Archive of Our Own ^beta

Atsumu’s cigarette burns slow, the ember trembling in the midnight wind, like it’s afraid to vanish before him. He leans against the railing, the glow casting his face in amber, a little too pretty for the hour.

“You’re gonna die early,” Sakusa says from behind, voice quiet, not judgmental. Just… observing, like he always does.

“That’s the point,” Atsumu exhales, and the smoke curls up between them, twisting into shapes that dissolve before Sakusa can catch them.

It’s been years since they were just teammates, longer still since they stopped pretending that was all they were. But some nights—especially nights like this, with the air too thick and the city lights aching in the distance—they slip back into it. Into the language only they speak, made of glances and pauses and half-finished thoughts.

Sakusa steps closer, the faint smell of his detergent cutting through the nicotine haze. He rests his elbow beside Atsumu’s on the railing. Neither of them looks at the other. They never do, not when it feels this fragile.

“I still think about the beach,” Sakusa says, suddenly. “The first training camp. You wouldn’t shut up.”

Atsumu grins without looking. “And you wouldn’t stop starin’.”

Sakusa doesn’t deny it.

They stand like that, remembering the things they don’t say out loud—the summer sun, the salt on their skin, the ridiculous way Atsumu had laughed when Sakusa almost smiled. The smell of sweat and sand. The clumsy beginnings of something neither of them had the courage to name.

The cigarette burns down to the filter. Atsumu drops it, crushing the ember under his heel, watching the light die.

“Gotta go,” Sakusa murmurs, already turning away.

Atsumu doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t call out. He just stays there with the smoke still clinging to his hair and the taste of the past stuck in his mouth, wondering how something so brief could last so long.

Atsumu lights another cigarette before the echo of Sakusa’s footsteps disappears down the hall. The flame flickers against his face, a brief imitation of warmth, and then it’s gone—just the ember and the cold.

He inhales too deep, lets the smoke scratch its way down. Maybe it’ll fill the space Sakusa leaves behind every time. It never does.

The city hums below, restless. Somewhere, a car horn blares, and laughter spills from a bar two streets over. Atsumu watches it all like he’s outside of it, like life is happening a few layers away from him.

He doesn’t hear the door, but he feels Sakusa come back—footsteps soft, deliberate. There’s a pause before he steps out again, like he had to decide whether to.

“You didn’t leave,” Sakusa says, almost like he’s surprised.

“Wasn’t plannin’ to,” Atsumu answers. He doesn’t turn around.

The silence stretches. Sakusa shifts his weight, his sleeve brushing Atsumu’s arm. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Why do you do it?” Sakusa asks finally, nodding at the cigarette.

Atsumu shrugs. “Keeps my hands busy. Gives my mouth somethin’ to do when I ain’t talkin’.”

“You’re always talking.”

“That’s just ‘cause you’re always listenin’.”

Sakusa huffs—something almost like a laugh but not quite. The sound lands between them, delicate as the ash falling from Atsumu’s cigarette.

They stand there, side by side, staring out at a skyline that doesn’t care about them. Atsumu remembers the beach again—not just the sun and the sand, but the moment in the water when Sakusa had dunked his head under, pretending it was nothing, but his hand had lingered on Atsumu’s neck a second too long. The kind of second that changes you.

Atsumu wants to ask if Sakusa remembers it the same way. But Sakusa’s gaze is fixed ahead, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

When the second cigarette dies, Atsumu doesn’t light another. He just flicks the filter into the dark and lets his empty hands hang uselessly at his sides.

Sakusa shifts again, like he’s about to say something—something real—but then the words collapse in his throat.

Instead, he says, “It’s late.”

Atsumu nods. “Yeah.”

This time, when Sakusa turns to go, Atsumu almost calls after him. Almost.

The door shuts softly, leaving Atsumu alone with the smoke and the night, both fading too fast.

The morning slips in pale and tired, sunlight filtered through blinds like it’s too shy to touch either of them.

Atsumu wakes to the sound of a kettle in the kitchen, the quiet clink of ceramic. His head is heavy with last night’s smoke, the taste of ash still on his tongue. He drags a hand through his hair and sits up, the sheets cooling fast without Sakusa beside him.

When he pads into the kitchen, Sakusa is leaning against the counter, cradling his mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His curls are damp, shirt clinging faintly to his shoulders.

“You left early,” Atsumu says, voice rough, though he means you left me out there with nothing but the cold.

“You stayed out late.” Sakusa’s not looking at him—he’s watching the steam curl upward from his cup.

Atsumu leans on the opposite counter, arms folded. “Didn’t realize there was a curfew.”

“There’s not.”

The words are clipped, but there’s something underneath—something that makes Atsumu push. “Then what’s your problem?”

Sakusa’s gaze finally lifts, sharp but tired. “You stand there, chain-smoking, talking about dying early like it’s a joke, and I’m supposed to… what? Pretend it doesn’t bother me?”

Atsumu smirks without any real humor. “Ya always did hate my bad habits.”

“I hate watching you burn yourself out like this.” The words come quick, almost too quick, and then hang in the air like the smell of cigarettes.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Atsumu swallows, tongue heavy with things he’ll regret saying if he starts. “You didn’t seem to mind back then,” he says instead, low. “On the beach. In the locker room. All those nights—”

“That was different,” Sakusa cuts in, but his voice falters on the last word.

“Different how?” Atsumu’s closer now, the space between them gone before either of them notices. “’Cause it felt the same to me. Feels the same now.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens. “That’s the problem.”

For a second, they just breathe, the morning light catching in Sakusa’s eyes, the air between them hot with all the years they’ve been circling the same point and never stepping into it.

Atsumu wants to kiss him. He also wants to break something.

Instead, he reaches past Sakusa for the kettle, their shoulders brushing. “Yer coffee’s gettin’ cold,” he says, not looking at him.

When he pours his own cup, the steam curls between them like last night’s smoke—warm for a moment, then gone.

It happens in the late afternoon, the light slanting gold and tired across the apartment floor. Atsumu’s on the couch, sprawled out like he owns the place, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. The TV’s on, low, playing some match neither of them is really watching.

Sakusa’s at the table, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, his knee bouncing in a steady rhythm that grates at Atsumu’s nerves.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa doesn’t look up. “You’re gonna wear out your lungs.”

It’s too sharp, too quick, and Atsumu lets out a humorless laugh. “Always back to that, huh?”

“It’s not about the cigarettes.”

“Then what’s it about?” Atsumu sits up, elbows on his knees, watching him. “Go on, Omi. Enlighten me.”

Sakusa sets his phone down, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s about you never stopping. Not with the smoking, not with the late nights, not with—” He breaks off, swallows. “Not with us.”

Atsumu’s brow furrows. “Not with us?”

“You keep me here just close enough,” Sakusa says, his voice steady in that terrifying way, “but never close enough to stay.”

The words hit harder than Atsumu expects. He tries for a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

Sakusa’s mouth tightens. “Maybe. But at least I know I’m doing it.”

There’s a silence that feels like the room’s holding its breath.

Atsumu leans back, exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “You think I don’t want you to stay?” His voice is low, like he’s not sure he wants Sakusa to hear the answer.

“I think,” Sakusa says carefully, “you’re too afraid to find out what happens if I do.”

That lands somewhere deep and ugly. Atsumu wants to argue, to throw every night they’ve shared, every look, every unspoken thing in Sakusa’s face. But he can’t. Because Sakusa’s right.

And that’s the worst part.

Atsumu stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray a little too hard. “You’re still here, ain’t ya?”

Sakusa stands. Picks up his jacket. “For now.”

He doesn’t slam the door when he leaves. That would’ve been easier. He closes it soft, and that’s what hurts—the kind of quiet that says this isn’t the first time we’ve done this, and it won’t be the last.

Atsumu stays on the couch, staring at the empty space Sakusa leaves behind, the air still warm where he’d been. The match on TV goes into a replay. Somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle ticks as it cools.

And in the haze of smoke and late-afternoon light, Atsumu finally says it out loud—to no one but himself.

“I wanted you to stay.”

It doesn’t fix anything.