Strategically, Tairn would be the obvious choice, he’s big and strong and everything a proper dragon should be. But…Andarna. Atsumu’s connection to the golden dragon was so immediate and strong, he couldn’t imagine having her ripped away from him so soon.

If all that heart shit Kaori was talking about is really true, then both dragons are his. They’re meant to be. There’s no other acceptable outcome.

“I don’t think I could,” Atsumu whispers.

Kita gives him a sympathetic half smile. “Then let’s hope they don’t make ya.”

Atsumu closes his eyes and presses at the barriers caging his mind, but there’s no give whatsoever. Gods, he wishes he could reach them-get an update on the meeting. Or simply feel the magic of the black and gold tethers again.

It’s odd, Atsumu has only been bonded for less than a day, but already the absence of his dragons has him feeling off-kilter. 

“Do ya think they’re close to finishing?” Atsumu asks. “I haven’t heard anythin’ since the dragons flew off.”

“Not sure,” Kita says. “Cath shut me out, too.”

They stand in silence for a moment, allowing space for doubt to creep into Atsumu’s mind. Kita’s voice replays itself, bouncing incessantly around the empty spaces of his skull.

‘You’re the first. Ever.’

Atsumu’s eyes drop to where his fingers are picking away at his cuticles.

“Hey Shin,” he whispers. “Why me?”

Kita places his hand over Atsumu’s, putting a gentle stop to his fidgeting. “Fate works in mysterious ways. But I like to think that it makes very few mistakes.”

Atsumu would beg to differ.

“I ain’t that special.”

Kita leans down to meet Atsumu’s gaze him from under his eyelids. “Liar.”

Atsumu flushes as Kita’s hands move up to ruffle his hair. 

He really doesn’t deserve Kita sometimes. Most times. Always.

The hand over Atsumu’s head freezes as Kita’s eyes go distant. After a few suspended seconds, he pulls his hand down to straighten up Atsumu’s collar. “Cath says they’re almost finished with the meetin’. Ya better get in line.”

Tairn said it would take a while, but that felt like hardly any time at all. That could either be a very good or a very bad sign.

Atsumu gives Kita one final hug, hard enough to undo any jacket straightening efforts. He leaves the shadows of the tents to make his way to the line of first-years. They’re neatly organized beneath a straight line of softly bobbing mage lights. A terrifying array of newly-bonded dragons dust the gravel a few yards behind them.

“Sho!” Atsumu shouts, spotting his bright mop of hair and limping right to him. The tension in Atsumu’s shoulders finally melts away as he wraps Hinata into a hug. He might’ve been more worried about the ex-scribe getting through Threshing than he was for himself.

“Atsumu!” Hinata shouts, tucking under Atsumu’s arms and squeezing the bruised ribs hard enough to twinge, even with the magic-laced painkillers. He must wince because Hinata hops back immediately and asks, “what happened?”

“Ran into the wrong dra-” The words are punched out of him as he’s snatched off his feet and spun around. Bokuto’s boisterous laugh tickles the back of his neck.

“Look who rode in on the second-baddest motherfucker around!”

“Put him down!” Hinata chides. “He’s hurt.”

“Oh shit, sorry!” Bokuto says, dropping Atsumu gently to his feet.

“‘M fine.” Atsumu insists, hand over the pulse at his side. He turns back to raise a brow at Bokuto. “Did you just say second -baddest?”

“Yeah yeah, your big guy’s real cute and all, but he’s got nothing on Fierge. She’s the most badass blue clubtail in the entire Vale!” Bokuto points out a large, sleek blue at the far end of the field. “It just sucks that I found her so fast, I didn’t even get a chance to use my sword,” he pouts.

“Don’t I get bonus points fer the little one too?”

“So it’s true?” Hinata gasps. “You really bonded two dragons?”

‘Assuming they let it happen,’ Atsumu thinks. But he nods anyway, soft heat spilling into his cheeks under Hinata’s awestruck stare.

“That is so freaking cool!” Hinata squeals, gripping his shoulders and shaking back and forth.

Bokuto leans back with a dramatic sigh. “There he goes again, always having to one-up us.”

“How ‘bout you, Sho?” Atsumu asks. Please, gods, let Hinata have bonded.

“My dragon is super awesome too!” Hinata beams. “His name is Sliseag, he’s a red swordtail, 104 years old and the second highest rank in his whole den. Plus he’s super mean and scary!” His smile grows even wider, like he counts those as positive qualities in a dragon.

Wait. Did he say red swordtail? Surely it couldn’t be…and of course Hinata’s finger is pointed straight at the dragon who tried to slice Atsumu down the middle.

Atsumu gasps. “What the fuck, Sho?”

“What?” Hinata’s face drains.

“That dragon tried ta kill me! How could ya bond with it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” Hinata’s eyes go glassy and distant for a long pregnant pause. “Slis says sorry too. But he also says that next time you shouldn’t annoy him like that.”

“Annoy him?” The heat flashing through Atsumu is enough to blow steam out his ears. Someone is going to have to stop him from starting a fist fight with a damn dragon.

A horn blares through the field, forcing Atsumu to drop it, and calling everyone back to attention.

The cadets fall into their typical formation. Behind them, the air shifts as the dragons shuffle to sit staggered a few paces behind their riders.

The empty space behind Atsumu has him chewing his cheek. He holds his breath as he watches the skies.

There’s a flash of golden scales shining in the moonlight before a giant black shadow swallows the moon up entirely. Atsumu clutches his heart as Andarna and Tairn settle into place behind him. Once both their feet touch the ground, the veil on the bond lifts away.

The warmth of magic flowing back to his mind is an instant relief. 

“How did it go?” Atsumu asks eagerly.

 Tairn’s bass-deep voice fills Atsumu’s mind again.

“Things are as they should be.”

“Which is…?”

A second horn blares and a hush falls over the crowd as Commander Pancheck steps up to the stage.

“We have a quick announcement before we proceed with the closing ceremony. The Empyrean has met, and they have come to an agreement regarding the Miya boy. While tradition has shown us that there is one rider for every dragon, there has never been a case of two dragons choosing the same rider. Therefore, there is no dragon law against it.” A wave of whispers rolls through the crowd. “While some may feel that this is not…equitable. Dragons make their own laws. Both Tairn and Andarna have chosen Miya Atsumu, and so their choice stands.”

The whispers start up again, but Atsumu couldn’t care less.

“I really get ta keep both of ya?” he asks his dragons, a massive smile breaking over his face.

“Did you ever doubt us?” Andarna asks with mock disappointment.

“Course not.” Atsumu smiles on, despite the growing swell of discord around him. “People might be pissed about it, though.”

Tairn hums his amusement. “Dragons care not about the opinions of lesser beings. And neither should you.”

Atsumu chooses to ignore that he’s technically lumped in with the other humans as “lesser beings”, and just takes the advice for what it is.

A cornucopia of expressions swivel Atsumu’s way–awe, envy, anger. He holds his chin up against each one, standing proudly in front of both his dragons.

Atsumu can’t find Sakusa in the crowd, but he would love to see the look on the bastard’s smug face right now. Is it too much to hope that he’s shitting his pants? Because if you take their dragons into account, the fight just became a three-on-two, and for godsdamn once, the scales are tipped in Atsumu’s favor.

Pancheck stills the murmuring with a clearing of his throat. “Further dissent on the subject will not be tolerated. If anyone has a problem with the decision, you can take it up with the dragons. I’m sure they’d love a good snack.”

And with that, Pancheck steps back and General Miya takes center stage. Everyone else’s backs straighten as he commands the podium–words from their fearsome general a rare and special treat.

Atsumu actively slumps in protest, tuning out the scripted speech closing out the formal bits of Threshing. It’s something like, “blah, blah, the unbonded can try again next year, Navarre is lucky to have such strong and capable soldiers, thanks for signing your lives away, chumps.”

His ears only perk back up when he can tell that the speech is nearing its end.

“To the dragons who have chosen to bond this year, it is an honor to welcome you to our ranks. Riders, step forward.”

Atsumu takes one long stride and is hit by a sharp lick of pain. His shoulder blades curl in as something burns down his back.

“Did you guys feel that?” Hinata asks, rubbing at his hand, a peek of red showing through the spaces of his fingers.

“Sho!” Atsumu gasps. “Yer hand!”

Hinata looks down, where a deep red dragon head now resides smack on the back of his hand, fierce jaw poised open as if ready to bite down on his middle knuckle. 

“Oh my gods!” Hinata yanks up his sleeve to reveal the rest of his dragon relic–a swirling red swordtail wrapped around his forearm.

“That kind of hurt.” Hinata laughs, flexing his hand and watching his relic stretch and contract with big, bright eyes.

“Oh, is that what that was?” Bokuto looks down and starts unbuckling his belt.

Before anyone can protest, his pants are pooled at his knees and he’s beaming down at the navy clubtail swooping down the entire trunk of his thigh.

“Fuck yeah!” he shouts, turning his leg back and forth marveling at the new addition inked on his skin. “That’s it, I’m never wearing pants again.”

“Oh gods,” Atsumu laughs. “Although I can’t blame ya, that thing is bad-fuckin’-ass Bo.”

“Show us yours, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto says as he refastens his button.

“My mark was that burning feeling, right?” Atsumu asks Tairn just to confirm.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” Tairn confirms. “It certainly is unique.”

The pain has subsided, but the warm hum of magic still tickles over Atsumu’s back.

He shucks off his flight jacket and yanks the laces of his armor, loosening it enough to wiggle out of. Once his armor is off, his undershirt follows.

There’s a chorus of “oohs” as Atsumu twists his back towards his squadmates.

“Wow, there really are two of them!” Bokuto marvels.

“That has to be the coolest mark in the whole world, Atsumu!” Hinata squeals.

“I can’t see it,” Atsumu pouts. Even craning his neck back as far as he can, all he can catch is a sharp tip of black cresting his shoulder blades.

“Oh!” Andarna’s voice pipes in. “I can help!”

There’s a shift in the air behind him, and suddenly, his vision isn’t his own. Atsumu is looking at himself through Andarna’s eyes. And there at the center of his back is a fresh, shimmering mark–a huge black dragon, wings spread in mid-flight stretching from shoulder to shoulder, tail caressing the length of Atsumu’s spine. And smack in the center of the black dragon, is a small golden one.

There it is, his commitment to his country, his brother and his dragons inked in black and gold. It’s not something he’d ever thought he’d have, or ever even wanted, but he has to admit, it feels right.

And looks really fucking cool.

Atsumu marvels at the dual dragons splayed across his skin, a twitch of a smile hitting his lips.

Black and gold–the colors suit him.

— ⚡︎ —

They’re released from their formation with a final set of congratulations from the General. As his boots stomp down the steps, a raucous cheer breaks into the air. The second and third years instantly swarm the line of newly minted riders.

“There’s my boys!” Saeko shouts, blonde hair swerving through the mob and running right towards them. She skids to a stop at their feet, hair swept wild by the wind, matching the equally wild glint in her eyes. “Or should I say riders?”

“Best squad ever! ” Ryunosuke shouts, throwing his arms around all three of them at the same time.

They shout back the catchphrase, with some difficulty, being smushed into Ryunosuke’s chest and all.

“Not too shabby,” Kita says, walking up leisurely as they’re released for air.

A laugh bubbles up Atsumu’s throat. They all survived Threshing. They all bonded. Not too shabby indeed.

“Thank you Kita-San!” Hinata beams.

Bokuto shows his own thanks by tackling Kita’s midsection and lifting him into the air with a whoop.

Saeko shifts on her feet as she watches the antics. Her hands are bent back, and a quick flash of black peeks up from her shoulder.

“What’s that?” Atsumu asks, pointing towards whatever she’s hiding.

Bokuto releases Kita back to his feet, distracted by the mystery.

“Oh, nothing.” Saeko’s grin is feral as she pulls up four long sticks, each wrapped in shiny black cloth at the ends. “Just a little unsanctioned Threshing tradition.”

Ryunosuke drums his fingers together, eyes alight with the same, terrifying mirth as his sister. Even Kita has a conspiratorial little smile on his lips.

Saeko passes one torch to Bokuto, one to Hinata, and the last two to Atsumu. “Have your dragons light these up and then follow me, kiddos.”

“What happened to riders?” Bokuto mumbles, but thrusts the torch over his head and jogs to where his clubtail is waiting.

Hinata just screeches, full-sprinting back towards his menace of a swordtail.

Giving Hinata’s dragon a wide berth, Atsumu walks back to where Tairn and Andarna are watching at the back of the field.

“Umm,” Atsumu stammers as he approaches with his sticks. “I’m s’posed ta ask…could ya light these up fer me?”

Tairn bows his head and Andarna swishes her tail.

Atsumu holds each torch out as far and high as he can. The heat stings his face as each dragon shoots a short puff of flame above his head. He pulls the torches back down, each one blazing in brilliant orange fire. The flames dance around in delicate swirls, and Atsumu finds himself temporarily mesmerized. Dragon fire has the raw power to incinerate a man into bone dust, and yet, here it looks soft enough to hold in his hand.

“Have fun tonight!” Andarna chirps in his head.

Atsumu looks up from his torches. “Uh, thanks?”

“Not too much fun,” Tairn amends. “We’ve got an early morning.”

Fun? What the hells are they talking about?

With no other explanation, Atsumu’s dragons give him one last bow and take to the skies. They join with the riot of other bonded dragons and fly back to the Vale for the night.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu shuffles along in the mass exodus of cadets marching down the flight field and into the presentation meadow. The night paints the golden grass in a deep moonlit blue. When they cross into the edge of the forest, the light from the moon is all but swallowed by the tall line of trees, plunging them into near-darkness. If it weren’t for the bouncing orange spots woven through the shifting black of the crowd, the walk would be completely void of light.

It continues that way for quite some time. Nervous whispers blend into the chorus of boots crunching the underbrush, the first-years led by the confident steps of their seniors, deep into the heart of the forest.

Just as the murmuring begins to grow weary, a sharp, dancing light cuts through the trees, weaving an intricate pattern of rich golden light and stark black shadow. Their march comes to an abrupt stop at the edge of a large circular clearing and the source of the glow comes into view.

A massive bonfire centers the space, filling the forest with vibrant orange and yellow light. The magic-tinged spark of dragonfire dances and swirls, casting off smoky black fingers up into the night sky.

An elegant silhouette stands in front of the fire, hands on curved hips and long black hair swept over one shoulder. Three other imposing figures surround her sides, towering a head higher each and looming like a vicious pack of guard dogs. The one on the end is slightly taller than the rest, with black hair curling his head and black mist curling his feet.

A gentle fireball dances in Kiyoko’s upturned palm, just enough light to offset the fire behind her, and illuminate the delicate edges of her face.

“Today you were chosen.”

A raucous applesauce rises up into the sky. A small smile plays on Kiyoko’s lips as she waits for the roar to die back down.

“Chosen by the fiercest creatures to grace our great land. Today you join a family. One that knows no boundaries, no limits, and no end.”

The fire in her hand grows fiercer with each word.

“We are a unit. Each of you, and each of your dragons, make up a part of the whole. So throw your dragon’s fire into the pit, and join the ranks of Navarre’s legendary riders!”

She throws her hand in the air and blasts a bright stream of fire high above her head. It twists in the air, shooting back towards the crowd and swooping down over their heads before landing back in the bonfire with a bright burst of embers.

The crowd roars.

The wingleaders step out of the way and the first-years descend to throw their torches in the giant bonfire. Atsumu waits for an opening, then steps in to chuck both of his sticks. They’re each swallowed up with a short pop of magic, becoming one with the collective inferno of dragon flame.

By the time everyone’s torches have been added, the fire rages with barely contained vigor, setting the alcove alight with a vicious glow.

“Now what?” Hinata asks when their squad reconvines in the mass huddle of bodies.

“Now we celebrate!” Saeko yells.

“This is a party?” Atsumu asks with a smile. He hasn’t let loose in gods know how long.

“It will be once we get some drinks in you boys.” Ryunosuke grins, taking Hinata under his wing and pushing him towards one of the big barrel kegs strewn about the forest. Saeko walks behind them, shaking Hinata’s shoulders and hyping him up. Kita and Bokuto flank their sides and Bokuto whoops and hollers into the air. Atsumu starts to follow, but there’s a skulking black shadow headed the same direction and he’s suddenly not so thirsty.

Atsumu subtly peels back from his squad and shuffles to another drink station on the other side of the forest, where the crowd is thinnest. As he approaches, his ears pick up a deep, rich voice with an achingly familiar lilt tracing each word. One that sounds like home.

“What are ya drinkin’? Ale or ale?”

When he tracks down the voice, it’s coming from someone he’s never seen before–someone he surely wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of. Tall, tan, muscled, short brown hair and a shadow of stubble shading his strong jaw.

He’s pouring drinks for a short line of cadets, pulling tin cups from a big wooden bucket. A bright smile cuts through the dark for each person who approaches. Atsumu waits for the other cadets to clear out before walking up himself.

“Hey, are ya from Inarizaki?” Atsumu asks, checking the guy over, eyes taking the scenic route across the vast mountains of muscle. Yeah, no way they’ve met before. No part of the man could be described as forgettable.

Warm brown eyes slowly rake up from the ground, landing with a twinkle as they meet Atsumu’s own. That gorgeous pearl grin splits the man’s face. “Born and raised.”

“Me too!”

The man arches a strong brow that sounds suspiciously like ‘no shit.’ A low, melodic laugh rumbles through his chest. “Cheers ta that. Can I get ya somethin’?”

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure I–” Atsumu stammers before Bokuto’s arm comes out of nowhere and crushes over his shoulder.

“You have to drink Tsum Tsum,” he whines. “We’re celebrating!”

“I take it Threshing went well for ya then?” The man asks, pouring a cup and holding it up.

Bokuto snatches it from the air and his arm tightens. He pries a single finger off the cup to press in Atsumu’s cheek. “Motherfucker has two dragons! Two!”

“Really?” The flow of ale stops halfway through the second cup. Shocked brown eyes glue themselves to Atsumu. “Has that ever happened before?”

Atsumu shakes his head, feeling a flash of heat creep into his cheeks. “They had a whole meetin’ to see if it was allowed, but I guess the dragons okay’d it.”

“Very impressive, Hot Shot.” The man’s voice is smooth butterscotch and his eyes are rich, melted chocolate. Atsumu feels a little warmer just looking at him. He hands Atsumu a cup of ale and takes a long swig of his own, curious brown eyes never straying far from Atsumu’s face.

Bokuto drains his entire cup in one go. “Want to see my dragon relic?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. And before Atsumu has time to stop him, he’s dropping his damn pants again.

The guy laughs and gives Bokuto a deep wolf-whistle as he models the blue clubtail curling his thigh.

“Wait!” Bokuto gasps. “I forgot to show Kita and the twins!” He yanks his pants up, not bothering to refasten them, just bunching them in fists at his waist. Then he runs away to find Saeko and Ryunosuke.

“Sorry ‘bout him.” Atsumu hopes the darkness is enough to hide the red on his face. He shifts in his spot, fingers drumming along the tin handle of his cup. “So, uh, are ya a rider?”

He’s sure he’s never seen this guy before, but there’s plenty of people in the Quadrant. He might’ve missed him, somehow.

The rich voice drops beneath the roar of the crowd, forcing Atsumu to lean in close to hear it. “Infantry,” he whispers, sharp amusement dancing in his eyes.

Atsumu’s brows shoot up. “Party-crasher?”

“I prefer the term rebel.” He winks. “Little less pathetic that way.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Still kinda pathetic.”

The soldier slaps a hand to his chest like he’s been shot. He staggers back and nearly spills his drink before breaking the charade with a chuckle. “My buddies and I snuck in. Wear black and bring booze, then nobody cares enough to ask questions.” He leans in for a stage-whisper behind a large, rugged hand. “Rider’s have the best parties.”

“Ah.” Atsumu nods sagely. “The whole ‘this could be our last day alive’ thing certainly lends itself to a higher level of debauchery. Ya come here to try and bed someone riding the post-Threshing high?”

“Nah, just drinkin’ n’ soakin’ in the merriment. I don’t make a habit of sleepin’ with riders. Bunch of crazy fuckin’ bastards.” He throws his head back for a long swig of his drink, throat bobbing as he swallows.

“Eh, yer not wrong there,” Atsumu hums, eyes pointedly raking down his massive frame. “Shame.”

When the man’s head falls back down, it tips to the side. An unmistakable hunger sparks his pretty brown eyes. He licks a stray drop from his bottom lip and takes a deliberate step closer. “There’s always exceptions, of course.”

“For?”

“Exceptionally pretty bastards.” He sets his cup down and a large, scarred hand reaches up between them. “The name’s Meian Shugo.” 

Atsumu takes it, a purr of satisfaction running down his spine as his fingers brush across the expanse of calluses. “Atsumu.”

“Atsumu.” It sounds pretty on his tongue, a warm breath of home wrapped around each syllable. “Ya got a last name?”

Not caring to be the General’s son tonight, Atsumu dodges the straight answer. “Not one ya need ta know.”

Meian’s hands fly up in surrender. “Hey now, I’m not tryin’ ta pry. Keep as many secrets as ya want, I like a little mystery.” He chuckles, holding his grin to roll the tip of his tongue over the crest of his lower lip.

Atsumu brings his cup to his own lips, teeth gently tittering along the iron rim. His nose involuntarily scrunches as the too familiar smell of sour ale wafts up.

The year Atsumu spent “traveling the country” was closer to a grand tour of every piss-floored tavern littering Navarre’s coast. He would drown his anger and loneliness in the cheapest drink available, the ale serving as a quick fix to ease the storms in his mind. Night after night, he busied himself with drink after gods-awful drink–anything he could do to drown his misery. He had found plenty of pretty distractions to warm his bed at night, but the sour taste of ale retching back up his throat became his only companion come morning.

“Not a fan of ale?” Meian asks, nodding to Atsumu’s untouched cup.

“Not these days.”

“Ya opposed to somethin’ a little stronger?” He pulls a leather-wrapped flask from his pocket and twists the iron cap free. “I promise it’s better than that horse-piss.”

Atsumu laughs. “Sure.”

“May I?”

Atsumu nods. He’s not even sure what he’s giving permission for, but he can’t imagine a whole lot he’d want to say no to.

Their eyes lock as Meian’s fingers slide over Atsumu’s jaw, and he tips the lip of the flask up over his lips. Atsumu’s throat bobs as he gulps down the rich, bitter liquid. It goes down smooth, a satisfying burn past his tongue as he swallows.

The heat hits him right away. It grows even more as those pretty brown eyes drink him in turn. Meian’s battle-rough hand lingers on Atsumu’s skin even after the flask returns to his back pocket.

Atsumu can’t help but flush under the attention.

It really has been a while…

“So…where’s yer dragon mark?” Meian’s eyes drop to Atsumu’s thighs and his lips peel back in a cheeky grin, the tip of his tongue peeking out the side of his teeth.

Atsumu clicks his tongue, hiding behind a swig of ale and almost coughing. Damn, the stuff really is terrible. He recovers quickly, forcing his grimace into a coy smile. “Another secret.”

Meian’s hand drops at Atsumu’s waist, thumb brushing underneath the hem of his shirt to graze the bare skin and lift his jacket up an inch. “Ya gonna make me find it, pretty boy?”

“Meian!” Someone shouts, approaching from the other end of the firepit. “Foster’s checking bunks, we gotta head back before he gets to our floor.”

Meian swears under his breath, pretty smile whisked away in a flash.

“I gotta go,” he says with a sigh. His hand reluctantly pulls back, leaving a cold spot on Atsumu’s skin. The pearly smile returns for one last hurrah, along two fingers at his brow for a mock salute as he turns away. “Hope to see ya around Hot Shot.”

“Bye.” Atsumu sighs as his fingers wave Meian away.

He rejoins his squad by the fire, letting their excited chatter bubble around him as he watches the magical flames dance around. Bokuto and Hinata share highlights of their Threshing stories, mostly Bokuto lamenting over not getting to use his sword. Ryunosuke drones on about how he’s going to marry Wingleader Kiyoko, but he goes completely frozen when she walks by and the rest of the squad humbles his skinny ass quick.

The merriment is just what Atsumu needed. He’s been so on edge since he got here, but now that Threshing’s over, he can finally let a fraction of his stress go and goof around with his friends.

There’s still an uncomfortable amount of eyes on him, but the liquor numbs the sting of it, his cup emptying more with each scowl thrown his way. Atsumu hasn’t seen those three familiar scowls yet tonight, Oikawa’s squad gracefully lost somewhere in the crowd. The most he’s spied is a quick flash of mouse-brown hair from the other side of the flames.

He wonders what happened to the squad after they ran away. Did they end up bonding? And if they did, what dragons did they bond with?

He shakes the worry from his mind–he’ll find out tomorrow at their first flight lesson. At least Atsumu hasn’t been cornered into a deadly rematch tonight, so he thanks Zinhal for that.

Atsumu’s eyes occasionally find Sakusa in the crowd. Sakusa holds a cup by his waist, but never seems to take a drink. He’s probably too good for the awful excuse for ale the cadets managed to scrounge up.

At some point their little group drifts apart, Kita leaving to talk to some other squad leaders, Ryunosuke, Saeko and Bokuto leaving for refills. Atsumu is left by the roaring fire, patting Hinata’s back in an attempt to cure his wicked case of hiccups.

“Miyaaaaa!”

Atsumu’s only warning is the overwhelming smell of churam smoke, before a bony arm slings over his shoulder. His eyes immediately lock onto the rebellion relic swirling out the edge of the jacket sleeve.

The hand is connected to Suna. His clothes smell like smoke, his breath smells like liquor, and even in the distant light of the bonfire, his eyes are visibly bloodshot. He smiles lazily and says, “there you are.”

Atsumu’s guard shoots right up.

Another tall figure passes by before Suna wrangles it in. Sakusa’s eyes widen at Atsumu, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Suna turns his face back to Atsumu, hugging him into his side. “I wanted to be the first to welcome you to the family.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu says with an awkward laugh, trying to steady Suna while also subtly shoving him the fuck off. “Navarre’s legendary riders, best family ever.”

“Not that family,” he says, weight falling back into Atsumu’s side. “The other one.”

Atsumu drops the attempt at subtlety, and shoves Suna’s arm off of him before he sways too hard and pulls both of them to the ground. Or worse, into Sakusa. “What are ya talkin’ about?”

“Oh,” Suna turns to his other side, where Sakusa is trying to skulk away. He pulls him back with a fake-looking gasp. “You haven’t told him?”

Sakusa grumbles something unintelligible, trying and failing to break Suna’s grasp. He suddenly finds whatever’s in he’s drinking to be passable and hides behind the bottom of his cup.

“Told me what?” Atsumu asks warily.

The smile splitting Suna’s face already makes Atsumu regret it.

“Your dragon,” a sharp finger pokes the center of Atsumu’s chest before it swings back to squish Sakusa’s cheek, “and his dragon, are mates.”

…What?

Atsumu’s pulse starts racing. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that the two of you will be seeing a whole lot more of each other.” Suna pushes Sakusa in Atsumu’s direction.

Sakusa catches himself before flying face-first into Atsumu’s chest. His face pulls back a flushed, angry red accented by the orange glow of the fire.

“Riders bonding mated dragons?” Hinata pops up with a hiccup. Shit, Atsumu forgot he was there. “That’s so interesting! I bet the archives have some great information on it.” He points his finger in the air and hiccups. “I’m gonna look into it.”

Bokuto breaks through the crowd, two fresh cups in hand, foam sloshing down the sides with his big, swaying steps.

“Did you just give yourself more homework?” He asks Hinata before booing him and shoving the fresh drink in his hands.

“It’s not homework,” Hinata insists, swinging his cup around as he talks. “It’s research! And it’s interesting!”

“You know what else is interesting?” Ryunosuke staggers up with a fresh drink of his own, his sister flushed and giggling over his shoulder. “Not spending all your free time in a library!” Saeko finishes for him.

“Does your dragon know about this?” Bokuto asks with a serious expression.

“Why would he care?!” Hinata yelps, stumbling over his feet and spilling his entire cup down the front of Suna’s pants.

“Oh gods!” Hinata shouts. “I’m so sorry!”

The twins cackle as Hinata and Bokuto try to clean it off. Suna assures them that it’s fine and he doesn’t need the help. Then Bokuto shoves his drink at Saeko to free his hands up, and it spills right down her shirt, stirring up a new batch of laughter and panic.

A harsh hand circles Atsumu’s arm, pulling him out from chaos.

Atsumu digs his heels in, but Sakusa’s grip digs even harder, and he drags them deep into the darkness of the forest. When he finally stops, the party is but a hum and the bonfire a soft orange outline on Sakusa’s shadowed frame.

“What the fuck was he talkin’ about?” Atsumu asks, pulling back against Sakusa’s clutches. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Sakusa says, finally dropping the death grip on Atsumu’s arm.

“Okay.” Atsumu rubs the sore spot of muscle. “So our dragons are mated. What’s that got to do with us?”

“Gods, do you know anything about dragons?” Sakusa asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Atsumu folds his own arms and scowls up at him.

Sakusa sighs, eyes rolling back in his skull. “The bond between mates is incredibly strong. If mated dragons are apart for too long, their physical health starts to decline. So, yes, we will be seeing a lot more of each other.”

“Did ya plan this or somethin’?” Atsumu squawks.

It would be a twisted stroke of genius, a way for Sakusa to torture Atsumu for the rest of his life, since apparently killing him isn’t enough.

“Of course not.” Sakusa’s nose scrunches at Atsumu like he’s the human equivalent of a crappy mug of ale. “Believe me Miya, you are the last fucking person on this earth I want chained to my side.”

“Then why the fuck did it happen?!”

A harsh breath pushes from Sakusa’s nose. “My dragon has a soft spot for the little one. And you were doing a shit job of protecting it.”

Does he mean Andarna?

“Fuck you!” Atsumu shouts, shoving his flat palms hard at Sakusa’s chest. “I would’ve died fer her!”

Sakusa snatches Atsumu’s wrists before he can pull them away. “And you were about to!”

It’s as close to a shout as Atsumu’s ever heard from Sakusa.

Sakusa clears his throat and leans in closer. His voice lowers and the next words come in clipped and quick. “I couldn’t interfere. You were knocking on Malek’s door. Sgaeyl called Tairn in to help.” Sakusa releases Atsumu’s wrists and runs a hand through his misplaced curls. “Unfortunately for all of us, Tairn decided to bond you all on his own.”

“Sgaeyl?” Atsumu cradles his hands to his chest, a dull throb under the delicate skin.

“My dragon,” Sakusa huffs, like Atsumu should’ve already known that.

It would’ve been nice to know this morning, before he bonded her fucking mate. Then Atsumu could’ve opted for dying in the field instead of riding back to Basgiath on Tairn’s back.

He doesn’t pretend to know the intricacies of dragon relationships, but he knows that mated pairs are serious business. And Tairn would most likely not be happy with Atsumu killing his mate’s rider.

So much for dragons solving all his problems.

“We’ll just…deal with it,” Sakusa says after Atsumu’s long, stunned silence. “Try to see each other as little as humanly possible.”

“Don’t worry darlin’,” Atsumu sneers. “We won’t have to deal with it fer long.” 

Sakusa’s face falls to a flat line, blank eyes blinking at Atsumu. “You still want to kill me.”

It’s hard to tell if it’s a question or not. But Atsumu answers anyway, so Sakusa doesn’t have a chance to misread shit about the nature of their relationship. He taps his fingers over the jeweled hilt at his side, glaring Sakusa down and spitting the words out. “Mates and dragons don’t mean shit ta me. Nothing has changed between us.”

“Nothing?” Sakusa asks, incredulous.

Sakusa may have saved his life on multiple confusing occasions but not once did Atsumu actually ask him to. He can save Atsumu a thousand times over, but he can never un-kill Osamu.

Sakusa’s gaze is fierce. The distant celebration paints a hellfire glow along the edges of his dark silhouette, further shadowing the deep pockets of his flawless face. Poorly concealed anger etches each sharp, cruel angle. The last exquisitely wicked thing Osamu saw before dying.

Atsumu’s answer will never change. “No.”

The deep shadows of Sakusa’s face grow darker as he falls into a terse silence, a thousand thoughts rapid-firing in his gold-flecked eyes.

Atsumu’s feet hold firm–trapped in Sakusa’s darkening stare.

The haloed flamelight licking Sakusa’s shoulders begins to peter out as the final dying clamor of the party comes to a head.

“Whatever,” Sakusa says at last. He turns away and slinks back to the shadows where he belongs.

— ⚡︎ —

The party is over, so Atsumu trudges straight back towards the college, quickly scaling the single spiral staircase to his new dorm assignment. But not even the thought of a private room is enough to lift his spirits. The second the door slams behind him, he closes his eyes and yanks on the channel leading to Tairn.

“Why didn’t ya tell me?” he shouts down the bond.

“Hello,” Tairn says slowly, voice thick with sleep. “Tell you what, Gold One?”

“About yer mate!”

“My mate?”

“Sgaeyl.”

“I’m aware of her name.” A long yawn. “Would you have liked to know it before I saved your hide? Or after you bled out?”

Atsumu huffs, kicking off his boots and throwing open the door to the closet.

“I didn’t think it necessary information,” Tairn continues. “Do you have a problem with my mate?”  

There’s an undercurrent of a growl to Tairn’s words. Atsumu freezes in place and quickly tries to backtrack.

“No, no of course not. I’m sure she’s…lovely.” He cringes at the pre-stocked selections available in his new closet. Black, black and more fucking black. With a defeated sigh, he grabs the nearest set of bedclothes and stomps to the small washroom attached to the back corner. “It’s her rider I’ve got a problem with.”

“The Wingleader?”

Atsumu hums confirmation as he sets his clothes neatly over the sink and immediately starts a bath. The old pipes groan through the walls in effort to fill the deep copper tub with magic-heated water.

Tairn chuffs. “You would have been dead in that field if not for him.”

Atsumu’s knuckles pale over the faucet.

He had suspected as much, but the confirmation makes his stomach churn.

He thinks back to the meadow, the moment right before Tairn showed up. Sakusa said that he couldn’t interfere, but…he was about to. His blade was pulled and he was stepping towards Oikawa.

It’s odd that Atsumu’s instinct towards someone saving his life is anger–but it’s his default emotion whenever thoughts of Sakusa invade his mind. Though lately, confusion seems to be slowly catching up in the rankings. He has no clue what the fuck is going on in Sakusa’s head. And the not knowing just pisses Atsumu off, circling him right back to square one.

“You guys are talking about the shadow wielder, right?” A flick of gold lights Atsumu’s mind–Andarna joining the conversation. “He was so sweet! He’s stayed back to patch you up and didn’t leave until right before you woke up.”

When Atsumu goes to yank his pants down, they catch around his injured thigh. The makeshift, black bandage stares back up at him. He quickly unwraps it and chucks the Sakusa-soiled cloth at the wall.

Why? Why does Sakusa keep helping him? He said himself, he’s already repaid the favor he owed Atsumu.

“Never mind.” Atsumu sighs, stripping his armor and his undershirt. “It’s fine.”

It’s not fair to take his frustration out on his dragons. They don’t have anything to do with the feud between him and Sakusa.

Once the bath is full, he stops the water and climbs over the edge of the tub. The stone walls are close enough for him to stretch out his arms and lay both palms flat, but the deep, steaming bath tucked between them is a damn luxury. Atsumu lowers himself into the bath, wincing as the raw, burned skin meets the scalding hot water. He pushes through it, and sinks all the way down, dunking his head below the surface. He stays until his breath runs out, then pops up just enough to poke his nose above the water and soak in his misery.

Atsumu curls his knees to his chest and tells them, “just–know that I’m not a big fan of the guy.”

“I like him,” Andarna says.

“That makes one of us, darlin’.” Atsumu lifts his lips from the water and blows ripples along the glassy surface.

“His hair is so swirly and shiny.”

Atsumu snorts. “It’s curly. And I’m pretty sure the hair’s just a distraction from the horns.”

“Humans don’t have horns.”

“Up fer debate.” Atsumu’s fingers curl the hammer pocked edges of the tub to pull himself upright. He leans over the edge to reach the small, pre-stocked cabinet to pursue the array of elegant soaps and oils. At least Basgiath is finally trying to butter them up–the private rooms, the small creature comforts. They deserve a damn perk or two after the hellish months they’ve been forced through.

Atsumu cracks open a random soap bottle and dumps half the thing into the water. He slides back down the curved copper. He settles in, the tip of his nose hovering over the soapy film.

He takes a deep breath and the overwhelming scent nearly chokes him.

Jasmine.

He somehow managed to pick the same fucking soap that Sakusa uses. And now he’s drowning in it.

Atsumu claws his way out of the tub, bumping the cabinet and sending bottles rolling and water splashing all over the floor.

Tairn’s deep timbre swells back up in his mind, either unaware or unperturbed by Atsumu’s freak out. “It’s unfortunate to hear that you two don’t get along. It will be difficult to avoid the Wingleader seeing as mine and Sgaeyl’s relationship will have the majority of your assignments coinciding. Perhaps the two of you can work to find some common ground?”

“Uh, right. Sure, I’ll work on that,” Atsumu lies as he snatches a towel and slams the washroom door shut behind him.

Wait. Can dragons tell when he’s lying? How much of his thoughts can they hear exactly?

Suddenly Atsumu feels self conscious in his own head. He tugs his towel tighter. “I’m gonna go to bed, how do ya turn the bond thingy off?”

“There isn’t exactly an off switch,” Tairn explains. “But until you learn to shield, just ask for privacy and I’m happy to leave your mind all to yourself.”

“What if I wanna talk to him?” Andarna asks, a pointed pout in her cute, little voice.

“Let him rest,” Tairn tells her. “It has been a long day.”

Andarna doesn’t respond with words, but Atsumu feels a twinge of annoyance ripple down the bright gold channel.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Atsumu offers just before the bond cuts out.

It isn’t quite the same barrier as earlier. He can’t hear his dragons any more, but he can still taste the faint buzz of their magic at the edge of his mind, muted behind foggy panes of glass that he could knock on if he needs to.

With Atsumu’s head now empty, guilt quickly rushes in to fill the open spaces.

He feels bad. Tairn obviously didn’t know Atsumu’s life story before swooping in to save his life. And now he’s bonded to someone who’s trying to kill his mate’s rider.

Dragons don’t die when their riders do, unlike the inverse scenario, but Atsumu figures it at least has to hurt or something.

Tairn will just have to forgive him for it. Or roast him, he supposes. But that’s a bridge to cross another day.

Atsumu changes into fresh black clothes and picks his armor off the floor. He hangs it over the bed post before crawling into bed. The emerald scales shine in the flickering torchlight, watching over him from above. For the first time in who knows how long, Atsumu breathes with the full range of his chest, reveling the freedom of a locked door, and no one around waiting to gut him in his sleep.

He pulls up the black, wool blanket and settles into place.

For the first time in months Atsumu is met with complete silence.

And it’s awful.

Atsumu has always hated the quiet. All it does is make his thoughts scream louder. Then to top it off, with each shift of his body he catches a sickening whiff of jasmine.

Atsumu briefly considers another bath, just to scrub the damn scent of Sakusa off his skin, but in some weird way that feels like letting the bastard win.

He’ll be fine. He’ll ‘live with it.’

For now.

In an attempt to relax, he busies his mind with more pleasant thoughts, like the cute soldier with the trouble-maker grin and the pretty brown eyes.

But the eyes he sees when he closes his own aren’t the warm brown of Cute Infantry Guy, but a deep, endless black with little gold flecks.

Chapter Text

The morning sky is a dark, ominous gray, reminiscent of that first day crossing the parapet. Atsumu huffs at the irony, something about new beginnings all being gray and stormy at Basgiath.

A deep rumble rolls through the clouds, electricity charging the air in anticipation. Atsumu prays that the rain holds until the end of their first flight lesson. Dragon scales are slippery enough as it is.

Today was supposed to be a turning point. The beginning of the end. But of all the dragons who could’ve chosen Atsumu, it had to be one who tangles the strings of fate intrinsically tighter to…him.

‘Fate works in mysterious ways,’ or so Kita says.

But fate is not Atsumu’s friend. Not since the day it ripped his brother from the world.

If this is the world that fate has designed, then Atsumu will find a way to break it. To etch his own ambition into the grand design. He’ll fight each man, dragon and god in his way, just to right a fraction of the wrong fate did by taking his brother. He won’t stop until Malek drags him kicking and screaming into hell.

Atsumu closes his eyes, trading in the stormy flight field for the black recess of his mind. The bonds tied to Tairn and Andarna are still soft and muted, held behind foggy panes of glass that may or may not be sound-proof.

Through slow, measured breaths, Atsumu concentrates on quieting his mind from its new prying ears. He should still be able to use Tairn and Andarna’s power to take Sakusa out, then deal with the consequences of abusing his dragon’s trust later. He’ll need to guard his thoughts closely, until he can figure this whole mate mess out. What his dragons don’t need to know won’t have to hurt them.

Shaking back to the moment at hand, Atsumu puffs into his hands before trapping the warmth inside his suede tipped gloves. His newly minted flight jacket is zipped up to his chin, but it can’t hold the nauseating stink of jasmine every time the wind kicks up. It’s a pity there wasn’t time to scrub all his skin off this morning. Now he gets to fight a headache all day.

The general spirits around Atsumu are much higher than his own–all the brand new riders eagerly awaiting their dragon’s arrival. Bokuto and Hinata haven’t stopped smiling since the moment they stepped onto the field.

The sky’s next rumble is accompanied by vibrating pebbles under their feet–the dragons flying in to land one by one.

“It’s Slis!” Hinata grins even wider as blazing red scales descend from the clouds.

When Hinata’s swordtail crushes the ground behind them, Atsumu quickly scoots out of tail-slicing range before he manages to “annoy” the dragon by existing near it.

When a massive orange clubtail crests the mountain, Atsumu watches it all the way to where it lands behind a mop of overstyled brown hair. Of fucking course. The dragon stretches its long, battle-scarred neck up to leer over any other riders within flame-spitting distance. The circle around Oikawa subtly clears out, offering Atsumu the perfect opportunity to check up on his most bestest friend.

“Ya actually tricked a dragon into bondin’ ya?”

When Oikawa turns, Atsumu can’t help but smile at the dark purple bruises flanking his eyes and the dingy white bandage taping the slender bridge of his fucked up nose. The cut Atsumu gave him spans the entirety of Oikawa’s jawline, deep enough for a line of crudely tied black stitches. Good. Atsumu hopes it leaves a big ugly scar.

Oikawa folds his arms with a long-suffering sigh. “Only because the great and gracious Miya left a few dragons for the rest of us.”

Just then, giant black wings swallow the sky, Oikawa’s eyes widening as Tairn flies overhead. He lands gracefully behind them, poised directly next to Oikawa’s orange. He stretches up a good head or two taller and is noticeably more broad. The empty circle around them grows–even the dragons giving Tairn a wide berth.

Atsumu smirks at Oikawa. “Let me guess, size doesn’t matter?”

Oikawa returns a dead eyed smile. “Not all of us need to overcompensate.”

A solid retort, but lacking his usual bite. Atsumu eyes him, but Oikawa’s eyes swing forward and stay firmly there.

The spaces next to Oikawa are conspicuously empty for once. Atsumu scans the scattered line of the hundred-odd riders, but can’t spot Mad Dog or What’s-His-Face anywhere. “Where’s yer lackeys?” 

“Looking for a rematch already?” Oikawa sneers, before dropping his voice to a growl. “We both know how that fight would’ve ended, without your little guard dog interfering.”

“You’re lucky Tairn didn’t turn ya to ash.”

Atsumu is caught in the side of Oikawa’s sharp, brown cat-eyes. “Not that guard dog.”

Alarm prickles down Atsumu’s skin, bristling against whatever it is Oikawa’s implying. He turns his chin, kicking up a gracious amount of gravel as he walks over to Tairn.

As his eyes lock with the giant golden ones, the hazy curtain lifts in Atsumu’s mind. Tairn’s voice fills it with a rumbly, pleasant, “good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Atsumu replies, doing his best not to let any awkwardness seep through. It helps that he’s genuinely happy to see Tairn, even if he’s keeping massive, world-ending secrets from the guy. Atsumu squints up towards the mountains, but there’s no flash of gold streaking the sky. “Where’s Andarna?”

“She is too small to bear a rider,” Tairn answers. “So there is no need for her to attend flying lessons.”

Oh. It makes perfect sense, but Atsumu can’t help but feel disappointed. He wanted to see her.

“See?” Andarna’s golden string lights up his mind. “I knew I should’ve come!”

“Heya Goldie.” Atsumu smiles hearing her bright voice again. “I miss you too. Stop by next time, yeah?”

There’s a happy chirp that he takes as a promise before Kaori calls the class to attention.

“Good morning riders!” He cups his hand around his mouth, amplifying his voice so even the back of the crowd can hear. It’s one of the minor magics and something they’ll be learning over the coming weeks. Gods help them when Bokuto learns that one. “Congratulations on making it to your first flight practice. I hope you all have been paying attention in class,” Kaori says with a wry look. “Because it’s time to turn theory into practice. Mount your dragons and follow my lead. We will be going through a series of simple maneuvers your dragons already know. Your goal today is simple–stay in your seat.”

Kaori turns and breaks into a sprint, racing towards his dragon’s foreleg, and swiftly mounting like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Tairn extends his front leg so it’s a hair less than vertical, and noticeably taller than the ramp capping the Gauntlet.

Atsumu takes a few steps back and charges full sprint at his dragon. His momentum shorts out just shy of Tairn’s shoulder. His fingers dig into the scales before he slides all the way back down. There’s a subtle shift under his hands then a sharp lurch, Tairn kicking Atsumu up the rest of the way.

“Thanks,” Atsumu thinks, flopping over Tairn’s shoulder blade and falling ungracefully into the dip behind it. He navigates the sharp black spines and settles into his seat between them.

The subtle shift in Tairn’s back muscles is the only warning before they’re shooting into the air. Atsumu scrambles to grip the pommel and pull against the sudden force of gravity. The wind stings his eyes as they climb higher and higher.

He lifts a hand to pull his goggles from the top of his head and secure them into place. Instant relief. That is, until his other hand rips away from Tairn’s scales. His back slams into Tairn’s and his legs fly over his head. He does a full tumble back before throwing his hands out and gripping desperately at the razor sharp spines. Atsumu’s heart thumps wildly as his legs dangle freely in the air.

Holy shit. He almost fucking fell.

Did anybody see that?

Atsumu looks back and, oh, he didn’t actually check before–Tairn is a morningstartail. He can’t remember if he’s ever seen one in person, being one of the rarest breeds, besides feathertails of course. The massive spiked ball swings behind them, blocking any other riders from view.

“Don’t worry about others,” Tairn growls. “Focus on yourself.”

“Right,” Atsumu agrees. He pulls back up, climbing the spines like a cliff-face and reaching the top in sync with Tairn leveling out. The momentum shift pushes him back into his seat, slamming his gut into the pommel.

The freezing air slips through the fresh cuts in his gloves, but his hands made it through unscathed. He pushes them back over the pommel and focuses on the brown blur ahead of them. Kaori’s dragon banks right and Tairn follows suit, taking a steep dive down the edge of a sheer mountain peak.

They swoop along the treetops before climbing back up the next mountain peak. This time, Atsumu tenses his legs and doesn’t even think about lifting his hands.

“I can’t believe I’m back to doing basic level flying drills,” Tairn sighs in Atsumu’s mind, taking the next bank with a near-spiral that feels miles away from ‘basic level flying’. And looks noticeably more complicated than the way Kaori did it.

Atsumu’s body slides with the turn, but he kicks a leg up, digging his boot between two spikes to stop himself from losing his seat entirely. “Did I ruin your retirement plans, ya geezer?”

“In an ideal world, these tired eyes would never see another battlefield soaked in blood. But as it stands, my return to service was inevitable. Though I wasn’t planning on rejoining so soon, I am grateful to have found a rider worth fighting alongside.”

Atumu fights the tug at his lips. “That’s the sweetest thing ya ever said to me.”

Then to undo the damage to his tough-guy act, Tairn whips a turn and bucks Atsumu right off his back. It’s only about a foot of air, but Atsumu can feel the bastard laughing when his ass slams back down.

“All that strength and you can't even keep your seat.”

“Well stop fuckin’ swooping like that! I didn’t see Kaori’s dragon doing it that way.”

“The professor is teaching you parlor tricks, I am honing you for war.”

War. Atsumu scoffs. Can’t they just stick to parlor tricks? The gryphon attacks on the borders haven’t gotten any worse than usual, according to the bits and pieces he’s accidentally absorbed during his Battle Brief naps.

Atsumu adjusts his grip, squeezing his knees against a sudden rush of air that threatens to pull him back. “The war’s been going fer a hundred years, what’s the fuckin’ rush?”

“The calm can only last so long before the storm. Our enemies gather strength by the day.”

“Aren’t gryphons pretty flammable?”

They’re all fur and feathers and a quarter the size of a typical dragon. How strong could they be getting to make the dragons sweat?

Tairn huffs, but doesn’t care to elaborate.

They climb altitude until they’re matched with the icy white caps of the mountain and kissing the silver belly of the storm.

Just as Atsumu’s fingers twitch to reach up into the mist, Tairn’s wings tuck in and they’re diving straight back down–a spiraling cascade descending the mountain’s edge like rushing water. With gritting teeth, Atsumu pulls into Tairn’s spine.

The wings flare back out, bringing their momentum to an abrupt halt as they tilt for another sharp turn. Atsumu’s hands slide, and his thigh slips, skidding right off the side of his seat. He slams into the row of spikes before rolling right over the tops. His fingers scramble to purchase on the edge of Tairn’s wing, but they find none.

The wind swallows Atsumu’s scream as it swallows up the rest of him. He plummets towards the ground. Raw unfettered fear tears up his throat. 

The fire-leaved treetops grow bigger and bigger, poised to impale Atsumu straight through on impact. Logically there are a thousand worse ways to die than falling, but as the forest rushes towards Atsumu, he can’t think of a single one.

Just before he can find out for himself, he’s yanked back up, caught in Tairn’s claws.

“What the fuck!?” Atsumu shouts down the bond. He clutches the long black talons as Tairn climbs back towards the clouds. “Are ya trying ta kill me?”

Tairn huffs back. “Are you trying at all?”

Atsumu has more leg strength than most. Keeping his seat wouldn’t be so difficult if his menace of a dragon flew like a damn normal one.

“Don’t make me regret catching you,” Tairn growls. He climbs higher and tosses Atsumu in the air, back rising to meet Atsumu’s flailing limbs. The freefall is infinitely shorter, but equally as terrorizing. Atsumu thuds back into his seat, pain shooting up his tailbone.

“I thought this was s’posed ta be simple!”

“Simple and easy are not the same. Though I’ve never flown a rider quite as slippery as you.”

“Why not just let me fall, if I’m such a crappy rider? There’s a dorm full of unbonded cadets who’d be happy ta take my spot.”

Tairn tuts. “If they weren’t worthy of a dragon yesterday, why should they be worthy today?”

Fair point. Although it still happens every year. If a freshly bonded rider dies while the bond is still weak, their dragons can choose to bond someone else instead of waiting another year.

How many unbonded were there again? Thirty? Forty?

Tairn tuts. “Nosy little thing.”

“S’cuse me?”

What the hells did Atsumu do this time?

“Not you.” Tairn peels off of Kaori’s path and up into the clouds. They’re swallowed in the silver mist, soaking through with unshed rain, then breaking out above the worst of it. Atsumu rubs the water from his goggles and a peek of golden light breaks through the gray–Andarna weaving through the storm like a little bolt of lightning.

“Goldie!” Atsumu grins maniacally.

“Atsu! Hope you don’t mind me crashing.”

“You’re not the only one crashing,” Tairn chortles.

Atsumu kicks him. “Are we sure Andarna can’t carry me instead?”

“Yes,” they both say back.

Atsumu huffs and settles back into his seat, before nearly losing it again. The slick black scales are now doused in a persistent layer of water, and he can’t help but think Tairn did it on purpose.

Andarna flies beside them as they take another swooping turn. A roar of wind rips Atsumu’s hand from the pommel, clamoring to wrench the rest of his body off with it.

“Fuck!” he shouts, gritting his teeth and twisting back against the wind.

“That turn wasn’t even sharp,” Tairn huffs.

When they even back out, Atsumu is ready to fist fight his own fucking dragon. “Ya got any actual advice?”

“Don’t just flop your hands there like dead fish, feel for a hold that will actually do something.”

Atsumu’s fingers feel around the pommel, finding a decent groove to tuck his fingers under, improving his grip significantly.

“Good,” Tairn says with a surprising lack of sarcasm. “Now, move your body with mine. Lean and duck when we turn to keep the wind from catching you.”

“Relax your legs in between dives too,” Andarna adds. “Or you’ll waste all your energy.”

And just when Atsumu thinks he’s getting the hang of it, his fingers slip off and he’s sliding down Tairn’s spine and off the side of his tail. There’s a sickening moment of all consuming air before he’s swiped from the sky and tossed back into place.

Atsumu scrambles for his hold and digs his forehead into the pommel to catch his breath.

“Everybody saw that,” Andarna says.

Atsumu’s head whips back, but they’re still alone in the clouds.

A little laugh sings through Atsumu’s shaking head.

“Real funny, Goldie.” He pulls his jacket sleeve over his palm and wipes down the cloud-slicked scales.

Atsumu folds right back over, wrapping his arms entirely around the pommel and digging his fingers under the back scales. “Gods, just dump me already, Tairn. I can’t do this shit.”

“I will do no such thing.” Tairn slows them back into an easy glide. “I stand by my choice. You simply need to toughen up when it comes to flight.”

“You may find this hard to believe but you’re actually my first dragon. And ya know, my first time flying!”

“Not true,” Andarna argues. “You flew yesterday.”

Atsumu scoffs. “Sorry one day wasn’t enough to turn me into an expert.”

“We don’t have time for a gentle learning curve,” Tairn declares. “Now sit up and fix your grip, we’re going again.”

The flight lasts another twenty minutes and Atsumu loses count of all the times he falls.

— ⚡︎ —

“So how was it?” Saeko asks the table at dinner. “Was it amazing?”

The floodgates open for Hinata and Bokuto to gush over every detail of their first flying lesson.

Hinata’s eyes sparkle as he declares, “it’s only the most amazing feeling in the whole entire world!”

Bokuto slams his hands on the table, jumping up and down in his seat. “Amazing doesn’t even cover it! Right, Tsum-Tsum?”

Atsumu offers a weak smile. It’s hard to share the excitement when all in all, he did more falling than flying.

“Yeah,” he forces out. “It’s great.”

A gentle hand comes to rest over his knee. Kita.

Atsumu swallows. Oh, right. Guess he was lying.

“So,” Atsumu changes the subject with an awkward cough. “What are we doin’ tonight?”

Kita’s pity eyes get even worse, hand tightening for the incoming apology. “Varrish needs me again.”

“It’s s’posed ta be yer free time,” Atsumu pouts. “What’s Varrish always pullin’ ya away for?”

“It’s classified,” Kita says with a smirk.

“You just say that ta make ya sound cool,” Atsumu grumbles.

Kita is always off doing something or other for Command, already proving his usefulness as a second-year. At this rate, he’ll probably steal his dad’s title by the time he graduates.

Hinata pipes up. “I’m going to the archives tonight. Kageyama said he’d pull some books for me. You can come too, Atsumu!”

“That’s all right, Sho.” Not that Atsumu dislikes the archives or anything, but he can only handle so much of Hinata and Kageyama making hopeless, pining, moon eyes at each other. “Wouldn’t want to crash yer date.”

“It’s not a date,” Hinata insists with cheeks as red as his dragon. “We’re just doing research.”

Speaking of black haired, blue-eyed ‘not-boyfriends,’ Bokuto chimes in with, “I was gonna stop by the healer’s quadrant tonight. Show Akaashi my dragon mark.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Saeko smirks around the edge of her cup.

The tips of Bokuto’s ears redden worse than Hinata, but his face breaks into a shit eating grin.

Atsumu sighs. Damn friends and their damn love lives.

A lanky black uniform saunters over and a relic marked hand rests over Saeko’s shoulder. Suna looks down at her with his sharp, green, snake eyes. “You ready?”

“We’re doing some strength training,” Saeko tells Atsumu. “You’re welcome to join.”

Suna’s eyes spark with interest, a quirk of his brow daring Atsumu to accept the offer. But Atsumu’s muscles are already screaming bloody murder, and hanging out with Sakusa’s inner circle doesn’t inspire much enthusiasm.

“I think I’ll just head back ta my room,” Atsumu says under the scrutinizing gaze.

It’s as good a plan as any. He can try to make friends with the quiet. Wash the fucking jasmine off his skin. Maybe drown himself in the big copper tub while he’s at it. “Enjoy the perks of privacy.”

“Gross,” Rynosuke says, pushing out of the table and waving his fork in Atsumu’s face. “Inappropriate. Not a mental image I ever needed to have.”

“Not like that!” Atsumu flushes.

Suna snickers over Saeko’s shoulder. Bastard.

“We don’t need to hear about whatever it is you do alone in your private room.” Saeko stands, leaning over the table to muss up his hair. “But seriously kid, try and relax a bit. Not that you aren’t still pretty, but the stress is starting to do a number on you. You’re giving yourself premature wrinkles.” She presses a finger in the center of his brow, smoothing out the crease he didn’t realize was there.

All at once the table clears and Atsumu is alone with all the empty trays. He quickly gathers them up and dumps them in the wash-bins, actively trying to keep the scowl off his face, lest he give himself frown lines bad enough to match his father’s.

On the way to the rider dorms, he has to cross the mostly-empty barracks. He’s about to pass by when a loud crash steals his attention. Poking a head through the door, he easily locates the source of the sound.

Atsumu hasn’t seen those stupid racing stripes since they raced away from him at Threshing. Mad Dog is staring intently at the wall, clenched fists and rocking shoulders. A cascade of splintered wood and a half a nightstand rests at his feet.

Atsumu’s weight accidentally presses into the door and the creak sends Mad Dog’s head whipping over his shoulder. His eyes lock right onto Atsumu–dark, blazing and full of hate.

Sucks to be him. It was Mad Dog’s final shot at Threshing and he wasted his last chance hunting Andarna instead of looking for his own dragon to bond. Here’s hoping no dragons are stupid enough to take him on as a replacement. Then in a few glorious days Command will roll his ass down to Infantry and out of Atsumu’s life for good.

The sooner the better. Good fucking riddance.

Atsumu ducks his head back out. He doesn’t engage. Doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t flip the guy off or throw a knife at his head. He doesn’t need to.

At least some trash takes itself out.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu’s legs shake in protest the whole way up the stairs. One day of riding and his muscles have already turned to pudding.

Tairn is a tough love type and Atsumu was a baby bird thrown from the nest, over and over again. If he can’t figure out how to flap his tiny wings, how long before Tairn stops catching him?

Atsumu trudges into his room, flipping the deadbolt behind him. The privacy is nice, but gods, the place is dreary. Black rug, black bed, black curtains. 

He needs light. Air. Anything but more hopelessness and more fucking black. He beelines for the window and yanks fistfuls of ebony velvet until the copper rings snap down the line and the suffocating curtains pool to the floor.

The silver cotton-spun sky is even darker now, edging towards black but not quite there.

Even still, the view makes Atsumu swoon.

The curtains deserved an even worse fate for trying to hide it. Granted, the East dormitory tower eats up half of the view, and the West threatens the same, but if Atsumu squishes his face into the glass just right, he can see all of Basgiath mountain stretching out into the mist. He’s only on the first floor, but it’s tall enough to grant him view past the thick college walls and into the bright pop of white shrouding the Vale.

The lock on the window is rusted over and it takes several seconds of twisting to break free, but it finally opens with a screech. The iron-wrought glass stops after an inch of pushing, enough to let in the fresh air, but not enough to sneak in or out of. Atsumu pokes his nose through the crack for a deep cold breath. The scent of rain permeates the air, but has yet to actually break from the clouds.

Atsumu pulls back, body slumping under its own weight. He really ought to draw himself a bath. Soak the ache from his muscles and scrub the jasmine from his skin. But his exhausted brain argues that the smell has faded to tolerable levels, and it’s quite the persuasive thing when it wants to be.

So Atsumu doesn’t bother fighting back. His flight jacket joins the pool of black on the ground, and he unties his armor to hang back on the bedpost, slipping his dagger from its sheath to tuck under his pillow. Grabbing the rolled stack of letters from the back of the desk drawer, he crawls into bed.

He tucks his blanket to his chin and flips through Osamu’s memories at Basgiath. Happy memories. Sad memories. All ones without Atsumu in them.

Atsumu hugs the letters to his heart. Honestly, he hates every last one. They’re a stinging reminder of time lost to his own stubborn, worthless pride. But this small handful of letters are all that he has left–the last tangible remnants of the person he loved most.

How long will it take for Atsumu’s own memories of Osamu to fade? For his brother to become nothing but a few scrawled lines on yellowing parchment?

“Atsumu?” Andarna’s voice gently knocks on his mind. “You are sad?”

Atsumu takes a sharp breath in. “Ya felt that?”

“Why are you sad?” 

His fingers crush around the edges of the letters, and he sucks back a watery breath. He doesn’t want to talk about Osamu. If he talks about him, he’ll have to explain what happened to him. And why it makes him sad.

“Just…readin’ somethin’ sad,” he explains. “Sorry ta bother ya, I’ll try ta keep my feelin’s quieter next time.”

“You don’t have to–”

A quick pattering of knocks comes from the other side of his door.

“Hang on, Goldie.”

Atsumu hastily shoves the letters under his pillow, trading them for the dagger.

The knocking comes again–louder and more insistent.

Atsumu’s knuckles pale around the hilt as he stalks across the room. He stops at the door, steeling a breath and undoing the lock. He opens the door a crack and relaxes at the bright nest of orange below his eyeline.

“Atsumu.” Hinata’s hands plant each side of the doorframe, holding up his slumping weight. He’s red and panting, like he ran the whole way there. “I need you to come with me.”

“It’s almost curfew–” Atsumu cuts himself off when he notices the tall, black shadow clinging to the wall. “What’s he doing here?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes.

“I asked him to come,” Hinata explains. “This concerns the both of you.”

Sakusa sighs, kicking off the wall and leering down at Hinata. “At any point are you planning to share what exactly it is that concerns me?”

“Just,” Hinata makes a little exasperated sound, “come on.”

Atsumu quickly grabs his jacket and boots, sliding the dagger into the hidden sheath tucked by his ankle.

Hinata leads them down the winding staircase, through the maze of stone halls, and out into the chilled night air.

The clouds have just begun to break, sparse raindrops pattering the cobbled walkway. They cross the Quad, Hinata and Atsumu ducking their heads under their flight jackets while Sakusa hides under a little umbrella of his own shadows, dry as bone.

They cross the bridge that connects the rider’s quadrant to the healer’s, continuing on through the quad and towards the heart of the mountain.

The archive doors are massive. Dug into the face of the mountain, the brass is intricately carved into a sun crowned quill–the sigil of the scribe’s quadrant.

From ages seven to nine, Atsumu had Osamu convinced that they were relics from an ancient band of giants who once lived in the mountain. Osamu had nightmares about it every subsequent time they came to visit, too afraid to step underground in case any of the giants were still alive. Their mother quickly dispelled that rumor once she caught wind of it, but she never had an explanation for why the doors are so big.

The scent of earth and stone grows stronger as they descend the magelit tunnel. Every so often, Sakusa’s steps stray dangerously close and Hinata’s presence is the only thing stopping Atsumu from audibly growling or pulling the dagger from his boot.

When they get to the second set of giant vaulted doors, Hinata pulls an elegant gold rope, stirring up a muffled chime of bells from the other side.

The giant brass door groans open and a head of silvery white hair pops through the crack.

“Hinata!” the boy says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Back so soon?”

“Suga-san!” Hinata says with a bow. Hugging isn’t exactly kosher in the scribe quadrant. Nor is laughing, talking loudly or having fun–all reasons that Hinata’s brightness is better suited to the rider’s quadrant. “Is Kageyama still around? He’s holding some books for me.”

“Ahh, the super special stack that he hasn’t let out of his sight?” A knowing smile brews over the scribe’s lips. “I tried helping him with go-backs for the night and he almost bit me for touching one.”

The door opens to reveal the echoing cavern hollowed from the bowels of the mountain, housing the entirety of Navarre’s written knowledge.

Atsumu takes a deep breath as they’re led inside.

The archives smell like parchment. Like ink and leather and binding glue. They smell like his mother.

Several cream colored robes mill about. Scribes taking books out, putting them back, transcribing old documents, and completing a variety of other sleep-inducing tasks.

They weave through the towering maze of stone and paper, Hinata bowing politely at several silent scribes along the way. He’s on friendly terms with pretty much all of them, having grown up at the scribe academy in Karasuno. Hinata looks at peace in the archives, surrounded by soft, glowing magelights and overstuffed bookshelves ten times his height–but it’s nothing compared to how bright his eyes shone after their first flight practice. He may have been raised to be a scribe, but he was born to be a rider.

Atsumu follows quietly behind the scribe, sticking close to Hinata’s side while Sakusa hangs in the back like a tall, ominous shadow. Sakusa’s toes nip the backs of Atsumu’s boots every other step, and it takes everything in Atsumu not to pull his blade and paint the archive floors a nice, pretty red.

They’re finally set loose in a far back corner, where a tall scribe with straight black hair is scowling at a towering book cart. Hinata taps him on the shoulder and his scowl melts away, before it’s quickly replaced with a bigger, faker one.

Hinata’s hands start moving in a flurry, signing to his “not-boyfriend”, Kageyama Tobio.

“What are they saying?” Sakusa asks into Atsumu’s ear, nearly making him jump out of his jacket.

Atsumu glares over his shoulder. “Ya think I know sign language?”

Kageyama seems to finally notice Hinata’s company and gives Atsumu a small wave. Atsumu waves back.

The first time Hinata introduced him to the scribe, it took five whole minutes of watching them silently argue with their hands before he realized that Kageyama is deaf. It only took two more minutes to realize that the two are absolutely mad for each other.

They could probably have an entire conversation without speaking. Or signing. The way Kageyama refills Hinata’s ink pots right before his quill runs out. The way Hinata automatically signs along with whoever is speaking, because Kageyama can read lips but people have a nasty habit of turning their heads while they talk and he misses pieces of conversation.

It’s cute. And in a weird way, it just works. The perfect person to put up with Hinata’s overactive rambling–someone who can’t actually hear it. Someone who doesn’t even need to say what’s on their mind, because the other person already knows it.

Atsumu tries to bite back his jealousy.

Kageyama pulls up a book from his cart and hands it to Atsumu.

 “So I was researching dragon bonds in my free time,” Hinata says, because of course he was. “Not bonds with us…like, bonds with each other.”

“Mates?” Sakusa asks.

“Yes! That’s the word–mates! I was interested in learning more about mated dragons, so I had Kageyama look through the archives for books about it. We know plenty about human-dragon bonds, like when a dragon dies, the rider dies too. I guess it’s the same with dragon-dragon bonds, if one dies then their mate dies too.” His eyes go a little sparkly. “Which is pretty romantic, if you ask me.”

Hinata’s hands fly as he talks so Kageyama can keep up with the conversation–cheeks rosing over at the “romantic” bit.

“Then we hit a dead end since, I guess, dragons are pretty secretive when it comes to their personal lives.”

“Okay…” Atsumu looks down at the book in his hands, but then it’s snatched away before he can read anything on it.

Kageyama tosses it back in the cart and hands Hinata another. Hinata flips to the marked spot and shoves the open book in Atsumu’s hands, so his own are freed up to sign again. “All we found was record logs of mated dragons bonded into service. Most every instance of mated dragons is within the same graduating year, so they’re assigned together after graduation.”

“Because they can’t be separated for long,” Sakusa confirms.

Hinata nods, speeding on as Kageyama shoves more books in Atsumu’s face.

“They’re usually stationed at the same outpost for the dragon’s sake and so the riders don’t have to waste time flying back and forth.”

Okay, so they’re likely to be stationed at the same outpost. But Atsumu already knew that. His plans don’t involve Sakusa graduating, so it’s not that big of a deal.

Hinata continues. “Since units face combat together, we didn’t find it that strange that the handful of accounts had the same ending date of service.”

“Ending date?” Atsumu asks.

Hinata scratches under his eye. “Either retirement or…”

“Death,” Sakusa supplies.

“Right.” Hinata takes the book back. It goes from his hands to Kageyama’s to the bottom of the cart. “But there's nothing in those ones, past names, dates and outpostings. So Yama got creative and found some first hand accounts of riders with mated dragons.”

Kageyama hands Hinata a worn, black leather journal. His big blue eyes are glued to the red dragon’s head on Hinata’s hand as it flips through the worn yellow pages.

“There’s one journal in particular that you should see.”

Kageyama nudges Hinata and signs something that makes him snort out a laugh. Hinata slaps his hand over his nose until his giggles are contained. He suddenly remembers his audience and explains, “Yama said they should teach penmanship in the rider’s quadrant because this guy’s handwriting is a total mess.”

“Scribe humor,” Atsumu mumbles, rolling his eyes. He thinks he hears a soft laugh from over his shoulder. It’s a nice sound, but Atsumu doesn’t look back because then he’d have to acknowledge where it came from.

“Anyway, these riders had mated dragons, but they were a year apart, which as we know, is incredibly unusual.” Hinata stares the pages down intently, flipping through with lethal speed. “So the owner of this journal–his dragon’s mate’s rider, yeesh that’s a mouthful, anyway, she was already stationed while the guy was finishing his final year at Basgiath.” Hinata finds the right page and slaps his hand down over it. “Here! Okay, so, in the very last entry he was writing about a battle that his dragon’s mate and its rider were engaged in. The notes are meticulously detailed, recounting the battle as if he was right there fighting it. I assume that his dragon talked to hers, relaying all the details. And you know, besides the deplorable handwriting, it’s actually an incredible account of events–”

“Sho, please get to the point,” Atsumu begs, not sure how much longer he can stand a dragon history lesson with Sakusa’s breath sogging the back of his neck.

“Right, sorry. Look.” Hinata holds up the journal and points to a half-written page, “The journal stops right here, before the end of the battle.”

“The battle he wasn’t at?” Sakusa asks, stepping forward to snatch the journal from Hinata’s hands. Atsumu looks over the wide breadth of Sakusa’s shoulder to see for himself. The text cuts off abruptly, a final violent quill streak cutting through the remainder of the blank page.

Hinata nods. “So we cross referenced it with Basgiath’s records for that year,” Atsumu is handed another book by Kageyama, a large hardcover, that splits to a page marked with a black feather quill.

Hinata takes the quill and taps a name with the dry nib. “The rider’s name was on the death roll the next day.”

“The one who was still at Basgiath?” Sakusa asks carefully, pointed nose pressing into the pages.

“Yes,” Hinata says with a grave face.

The odds of that being a coincidence…

Atsumu slams the record book shut. “What are ya sayin’?”

“It’s only one account,” Hinata scratches the side of his neck before slowly signing along with his words, “and there’s not a whole lot more I could find on the subject so we still don’t know for sure, just something to be aware of–”

“Will you spit it the fuck out?” Sakusa huffs.

Hinata’s eyes flit to Kageyama, then back to Atsumu and Sakusa. “If we’re right about this, then it means…if one of you dies…both of you will.”

The book crashes to the floor. And Atsumu’s whole fucking world stops.

— ⚡︎ —

“We should talk,” Sakusa says the moment the large brass doors shut behind them. The tunnel’s mage lights are swallowed by the erratic shadows flicking off his shoulders as he passes them by, a black hole of darkness consuming all in its path.

Atsumu would’ve liked to stay back in the archives. Look for loopholes in the journals with Hinata and Kageyama. Or ram his forehead into the archive’s entire stock of hard-covers.

At the very least he wants to go sulk back in his own room, but the tight rope of shadow binding his wrist isn’t giving him much choice.

“What?” Atsumu huffs as he’s dragged up the tunnel like a dog on a leash. “We aren’t gonna be forced to spend enough fuckin’ time together already?”

His brain has been offline since Hinata dropped the news over their heads. Tairn and Andarna must have felt the anger surging through him, but they’ve yet to brave a comment.

Sakusa doesn’t answer until the second set of archive doors crest into view. He stops abruptly and turns back to face Atsumu, shadows dropping to the ground like a barrel of spilled oil. With a deep, measured breath he offers, “in light of this new information, I’d like to propose a ceasefire.”

Honest-to-gods steam rises off Atsumu’s skin. “And why the fuck should I agree to that?”

“Because our lives are linked now?” He crosses his arms like it’s a bother to even be having this conversation. “I would think that provides sufficient motive for you not to kill me. And vice versa.”

Wow. Sakusa really doesn’t get it. Does he?

There’s a sharp prick of teeth into Atsumu’s lip. He licks back the blood and he hears his own voice go hauntingly hollow. “You think I value keeping my life over ending yours?”

Yeah fucking right. Even before he came to Basgiath, Atsumu had made peace with kissing his own worthless life goodbye in pursuit of vengeance.

And then it hits him–the answer to everything.

Atsumu narrows his eyes down at Sakusa. “All I’m hearin’ is there’s a surefire way I can kill ya now.”

Sakusa stares Atsumu down with that calculating look of his. Almost the moment Atsumu makes up his mind, Sakusa’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.”

“Fuckin’ try me,” Atsumu growls, already reaching for his boot.

He barely gets the blade past his calf before Sakusa grabs his wrist and twists it backwards. Atsumu grunts as it clatters to the floor.

But Atsumu had been studying his opponent for months, so just as Sakusa bends down for the weapon, he brings his knee up, slamming hard into Sakusa’s face. Sakusa gasps back in pain, hands flying up to his nose–that’s when Atsumu makes a break for it.

Full force down the tunnel, he bursts through the giant brass doors, and crashes face first into a cold slap of water. The rain now pouring down in thick, freezing sheets. It shatters over his head, soaking his bones and blinding his eyes as he runs through the storm.

Just across the quad is the turret tower that opens to the parapet.

He’s fallen countless times today, what’s one more?

Atsumu prays that he hit Sakusa hard enough for a decent head start. He just needs a little bit of time to make it to the parapet.

He can’t spend his life chained to that fucking monster.

The more Atsumu has observed Sakusa, the more cemented he’s become in his conclusion–the guy is untouchable. His signet, his fighting skills, his protection squad–they all add up to a challenge that Atsumu will never be able to meet. Atsumu can lie to himself all he wants, but deep in his heart, he knows the truth. All of the practice and all of the power he can possibly accumulate–it will never be enough.

If sacrificing himself is the only way to avenge Osamu–well then he can at least call it a good death.

“Gold one…” Alarm shoots down the bond from Tairn. Atsumu runs faster.

As he reaches the midpoint of the quad, Tairn’s voice bellows in his mind, “Gold One, I chose you, you will not do this!”

“You placed your bet on the wrong horse, Tairn. I’m sorry.”

He shoves the beast from his mind and continues to run.

Only do his steps falter when he hears Andarna’s soft voice ring through his head.

“Atsu? What’s going on?”

His heart breaks at the small, confused sound from his little gold dragon. His feet skid the storm-slick stone and he almost trips over himself–body warring with the decision to stop or to run.

Tairn has had riders before, he’s old, he’s strong–he’ll be fine if Atsumu died…but Andarna? He has no idea what his death would mean for her. He thinks back to the meadow where he first saved her life, where they chose each other. The overwhelming guilt of failing her washes down in buckets.

Before his mind can make itself up, the choice is made for him.The moment Atsumu reaches the threshold of the tower, his wrists are circled by shadows, yanking him backwards so hard it almost rips his arms from their sockets. His back slams into the wet stone but his head is cradled by a soft pillow of darkness, breaking the fall.

Sakusa’s furious face comes into view, blood dripping from his nose and fire raging in his eyes. He wrestles Atsumu’s arms down, using his shadows to aid him in smothering any attempts at escape. “Stop it!”

“Let me go!” Atsumu screams as he thrashes against the shadows pinning him to the floor. Sakusa’s hunched body shields him from the storm, the only drops of water peppering his face are the ones dripping from the ends of Sakusa’s rain-soaked curls.

Sakusa’s fingers hook into his arms. “Not unless you calm down!”

“Just let me die!” Atsumu manages to break an arm free and punch across Sakusa’s face.

“Not fucking happening!” Sakusa hisses, whipping his head back and forcing his shadows down even tighter. “I’ll tie you up and lock you in a padded room if I have to, just to keep your gods-damn heart beating. I haven’t done all this shit–made it this far–to watch it all fly off the parapet!”

“Ya already killed half of me, just finish the fuckin’ rest already!” 

Lightning cracks the sky followed by an immediate roll of thunder.

“I didn’t kill your fucking brother!” Sakusa snaps.

“Liar!” Hot tears stream down Atsumu’s face, swept away in the cold sleet of rain. “You’d say anythin’, just to save yer own ass!”

“I swear on my life,” Sakusa hisses through his teeth, “and apparently yours, that I never touched him.”

Atsumu shakes his head. It can’t be true, it just can’t. Sakusa is stalling, he’d say anything to save his own slimy skin.

“You’re a fuckin’ liar and I’m taking you out with me! I’m gonna kill ya if it’s the last thing I ever fuckin’ do!”

The sky cracks and flashes as Atsumu rages under Sakusa’s grip. The shadows grow impossibly tighter, sliding over his mouth and suppressing his screams.

Someone rushes to their side, feet pounding through each splashing step. “Fuck! Kiyo what’s going on?”

“Find me Kita Shinsuke,” Sakusa orders, splitting his focus for a single precious second.

“Shin can’t stop me either!” Atsumu whips his head free to yell before his mouth is stuffed again with shadow.

“Find him now,” Sakusa barks, “then meet back at my room as quickly as possible.” 

The footsteps splash away, retreating the other direction. Sakusa hoists Atsumu up over his shoulder, arms and legs still crushed tight in ropes of shadow. He lets the rain pelt their heads, using his signet’s full strength on keeping Atsumu bound as he tries to kick out of Sakusa’s grip, tightening with each twitch of muscle until he’s completely immobilized.

Atsumu’s eyes stay fixed on the parapet as it recedes into the distance.

He hesitated. He lost his chance, and he doubts Sakusa will let him have another.

There’s a final flicker in the sky, only half as strong as the others. One last strike of dying light, giving up before the darkness consumes everything.

— ⚡︎ —

The moment they pass through Sakusa’s magic-warded door, Atsumu is unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. He pushes to his knees before the shadows bind him there, unable to move or speak.

Sakusa briefly disappears through the adjoining door and there’s a faint sound of running water. He comes back with a clean face and black rag pressed against his nose. He glares at Atsumu as he dabs the blood that’s still slowly trickling from his nostril. Pretty purple bruises are already blooming in the dip between Sakusa’s eyes and the tops of his cheeks. The discoloration on the smooth plaster skin would have Atsumu’s lips curling in satisfaction, if they weren’t fully immobilized in shadow.

Sakusa stalks through the room and sits on a black leather chair in the corner, eyes never straying from Atsumu’s bound form.

Since Atsumu’s eyes are the only thing he can move, they dart around the room to take in as much information as possible.

The inside of the viper den looks as innocuous as any other third-year dorm, bigger and nicer than his own. Similarly lacking in any personal touches. The only distinguishable addition Sakusa’s made since moving in is the menacing shelf of weapons by the door. All different styles and sizes, no doubt plucked from other cadets over his three years at Basgiath.

The thick black curtain spans half the far wall. If Atsumu can break Sakusa’s concentration long enough, he may be able to smash a chair through the window and jump out. Or break for the door, trip and maim himself on one of the meticulously sharp weapons.

Whenever his eyes travel back to Sakusa, they search for signs of fatigue. But Sakusa is more marble than man and his concentration doesn’t break for a second.

His magic has to run out eventually. If he tries to push it beyond his limits, he’ll burn out and kill the both of them.

So Atsumu waits. Once the shadow’s hold loosens he can beeline for the weapons and put up one last fight. Win or lose, this thing can finally fucking end.

There’s a series of melodic knocks at the door, before the purple haze blinks out and the wood groans open. 

There’s a pale hand gesturing and then Kita is stepping into the room. The purple film of magic re-shrouds the door behind him.

Kita’s face goes pale when he sees Atsumu bound and gagged in his swirling black shackles. “Atsumu? What’s goin’ on?”

“Kita, how does your signet work?” Sakusa asks from his chair, eyes still focused on his prisoner. Sweat is starting to bead along his forehead. He has to be close to his magic limit.

Kita balks. “It-it’s classified I can’t-“

“I know what the fuck it is, truth-sayer, I’m asking you how it works.”

Kita looks worriedly over at Atsumu.

Why the fuck would Sakusa bring Kita into this? To try and change Atsumu’s mind?

Atsumu thrashes against his bindings, unable to shake them. Sakusa’s hold stays unbelievably strong, but it just makes Atsumu try harder. He wants to scream. To tell Kita to tell Sakusa to go to hell. But all he can do is gag on the shadows jammed down his throat and watch helplessly as Sakusa forces Kita into whatever his sick and twisted plan is.

“Stop fighting,” Sakusa hisses at Atsumu. Which only makes him fight harder.

Finally a cold circle of shadow wraps Atsumu’s neck and pulls him off the ground, cutting into his airway. Atsumu’s fingers claw at the noose around his neck, but they just slip through the mist and scrape down his own throat.

Kita’s big brown eyes shoot Atsumu one last look, that looks a hell of a lot like an apology. Then he turns back to Sakusa. “I can’t force anyone ta talk, but if they do, I can detect when they’re lyin’. It works with most people at a distance but if I touch them it’s amplified even more acutely.”

The shadows drop Atsumu back to his knees and allow him one full, gasping breath before resealing his lips.

Kita bares his teeth at Sakusa, hand twitching towards the short sword at his hip. “But yer out of yer mind if you think I would use it against Atsumu.”

Atsumu looks up at his friend, tears stinging in his eyes. Kita shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be forced to use his signet against his will. Damn Sakusa from bringing him into this shit. Damn Sakusa for fucking everything.

Sakusa goes silent, but slips one of the leather flight gloves from his fingers and holds his hand out.

Kita stays frozen in place, eyes darting back and forth between them.

Sakusa glares at him and reaches his hand out further. Kita takes a tentative few steps towards him and places his palm flat against Sakusa’s. Sakusa winces at the touch, then directs his attention back towards Atsumu, dark eyes piercing him directly.

“I did not kill Miya Osamu. I never hurt him. I took no part in what happened to him that day.”

Suddenly the shadows binding Atsumu blink away and he falls forward, catching himself a few short inches from the ground.

“What?” Atsumu croaks. His eyes snap up to Kita, searching desperately for an answer. Kita’s vision is glassy as he stares at Sakusa, then his eyes widen and he turns back to Atsumu.

With a single nod of Kita’s head, Atsumu’s world stops once again. 

He looks back at Sakusa, whose gaze is still locked dead on to him. Atsumu can see it for himself. Somehow he can feel it. Sakusa is telling the truth. He didn’t kill Osamu.

What the fuck?

Atsumu sits still as a stone. Everything he thought he knew was wrong. Everything he came here for means nothing.

His lungs start to burn and he suddenly remembers about breathing. He gasps for air, choking on the sudden influx of oxygen and sputtering towards the floor.

“Are you satisfied?” Sakusa asks, slumping back in his chair and wiping the sweat from his brow.

Satisfied?

Atsumu’s entire world just dropped from under him, he couldn’t think of a less accurate word.

He looks up at Sakusa, voice wavering through his trembling lips. “But you were there, right? What happened to him?” 

Something flashes over Sakusa’s expression. He looks down, then up at Kita, then back down again, taking his time with an answer. After an eternity of bated breath, he utters two careful, earth-shattering words. “He fell.”

“Fell?” Atsumu chokes on a sob, clutching his heart with one hand and crushing a ball in the rug with the other. His mind throws him right back into the sky, slipping off Tairn’s back again and again. The gods-awful feeling of wind crushing from all sides, the forest flying up at him, the all-consuming terror.

Sakusa continues. “It was War Games. Or, it was supposed to be. Things…didn’t go as planned. We were ambushed by real enemy forces in the field. Miy– Osamu, fought them off in the air, but he was thrown from his dragon.”

“Ambushed?” Kita interjects, “By gryphon fliers? Why didn’t we hear about this in War Brief?”

Sakusa yanks his hand back and rubs it off on his thigh. His glove is immediately pulled back on. “It’s classified.”

Classified– that stupid fucking word again. A nice, neat way of holding secrets and covering shit up. Osamu lost his life and what happened was scrubbed from history, just like that.

“I don’t believe this,” Kita says, pacing back and forth.

“Am I lying?” Sakusa asks, voice level.

Kita stares at him, then shakes his head. “I-I have to go, I have to talk to my father I-“ He swiftly exits the room, slamming the door behind him.

Atsumu stays frozen on hands and knees, black rug twisting under his fists. He faintly hears Sakusa barking a few orders to whoever’s outside the door, but his ears are stuffed with cotton.

He stares at the ground while his mind conjures a vision of Osamu falling from his dragon and slamming to the ground. It plays on a vicious loop, Atsumu flinching each time his brother’s body meets the earth.

After some time, something drapes over his shoulders. Atsumu pulls the black wool tight around him–was he shivering just now? He’s not sure.

He looks up to see some sort of emotion flash over Sakusa’s face before the cold mask of indifference slams back down. On a kinder man, the look might be sympathy. Coming from Sakusa, it’s more likely pity or disgust.

Then again…Sakusa might be a kinder man than he thought.

“You’re staying here until I’m sure you aren’t a liability to yourself,” Sakusa orders. “Or more importantly, to me.”

Or not.

Atsumu just blinks up at him. Feeling as numb as he did the day of Osamu’s funeral. He doesn’t respond, he just pulls the blanket tighter and drops his face into the carpet. He curls in on himself and curls his fingers around the crescent moon hanging from his neck. His eyes fix on the curved stone fireplace built into the wall. There’s a roaring fire there now. Someone must have lit it.

The flames dance in his vision, and he’s transported back to that day when they burned Osamu’s things as an offering to Malek. Atsumu had wondered why there wasn’t a body to burn along with them. ‘It’s classified’, Sakusa had said, which is eerily close to what his own father told him that day. Atsumu realizes he truly knows nothing about what happened. Part of him needs to know every detail, but it’s too raw and painful for any more salt in his wounds tonight.

After what seems like hours of watching the crackling flames, the waves of exhaustion lap at his feet, growing higher each minute, until sleep washes over him.

It’s a mercy he’s too exhausted to dream.

When he wakes again, it’s dark. The fire has dwindled down to nothing but ashes and a few glowing coals still popping with their last bursts of heat. In front of him is a glass of water and the knife he pulled on Sakusa earlier. His fingers reach for his blade, tucking it back in his boot.

Sakusa’s sitting on his bed, resting over the covers. He’s still enough to be sleeping, but his black eyes are unmistakably alert. Watching. At some point he must have changed, since now he’s in black cotton sweatpants and a short sleeve black shirt, the full brunt of his rebellion relic on rare display. Atsumu’s eyes trail the shimmering black swirls from the sharp jutting bones of his wrist above the gloves, up to his shoulder, and again where they peek from the collar of his shirt and caress the long column of his neck. It’s almost alarming to see Sakusa looking so casual. He shifts a little under Atsumu’s stare.

Atsumu slowly reaches for the water, far past worrying, or even caring if it’s poisoned. It’s lukewarm, but soothing nonetheless.

“Do you still want to kill me?” Sakusa asks from his bed.

Atsumu sets the glass back on the rug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what I want.”

A thick silence fills the room as they stare at each other. Without the rage and vengeance clouding his vision, it feels like Atsumu is actually seeing Sakusa for the first time.

He’s not a monster or a demon. He’s just…a guy.

Atsumu gets to his feet and crosses to the door. Sakusa makes no moves to stop him.

With the cold brass of the door handle curling under his palm, Atsumu pauses. “I was wonderin’ somethin’.”

He turns to see Sakusa lift a single scarred brow, waiting for the question.

“Why didn’t ya?”

Sakusa’s brows drop into a tight knit. “Why didn’t I what?”

“Kill him.” Atsumu’s eyes run down the swirling relic on Sakusa’s arm. “Or me.”

Sakusa is the one who had every reason to hate the Miyas after what their father did to his family, his kingdom. The proof of their bad blood is right there, branded forever on his skin.

Sakusa levels Atsumu with a careful look. There’s no malice on his face. No hate. There isn’t even the typical smirk Atsumu’s used to finding there. He just looks tired.

His hand cups his arm, thumb absent-mindedly tracing where the black marks swirl into the ditch of his elbow. “Children shouldn’t have to suffer the sins of their parents.”

Atsumu’s lip twitches. It’s the same answer he gave Sakusa after accidentally eavesdropping on the Marked One’s meeting. Maybe they aren’t so different after all.

Quite suddenly, Sakusa looks shy–an emotion that’s entirely out of place against the sharpness of his features. He clears his throat against a leather gloved fist before shoving his hands between his thighs. “Do you, uh, have any questions? Or want any more details?”

“No,” Atsumu answers quickly. Then reconsiders. “Maybe. Just–not right now.”

Sakusa nods and Atsumu turns towards the door.

As the door creaks open he hears Sakusa’s voice again. “Are you okay?”

Atsumu takes a deep breath in. “No. But I’ll keep livin’, I guess.”

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since Kiyoomi told Miya the truth. Some of it at least. He’s not sure how much more he could’ve said without the danger rising beyond manageable levels. It was a calculated risk, revealing as much as he did, but Kiyoomi’s hand was forced. He had to stop that maniac from throwing himself off the parapet and taking the entire castle of cards down with him.

It’s been three days since any attacks or assassination attempts from Miya. But it’s also been three days of him wandering around Basgiath like a walking corpse. Three days without a spark in his golden eyes. Three days since those eyes have even looked Kiyoomi’s way.

Kiyoomi should be relieved, no longer needing to watch his back against the ever present threat–but he isn’t. There’s a sticky tension in his shoulders. An itch under his skin. The conversation should’ve fixed…something. But nothing feels resolved. It all feels wrong.

He didn’t realize how accustomed he’d grown to their little game. He had been pushing back at Miya since the day that first sun etched dagger was chucked at his head. It’s as if Kiyoomi’s body’s still trying to push, but no one is there to push against. His hands just fall through empty air, leaving him tilted and off balance.

Even now, Miya sits slumped and subdued at the edge of Kiyoomi’s gaze. Battle Brief hasn’t been particularly riveting this morning, but Miya’s blank stare wanders aimlessly over the architecture–mind miles away from the gryphon flier’s latest set of raids.

Kiyoomi should be paying attention, noting which villages were hit and what caches were taken, but his focus keeps snagging back on Miya. Miya, whose head now rests in the hollowed space between his folded arms. Miya, who’s bright, golden aura has been tamped under a wet blanket.

What good is a light if it’s barely bright enough to see?

Kiyoomi’s hand smooths over his chest. There’s a hollow, throbbing ache there, as if Miya’s despair is palpable enough to leak through just from watching him across the room.

Miya’s arms stretch out, knocking his uninked quill from the edge of his desk. Before Kiyoomi can stop them, his shadows are snaking through the sea of chair legs and tapping boots to pluck the quill from the floor and set it gently back on Miya’s desk.

Miya doesn’t even notice.

Kiyoomi’s jaw ticks as he forcefully pulls his shadows back, expending the extra mental effort to hold them in a tight circle under his own tapping boot.

This is ridiculous. Miya is alive, and not actively trying to change that fact. That should be the end of Kiyoomi’s interest in the matter. The man’s disposition is hardly a grain on the beach of Kiyoomi’s concerns.

And yet…Kiyoomi would gladly take Miya threatening him, or even outright attacking him again over this. Someone with so much electricity shouldn’t be so devoid of life.

But the worst of it is…Kiyoomi’s not the only one who’s noticed Miya’s somber mood. Everywhere Miya goes, the unbonded circle him like vultures. He doesn’t even notice the dark swirl of vitriol clinging to his back like a shadow. He’s an easy target like this–it’s obvious that the fight has left him.

Stupid fucking Miya. He’s bonded to the most powerful dragon of their year. Hell, he’s bonded to two dragons–surely some of them would take the feathertail over waiting another year or getting kicked down to Infantry. He’s a prime candidate for the unbonded to take out, paving the way to make a pass at his dragons.

That must be it. Why Kiyoomi’s concern won’t let up. Why his eyes won’t stop following Miya’s steps. Why his shadows won’t stop curling at Miya’s feet.

Miya is in danger. Therefore, Kiyoomi is in danger.

And that simply won’t do.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu swims in and out of consciousness as the lullaby of Devera’s voice sings the song of war through the auditorium. The only song anyone knows around here. 

“Are you even pretending to listen today?” Tairn asks. His voice is far less soothing than Devera’s.

“Uh huh,” Atsumu replies as he sinks further into his seat, reaching out to swipe his finger up and down the soft white feather of his quill.

Wait, didn’t he push it off his desk a minute ago? Gods, he really is losing it.

“And you don’t think your country’s war concerns you?” Tairn tuts. Like an overbearing, condescending—

Atsumu’s thoughts are slashed through by a rippling growl. Oh right.

“Sorry.”

“At least pay attention so that I can listen in.”

“Just come to class with me next time.” Atsumu snorts at his own joke. Battle Brief is held in the largest single room of the whole quadrant, but if Tairn tried to fit inside, he’d have to break his head and tail through the windows and wear the building like a dress.

Tairn lets loose another one of his patented, long-suffering sighs, but Atsumu doesn’t pay it much mind. He’s been on the receiving end of Tairn’s disappointment since…well, Threshing really. The poor dragon royally fucked up choosing his rider and he’s just too stubborn to admit the mistake.

“You are not a mistake, Gold One.”

Atsumu bites his lip. He would stand to argue, but another growl overrides his mind’s voice before it has the chance, blooming a curious warmth in Atsumu’s chest. Even the growls and sighs and the reprimands are a comfort–at least someone cares. Someone is there.

Nothing is worse than the silence.

Atsumu wasn’t even sure how he blocked Tairn out that night. It happened without thinking. After Hinata dropped the cataclysmic news over their heads, Atsumu was a raw open nerve of emotional impulse–control was the furthest thing from his grasp.

He woke the next morning in a panic, unable to hear Tairn or feel the connection to the shimmering black bond. Andarna had to play messenger while Tairn coached Atsumu through lowering the shield he had inadvertently slammed down between them. Atsumu almost missed Morning Brief trying to crack it. He sat cross legged in his bed, visualizing his mind as an empty stone room and the bond to Tairn locked behind a door. As his breathing slowed, and his focus narrowed, the door naturally morphed into the giant-sized kind that guard the Archives–inked a deep, shimmering black and carved in an intricate pattern of scales. To its side, a smaller scaled door was wide open to a warm glow of golden light. Andarna’s voice came through bright and clear, like she was calling from the other room. She sent gentle encouragement to Atsumu while he concentrated on opening the other bond.

Atsumu pounded his fists against Tairn’s door. He screamed until his voice grew hoarse. He rang the bell and kicked his feet, until it finally whooshed back open. The shimmering black magic poured through and flooded Atsumu’s mind. The relief was instant, pulling tears down his cheeks and a whimper from his throat.

Once the bond was reopened, Atsumu had expected the lecture of a lifetime. Instead, Tairn said he was thankful that Atsumu was alive and that was that. 

The grumpy dragon was even noticeably more reasonable during their next few flight lessons. Which is something Atsumu might normally resent on the grounds of pride, but seeing as getting out of bed is a monumental task these days, he silently, gratefully accepted the help. Guess there was time for a gentle learning curve after all.

Atsumu scratches his dry quill down his empty notebook, watching the long jagged crevice form in the paper. “Ya know, neither of us would have to worry about the war if–”

“For the last time,” Tairn sighs, “there will be no running.”

Atsumu grumbles. He had tossed a few choice runaway plans by Tairn the past few days, but they’ve all been shot down. Damn dragon and his damn honor or whatever.

“But it could be so fun on the run!” Andarna argues on Atsumu’s behalf. Bless her heart. “Do you have a taste for mountain goat, Atsu?”

“Can’t say I’ve tasted it before.”

“Oh you will love it! Their horns are super crunchy.”

Atsumu’s nose scrunches. Raw mountain goat. Yum.

Andarna chuffs. “I’ll cook it first.”

“Thought ya couldn’t light much more than a candle?"

“Tairn will cook it first,” she amends.

“I will not be joining the two of you on your mutinous mountain adventures,” Tairn tuts.

Andarna’s pout is clear in her voice. “Boo.”

Too bad Andarna can’t fly them out of here, or they might have chanced it already–executable offence or not. Atsumu considers the merits of walking all the way to the coastline. And how bad could raw mountain goat be, really?

“That’s the spirit!” Andarna chirps.

Tairn tsks. “The two of you wouldn’t last a day.”

“Boo,” Atsumu replies, finally deigning to dip his quill in the ink pot on the edge of Hinata’s desk. 

As much as he jokes about the idea, Atsumu would never leave Basgiath without both of his dragons. This bond shit gets codependent quick—or maybe that’s just Atsumu.

He tunes back into class even though Devera’s lullaby is the same one as always. War, bloodshed, destruction, death. Such a macabre, depressing song. And it doesn’t even rhyme.

“This is the third raid in as many weeks,” she declares. “Provisions at each outpost have been hit the hardest, particularly the weapon caches. Now what purpose does this serve our enemy?”

Several hands shoots up to give the obvious fucking answer. Atsumu half listens for Tairn’s sake while he doodles mountain goats in the margins of his notebook. By the time the third goat trotting up the mountain gets its set of extra crunchy horns, his energy is all but spent.

The past three days have been hell on earth. What little sleep Atsumu gets has been plagued with nightmares. What little energy he has is spent pretending that he’s not a lost, broken, mirage of a person. But seeing as his entire squad has been treating him like glass, he supposes the effort would be better spent elsewhere.

When he came to Basgiath, all Atsumu cared about was avenging Osamu. His rage gave him something to hold on to–a goal to consume his thoughts and stave off the despair. If he can’t slay that restless, raging beast, then what’s even left to care about?

A surge of pity washes down on him. Atsumu’s jaw ticks. Nosy-ass dragons.

Atsumu hasn’t given his dragons the whole tragic back story, but they live in the swirling dark mass of his mind, and so often does it cry out at the loss of his twin, they’ve surely picked up on the gist of the matter by now.

Luckily, War Brief is concluded after a few more stupid questions from the crowd so Atsumu can get on with the rest of his meaningless day. He tucks his quill away in the fold of his notebook, ignoring Hinata’s wince from his right. He shuts it anyway–unbothered by the improper quill storage and the leftover ink bleeding all over his goats.

They exit the auditorium and head for the sparring gym. Without the leash of revenge yanking Atsumu forward by the neck, every step feels aimless. So he lets himself be swept along with the quadrant’s current, participating with the bare minimum required to keep his head on his shoulders.

It’s not even a surprise when Atsumu loses his next sparring match–against a skinny little thing he could’ve blown right over if only he had the air to blow. She was fast, he was tired, and suddenly her knife was at his throat and his palm was tapping the mat.

Atsumu drags his feet back to his squad, noting Kita’s presence a few paces further back. Kita seems to be fairing only slightly better than Atsumu. He hasn’t let up an ounce of effort in training, but the shade under his eyes and the slightly less than stick-straight posture is alarming.

Atsumu huddles up to Kita’s side as they watch the next bout. “Been sleepin’ much?”

Kita shakes his head.

Atsumu sighs. “Same.”

Sakusa’s truth bomb was a shock to the both of them, but it doesn’t really change much for Kita. He would be at Basgiath regardless of what happened during last year’s war games. And he was always wary of the Sakusa-killing plan anyhow.

Kita lowers his voice below the crowd’s jeering. “I’m still tryin’ to rectify how two entirely different accounts of the same event can both be true.”

Ah, so that’s what’s eating him.

Atsumu shrugs. “Ya talk to yer dad yet?”

Kita rubs his knuckles over his eyes. “He’s still in Resson, overseeing repairs to the fortress.”

“What are ya gonna say when ya see him?”

“Not sure. I can’t exactly accuse him outright of lyin’. But somethin’ doesn’t feel right with all this.”

“Yer tellin’ me.”

Atsumu hasn’t spared the brain power to even try and dissect everything his own father had told him about Osamu’s death. Was it lies? Misinformation? Unjust, blind vengeance?

There’s a roar from the crowd as a giant first year goes down like a sack of bricks. He’s held in a vice-grip by a smaller, vaguely familiar, angry kid with copper colored hair. A relic mark swirls up his bulging forearm. The hairs stand on Atsumu’s neck as the kid’s furious eyes meet his own.

“What’s his deal?” Atsumu asks.

“Unbonded,” Kita says.

That makes sense. Killing other cadets outside of training is forbidden by the codex, so they’re pulling out all the stops where they can. There’s not much time left until the year’s bonds solidify, and they’re shit out of luck until the next Threshing.

Atsumu winces as the unbonded loosens his hold just enough to jab a hard elbow into the big guy’s ribs and send him doubling over. “Not takin’ it too well, eh?”

The big guy wiggles free for a single gasping breath, before he’s kicked flat on his stomach and put in a fresh stranglehold.

“Why are they even allowed to keep trainin’?” Atsumu asks.

“Plenty of deferred cadets end up bondin’ their second year,” Kita explains. “Not trainin’ them doesn’t exactly help their chances.”

“Still feels weird bein’ around them. Like they’re all just waitin’ to stab a dagger in our necks.”

When the unbonded’s opponent taps out, his arms only tighten their grip around his neck. Ukai and Kiyoko have to rush in and drag him off the mat by force.

Atsumu glares as the guy is escorted back to the Barracks. Pathetic fucking coward –trying to steal a dragon for himself by killing off its rider.

There’s only been one rebonding so far, and that rider fell off their dragon at the second flight lesson. To actually kill someone who earned their dragon fair and square? Gods.

Rejection is a hell of a drug.

Somewhere off in the vale, Tairn huffs his agreement. “Unworthy.”

“They calm down a few weeks in, after bonds cement,” Kita says. “Well. Some do.” His eyes follow Mad Dog breaking his way through the crowd and onto the mat for the next match.

And Atsumu thought the guy was bad the first time he didn’t bond, now Mad Dog is off his leash completely. He goes positively rabid on his next opponent. Atsumu doesn’t envy the girl going against him. He’s pulling weapons out of nowhere, and aiming each one for the kill. She barely manages to fight each blade off before the next is flying her way. It’s a relentless flurry of blades, jabs and kicks until she’s knocked down by a swift roundhouse and pinned to the ground under Mad Dog’s foot. She uses her own blade to swipe at his ankle, then somersaults free, tapping out on the edge of the mat before she’s stabbed through the chest.

Even after Mad Dog is ushered, bleeding and raving, from the gym, a sour feeling lingers in Atsumu’s stomach. He leaves Kita to his brooding and watches the last sparring match with feigned interest alongside the rest of his squad.

Finally the crowd dissipates for lunch and it’s time for Atsumu to go to the cafeteria and move food around his plate. His feet drag on the gym floor as everyone clears to the exit.

And…wait–his feet are actually dragging. When he looks down, there’s a misty pool of black clinging to the soles of his trainers. When Atsumu fights against it, the shadow grows to wrap the tops of his feet and swirl up his calves.

What the fuck?

The momentous effort to free a foot from the ground only results in it being pulled backwards, slowly moving Atsumu in the opposite direction of the sea of bodies. He struggles against it, but he’s dragged to the back of the crowd, where Sakusa stands cross-armed in the center sparring mat.

Oh, hells no. Atsumu has successfully avoided any awkward run-ins with Sakusa since he tried to kill the both of them–he can’t deal with this shit right now.

“The fuck are ya doin’?” Atsumu asks as Sakusa’s shadows drag him back to the ring.

“We’re sparring.” Sakusa shrugs off his jacket, folding it neatly and setting it on the dias, rolling the sleeves of his tight-fit shirt from his wrists to his elbows. 

“I don’t fuckin’ feel like it,” Atsumu spits, catching himself from the shadow’s final whip as they release him at the edge of the mat. When he makes eye contact with Sakusa, he immediately drops his head down.

“Too bad.” His chin is forced back up to meet Sakusa’s sharp, black gaze. “Your wingleader gave you an order. Now, shoes off and feet on the mat cadet.”

Atsumu’s shoes stay firmly on his feet. “Then report me. I don’t give a shit.”

“Just fucking do it.”

Atsumu is a scowl and a stomp away when his ankle is wrapped in shadow and yanked backwards, fucking his balance and sending him slamming into the mat.

“Hey!” Atsumu shouts, kicking at the shadows on his legs. “Cut it the fuck out!”

The shadows slip into the heels of his trainers and flick his shoes off, tossing them to the other end of the gym. Atsumu kicks them away and pops to his feet. He takes a fast, wide swing and jolts when his knuckles actually make contact, punching Sakusa clean across the jaw.

When Sakusa’s face turns back, there’s a twitch of a smile next to the fresh red welt on his cheek. Then his fist reels back.

Atsumu’s head is knocked so violently to the side, it’s a wonder it doesn’t spin all the way around. His hand flies to his face as if it can hold back the pain shooting through his cheekbone and down his teeth.

Atsumu glares, and there it is–Sakusa’s stupid fucking smirk. Atumu lunges forward to wipe it off with his knuckles, but Sakusa moves faster than humanly possible–a specter vanishing in a quick wisp of black.

“Why’d you lose that fight?” Sakusa’s foot reappears first, kicking Atsumu square in the ribs.

Atsumu stumbles over, holding his side and the throbbing pain there. “I’m havin’ an off day, all right?”

A fist curls in Atsumu’s hair. Sakusa yanks Atsumu up to growl in his face. “Well I’m not gonna stand around and watch your off day get me killed.”

“I’ll be fine,” Atsumu grits, pushing Sakusa’s hand away and stomping back towards the direction of his shoes. But before he even leaves the circle, he’s draped a full cowl of shadow and dragged back to center.

“Prove it.” Sakusa pulls a dagger from his belt and launches forward.

Atsumu’s reflexes smack the blade away before it can hit. “Stop it!” 

Sakusa pulls another.

Atsumu pulls his own and slashes back to meet Sakusa’s swing. Iron clashes in between them, sending a shockwave down Atsumu’s arm. Sakusa kicks Atsumu’s foot out and pushes him back with the fist around the dagger. When Atsumu regains his balance and moves to strike again, Sakusa catches his wrist and twists his arm behind his back.

“Come on Assassin,” Sakusa purrs in his ears, teasing the edge of his blade down the side of Atsumu’s neck. “I know you can do a little better than that.”

Atsumu kicks back, hitting nothing but air as Sakusa drops his hold and darts to the edge of the mat.

Before Atsumu can fully turn, a foot smacks the side of his head. How long are Sakusa’s fucking legs? There’s another kick to the back of his knees and Atsumu falls to the mat, blade flying off.

“What the fuck is wrong with ya?” Atsumu shouts, jumping back to his feet just to get knocked in the stomach by the sharpest elbow on the planet.

Sakusa sheathes his own weapon and curls his hands back to fists.

Each jab and kick is a poker to the dead coals in Atsumu’s chest. Somehow Sakusa pinpoints the heat buried deep under the ashes, stoking Atsumu’s fire back up to smolder and boiling the blood inside his veins. 

Sakusa sinks into his shadows, then reappears with a kick to Atsumu’s side. He hops backwards, quirking his head and bouncing on his toes. “Aww the little Assassin forgot how to fight.”

“Quit callin’ me that!” Atsumu lunges forward. And once again, his fist smashes the black mist that used to be Sakusa. 

Sakusa spins and strikes back like a viper–quick and hard with sharp knuckles to the gut.

“What should I call you then?” He asks in Atsumu’s ear as Atsumu sputters over. “Pathetic? Weak? Easy target? Because that’s what you are right now.”

That fucking bastard.

He wants a fight? Fine.

Atsumu’s fire roars to full strength. He throws his elbow back, Sakusa dodges left, Atsumu meets him on the other side with a hook kick, knocking his heel hard into Sakusa’s chest. He spins back to watch the tail end of Sakusa stumbling back.

“There you are.” Sakusa smiles. Atsumu only catches a glimpse of its shine before he’s ducking the next hit.

Sakusa throws a long series of attacks. “So what now, Assassin?”

Atsumu blocks each one, biding his time for an opening of his own. “What do ya mean?”

“Your entire personality was killing me, so—what.” Sakusa launches a surprise kick to the chest that Atsumu barely softens with his forearms. “Now?” 

“I. Don’t. Know.” Atsumu growls through gritted teeth and blocked punches. The moment he actually gets close to a good hit, Sakusa jumps back and the shadows swallow him whole.

Atsumu moves slowly through the cool, dark mist. He can’t see a thing, but there’s a pull on his chest like a compass ringing north, so he circles around it, fists up and ready. He closes his eyes to open his other senses and somehow he can feel it–the space where the shadows shift to accommodate Sakusa’s mass. The second it twitches, Atsumu lunges forward, ramming headfirst into solid muscle. He throws his arms around Sakusa’s waist and tackles him to the mat. “I don’t want to fuckin’ be here!”

“Well tough fucking shit!” The shadows blink away and Sakusa flips them over. He digs his palms into Atsumu’s wrists, lifting them up and slamming them back down. “You think you’re the only person who doesn’t want to be here?”

Sakusa reels his arm back and slams his fist into Atsumu’s mouth, splitting his lip wide open. Atsumu swallows back a mouthful of blood, throwing his free arm up to block his face. The tip of his tongue throbs where he has to dislodge it from his teeth. “I only came here fer you!”

“And what were you planning to do if you failed? Or succeeded?” Sakusa pries Atsumu’s arm away and back down to his side, but he doesn’t move to strike again. “You knew you’d be stuck in service.”

Atsumu squirms under his grip. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow as his body stills–long, dark bangs curling down over his face.“You didn’t want to be a rider?”

“Fuck no.”

Sakusa frees Atsumu’s wrists, rolling over to sit and drape his elbows over his knees. He stares at the half-wall of the dias, holding his wrist and rolling it in little circles. “Did you know I’m the first rider in Navarre’s history who didn’t volunteer?”

Atsumu nods slowly, pushing up to rest on his elbows and wipe the sweat from his brow.

Sakusa is the only third year with a rebellion relic on his skin. The marked ones all protect each other now, but Sakusa’s first year must have been hard. And lonely. The fact that he’s still alive is a testament to how strong he really is.

The gentle glow of the sun paints a striking contrast along Sakusa’s dagger-sharp profile. And even past his spidery long lashes, the gold flecks of his eyes catch like stars in the light.

“I know how it feels to not want to be here,” he says softly. “But the only way out of Basgiath is through it. We’ve already established that I won’t be letting you kill yourself, and that includes letting someone else do the job for you.”

Atsumu mumbles something noncommittal.

“Your brother wouldn’t want you to die,” Sakusa presses. “Or spend the rest of your life wallowing around like a miserable piece of shit.”

That bastard. Using Osamu against him.

“The fuck would you know about Samu?” Atsumu had aimed for bark, but it came out like a whimper.

Sakusa gives him a pointed look. “Would he?”

Atsumu falls back down and lets out a Tairn-sized sigh. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“Exactly.” Sakusa scoots to the edge of the mat, slipping on his shoes and rolling down his sleeves. “This place will eat you alive unless you fight it at every single step. So get your shit together. Keep your spark. Keep fighting.”

Whatever Sakusa’s doing...it feels like more than self-preservation. It almost feels like he gives a shit.

Sakusa stands, rubbing the sore spot on his jaw. He freezes when his gaze meets Atsumu’s. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Atsumu presses his temples, shaking off whatever look he was supposedly giving. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that yer not an evil, murderin’, demon-spawn asshole.”

“Don’t worry,” Sakusa holds a gloved hand out. The edge of his lip twitches when Atsumu takes it. “I’m still an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Atsumu says, licking the leftover blood off his lip where it’s starting to swell. Once on his feet, he narrows his eyes. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.”

Sakusa barks out something like a laugh. “Oh gods, no. But maybe…” He purses his blood-free lips, and his head tilts innocently to the side. “Reluctant death-pact partners?”

Atsumu snorts his own approximation of laughter. “Sure.”

“So…no dying?” Sakusa’s lips widen into a crooked grin.

Atsumu’s heart skips. Oh fuck. Sakusa’s smile is so–

“Y-yeah–” Atsumu clears his throat and tries again without that little fuckin’ squeak or whatever just came out of him. “No dyin’.”

Sakusa shakes their hands to seal the deal–and huh.

Neither of them had let go yet.

— ⚡︎ —

By the time Atsumu reaches the cafeteria, it’s already cleared out. He sees some other first years marching down the southward stairs and jogs to catch up.

After the 250 gods-awful steps down, the mountain levels off into a wide rocky valley. A large stone amphitheater circles half of a large sand-packed ring, wooden bleachers curving round to make up the other half.

“Welcome to the pit.” Ukai’s speech ushers Atsumu in as he scuttles into the group. He gives Hinata and Bokuto an apologetic dip of his head as he settles between them.

“Infantry’s Squadron leaders will be demonstrating the various weapons stations,” Ukai says, pacing the pit and tapping a thumb on the great sword at his belt. “As riders, our best weapons are our dragons and our signets. But that’s not to say you should be reliant on those alone. Battles are unpredictable and contingencies are the name of the game. You’ll have a chance to sample a bit of everything today and get a feel for your personal combat styles. Don’t worry about mastering each weapon, in the coming months you will specialize in one or two. We are in Infantry’s territory today, so please give them your respect. Whether a uniform is black or gray, we are all on the same side.”

Ukai sections the squads off and explains the rotations.

The weapons field is shared between Riders and Infantry, stocked full with every type of weapon ever made. They won’t get nearly as much weapons training as Infantry, but it’s still a requirement on the off chance a rider is separated from their dragon in battle. Best not to be completely useless on the ground.

A handful of gray uniforms sit in scattered clumps along the stands. Their voices travel easily around the amphitheater.

“We should not be giving these people swords.”

“They already have dragons, how much worse can the swords be?”

Beyond some dirty looks and flipped fingers, the riders ignore them and shuffle on to their designated stations.

Oikawa is the first to dart to the weapons rack and look over the sampling of blunted iron. He’s alone again, but he seems to be adjusting well without his posse, both dragonless after their stunt at Threshing.

Two other riders come up beside him, whistling at the weapons selection.

“Thank gods the unbonded aren’t invited,” one says. “They’d just run through all of us with those.”

The other scoffs. “Those losers will get plenty of time in the pit once they’re kicked down to Infantry.”

They snicker and Oikawa pushes past them, grabbing the largest battle axe on the rack, swinging it over their heads a hair away from hitting.

“Hey! Fucking watch it man!”

“Sorry about that, but big heads make big targets you know.” Oikawa spins his axe with a menacing smile. When he turns back towards the pit, his face falls to a quiet, restrained anger.

Atsumu takes a wide breadth as Oikawa marches past him with a glare.

When they reach the rack, Bokuto starts naming all the weapons, describing the pros and cons to each, while Hinata listens with rapt attention. All of the weapons are iron, mimicking the size and weight of the real thing, but for safety they’re only unsharpened hunks of metal with blunted tips.

The real stuff is around here somewhere. An unpleasant memory flashes Atsumu’s mind–the first time his father switched the training weapons out for real ones. He had Nolon on the sidelines of the pit, mending Atsumu and Osamu between bouts. They went until the sun set behind the mountain and the sand was stained in red. Atsumu shudders. The feeling of a rapier through the shoulder is not something he’s keen on feeling again so soon.

“Uh Atsumu, did you get into a fight or something?” Hinata asks, staring at the fat lip Atsumu’s been poking at with his tongue.

“Oh.” Atsumu laughs, biting his tongue away. “Yeah, kinda.”

There’s an affronted gasp to his left, then Bokuto grabs a massive practice sword and stabs it into the sand. “Without me?”

Atsumu chuckles, reaching for one of the mid-length blades stacked along the rack. “Sorry Bo, I’ll make sure ta grab ya next time.”

“You fucking better, traitor.” Bokuto smacks him in the shoulder. 

Hinata grabs his own shortsword and beams. “Well, even with the busted lip, it's nice to see you smile again.” He smacks Atsumu’s other shoulder before running head first at a leather wrapped training dummy, with Bokuto a stride behind.

Atsumu feels his cheeks flush. He is keenly aware he’s been a mopey fucking mess the past few days, but has he really not...smiled?

He hangs back to swing his blade a few times–warming up his muscles and getting a feel for the weight and balance. The repetitive movement leaves his mind free to wander.

Since Osamu left for Basgiath, Atsumu has been caught in a constant beating wave of anger and nothing. Anger and nothing. Maybe that’s why fighting with Sakusa made him feel so much better–the anger is a whole lot better than the nothing.

Suddenly it’s not something he wants to look at any closer. Atsumu abandons his thoughts half formed and dying at the edge of the pit and runs in to join the others.

Solid wood stumps surround the pit in evenly spaced intervals. They’re wrapped in long swatches of leather and carved in a very loose interpretation of a human body–far less detailed than the cotton-stuffed training dummies in the sparring gym, but certainly more substantial.

Three gray uniforms walk around the perimeter of the pit, giving advice and correcting postures as the riders take on their wooden enemies. Judging by the poor show, most of the big scary weapons they brought into Threshing were no more than fashion accessories.

Bokuto handles the greatsword with as much speed and finesse as a rapier. Despite his goofball disposition, he truly is a terror on the field–splitting his dummy down the center with no obvious amount of effort.

After sampling a few of the smaller swords, Hinata finds his rhythm hacking and slashing with a pair of sai daggers, leaning into his strong suits–speed and agility.

Atsumu sticks with his lighter sword, hacking and slashing like he had never put one down. From the corner of his eye, Oikawa demolishes a dummy of his own, switching through weapons like a third-year infantryman. Atsumu suddenly remembers their fight at Threshing–the dead arm that left him defenseless. He decides to focus on working up his left side for once, switching hands between sets and trying to replicate the movements. The more he fights, the more the rest of the world falls away, leaving nothing but Atsumu, his blade, and his target.

His entire life, Atsumu had been forced into training, but there’s a small part of him that might have missed it. The satisfying burn in his muscles. The swell of pride from doing something he’s good at.

Sword fighting is like dancing. There’s a rhythm to the movements. A sway to the steps. A beat in each clash of iron on iron, iron on leather. Atsumu lets the music flow through him as he stabs and strikes. Switching hands until his left side feels as acquainted with the tune as his right.

He’s lost in his own world until a loud whistle pulls him out.

His squad stows their swords and switches to the long-range station, across from a line of red and black targets.

Atsumu is only an okay shot with a bow and arrow. His father always told him it wasn’t a rider’s weapon, so he only ever trained it for fun. He grabs a longbow and sets up his shot, managing to at least hit the broad circle of the target.

“Nice form.” A smoky voice unfurls over Atsumu’s shoulder, sending shivers up his spine. He turns to be met with the warm, brown eyes of the cute infantry guy from the bonfire.

Meian places his hand in the small of Atsumu’s back, giving it a light press. “Just arch yer back a bit more, yeah?”

Heat flashes from the spot on Atsumu’s back, all the way up to his cheeks.

“Yes sir.” Atsumu grins.

“There ya go,” Meian winks and moves along, adjusting the hold of another cadet, albeit far less flirtatiously.

Hinata takes the next turn, loosing an arrow straight to the center of the target. Atsumu and Bokuto both clap him on the back.

“They teach that in scribe school or what?” Bokuto asks–his own shot a good four inches off from center, and Atsumu’s even worse.

“Hold fire while I grab the arrows.” Atsumu jogs over their hay stuffed target, pulling the arrows from the punctured canvas. He gives a low whistle. Not only is Hinata’s a perfect bullseye, it’s sunk right down to the feathers.

“Nice fuckin’ shot, Sho!” Atsumu curls his fist over the arrow end and puts his back into yanking it out.

The moment the arrow is free, there’s a shout in the air and Andarna’s panicked voice shoots through Atsumu’s mind. “Atsu!”

Atusmu’s head whips to the side. A shock of energy zips down his spine, the world goes completely silent as time slows to an icy crawl.

There’s an arrow flying straight for his neck.

He should move. Is he fast enough to dodge an arrow mid-flight?

Even a practice one can kill if it rips through the soft tissue of his throat. Exactly where it’s aiming.

How does he even have this much time to think? Some near-death adrenaline rush? Malek offering one last chance at repentance?

His body stays frozen as the arrow spins in syrupy spirals, edging closer and closer with each cruel spin.

Before he has time to move, think, or pray, Atsumu blinks and the arrow is gone.

His fingers unclench and the roar of the rest of the world crashes back into his ears–shouts and wind and metal clanging in the distance.

There’s a cry back from the line. “Gah! Fuck!”

“No shootin’ until all the targets are clear!” Meian shouts. “Who the fuck was that?”

No one comes forward.

Meain rushes to Atsumu’s side and checks him over. “Ya good?”

Atsumu nods, pressing a hand over his hammering heartbeat.

He turns but doesn’t see an arrow in the target behind him. Or the dirt-packed wall behind the targets.

What the hell just happened? That arrow was headed straight for him, but it disappeared.

In that odd pause of time, one clear voice rang through Atsumu’s head.

‘No dying.’

Atsumu had promised Sakusa he wouldn’t. And in that brief, suspended moment, he really didn’t want to.

Huh, at least Atsumu’s will to live is back–that’s something.

Atsumu tries to shake away the persistent buzz of adrenaline. It was just an accident. When he walks back to the others, everyone is crowding in an excited ball of energy.

“Hey Ukai!” A random voice bellows over the mob. “Think we need a medic over here!”

Atsumu pushes to the center of the mob where Bokuto is holding an arrow. Or–oh shit, an arrow is sticking halfway into his palm.

“The fuck?” Atsumu gasps. “How did–”

“I-I don’t know.” Bokuto shakes his head. “I saw the arrow coming at you, and I reached my hand out and…” he holds his bleeding hand up, poking the feathered end of the arrow in disbelief.

Hinata gasps. “Does that mean–”

Ukai rushes over. “What’s all the noise?”

Meain points to Bokuto, who’s plucking the arrowhead from his palm with a wince. “Think ya got yerself a new magic user.” 

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Bokuto shouts, curling his bloody fist into the air.

“Summoning?” Atsumu asks.

Bokuto holds his good hand towards the ground. A rock appears in his palm while a rock-shaped hole appears in the dirt. “Woah!”

“Awesome!” Hinata and Atsumu say together.

“I’m keeping this rock forever,” Bokuto says, giving it a smacking kiss. “And this arrow!” He twirls the bloody arrow around in the sun, laughing.

Atsumu’s stomach drops as the iron glints in the sunlight. The feathers sticking from the back are the same red and black as the practice ones, but the tip is a real sharpened warhead.

Some fucking accident.

Ukai gives Bokuto a hard pat on the back. “Congrats kid. Head to the infirmary then report immediately to Pancheck to sign up for signet training.”

“Yes sir!” Bokuto salutes with his bloody hand and skips off smiling.

“That was a close fuckin’ thing.” Meain’s eyes narrow at Atsumu. Then a barely contained smile plays at his lips. “Somethin’ tells me yer a magnet fer trouble, ain’t ya?”

Tairn and Andarna answer simultaneously in Atsumu’s head. “You have no idea.”

— ⚡︎ —

When Atsumu returns to his room, thoroughly exhausted, he uses the last wisps of willpower to wash the dirt and sweat from his skin and give his armor a good scrubbing. He hangs it to dry on the post of his bed and tucks his dagger back under his pillow. He must be feeling better, because he falls asleep the moment his cheek hits down.

The dream is not a memory per-se, but a familiar and comforting scene. It’s dipped in the scent of ink, leather and binding glue. Laid beneath vaulted ceilings and brass candelabras.

The archives are the same as they had been for years and the same as they ever will be. The one thing to outlive them all.

Atsumu is a child again. Curled in his mother’s lap, fighting for space with an equally tiny Osamu.

Osamu looks up with his big, silver eyes. “Can ya read the venin story again, mom?”

“Nooo,” Atsumu whines, yanking on the sleeve of her robe. “I’m sick of that one!”

“Ya never let me pick the story, Tsumu!”

“Cuz ya always pick the same stupid one!” Atsumu kicks him.

“I do not!” Osamu yanks on his hair.

“Now, now, boys. No fighting.” Their mother bounces her knees, jumping them up until they burst into a fit of giggles and settle back down, hands to themselves. “Now, let’s see. How about we read a venin story, but one you haven’t heard before?”

“A new one?” Osamu’s eyes sparkle.

Atsumu crosses his little arms. “Not the stupid war one again?”

She nods, leaning forward to pull a book from the table. “How the venin came to be.”

Atsumu fiddles with a pot of ink while she tells the story, clasping and unclasping the lid.

“There once were three brothers. One bonded to a dragon, another to a gryphon, and both were blessed with the gift of magic. But no creature found the third brother worthy, so they refused him. He became so jealous and enraged that he stole magic for himself, straight from the source.”

A shockwave rumbles through the archives, pausing the story and causing Osamu’s little hand to grip into Atsumu’s. “Did ya feel that?”

Atsumu shakes him off. “It’s probably just the giants minin’ under our feet.”

Osamu’s face goes pale, scrambling to grip their mother’s arm instead. “Giants aren’t real, right mom?”

Atsumu pokes his side. “Venin aren’t real either, dummy!”

“Are too!”

“Are not!”

“Liar!”

“It’s the truth!”

“Mom!”

“Mom!”

“Hush, hush, boys.” She taps the book on each of their heads before setting it back on the table. “Truth is a sticky thing. What’s true for one man might not be true for another. Best not to worry until the time that it matters.”

“Why is magic bad when it’s from the ground?” Atsumu asks, rolling the ink pot in circles in his hands.

“Magic is a precious gift. If it’s taken by force, it becomes corrupted. Great power can do great good or great evil. It’s in the hands of the wielder to decide. Power can corrupt the strongest of minds. The most iron of wills.” Their mother’s eyes grow glassy and distant as they used to when she went off on her stories. “Riders share the magic with their dragons. The bond between them keeps the power in check. If you try to take too much, you’ll lose your life. When you take from the earth, you give nothing back. You can only take. You take and take until it takes you. But what it takes is more than your life, it takes your very soul.” The drums her finger over the black edge of the table. “It’s important to share the burden of power–to have someone keep you safe while giving you strength.”

“Like Tsumu and me?” Osamu asks.

“That’s right.” She smiles and musses his silver-tipped hair. “You two protect each other.” She runs her fingers through Atsumu’s gold-tipped hair. “You make each other strong. Just think of how lucky you are to never have to go a day without each other.”

Atsumu drops his ink pot and it shatters over the table.

“Stupid Tsumu, ya ruined it!” Osamu wails, swiping up the book before it’s entirely soaked in black. 

Lucky? Their luck only lasted twenty and a half years.

They aren’t children. They aren’t lucky and they aren’t together. None of this is real.

Atsumu’s breathing grows short. “But Samu, ya–”

“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Osamu wipes at the pages as the black crawls slowly up the pages, consuming the story in its entirety. Mountain goats hop along the margins, until they’re drowned in the rising tide of ink, one by one.

“It’s not okay.” Atsumu’ little heart pounds. His tiny lungs heave. His weak fingers curl over the binding. “Ya can’t fix it, Samu!”

“I can try,” Osamu says, pulling the book away and scrubbing with his sleeve.

“It’s gone!” Atsumu screams, shoving the blackened book to the floor. “You’re gone!”

Osamu’s head piques. “I’m not gone, Tsumu. I’m sittin’ right here.”

But you aren’t.

“But I am.”

Oh, how Atsumu wishes that were true.

“Mom!” Atsumu cries. Tears spilling down his cheeks like upturned inkpots. “Tell Samu he’s lyin’! That he’s–”

“Sweetie.” His mother looks at him sternly, her face as pale as the last time he saw it. “You need to wake up.”

“What?” Atsumu clings to her arm as it disintegrates under his palms. She crumbles into ashes, sinking through his fingers and falling to the floor.

Atsumu screams.

The walls begin to shake. Chunks of stone dislodging from the ceiling and raining down over the archives.

“It’s the giants!” Osamu shouts, covering his ears and ducking under the table.

Atsumu tries to run, to go with Samu, but his feet are stuck in shadows.

A giant-sized hole breaks through the archive wall. But it’s not a giant that comes through, it’s a dragon.

“Wake up!” Tairn claws over the reliquaries, knocking them over like stacks of dominoes. Books spill over the ground before disintegrating into dust. His morningstartail crashes through the candlelight, sending melted wax and sputtering flames to the floor.

Fire erupts, quickly jumping to the rows of books and sending the shelves up in towering pillars of flame.

Tairn’s mouth opens and his voice bellows a roar louder than Atsumu has ever heard, rippling over the archives and turning everything to ashes.

“Wake now or you will die!”

When Atsumu’s eyes snap open, he’s not in the archives. He’s in his room—with several shadows looming over him, and the icy kiss of a blade at his throat.

Chapter Text

Atsumu thrusts his fist up, shoving the knife off his neck. The arm wielding the weapon swipes back in shock, cutting a deep line through the side of his palm. Atsumu rolls to the other side of the bed, blanket swirling around him and cushioning the fall.

“Shit!” Someone shouts. “He’s awake!”

“Move!” Tairn bellows.

Atsumu kicks the blanket off and belly crawls under the bed. His heart hammers against the stone as several pairs of black boots scramble about.

What the fuck is going on?

“You’re being attacked,” Tairn supplies.

“Yeah, I got that! By who?” Atsumu huddles under the bed–admittedly a pretty shit hiding spot, but there’s not a wealth of options at the moment.

His eyes blink to adjust. The scant blue moonlight traces the edges of his attacker’s legs. Seven? No, six–after a shiny pair of boots run out.

“One flees,” Tairn confirms.

“Good.”

Now if only the rest would flee too.

But the gods aren’t quite that kind, and the remaining six spread out to surround him. Atsumu bites back all the curses in his head–even Zinhal wouldn’t bet on those odds.

“Six-on-one?” Andarna seethes. “That’s not fair!”

“They aimed to kill our rider in his sleep,” Tairn growls. “I think we’re long past fairness.”

A scrape of metal skids the floor and there’s a sword swiping at Atsumu’s legs. He curls back towards the wall, fighting the urge to kick the blade away with his bare feet. He waits for an opening, then slams his heel on the flat edge of the blade, trapping it to the floor. Before he can try and grab it, there’s hands all over him—in his hair, around his wrists, under his armpits.

What kind of assholes would risk execution to kill a rider in their sleep?

“Got him!” A voice yells as fingers find their purchase and drag Atsumu from his hole.

The answer is illuminated in the pale cast of moonlight–a head of strawberry tinted hair and another buzzed to the skull, adorned with stupid fucking racing stripes.

The kind of assholes with nothing to lose.

How many times will they have this same fucking fight?

At least Oikawa isn’t here. But unfortunately, he’s been replaced by four hulking figures in black cloaks, each brandishing various shades of steel.

“Don’t let them trap you!” Andarna shouts.

Atsumu grits his teeth as he locks his heels under the bed frame. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it!”

He pulls against their grip, thrashing wildly until half of him slips free, thudding back to the floor. With an open arm, he punches Mad Dog in the knee and elbows Other Guy in the groin.

He’s freed to dive for the bed, somersaulting over the mattress and swiping his dagger from under the pillow. His feet skid the ground and he slams into the first black figure in his path, fisting black fabric and shoving them into the wall. The hooded head slams back and their weight goes dead in Atsumu’s hands.

“Behind!” Andarna shouts.

Atsumu drops the unconscious body and lunges to the side. Something knicks him and white hot pain splits over his ribs. He swears, hand pressing over the cut. It’s not too deep, but how—

Oh fuck. His fucking armor.

It’s still hanging on the bedpost, ten feet and five murderous assholes away.

The window rattles behind him–a rabid howl of air pounding at the glass. The moonlit sword raises again, the tip already dark and glistening with Atsumu’s blood.

Atsumu ducks and the swing falls over him, crashing into the window. There’s a wildstorm of glass and a vicious whip of frigid air screaming into the room.

The cloaked figure seethes, trying to shake their blade free. Atsumu plants a kick to their stomach, sending them reeling back and their weapon soaring out the window.

The window!

Atsumu pops up, ready to risk the single story jump, when his heart drops even lower. There’s a gaping hole in the glass, but the intricate wrought iron stands strong–barring any hope of escape. A blast of wind smacks his face and chills him to the core.

Fuck. Bars blocking the window and bodies blocking the door. He’s trapped.

Atsumu’s teeth chatter. “I can’t get out.”

“Then fight!” Tairn urges.

“The fuck ya think I’ve been doing?” Atsumu slinks against the wall, gently pushing through the glass so he doesn’t cut his feet. But all he manages to do is hit the far wall, literally backing himself into a corner.

“Don’t let them hurt you,” Andarna’s voice adds in a waver.

Atsumu appreciates the attempts at help, but all his dragons are accomplishing is compounding his own panic. Their adrenaline rushes into his body, hitting him from both ends. His hands were already shaking and now his entire body is wracked with it.

The figures regroup to hiss at each other, clearly put off by their plan going south.

“He was supposed to be sleeping!”

“You stomped in like a damn clubtail, no wonder he woke up.”

“You want a chance at that big fucking beast or not?”

“It doesn’t matter! The plan’s still on. He dies tonight.”

“Just try and hold them off,” Tairn urges. “Help is coming.”

Atsumu tenses as the figures begin inching in. “What, ya gonna crash through the tower?”

Even if Tairn could fly here fast enough to help, what would he do? Pop a snout in the window and roast the whole room with Atsumu in it?

Atsumu slices the air in warning. “Tairn wouldn’t touch a single one of ya!”

Tairn roars his agreement in Atsumu’s mind. But the unbonded can’t hear it, so they continue to sneer, edging in closer.

A gust of wind blasts back the black hood in front, revealing shaggy copper hair and a face a mother wouldn’t even love. The boy smirks as a saw-toothed knife spins around his marked knuckles. “Only one way to find out.”

His ugly sneer tugs at Atsumu’s memory–a dark cloak in the grove. An angry, copper haired boy asking when it was time to ‘kill Miya Atsumu.’

Atsumu had made peace with enough Marked Ones to forget. Fallen into a delusion where he’s somebody else’s son. He had all but forgotten the bad blood soaking his family name.

That doesn't mean everyone else has forgotten.

Atsumu feels a flash of stolen guilt that his father has never bothered to feel. But the small pang of sympathy is all Atsumu allows the boy, not willing to trade his own life, and Sakusa’s, to make him feel better.

Vengeance snarls and lunges straight for Asumu’s throat.

Atsumu catches the blade with his own–twisting to catch the serrated edge and send it flying across the room.

The rest descend at once–an engulfing cave of black. Atsumu blindly slashes, tearing cloth and flesh at random until the dagger is knocked from his grasp.

Hands curl over his arms, pulling them out. Knuckles meet his gut, knocking the air from his lungs. They use the interlude to wrangle Atsumu’s limbs into submission and bully him down to the floor.

There’s a sharp cry inside his head. “Get away!” Andarna’s panic sweeps down him.

The thought of failing her sends a fresh wave of fight through Atsumu’s veins, but the weight on his body quickly dispels his efforts to break free, and he’s punched in the teeth for trying.

“Why do you get two dragons while the rest of us get nothing?” Mad Dog shouts, shooting self-righteous spittle into Atsumu’s face. “What makes you so fucking special, huh?”

Even if Atsumu had an answer, he has no chance to give it. The icy air is cut as Mad Dog’s paws push into his throat.

Atsumu struggles for breath, fighting to no avail. He’s desperate to claw the hands from his throat, but his limbs are locked in a vice of blood-thirsty black cloaks.

A voice from the right arm. “Quit messing with him.”

An argument from the left leg. “This piece of shit doesn’t deserve a quick death.”

A voice by the door. “Fucking hurry! Before someone hears.”

A sickly parting of blade from scabbard. “Let’s just get it over with.”

“Hey!” Mad Dog frees up an arm to hit away the incoming weapon. “This one’s mine.”

Atsumu uses his last free breath to spit in his ugly, snarling face.

“That’s it!” Mad Dog raises the dagger.

“No!” Tairn bellows.

“Mine!” Andarna screeches.

A burning current zips through Atsumu’s body. A golden surge of light bursts off his skin and out over the room.

The world goes quiet. The only lonely sounds are Atsumu’s thundering heartbeat and the stuttered gasps of his lungs sucking down air.

Atsumu tenses, waiting for the fall of the blade. But it doesn’t come. It stays high over Mad Dog’s head, sharp silver poised in the moonlight.

He turns his head left and right. The others stay fixed in their positions–hungry, unblinking eyes waiting for Atsumu’s end. And wait–they really aren’t blinking. Or breathing. Or moving at all.

Even the wind has paused to hold its icy breath.

“Wh-what the fuck is happening?”

“Hurry,” Andarna urges. “You can’t hold it for long.”

Atsumu wiggles his arms free. Then his legs. The bodies holding him down are still heavy, but they move pliant and easy, pushed away with no resistance.

He pries the blade from Mad Dog’s frozen fist.

No one moves to stop him. No one moves at all.

If he can just get to the door…

“They won’t stop,” Andarna cries, “you have to kill them!”

“But I’ve never–”

Atsumu feels the magic start to flicker. Shit.

In a last ditch panic, he heaves Mad Dog’s stiff form to the ground.

The static snaps and the world returns to full speed.

Mad Dog balks at Atsumu’s new position over him. His dark, beady eyes go wide as Atsumu plunges the knife deep into his neck.

— ⚡︎ —

Kiyoomi wakes with a start, panic seizing his body into place. His hands fly to his chest, feeling the pulse hammer under his palm.

Miya.

Sgayel’s voice warns inside his head. “Something’s wrong.”

“I know.” He throws his blankets off and rushes to the door, snatching his weapons belt and cinching it to his waist as he runs. “I’m going.”

“It’s the unbonded. At least six, maybe more.”

Shit, shit, shit.

It only takes a minute to sprint from the third year’s dorm down to the first, but each pounding step on his bare feet slams his heart harder in Kiyoomi’s chest.

As he turns off the staircase, he nearly runs into a streaking black cloak. The figure brushes swiftly past, face covered by the black hood. When bootsteps cross Kiyoomi’s shadows, he’s nearly stunned in place by the caustic swirl of fear and anger tainting their aura.

But the figure is gone as quickly as it came and there’s no time to go chasing it. Kiyoomi runs on. Just a little bit further–to the cracked open door at the end of the hall.

He crashes through Miya’s door into pure chaos. Streaks of blood line the walls. People scramble, voices shout. Glass and bodies litter the floor.

“Where’s–?”

There.

Miya is leaning over a body on the ground, yanking a knife from the man’s neck.

Kiyoomi’s shadows curl around the throats of the closest bodies to Miya, his hands curl around the throat closest to him. He pushes the body against the wall when the moonlight catches on the boy’s copper waves.

Wild eyes flash from anger to shock.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

The boy’s relic marked hand grips desperately into Kiyoomi’s arm. Kiyoomi moves his hands to the sides of the boy’s face, his own relic mark staring back at him. He feels the weight of the fucking world break over his back.

He hadn’t thought to tell the Marked Ones about his new life-threatening link to Miya. But he had already told them to stay away. How could this one be so fucking reckless?

“No.” Pale lips curl into a plea, but it’s already too late.

“Godsdammit, Tynan.” Kiyoomi twists.

A little piece of him cracks in time with the boy’s neck. Tynan’s body goes limp, fingers still clenched over Kiyoomi’s arms as his head drops forward. Kiyoomi has to pry Tynan’s hands away. The swirling black mark sinks dead to the floor.

The room is quiet–all the other pulses snuffed out. All that lingers is Miya and Kiyoomi’s—both whipped to a maelstrom, closer to a rattle than a beat.

Kiyoomi takes a step toward Miya. “Are you okay?”

“Sakusa?” Miya looks dazed, a clutching hand over his pattering heart. By the time his golden eyes travel from Kiyoomi’s bare feet up to his face, they’re filled with anger. “What are ya doin’ here?”

Kiyoomi scoffs, fixing his off-kilter belt. “No thank you for saving your life?”

“Ya saved yer life,” Miya snarls. “Don’t pretend it has shit to do with me.”

Miya’s shaking hands pitch forward for his knife, but his knuckles slip in the blood as his fist closes over it. Kiyoomi’s shadows lurch to catch him before his face follows, but they only catch empty air.

Somehow, in the time it takes Kiyoomi to blink, Miya is squat against the far wall, staring at his trembling, blood stained hands.

Kiyoomi blinks again. And again–but Miya stays put.

“What the hells just happened?” Kiyoomi asks Sgaeyl.

“Don’t ask me.”

“Wouldn’t that be your mate’s magic?”

“Not Tairn’s. It must be hers.”

“The feathertail?”

Sgaeyl’s mental hackles rise and Kiyoomi drops the matter. She’s awfully touchy about the little dragon.

Miya’s eyes skitter from the floor to his hands, the blood on both. His face is ghostly pale, save for an artistic smattering of crimson up his cheekbone.

Kiyoomi’s shadows black out the scene before Miya decides to pass out.

“Come on,” Kiyoomi says, stomach tightening as his bare feet cross through the still-warm puddle between them. “You can stay in my room tonight. I’ll have yours warded in the morning, once it’s cleaned up.”

“Cleaned up,” Miya parrots as he’s pulled to his feet. His eyes don’t leave the floor–like he can still see the massacre straight through the shadows.

Kiyoomi’s hand drops to Miya’s waist in warning. “Am I going to have to carry you again?”

That seems to snap Miya from his trance, setting his eyes back to blaze. He huffs towards the door, stomping past Kiyoomi. His feet trip over something in the mist. Kiyoomi reaches to catch an elbow and yanks him back up.

Miya looks like he’s going to be sick. Kiyoomi kind of feels like he might be sick too. He uses his shadows to navigate the minefield of warm corpses and guides Miya to the hall.

— ⚡︎ —

By the time they get back to Kiyoomi’s room the spark has all but left Miya again. His feet drag the last few steps and Kiyoomi subtly pushes them along with his shadows, steadying each stumble, so he won’t have to peel a Miya pancake off the floor.

When they reach his bathroom, Kiyoomi flicks a magelight at the ceiling and sets the shell-shocked Miya on the copper rim of the bathtub.

Kiyoomi searches the cabinet for a clean towel.

Miya’s voice is a hoarse whisper at his back. “I killed him.”

Kiyoomi hums as he runs the towel under the faucet. Then something occurs to him. “First time?”

“Yes, it’s my first fuckin’ time!” Miya snaps. “I’m not like–”

“Me?”

That shuts Miya up.

Kiyoomi releases his death grip on the faucet, now sufficiently over cranked.

He kneels before Miya and softens his voice. “You didn’t have a choice.”

He drags the towel down Miya’s cheek, wiping away the bloody streak marring Miya’s freckles. “It was self defense.”

Miya’s eyes avoid him but he doesn’t shy away from the cold cloth. “I saw it in his eyes–right at the end. He was just as scared as I was.”

“Don’t give them sympathy they don’t deserve.” Kiyoomi moves the cloth down to clean the despicable man’s blood from Miya’s hands. “You did the right thing.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Miya says, choking on the words.

‘It never does,’ Kiyoomi thinks, as he moves to run the towel back under the faucet. The water wrings crimson even on the second pass. He turns his body so Miya can’t see.

Miya’s warbled voice barely floats over the running water. “Does it ever get easier?”

Kiyoomi’s gaze drops to his own hands–perfectly clean, yet bloodied just the same.

“Yes,” he whispers, resenting the answer. Resenting the subhuman creature the fires of Basgiath have forged him into. Then his mind flashes with the scared eyes of Tynan. The relic-marked hand dropping to the floor. The sickening crack of his neck. Kiyoomi amends his statement. “And no.”

He hangs the towel and leans back against the counter. “If it makes you feel any better, you killed four less people than I did tonight.”

Miya makes a weird sort of laugh before his big gold eyes finally look up. “Thanks fer that. Really.”

Kiyoomi tenses, fingers clawed over the porcelain edge of the sink.

A thank you. For killing five people.

He has never been thanked for killing before. He feels sick.

“You didn’t have a choice either,” Sgaeyl chides before Kiyoomi has a chance to spiral.

“Right.” Kiyoomi exhales, releasing his grip.

Miya’s eyes drop back to his own open hands. “It happened so fast. One second his hands were on my neck and the next, my knife was inside his. I knew exactly what to do–like it was second nature. What the hell does that say about me?”

“No less than it says about me.” Kiyoomi had barely assessed the situation before his shadows were wrapping every throat in that room.

“How do ya stand it?” Miya’s big gold eyes return, all but begging.

“You find something to fight for.” Kiyoomi rolls his shoulders, feeling the weight of each and every scar down his back. “And make sure whatever it is, is worth more than the fighting.”

Miya frowns, like that’s the wrong answer. His hand comes to clutch the silver pendant hanging from his neck. “I don’t have anything to fight for.”

Kiyoomi suppresses the urge to do something stupid. “You’ll find something new.”

“What makes ya so sure?”

“Because you have to.”

Miya mumbles in malcontent. His hands fall to rest in his lap, clenching in and out of fists. A dark puddle grows under Miya’s hand, saturating his sweatpants.

Kiyoomi steps in and lifts Miya’s wrist to find a long cut running along the side of his palm.

“You’re bleeding.” Kiyoomi quickly rummages the mini-infirmary stashed under his sink–shoving back the horde of bandages from spilling out. He returns with a clean roll and a bottle of antiseptic.

He flips the injured hand over and Miya’s breath hitches. Kiyoomi freezes, searching Miya’s face for signs of pain. Miya’s gaze is avoidant, but seems otherwise fine, so Kiyoomi gets back to business.

“It looks shallow,” Kiyoomi says, gently blotting the antiseptic cloth.

A short hiss passes Miya’s lips, but that’s the height of his protest. He watches intently as Kiyoomi cleans the wound and sets small strips of med-tape down the length of his palm. Miya seems weirdly mesmerized by it. The man spends plenty of time in the infirmary, it shouldn’t be much of a show. And yet, the entire time Kiyoomi works, those sharp gold eyes stay trained on every movement.

The scrutiny sends a shiver down Kiyoomi’s spine. He’s no healer, but he’s plenty versed in the basics.

Eventually he snaps under the tension. “What is it?”

“I’ve-uh,” Miya swallows, “never really seen yer hands before.”

The hands in question tense up.

Fuck.

“I forgot my gloves,” Kiyoomi laments to Sgaeyl.

Of course he did. He didn’t even put his fucking shoes on before running straight to Miya. How could he be so careless?

“It’s fine, Little One.”

Now Kiyoomi’s hands lay bare over Miya’s–a black bandage wrapping his own wrist and three others binding the swollen joints of his fingers.

Burning shame eats its way to his core, but Kiyoomi pushes through it. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can find a nice, tall cliff to jump off.

Mercifully, Miya doesn’t ask about the bandages, but his eyes continue their scrutinizing. Dark eyelashes frame the darting gold that’s glued to Kiyoomi’s fingers.

The air grows thicker the longer Kiyoomi works. He tries not to squirm as he twirls the final bit of gauze over Miya’s palm.

“He’s staring,” Kiyoomi whines to Sgaeyl.

Sgaeyl tuts. “Not at the bandages.”

That gives Kiyoomi pause. He looks closer and…surely it must be a trick of the magelight. Some leftover adrenaline, or something. Because there’s no way in hell Miya is blushing at Kiyoomi’s hands right now.

Instinctively, Kiyoomi casts another mage light. Miya turns away, but not quick enough to hide the blooming red on the apples of his cheeks. It sends a flash of heat to Kiyoomi’s own.

“Oh.”

That’s…an interesting development.

Sgaeyl all but laughs at him.

A tickle grows in Kiyoomi’s throat, but he doesn’t dare clear it. He ties off the bandage and stows away the rest of the gauze, stepping softly through the precarious silence.

“Thanks,” Miya murmurs, flexing his bandaged hand.

There’s a “you’re welcome” stuck somewhere in Kiyoomi’s throat. Instead, he nods.

The light hovers in Kiyoomi’s palm as he skirts around Miya to check for more damage. The man is impressively intact considering the six-on-one fight in his pajamas. He quickly cleans a small cut over Miya’s ribs, holding it with gauze and tape. Should be fine.

Just as Kiyoomi is about to declare all the injuries accounted for, he double takes at Miya’s neck. There’s a faint discoloration blooming under the golden skin, several thick stripes banding the length of Miya’s neck–handprints. Kiyoomi’s fingernail slides down the purple bruising. Miya winces at the touch.

Kiyoomi’s jaw clenches and the mage lights flickers in his fist.

Regret flies out the window. He should’ve killed them all slower.

Miya shifts in place and a glaze drops over his eyes. “My dragons want ta see me.”

Kiyoomi douses what’s left of the light, crushing it in his palm and stepping back. “It’s late.”

“Please,” Sgaeyl begs in Kiyoomi’s head. “I won’t be getting any sleep tonight unless Tairn sets eyes on the Gold One.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “The launch point?”

“Yes. We will wait.”

After pulling Miya to his feet, Kiyoomi pauses to unsheath his sharpest glare. “Can you keep a secret?”

Miya purses his lips innocently as he considers. “Depends on the secret.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable.” Kiyoomi drops Miya’s hand, breaking whatever was left of the strange spell between them. He yanks on a clean set of gloves left by the sink.

Miya holds back a snicker as they exit the washroom. At least being annoying is a step up from being catatonic–Kiyoomi takes it as a win.

“Let me rephrase that.” Kiyoomi glides the room, grabbing the two nearest flight jackets from his closet. “Tell anyone what I’m about to show you and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Miya freezes midstep. “I can’t tell if yer jokin’ or not.”

“Good.” Kiyoomi chucks a jacket at his blood-drained face. “Come on.”

— ⚡︎ —

Shadows shroud them as they slip through the hall and down the stairs. Two more turns and they reach the inconspicuous stretch of cobblestone nestled between two dim lit torches.

Kiyoomi concentrates on pulling Sgaeyl’s magic to unweave the meticulous warding. His fingers press precisely into the stone two below the left side torch, and the wall groans open.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Miya balks, poking his head into the dark. Kiyoomi pushes him inside and shuts the wall behind them.

A quickly cast magelight flashes over Miya’s shocked face before dropping to hover at the ground. Kiyoomi kicks it ahead of them. “Keep moving.”

His shadows push the magelight along the floor, lighting the path only a few dim feet at a time.

“What is this place?” Miya asks, head swiveling around the tunnel, trying to squint for detail through the dark.

“A secret,” Kiyoomi hisses under his breath. They’re still too close to the college grounds for comfort. “Be quiet.”

Miya is quiet for all of five seconds. “What kind of secret?”

Kiyoomi blacks the walls out with his shadows. “The need-to-fucking-know kind.”

Three right turns, and one left, then the neatly patterned cobblestones under their feet transition abruptly into raw rock and the air drops an immediate ten degrees.

Miya’s fingers trail along the weeping walls. “Are we inside the mountain?”

The next turn comes quickly and Kiyoomi takes it sharper than necessary, sending Miya scrambling to change course and follow. There’s a poke of a finger in Kiyoomi’s back and the vexing voice returns. “Ya didn’t answer my question.”

Kiyoomi pushes Miya back with his shadows. “I wasn’t trying to answer your question. The less you know the better.”

“I can keep a secret,” Miya whines, slapping the shadows away.

“That remains to be seen.”

“Ya know that I can,” Miya says pointedly.

Kiyoomi ignores that. “Do you want to see your dragons or not?”

Miya grumbles, finding a sharp rock to kick at Kiyoomi’s heel. “Ya don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Miya continues kicking rocks through the entire fucking tunnel, but at least his trap stays shut. As they approach the end, Kiyoomi is careful to shroud any incriminating details from curious golden gazes. His shadows push Miya’s feet multiple times to stop them from stumbling into the towers of storage crates stacking the walls. Miya seems to take it as Kiyoomi pestering him, and his aura sparks up in delicious annoyance.

Finally, the rocky path spills out into moonlight, where three dragons wait, crowding the narrow open shoulder of the mountain. The tall peaks surrounding them block the worst of the wind, but a stray lash of air comes to whip Kiyoomi’s hair into his eyes as Miya’s footsteps patter away.

Kiyoomi posts up by the cave entrance, back pressed over the red eye marking the stone.

The little gold dragon darts straight to Miya, sweeping her snout under his open arms. Bright laughter fills the air as the feathered tail swooshes back and forth over his matching golden hair.

Tairn sits stoically behind the pair, black scales blending with the dark body of the mountain. When the little dragon has had her fill, Miya runs and wraps his arms around the giant trunk of Tairn’s leg.

Kiyoomi feels the Tairn’s relief through Sgaeyl.

“Thank you,” she says with a contented sigh.

Kiyoomi grunts as he pushes the hair from his face again.

He allows Miya a few more minutes of silently speaking with his dragons, then prods Sgaeyl to cut the heartfelt meeting short.

With a final hug to the little dragon, Miya steps back towards the cave. Kiyoomi watches in a restrained sort of awe. Who the hell hugs their dragons?

Sgaeyl agrees with a growly, “I’d sooner eat you,” before shooting into the night sky.

Tairn and Andarna follow, blacking out the moon with their wings.

Miya stops at the entrance of the tunnel. The fingers of his bandaged hand tap softly on the stone. “Thank you.”

Kiyoomi responds with another stiff nod and ducks back into the mountain, immediately followed by the noise of Miya’s comforted sigh.

He’s not sure how to deal with the strange new sensation that is Miya’s gratitude. He almost misses the threats–at least they didn’t tie his stomach into knots.

They take the same route back, shadows working overtime to prevent Miya from saiting any of his pestering curiosity.

Following the dim ball of magelight, they walk in a near-comfortable silence, save for the lingering tension that seems to envelop any space that Miya occupies. It sparks each time a rock hits the back of Kiyoomi’s boot. It surges each time Kiyoomi grabs an elbow to stop Miya from smacking into a wall. By the time the rock floor gives way to cobblestone, Kiyoomi is crackling with it.

Kiyoomi re-wards the entrance and turns left.

“Ain’t yer room the other way?” Miya asks.

“There’s one more stop we need to make.”

— ⚡︎ —

Commander Pancheck isn’t happy to be woken in the middle of the night, but straightens quickly when Kiyoomi reports the attack. Miya waits quietly behind him as the details are dissected.

“Bold crop of unbonded this year,” Pancheck says, smoothing down his sleep-fritzed beard. “It’s almost a shame. Well, no matter. Good work, Sakusa.” He turns his attention to Miya. “The General will be glad to know you’re alright.”

Miya’s lips pull tight.

Oh gods, Miya’s father. The deaths were a mercy in Kiyoomi’s hands after all–who knows what the general would’ve done once he caught wind of the attack.

Pancheck yawns. “We’ll get someone to take care of the bodies in the morning. Miya can sleep in the Infirmary.”

Kiyoomi straightens. “Yes Sir.”

When they don’t move to leave, Pancheck scratches his beard, undoing his smoothening efforts. “Anything else?”

“Miya,” Kiyoomi’s shadows snake behind Miya, pitching him towards Pancheck. “Tell him what else happened.”

Miya blinks blankly. “Huh?”

It takes everything in Kiyoomi not to reach over and smack the stupid out of him. “Tell him how the hells I blinked and you appeared on the other side of the room?”

“Oh.” Miya clears his throat and turns to address Pancheck directly. “I, uh, think I might’ve stopped…time?”

Chapter Text

…What?

Kiyoomi had assumed that Miya blipping across the room was distance wielding, but time wielding? He’s never heard of such a thing.

Apparently, neither has Pancheck because he’s gawking at Miya like he just grew another head.

“Time wielding isn’t a signet,” he says.

Miya shrugs. “I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. Everythin’ got quiet and everybody stopped movin’. Except fer me. Oh, and I could hear Andarna too, but that’s it.”

“The feathertail…” Pancheck eyes grow wide. “Miya, you may very well be the first.”

Kiyoomi’s mind whirs. The implications of a signet like that are unimaginable. He’s lucky he got himself off Miya’s kill list before it manifested.

Torches spark up in Pancheck’s eyes. It’s the same crazed look he had when Kiyoomi’s signet first manifested. Pancheck sees his students not for who they are but for how much destruction they can wield. And he’s looking at Miya like he’s a shiny new sword.

“The things we could do with that kind of power…”

Miya winces as greedy fingers dig into his arms.

“He needs to see a healer,” Kiyoomi insists, prying Pancheck’s fingers away before they can bruise.

“Right, of course.” Pancheck reigns his wild look back in with a methodical brush of his beard. “Go get patched up. I’ll see you in Signet class, Miya.”

Kiyoomi’s own hands don’t drop off Miya’s shoulders until they are safely down the hall and around the first corner. He takes a long stride forward so he’s a half step ahead as they head towards the healer’s quadrant.

“Do I need stitches or somethin’?” Miya asks, trailing Kiyoomi’s steps. “I thought I wasn’t in that bad of shape.”

“Oh no, you’re fine,” Kiyoomi tells him. “I just didn’t feel like standing in the hallway all night while Pancheck fangirled over you.”

And he was far too close to snapping the man’s fingers off.

Miya’s laughter hits Kiyoomi’s back like dragon’s breath. It’s gone before he can catch a glimpse, but its warmth lingers for the rest of the walk.

— ⚡︎ —

When they get to the Infirmary, Atsumu rests his weight on the door jamb while Sakusa shakes awake the healer on duty. Sakusa explains the attack and lists out Atsumu’s injuries in as pragmatic a way as possible.

Atsumu does his best not to squirm as the healer gives him a cursory once over, either pleased with Sakusa’s first aid, or half-assing her job so she can get back to sleep. All is forgiven when she sneaks him some of the good painkillers, and he can finally shed some of the tension in his muscles and collapse into a cot of his own.

Sakusa posts up by the door, tall and alert, guarding the room with the stone cold intimidation of a dragon statue, looking every bit like the monster that Atsumu had believed him to be.

But as he’s learned with his own dragons, it’s not half bad when the monsters are on your side.

Through heavy lashes, Atsumu watches shadows spill over the floor, compounding with the existing darkness to forge an endless void of black. It’s incredibly strange to think of Sakusa’s shadows as something comforting, yet Atsumu drops an arm and finds solace in swirling his fingers through the cool, black mist.

Just like the shadows–Atsumu’s dreams are a deep, comforting blackness.

— ⚡︎ —

The daylight treats him far less kindly.

With veins empty of drugs and adrenaline, Atsumu is left with the painful, throbbing reality of the night before. A clashing war of relief and remorse.

He almost died. He certainly would have if his signet didn’t manifest. And might have again if Sakusa didn’t show up.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to thank Malek for another day among the living, or taunt the god of death for another daring escape from his clutches.

Atsumu’s eyes find Sakusa easily, seeing as he’s in the exact same spot. The guy may very well be a statue–he hasn’t moved an inch. Did he guard the door the entire night?

Atsumu sits up, just to crash back to the cot with a groan. Every inch of him is stiff and aching, like he’s the one who spent the night standing in place. 

Where did the nice lady with the drugs go?

Sakusa is at his side in a blink. Atsumu forces himself to sit up.

“Did—“ The question is derailed by a violent fit of coughing.

He had wanted to ask Sakusa if he slept, but the words spun to fire as they clawed up his throat.

Sakusa barks at the blue robes milling about the room. “Can somebody get him some fucking water?”

The healers scramble, apologizing and netting them at least five different glasses. Atsumu grabs the nearest one, takes a tentative sip, and manages a hoarse, “thank ya.”

His voice still sounds like shit, but at least it’s audible. He downs the rest of the water and prods soft fingers at his neck.

Atsumu jolts as fingers slide under his t-shirt.

There’s a gaggle of healers buzzing about, and yet Sakusa is the one who peels off Atsumu’s shirt to unwrap and re-clean his injuries.

In another life, Sakusa might’ve been a decent healer. His focus is intense, but his touch is light, as not to cause any unnecessary pain. Unexpected gentleness and warmth from a man made of stone-cut edges.

Atsumu has been in the infirmary more times than he could ever count, but he’s usually fast-tracked to Nolon for mending, and he’s finding himself tense with the intimacy of being tended to. Sakusa is just so close. His gloves are back, yet every touch leaves a trail of heat across Atsumu’s skin. It’s a concerted effort not to shy away from it. As Sakusa takes Atsumu’s hand to undo the bandages, tender memories of the night before trickle into Atsumu’s mind.

Pale skin over knobby knuckles. Long, delicate fingers. Magelight bouncing off deep, sympathetic eyes.

But then, far worse memories start cutting through.

Deadly figures in dark cloaks. Eyes filled with anger. Then shock. Then worst of all–nothing.

He sees his own hand curled over a dripping dagger. After that, all he sees is blood. So much fucking blood.

Desperate for distraction, Atsumu forces his focus on Sakusa and tries his voice out again. “Did ya sleep at all?"

Sakusa looks up. The bags under his eyes answer for him.

“O-oh,” Atsumu stammers, uncomfortable with the knowledge that it’s his fault. “Sorry.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sakusa assures him.

There’s a taunt lodged deep in the back of Atsumu’s mind–something about Sakusa being the liability this time, but his throat hurts too much to verbalize it.

And Sakusa might not deserve it today.

When the wounds are freshly tended, Sakusa takes a seat at the edge of the next cot and pats a neat square of black lying atop the pillow.

Atsumu thumbs through the pile and breathes a sigh of relief. Someone brought him an extra uniform. He won’t have to face his bedroom quite yet. Or show up to morning brief in blood-crusted pajamas. He pads to the bathroom to change.

The shirt neck is higher than what Atsumu normally wears, but it’s just enough to cover the bulk of the bruising. At the very bottom of the pile is Osamu’s armor. Atsumu hugs it tight, whispering apologies into the scales for ever taking it off. Once slipped over his head, he tightens the laces to the limit of what his injured ribs can handle. The tunic pushes back against his lungs as they fill, and he lets the breath go with a sigh.

Whole once again.

When Atsumu returns to his cot, there’s a tiny paper cup of painkillers on the nightstand. With a quick thanks to the gods, whichever the decent ones are, he tosses them back with another glass of water.

A quick look around confirms that there’s no new flight jacket waiting for him, so he slips back into Sakusa’s. The leather is soft as butter and pleasantly loose in the shoulders. The black satin lining still reeks of jasmine, of course, but Atsumu must be growing used to it because the scent doesn’t bother him today. It might even be nice.

Or he’s exhausted as fuck and hopped up on painkillers. Impossible to know.

“Ready?” Sakusa asks from where he’s holding open the door.

“No,” Atsumu thinks. But walks through anyway.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu steels himself for the Death Roll, his bottom lip is chewed raw by the time Pancheck unrolls the morning’s blood-inked parchment.

“Oren Seifert.”

Atsumu grips his necklace and waits for the name.

“Amber Mavis.”

He waits.

“Drake Cordella.”

He waits.

“Kentaro Kyotani.”

He wai–

Atsumu’s reaction is delayed. He half-expected Pancheck to yell out “Mad Dog”. He had completely forgotten that Mad Dog had a name. And that name was Kyotani.

Horror slams into his gut. A man sent to Malek by Atsumu’s own hands—and he doesn’t have the decency to remember his fucking name.

It takes everything Atsumu has to keep standing. To maintain formation. To not fall to the ground and retch up all of the vile black goo that was once his humanity.

Gods, what the fuck has Basgiath turned him into?

“That man would’ve killed you,” Tairn reminds him.

‘Maybe he should have,’ Atsumu thinks to no one.

Comfort slides down the bond, but his mind is otherwise left alone to mull in its misery.

The names continue, each a distant hum in his ears.

“Takahiro Hanamaki. Felix Gerault. Baylor Norris. Tynan Feall.”

At the final name, Atsumu feels a crashing wave of guilt and regret so powerful, he has to physically shake it off his back.

Strange. The name doesn’t mean anything to him. There’s no reason it should hold more weight than the others. The stress of it all must be compounding on itself–all those lives lost, so needlessly thrown into the fire.

Pancheck casts an extra voice enhancer so his next announcement booms over the crowd. “May I remind everyone that attempting to kill a rider in their bed is strictly forbidden by the Codex. Our laws are ironclad. We value cunning and strength. Betrayal and cowardice will never be rewarded. Not here.”

Whispers break out among the ranks. Atsumu pulls up the neck of his shirt.

Pancheck re-rolls the parchment, tucking it into his belt. “Nevertheless, we commend their souls to Malek.”

Basgiath may as well be a temple to Malek with how many offerings they lay at the god’s feet. Atsumu’s stomach churns thinking of his own contribution.

He hardly notices when two tall figures approach their squad.

“There’s been a change to the roster,” Sakusa says, speaking directly to Kita. He nudges the other tall figure in front of the group. “Meet your new squadmate.”

When Atsumu looks up, Suna is there, giving the group an unenthusiastic finger waggle. His eyes are half-lidded and bloodshot, and his clothes reek of churam smoke–Atsumu’s nose scrunches against the sickly sweetness.

High before eight in the morning, real classy.

Wait…did Sakusa just say new squadmate?

As in Suna?

“What’s the reason for the change?” Kita asks.

Sakusa simply answers, “because I said so.”

Kita nods and makes room for Suna to step into formation. Kita looks warily at Atsumu, who’s trying his damndest not to cause a scene.

Why the fuck would Suna be joining their squad?

“Rin Rin!” Saeko squeals in delight, throwing her arms around Suna’s middle.

“And cue the sexual harassment,” Suna sighs.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Saeko says with a grin before smacking him hard on the ass.

“Me either,” Ryunosuke says, hugging Suna from behind and kneading at his chest.

Suna pushes him off and sticks out his middle finger. “Want me to shove this up your ass, buzzcut?”

When Saeko laughs, Suna flips her his other middle finger. “I’ve got one for both of you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Ryunosuke says with a grin.

Saeko snickers behind her fingers.

“Hi there!” Hinata chirps, stepping in to give Suna a bright smile. “Rin Rin, was it?”

“Suna Rintaro,” Suna corrects. He leers down at Hinata like he’s no more than a bug on his boot. “But you can call me whatever you want.”

Hinata hums, head flopping to the side and finger pushing to his lips. “Hey, did I spill ale on you?”

“That’s why he looks so familiar!” Bokuto shouts, throwing an arm around an instantly tense Suna. “It’s Ale Pants! From the bonfire!”

Suna’s nose scrunches. “Okay, you can call me whatever you want, except for Ale Pants.”

Bokuto deflates, pulling at Suna’s jacket dramatically. “Aww, don’t be like that Ale Pants.”

The Tanakas proceed to die of laughter as Suna fights off Bokuto’s welcome hug. Saeko wipes the tears from her eyes and whispers to the sky. “Best. Squad. Ever!”

Suna miraculously breaks from Bokuto’s grasp and clings on to Sakusa’s shirt like a lifeline. “Is it too late to take me back?”

“Yes,” Sakusa says, using his shadows to pry Suna’s hands away–a twitch of amusement playing in the corners of his mouth.

Suna shakes his head in his hands. “I regret everything.”

“Okay, so that’s settled,” Sakusa says, with a clap of his gloves. “Enjoy your new squad.” He pats Suna’s shoulder and turns to stride away.

As Sakusa leaves, there’s a tug at Atsumu’s wrist. Shadows hold him still as the blur of bodies begin moving past.

Atsumu watches his squad walk away–Kita looking politely confused, the Tanakas giggling like it’s their birthday, Hinata apologizing profusely for the nickname, and Bokuto declaring that they’ll “fatten Ale Pants up in no time,” as he bullies their new squadmate towards the cafeteria.

As soon as the crowd clears, Atsumu shakes off the shadows. “I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter,” he barks.

Okay, so it comes out more like a squeak, to which Sakusa reappears to arch a perfect, little, ‘I told you so’ eyebrow.

“You need protection,” he argues.

Atsumu scowls. “I can handle myself just fine.”

“A threat against you is a threat against me. I’m not taking any chances.”

“We took care of all the threats.”

“Did we?”

Oh, right. Atsumu nearly forgot–someone else was in his room last night.

Sakusa continues. “I ran into them on the stairs, but they got away.”

Atsumu shrugs it off. “The coward ran. Whoever it was ain’t a real threat.”

Sakusa’s gaze grows distant. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Take mercy on him,” Tairn begs. “His stress becomes Sgaeyl’s, which in turn becomes mine, which in turn–”

“Yeah, yeah I get it,” Atsumu snaps. “We’re all one big, stressed out family.”

“Some more than others.”

Atsumu pauses and takes a moment to really take Sakusa in. Beneath the unnatural beauty, the guy looks pretty miserable. There’s shadows under his eyes and shadows skittering at his ankles. His hair is frizzed out of place, like he’s been pulling at it. He rolls his wrist nervously in his hand and his eyes dart about the quad like he’s waiting for the next assassin to come and attack them. He might be more worried about Atsumu’s safety than Atsumu is.

“Fine.” Atsumu gives up the fight with a long-suffering sigh. He’s not completely beyond seeing reason. It’s just…

“Does it have to be that guy?” he whines.

Something about Suna makes Atsumu uneasy. He always looks like he’s plotting something, and he’s got this air about him like he knows something Atsumu doesn’t and is tickled fucking pink about it.

“Think of it as extra padding for your armor,” Sakusa says, pulling the knot at Atsumu’s collar loose so he can yank the laces of his armor tighter. “You’re welcome.” 

Atsumu bats Sakusa’s hands away to fix the laces himself. “Missed the part where I thanked ya.”

The laces keep slipping in Atsumu’s hands. His palms are sweaty, and the bandage on his hand is limiting his fine-motor skills. He fights harder to get his fingers under control.

Sakusa pauses, a crease drawing his brow. “I promise Suna isn’t that bad.”

“Hmm?” Atsumu’s fingers fumble on the final knot, so he yanks it back open to try again. “Yeah, whatever. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Why are you so upset?”

Whatever Atsumu’s face is doing, he tries to reign it back in and emulate Sakusa’s signature stony expression. But Sakusa’s face isn’t stone now. It’s gentle and open. Maybe even worried.

The soft pout of his lower lip is enough to make Atsumu crack.

Atsumu drops the laces. “I forgot his name.”

“Suna’s?”

Atumu shakes his head and forces the words through wobbling lips. “Kentaro Kyoutani.”

The man he killed.

There’s a moment of silence before Saskusa picks the laces back up. “You don’t think your life was worth his?”

Atsumu looks away. “I don’t know.”

“It wasn’t just your life,” Sakusa says as his fingers dance in Atsumu’s periphery, armor pulling closer to Atsumu’s chest. “I spoke with Pancheck this morning. Two other riders were killed in their beds last night.”

Atsumu takes a sharp breath.

The unbonded had already killed two others before getting to Atsumu’s room?

Sakusa answers the thought. “They wanted dragons. The more severed bonds, the higher their chances at getting one. I’m sure your room wasn’t the last stop they had planned.”

Oh. Atsumu’s head spins. Who knows how many more the raiding party would’ve slaughtered? Who knows how many lives Sakusa and Atsumu saved by cutting their night short?

What if they had made it to Bokuto’s room next? Or Hinata’s?

Gloves curl under the straps of his armor, tilting Atsumu to look up.

“I know it still sucks,” Sakusa says, pain mirrored in the gloss of his eyes. “But don’t think about the life you took. Think about the lives you saved.”

Atsumu takes a shaky breath. It may be the only thing that could make him feel better. Taking a life to save his own doesn’t feel a worthy enough cause. But to save others…

Is this what Sakusa meant when he talked about something to fight for?

At the very least, it’s something Atsumu can cling to–the barest hint of silver lining the black cloud over his head. He clutches on, lest the darkness fall and swallow him whole.

For now, it’s enough. It has to be.

Atsumu nods, the knot in his chest finally loosens as Sakusa tightens the one at his collar. “Thank you.”

“Stay safe, okay?” Sakusa draws back his hands to push the loose curls off his forehead. “And be nice to Suna.”

Atsumu scoffs.

Like he’s the one who needs to be nice.

— ⚡︎ —

Breakfast. War Brief. The Sparring Ring. Every place and every minute, Suna is there. Watching. Listening. Nipping at Atsumu’s heels.

The only break he gets from the Suna-shaped shadow and its dry needling commentary is in Minor Magics. The First-Year class is run by Professor Devera, who’s surprisingly pretty when she smiles. She looks far more at home in the cozy classroom surrounded by mage lights and magic books than beneath the giant battle map, reporting on the numerous deaths of their people.

She begins with an overview of the minor magics–mage lights, protection wards, agility boosts, warming charms, and small feats of telekinesis–nothing very powerful on its own, but all pretty sweet perks for daily life. Hinata loses his mind over these weird looking pens that use magic to charge their ink, saving riders the arduous task of dipping a quill in a pot. Atsumu couldn’t think of a stupider waste of magic, but to each their own.

They spend their time on telekinesis, trying to lift big fluffy feathers from their desks. Hinata is the first in class to do so, earning a full foot of air and a few spins to boot. Bokuto makes his hop once or twice before trying to cheat by blowing under the bristles. The only time Atsumu’s feather flinches is when he curses at it.

A bell chimes, signaling the end of the first hour. For the first years, the magic classes are split over two hours, the first hour in Minor and the second hour in Signet. Until riders manifest their unique powers, they stay in Minor for the second hour too.

Hinata waves Atsumu and Bokuto off with his feather and Suna is waiting right outside to escort them to Signet.

The Signet classroom is easily the most disorderly in the whole Quadrant. It’s a large, dome-shaped room, stuffed with magic-assistive props and half-murdered training dummies. The walls are well-storied with cracks, char marks and whole chunks missing, having weathered more than their fair share of unruly magic. The back windows are propped open, airing out the scent of freshly scorched stone.

Pancheck assaults them at the door, ushering Atsumu to one of the sturdy wood desks dotting the perimeter of the room. He tells them that the second and third years are out in the Pit with Ukai, so he can dedicate all of his attention to his newest students.

Since Boktuo and Atsumu were the first of their year to manifest, it leaves the room completely empty except for them. And Suna.

Surprisingly, Pancheck doesn’t mind Suna’s presence, even when he pulls a dagger from his belt and starts carving into the table next to them. Pancheck quickly dismisses Bokuto with an order of “keep practicing”, so Bokuto places his lucky rock on the shoulders of a headless training dummy and steps back to start summoning.

Pancheck pays the two no further mind and digs through his pockets. He pulls free a palm-sized silver locket and slides it into Atsumu’s hands.

“All right, Miya.” He smiles, clicking the latch to reveal the pearlescent clock face. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The second hand skips around the elegant painted numbers, a soft tick accompanying each hop forward. A fly buzzes in from the window and circles around their table to watch.

Here goes nothin’.

Atsumu closes his eyes, clears his mind and focuses on making the hand stop. But when his eyes open again, the watch is still ticking. The fly is still buzzing and Suna’s dagger is still incessantly scratching into the table.

Nothing happened.

Well...shit.

Things only go downhill from there.

Pancheck’s earlier excitement about Atsumu’s signet is instantly tempered by the fact that Atsumu has no idea how to actually use it.

It’s thirty minutes of uninterrupted time before Pancheck’s withering patience snaps.

“I can’t tell you how,” Pancheck shouts, “you just have to do it!”

“I’m tryin’!” Atsumu barks back, batting the stupid fucking fly away from his face again.

Pancheck gives up with a huff. He turns his beet-red face around to go check on the students who “actually have signets.”

Atsumu mumbles the comprehensive dictionary of swear words at his back as it storms out the door.

Do the teachers around here actually fucking teach anything?

Stupid magic. Why is it so hard?

“Little help?” Atsumu asks Tairn.

“Dragons may supply the magic,” Tairn says, “but it is in the rider’s hand to wield.”

“So ‘just fuckin’ do it?’” Atsumu flicks the lid of the pocket watch, sending it spinning in a blur of numbers over the desk. 

“Control will come with time, Gold One.”

“Yeah well yer teacher ain’t screamin’ at ya, waitin’ for ya to do somethin’.”

Ugh. He needs a new game plan.

Atsumu claps his hand over the spinning watch and turns to Bokuto. “Smashing the watch on the wall would stop it, right?”

Bokuto laughs. He walks over to set his lucky rock on Atsumu’s head. “I don’t think that counts as stopping time, Tsum-Tsum.”

With a squint of his eyes the rock blips off Atsumu’s head and back to Bokuto’s hand.

“How do ya do that?” Atsumu whines.

Bokuto thinks for a moment and frowns. “Honestly, I don’t know how to explain it either. I just reach for a thing, think about having it, and then I get it?”

He closes his eyes and the watch blinks out from under Atsumu’s palm and into Bokuto’s.

“Fuckin’ great,” Atsumu sighs.

Bokuto squats down across the table to rest his chin down. He sets the watch back down, facing Atsumu. “Just think about stopping time, like really really hard, and then do it! Easy peasy!”

“Easy peasy,” Atsumu deadpans.

Bokuto shrugs. He looks to Atsumu, then back to the watch, then back to Atsumu.

Worth a fuckin’ shot, I guess.

Atsumu pinches his eyes shut, gathering all of his focus and determination. He pictures the methodic ticking of the clock hand and demands time to stop.

When he opens his eyes, Bokuto is wide-eyed and frozen in front of him.

Holy shit, did it work?

Atsumu’s soaring heart crashes when those big owl eyes start blinking at him.

“Did it work?” Bokuto asks.

Atsumu groans, dropping his head to the desk.

Somewhere to the side, Suna snickers at Atsumu’s misery, but offers no help.

Atsumu thumps his forehead on the wood, matching the tune of the incessant, unstoppable ticking.

Maybe he didn’t manifest a signet after all. Maybe it was all in his head.

The next time Atsumu’s head touches back down, there’s no resounding thump. His forehead sinks down, giving way into the desk.

He jumps back. “What the fuck?”

“Hey there, bestie,” a slimy voice crawls over his skin.

When Atsumu looks up, Oikawa is there, wearing a sickly, sweet smile. His hand is splayed over the center of the desk, the spots between his fingers pushing in like wet sand rather than three-inch hardwood.

What the fuck kind of signet is that?

Atsumu bites back a retort at the “bestie” comment, seeing as the guy just lost all of his actual friends. But if Oikawa cares about his squad mates dying last night, he certainly doesn’t show it.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Oikawa smirks. “I ruined my feather so Devera sent me over here. I’ve only had my signet for ten minutes and I can already do this–” He pushes his hand further into the desk. The wood quakes under his palm, groaning as fissures snake through the grain and Oikawa’s hand sinks deeper.

Atsumu jumps back as the desk breaks in half over his lap, sending his pocket watch tumbling to the floor.

Oikawa walks his fingers up Atsumu’s thigh and over Atsumu’s hand, dipping tauntingly under the edge of his sleeve. “Think it works on people?”

Atsumu doesn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of flinching.

“What’s your signet, Miya?” Oikawa’s predatory grin dips closer as his grip tightens. “Let’s see it.”

A hand seizes Oikawa’s shoulder and Suna’s voice cuts in like a knife. “I’ll show you mine.”

Oikawa swallows, bravado melting like sand under Suna’s withering glare. 

Atsumu doesn’t actually know what Suna’s signet is, but it has to be good for Sakusa to trust in his abilities. Oikawa might not know it either, but he can recognize a threat when it’s right in front of his face.

As they stare each other down, the door slams in the distance.

“What’s going on over here?” Pancheck rushes over to break them up, then his eyebrows raise as he takes in the scene at his feet.

“Destruction?” He grins at the pile of sand between the fractured slabs of wood. “Very impressive, Oikawa. But please refrain from destroying the furniture.”

“Sorry Prof,” Oikawa says, eyes fluttering with fake-ass innocence. “Still learning.”

“Let’s find you something smaller to practice on.”

“Yes, Sir.”

As Pancheck turns his back, Oikawa scoops up a handful of wood dust and drops it on Atsumu’s lap.

“Here’s your desk back.” He skips off merrily to follow Pancheck to the storage closet.

Destruction. Atsumu scoffs. Of course Oikawa’s signet would be ruining anything he touches.

He stands to dust off his pants and whispers harshly to Suna, “ya didn’t need ta do that.”

“That guy looked like he wanted to eat you.” Suna tries to help, but Atsumu swats his hand away.

“Protectin’ me isn’t tryin’ to make me look weak.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.” Suna’s arms fold. “That’s the whole fucking point.”

Atsumu stands straight, meeting Suna’s narrowed eyes. “Ya think I’m safer when people think I can’t fight my own battles?”

Suna raises a brow. “Can you fight your own battles? Pretty sure Sakusa fought the last one for you.”

Atsumu grinds his teeth. “That was a one off. I’ve been dealin’ with Oikawa since the godsdamn parapet. I can handle assholes like him.”

Suna picks the watch off the floor and slaps it into Atsumu’s hand. “Stop that clock and maybe I’ll believe you.”

The silver clasps dig into Atsumu’s fist. He stomps to the furthest end of the class from either Suna or Oikawa and slides down the wall to rest in a squat.

He glares at the watch like it can be intimidated into stopping.

“Think of the last time you used your magic,” Tairn tells him. “Try and recreate the same feeling.”

“I didn’t control it then either,” Atsumu sighs. “My life was in danger, it was a knee jerk reaction.”

“You could ask someone to throw a knife at your head?” Andarna offers.

Atsumu winces. “I’d really rather not.”

“Fine,” she relents. “That can be Plan B, then.”

“Great.” Atsumu huffs a laugh. “Can’t fuckin’ wait.”

Class ticks on.

Bokuto continues to summon his rock, attempting further and further distances each time. He only gives himself three new bruises and one black eye, whining each time an injury is too minor to send him to the Infirmary.

Suna splits his time between glancing at Atsumu, glaring at Oikawa and vandalizing the furniture.

Pancheck circles the room, tsk-ing each time he passes Atsumu, and singing praises for each little clay figure Oikawa turns to dust.

Atsumu spends the entire class staring at the watch in his hands, unable to suspend a single tick.

By the end of class, Atsumu is ready to turn the damn watch into dust, and Pancheck looks ready to initiate Plan B himself.

He tells Atsumu to only come back once he figures it out.

— ⚡︎ —

Kita finds Atsumu in the hallway.

“You’ve been summoned,” he says. “They’re up in the tower.”

“Great,” Atsumu mumbles. Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any better.

Atsumu gives Suna a hard glance over his shoulder as he walks away with Kita. He hopes the look conveys his message well enough–this isn’t an occasion where Suna’s invited.

“Any idea what that’s all about?” Kita asks as they pad down the halls.

That, referring to their shiny new squadmate, whose receding form stands stiff and unsure at the growing distance between them.

Atsumu clears his sore throat, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Ya know that weird announcement Pancheck made this mornin’?”

Kita nods and then gasps when Atsumu pulls down his shirt collar.

“Yeah.”

Kita’s eyes go all big and soft the way they do around children, sick puppies and human-disaster Miya Atsumu. “What happened?”

Atsumu gives him the play by play, wincing when he gets to the part about Mad Dog. 

“I’m really sorry ya had to do that,” Kita says with a gentle, comforting hand to his shoulder.

Atsumu places his own hand over Kita’s. “Thanks.”

“So, Sakusa wants extra protection on ya?” Kita asks.

Atsumu nods. “And whatever Sakusa says goes, apparently.”

Kita hums. “Can’t say I disagree with the idea. Especially with one of the attackers still out there.”

Atsumu sighs in resigned agreement.

Kita chews his lip. “This new territory with Sakusa is incredibly strange.”

Atsumu snorts. “No fuckin’ shit.”

The guy was his mortal enemy last week, and now he’s wrapping Atsumu’s injuries and ordering protective detail.

Kita shakes his head. “Just because he didn’t kill Osamu, doesn’t mean I can trust him.”

Atsumu hums his agreement. He hasn’t forgotten that Sakusa hid that little, earth-shattering secret until his life literally depended on it.

Hard to trust someone who spends their life in the shadows.

At least there’s one thing Atsumu knows he can trust–Sakusa will always put his own interests first. And as long as their fates are tethered, Atsumu’s life will be a consolation prize to Sakusa’s survival.

When they reach the long winding staircase, Kita looks up it and sighs. “I couldn’t shake any more information about the last War Games. I was afraid of pushin’ too hard and gettin’ questions back.” He scratches his neck. “I’m let in on classified information when they need intel verified, but beyond that, Command has gotten incredibly selective with what they’ll say around me.”

“What they won’t say around you is sayin’ somethin’ in itself.”

Kita frowns. “I hate it.”

Atsumu squints up the nausea-inducing stairwell. “Then, I’ll ask ‘em.”

“But how will you know if they’re telling the truth?”

“If they tell me anythin’ they won’t tell you, then we know it’s a lie, right?”

Kita blinks back his shock. “That’s…actually really brilliant.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Atsumu laughs. “I’ve got decent ideas now and then.”

Kita cracks a smile that grows bigger the more the chews on the idea. “Yeah, okay. Let me know what they say.”

“Sure.” Atsumu smiles back. “I’ll catch ya up later.”

Kita walks off, steps a bit lighter than they were on the way over.

— ⚡︎ —

The tight spiral staircase is dim, narrow and endless. Atsumu is short-breathed and dizzy by the time he reaches the top.

As he stops to catch a few decent lungfulls, muffled voices worm through the door.

“We’ll need our own stock in case things go south.”

“Send the missives. I want double the output by next week. If they don’t comply, then we’ll have a problem.”

“And the rest?”

“Whatever isn’t in our possession will need to be destroyed.”

Back-stock of what? What needs destroying?

Atsumu waits for the voices to provide more context, but they sink away as the mysterious conversation draws to a close.

It’s another long minute with an ear pressed to the wood met only by faint rustling on the other side. Just as Atsumu’s knuckles lift to rap the door, it swings open to perfectly cropped, stark white hair. Colonel Kita’s eyes jump before softening to pity.

“Atsumu.” He claps Atsumu’s shoulders, pulling him in for a lung-crushing hug. “Glad yer alright, son.”

“Thank ya, Sir.” Atsumu stiffens, awkwardly trying to reciprocate while his arms are pinned to his sides.

The awkward embrace is over as quickly as it came, and with the over-emotional show by Kita family standards, the Colonel takes his leave. 

Atsumu takes a breath and steps across the tower threshold.

He had never seen the inside of the tower before. It was not a place for unruly children to run around. The closest he ever got was playing tag with Osamu and Aran on the spiral staircase until they were shooed back out into the cold.

It’s a quaint little room. Small and round like a birdcage. Dusky streams of dying light stream through the back wall of windows, high enough to grace the view with the snowy tops of the mountains sticking out above the clouds.

The tower might have been charming once, with another General at the helm of Basgiath. Now all of the charm has been pushed to the edges, clearing room for an enormous stone table and another giant fucking battle map.

Atsumu’s own father doesn’t bother to hug him. Instead, the General stays hunched over his map, moving a little green battle marker from one spot to another and back again.

His eyes flit up briefly. “Atsumu.”

“Sir.”

A blazing fire roars in the arched hearth, stoking the room to an uncomfortable heat. Two steps inside, and Atsumu is sweating under his jacket, but he doesn’t deign to take it off.

“Sit.” Ichiro gestures vaguely to the corner window where there’s a decorative set of wrought iron chairs flanking a little, circular, glass-top table.

Ichiro continues moving his pieces around the map while Atsumu makes himself uncomfortable on the twisted iron. The rose theme is cute and all, but did they really need to include the thorns?

Atsumu shifts in the chair as his father adds three more red markers to the south end of the map. He never did figure out what the red ones are for, but whatever they are, they seem to be spreading.

“You nearly died last night,” Tairn growls. “And this is your father’s reaction?”

Atsumu twists to avoid the iron thorn poking at his back. “Yep.”

The indifference isn’t all too surprising. Atsumu couldn’t imagine that his father’s reaction would be much different even if he had died.

“I don’t like him,” Andarna growls.

“Not a whole lot ta like.”  

After running into another thorn, Atsumu shifts to the very edge of the seat–the only portion of the chair not trying to maim him, and takes the extra weight on his heels.

“Things goin’ okay?” Atsumu asks when his father adds another two markers to the southeastern edge of the map.

Ichiro frowns. “We’re facing pushback with the civilian sectors along the borders.”

Civilian Sectors?

Atsumu blinks. “Are ya sayin’ there’s a new rebellion?”

They haven’t mentioned anything like that in War Brief.

“There is…unrest.” Ichiro settles his final pieces and walks to the hearth to rummage in the hanging wood cupboard above it. “But no need to worry, it’s nothing we haven’t quashed before.”

He sets a pair of glass teacups out on the little garden table. How polite.

“What’s the unrest about?” Atsumu asks.

“Human nature,” Ichiro scoffs, grabbing the hanging copper kettle from over the fire and pouring a dark brown liquid into each glass cup, “can’t help but bite the hand that feeds them.”

He says the word “human” like he isn’t one. The guy spends too much time around dragons.

“What’s wrong with spending time with dragons?” Andarna asks.

Atsumu hides his snort behind his teacup, softly blowing the steam off the top. “Not all dragons are like you guys.”

His nose wrinkles as the tea hits his lips. It’s gods fucking awful.

How does his father stand the stuff?

Atsumu reaches for the decorative sugar tin set between them, dumping a generous spoonful into his cup, and clinking the edges as he stirs.

The way his father frowns at the sugar makes it feel like some kind of test that Atsumu failed. He adds three more spoonfuls.

Ichiro takes his own seat and finally looks Atsumu in the eye. He takes a long drink of tea. Black, of course. When he sets the cup back down, the edges of his lips quirk up. “I heard you killed one of your attackers.”

The next sip burns down Atsumu’s throat. He covers his cough in his sleeve and sets the cup down slowly. “Yes.”

“Excellent.” Ichiro smiles.

He fucking smiles.

“It’s about time you grew a thicker skin,” he says. “We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”

Atsumu’s father has never looked so proud, meanwhile Atsumu has never felt more sick.

The hearth crackles behind his father, drawing his edges in a syrupy hellfire as sweat beads on the back of Atsumu’s neck.

Ichiro continues, as if all is perfectly fine in the world. “I’ve been reading accounts of Tairnenach’s past battles. His first rider was a power house to the front lines.”

Atsumu hums, hiding his tight lips behind his teacup, afraid of what the state of his voice may be.

His father barrels on. “Once you graduate and Tairnenach’s power is added to our forces, Poromiel won’t know what hit them.” His eyes spark with glee, fingers drumming the handle of his teacup. “Perhaps we can fast track your training. Graduate when you should have.”

“Sure,” Atsumu says, choking back another awful sip of tea. “Whatever.”

Why not throw him to his death a year early? He’s already taken one life, what’s a few hundred more? Who cares? He’s not a person anymore. He’s a soldier. A little green chess piece on his father’s battle map. Malek’s personal soul delivery boy.

“I will not fight for him,” Tairn growls.

“Then ya signed up fer the wrong army.” Atsumu gives up on the tea, leaving it to die on its little glass saucer.

No amount of sugar can save it.

Ichiro’s lips smack after another long drink. “Given your temperament and your dragon’s size, I would’ve expected more of a powerhouse signet from you.” His lips purse. “It’s a pity it’s not the large-scale weapon we need, but I suppose time-wielding will have its uses.”

Of course he’s disappointed in Atsumu’s signet. He’ll be even more disappointed when he finds out that Atsumu can't use it.

A thorn nips at his spine, and Atsumu jerks forward. He didn’t even realize he was slumping.

As Ichiro drones on, Sakusa’s words echo in Atsumu’s mind.

‘You find something to fight for. And make sure whatever it is, is worth more than the fighting.’

What is Atsumu fighting for? His father? To destroy Poromiel? Neither sit right with him. Both curdle his stomach like hot, bitter tea.

Just as Sakusa comes to mind, the name hisses from his father’s lips.

“The hysteria Sakusa Fen brought upon Navarre will take decades to undo,” he says. “The sooner the boy is killed the better. Once trained, your new signet should provide you ample opportunity to take care of him. Then Navarre can finally wash its hands of that spoiled fucking bloodline.”

Atsumu fights the urge to scoff. It takes a spoiled bloodline to know one.

Does his father not know? That killing Sakusa means killing Atsumu too?

Does he know, but think Atsumu doesn’t? 

Does he fucking care either way?

Ichiro stares out the windows, muttering like he’s talking to himself. “They should have all burned beside their parents. Allowing those children to poison our ranks was a cataclysmic mistake. But if we cut the head from the snake, then the body will wither.”

Atsumu sees his window and jumps. “So,” he picks the teaspoon back up, stirring it around his cup methodically, “how did Sakusa do it?”

Ichiro raises a brow.

Atsumu clarifies. “Kill Samu. How exactly did it happen?”

“War Games are classified, Atsumu. That information is privy to those who need to know.”

“Well if I’m s’posed to kill Sakusa, then I need ta know,” Atsumu argues. “I’ll need to be prepared for what I’m up against so I don’t die too, right?”

Ichiro’s lips pull tight.

Atsumu fakes a sip of his tea. “Wouldn’t want Tairn to have to rebond and waste all that time off the front lines.”

Ichiro pauses, the teacup stopping centimeters shy of his frown.

Atsumu sets his cup down and leans forward. “How?”

Ichiro throws back the last of his tea, setting it precisely down on the saucer. “He waited for a distraction, used his shadows to bind your brother, and slid a dagger across his throat. His dragon incinerated the rest.”

Atsumu’s fist clenches under the table.

Ichiro’s jaw ticks. He pokes a finger on the table. “That boy has had it out for our family since the day his father’s head fell from its pathetic shoulders. You’re doing your family and your country a service by ridding his soul from his body.”

“And if I can’t do it?” Atsumu presses. “If I die tryin’? Would ya even care?”

“You’re my son,” Ichiro says flatly. “Of course I care.”

Atsumu nods and excuses himself. As the door slams behind him, one hissing, stinging word burns through his mind.

Liar.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu flies down the stairs and runs smack into a body at the first full turn.

“Fuck!” He smacks a hand to his chest, just to find that he’s been scared by his own shadow. Or his new one.

Suna.

“The fuck are ya doin’?” Atsumu hisses at him. “Eavesdroppin’?”

Suna’s face flushes. “No.”

Great. More liars.

“Don’t fuckin’ do that.”

At least Suna has the wherewithal to look ashamed.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want you walking back alone.”

“I’ll be perfectly fuckin’ fine.” Atsumu brushes him off, continuing down the spiral of stairs, but with no other path to take, Suna is right back on his godsdamn heels.

Suna doesn’t speak until they’re back on the ground floor and halfway to the dorms. “Your dad’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?”

Atsumu snorts. “His castle is built upon violence, power and control. Not exactly the type of parent who tucks ya into bed and kisses ya on the forehead. Just–don’t go giving him more reasons ta hate ya, okay?”

Suna laughs, scratching at the mark on his wrist. “Bit late for that.”

Atsumu eyes Suna warily. Despite his general distaste for the guy, he doesn’t deserve execution.

None of them do.

“Ok, well, thanks fer walkin’ me I guess.” Atsumu pauses as he reaches his bedroom door, not quite ready to face whatever’s on the other side.

Was his room really cleaned already? How well?

Will it smell of bleach? Blood?

A throat clears behind him.

Atsumu turns and Suna is still there, watching impatiently, pleasantly unaware of the horrors crawling through in Atsumu’s mind.

Atsumu’s hackles raise. “Ain’t yer room on the next floor?”

Suna’s lip twitches at the corner. “I’m sleeping in yours until they can reassign me next door.”

“The fuck ya are.” Atsumu cranks the doorknob and slips through before he can be followed. 

When he shoves the door closed, a quick foot slides through to jam it. Mischievous green eyes peep through the crack. “Don’t go getting any funny ideas buddy—I’m taken.”

Atsumu scoffs at that. He pushes back harder, not giving a damn if he cuts Suna’s foot off, so long as the door shuts with the rest of him on the other side. He grunts, “I ain’t got no ideas, cuz ya ain’t sleepin’ here!”

Suna’s hand curls over Atsumu’s on the edge of the door as it shudders between them. “Oh, yes I am.”

“You agreed to the protection,” Tairn reminds him.

“I didn’t agree to this, ” Atsumu argues.

“You can trust the marked one,” Tairn says with confidence. “He will keep you safe.”

“Ya can’t be serious.” Atsumu pushes back against his intruder.

“Last night was really scary,” Andarna’s little voice hesitates to add. “I hate that we weren’t there to help you. Please, can he stay?”

Fuck, Atsumu would find a way to gift Andarna the sun if she asked him like that.

“Yer always with me, Goldie,” he assures her. “Yer magic saved my life.”

He can feel Andarna’s pout down the bond. “But you aren’t able to summon it yet…”

“Well, that’s beside the–”

Atsumu is so distracted with his dragons that he doesn't notice how much ground he’s lost. The door is nearly halfway open and Suna is bullying his shoulder through the opening. With one final shove, the battle of the door is lost. Suna comes barreling into the room, and Atsumu topples over.

“Fuck!” Atsumu falls to his ass and Suna walks right in.

Damn, the guy’s a lot stronger than he looks.

Suna straightens his jacket and waltzes around the room like it’s his own.

“Apparently,” he says, “you can’t go a single night without putting your life in jeopardy. So you can’t be left alone. The boss has assigned me to be your personal bodyguard, and I am but a humble servant to his requests.”

Atsumu stands up and, woah. He has to catch himself on the wall. He places a hand to his head that’s suddenly swimming.

“Why you?” Atsumu asks, digging his fingers into his temples. “Why can’t he do it himself?”

Not that having Sakusa for a roommate would be any better, but if Sakusa’s gonna be an ass about this, he can at least come be an ass himself. 

“The Wingleader’s a busy guy, Suna says. “Too busy to babysit.”

Of course. Sakusa cares about Atsumu’s safety, but not at the expense of his own inconvenience. Must be nice having an army of minions to handle all the shit jobs.

“Plus,” Suna adds, “I’m great at diffusing bombs, and rumor is, you’ve got a short fuse, Miya.”

Atsumu has no clue what Suna is talking about. The mischievous glint that lives in his eyes suggests he’s more likely to fan a flame than put one out.

Yanking the door back open, Atsumu offers a guiding hand back towards the hall. “Well I don’t feel so explodey these days, so yer services aren’t needed. Or wanted. Get out.”

“Sorry, I don’t take my orders from you.” Suna begins a self-guided room tour, sweeping his scrutinizing gaze from floor to ceiling. He places a mocking hand on his heart. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

Atsumu snorts. The only discernible changes from when he moved in are the curtains ripped to the floor and the flat piece of wood now crudely covering the hole in the window.

“Thanks,” Atsumu grunts, shutting the door with a sigh.

“If this fucker keeps me up all night,” he warns Tairn, “you aren’t gettin’ any sleep either.”

Annnnd the bond mutes from Tairn’s end.

Atsumu calls him a bastard anyway.

“I’ll stay up with you,” Andarna offers.

Atsumu smiles. “That’s why yer my favorite, Goldie.”

He goes to kick his boots off into the closet and he has to catch himself on the cased opening to avoid planting headfirst into his shoes.

Okay. How is he so fucking exhausted? Sure, it was a long night, but he actually got close to the same amount of sleep as normal.

“Stress?” Andarna suggests.

“Must be.”

Atsumu leans on the wall and watches Suna check all the obvious places for secret assassins to hide–in the closet, under the bed, in the bathroom.

Then Suna moves on to the inane–under the rug, behind the chair cushion, between the pages of Atsumu’s books.

Atsumu gets to the desk just in time to slam the drawer back shut. “Don’t think anyone’s hidin’ in there.”

Suna pulls his hands back with a tsk. “Touchy.”

Yeah, Atsumu’s fucking touchy. He’s exhausted and annoyed and he’ll punch Suna out before letting his slimy fingers pry into the drawer holding Osamu’s letters.

When Suna turns around, Atsumu opens the drawer and throws the pocket watch inside.

Suna continues on to check every other place that couldn’t possibly hide a full-sized human. Once satisfied that nobody is hiding in Atsumu’s boots, he rests a hand on his hip. “Bed or chair?”

Atsumu dives for his bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. Even though he’s still fully dressed and all of this is completely fucking ridiculous.

No way in hell is Suna taking his bed . If he insists on being a pest, he can sleep on the floor like one.

“And they say that chivalry is dead,” Suna sighs. “At least give me a pillow.”

“I’m sure ya got pillows back in yer room.” Atsumu punches his own pillow, fluffing it up and making a show of luxuriously burying his face into it. “Why don’t ya go check?”

Suna saunters over and snatches it from underneath Atsumu’s head, forcing him to slam ear-first into the mattress.

Atsumu growls at Suna’s back, then grabs the other perfectly good fucking pillow and gives it a few hard smacks before turning back towards the wall.

Suna makes himself comfortable. As loud as humanly possible.

When Atsumu sits up to snap at him, Suna is finally settled, pretzeled up in the armchair that’s now in front of the door.

“Redecoratin’?” Atsumu asks with a glare.

“The lock’s broken,” Suna says by way of explanation.

Atsumu squints at the door. He didn’t even think to check that.

Gods he’s tired.

“Still think the extra protection is a bad idea?” Tairn pops back to ask.

“Never said it was a bad idea,” Atsumu argues. “Just an annoyin’ one.”

Atsumu yawns, peeking at Suna who’s just sitting there. Watching him.

“Aren’t ya gonna sleep?”

Suna scratches a fingernail along the seam of the armchair. “I don’t sleep much these days. But don’t let me stop you.”

“Well I don’t want you just starin’ at me all night like a fuckin’ weirdo.” Atsumu pulls his blanket up to his chin. “Read a book or somethin’.”

“As you wish, milord.” Suna jumps up for a bow, dropping the pillow to the floor.

The floor that was littered in corpses not twenty hours ago.

Atsumu shudders. Fuck, Suna can keep it.

Suna grabs the top book off Atsumu’s desk, without bothering to check any titles. He snuffs both torches on his way back to the chair, casting the room in darkness.

“Yer signet night vision or somethin’?” Atsumu asks, squinting with the scant moonlit cracks behind the plywood window.

There’s a soft squeak of leather, then a snort in the dark.

“No,” Suna’s voice replies. “That’d be kind of cool though.” 

There’s some rustling, then a small spark of light. But instead of a magelight, Suna holds a palm-sized glass orb with what looks like a tiny swirl of lighting bouncing around the inside.

Something about it rings as familiar, but Atsumu’s too tired to try and place it.

“I wouldn’t dare disturb your beauty rest, Miya,” Suna croons. The light in his hand dims to a dull thrum, and he hides the orb behind the book propped in his lap. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

“Wish I fuckin’ could,” Atsumu mutters into his blanket.

Suna’s voice perks up to a poor imitation of jovial. “Goodnight roomie!”

Atsumu returns the same sing-songy voice. “Fuck off, rat!”

Suna cackles and Atsumu pulls the covers over his head so he doesn’t have to hear it.

Thanks gods he’s sleeping less than a minute later.

— ⚡︎ —

When morning sun comes knocking on the back of Atsumu’s eyelids, Suna is in the exact same spot in his chair.

Are all the Marked Ones secretly statues?

Atsumu sits up blearily and the Suna statue cracks into a big, bright smile.

“Good morning sunshine,” Suna says. His smile drops as fast as it came and his head drops back to his lap where he’s scribbling something.

In Hinata’s book.

“The fuck do ya think yer doin’?” Atsumu shouts.

Suna freezes. “Uh, nothing.”

Atsumu throws his covers and the book slams shut. He crosses the room and snatches it from behind Suna’s back before it’s defiled any further.

Suna gives it up without a fight. He lifts his hands in surrender and his only excuse is, “They got the wyvern tails wrong.”

“Well wyvern ain’t real,” Atsumu snaps. “So it doesn’t matter what the fuckin’ tails look like. Don’t draw on people’s shit.”

“Sorry, mom.” Suna rolls his eyes.

Atsumu flips through the pages. He can’t remember exactly how the drawings looked before, but they surely weren’t this detailed. The additions blend perfectly with the style of the original illustrations, but the new depictions are far more gruesome. In addition to the new trident-tipped tails, there’s drool dripping from snouts, spikes capping wingtips, and scars digging through rubbery skin.

At least it’s not glasses and funny mustaches.

Maybe Hinata won’t notice?

Suna lifts his arms overhead for an obnoxiously loud yawn. He’s lucky he’s not shit at drawing, or Atsumu would have some bony, bodyguard ass to kick this morning.

Atsumu slams the book shut and asks, “Did ya even sleep?”

“I got maybe like, two? Three hours?” Suna answers like it’s another question. He twirls his magic-pen before pocketing it. “Pretty good for me, honestly.”

Gods. And Atsumu thought his own sleep schedule was fucked.

Atsumu sets Hinata’s book at the bottom of his pile. Like it would stop Suna from digging it up and doing whatever the fuck he feels like. “How do ya even function like that?”

Suna stretches again, long limbs cracking all the way up to his wrists and down to his ankles. “I use magic for energy,” he explains. “Doesn’t feel half as good as sleeping, but it works fine enough most of the time.”

“Why not just sleep?”

Slumping back to his typical hunchy, cobra posture, Suna quirks a patronizing brow. “I know we just spent the night together, but that question is a bit personal, Miya.”

“Forget it.” Atsumu stomps to his closet for a fresh set of clothes. “I don’t actually fuckin’ care, so I don’t know why I asked.”

Suna looks far too amused for someone who’s one more bad joke away from getting their ass kicked.

Atsumu slams the bathroom door. In the brief bliss of solitude, he quickly changes and splashes some water on his face. A bath will have to wait for when he has some actual fucking privacy. He marches back out, laces up his boots and shoos Suna from the armchair so he can unblock the door.

Behind the groan of the hinges, there’s a barely audible voice.

“I get nightmares.”

When Atsumu looks back, Suna’s eyes are down, fingers fiddling with his little glass orb. “Feeling like shit in the morning is a small price for avoiding them.” He sighs, eyes moving to fix on the slab of pressed wood that ought to be a window. “Makes me a good night guard, I guess. Silver linings and all that.” 

Atsumu recognizes the faraway look on Suna’s face. It’s the same one that’s been in the mirror since Osamu died—he’s haunted.

Maybe Atsumu judged Suna too quickly. Too harshly.

As annoying as the guy can be, he is trying to help. And all Atsumu has done in return is slam a door on his foot and force him to sleep in a chair all night.

Atsumu swallows back a mouthful of pride and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Suna takes another long breath, pockets his orb and forces half a smile. “Not your fault.”

As they turn to leave, Atsumu’s fingers slide over the edge of the door and a large chunk of wood breaks off into his hand.

“What the–?”

Last night, he had been too busy using the door to try and cut Suna’s foot off to get a good look. He squints at the cracks spreading over the edges and pries the deadbolt free of the crumbling wood.

Suna was right about the lock being broken.

But it isn’t just broken–it’s practically dust.

Chapter Text

Atsumu fiddles with the broken pieces of deadbolt in his pocket. The iron shards crumble through his fingertips—more than coincidence but less than proof.

But he knows. Oikawa used his signet to break the lock. He’s the reason the unbonded were able to get into Atsumu’s room.

Another bite of toast goes chewed and untasted as Atsumu watches Oikawa from across the cafeteria.

Oikawa eats on merrily–not a care in the world. He’s surrounded by bodies, but clearly alone. He doesn’t speak to anyone and none of the heads turn in his direction. Without the squad of followers flanking his sides, something about him feels…smaller. Sadder.

A king without a court.

At least Atsumu can revel in the satisfaction of Oikawa’s evil plan having bit him in the ass. The very person who unlocked the door to his friend’s demise.

The moment the shield of strangers clears, Atsumu marches over.

“Oikawa,” he says cordially, sliding into the seat across the table.

Brown eyes meet him, lacking any warmth suggested by the accompanying smile. “Miya.”

Atsumu’s jaw ticks. Gods, he wants to punch those shiny fucking teeth out. Instead, he drops the cremated pieces of deadbolt right over Oikawa’s breakfast.

Oikawa’s face scrunches. “What’s this?”

“The lock from my bedroom.”

“Looks like you need a new one,” Oikawa hums. He pushes the dust and metal scraps to the edge of the tray with his fork, and sighs. “And I need new eggs.” He pushes off the table, turning his back to walk towards the empty food station.

Atsumu follows, accosting him at the trays. “Speaking of my bedroom…have ya ever seen it?”

“Is that an invitation?” Oikawa quirks a brow, hiding a smirk behind a clean metal tray. “Sorry, not interested.” He waltzes down the line where the leftover scraps of food wait under the soft buzz of heat lamps.

“Your friends did,” Atsumu presses, keeping on Oikawa’s perfectly polished heels. “Someone helped them break in two nights ago. Know anythin’ about that?”

Oikawa scoops himself a meager helping of eggs from what’s left crusted to the pan. “I hope you aren’t accusing me of anything, Miya.”

“So my lock disintegratin’ inside the door and you manifestin’ a destruction signet the next day, that’s all just a coincidence?”

Oikawa shrugs, scraping the spoon incessantly around the corners to win another half-scoop.

Atsumu seizes Oikawa’s wrist. He channels his best Sakusa impression, voice of ice and face of stone. “Breakin’ the codex is a really big deal around here, ya know.” He presses in further to whisper beneath the din of the cafeteria. “The kind they burn ya alive for.”

Oikawa remains perfectly unaffected. He firmly pries Atsumu’s fingers away, placing the serving spoon down and closing the distance even further. “You don’t have any proof. All you have is a pocket full of dust.”

Atsumu puts on his best Oikawa impression next, fluttering lashes and a high lilting tone. “Ya really think that Daddy wouldn’t take my word for it?”

He nearly chokes on the word daddy, but it seems to get the point across. Oikawa’s eyes drop and his knuckles pale around his new silverware.

“Hey! Shittykawa!”

They both jump back as a muscley guy with spiky black hair walks up.

Oikawa’s shoulders hike as two hard hands clap over them. He cranes his neck to look back with a pained smile. “Iwa-Chan.”

“Iwaizumi,” the guy corrects with a twitching eye that suggests it’s not the first time. He turns his attention to Atsumu and asks, “Is he bothering you?”

Oikawa gives him an affronted gasp. “Me? Bothering him?”

Iawizumi ignores Oikawa, gaze astutely on Atsumu. “Well?”

Atsumu pinches his lips and shakes his head.

“See?” Oikawa smiles, ducking out of Iwaizumi’s meat hands and throwing an arm around Atsumu’s shoulder. “My buddy Atsu-Chan here was just inviting me up to his bedroom, care to join us?” He twirls the end of his fork between the smarmy curve of his lips.

Iwaizumi snatches the fork and stabs it into the sickly pile of eggs. “I don’t know how your last squad leader ran things, but I don’t put up with my squad members running around picking fights.”

Atsumu eyes Oikawa from the side of his gaze, he must have been reassigned when his squad lost all its members.

“Is that really what you think of me, Iwa-Chan?” Oikawa pouts. “I’m hurt.”

Iwaizumi glares at him. “Eat your eggs.”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue, takes a big, sarcastic mouthful, and huffs away.

“Sorry about that one,” Iwaizumi says with a sigh, watching Oikawa as he stalks away. “Real fucking chip on his shoulder. Let me know if he gives you any more trouble. I’m trying to whip his bad attitude into shape.”

‘Good fuckin’ luck,’ Atsumu thinks.

“Sure,” he says instead. “Thanks.”

They split off and Atsumu circles back to the food station where Kita had been slowly filling up a decoy tray a few feet behind them.

“Anythin’?” he asks.

Kita’s head shakes. “No lies.” He huffs a little laugh. "Except when he called ya his buddy."

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Bastard skirted every fuckin’ question.”

“Ya came on too strong,” Kita says, walking them to the dish tray to abandon his untouched plate.

“I thought he’d just deny it and we’d catch him in a lie.”

“Interrogation is an artform,” Kita says. “People are complex. Ya have to ask the right questions to peel back their walls. He was nervous though. I could sense tension under his words.”

Atsumu’s brows shoot up. “You can do that?”

Kita smiles. “My power’s been growin’.”

“Fuckin’ cool, Shin.” Atsumu grins.

Kita’s face drops to a pinched frown. “But he’s right, ya know. We don’t have any real proof.”

“It was him,” Atsumu says, fists curling in his pockets. “I fuckin’ know it.”

— ⚡︎ —

Either through Atsumu’s threats, Iwaizumi’s influence, or a good old-fashioned miracle, Oikawa keeps his distance. Beyond the occasional bout of heated eye contact, they don’t interact at all.

The days tick on. Atsumu’s bruises fade. His cuts turn to scars. Time passes without incident or intrigue–a monotonous hamster wheel edging slowly towards the future that he had always run from.

Someone fixes the lock to Atsumu’s bedroom. As promised, Suna is reassigned to the room next door, earning Atsumu a much-needed inch of breathing room. Most mornings he finds Suna sitting in the hallway, either writing or doodling in his overstuffed notebook, but it’s always slammed shut before Atsumu can catch a glimpse of the chaos of his mind.

After Sakusa’s initial concern over Atsumu’s well-being, he goes back to a cool indifference towards his existence. As long as Atsumu isn’t actively bleeding out, there’s apparently no reason for them to speak.

Asshole.

Whatever tender version of Sakusa existed after the attack has been sealed back behind stone, like his secret, twisting tunnels.

It suits Atsumu just fine, really. The distance is good. Being near Sakusa still feels weird. There’s some sort of lingering tension there that makes his mouth dry and his palms sweaty. They have every reason to be on the same side now, but it’s hard to let go of the initial animosity Atsumu held for the man, and his blood hasn’t gotten the memo to stop boiling in Sakusa’s presence.

But every so often, Atsumu will catch a flash of black eyes from across the room, or a swirl of black mist at his feet, and his blood heats all over again.

The second hour of Minor Magics steadily empties as the days drag by. Thank gods Hinata is stuck there with him, or Atsumu would probably go crazy. Despite not manifesting a signet yet, Hinata excels in every other regard when it comes to magic. On the other hand, Atsumu can only lift his feather an inch off the table, even with the extra hours of practice.

Professor Devera keeps telling him that “it will come when the time is right.”

But he’s the one who’s supposed to be telling time what to do.

And it refuses to listen.

Just before the tension threatens to break him into pieces, the gods throw him a lifeline in the form of a Field Operations Training Review–an actual chance to stretch their wings further than the five mile radius around Basgiath.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Bokuto asks, tossing two giant wood crates onto his shoulders.

They’re preparing for their week-long journey by saddling up their dragons and fitting them with supplies.

“Please let it be somewhere with a hot spring,” Saeko says dreamily. She sits on the top of the tower of supply crates, tapping them to weightlessness whenever another squad member swings back to grab one. Suna sits at her feet, doing nothing to help beyond offering her the occasional high-five. But even so, the task goes by infinitely quicker than it does for the rest of the squads scattered across the flight field.

“And spend the whole week smelling like rotten eggs again?” Ryunosuke asks.

“Like you smell any better normally,” Saeko scoffs. She runs her fingers through Suna’s hair as he sits back with his eyes closed, not contributing to the conversation beyond a happy hum now and then. He might even be sleeping.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. Best bodyguard ever. High half the time and sleeping the other half.

But things have been quiet on the life-threatening front, so he doesn’t bother filing any complaints. Especially since that would require speaking to Sakusa, and Atsumu might actually prefer a knife to the back.

At least Sakusa was right about one thing, Suna really isn’t half bad. He has the same dry sense of humor as Osamu, and Atsumu finds himself laughing along whenever the barbed jokes aren't aimed in his direction. The whole squad has taken to teasing or doting on him like their new skrunkly, sleep-deprived mascot.

“Where would you want to go, Atsumu?” Saeko asks as she hands him another weightless crate.

“I'm happy with anywhere as long as Pancheck's not goin',” Atsumu says, taking it off her hands easily, despite being nearly half his size.

Hinata’s slides down Sliseag’s tail, flicking off the end with an impressive amount of air. He lands with a thud, face red as his dragon. “I can’t believe he won’t let you back into Signet class!” he shouts.  “Isn’t it the teacher’s job to teach you?”

“Apparently not,” Atsumu sighs, feeling the dead weight of Pancheck’s silver watch in his pocket. He had tried worming his way back into Signet class the previous day and was promptly kicked out on his ass. “If he would actually help me channel, we wouldn’t be having this problem.”

The crate bounces from hand to hand, as if it were filled with nothing but hot air. 

“Pancheck’s less of a teacher and more of a glorified babysitter,” Saeko says. Her legs kick around the sides of Suna’s head as her fingers continue their scratching through his scalp. “Since signets are so widespread, the class is closer to supervised independent study than a real class.”

“He’s not convinced I even manifested,” Atsumu grumbles.

At this point Atsumu isn’t even convinced that he manifested. He spends at least two hours a night staring at Pancheck’s stupid pocket watch, but no matter how hard he tries, he can never channel his magic into stopping the damn thing.

Suna waves a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about Pancake, he’s a dick.”

The crate slips from Atsumu’s hands, slamming into his shins and flying several feet out ahead of him. Atsumu turns back to Suna. “What did ya just call him?”

“A dick,” Suna says with a yawn. “And I stand by it.”

Atsumu eyes Suna warily, thumbing the opal hanging from his neck. He shakes his head and chases after his lost cargo.

He must be hearing things.

“That’s real rich coming from his star pupil,” Rysunosuke interjects on his way back to the pile. He slaps the button on Suna’s jacket sleeve and sends him careening to the ground.

Suna kicks at him, struggling, but unable to lift his arm off the floor. “Star pupil, against my fucking will!” he shouts, twisting around to wrestle with the zipper down his front, one-handed.

Atsumu fits his cargo into the net hanging from Tairn’s side. He would never give Suna the satisfaction of asking, but he does occasionally wonder what his mysterious signet is. Pancheck was oddly tolerant of him that first day in class, and not because of his winning personality.

Hinata sighs, dropping his head on the crate next to Saeko’s thigh. “I wish I had my signet already.”

“You just want more homework,” Bokuto says, lifting two more crates up to balance on top of his head.

“Magic homework!” Hinata argues, grabbing the final bit of cargo once Saeko jumps off of it. “Magic is half the awesome of being a rider!”

Suna finally wiggles out of his jacket, escaping Rysunosuke’s magic and sitting back up. “Better hope you manifest soon,” he says tauntingly. “Wouldn’t want to burn out.”

Hinata stops in his tracks. “Burn out?”

Suna nods, folding his bare arms over his knees. “When you take too long to manifest, the magic builds and builds up inside you until…” He makes a fake explosion with his hands, complete with added sound effects.

“What?!” Hinata squawks, nearly dropping his crate.

Saeko smacks Suna on the back of the head. “You’re such a dick, Rin!”

“Yeah, no wonder you’re Pancheck’s favorite,” Ryunosuke adds as Suna snickers behind his fingers.

“I’ve never heard of burnout,” Atsumu says warily. And he’s been force-fed dragon facts since before he could walk.

“Is that really a thing?” he asks Tairn, but his dragon must be busy coordinating with the rest of the riot, since he doesn’t give an answer.

“There’s no way,” Bokuto shakes his head. “They would’ve warned us about something like that, right?”

“It’s not something Command likes to advertise,” Saeko explains, “but it’s another risk to bonding. Your dragon’s magic flows through the bond whether you use it or not, and without a signet to let it all out…well…” she grimaces.

“Without a signet…” Hinata says under his breath, the implication dawning on him as his face passes into horror.

“You still have plenty of time,” Saeko reassures him. “Rin’s just being dramatic, don’t listen to him.”

“I am a very dramatic person,” Suna deadpans. “Don’t listen to me.”

Saeko rolls her eyes. “Burnout takes weeks of overstored magic.”

Hinata shifts in his trainers. “But it’s already been weeks…”

“More weeks than two,” Saeko assures him.

Hinata bites his lip, staring at the ground long enough for Saeko’s magic to wear out and the crate to drop from his hands.

“Ack!” Hinata jumps back as it crashes to the ground. The lid cracks off and several chunks of shimmering rock spill out. Hinata bends down to start repacking, but the three Marked Ones jump in to do it for him.

Saeko scoops up an armful of giant rocks, dumping them hastily back in the crate. “You really don’t need to worry yet, Shoyo.”

“Famous last words,” Suna says ominously, working surprisingly quickly when he usually avoids labor like the plague.

“Burnout is…not good,” Ryunosuke says eloquently, shoving the last of the rocks back and hammering the lid shut with his fist. “But the power build up can help you manifest! Sort of a sink or swim type scenario.”

Saeko slaps the side of the crate and Ryunosuke carries it over to his dragon. As he passes by, Atsumu spies a small red icon painted on the bottom corner.

Before he can make out what it is, Kita walks up with the supply list in hand and a magic pen tucked behind his ear. “How’s everythin’ goin’ over here?”

Hinata runs up to him. “Kita-san, do you really explode if you don’t manifest a signet?”

“Huh?” Kita blinks, looking up from his clipboard. “Oh, um. Sort of.”

Hinata squeaks, “what?!”

Ryunosuke returns, nodding sagely. “It happened to one, or maybe two people last year?”

“Two,” Kita confirms. “Not pretty.”

“They actually exploded?” Bokuto gawks.

“Not physically,” Kita amends. “But I suppose it’s like…their life-force explodes? The stronger the magic, the more dangerous it can be if it’s not released.”

“Damn. Glad my signet came early,” Bokuto says, prodding at one of the fresh bruises on his cheek.

“What’s it feel like?” Hinata asks. “Burnout?”

Ryunosuke shrugs. “Nobody left alive to ask.”

Hinata gulps.

“I was a pretty late bloomer actually,” Suna tells them, scooping his jacket off of the ground. “The magic buildup starts as a tickle in the back of your neck. Then the tickle spreads down your spine, and out through your body. Then like a pot of water on a hearth, it slowly gets hotter and hotter day by day. I suppose the boiling point is when–”

“You explode?” Bokuto asks.

Suna nods, shrugging back into his dusty black leathers. “I probably had a day or two left at that point. But Ryu’s right, I think the desperation is what pushed me into channeling.”

Atsumu’s fingers find the back of his neck. The heat there has to be in his head. He already manifested a signet. He shouldn’t be in danger of burning out.

But if he can’t figure out how to actually use his magic…will it just keep building up?

Kita returns his focus to the clipboard, tapping his pen on the metal top. “How many crates have been packed already?”

“Thirty-four,” Suna says, stretching his spine out, little pops cracking up his joints.

Kita’s head snaps up. Suna freezes under his glare and stammers, “I-I mean–uh–”

“Everything is packed,” Saeko says quickly.

The line between Kita’s brows deepens, but he nods and checks the list off anyway. Atsumu chases him down.

“It was thirty-four, right?” Kita asks, tapping his pen down the list and mumbling through a recount.

Atsumu shrugs, it’s not like he was counting. “Hey Shin, do ya know which outpost we’re headin’ to?”

Kita’s eyes don’t leave his list, but Atsumu catches the edges of his lips quirk up.

— ⚡︎ —

It’s an eight hour flight to Montserrat.

Eight. Fucking. Hours.

Tairn takes lead of the riot, the other dragons falling into formation at his tail. Atsumu was shocked to pass over Kita and Cath, but clearly the dragon’s hierarchy wins out.

Atsumu shifts in his seat. His long distance saddle is clearly in need of breaking in. The stiff leather is supposed to be more comfortable than riding bareback, but Atsumu’s ass would beg to disagree. Hopefully it's at least more comfortable for Tairn, since he’s the one doing all the actual work. “Ya sure ya ain’t too old for this, Tairn?”

Tairn scoffs, whipping them sideways as punishment for Atsumu’s concern. “Eight hours is barely a chance to stretch my wings. You’re the one who can’t stay seated for more than ten minutes at a time.”

Atsumu digs in his boots, straining against gravity until they straighten back out. “Well don’t go practicin’ yer barrel rolls and we’ll be perfectly fuckin’ peachy.”

With all its bells and whistles, the saddle is distinctly missing any sort of belt to strap into, but Atsumu’s determined to land at Montserrat if it kills him. He straightens out his goggles, mentally preparing for his first real flight.

The stony gray of Basgiath falls away as they cross into a lush expanse of forest. The once vibrant leaves now curling to brown–but still stubbornly clinging to the last leg of the season.

A glittering gold streaks past the treetops, Andarna’s scales catching brilliantly in the morning sun.

“Sure yer up for this, Goldie?” Atsumu asks her.

“I’m too small for a rider,” Andarna huffs, “not for flying.”

She zips quick circles around them to prove it.

“Just checkin’.” Atsumu laughs as the bolt of gold shoots past his head.

The forests stretch on for a long while before bleeding into country–endless flowing hills of gold that you can barely see Andarna against. But the country comes and goes as well, ebbing into marshy wetlands of brown and green. Eventually the clouds grow too thick to see through, and they climb the sky to soar high above them.

Despite the bite of the late Fall wind, the sun beats mercilessly at Atsumu’s neck.

It’s just the sun. He knows that. And yet, the heat starts to gnaw at him, a stinging reminder of Suna’s warning.

‘It gets hotter and hotter until…’

Can he really burn out even after he’s manifested?

“Worrying won’t help you channel any sooner,” Tairn says gently.

Atsumu feels his neck flush even hotter. He shifts in his saddle, lifting and lowering his legs in an attempt to wake them back up.

“What am I doing wrong, Tairn?” he asks. “Why can’t I use my magic?”

Tairn’s wings spread to catch a wide gust from below. “I wish I had an answer for you.”

“Did yer other riders have this much trouble?”

Tairn goes quiet. Atsumu takes it as a no.

He deflates into his seat, arms folding and chin resting over the artificial pommel. “How many riders have ya had?”

"Before you?" Tairn’s shoulder muscles roll around the straps of his saddle. “Two.”

“What were their signets?”  

“My previous riders’ magic has nothing to do with yours.”

“Ya sure they weren’t both time wielders and ya just forgot to tell me?” Atsumu asks wryly.

Tairn doesn’t even grace him with a pity laugh.

“Signets are unique to each rider,” he says. “The dragon merely provides the power supply.”

“I know,” Atsumu sighs, “I was just wonderin’.”

Tairn seems to find this acceptable and opts to give Atsumu an actual answer. “The first was a siphon. He could give or take power at will.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen under the safety of his flight goggles. “Sounds badass.”

“He certainly was.” Tairn dips his tail into the clouds, leaving a contemplative trail of mist in their wake. “It's a very coveted ability, able to turn the tides of battle in an instant.”

Pride swells down the bond. Nostalgia for the rider that he flew into battle.

Atsumu wishes he could’ve met the guy. Seeing as how Tairn has a certain… non-traditional taste in riders, he must’ve been someone worth knowing.

“And the second?”

A palpable sorrow fills the next beat of silence, the muscles visibly tightening through Tairn’s back. 

Atsumu’s throat goes dry. Having clearly crossed some invisible line, he tries backing up. “Ya don’t have ta–”

“She never manifested one,” Tairn finally answers.

Atsumu’s heart skips. “What?”

“She died. Before her signet could manifest.”

“Fuck.” Atsumu grips his chest with the wave of grief that slams into him, unsure if it’s his dragon’s or his own. “Tairn, I’m so sorry.”

Tairn hums, the heartache ebbing enough for Atsumu to drop his hand back to the saddle.

“I am thankful for our time together, no matter how short.”

Atsumu doesn’t ask how she died, cautious not to salt the wound any further. There’s many a gruesome way to meet Malek at Basgiath, so the specifics hardly matter.

A gentle pain fills the silence. Pulsing with the beat of Tairn’s wings and the ache of Atsumu’s heart.

It’s well known that dragons aren’t keen on sharing their personal lives, but maybe…

“Will ya tell me about her?”

Tairn is quiet for a moment. “I do not often speak of the one who came before.”

Atsumu is about to backtrack again, when Tairn surprises him.

“But…she was a very small thing,” his chuckle rumbles through his back, “even for a human. She was brave, cunning and fiercely kind.” His voice takes on a wistful tone as he continues. “She was the only one who met my eyes at Presentation. She stood her ground and stared up at me, as if daring me to choose her. Then at Threshing I found her again. Sitting in a meadow, picking violets from the ground and tucking them into the braided crown at her head. She looked up with a grin and asked what took me so long.”

Atsumu’s mind supplies an image to match with the affection clinging to Tairn’s words and he smiles. “She sounds really great. They both do.”

Tairn hums. “I see a bit of both of them in you.”

And fuck– if that doesn’t force Atsumu to lift up his goggles and wipe his eyes dry. He sniffles as he puts them back. “I’m sorry ya didn’t have more time.”

“The downside to an extended lifespan. I’ve loved and lost well more than my share. While I cannot carry them on my back, I still carry them in my heart.”

A small smile plays at Atsumu’s lips. “The upside of havin’ a giant fuckin’ heart?”

This time Tairn laughs, more fondness than amusement. Atsumu’s own little, human heart clenches, feeling immensely special to be included in that group.

The sun shifts high overhead. No longer beating on Atsumu’s neck, but caressing its golden shine on the soft silver clouds.

Tairn sharing felt big. Atsumu supposes that this bond stuff is a two way street, and he owes some vulnerability of his own. He rests back in the saddle, closing his eyes and tips his chin up to soak in the warmth of the sun.

“This one time,” Atsumu says, “when we were kids, my brother Samu snuck into the kitchens at our school and ate an entire cake by himself. He got so sick, I had to sit with him for an hour while he tossed it all up. We tried making a replacement before anyone found out, but it was fuckin’ terrible. I’ll never forget the look on our teacher’s face when he took the first bite.” His laughter floats gently along the wind. “I’m pretty sure we used salt instead of sugar.”

“What does cake taste like?” Andarna asks, popping back up from wherever she’d been hiding.

“Better than mountain goat,” Atsumu answers, watching her golden scales glisten over the clouds. “ As long as I’m not the one bakin’ it.”

“I want to try it,” she declares, dipping down to weave figures through Tairn’s legs.

Atsumu smiles. “One day I’ll find a cook to bribe into making ya yer own dragon size cake.”

She hums a pleased little sound at that.

They talk the rest of the flight. Tairn tells stories of his past riders and grand adventures he’s taken with Sgaeyl.

Atsumu tells stories about Osamu. He thought it would hurt, talking about his brother. For a while now, he’d locked even the happy memories away, thinking they’d cause him nothing but pain. But the more the memories pour out of him, the more they brighten in his heart.

Salt shifting back into sugar.

Time flies by, and soon enough they’re dropping altitude to greet their destination. Tairn takes a sharp turn, followed by the rest of the riot. They cut through the bed of clouds and reappear above–

“The ocean!” Andarna squeals with glee.

Atsumu gasps. His heart tugs as the glittering, endless blue unfurls beneath them, then stings with that familiar bittersweetness.

Seeing the ocean was something he had always talked about with Osamu. Something they had planned to do together–run off to the furthest place from home they could dream of.

After Osamu left for Basgiath, Atsumu had set off to see the ocean by himself, but never actually made it. Until now.

Even with the rocky shorelines and biting wind, it’s everything.

He really hopes that Osamu got to see it too.

Without warning, Tairn breaks formation and dips them down towards the water. Salt sprays Atsumu’s face as Tairn’s wingtips skirt across the surface.

The rush of wings follows behind them. The other dragons sink down to dip wings or tails in the waves before soaring back up and circling back towards one of the modest, rocky islands.

Montserrat Outpost lies a few wingbeats from a steep mountainous coastline, where tall, spindley boulders sprout out of the cliffs like fingers reaching for the sky.

There are no bridges to the island, nor pathways up the steep, treacherous cliffs, leaving flying as the only way in.

They land softly on a flattened outcrop between two jutting spires, topped with turrets. Tairn’s claws stop just over the edge of the cliff so Atsumu can stretch up to watch the waves crash on the rocks below.

Salt wets the air, coating Atsumu's lungs with a long, deep breath. It feels like the first full breath he’s had in months. He sucks in a few more while the others land in line beside him and begin to dismount.

Despite the efforts of his long-distance saddle, all of Atsumu’s muscles groan as he melts down Tairn’s back.

“Good fuckin’ gods.” He crumbles to a boneless puddle at the edge of the landing pad. 

“Is this what dying feels like?” Hinata asks as he rolls down Sliseag’s tail and past Atsumu, half of his limbs dangling precariously over the drop.

“Malek!” Bokuto shouts, dropping from Fierge and landing dramatically on his knees. He gasps, reaching a hand to the clouds. “Please! No! We’re not…ready…” Then he collapses fully to the rocky ground.

“First years,” the Tanakas scoff in tandem, sliding down their dragon’s legs with hardly a shoulder roll and a leg shake each.

Even Suna seems to have managed the flight well, posture a bit stiffer than usual, but still on his feet.

Kita dismounts gracefully, like the flight was no more than his typical morning warm up. He rushes over to kick them all off the ground.

“Up,” he hisses. “Now.”

Atsumu yelps as the boot jabs his side, but he’s on his feet quick enough to straighten his back as the outpost commander walks out onto the landing.

“Welcome to Montserrat, cadets!” He gives them an unshakeable smile, completely at odds with the weather-hardened face. The respect washes off him from posture alone, and the man’s jacket is more battle patches than leather.

Kita bows, and the rest of the squad follows suit. “Major Quade, Sir.”

“Half the riot’s out on patrol, but they’re due back any minute now.” Quade runs a hand through his thin silver hair as a rouge breeze topples it out of place. “Take your time unloading, then I’ll show you around the island.”

He leaves with a short bow, back into the bowels of the stone-carved fortress.

Atsumu moves to unclip the saddle from under Tairn’s belly as he scans the visible parts of the outpost. There’s several sets of rider black uniforms scurrying about the parapets between towers, but no familiar faces.

Once freed of their saddles, the dragons leave for an adjacent rocky island, where there’s presumably some sort of dragon dormitory and supply of livestock for snacking. Atsumu wishes his dragons good night and his squad begins loading their supplies into the storage bay.

Montserrat’s climate is warmer than Basgiath, and with the added strain of moving crates back and forth, Atsumu actually sheds his leather jacket for the first time in weeks.

“Oh gods, I missed the ocean,” Saeko swoons, taking in a deep breath of salted air at the edge of the cliff.

“Better than a hot spring?” Atsumu asks, stepping beside her at the overlook. Waves crash against the cliff sides, shooting sprays of cool wet mist at their feet.

She thinks a moment. “It’s a tie.”

Bokuto muses, “Maybe if we get all of our dragons to work together, they can heat up the ocean for us!”

Saeko laughs. “At least a tide pool or two.”

Bokuto's attention trails off. He stares past the waves, and squints at the mountainside stretching down the horizon.

A young rider comes along to show them to the visitor barracks. As Atsumu peers over his shoulder for a final look at the water, he notices Bokuto still at the cliff, staring at the mountains.

“Bo!” he shouts. "Ya comin'?"

Bokuto startles and runs to catch up, muttering his apologies as he falls into line with the rest of the group.

They're shown to the visitors dorm, where they’re all being sardined into the same sparsely decorated room.

Suna beelines towards the bed in the farthest corner, and instantly collapses into it, throwing an arm over his face.

Ryunosuke takes the next bed over and follows suit. He grumbles into the mattress. “No one wake me unless there’s a gryphon attack.”

“You’ve got ten minutes,” Kita tells him, selecting a neatly made bed of his own and sorting through his pack.

“No one wake me for ten minutes,” Ryunosuke mumbles, halfway through a snore.

Saeko falls right on top of him for a cat nap of her own. Despite his earlier nonchalance towards the long flight, Ryunosuke is too tired to even push her off.

Atsumu grabs the bed sandwiched between Hinata and Bokuto, sweetly reminiscent of the early days in the Barracks. He’s almost looking forward to Bokuto’s snoring and Hinata sleep-talking his endless brainful of dragon facts.

Bokuto drops his pack to his bed and immediately walks up to a large framed map on the wall. He inhales sharply. “Is this really where we are?” He points to the large cursive M, marking the coastal outpost.

Atsumu walks up to cross check the fancy M with his shaky knowledge of Navarre’s geography.

Montserrat is now the closest outpost to the southeast since Itachiyama was burned to the ground, the city conspicuously ripped off the corner of the canvas. It’s still incorporated territory, but the Itachiyama outpost was never rebuilt, seeing as they lost a lot of good riders to the rebellion, and there’s nothing to protect out there but ashes. The map cuts off there, since everything further south is all Barrens.

“I think so,” Atsumu offers, seeing as the outpost Bokuto’s pointing to is the only one set directly on the water.

“I thought those mountains looked familiar,” Bokuto’s fingers trail inland along the jagged peaks above the islands. “We aren’t far from Fukurodani.”

“Really?” Atsumu asks, squinting at the spot at Bokuto’s fingertip, a small dip in the mountain range, not even large enough to warrant a name on the map.

Bokuto nods, walking his thumbs back towards Montserrat to measure. “Two days by foot. Two blinks if we flew.” A dangerous hope lights his eyes.

Atsumu’s heart aches as his pack drops to the bed. “We’d get in so much fuckin’ trouble Bo.”

Bokuto frowns. “Yeah, you’re right,” a shaky breath escapes his lips, “it’s just–”

“I know.” Atsumu squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Maybe when we get back, we can sneak another letter out?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto breathes out. A sad smile crosses his lips, fingers still pressed to his home. “That’d be great. Thanks, Tsum-Tsum.”

With a sigh, Bokuto leaves the map to sit on his cot. He unclips the sheath from his back, and presses his forehead to the owl head pommel of his sword. He mutters into the twisted handle before lying the blade reverently atop the covers.

Despite Atsumu's staunch, life-long battle with the gods, he lends up a short prayer of his own. That Bokuto’s family is safe. That his village is rebuilding. That he’ll get to see them both again soon.

Major Quade returns to round them up for the rest of their tour leading them through the deep winding corridors. The outpost is a maze of rock-walls dotted by various rounded rooms that have been scooped right out of the earth. Quade rattles off each room's purpose as they pass, not bothering to pause so they can get an actual look.

The grand tour is all of ten minutes, highlighting the quirks of the tiny island fortress before they're led back towards their dorm to relax until dinner. Which, thank gods, because Atsumu hadn't really been listening and he's ready to fall into a coma until his muscles stop screaming.

They're almost at the sweet promise of bliss when a strong hand claps over Atsumu's shoulder, making him jump from his skin.

“Miya fuckin’ Atsumu.” The hand grips in, halting Atsumu in his tracks. “Yer comin’ with me.

Chapter Text

Atsumu’s heart skips, and when he turns around he’s struck by the immediate urge to happy-cry.

“Aran.” He beams, launching straight into his friend’s arms. They wrap around him instantly, strong and warm.

Atsumu glances back to see Kita smiling conspiratorily before giving them a wave and disappearing around the corner behind the rest of the squad.

Aran squeezes the air out of Atsumu’s lungs as the others’ footsteps fade away. “An entire fuckin’ year and I don’t hear from ya once?”

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu mumbles into the breast of Aran’s jacket. “I’m a piece of shit.”

“The worst.” Aran chuckles, releasing the strength of his hold, but keeping his hands over Atsumu’s biceps. “Missed ya, little bro.”

Atsumu looks up to match Aran’s wide smile. “I missed ya too.”

They’re not blood related, but Atsumu had always seen Aran as family. Growing up, Aran was around Basgiath even more than Atsumu and Osamu were. Both of his parents were riders but died in the line of duty, leaving custody to his uncle Nolon, who was permanently stationed as the college’s official mender. As the only real kids around, the moment the twins met the older, cooler boy, they latched onto a leg each and never let go.

“Look at you,” Atsumu beams, dusting off Aran’s fancy lieutenant patch. Aran’s hair is in its usual close crop to his skull, but he’s sporting a fresh goatee that accentuates the strong edges of his jaw, adding an air of maturity to his already striking features. The motherfucker might have even grown an extra inch just to rub it in Atsumu’s face.

Something akin to pride sparks in Aran’s eyes as he appraises Atsumu back. “Look at you. Never thought I’d see ya in real flight leathers.”

Atsumu scoffs, rolling his shoulders against the weight of his jacket. “Don’t fuckin’ remind me.”

“I know it ain’t yer first choice,” Aran says, “but the black really does suit ya.”

Atsumu punches him in the shoulder. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said ta me.”

Aran cackles at his misery and Atsumu rolls his eyes, adding, “And ya wonder why I don’t write.”

The bastard laughs even harder.

“Son of a bitch,” Atsumu swears, marveling at the broadness of Aran’s shoulders which seem to be threatening the stitching of his jacket. “Did ya get even bigger?” His lips peel back to a feral grin. “Ya gotta fight me before I leave.”

Aran shakes his head fondly. “Ya took a whole year off. Plus, yer a first year cadet and I’m a Lieutenant. Doesn’t exactly seem like an even match.”

Atsumu flicks the fancy Lieutenant patch. “All the sweeter when I beat ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see about that,” Aran chuckles, shoving Atsumu’s hands away and ushering him back through the rounded, twisting hallways. Once they’re good and lost in the labyrinth of stone, Aran’s voice drops to something softer. “How are ya doin’?”

It’s easy to hear the real question buried under the words.

‘How are ya doin’ without Osamu?’

Atsumu thinks about it.

It was so much easier when the grief was something he thought he could kill. It had a face and a name and gave him a reason to wake up each morning.

But now, it’s something he just has to live with. And he honestly isn’t sure how.

“‘M fine,” Atsumu says weakly.

At least Kita’s not around, so the lie is safe, sitting bitterly on his tongue.

Aran’s eyes narrow down on him. “Come on.”

He leads them down an even twistier corridor that eventually spits them out on the backside of the outpost. They cross a wave battered bridge to another small rocky island where the earth opens into a large cave, magically scooped from the stone. Atsumu whistles as they duck into the workshop.

“Wonder what made ya choose this outpost,” he says, mouth going slack as he looks around the beautifully detailed cave. There’s a faint pattern along the circular walls, swirling like a cone of dragonfire that’s been frozen in place and cast into stone. The domed ceiling has been chiseled into a delicate constellation of holes that weave around each other in intricate patterns, allowing little pockets of light to spill through, looking more like art than air vents.

Atsumu runs to the back of the workshop where there’s a large opening in the shape of an eye, offering a gorgeous view of the sprawling mountainscape across the water. The ocean breeze pulses through the window, spraying a cool, salty mist on his face with the beat of the crashing waves below.

Aran grins at his side, taking a deep breath of ocean air for himself. “Pretty awesome, right?”

He turns to start flitting around the shop, rummaging through the various sized cubbies punched into the cave walls. All of the blacksmith tools are well-loved but meticulously organized, and Aran plucks what he needs like he could do the same blindfolded.

“The forge has been here for generations,” he says. “Long before the base was even built.”

Atsumu believes it. There’s something magical about the space, something deep and ancient set into the stone.

The only modern touch is a complicated series of ropes and pulleys zigzagging across the walls and ceiling. But even those were added with care, looping excessive distances to reserve the sanctity of the original design.

“I’ve been meanin’ ta make ya a new sword,” Aran says, ducking a rope to heave up a large burlap bag. He pours a fresh bed of coals into the large stone forge at the center of the room. The forge mirrors the same shape as the window, a wide eye, with the bed of coal sinking down the center bowl to make up a pitch black iris.

“I don’t get nearly as much time in here as I hoped I would,” he sighs, running a hand along the outer lip of the forge, past an intricate series of carved runes. He pulls away to yank on a rope dangling from the ceiling. A spark ignites in the center of the coals and a blast of fresh air roars them to ember. Aran pokes them along further with a twisted metal stick, until a glowing red ring starts to form in the center of the eye.

“Aren’t ya a metal-wielder now?” Atsumu frowns at the complicated forge system as Aran pumps a second fan with his foot to blow air up from the bottom. “Can’t ya just magic up a sword?”

“I could,” Aran admits. “But it’d be a shitty sword.”

He drops his stick into a hissing barrel of water and grabs one of the metal ingots lined up on a stone-scooped shelf. With barely an eye twitch of concentration, the block of steel stretches into the rough shape of a broadsword. Aran lifts it to the air and says, “Too much stress all at once and-” with a single strike at the wall, the sword shatters into a million little pieces.

Atsumu throws an arm up to shield his eyes against catching a stray piece of metal. When the hailstorm settles, he frowns at the mess on the floor. “That sucks.”

Aran shakes his head with a chuckle. “The strength of the blade is all in the process. Ya can’t just skip to the end result.” He waves a hand over the ground, summoning all of the metal bits back into a neat, little rectangle. He floats it through the air to hover over the forge before dropping it straight in the glowing bed of coals.

Atsumu watches the coals shift as the metal sinks deeper to their smoldering clutches.

“How long does it take?” he asks, trying and failing to imagine the plain hunk of steel ever becoming anything else.

Aran shrugs, blasting another round of air that spikes the coals bright red. “As long as it takes.”

Atsumu groans. Seeing as it’s going to be a while, he lays his jacket over the stone bench protruding from the wall and takes a seat. Aran takes the spot next to him and they sit there for at least ten minutes, silently watching the metal shift from gray to red to orange, until it’s up to a blazing gold.

Aran grabs the molten iron with a long pair of tongs and sets it on the anvil.

“The process is called thermocycling,” he says, whacking the iron with a hard swing of his hammer. “Stress and heat strengthens the metal, but ya can only work a little bit at a time.”

He continues to swing. The thunk, thunk, thunk reverberates around the cave and deep into Atsumu’s bones. After several minutes of swinging, the metal has barely changed. A little flatter, a little longer, but it’s a hardly noticeable difference before it’s tossed back into the fire.

“Sounds borin’.” Atsumu gets up to pull an unsharpened katana from the weapons barrel in the corner, twisting it in the air.

“Hard work can be borin’.” Aran lifts a hand up, and the blunted sword rips from Atsumu’s hands before floating gently back into the barrel. “But it’s still worth it. Some things you can’t rush, no matter how much you’d like to.”

Atsumu sighs, resting his weight back on one of the empty anvils. “So yer sayin’ I can’t do all my healin’ at once? It takes time?”

Aran smiles softly, fanning more air into the forge. “I’m just talkin’ ‘bout bladesmithin’.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Sure ya are.”

He thinks back to his conversations on the flight over–talking about his past was surprisingly cathartic, but whenever he tries to picture his future, his brain simply rejects it. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t see the shape it’s meant to take. All he sees is an ugly lump of gray.

Atsumu pushes a shaky breath from his lips. “I don’t know how I’m supposed ta live without him, Aran.”

Aran pulls the pulsing gold lump from the fire and sets it on his anvil. He holds out gloves and a hammer. “Yer already doin’ it. Just keep hammerin’ away. A little bit at a time.”

Atsumu reluctantly takes the offerings, and taps the hammer on the glowing hunk of metal.

Aran laughs at him, resecuring his grip with the tongs. “Ya can swing harder than that.”

Atsumu humphs. He hits it again. And again. Harder and harder.

He takes a wide swing for each bitter regret. Slams the hammer down for every letter he never responded to. A resounding pound for every awful last word his brother heard from his mouth.

When he’s done, Atsumu is panting and the abused iron lump is back to its dull, lifeless gray.

“Good,” Aran says with a smile, pinching the tongs to toss it back in the fire.

“Yeah?” Atsumu hands back the hammer, wiping his brow and sitting back on his spare anvil.

“Yeah.”

They wait again. The steel heats back to gold and Aran takes a turn with it.

The hammer clangs. The metal flattens and stretches before cooling back to orange, red and gray. Then it’s tossed back in the fire and the process starts all over again.

It’s kind of soothing. Kind of boring too, if Atsumu’s being honest.

But the longer they go, the more the sword takes shape, and it’s actually kind of amazing to watch it happen. Somehow along the way, the broken lump of metal starts to resemble something close to an actual weapon.

Aran gives Atsumu a few more turns between his own. Atsumu thinks he’s getting the hang of it, but he’s also pretty sure that Aran uses his signet to undo it all whenever Atsumu turns his back.

It’s hours before Aran calls it.

The blade has been stretched to its final length, something between a wakizashi and a tachi, with a gentle sloped curve and a bare metal stick where the handle ought to be. Aran heats it up one last time, then dunks the blade into a tall barrel of oil. It hisses, releasing a puff of steam into the ceiling. After a few seconds of being submerged, Aran pulls it free, and the metal explodes into a giant fireball. Aran doesn’t even flinch as the fire engulfs his gloved hand, just holds the blade away from his face and waits. Once the flames die away, he wipes it clean with a black rag, and inspects it from all angles, frowning at the slight twist that’s appeared near the base after quenching. He passes a hand over it and the metal flattens back to perfection.

Atsumu gawks. “What happened ta not usin’ yer signet?”

“I mean…” Aran gives him a sheepish smile, “a little magic can’t hurt.”

Atsumu laughs. Aran laughs too, and it feels so nice just to laugh with an old friend. Someone who cares.

With the blade magically straightened, Aran hands it out for Atsumu to see.

Atsumu gives it a swing, and his hopes are dashed like waves on the rocks. It’s awkward and heavy and the “handle” bites into his palm something fierce. After hours of back breaking work, it’s nothing but an ugly hunk of metal covered in hammer pocks and thick layers of crinkling soot.

“Aran,” he says carefully, “this sword looks like shit.”

Aran takes it back. “Cuz it ain’t done yet.” He hangs it on a rack by the handle. It lies next to several other blades in various states of completion–each infinitely more impressive than the one who had the misfortune of Atsumu’s hands on it.

Aran wipes his brow and says, “I still need ta take it to the grindstone and work up a real handle, but I’ll make sure to finish before ya leave.”

Atsumu crosses to the weapons rack and runs his finger down the edge of a particularly striking odachi with a swirling black pattern etched down the length of the blade. It’s longer than what he likes to fight with, but gods, is it sexy. “Ya mean throw it’s sorry ass in the ocean and make me a new one?”

Aran smacks his hands away before he can pick the pretty sword up.

“No, no, no.” He points to their sorry sack of steel and says, “Yer gettin’ that one. It might not look like much right now, but you’ll see. It’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Despite the sorry state of his future weapon, Atsumu feels a reluctant smile creep to his face. 

He hands back his soot-stained gloves and says, “Thanks, Aran.” His voice drops as the leather passes between them. “For the sword.”

Aran hangs up their gloves and bumps into Atsumu’s shoulder. “I’ll always be here for ya.” His voice lowers too. “Ya know. To make swords.”

— ⚡︎ —

The next few days feel impossibly light.

The field training is supposed to be a hardcore introduction to life as a rider, but instead it feels suspiciously close to a vacation.

There’s just something about Montserrat. It’s ancient and alive. Like the gods mixed a pinch of magic into the sea and it sprays into the air with each crash of waves on the cliffsides.

Atsumu sleeps better than he has in months, the ocean’s soothing swell lulling him to bed, like a mother shushing him to sleep. 

Unlike Basgiath, the outpost has a real, paid kitchen staff, not just apathetic cadets forced into kitchen duty. It’s amazing how much some decent food has revitalized Atsumu’s appetite–he probably makes up for a month’s worth of calories in the first three days.

Aran had volunteered to babysit the cadets for the week, so Atsumu gets to spend more time with his pseudo-brother than he has in literal years. Each day Aran leads them through chores, flight patrols, battle scenarios and weapons training with a delicious abundance of down time tucked between tasks.

They take to the top of the eastern watchtower each evening, in the serene space of time between dinner and sunset. There’s an open-air fighting ring on the roof and an overly impressive amount of practice weapons lining the four foot castle walls. Since Aran is an expert on damn near every weapon that exists, it quickly becomes everyone’s favorite part of the day.

“Try using smaller bouts of magic to enhance your combat,” Aran explains as he lunges at a training dummy, his sword extending just the few inches needed to stab through its stuffing. He steps back, pulling his sword to its original length, and leaving a gaping wound in the stomach of his cotton victim.

“Not everythin’ needs to be a big, flashy move,” he explains. “The more ya can conserve yer magic, the better. You’ll be surprised how fast you can drain it during battle.”

Aran has yet to spar anyone in earnest, much less swordfight Atsumu man-to-man, but he’ll step in to correct forms or offer personalized advice based on everyone’s signets and fighting styles. It’s already more than they’ve learned at Basgiath, and Ukai is going to flip his shit when their squad returns as a sharp stack of well-forged weapons.

Kita takes the sword from Aran and stacks it back along the racks. The arsenal of practice weapons lines the entirety of two tower walls, rivaling the variety of weapons they have at the pit. There must be a real arsenal somewhere else in the outpost, but all they get access to is the non-lethal stuff. But the blunted steel still bruises like a bitch in the hands of a decent opponent, so it’s enough motivation to not get hit.

Aran claps his hand and asks, “So, who’s up next?”

Bokuto and Ryunosuke step into the ring, both brandishing enormous greatswords in slightly different styles. The moment Aran declares the match to start, Bokuto summons Ryunosuke’s sword from his hands. Rather than fully taking the weapon for himself, he summons it just far enough to disarm. But Ryunosuke bursts into laughter as the sword drops to the ground and the handle thumps over Bokuto’s shoe.

“Son of a bitch!” Bokuto shouts, yanking his foot back to cradle it in his hands. The sword drops to the stone with a resounding thud–the weight clearly changed to be at least ten times its normal amount. Bokuto curses and kicks the sword on the floor, but it doesn’t move a centimeter and he’s right back to cradling his toes and hopping out of the ring on one leg.

“I could do this all day,” Ryunosuke says with a grin, releasing his magic to scoop his blade back up. “Come on, who’s getting their ass whooped next?”

Atsumu doesn’t have magic to enhance his attacks, so he contents himself with sitting on the sidelines, perched on the half-wall surrounding the tower. The ocean breeze tickles his hair as his eyes flit between his squad’s practice and the heavy silver watch ticking in his palm.

The only dark spot in his otherwise perfect week is that godsdamn watch. Even with the pressures of Basgiath off his back, his magic hasn’t miraculously started working.

With each unstoppable tick, his father’s words needle into his mind.

‘Given your temperament and your dragon’s size, I would’ve expected more of a powerhouse signet from you.’

Maybe Atsumu got the wrong signet after all. Clearly the magic doesn’t agree with him. Everyone else acts like their magic is second nature, so much so that they can’t even explain how to channel it. If Atsumu’s signet was something more destructive, would it come easier to him?

His mother had always called him a force of nature. Unpredictable and unstoppable. And yet, he’s been given magic that requires finesse over force. How could he ever hope to master it?

And what will happen if he doesn’t?

Even though he can’t channel his magic, it’s always there, tickling at the tips of his fingers. He can feel the warmth of power swirling through his veins, looking for a way out. That constant, simmering heat gnaws at his nerves, reminding him that dragon magic can be as deadly to its wielders as it is to their enemies.

Atsumu clenches the thrum in his hands and brings his attention to Suna stepping up to the ring with a shortsword and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You aren’t getting your hands on me this time, chump!” Ryunosuke declares, taking a long step back and pointing the tip of his sword at the dip of Suna’s neck.

“That’s not what you said last night, Ryu-Ryu,” Suna coos, blowing him an air kiss over the length of the blade before knocking it away with his own steel.

He lunges at Rysunosuke with his free hand. Ryunosuke jumps away, like he knew what was coming. He shouts, “Back, demon!” and waves his sword in front of his body like an impenetrable fan blade.

Atsumu watches intently as they fight, hoping to see a glimpse of Suna’s mysterious signet. Whatever it is, it must have something to do with touch. Suna barely bothers with his sword, using it to parry while continually reaching for Ryunosuke’s flailing limbs. Ryunosuke fights him off like a damn tiger, jumping back and forth and swiping in a flurry of steel to ward off Suna’s grasp. He finally gets a solid whack on Suna’s knuckles which is enough to get Suna to yield.

Suna gracefully accepts defeat and goes to sit back in his favorite corner, pulling a little stump of wood from his pocket. He carves at with his dagger, adding to whatever sculpture has been consuming his free time all week.

“Two for two!” Ryunosuke shouts, punching into the air. Kita and Aran give him a small round of applause and Saeko hops into the ring to face her brother next.

Kita and Aran whisper to each other as they watch the fight, laughing at some secret, silent joke between them. Kita had been having almost as rough of a time as Atsumu the past few weeks, both caught in a dark storm of lies and secrets. Not to mention the fact that Varrish had been stealing all of Kita’s free time, and whatever secret shit they’re up to has clearly been taking its toll. But being away from Basgiath, and having Aran’s warm personality to help chip away the tension, has Kita’s small, easy smiles coming back in force. 

It’s been awesome beyond belief all being together again. They’ve managed to carve a little time out each evening for just the three of them, and it almost feels like old times. Even with the glaringly empty seat at the table.

“Any more luck with your signet, Atsumu?” Hinata asks, coming to hop on the rock wall next to him, perched like a bird with no concern for heights. Or the big pointy rocks at the bottom of the tower.

“Nope,” Atsumu sighs, pocketing his watch and shuffling to make room. “You?”

“No,” Hinata sighs, dropping down to his butt. His hand comes to rub at his temple, the bright red dragon relic biting his knuckle.

“Ya still worried about burnout?” Atsumu asks.

“Yeah,” Hinata admits quietly, heels bouncing back against the stone. “But I’m choosing to stay positive,” he huffs a laugh, “or else I’ll go insane.”

Atsumu offers up a pinky in the air. “I promise not to explode if you don’t.”

Hinata grins, taking Atsumu’s finger with his own, his dragon relic nodding along as they shake their hands to seal the deal.

“No exploding,” he promises.

Atsumu drops his cheek onto Hinata’s head, wrapping his arms around Hinata’s shoulders as they watch Saeko and Ryunosuke try to rip each other’s arms off.

“You’ll get it soon,” Hinata says, sounding far more sure than he should.

The unwavering confidence fills Atsumu’s chest with warmth.

“You too,” Atsumu says back. “Real soon.”

Kita comes up to them, offering a set of practice sai daggers to Hinata, knowing that he’s started to favor them.

“You can use minor magics for combat too, ya know,” Kita says with a smile.

Hinata perks up at that.

Atsumu doesn’t. He’s just as miserable when it comes to minor magics as he is with his signet. Like his entire magic supply is blocked up, for gods know why.

Hinata hops off the wall and follows Kita to the edge of the tower where the training dummies stand guard.

Atsumu had never really thought about it before, but fighting must be a bitch when you’ve only got an intelligence signet to rely on. But he’s never seen Kita hold back in combat. The guy must work twice as hard on minor magic and physical strength to make up for it.

Atsumu watches in awe as Kita walks Hinata through one of the minor spells, slicing at the training dummy with a burst of speed that shouldn’t be humanly possible. Hinata repeats the move, morphing into an orange blur before stabbing the dummy a millisecond later.

At least if Atsumu could do some cool shit like that, he might not feel like such a loser.

“Ya think I’m just broken?” he asks Tairn.

“No,” Tairn replies curtly.

Atsumu holds his breath for more, but apparently he’s run his quota of pity-filled pep talks for the year. He slumps forward to rest his chin in his hand. The weight of the watch bumps his thigh through his jacket pocket.

“You’ll get it in time,” Tairn eventually adds, but there’s a hesitation to the words that sinks like a pit in Atsumu’s gut.

Atsumu shudders as the heat of power flares under his skin. “Doesn’t help when there’s a bomb ticking in the back of my head.”

Gods, the magic feels so strong. If he could just fucking reach it . He would be able to stop an attack the moment before it hits. He could disarm an enemy within a blink of their eyes.

His fists clench and he shoves his worry to the back of his mind, where it lives alongside the growing supply of unutilized power.

Desperate for a distraction, he hops off the wall and struts into the ring where Ryunosuke is completing his third victory dance of the evening.

“I’ll take ya on,” Atsumu says.

“You dare to challenge the master?” Ryunosuke cocks a brow, slinging his sword up over his shoulder while Saeko and her righteous fury limp out of the ring. “Without magic?”

“Don’t need it,” Atsumu grins, plucking a simple katana from the racks.

“Since when do ya use yer left?” Aran asks him as Atsumu adjusts his grip.

“Long story,” Atsumu says, giving the blade a quick spin around his wrist. “I want to be able ta use both.”

Something sparks in Aran’s eyes, but he doesn’t comment further.

Atsumu steadies his breath as he stares down the haughty smirk of his squadmate standing opposite the ring. One that thinks the battle is already won.

But if Kita doesn’t let his lack of a combat signet keep him from being a badass, why should Atsumu?

Aran barks, “Start!” and the spar begins with a wide swing from Ryunosuke. 

Atsumu springs into action, blocking with his sword without missing a beat.

He switches hands seamlessly as he fights off each attack that cuts his way. Every so often the swings will bear down with the extra weight from Ryunosuke’s signet, but Atsumu quickly learns to move with the attacks, falling in line with the sword’s momentum while shifting out of its path. The heavy attacks become easy to read too, Ryunosuke rearing back a little further to compensate for the extra weight. Atsumu is able to dodge all of the weighted swings, while getting a few awkward swipes in whenever Ryunosuke releases his magic.

The next time Ryunosuke lifts the sword back, Atsumu braces for another heavy attack. This time, Atsumu dodges early, slamming the steel with his own and sending the blade flying into the castle wall.

They both catch their breath as they stare at the sword cleaving straight through the 12 inch-thick stone.

The match is paused as they all take turns trying to pull the sword from the stone like knights in a storybook. But the sucker is planted all the way to the hilt and not budging an inch. Eventually Aran steps in to manipulate the metal into crushing in on itself, and Bokuto summons it out the rest of the way.

“Someone remind me to get that patched,” Aran grumbles, running a hand down the broken stone with a tsk.

“Sorry,” Atsumu and Ryunosuke say in unison, wincing at the giant hole and the long, winding crack splitting down the wall.

Aran shrugs it off, mumbling about taking the sword to the workshop and ordering them to tidy up for the night.

Nothing was officially called, but for Atsumu, sending that sword out of Ryunosuke’s hands felt like victory enough. He may not have control of his magic, but he’s far from helpless. The thought sticks with him, and he smiles through all of the cleaning.

— ⚡︎ —

By the next morning’s patrol flight, Atsumu is starting to see a glimmer of hope for his life beyond Basgiath. If he gets stationed at Montserrat with Aran, or any of his other friends, he might not even end up hating his life after all.

Even flying is fun here. Atsumu finally feels a taste of the freedom that Osamu talked about in his letters.

‘Flying is the most free I’ve ever felt.’

The words sing in his soul as he soars over the shimmering blue water. Normally, a fall from this height could kill him. But the soft embrace of the ocean waits below, eating away the rest of his fear.

But miraculously, he doesn’t fall. Not even once. He handles Tairn’s swoops and rolls like a seasoned rider, finally feeling confident enough to keep his seat the full length of the flight.

Tairn dips them down to skim the surface of the ocean and catch some of the cool, salty spray on their skin and scales.

“I like it here,” Andarna says from Tairn’s side. She spins across the water, rolling belly side up and splitting the surface with her tail. Her scales shimmer alongside the sun’s reflection in the water and Atsumu can almost hear her laughing through the bond.

He smiles wide, wiping away the water on his goggles and the beads of condensation on Tairn’s scales. “Me too.”

“Something about it feels…familiar,” Andarna says, piquing Atsumu’s interest.

“Have ya been here before?”

“No,” she sighs, flipping to her side and dipping a wing tip in the water. “I’ve never flown this far from the Vale before. I’ve always been curious though.”

“Ya think yer kind came from around here somewhere?”

“We have tried looking in the past,” Tairn says, bringing his speed down to soak in the final leg of the flight, and give the other dragons a chance to catch up. “If there are any left of her kind, they are either very well hidden or very far away.”

“They might not be here exactly,” Andarna says, “but I could see my clan in a place like this. Somewhere on the water. Somewhere warm.”

Atsumu smiles at his little gold dragon, soaking in the salt and sun like it’s where she belongs. “When we finally convince Tairn to run away, we can go and look. Fly all the way across the ocean till we find ‘em. It will be our own little adventure.”

“We’ve a war to deal with before then,” Tairn tsks. “But if there ever comes a time of peace…an adventure sounds quite nice.”

Atsumu grins. “We’ll have ya sippin’ rum by the beach in no time, old man.”

Tairn humphs, but a pleasant ting of longing flows through the bond.

Just as the outpost crests the horizon, a flash of glittering navy steaks against the pale blue sky. A dragon returning from somewhere-or-other.

“Oh!” Andarna pips. “ And Sgaeyl can come too!”

Atsumu feels a twinge of annoyance cutting through his perfect mood. He knows that Andarna is as close to Sgaeyl as she is to Tairn, but he has never truly accepted the daggertail as a permanent fixture in his future. Not to mention, the human she’s bonded to.

“Only if she leaves her rider behind,” he concedes.

Tairn snorts. “Sgaeyl is no more likely to leave her rider than we are to leave you Gold One, best to start making peace with him.”

Atsumu humphs. He’s positive that half his good mood is the distance between himself and the human jumble of complications that is Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“Quit ruinin’ my daydreams,” Atsumu tuts. “They’re a Sakusa free-zone, thank ya very much.”

He sighs, wishing he could reach down and dip a hand into the water. But Tairn would have to spin them and Atsumu is not about to end his flight with a freezing cold dunk the ocean. “If the war has another hundred years left in it, then it’s all just dreamin’ anyway.”

“But if it doesn’t last that long,” Andarna says, “what should we do?”

Atsumu thinks on it. “I’ve always wanted to see the isles. Each one’s got their own cultures, customs, and foods. I meant to travel out there last year, but never even made it to the coastline. I’m still in need of a decent adventure.”

“Adventures are best when shared anyway,” Andarna says.

“Then we’ll go together. You and me, Goldie. And Tairn if he ever gets the giant stick out of his—“

Tairn growls.

Andarna laughs. “Do you promise?”

“Promise.”

Atsumu finishes his flight with aching muscles, having to slide down Tairn’s leg like water. It was only an hour out and an hour back, but for some reason, he’s far more sore than he should be. His body feels like it did after the eight hour flight, only a million times worse. He lies flat on the ground and stretches his limbs as the rest of the riot doubles back around the mountain. He still can’t lift himself up by the time they land on the outcrop.

“Ya good, Tsumu?” Aran asks him, hopping to the ground just a few seconds behind, while his red daggertail immediately takes back off towards the little dragon-only island.

Atsumu’s about to answer when the pain in his joints shut off like a faucet.

Huh.

“Guess I am,” he muses, rolling his shoulders to a miraculous lack of stiffness.

“We almost caught up with you today!” Bokuto shouts to Atsumu as he slides off his dragon and skids to a stop. He turns up to Tairn and says, “You’re getting soft, big guy.”

Tairn growls at him, but it lacks any real threat. Atsumu swears he feels a twinge of amusement running down the bond and he stifles a chuckle of his own. His big, scary dragon is far softer than he’d ever admit.

“I think Tairn misses his mate,” Atsumu coos up at him. He grabs the edge of Tairn’s wing and drapes it over his head. “His wings are all droopy from lovesickness.”

Tairn huffs, before flicking Atsumu to the ground and flying back to dragon island.

“How long can mated dragons be apart anyway?” Hinata asks, slipping down Sliseag’s leg and giving him a little pat on the foot.

Andarna flies over to scoop Atsumu up with her snout. He’s halfway to his feet when a deep, smoky voice unfurls past his shoulders.

“Apparently, the limit is about three days.”

A shiver rolls up Atsumu’s spine as an ominous wave of darkness spills over the ground.

He turns to see Sakusa walking up in all his scowling glory, and suddenly the light, happy feeling of Montserrat is eclipsed by shadow.

Atsumu strokes down Andarna’s neck with an internal sigh. “There goes our vacation.”

— ⚡︎ —

As suddenly as Sakusa appears, he vanishes again, reporting to Major Quade and then disappearing for most of the day. Atsumu happily goes back to pretending that Sakusa hasn’t flown into Monterserrat with the sole purpose of ruining it.

After dinner, the squad waits atop the turret tower for Aran to join them for combat lessons. Despite Sakusa’s shadows now staining the outpost, the day is uncharacteristically warm for this late in the season, and they all sprawl out to soak it up.

They sunbathe on the rocky ground like a pack of lizards, all in various states of undress. Jackets folded into pillows. Shirts dangling over the castle wall. Shoes tossed into a corner. Even Bokuto’s pants are hiked all the way up to the crease of his thighs so “his dragon mark has a chance to breathe.”

The sun burns down in the very best way and Atsumu is a few blissful seconds from falling asleep when something cold and hard thumps into his bare chest.

“Alright, cadet.” Aran says, dropping a practice sword into Atsumu’s arms. “Time to put your metal where yer mouth is.”

Atsumu jolts up, cradling the blade with a grin. “Really? Yer gonna fight me?”

Aran pokes a finger between Atsumu’s brows. “No cryin’.”

“As if,” Atsumu scoffs, setting the sword to his side. Anticipation buzzes through his veins as he scrambles to free his shoes from the pile.

He loves fighting against Aran. The man is a godsdamn monster with a blade, and it gets Atsumu’s blood pumping like crazy trying to keep up. Fighting with Osamu or Kita was always a good time because they were all evenly matched and it was a toss up over who would win on any given day. But fighting with Aran was always a blow out loss for any of them, and that’s exactly what makes it so addicting.

Aran grins, cracking his knuckles one by one. “If ya lose, ya have to clean the ring up all by yerself.”

“And if I win?” Atsumu asks, tightening his laces. Not that it’s ever happened before, but he’ll die before he ever stops trying.

Aran just laughs, which, rude. He sheds his jacket so he’s down to just a fitted black tank top, displaying the fierce red daggertail curling around the enormity of his bicep. Atsumu is momentarily distracted by the bulging muscles under Aran’s dragon relic, before he notices something slashing through it.

He gasps at the four long scars starting at Aran’s relic and curving all the way down his wrist. “When the hells did that happen?”

“Oh this?” Aran casually looks down at his arm, like it’s not a miracle he still has one. “‘Bout a week after I was stationed. Ran into a pod of gryphons while we were out on patrol. One of the feathery bastards swiped me good.”

“Was that the encounter by the Barrens?” Kita asks, stepping in to take Aran’s jacket for him.

Aran nods. “Weird fuckin’ day. We don’t usually fly that far South, but Quade had a hunch. Damn lucky we did, the fliers were barreling towards the wardline like bats outta hell.”

“That skirmish always bothered me,” Kita mumbles. “It’s so far out for an ambush.”

“I don’t even know if I could call it an ambush,” Aran says thoughtfully. “It seemed more like we were the ones who caught them off guard. Poromiel’s raids are usually organized to a T, but that fight was just a storm of feathered chaos. Came and went before we could even catch our breath.”

Aran’s eyes meet the horizon, distant memories marring his brow. “It didn't even feel like they were mobilizin’. More like they were runnin’.”

“Runnin’?” Kita asks. “From what?”

Aran shrugs. “Nothin’s out that far. I’ve flown over the Barrens a handful of times since then and haven’t seen a lick of life.”

The fight would’ve been near the beginning of the school year, but Atsumu doesn’t remember anything about it from Battle Brief. Then again, he spent most of that time dreaming up ways to kill Sakusa rather than actually paying attention.

Atsumu traces Aran’s arm with a frown. Judging by the bulging ropes of scar tissue, the cuts must have been deep.

Aran’s eyes appraise him gently. “Scars happen, Tsumu. I’m all right.”

Sure scars happen, but never to Aran. With his Uncle being a mender, all of his injuries were patched up like new. The magic doesn’t just heal the way you’d expect, it restores things to their original condition, perfect skin included. Even Atsumu and Osamu have hardly any proof of the pain they’ve endured throughout their lives.

They aren’t kids playing war anymore. With practice blades, invisible scars and instantly mended bones. 

Suddenly, everything feels a bit too real.

Atsumu swallows, fingers running back up the scars to where they meet the feet of Aran’s relic–the proud crimson daggertail adorning his skin.

Aran places his own hand over Atsumu’s. “I don’t regret a single thing about that fight, Tsumu. We stopped the attack before it could even start. Who knows how many people we saved that day. I think a small scar is a fair price, don’t ya?”

“That’s not a small scar.”

Aran squeezes Atsumu’s hand. “It is.”

The ground turns black as footsteps climb the tower stairs, a slow spill of shadows preceding their wielder. Sakusa’s eyes flash when they land on Atsumu, caught in the space where his hands are curling over Aran’s arm. 

Atsumu's stomach drops and he lets go, heat building in his cheeks. Something sour sits in his gut under the weight of Sakusa’s scrutiny.

Weird. It’s not like he was doing anything wrong, and it’s not like he cares what Sakusa thinks even if he were. He shakes off the feeling and reclaims his practice weapon from off the wall.

Everyone takes a seat circling the ring, eager to watch the fight.

Sakusa watches from the single small spot of shade, leaning casually against the wall. He’s missing his jacket, wearing a tight, sleeveless black shirt that cuts deep below his shoulders to tease the navy wingtips over his back. He runs a hand through his mess of curls, pushing them back from his forehead. Even in the heat, he’s still wearing those stupid fucking gloves.

Aran steps opposite Atsumu in the ring, having chosen a blade of similar size and weight.

“Ready to lose again?” he asks with a grin.

“Oh, you are so fuckin’ on.” 

Kita calls them to start and Atsumu instantly lunges to try and catch Aran off guard. He doesn’t, obviously, and he’s forced back to his edge of the ring in under three moves. The final blow catches his upper arm, sending a zip of pain to his shoulder.

That’s definitely going to bruise.

Atsumu grits his teeth and switches sword arms while the pain wears off. Aran has to adjust his stance to match Atsumu’s new form fighting leftie. It’s still not as strong as his right, but it’s damn near close and Aran’s smile says he might even be a little bit impressed.

Aran fights with uncanny intuition, reading and blocking Atsumu’s moves before he can even think them through.

They give and take for a while, okay Atsumu mostly takes, but he gets one good kick to Aran’s ribs that leaves him feeling like he might not lose quite as horribly as usual.

Despite fighting for his life just to keep up, Atsumu’s eyes snag on pale skin and black curls at the edge of his periphery. Sakusa has moved to the ground beside Suna, bending over his mile-long legs and pushing down his toes to stretch them out. His rebellion relic swirls down his toned arm, looking striking against the severe paleness of his skin.

Atsumu doesn’t usually get to see this much of Sakusa’s physique on display, and he’s man enough to admit that it’s a hell of a distraction.

He tries circling Aran to switch sides and get Sakusa’s damn stretch routine out of his field of vision. But Aran refuses to yield his position, and Atsumu is forced back to the same side again and again.

It takes all his concentration to keep his eyes on the fight, and off Sakusa’s long, twisty body in that tight fucking shirt. Gods.

He does a pretty good job of ignoring it, mostly, until he catches a glimpse of Sakusa bending his hand all the way back to his forearm.

Atsumu yelps as steel flies at his face. Aran has to bend the end of his own sword back before it takes Atsumu’s eye out.

Atsumu falls back a step, hand pressed to his wildly thumping heart.

“Ya good?” Aran asks him, pausing to lower his blade and magically straighten it back out.

“Yeah, sorry.” While Atsumu catches his breath, he finds Sakusa smirking like he did that on purpose.

Atsumu looks away, determined to pull it together for the rest of the round. He blocks out everything around him– especially Sakusa and all his freakish bendyness.

He flies back at Aran with all he’s got, which isn’t nearly enough. Aran isn’t even using his signet, but he seems to be in total control of both of their blades, directing the flow of each strike like he’s conducting a symphony. Aran’s attacks are as precise as they are ruthless, and Atsumu loses himself in the thrill of it, senses heightening to dodge and counter each purposeful swing.

But his focus falters again when a breeze carries the scent of jasmine over and his eyes betray him by following it back to the source. Sakusa is sitting on his heels now, stretching his arms up over his head. The hem of his shirt rides up to flash a rare slice of skin and a hint of toned stomach.

A memory invades Atsumu’s mind. Sakusa on his knees with Atsumu perched on a copper bathtub. Bare hands tracing fire over his skin. Soft concern swirling in dark eyes.

He’s shocked back to the present, hands jolting with the clash of metal on metal. Atsumu’s sword goes flying from his grip and a boot quickly follows to kick him to the ground.

Atsumu blinks, stunned at his position on the floor and his weapon at the far end of the ring. When the hell did that happen?

“I’ll take that as another win,” Aran says, offering a hand up.

Atsumu takes it, dusting the dirt from his pants and ignoring Sakusa’s smarmy little chuckle.

“Guess I’m rustier than I thought,” he mumbles, hoping his flush reads as exertion, despite the fight being over so quickly.

“Ya keep on tellin’ yerself that.” Aran smirks, trading Atsumu’s sword out for a broom. “Don’t forget to polish all of the blades too.”

Atsumu looks at the endless racks of practice weapons and groans. He resists the urge to scowl at Sakusa even though losing was all his fault.

Seeing as it’s a punishment for losing, Aran doesn’t let anyone else help, and Atsumu is abandoned to his task for the evening. It’s not long before the sun dips below the waves, casting the sky in bright orange fire before snuffing out to peaceful darkness.

The heat dies with the sun, and Atsumu slips back into his shirt and jacket to finish cleaning in the light of the moon. It’s quiet, rhythmic work that sets his mood at ease despite the epic loss. Not that he expected to actually beat Aran in a swordfight, but he should have lasted more than two fucking minutes. Maybe if he begs hard enough, Aran will give him a chance at redemption before they leave. He practices lines in his head as he starts sweeping the ring.

Just as he’s hitting his stride, his rhythm’s interrupted by a sudden sound cracking through the night. 

Sakusa slinks out of the shadows, clapping his black, leather gloves together in mock applause. “Nice hustle out there, Assassin.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. Apparently the stupid nickname is still around.

“Easy to judge from the sidelines,” he says, sweeping dirt and pebbles into a pile. “Scared to fight yourself?”

“With those things?” Sakusa scoffs at the banged up pile of practice swords still waiting to be polished. “Not likely.”

Atsumu hums. He’s only ever seen the guy use daggers and shadows before. Maybe Sakusa sucks at sword fighting.

Wouldn’t that be something?

Atsumu sweeps up the pile and tosses it off the side of the tower wall. He purses his lips and bats his eyelashes at Sakusa. “Sure sounds scared ta me.”

Sakusa’s lips twitch. “Maybe I just like to watch.”

“Watch me clean?” Atsumu asks, changing course so his next sweep kicks a pile of dust towards Sakusa’s feet. “Real kinky.”

“Watch you get your ass kicked.” Sakusa sidesteps the broom and hops up to sit on the castle wall before Atsumu has a chance to dirty his boots. “It seems to happen a troubling amount.”

Atsumu bristles at that. He’s been sword fighting since he could walk, he’s damn good at it. Aran is one of the only people who’s ever managed to beat him. And they guy breathes swordsmanship.

It’s Sakusa’s fault for distracting him anyway. Not that Atsumu would ever admit that.

Instead, he says, “Aran got lucky.”

Sakusa’s shadows push along a few missed pebbles, tossing them over the wall and into the ocean.

“So everyone who fights you just gets lucky?” Sakusa asks. “Wouldn’t that make you unlucky?”

Atsumu snorts, watching the shadows finish clearing the floor for him. That does actually explain the majority of his lot in life. “Can’t say Zinhal is a big fan of mine.”

“Why not make your own luck?”

Atsumu raises a brow at him. “Like…pray?”

Sakusa rolls his pretty black eyes. “Use your magic.”

Atsumu’s shoulders hike. He turns to place the broom back in the rack and softly admits, “I don’t actually know how.”

When he looks back, a sharp, little line is carved between Sakusa’s brows. “You haven’t used it since the attack?”

“Sorry ta disappoint.”

“It’s your best defense,” Sakusa says plainly. “And I happen to have a vested interest in your continued breathing.”

“Well, apparently I’m shit at magic, so.”

Sakusa frowns. “Overstored magic is dangerous.”

Atsumu’s hand jumps to the back of his neck, the heat beneath his skin echoing the warning.

“Thanks fer the fuckin’ reminder. Not like I’ve been freakin’ out or anythin’.” He blows out a deep breath. “It’s supposed to be easy, isn’t it?”

Sakusa thinks for a moment. “Maybe not easy. Not at first. But it should feel…natural. I like to think that everyone is born with their own unique magic–that our dragons’ power is just what wakes it up.”

Atsumu rubs a thumb over the silver watch in his pocket. “My father thought my signet would be something more destructive. Said it’d match my temperament or somethin’.”

“I could see that,” Sakusa says with the ghost of a laugh. “You’re certainly…explosive.”

Atsumu gives him a wry look before blowing a breath up towards the stars. “I kinda wonder why it wasn’t.”

“Sometimes magic is an extension of the rider,” Sakusa says, curling a swirl of shadows around the palm of his gloved hand with effortless grace. “Sometimes it gives them something they’re missing.”

Huh. All Atsumu could ever wish for was more time. More time with his brother. More time with his mother. He could turn back the clock and stop himself from crossing the parapet. From chaining himself to a life of servitude in pursuit of a lie.

Go back even further and stop Osamu from leaving.

But even if he mastered his signet, there’s no way magic could turn the clock back that far.

Could it?

He cuts the line of thought before it gets too wistful. It’s hard to see what good his magic could do, when his only memory of it is drenched in blood. When the last time he used it, he became everything his father wanted him to be.

“He was proud of me,” Atsumu blurts. “After the attack. The first time my father has ever been proud of me and it was because I took someone’s life.”

Sakusa goes quiet, gaze trapped in the night sky.

Ah, fuck.

Shame burns through Atsumu’s blood. Sakusa is the last person on earth who would want to hear Atsumu whine about his daddy issues. Given what his father has done to Sakusa’s, the bitter history between their families, it’s a topic that’s firmly on the no-fly list.

Atsumu stammers something like an apology and turns to hide his face in the storage closet. He reaches for a rag and polish, aiming to half-ass his way through the weapons pile so he can get the fuck out of there.

Sakusa follows, stopping close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. He plucks a sword from the pile and pulls out a neat black cloth from his jacket pocket. He works at Atsumu’s side, slow and methodical, buffing the blade until it gleams perfectly in the moonlight.

“You don’t have to stop,” Sakusa says softly, returning the blade to its proper spot and freeing another one from the pile. “Just…pretend I’m someone else.”

Atsumu’s hands still and he turns to look at Sakusa. Really look at him. Not as the son of the rebellion leader. Not as the person he’s magically linked to, or the person his father wants him to kill. But as someone who might understand. Or at least one who’s willing to listen.

In some twisted, fucked up way, Atsumu wouldn’t want him to be anyone else.

A wisp of shadow comes to nudge Atsumu’s side, and he doesn’t push it away. His eyes drop back to his work, hands finally ceasing in their rush. He follows Sakusa’s speed, rubbing the steel in slow, deliberate circles. With a deep exhale, he voices the fear in the depth of his heart.

“I keep wonderin’ if the reason I’m not figurin’ out my magic is because I don’t want to. I know that my father will just twist it into somethin’ awful. Twist me into somethin’ awful.”

His father is no doubt thinking up all of the ways to use Atsumu’s magic for evil. Like how he turned Nolon’s beautiful gift of mending into an instrument of torture, forcing his children to break themselves again and again be mended like none of it happened. If there’s any mercy to Osamu’s fate, it was that he wasn’t forced to use his signet that same way.

“Your magic has nothing to do with your father,” Sakusa says. “It’s yours. You can use how you want.”

The words are plain and simple, like things really are that easy. 

“He always ends up getting what he wants.” Atsumu trails off, pulling at the hem of his rider jacket before returning the neatly polished weapon to the rack.

Atsumu has already fallen perfectly into his father’s plans. He came to Basgiath. Bonded the biggest, baddest dragon there is. Hell, he even manifested a signet that no one’s ever seen before.

He swallows back the bile at the back of his throat and says, “If I master my signet, it’d just be another reason for him to be proud of me.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of other inventive ways to disappoint your father.”

Atsumu almost laughs, but his heart is still too raw to see the humor in his situation. The prison he’s trapped himself into. The path he’s taken despite his disdain for every godsforsaken step.

Now that he can’t avenge his brother, he’s struggling to find a purpose at all. He only knows one thing for sure.

“I don’t want to fight for him.”

Sakusa looks at Atsumu, like maybe he’s seeing him too. “You really don’t, do you?”

Atsumu shakes his head. “Never did.”

Sakusa opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. He shakes his head and grabs a new sword to polish. Atsumu does the same.

Something builds in the silence between them–the air crackling and suffocating all at the same time. Is that just always going to be a thing around Sakusa now?

Atsumu clears his throat, re-racking the last of the practice swords and moving to dump the rag and polish back in the broom closet. “But clearly, I’ll be burnin’ out long before then, so there’s no use worryin’ about it.”

“You think I’d let you burn out?” Sakusa asks, racking his last blade and tucking his cloth back into his pocket.

“Ya think you have a choice?” Atsumu scoffs.

“All right,” Sakusa sighs, moving his hands to his belt, “pay attention.”

Before Atsumu can ask what he’s supposed to pay attention to, there’s a glint of light, and a dagger is hurtling towards his face.

The world stops. Shrouded in a rippling haze of gold.

Anger crackles through Atsumu’s veins. He slams the closet shut and snatches the very sharp, very non-practice dagger from where it hangs in the air. An inch from his fucking face. He stomps over to point the tip between the top of Sakusa’s collar and the suspended ball of muscle in his throat.

Time burns back to normal and Sakusa’s eyes blow wide before settling into haughty satisfaction.

Atsumu pushes his face in closer to growl at him. “What happened to yer interest in my continued breathin’?”

“What did it feel like?” Sakusa asks, smirking against the blade at his throat.

“Bein’ attacked?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “The magic. What did it feel like?”

Atsumu blinks, dropping the blade from Sakusa’s collar.

Holy shit. He just used his signet, didn’t he?

“Oh.”

Sakusa snorts, gently plucking the dagger back to secure at his belt. “The more you learn to recognize how magic feels, the more control you’ll have to manipulate it. So…” he pushes the hair from his eyes, “what did it feel like?”

Atsumu thinks, tracing over his chest and down his arms where he felt the magic travel. He kind of, tensed up and pushed the magic out somehow. It started from somewhere in his chest, maybe? Or was it his hands?

“Don’t overthink it,” Sakusa says. “Not your strong suit.”

“Fuck you too.”

Sakusa barks a laugh. “Try it again. While the feeling is fresh.”

Without letting himself overthink it, Atsumu tries again.

And it actually fucking works.

There’s a flash of gold and world goes still. Everything is eerily quiet, even the rhythmic white noise of the ocean has been stripped from the air.

He rushes to peer down over the castle wall. The waves that were crashing on the cliffs now stand suspended in the night, wearing their spray of white like little straw caps. A few white sea birds dot the inky black water, wings halted mid-flap.

Atsumu turns back to Sakusa, who’s just as frozen. Immobilized. Completely at Atsumu’s mercy.

Damn, what Atsumu wouldn’t have given for this signet back when they were enemies.

Now that he has it, he marvels at the stillness of the man who’s normally so… untouchable.

Before he can stop himself, Atsumu is stepping forward and tracing over the twin moles on Sakusa’s brow.

He pauses, fingers tensing when his brain catches up to what the hell his hands are doing, but Sakusa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t punch Atsumu in the face for touching him.

Electricity zips down Atsumu’s spine. With no more daggers to dodge, he spends his break in time analyzing the living statue before him.

Sakusa really is beautiful. A muse carved in marble, pale as the moonlight caressing his skin.

His beauty used to be a mockery. A cruel joke by the gods, giving the object of Atsumu’s hatred a face like that.

Atsumu hated Sakusa for being so beautiful while being so untouchable. He had to force himself to ignore it. Focus on the negatives. The arrogance in Sakusa’s smirk, not the charming shape of his smile. The blackness of his eyes, rather than the shining gold flecks that swim around them.

Now…Atsumu isn’t sure how to go about ignoring it anymore. It’s distracting. And consuming. And confusing.

His fingers seem to be searching for an answer along each diamond edge of Sakusa’s face. They brush past Sakusa’s brow, over his razor sharp cheekbones and down to the elegant cut of his jaw. They double back to slip down the bridge of Sakusa’s nose–slender and strong, but not without character. Then they drop down to Sakusa’s neck, skirting along the rebellion relic before abandoning it to favor the trio of moles on the other side. All those little spots marring the marble–so beautifully, achingly human. Atsumu meticulously connects each one with an invisible line, mapping out the constellations across Sakusa’s skin.

Just as the golden static starts to flicker at the back of his mind, Atsumu takes a long step back.

Time snaps back and his head rushes with the expulsion of energy, sending him teetering on his feet.

A sharp breath comes from Sakusa’s parting lips, his eyes darting to the new position where Atsumu is standing. Sakusa’s hand jumps to his neck, the exact place where Atsumu’s fingers drew their secret maps.

“Did it work?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Atsumu breathes out. “It worked.”

Sakusa smirks like he won the bet that they never even made. “Told you I wouldn’t let you burn out.” 

“Guess ya ain’t full of shit, after all.” Atsumu watches his hands clench and unclench, marveling at the magic tingle left in his fingertips.

He looks back up and embarrassment crashes over him in a delayed wave. What the fuck kind of trance was he just in?

Heat hangs bright and furious in his cheeks, but the magic under his skin has finally cooled. The fire isn’t gone completely, but already so much better than before.

Atsumu moves to gaze out at the infinite black ocean. Pushing the last of his fears and frustrations out in one, big trembling breath.

He doesn’t have to worry about burnout anymore.

But…

“I still don’t have a fuckin’ clue what I’m doin’,” he admits.

What the hell he’s supposed to be fighting for.

Sakusa steps to his side, gloved hands resting gently on the castle wall. “Well apparently, you’ve got all the time in the world to figure that out. Time-Wielder.”

Atsumu can’t fight the smile tugging at his lips, so he turns to face it into the night rather than give Sakusa the satisfaction of seeing it.

He thinks he feels a cool kiss of mist run down the side of his face, but the waves have long since calmed for the night. He closes his eyes and leans into it.

The mist leaves with the ebb of the tide, and when Atsumu turns back, Sakusa is gone too.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the Tanakas drag everyone down to the shoreline to look at the tidepools. Hinata is beside himself with excitement. He hops gracefully from rock to rock, listening raptly as Saeko points out the names of all the spiny little creatures. He scribbles furiously into a little leather journal he brought, like it’s his job to record the sealife biome of Montserrat, and he takes that job very seriously. Suna offers to draw some pictures and after half an hour they’ve gotten a pretty decent start for an encyclopedia.

Bokuto entertains himself by chasing a crab around the rocks, but he loses it each time his attention drifts to stare wistfully at the mountains. He’s been keeping a brave face since they came to Monterserrat, but every so often it drops, showing the agony he’s feeling being kept from his family. Especially when they’re so close by. Atsumu makes a mental reminder to get another letter out for him when they get back to Basgiath. He tries not to think too hard about what his father will want for it this time. He has the feeling that now he’s bonded, the price of favors has gone up and a few simple sparring wins won’t cut it this time.

The waves lap gently over the rock pools, and Atsumu grins unbidden as he runs his hands through the water. His fingers turn to icicles in a matter of minutes, but he’s reluctant to pull them free. There’s a warming charm that’s one of the minor magics, but it’s a third year spell, so none of them have learned it yet, or else he might chance a swim. It’s far too late in the season, at least if you don’t want to die of hypothermia, but Atsumu still daydreams about what it would be like. Floating around with the swell of the waves, swimming so far out he can barely see the shore, lost in his own vast world. The ocean might just be his new obsession–gods it’d be amazing to live on the coast. Maybe he can convince his father to station him here. Trade his soul or something.

After a while of happy feelings swimming around his chest, Andarna flies over to see what the fuss is all about. She flits around the little pools, scooping up critters with her soft-edged tail or straight up dunking her face into the water to get a closer look. Even though their squad does literally everything together, it’s still somewhat of a novelty being so close to another rider’s dragon. Especially a miniature, one of a kind golden breed–but Andarna seems to play by her own rules. She’s playful with Atsumu’s squadmates, flying low circles over Suna’s head, rustling Saeko and Hinata’s hair with the tip of her feathertail and splashing water at Bokuto and Ryunosuke. At one point she even lets Kita pet down the side of her neck, letting out a pleased sort of purr as he scratches under her chin.

Atsumu grins ear-to-ear, sitting back and watching his little dragon interact with his friends. He tucks his fingers under his armpits for warmth, and switches to dipping his bare toes in the water instead. Bokuto’s lost crab skitters by, claws poised menacingly in the air. It gets a hair too close for comfort, sights aimed on Atsumu’s naked big toe, and before Atsumu knows it, he’s pushing out a wave of golden magic, halting the crab, and the world, in its tracks.

He sucks in a sharp breath, the only sound across the whole island, then scrambles to pull the watch from his pocket. The second hand sits frozen in place. He waits and waits, but it doesn’t move.

“Fuck yeah!” he shouts to no one.

“Atsu?”

Atsumu’s attention snaps to Andarna, who’s swiveling her head around, water suspended in a glimmering wall behind her, from where she was flicking it up with her tail.

“Holy shit,” Atsumu grins, “yer here too!?”

“Wow this is so cool!” Andarna squeals in his mind, swishing her paws through the suspended water and knocking it from where it hangs in the air. It just refreezes wherever it’s pushed, trapped by his magic in defiance of gravity.

“Tairn?” Atsumu asks, slipping the watch back in his pocket, and looking towards the dragon’s resident island in the distance. “Ya there?”

There’s no response.

Huh. Is Tairn napping or something? Atsumu thought he felt him wake up earlier, when the dragon size hunger hit his gut like an arrow.

Was he left out of the time freeze? Maybe it’s got something to do with distance…

Atsumu shifts on his rock. It feels weird not having both of his dragon’s presence in his mind. He doesn’t like it.

Andarna makes up for it by zipping over to nuzzle into Atsumu’s neck, blasting him in hot wet dragon breath.

“I knew you could do it!” she says, giddily.

He laughs, petting down the butter soft scales, in the sweet spot between her two golden horns. “Maybe I’m not so hopeless after all, huh?”

She trills a cute, happy sound.

Atsumu takes another awed look around at the frozen world around him. The waves are mid-crash against the castle walls, white spray hanging high in the air. His squadmates are as still as the rocks they’re perched upon, trapped in various states of frozen horse play.

He smiles. Last night wasn’t a fluke after all. Sakusa really did help him unlock his magic.

Of all fucking people…

Before he has time to ponder what the fuck that’s about, he feels a little tug on the edge of his mind–the last drops of power now circling the drain. He lets it go and time clicks back to normal. His head rushes along with the water rushing back over his feet.

“Ow!” He yelps, as a sharp pain hits his toe.

Godsdammit, he forgot about the stupid fucking crab!

Atsumu kicks his foot until his attacker flies off into the sea. His squad turns to laugh at his misfortune, seemingly unaware of the break in time they were all just in.

Atsumu doesn’t mention anything. He can feel the drain on his power from the few short minutes of using his signet, and he’ll need to build the magic back up before he unveils it to everyone. For now, he keeps the secret close to his chest, where it heats him up like a warming charm.

— ⚡︎ —

The incredible release of power coupled with the relief of not exploding, has Atsumu humming through the morning. He’s even got a skip in his step on the way to their designated chore hour. Aran had sent him to fetch some extra whetstones from the smithy and they bang around in his pockets as he sprints through the halls. He navigates the winding corridors like a bonafide Montserrat rider, rushing to get back before all the good shit-jobs are taken.

He’s almost to the flex room when the final turn smacks him straight into a wall of black leather. Sakusa’s fingers grasp Atsumu’s biceps before his body even has the chance to lose balance.

“Sorry,” Atsumu squeaks out. They’re chest-to-chest in the narrow space of the hallway and Atsumu is quickly caught in the magnetic force of Sakusa’s gaze. He follows up his embarrassing squeak with a breathy, equally embarrassing, “Hi.”

Of course his luck would run him face-first into Sakusa. He’s flooded with images of the previous night–when Sakusa helped him control his signet, and he’d used that secret suspense of time to creep on the guy.

As if things weren’t weird enough between them.

“Hi,” Sakusa replies warmly.

Atsumu flushes hot as dragon fire. His face had heated every time Sakusa’s dark eyes found him during breakfast, but it’s a thousand times worse with hardly a book’s width between them. It’s all too easy to see the gold in his eyes sparkle with amusement, far too tempting to let his gaze drop to the soft bow of Sakusa’s lips.

Why is this affecting him so much now? It’s not like Atsumu didn’t know Sakusa was hot the whole time. He has eyes after all.

Sakusa’s hands linger a moment before he pinches an inch of leather at Atsumu’s shoulder. He hums and follows the line of it down to Atsumu’s wrist.

“Is that my jacket?” he asks, eyeing the extra material hanging slightly past Atsumu’s palm.

“No,” Atsumu lies, pulling his hand back.

There’s no ostentatious patches sewn into it, just the standard-issue Fourth Wing emblem on the shoulder, so Sakusa doesn’t have any definitive proof to call him out.

Even the jasmine smell has worn off. Mostly.

If Sakusa wants it back, he can get fucked. It’s way comfier than any of Atsumu’s stiff, leather jackets.

Wingleaders get all the best shit.

Atsumu shoves his hands into his pockets only to wince and pull them back out when his knuckles scrape the fine grit-tops of the whetstones.

Sakusa’s narrowed eyes say he doesn’t buy it.

Oh well, if Atsumu can’t sell the lie, he can simply avoid the conversation. He tucks his hands under his armpits, skirts around Sakusa, and flees into the flex room.

He beelines towards the fireplace, where Ryunosuke and Bokuto are waiting next to a bucket of daggers. Atsumu hands them the whetstones so they can get started on sharpening them rather than sizing up which ones would look nicest on their belts.

Suna, Saeko and Hinata are patching up flight jackets at the next table over, sewing up tears and re-securing patches with hot irons. Kita is in the back with Aran, talking over something or other with a clipboard and magic-pumped pen.

The room is a bit of a catch-all for whatever the riders on base need it for. It’s a hodge podge set of unorganized tables with large, arching bookcases lining the walls, stuffed with anything and everything from crossbows to chess sets. Since the cadets are here for the week, it’s become the dedicated shit-work room, where they fix up whatever odds and ends Aran tells them to.

Atsumu tries squeezing in between Bokuto and Ryunosuke, when a whistle pulls his attention. Aran gives him a look and points to the only untended work station.

Tch. Bastard.

Grumbling his way over, Atsumu slumps into the bench at the plain wooden table covered almost entirely in scuffed leather boots. There’s a large bristle brush, a set of buffing cloths and a tub of shoe polish there to greet him. He sighs at the enormity of the pile, but sucks it up and grabs the brush, plucking the least offensive looking boot from the top.

There’s a warning call of jasmine before the seat next to him is taken. Sakusa pulls up a leg and rests the ankle onto his opposite thigh, jutting his knee into Atsumu’s side. He unlaces his boot to drop it on the table. With a roll of his sleeves, he takes out his own black cloth from his pocket to start polishing the heel, despite the boot already looking pristine as one freshly issued.

Atsumu scoots away, so Sakusa’s sharp-ass, bony fucking knee doesn’t have the chance to stab him again. He sets about his task, stripping the boot of its laces and brushing off the dried mud caked into all the little crevices.

Sakusa doesn’t even look at the pile, sticking to buffing the invisible scuffs from his own black leather boot in annoyingly slow circles.

Atsumu scowls at him. Sakusa is a cadet too, but he’s not visiting the outpost in any official capacity, he’s just there for the sake of their dragons. So either he’s dodging all the real work, or flaunting the fact that the rules don’t apply to him.

Either way he’s a bastard.

Sakusa leans into his space, under the guise of swiping up polish. Atsumu freezes as a sultry whisper hits the shell of his ear. “Were you planning on returning that anytime soon?”

“Don’t know what yer talkin’ about.” Atsumu tucks his nose into the collar of his jacket, hoping it might hide some of the damn heat that’s crawling up his neck.

“A thief and a liar,” Sakusa clicks his tongue. “Whatever shall we do with you, Assassin?”

“Pots and kettles,” Atsumu hums, scrubbing at a particularly pesky spot of mud, hoping it hops the table to land on Sakusa’s shiny, new boot instead.

“I’m not a thief,” Sakusa says with a smirk.

Atsumu snorts. Just a liar then.

“Tell that to my damn daggers,” he argues, thinking back to their very first encounter.

Aran had given him an earful when he’d learned that Atsumu lost the entire set of custom daggers he had forged for him. On the first day of Basgiath too. Atsumu knows that Sakusa didn’t technically steal them, but it’s all he can come up with to counter the thief comment. Plus, he’s still kind of pissed about losing them. They were nice fucking daggers.

Then again, he’s not even sure if Sakusa bothered to collect them after–

“Oh, these?” Sakusa dips a hand into his jacket and unbuttons a hidden pocket to show off three short, identical blades, each etched with a bright gold sun in the center of the handle. “I could’ve sworn these were gifts,” he muses, pulling one free and pretending to inspect it. “You tossed them to me so gently.”

A fresh wave of heat runs under Atsumu’s skin. So Sakusa did keep them, after all.

Were they in his jacket this whole time? Just waiting for the opportunity to piss Atsumu off?

It’s effective as hell. The anger flash in his chest with the force of a lightning bolt. Without even thinking, his hand is reaching out to snatch the blade back, but it’s quickly pulled away.

“Ah, ah ah.” Sakusa waggles the dagger like a finger. “You’ll have to earn those back fair and square.” He leans in another inch. “Assuming you even could.”

Atsumu doesn’t flinch away, even though they’re close enough for him to feel a sting of warm breath on his face.

That type of taunt is far from the first one Atsumu has received from Sakusa. But it feels monumentally different now. Whatever tension lives between them is starting to evolve. The fire sparking in Atsumu’s chest is no longer anger, it’s interest.

Atsumu watches the dagger dip tauntingly back into Sakusa’s jacket and the fire spreads through his bloodstream, the intrigue of a challenge he’s determined to meet. Magic tingles at his fingertips, begging to be set free, but Atsumu holds it back. For now.

“Game fuckin’ on,” he says with a smirk.

Sakusa pulls back so suddenly that Atsumu is left off-kilter.

His dizzy mind is wondering why when he notices the new presence at their table.

“So, Sakusa,” Aran says, tucking into the opposite bench. “How’s the Wingleader life treatin’ ya?”

Aran unlaces his own boots and drops them down in front of Atsumu with a smug little grin on his face. Atsumu rolls his eyes, but resigns to his fate and starts pulling the laces free.

“Fine,” Sakusa replies casually, back to buffing his own boot, not seeming particularly proud of his position as one of the top four riders at Basgiath.

“I swear Fourth Wing gets the rowdiest riders every year,” Aran says with a laugh. “It’s some kind of curse or somethin’.”

Sakusa huffs an amused little sound. His eyes subtly, but unmistakably flit to Atsumu. “You know, they just may be the death of me.”

Atsumu bites his lip. It wasn’t even a good joke, really, but he has to hold back the urge to giggle at it.

Sakusa finishes his first boot, slips it back on and switches legs to get the other one. He yanks the boot so hard that it smacks Atsumu’s side on the way off. Sakusa’s socked foot rests over his thigh, dangerously close to brushing against Atsumu’s arm. 

“I still owe ya for that stunt at the egg battle,” Aran tells Sakusa. “Marbh’s got it out for your little daggertail too, so tell her to watch her back.”

Sakusa’s eyes go blank for a few seconds before he chuckles. “Sgaeyl says that if Marbh wants his claw back, then he’s welcome to challenge her for it anytime.”

Aran barks a laugh. “She can keep her little trophy. I already made him a replacement out of steel. It’s actually pretty fuckin’ cool how their claws work.” Aran launches into a spirited ramble of blacksmithing jargon and dragon anatomy. Sakusa hums appropriately while his focus stays on buffing his second boot.

Atsumu’s eyes flit between the two men as he works. Aran was the previous wingleader for Fourth Wing and Sakusa was the one to take his place, so they must have interacted before, at least during the transition. But it’s incredibly difficult for Atsumu to reconcile a reality where the two actually know each other. And are friendly.

Aran chatters away at Sakusa like they’re best fucking buddies. It makes Atsumu bristle. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of them being friends puts a sour taste in his mouth.

He decides that the best revenge would be using Aran’s distraction as an advantage to sneak one of his daggers back. With a subtle, slow hand, he moves towards the edge of Sakusa’s jacket, but the first flinch of his fingers ends with his wrist caught in a vice.

Sakusa’s shadows cuff him up tight, forcing his hand down to the bench. Atsumu’s caught for an embarrassingly long time as he fights the unrelenting shadows beneath the table. All the while Sakusa looks perfectly casual, yapping with Aran, both hands innocently polishing his boot.

The hold releases suddenly and Atsumu’s hand yanks back to smack himself in the side. He wipes off the lingering tingle at his wrist, ignoring the jumping pulse that lies there too.

Shaking off the loss, he pretends his interest lies purely in the state of Aran’s boot. He spits on it to get the final shine just right, and catches a disgusted lip twitch from Sakusa as he does.

He can’t help his smirk.

He’s winding up for another round of spit when something taps on his shoulder. Atsumu turns to find a little wood dragon sitting there, pinched between two long, pale fingers.

“What’s this?” Atsumu asks, taking the dragon in his hand.

“It’s Andarna,” Suna replies, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Atsumu twists the figure around, noting the intricate scaling, the twisting horns, and the meticulously carved feathertail curling up its back, looking soft enough to run a finger through.

“This fer me?” he asks, marveling at the work of art Suna plopped in his hand like it was nothing.

Suna nods. “I’m working on Tairn next, but I’ll need extra time to get his scowl just right.”

Atsumu smiles, turning the statue in his fingers and taking in all the pretty little details. “Thanks, man. This is really cool.”

Suna smiles. “Try not to break it.”

Atsumu snorts. He feels around the inner breast of his jacket, finding another one of Sakusa’s secret little pockets there. He tucks the little wood dragon away and taps over his heart.

“Safe and sound,” he says. Suna nods in approval and walks back to the sewing table.

Sakusa has long finished with his boots, and now he sits twisting the tip of Atsumu’s dagger into the table, body turned so only Atsumu can see.

A thousand ideas run through Atsumu’s mind on how best to get it back, but an impatient snapping in his ear interrupts his planning.

“Little more on the heel, cadet,” Aran says, poking at a spot that Atsumu had missed.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. He throws Sakusa a parting glare, then buffs the leather until he can see himself in it, re-laces the thing and hands it back to Aran with a snarky, “Lieutenant.”

Aran inspects his boots, nods and slips them back on, pulling the laces battle-tight. He pushes out from the table and claps his hands together.

“All right,” he shouts, calling the room to attention. “Battle Brief time.”

Everyone sets their respective projects aside to huddle around the circular stone table in the center of the room.

There’s an up to date battle map sprawled across it, weighted down by four iron dragon statues on each corner. None nearly as nice as the dragon in Atsumu’s pocket, but still pretty badass if he’s being honest.

Green and yellow markers dot Navarre’s topography, and Atsumu notes the distinct lack of red colored ones. Again. Maybe he should ask Kita about it, since the guy always seems to know everything. He’s about to lean over and do just that, when Sakusa splits the space between them, pulling up a chair.

Kita stiffens as Sakusa takes the seat next to him, eyes locked to the exposed rebellion relic crawling up Sakusa’s forearm. The change is almost imperceptible, but if Sakusa is anything, it’s perceptive. He pushes his sleeve up further, eyes challenging Kita until he looks away.

Kita’s trust in Sakusa is still tenuous at best. Hell, Atsumu only trusts Sakusa because fate is forcing him to, but that doesn’t make the guy any less of a liar.

And to Kita, there’s not much worse you can be.

Sakusa is a shadowy fortress full of stone walls and secrets, they have a long way to go for Atsumu to ever feel completely at ease around him. Some little voice in the back of his head labels Sakusa as trouble, and he’s not willing to let that voice go quite yet.

“So,” Aran starts, smoothing out the map and adjusting the iron dragons until everything is perfectly flat. He jostles a handful of purple markers in his palm and asks, “What’s the most important thing we gained in the alliance between dragons and riders?”

“Uhh, magic?” Bokuto guesses.

“Flying?” Hinata asks.

“Firepower?” Ryunosuke suggests.

“Wards,” Sakusa says plainly.

“Bingo.” Aran says, pointing to Sakusa. “And what’s been goin’ ta shit the past year and a half?”

The room goes pin-drop quiet.

“The wards?” Atsumu asks breathlessly. “Seriously?”

“For that long?” Hinata asks. His fingers fly to his mouth and he shares a wide eyed look with Atsumu.

Devera had glazed over a few mentions of ward blips in Battle Brief, but had never acted like it was something to be worried about.

The crease in Aran’s brow says that it is. It very much is.

“They’ve been falterin’,” he says solemnly. “More than we can keep up with. The latest weak spots have all been along the outskirts of the country, right on the edge of the Wardline. Here, here and here.”

He marks each spot with a bright purple X.

“And here,” Sakusa adds, tapping a gloved finger to another area that Aran had missed. His dark eyes pierce the map like it’s personally offended him.

Aran’s brows shoot up, but he takes Sakusa’s word for it and drops an X over his finger.

Atsumu has never noticed Sakusa speak up during Devera’s Briefs, but the guy clearly has a finger on the pulse of the war. Which makes perfect sense, actually—you don’t become a Wingleader by napping in Battle Brief.

“They’ve barely mentioned the ward failures in class,” Hinata says nervously. “Certainly not to this extent. Are you sure we’re allowed to know all of this?”

Aran shrugs. “If it’s classified information, they didn’t bother tellin’ me that. I figure it’s pretty important for our soldiers to know that our greatest defenses are failin’.” He drops the rest of the purple markers into his pocket and continues his history lesson. “Since the protection of the wards, all of Navarre’s major scuffles with Poromiel have been off of home soil. A luxury we no longer have.”

Bokuto winces from across the table. His eyes are unsubtly glued to Fukurodani, his home village and the latest place raided by gryphon fliers.

“Dragons are still stronger than gryphons,” Ryunosuke says with a shrug. He kicks his feet up to the table and leans back in his chair. “Who cares if they get in?”

“Ya ever seen a gryphon up close, cadet?” Aran asks, slapping his hands to the table and leaning in like it’s an interrogation.

Ryunosuke clamps his jaw shut and withers in his seat.

Aran flicks his feet off the table and pulls back with a satisfied smirk. “They ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at. They may be smaller than dragons, but that means that they’re faster too. We outmatch them on raw firepower, but their forces are growing at an exponential rate while ours are dwindling year after year. When the fight’s five-on-one, ya might be feelin’ so cocky about it.”

“Are the fliers causing the weak points?” Bokuto asks.

“That’s the leading theory,” Aran says, “though we’ve got no fuckin’ clue how. Either they’re causin’ the weak points themselves, or exploitin’ ‘em once they find ‘em.”

“Is there any way to repair the bad bits?” Hinata asks.

“Luckily, they seem to be healin’ up on their own,” Aran answers. “But it’s slow. Too fuckin’ slow.”

Hinata hums, eyes burning with the spark of someone who’s already planning to scour a hundred books on the subject.

“Here’s the kicker,” Aran says, dropping three fresh yellow markers on the map. “We’ve sniffed out three separate pods of gryphon fliers in the last month. All hiding well inside of our borders.”

“Within the wards?” Kita asks, surprised.

Aran nods, brushing the yellow marks back to Poromiel’s side to indicate that they’ve already been chased out.

“They’re tryin’ to get inside the wards?” Atsumu asks. “While they’re still up?”

That makes no fucking sense. Only dragon magic works within the wards, that’s the entire point.

Aran nods again, lips pursing at the wide expanse of yellow. “Any theories?”

He looks around the table expectantly.

All of the marked ones remain quiet, expressions either stony or anxious as they scrutinize the map.

Atsumu chews on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t offer up any thoughts either, his head’s too fucked to sort through the severity of it all. He had always hoped that somehow the war wouldn’t really affect him. That he could go through the motions of being a rider, fly with his dragons, relax by the ocean, swordfight for the fun of it, all while avoiding any sort of real combat.

A memory of Tairn’s voice crosses through his mind.

‘There will be no running.’

“Shit,” Atsumu thinks.

If the wards go down, there won’t be any hiding either. The battle will be coming to him whether he wants it or not.

Just fucking great.

“They have to be planning something big,” Bokuto surmises.

“An attack from within?” Kita asks. “To catch us off guard?”

“Seems to be the case,” Aran agrees. “But as far as we can tell, once they pass beyond the weak spots, their magic is still rendered useless.”

“But if their magic doesn’t work inside the wards, why are they trying so hard to get in?” Hinata asks, like he’s working out a mental puzzle.

Aran frowns at the long line of purple X’s. “That’s the big fuckin’ question, ain’t it?”

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu finds himself disappointed when Sakusa doesn’t show up for sparring that evening. He was hoping to challenge him to a fight, maybe snatch one of his daggers back while he unveils his fancy new signet.

He huffs out his annoyance. Now that he’s got a finicky grasp on his magic, Sakusa’s running scared. Guess the big, scary wingleader’s not so tough after all.

Oh well. The magic is tingling at Atsumu’s fingers and if he can’t use it to wipe the smirk off Sakusa’s face, then he’ll go for the next best thing.

He saunters over to Ryunosuke who’s hacking away at an unlucky training dummy.

“Hey Ryu, up for a rematch?” He asks, plucking a choice katana from the wall.

“Oh hell yeah,” Rysunosuke says with a feral grin. “I still haven’t made you cry yet.” He grabs his own sword, one twice as large as Atsumu’s, and calls everyone to come and watch.

Their fight starts out the same as the last one. Ryunosuke's moves are dangerous, but predictable. Atsumu counters each one with an ever-growing anticipation. The magic sings under his skin, waiting for its chance to come out and play.

After dancing for a while, Ryunosuke gets that look in his eye–winding back an extra inch to signal an incoming heavy attack. Atsumu feels for the well of power in his veins, the same way Sakusa taught him, and it works. He seizes his magic just before the sword falls, stopping time in his grasp.

Just like that.

The moment is a blissful reprieve from the evening wind. Atsumu takes a deep breath of eerily still air and steps leisurely around Ryunosuke, pointing the tip of his sword to the center of his back.

He takes an extra few seconds to school his smile, before letting the magic go. The wind rushes back to howl inside his ears alongside a chorus of gasps. Ryunosuke yelps as Atsumu pokes him in the spine. The giant sword jumps from his hands and goes flying towards the wall. Somehow, it lodges into the exact same spot as before, doubling the size of the crack in the stone.

He turns around with wide eyes and a slacked jaw. “What the fuck–”

“Atsumu!” Hinata squeals, running up to squeeze around his middle. “You did it!”

Suna straightens with an impressed little smile on his face. “Guess you weren’t lying about your signet after all.”

“Dude!” Bokuto shouts. “You just–” he points to the other end of the ring, “and then–” he points back to Atsumu, “you just freaking did that!”

Aran and Kita look like proud older brothers and Saeko’s jaw is on the damn floor.

Atsumu finds himself scanning the small crowd for warm black eyes, but remembers belatedly that Sakusa isn’t there. An odd twinge of disappointment runs through him. It’s just, well–Sakusa would’ve liked to see Atsumu wielding his magic again. It means that he’s fully capable of fighting for himself, and that he’s less of a threat to their conjoined lives. It might’ve set some of his fears at ease. Get him off Atsumu’s back. Either that or he might’ve blanched at the undeniable advantage Atsumu has on him now.

Maybe he would’ve cowered in his shiny black boots.

Or maybe he would’ve smiled…

Atsumu shakes off his thoughts, returning to reality where he accepts more congratulations from his squad.

No one bothers to retrieve Ryunosuke’s sword from the wall this time, too busy brainstorming wild ideas for Atsumu’s new signet, each suggestion more ridiculous than the last.

When the buzz dies down, the training goes on. Atsumu is quickly banned from using his signet, so it loses its fun. It’s all well and good though, because he’s not very confident with how much juice he has left in the tank. Even the short bout of magic left him light headed and dizzy.

He spectates the rest of the evening, the sun on his back and a smile on his face. The smile doesn’t die down until he’s well into bed, cheeks sore by the time they hit the pillow.

— ⚡︎ —

The next day brings a storm over the island. Dark clouds, wild winds and violent waters attack the castle from every direction. 

But war doesn’t stop for weather, so they’re outside training anyhow.

The waves are particularly vicious, battering the rocks with all their might, shooting giant pistons of white spray halfway up the castle walls. Atsumu has marveled at the beauty of the ocean the whole week, but never considered the power of her fury. It’s a little bit terrifying to watch.

Luckily the clouds hold their tempest at bay, and their heads remain dry atop the tower. The wind however, is a constant, violent barrage, threatening to topple them every few seconds.

Like they’re caught in the middle of a godsdamn tornado.

While it’s annoying as fuck, Aran says it’s good training for fights on dragon-back. He doesn’t let them wear flight goggles though, because he’s a bastard and a sadist.

All day Atsumu had to fight the urge to tell Sakusa about his big signet reveal. He wants Sakusa to see him wield it. Preferably knocked on his ass with a sword pressed up to his pretty little throat.

But Atsumu’s luck is shit as always, and Sakusa mysteriously disappeared after dinner again.

Come to think of it, Sakusa hasn’t rejoined any sparring sessions since his first day at Montserrat, maybe he really does suck at swordfighting.

Now Atsumu really wants to fight him.

Although Atsumu’s grasp of his signet is tentative at best, he’s still banned from using it during sparring. Which kind of makes him feel like a badass. His magic is so powerful that it’s unfair.

He waits on the sidelines as Bokuto and Hinata go at it. Bokuto refrains from using his own signet, but works on the same minor magics as Hinata to even up the match. While Bokuto’s swings are hard enough to knock his opponent on his ass, they never get the chance to. Hinata is fast, and with the extra boost of magic at his back, he flits around the ring like a hummingbird.

They dance around the outcrop, trading blows that never hit.

Bokuto starts to get a grip on his own speed boost and lunges forward with scary force. Hinata jumps back, landing on top of the castle wall to avoid the massive blow that sparks the ground instead.

“Off the wall!” Aran snaps, arm coming up to shield his eyes at a particularly vicious gust of wind.

Hinata quickly complies, jumping down and circling Bokuto to try for his back. Bokuto turns to meet him, blocking the shot with his greatsword. They zig-zag around in a blur, Bokuto pushing Hinata back with every shot he takes.

With no other options, Hinata jumps back towards the wall again.

He hops on the handle of Ryunosuke’s lost sword before jumping atop the stone. The sword jostles under his foot, and by the time he’s landing on the ledge behind him, it’s crumbling under his feet.

It happens in slow motion, but not slow enough.

Chunks of rock give way under Hinata’s body and gravity yanks his momentum backwards. He teeters over the edge of the wall, arms circling to try and swing his weight forward.

Atsumu’s body locks up.

If Hinata falls, there’s no calm, soft ocean to catch him. Only sharp rocks and brutal, battering waves.

Atsumu reaches for his magic, it ripples out of him in a flash of gold, but blinks away again before he can even take a full step.

Bokuto jumps forward, thrusting his sword out for Hinata to grab on to. Hinata’s fingers cling to the metal, but the rocks continue to shift at his feet while the wind fights to push him. Bokuto reaches an arm out, but a fierce gust of wind shoves Hinata back before he can steady him. 

Hinata’s hands slip off the end of the blunt steel.

The boy who glided down the parapet like it was nothing, the one whose feet were always sure of where they landed, whose steps were light enough to barely disturb gravel–slips from the wall as it crumbles under his feet.

Atsumu lunges for the edge of the outlook and calls on his magic again, pouring every ounce of will into the command.

Please please please please.

The golden magic pulses out of him, catching Hinata in the air like the hand of a god dipping from the clouds.

This time, the magic holds. Hinata’s body stays frozen in the air.

Atsumu’s body sinks in relief.

But…Now what?

Hinata’s already halfway down and the cliffs are too steep to climb on this side. Jumping after him would only end with both of their bodies smashed on the rocks.

“Fuck!” he shouts to the halted wind. Panic crashes over him with the violence of the frozen waves below.

Atsumu figured out how to use magic, his unbelievable, unheard of, unfair fucking magic, and it’s still not enough.

He can’t do shit to save his friend. He can only hold off the inevitable for an extra minute of soul-wrenching fear.

“Atsu?” A voice rings in his head, slicing through the silence. “What’s happening?”

“Andarna?” Atsumu chokes on a sob.

“I’m here!”

“Please,” he begs. Tears break from his eyes, rolling down his wind-chapped cheeks. “Please get here as quickly as you can.”

“I’m coming!” She promises, and a flicker of hope sparks in Atsumu’s heart. “Can you hold it?” she asks.

“I can try.”

But the sweat is already beading at Atsumu’s brow. The magic burns hot at the back of his neck. He can feel it growing thinner the longer time stays clenched in his fist, but he keeps on pulling.

His eyes stay locked on his friend. Hinata’s fear is frozen on his face, bright orange hair swallowing the edges of his face.

Atsumu has to hold out until Andarna can get there. He has to.

Bokuto can only summon objects, not people. Saeko would need to touch Hinata to make him weightless. Ryonuske would only make him drop faster. If Sakusa were here, he could pluck Hinata from the air with his shadows. He could weave a blanket of black over the rocks for Hinata to fall into like a cradle. He wouldn’t even break a fucking sweat.

As Atsumu’s magic pulls thinner and thinner, a small, irrational part of him hates Sakusa for not being there.

His eyes switch between Hinata’s face and the sky beyond dragon island.

Fucking finally, a flash of gold crests the peak, swooping down to speed over the water.

Andarna.

She’s here. She’s flying as fast as she can.

She may be too small to carry a rider, but Hinata barely weighs anything. Surely she can at least break the fall and redirect him away from the rocks.

Atsumu grits his teeth, holding out for as much time as his power will allow. He can feel the magic start to fight back, his entire body trembles in protest, begging for him to collapse. But he wills time to keep holding, despite the burn of his blood and the shake of his muscles.

Please. Please. Please.

Andarna is only halfway over the gap of sea when Atsumu’s magic gives out.

The first noise that slams into his ears is Hinata’s scream. Then the roar of the wind and waves rushes in to swallow it up as he plummets towards the rocks.

Atsumu tries to seize his magic again, but he only manages a stuttered blip before time roars back at him.

Hinata’s body is seconds from hitting, and the only power Atsumu has left is to watch.

Just as Hinata is about to meet the rocks, he thrusts his hands out, as if embracing his fate.

But the embrace never comes.

His body stops just above the rocks, like he hit some sort of invisible barrier. He flies back up, flipping over the rocks, before landing in the water with a light splash. His orange head pops back out, arms flailing against the torrent of water.

But he’s moving. He’s alive. He’s not broken and bloody on the rocks.

How the hell is he not broken on the rocks?

Atsumu shouts down the wall. “Shoyo!”

“I’m okay!” Hinata shouts back up, voice barely audible beneath the ocean’s roar. He starts swimming towards one of the shorter, wider rocks, but gets taken under by a large wave.

“We’re comin’ down ta get ya!” Atsumu shouts, already reaching for Saeko’s outstretched hand.

The weightlessness hits him and he’s vaulting up to the castle wall.

Hinata’s voice shouts up at him. “Don’t! It’s too dangerous!”

Atsumu pauses, teetering on the wall, body unsure if it’s jumping forward or back.

The choice is made for him when a strong hand rips his arm back, wrangling him down with the weightlessness of a feather.

Atsumu seethes against what he realizes is Aran’s grip. “Let go!”

“We don’t need you fallin’ too,” Aran says firmly, as Atsumu’s body instinctively pulls against him, still trying to get to Hinata despite all the logical reasons not to.

Eventually Aran lets him surge forward, just enough to look back down the wall, but the tight grip holds him back from jumping off it.

Hinata may have miraculously survived the fall, but he’s not out of danger yet. The waves are relentless, and he’s barely able to catch a breath before another beats over his head. The rock he clings too is soaked, and his fingers keep sliding off.

“I’m almost there,” Andarna cuts into the swirling panic of Atsumu’s mind.

Atsumu’s body floods with relief. He had completely forgotten. His eyes find the golden streak closing the last gap of treacherous water.

Andarna lands on the rock above Hinata, dipping her tail into the water so he can climb it. His boots clamber up the slippery rockface as he grips hand over hand, up the soft edges of her tail. Once he reaches the top of the rock, Andarna curls her wings around him to shield from the worst of the unyielding torrent.

“Is he hurt?” Atsumu asks her.

“He seems okay,” Andarna answers with a grunt as a large wave crashes over her back.

“Okay.” Atsumu finally releases the breath he’d been too scared to let go of.

His fingers trace over his lips, the nerves not willing to fully leave him until Hinata is back on the tower, safe and sound.

Another hand finds his open shoulder, and a body leans into his side. They wait in a tense huddle for Sliselag, his crimson wings beating furiously through the storm to reach his rider.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” Andarna laments, wings curling tighter over Hinata as another wave comes to batter them.

Atsumu shares her guilt. “I couldn’t hold it.”

Sliseag reaches them in record time, stopping to hover over their little rock. Andarna unfurls the golden cocoon so Hinata can hop over to his dragon’s tail, and climb up to his back.

They circle the outpost once before Sliseag stops to hover over the tower, beating the wind down on their heads.

Hinata jumps off his back while he’s still a good twenty feet in the air. He blasts the ground with air just before he crashes into it, shooting back up to land gently on his feet.

“Holy shit,” Atsumu says under his breath.

Hinata is an air wielder. Somehow it fits him so fucking perfectly, it’s insane.

The kid was always meant to fly.

The whole squad rushes in to crush Hinata in their arms.

“I manifested my signet!” Hinata squeals from the center of the dogpile.

“And you didn’t die!” Bokuto shouts.

“That too!” Hinata beams, jumping up and down, like he didn’t just fall off a godsdamn cliff.

“We need to get you warmed up,” Kita says, ushering the soaking wet Hinata towards the stairs.

Hinata’s lips are blue and chattering, but that doesn’t stop them from pulling into the widest smile his cheeks can manage.

They get him bathed, dried, and warmed up, all while Hinata spins his own near-death experience as a wonderfully dramatic way to unlock his magic. His excitement is infectious, taking over the mood of the group like a fresh breath of air.

They spend the rest of the evening in a delirious giddiness, just happy their friend is alive.

Hinata summons his magic a few more times before lights out. Once to dry his hair, which whips it into a bird’s nest of chaos. Once by accident when he sneezes and nearly slams himself back into the wall, before blasting more air at the wall and landing half on top of Saeko instead.

Secretly, Atsumu reaches for his own magic, but it doesn’t answer for longer than a blink.

When he crawls into bed, he’s unable to shake the little black cloud from over his head.

Hinata ended up okay but…

Atsumu had failed him. Even with his magic, he couldn’t stop Hinata from falling.

He just stood there, completely fucking useless, as his friend almost died right in front of him.

The edges of his watch dig into his palm as he hides under the covers, drawing on his magic again and again to stop the hands from turning. Each attempt is as pathetic as the last, but he goes until he spends every ounce of magic and every drop of energy inside him.

He has to work harder.

He never wants to feel that helpless again. He’s not sure how many more people he can spare to Malek before he breaks for good.

— ⚡︎ —

When it rains, it pours.

Of all the memories Atsumu has of his brother, the one that visits his dreams is the one he never wanted to remember.

“Ya don’t think we have a duty to fight for our country? To help people?” Osamu shouts, close enough for Atsumu to feel the angry spittle on his face.

Atsumu scoffs, yanking on the pack in Osamu’s hands–the one filled with enough supplies for the journey to Basgiath.

“Yer lettin’ Dad get in yer head. Ya don’t have to waste yer life fightin’ for a country that doesn’t give a shit about ya back.”

The pack is caught in a tug of war between them. Osamu digs his heels into the floor as he pulls back.

“It’s got nothin’ ta do with Dad!” he shouts. “I want to fight, Tsumu. I do.” 

“The war’s been goin’ for a hundred years, Samu!” Atsumu yanks back harder. “Ya really think you can make any difference?”

“I can try!”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll get chewed up and spit out, and not a single godsdamn thing will ever fuckin’ change!” With one big heave, he rips the pack from Osamu’s grip.

Osamu’s empty hands fly up. “Stayin’ here is the only way that things won’t ever change!”

“Ya can’t do this,” Atsumu shakes his head, knuckles paling over Osamu’s pack. He can’t fucking breathe. The walls are crushing in around him. And his brother keeps pulling away. When he looks back up, Osamu is nothing but a silver blob in his blurring vision. “Ya can’t just leave me, Samu.” 

“I’m not–”

“Ya ain’t goin’!” Atsumu rips the zipper down in a panic and starts throwing its contents to their bedroom floor. “Ya promised we would stay together!”

“Tsumu, cut it the fuck out!” Osamu finally reaches in and gets a grip on one of the straps. The pack is caught again in their warring grips, spilling even more contents onto the floor. “We aren’t kids anymore.”

“What, so yer just a liar then?” Atsumu blinks and Osamu's face comes back to sharpness as hot tears streak down Atsumu’s cheeks. “None of our promises ever meant shit to ya?”

They’re all each other has, how could he just walk away?

Osamu tries to backtrack.

“That’s not true, it’s just–”

Atsumu doesn’t let him.

“You are so fuckin’ selfish!” He spits the words like venom over the split open canvas.

“Selfish!?” Osamu balks, letting go of the bag and sending Atsumu reeling back.

Atsumu tosses the bag to the floor, over all the shit that was stuffed inside it. “You’d really choose a war over yer own brother?”

Osamu’s fist twists into his shirt, and a hiss passes through his teeth. “For once in our fuckin’ lives, it’s not actually about you, Tsumu.”

The silver moon necklace bounces on Osamu’s sternum as his chest heaves beneath it.

The matching opal necklaces their mother gave them. The symbols of the promise they made to always look after each other.

All of it was a lie.

“Fine,” Atsumu says, shoving Osamu back. A fresh wave of tears spring free, carving hot, wet tracks down his cheeks. “Go.”

He curls a fist around his own golden pendant and yanks. The chain snaps free on the back of his neck. He throws it on the floor and wrenches his mouth open to deliver the final blow.

By some sheer force of will, Atsumu cuts the memory off before it has a chance to reach the end.

He startles awake with the same hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

Golden magic ripples out around him and he quickly wipes his face in the few frozen seconds before anyone else wakes up. He sits in his misery as long as his magic lets him.

— ⚡︎ —

Atsumu trudges through the next day like he’s wading through knee-high mud. He feigns as much normalcy as he can, but honestly he’s a shit liar.

He practices his magic throughout the day. The second he feels a drop in the well, he seizes the golden power only for it to sputter out after a few lousy seconds.

But he doesn’t let himself stop. He has to train his signet up. He never wants to be caught helpless again as someone he cares about is in trouble.

After dinner, Aran walks them toward the flex room instead of the tower, and Atsumu is relieved. He’d probably throw up if he had to see the crack in the wall that almost sent Hinata straight to Malek.

Dark mist swirls under his feet to match the darkness hanging over his head.

“I heard what happened,” Sakusa says, accosting Atsumu at the tail of the group as they cross into the room.

Atsumu glares at him. “Where the hell were you?”

Sakusa could’ve saved Hinata with his shadows. If he had actually fucking been there, instead of fucking off to gods know where. He could’ve done something when Atsumu couldn’t.

Sakusa reels back an imperceptible inch, before his face scrunches up into a scowl. “I was on a mission for Quade.”

Atsumu forces himself to take a steadying breath. It’s not fair to be mad at Sakusa, when he’s really mad at himself. For never being good enough. Not to save his friend. Not to stay for.

“Are you okay?” Sakusa’s hand moves from Atsumu’s arm to his shoulder.

Atsumu shrugs off the patronizing grip. “Wasn’t the one who fell off a cliff,” he says, forcing up a weak laugh. “‘M fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Sakusa frowns, curling his fists back into his pockets. “That’s not what I–”

Aran’s voice calls from inside, and Atsumu brushes past Sakusa without another word.

Sakusa doesn’t follow. Atsumu catches him shaking his head through the doorway before disappearing down the hall.

Atsumu folds his arms, settling at the edge of the little squad huddle. Aran is standing in front of them, holding a rolled piece of parchment in each of his hands.

“We need some volunteers for short flight correspondence missions,” he says. “Two pairs of two.”

Atsumu’s hands stay firmly tucked in his armpits.

It’s their last night at Montserrat. He’d rather spend it training up his signet and beating himself up when he inevitably fails. Again.

“You let the cadets go?” Hinata asks with sparkling eyes. A swirling breeze breaks out around him, ruffling his bright hair around his face. “On, like, real missions?”

“Why have cadets visit, if not for a little grunt work?” Aran says with a chuckle. “Only non-combat zones, though. Quade’s got some important messages that need deliverin’.”

“Ooh!” Hinata’s hand shoots up immediately. “Me!”

“You almost died yesterday, Shoyo,” Saeko reminds him, a gentle hand running over his mused hair and landing on the back of his neck. “Maybe take it easy for once?”

“She has a point,” Ryunosuke adds warily, giving Hinata a matching puppy dog face.

“I’m fine,” Hinata says, exasperated with all the fussing. “I want to go.”

They all look to Kita to be the voice of reason, but their squad leader is staring Hinata down with his glassy, truth-sayer stare, determining whether or not he really means it.

“Fine,” Kita says, with a nod. “But, yer with me then.”

Aran hands them a sealed scroll and a leather carrying case to hold it. “For the Major at Shinzen.”

“Yes sir!” Hinata practically shouts, bubbling over at the promise of his first real mission.

“Now, I just need two more volunteers,” Aran says, waving the second parchment around, like he’s waiting for them to jump at the chance for extra grunt work over an early bedtime.

Arans shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Aww c’mon now. This one’s quick. Just a hop over the mountain to Fukurodani and back.”

Bokuto’s arm shoots into the air. Atsumu’s immediately follows.

Finally, a ray of sun breaking through the storm. A small pinprick of hope.

Aran raises a brow at Atsumu, seeing as he was trying to hide behind Kita before the mention of their destination.

Atsumu bounces on his toes, waving his hand even higher in the air. He tries telepathically communicating with Aran by series of eye gestures, to him and to Bokuto, and mouthing, “please”, “please” and “pretty please”.

“You two.” Aran hands them a rolled scroll with a shiny black seal, imprinted with the striking dragon crest of the rider’s quadrant. “To Fukurodani. I’ll have Marbh brief your dragons on where to land. Hand deliver this to the master smith at Skyforge.”

Bokuto takes the letter with a sharp breath of air. He nods his head, standing up straight against the wobble of his bottom lip.

“Yes sir,” he says, crossing the scroll over his heart.

Aran dismisses them with a nod and Bokuto starts sprinting down the halls. Atsumu is barely able to keep on his heels.

“Atsumu,” he stops suddenly so Atsumu runs straight into him. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

“What?” Atsumu asks.

“The letter,” Bokuto breathes out, turning to show the water dancing in his bright yellow eyes, “it’s for my Pa.”