Archive of Our Own ^omega

“Could you stop being a twat just once in your life?”

“Didn’t finishin’ school teach ya not to use such crude words, your highness?”

“Only to humans deserving of respect. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dirt under everyone’s shoes.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause you’re any better. ‘As far as I’m concerned’, Omi-kun, you’re the only one in this room with no family that shows up in the stands.”

Kiyoomi recoils as if Atsumu’s words physically burned him.

And in his defence, the moment they’d slipped out of his mouth, he’d regretted it immediately. He knows he’d cocked up: stooping the lowest low one could stoop. If the drop in his stomach wasn’t enough of an indicator, the horrified faces on the rest of their teammates now filter in through his peripheral vision.

Atsumu watches as Kiyoomi’s face scrunches, cycling quickly through despair, anger, bone-deep humiliation, then a potent kind of hatred that makes him burn in shame.

He hadn’t meant to explode in the middle of practice. He hadn’t meant to get into this with Kiyoomi today, especially not so close to a match with the Adlers.

But God, Kiyoomi just gets him so fucking angry.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Kiyoomi hisses, quiet and terrifying and so, so resentful. He begins to step up, closing on Atsumu and bunching his collar up in his white-knuckled fist. “I hate you. I really hate you, Miya.”

Atsumu sneers as the guilt ebbs away, making more room for the rage that bubbles beneath his skin. “Feelin’s mutual.”

And then:

“Oh, fuck!” Bokuto’s far away voice yells, breaking through their bubble of hatred. “Watch out—”

Simultaneously, Atsumu and Kiyoomi turn their heads.

Perhaps Bokuto had broken a world record that day, because they had less than a split second to register the blur of yellow and blue bulletting towards their heads before it all went black.

***

Hurts.

Atsumu snaps his eyes open, shooting up from the floor. His head turns wildly, observing his environment: they’re still in the gym, but now, Hinata’s teary face is disturbingly close to his, and Bokuto is bawling as he holds both Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s hands to his chest like a mourning widow.

There’s an ache blooming in his head, and only then does he remember the ball and the fight that caused his usually alert mind to forget itself.

My head hurts really bad, Miya, you jackass! If only you’d set the ball properly—

With an indignant shriek, he whips around to scowl at Kiyoomi beside him. “Oh, so now it’s my fault that ya couldn’t hit my damn sets?”

Briefly, Kiyoomi’s furious face flickers with confusion. It doesn’t last long. It lasts a grand total of the time it takes to blink before he’s right back to glaring at Atsumu. “Are you dim? Yes!”

Atsumu scoffs, rolling his eyes. The headache doesn’t subside; in fact, it worsens when Kiyoomi sees the blatant action of disrespect. Somehow, the anger he feels rushes in doubled, crashing in once, then twice.

What would Kiyoomi know about setting anyway? Atsumu is the best setter in Japan, not him.

“Oh, sorry,” Kiyoomi sneers. “Did you suddenly become Kageyama Tobio during the full moon last night? I must’ve missed the transformation.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but closes it as he furrows his brows. Did he say that out loud?

Kiyoomi’s face begins to mirror Atsumu’s hesitation. But the fire still burns inside him, so, with eerie reluctance and a newfound uncertainty, Kiyoomi says: “Yes?”

Did Miya get a concussion? Is he okay?

“Why do ya care so suddenly?” Atsumu snaps, planing his palms on the floor before pushing himself up. Hinata is by his side immediately, steadying him with firm hands gripping his arms. 

If only he’d been assigned with Hinata for this exercise— maybe he wouldn’t be so close to homicide today.

Bokuto does the same for Kiyoomi who stands up at the same moment, eyes now fluttering in disbelief and what seems like delirium. “I would’ve killed to be partnered up with anyone but you too.”

“Right then, is this conversation makin’ any sense to anyone else?” Inunaki bellows abruptly, dragging their attention from sending stink eyes to each other. “Be honest. Did I get a concussion somehow?”

“No,” Hinata says, slow and wary. He eyes both Atsumu and Kiyoomi with the kind of intensity that makes them both visibly wilt, gazes sliding anywhere but each other. “I don’t really understand it either.”

Idiots.

“You’re a fuckin’ jerk, ya know that?” Atsumu whips around, pointing an accusatory finger at Kiyoomi who merely raises a challenging eyebrow. “They’re tryin’ to help after ya fucked up practice and got us both hurt!”

Kiyoomi huffs in exasperation, then winces in what seems like pain. It delights Atsumu to see him suffer like this.

Like you’re so blameless.

“Yeah, I’m blameless, ‘cause I’m fuckin’ right all the time and you’re just a scrub—”

“Ya both sound crazy right now.”

Atsumu’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence as everyone turns to Meian. In the most odd way, the expression he wears is pensive, thoughtfully observing the pair currently at each other’s throats.

There’s a silence that hangs. It takes a second before Meian speaks again, and this time, much like every other time he commands the room, everyone hangs onto his every word.

“Sakusa didn’t say anything, but Atsumu responded as if he did,” Meian murmurs, and beside Atsumu, Hinata blinks before nodding in agreement.

What?

The headache that assaulted his brain ceases for a moment. This time, the only thing that floods Atsumu’s veins is confusion. 

He’s staring intensely at Meian’s face, still fixed on the ball that had caused this all, before an uneasy feeling creeps up from the back of his head, replacing uncertainty.

One thing’s for sure: the sensation is foreign.

He feels it. It’s in him. But it’s not his.

No. 

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

The trepidation that fills his chest, spilling from his mind? It wasn’t his. Because he doesn't know what to be wary about.

But as he slowly turns his head to face Kiyoomi, it seems that from the look on his terrified face, he knows it very well.

Atsumu hears it: Kiyoomi’s voice, loud and clear, even though he’s staring at him right now and his lips haven’t moved an inch.

Fuck my life.

Then, it clicks.

Shit, Atsumu thinks. 

Kiyoomi is in his head with him.

They lock eyes. This time, it’s not because they want to murder each other in cold blood right there on the court. 

This time, it’s because of the daunting realisation that they’re completely— and quite literally— stuck with each other.

It takes everything in Atsumu not to pass out.

“How is this even possible?” Kiyoomi all but yells, looking as frazzled as Atsumu felt. He whips around to Inunaki, squinting in distaste. “Get him out!”

“Oh, ‘course, let me jus’ pull my wand out of my pocket and abracadabra this away for ya,” Inunaki deadpans. When Kiyoomi continues looking at him expectantly, he throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Whad’dya want us to do about it? I don’t actually have a wand, we can’t do shit!”

Kiyoomi’s glare deepens.

Atsumu’s head gets louder. It’s too much— there’s only room in his head for one. But now, there’s two voices, speaking and overlapping and colliding with each other, blanketed by the staticky yet consuming waves of emotions that don’t belong to him.

Kiyoomi is agitated and annoyed, and he feels it. He feels it buzzing in his blood, in his brain, and in turn, he is forced to fight a behemoth of a headache.

“Stop it,” Atsumu snaps, catching Kiyoomi’s frantic and fiery eyes. “Can ya calm down?”

Which, in hindsight, was probably not the best thing to say, because it only aggravated Kiyoomi even more. Atsumu winces, feeling rage crawl its way up his throat.

“Calm down? Calm down?” Then, terrifyingly, Kiyoomi begins to laugh. “I’d have to be sedated.”

“I can knock ya out right now if ya prefer to be unconscious,” Atsumu hisses, at which Kiyoomi sneers right back. But Atsumu has to squeeze his eyes shut at the new rush of pain that laces through his head, and suddenly, Kiyoomi’s anger wavers just so.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu frowns in response. It hurts. Can ya just ease up? Please?

When Atsumu finds the strength to look up, he meets Kiyoomi’s gaze. What he sees was, surprisingly, omething other than ire and reluctant tolerance. No, the stare he receives is almost soft in a way.

—And Kiyoomi must have heard that thought too, because it immediately shutters off, back to the stone-cold demeanor he’s very intimately familiar with.

Why did Atsumu expect him to act human? It’s hard for those without hearts to feign humanity.

Kiyoomi’s fists shake beside him. A storm brews behind his eyes, and now, Miya doesn’t even need to be looking at him to feel it. “Fuck you, Miya.”

“No, fuck you!” Atsumu yells right back.

***

“Okay, let’s just relax,” Tomas says with a strained smile. He’s crouched beside Atsumu, who sits cross-legged before a wall, gently tapping his forehead back and forth on the concrete. “Uh, don’t hurt yourself please—”

“Miya, can you shut the fuck up?” Kiyoomi shrieks from the opposite side of the gymnasium, looking one more noise away from popping a blood vessel even though Atsumu hasn’t uttered a word.

Atsumu’s eye twitches as he whirls around, fighting the urge to slip off his shoe and hurl it right at Kiyoomi’s face. “Oh, ya can fuck off! You’re the jackoff that keeps repeatin’ get out, get out as if that’s helpin’ at all! Well news flash, buddy, the only thing you’re doin’ is makin’ me want to bash my head in!”

“That was the goal,” Kiyoomi hisses. “Your timely death is the only way to get you to stop invading my space.”

Atsumu nearly rips his hair out. He’s going to lose it. “I can’t have him in my fuckin’ head! He’s insane!”

“Me? I’m insane? You’re the one who can’t stop calling me names like an emotionally stunted twelve year old!”

Atsumu scoffs. I’ll stop callin’ ya a cunt when ya stop bein’ one.

I’ll do that when you stop existing. Your move, Miya.

Nah. I’ve checkmated ya.

What? Do you even play chess?

None of yer business.

“Oh. It’s finally quiet,” Adriah sighs dreamily, spine finally relaxing into the silence. “Peace.”

“How could this even happen?” Kiyoomi demands. He turns to Bokuto with a stare so intense he couldn’t help but flinch away. “What did you do to us?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know, I’m so sorry!” Bokuto babbles in response, looking a word away from bursting into hysterical tears. “I can call Akaashi. Maybe he’ll know what to do! He reads books and stuff, and maybe—”

“Ya think there’ll be a cure to magical mind-sharin’ in the library?” Atsumu cuts in as he sighs in resignation.

Bokuto’s watery eyes blink cluelessly at them. Beside Atsumu, Kiyoomi clicks his tongue in annoyance, turning away to pace.

Idiot. Hate. Moron. Strangle.

Atsumu huffs, trying to keep Kiyoomi’s displeasure at bay. Hey. ‘Twas an accident.

Kiyoomi briefly stops pacing to slide his gaze over to Atsumu over his cold shoulder. One that wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t a fool.

“Ya know what?” Meian says with a sparkle in his eye. If Atsumu wasn’t so distracted by verbally unleashing all the insults in his mental vault upon an indignant Kiyoomi who was twitching in barely contained anger, he would’ve witnessed the beginning of the end. “This could work for us.”

“Because they’ll finally shut up?” Inunaki suggests earnestly.

“No. I mean, partly, but no,” Meian smiles. “Think about it. A setter and a hitter with a link that is literally telepathic. This could be perfect.”

The rest of the team look at each other. A few moments of deliberation pass— then— they all break out into bright smiles.

…while you were probably raised by farm animals.

And ya were raised by robots with sticks perpetually up their mechanical asses!

What?

Robots. ‘Cause you’re an unfeeling stone cold bitch. Are ya stupid now too?

No, not you, moron. Kiyoomi purses his lips, subtly jerking his head towards their right. They’re staring at us.

They turn at the same time.

It’s eerie, and they watch as their teammates' expressions drop just a little at the uncanny movement. But then their smiles come back much wider, brighter, and Atsumu knows they’re brewing something in that shared hivebrain of theirs that both he and Kiyoomi would hate.

It reveals itself not a second later, when Meian steps forward, clapping his hands together in the way captains do.

Like muscle memory, Atsumu immediately stands to attention, and beside him, Kiyoomi shoots him a look before doing the same.

“You two will try to exercise this new… skill… for our next match,” Meian declares. Immediately, both Atsumu and Kiyoomi open their mouths to object, but Meian’s stern stare hardens into one that says there’s really going to be no debate. “It’ll be good for the team. Do it for us. Ya lot can get along, right?”

No way in hell.

Shut up, Miya.

You shut up you piece of—

“Fine,” Kiyoomi huffs, looking like he’s walking towards a guillotine and frowning so hard he looks like he’ll have permanent lines on his forehead. “But let the record show that I would rather lick a public toilet twice over.”

Then, Kiyoomi’s scathing gaze slides over to Atsumu.

And by the way, I’m not projected to have wrinkles before the age of forty. You, on the other hand, already have them.

Oh, go fuck yourself, Omi!

“Noted,” Meian says, resigned. “Well. Ya two hurry on to the clinic. Get yer heads checked for somethin’ other than your usual type of crazy.”

Atsumu shoots up from his position, sending a glare over his shoulder. Kiyoomi flips him off.

Hope ya drop dead.

See you in hell then, Miya.

***

It seems that hell was much closer than Atsumu expected.

He didn’t even have to die to reach it. No, the gates were Bokuto’s misfired serve and the fiery pits were the insight into Kiyoomi’s inane thoughts.

Shower.

Water plants.

Miya. Moron.

Call mother.

I hate him. Smother him with a pillow.

Sunset. Pleasant.

Laundry.

Pour bleach all over Miya’s clothes.

It was a feat that he didn’t throw himself into oncoming traffic.

More often than not, the stream of boring garbage would halt for a second, in which Kiyoomi would turn his head to scowl at Atsumu. Perhaps it would be because his thoughts had interrupted Kiyoomi’s, and really, wasn’t that a treat for them both?

Halfway into their journey, Kiyoomi’s mental tangent about eating uni nigiri tonight paused. Probably because Atsumu had smirked and deliberately cut in with a flouncy: That would be cannabis, y’know.

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes. Atsumu knows this because he feels Kiyoomi’s irritation spike down his spine. What are you talking about now?

Eating uni. That’s your family, Omi-kun. Spiky and prickly.

You know it’s cannibalism. You’re just saying that to mess with me, aren’t you?

To-mah-to, to-may-to. Same thing.

I hate you. Seriously, I hate you.

And the unexpected happens. Atsumu laughs.

He does so quietly, not so loud that it echoes through the sparsely populated street, but loud enough for Hinata to raise an eyebrow, his concerned gaze flickering between Kiyoomi and Atsumu.

“What was that?” Hinata whispers, nudging Atsumu as he tilts his head in curiosity.

“Nothin’,” Atsumu shakes his head with the remnants of a smile lingering on his lips. “Jus’ thought of somethin’ funny, that’s all.”

Hinata blinks before he shrugs, sending him a friendly smile. “Sure!”

When Atsumu turned back, Kiyoomi had already walked much further. The distance between them was vast, yet Atsumu could feel him right there, as if they were walking side-by-side.

Shut up, Miya. Let me think.

Atsumu smirks. Nah, I don’t think I will.

Somehow, tens of feet away, he hears Kiyoomi sigh.

***

You look stupid when you’re about to set.

The ball makes contact with Atsumu’s fingertips only for it to slip from his grasp, botching the set that Kiyoomi barely hits. Atsumu groans, whipping around to point an accusatory finger at Kiyoomi, raising a judgemental eyebrow.

“What the hell was that for?” Atsumu yells. “Ya did that on purpose!”

Like the little shit he is, Kiyoomi blinks, as if he was totally clueless. “Did what on purpose?”

“Ya know what ya said!”

“If you’re unable to set properly, Miya, you shouldn’t blame me for your incompetence.”

Atsumu scoffs, laughing in disbelief. “Yeah? You’re gonna be unable to eat solid foods when I punch ya in the damn throat—”

“Okay,” Meian interrupts, looking worn. Atsumu has enough self-awareness to acknowledge that, with both him and Kiyoomi’s emotions running high, they’re probably the biggest causes of the white hairs popping up on Meian’s head. Yes, that observation takes into consideration Meian’s two-year-old twin girls. “This ain’t workin’.”

“Ya think?” Atsumu huffs, only to shiver at a feeling that runs down his spine. Oddly enough, the sensation felt like he was being scolded via his own neurons. After a pause, he side-eyes Kiyoomi, who returns his ire with an impassive blink.

He huffs again, lowering his head begrudgingly as he faces Meian once more. “No, it ain’t. But only ‘cause someone won’t grow up.”

From Kiyoomi’s direction, Atsumu hears a scoffed laugh. That’s for sure.

Shaddap.

“Have ya both considered just…” Adriah speaks up from the opposite side of the court, smiling at them appeasingly through the net. “Not being completely unreceptive to each other?”

“It’s impossible,” Kiyoomi declares, all by himself. “His entire existence is unpalatable.”

Atsumu snaps his fingers, perking up like a lightbulb had lit up in his head. “Oh, I got it! He’s fuckin’ annoyin’ ‘cause he’s got a dictionary wedged up his ass!”

“Stop it. We aren’t doin’ this for the fifth time,” Meian grunts. He leans down, swiping the volleyball that just happened to stop by his feet, and throwing it back to Kiyoomi, who catches it with a grimace on his face. “Try again. Kiyoomi, stop provokin’ Atsumu.”

When Kiyoomi bristles, Atsumu feels it. Alongside his satisfaction at seeing him get in trouble, of course.

Apparently, feeling things now gets him in trouble, because Kiyoomi didn’t make it easy for him to set the ball at all. As if he was expelling his resentment, he lobs the ball in the laziest way possible somewhere Atsumu had to run to, and frankly, if it weren’t for Atsumu’s brilliance, the set would have been impossible.

Oops. Sorry, Kiyoomi drawls mentally.

Atsumu curses under his breath. But he runs through the burn in his legs, just enough to reach the ball in time. He scans the court, lets his eyes glaze over Kiyoomi, and pushes himself to the limit.

Now, Atsumu demands.

Their eyes meet. The air tightens but loosens just as quick as Kiyoomi takes the first steps into his approach.

Kiyoomi’s eyes roam the court. Hinata’s late. Seam’s open.

Atsumu gets under the ball, straining his thighs, and makes perfect contact.

Copy. All yours, Omi.

The rough leather of the ball brushes his fingertips.

And then the ball is tossed into the air with the precision of a hawk. 

For a split second, he feels something other than his own pride. 

This time, the awe that radiates minutely from his chest isn’t his own.

There’s a brief pause; one so brief that it’s nearly inconsequential, because as Kiyoomi reaches his jump’s apex, their link quietens.

Then, whispered in the euphoric silence that feels much like the early morning sun spilling into his childhood home:

Brilliant.

Atsumu nearly falls on his ass. 

He manages to catch himself just in time to see the way the ball breaks through the three-person block, exploiting the almost imperceptible delay in Hinata’s jump. It slams into the court with a bang that reverberates through the gymnasium, followed only by the sound of Kiyoomi’s feet returning to land.

No one speaks. No one breathes. No one moves until Kiyoomi does, turning to Atsumu with a bewildered look.

And then, something happens.

Atsumu tightens his fists at the happiness that surges through him. 

And for the first time, perhaps maybe in their entire lifetime, Kiyoomi smiles at him. 

Brilliant, Miya.

Despite himself, Atsumu exhales a breathless laugh.

Around them, their teammates have melted out of their frozen stupor. Hinata is screaming and Bokuto is jumping, but for some reason, Atsumu can’t take his eyes off of the man he’d just been cursing not minutes ago.

Nothing comes to mind about why that could be. So, he merely returns the awestruck smile, swallowing as Kiyoomi nods at him. That’s all you, Omi.

“—and it went like bam! That was so cool, Omi-san!” Hinata exclaims, eyes sparkling as he runs circles around the both of them. “Atsumu-san, how did you get to the ball so quickly? Oh, I’m getting a stomachache, this is way too cool—”

Inunaki is grinning from ear to ear, but of course, not as much as Meian.

“I knew it,” Meian all but yells, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. “I knew that if ya both grew up and acted like adults, this would be a weapon.”

Atsumu doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he purses his lips and turns to the ball basket, looking up at Kiyoomi with a glint in his eyes. “Again?”

There’s a certain heaviness that settles in Atsumu’s chest. Something that felt like a few years ago when Osamu had told him he was quitting volleyball and he had entered a state of deliberation between beating the shit out of him or clapping him on his shoulder and congratulating him.

The memory pops up unbidden, and by the look on Kiyoomi’s face, he’s seen the memory, too. He’s felt the memory.

Perhaps that was why he’d turned away, nodding once. “Again.”

***

That moment when it didn’t feel so much like a death sentence to have Sakusa Kiyoomi in his head?

Yeah. That was over.

It was over the moment they’d stepped out of the gymnasium, filing out into the winter cold.

Shit, my balls are about to freeze off.

Miya.

What? It’s true.

Your mouth is so foul.

Well, yer ma seemed to think otherwise last night.

Die.

It was even more over when they stumbled into the sharehouse, and Kiyoomi had planted his gloved palm on Atsumu’s face to shove him into the doorway wall to make more space for his absurdly huge coat. He thrashed in place, attempting to resist the inhuman force Kiyoomi was exerting.

When his grip loosened, Atsumu saw an opportunity to retaliate, but Kiyoomi immediately caught a whiff of the plan brewing in his thoughts and pressed his head into the wall even more.

Let up, jerk!

I’m not letting your filthy hands go anywhere near my face.

I promise I won’t do it!

Your promises mean nothing to me. And I’m in your head, nitwit. I know you’re lying.

Then in the laundry room, when Kiyoomi had sniffed and snarled at Atsumu specifically even though both Hinata and Bokuto smelled like corpses right beside them.

Repulsive.

Fuck you!

Creative response. Very classy.

Fuck. you.

It continued throughout dinner, when Atsumu had to fight killer headaches from the multiple sources of aggravating noise. It didn’t even stop when Atsumu had tucked himself to bed.

Well. This one might have been his fault. 

Deliberately.

As he settled beneath the covers, he felt a calm settle over his bones. The relaxing sensation is doubled today, and wow, it might just be the only good thing born from this fucked up situation.

Of course, he had to ruin that. Who would Miya Atsumu be if not absolutely and utterly aggravating?

He smirks slightly when he thinks: Would ya mind if I jacked off right now?

Static fills the line, and an overwhelming rush of pure, foreign terror hits him square in the gut. Atsumu can’t help the laugh that rips out of his throat, echoing through his room and probably the entire sharehouse.

Miya, I will kill you. Seriously. I will kill you and no one will find your body.

He cackles into the night, wiping away the tears that had beaded at the corners of his eyes. I’m kiddin’. Relax.

There’s a pause, but Atsumu feels the horror ebb away in small batches.

It wasn’t funny. You’re sickening.

Ya seem stressed. Factually, a jerkin’ session would really help ya out right now—

Miya!

Amidst his laughing fits, he realises that maybe, this doesn’t have to be horrible.

He’ll make the most of it before they find a cure, and what better way to pass that time by slowly torturing Kiyoomi into insanity?

***

That had been his plan, anyway.

But sometimes, in odd moments, Atsumu would catch Kiyoomi off guard.

They can’t really forget that another person is in their head with them, hearing their every thought. But when one person is too quiet for a short period of time, an illusion of safety and isolation is drawn up, and mundane thoughts that would usually be locked and controlled slip out every so often.

Kiyoomi is already making a home in a corner of his head, and in the gentle pockets of calm in their mostly chaotic days, he finds the quiet mumbling of thoughts that aren’t his own a little comforting.

During their first practice match since The Accident, the other team’s middle blocker was particularly cocky: the kind of cocky that pissed even Atsumu off, because he had neither the passion nor the skill to back it up.

Yet no one else seemed to pick up on his asshole-ry. After the second set, one they’d won, the man had smiled a slimy smile, sarcastically congratulating them for their win. Hinata had been raving about his kindness and Adriah had nodded along, regaling everyone with plans to invite the other team out for dinner afterwards.

So, as they settle back into position, he hears Kiyoomi huff a silent breath. Then:

Obnoxious prick.

It was obvious he didn’t mean to let it out. He turns to Atsumu, lips pursing together as panic creeps up at the back of Atsumu’s head.

Only when Atsumu nods esoterically, nudging his head towards the direction of the jerk, that Kiyoomi’s eyebrows ease up. Wanna humiliate him? 

At that, Kiyoomi’s eyes light up. Like, seriously light up. A ghost of a smile grazes over his lips as he straightens up. Please.

Atsumu grins. I’ll set ya up, Omi. Grind that motherfucker into dust.

Kiyoomi ducks his head after that. But Atsumu feels the smile that he couldn’t stop, and with a newfound determination to become karma itself, he locks eyes with the obnoxious prick in question, sending him a sickly sweet smirk that promises nothing but trouble.

The whistle blows.

The ball enters the air. It goes back and forth.

They lose points. They gain a lot more.

And then Hinata crouches, the ball rebounding perfectly from his forearms, heading straight towards Atsumu.

This angle, this moment.

It’s both him and Kiyoomi’s voice he hears when they declare it’s perfect.

The audience blinks, and the whistle blows.

On the other side of the net, the middle blocker swears under his breath. He’s sneering right at Kiyoomi, who had, surprisingly, not been staring at him.

No, because Kiyoomi was staring at Atsumu.

Atsumu swallows under the weight of the gaze. He doesn’t understand it, even when he should. Even when he’s inside Kiyoomi’s head with him.

It’s different. It’s new. It’s never been there before.

But something flickers and it disappears, replaced but the usual look of impassiveness that he’d grown familiar with.

Good toss.

Atsumu takes his bottom lip under his teeth. Good score.

***

On the bench, Atsumu is burying his head in his towel—

Thirsty.

—while moving to stretch his other arm out, handing Kiyoomi his water bottle.

After a few beats of godly patience and he’s still holding it, cramping his arm muscles in the process, he peeks his eye out from under the towel, endeavouring to catch Kiyoomi’s attention so he could take the damn bottle.

He’s met with Kiyoomi’s attention, all right. With raised eyebrows, shock not only colours his features but also rushes through Atsumu, although a little belatedly.

It’s there though, and its mere presence causes a gentle heat to creep up Atsumu’s face, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed under the tension. “What?”

Kiyoomi seems to snap out of it quickly. He hastily turns away, grabbing the bottle and throwing it back in one fluid motion. When he resurfaces, water completely drained from the container, he rests it on the bench yet refuses to meet Atsumu’s eyes.

In the distance before them, Hinata cackles as Bokuto shows him something on his phone.

“Nothing,” Kiyoomi mutters, and from the sudden onslaught of indiscernible emotions that run through Atsumu, he can deduce with his excellent observational skills that it wasn’t nothing at all. “Thank you.”

Atsumu looks away. “Anytime.”

***

In the darkness of his room, Atsumu has come to two realisations.

Really, he wishes he would’ve just dropped dead instead. He’s lived a nice life. He’s been to the olympics, he’s playing on the same side of the court with his childhood heroes, he beat Kageyama for the top server spot for the first time in years, and he’s pretty damn certain that he’d won his and Osamu’s bet.

But tonight, he grapples with two truths.

One: the connection becomes duller the further away they are from each other. He can still catch small slivers of Kiyoomi’s emotions, but otherwise, no fully coherent thoughts presented themselves.

Atsumu found this out because Kiyoomi travelled to Shizuoka for the weekend, and he, for the first time in weeks, was alone— fully alone— free to think whatever he’d like.

So, when the opportunity arose, he, like the opportunist he was raised to be, took it by the neck and hung on for dear life.

The clock hadn’t yet struck five when he snatched his coat off the rack, slipping out of their sharehouse. He strides through the freezing sidewalks, still bathed in the winter darkness, with one goal in mind: get to Onigiri Miya without dying of hypothermia.

With everything that was going on, he hadn’t even had the chance to brief Osamu on his predicament.

It’s not that he didn’t trust Osamu— it’s that he didn’t trust himself to be able to control his emotions enough that Kiyoomi doesn’t get a whiff of what he was doing. Osamu, having the honour of being with him since the very start, has the resultant ability to read like him a book and draw the worst out of him.

So, yeah. He had to wait for the most opportune moment— one that presents itself on this random Saturday morning.

On a normal day around this time, he’d be awoken by Kiyoomi’s thoughts starting up, signalling the start of his day. His day would begin with foreign thoughts of coffee and warm breakfasts, followed by the perceptible padding of Kiyoomi’s feet along their floors just outside his door.

Today, a Kiyoomi-less day, he was woken up by his own body, having adapted to Kiyoomi’s habits despite the fact that he was miles away.

Atsumu was frozen on his bed for perhaps half of an hour before he scrambled out of it, sprinting towards the door.

“‘Samu,” Atsumu yells as he slams the door open, stomping his way into Onigiri Miya.

Osamu pops up from behind the counter, blinking in distaste. His frown is already too deep for an hour so early into the day, yet Atsumu ignores it, positioning himself on a stool at the bar.

“I’m fucked,” Atsumu declares, burying his head in his hands. “Seriously, I’ve never been so screwed in my fuckin’ life.”

And why is he fucked, one may ask?

This has everything to do with truth two: the fact that he is, horrifyingly, balls deep in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“It’s five in the mornin’,” Osamu says monotonously instead of being helpful. With a glare, Atsumu flips him off. “What? I’ve been up since four. I ain’t got no energy for your bullshit.”

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut. He ducks his head even further, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids as the silence stretches.

He hears Osamu shifting every so often, accompanied by the occasional clanging of metal pots and pans. But he doesn’t speak, so Atsumu doesn’t break the quiet they’ve settled into.

Instead, he holds his head in his hands, trying to ground himself by feeling the strands of his hair beneath his fingertips.

Something is missing in him. He felt empty in a way, like a link had snapped so suddenly. There’s no mindless commentary buzzing about his head. There’s no snark that bites back at his every thought. In his head, there’s silence: nothing but his own mind and the thoughts he’d rather not entertain.

Because in those thoughts lie hopes; the hope that he will one day wake up to see Kiyoomi at his most vulnerable as the sun rises; the hope that one day he’ll be able to kiss every mole on the surface of his skin; the hope that one day, he can lace their fingers together—

Then, the sounds stop. Gone were the sounds of metal on metal and Osamu carrying boxes to and fro.

Atsumu peels his hands from his head to look up.

Before him, his brother stares. To them, they never needed a magical link to read each other’s mind. It’s always been natural that they’d know exactly what the other person is thinking. Maybe even know something the other has yet to figure out.

So, really, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Osamu breaks into a small knowing grin, raising a teasing eyebrow at Atsumu’s turmoil.

“Ya stopped bein’ a dumbass, huh?” Osamu says, bracing himself against the counter by his elbows.

“I know,” Atsumu mumbles. “He’ll come back and he’ll know too.”

“‘Cause you’re so obvious and fuckin’ loud about everythin’,” Osamu agrees, nodding sagely.

Atsumu swats at him, which Osamu dodges with ease. “No, dipshit.”

“Ah,” Osamu snaps his fingers. “Because you’re obnoxious and can’t keep anythin’ to yourself.”

“Jus’ stop guessin’, would ya?” Atsumu grumbles before he groans. “It’s a long story.”

Osamu looks around at the empty restaurant, then down at his cutting board mournfully. “Well, you’re already here. Uninvited. Might as well.”

“Oh, wow, thanks. I can tell ya care very much,” Atsumu says sarcastically, to which Osamu shrugs again, brandishing a slab of tuna and a knife. He waves it once, raising an eyebrow: a clear invitation. “Right. Ya gotta hear me out, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“You’re not gonna believe me, but ya gotta.”

“Right.”

“Seriously, ‘Samu, this is gonna sound insane—”

“You’re drivin’ me insane with this shit,” Osamu huffs. Then, he levels Atsumu with a look, one far from the mocking ones he typically gets during their conversations. Concern, though thinly veiled behind a farce of annoyance, glints in Osamu’s eyes. “Get on with it. Ya know I’ll listen.”

Atsumu’s lips twitch into an almost-smile. He swallows thickly before he lets his gaze fall onto the counter. “He’ll know, ‘cause for some reason, he can read my mind.”

The knife halts. If Atsumu really strained his ears, he’d probably hear Osamu’s brain grind to a halt. But, as it is, he has to settle for waiting, eyes trained sharply on the detailing of the marble countertop.

Then, the silence is pierced by a solid breath. “Kiyoomi can read your mind.”

Atsumu gulps. “Yep.”

“And ya think that because…”

“Because we talk. In our heads.”

Osamu doesn’t say anything for perhaps a few minutes. Maybe it had been hours. Atsumu doesn’t really know. He’s too busy pretending like the smudge of rice Osamu had missed on the counter was the most interesting thing in the universe.

But eventually—

Osamu puts the knife down. “Ya talk. In your heads.”

Atsumu’s frown deepens, finally meeting his brother’s eyes. “Ya don’t believe me.”

“‘Course not! What the fuck?” Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Ya sound mental.”

“Come on! Ya haven’t seen the new quick we did last match? That ain’t no coincidence! We were literally in perfect sync!”

“Oh, excuse me for believin’ that ya were just fuckin’ amazin’ at yer job!”

“Can ya just—” Atsumu stops, pursing his lips to try and placate the lump growing in his throat. Before him, Osamu’s defensive stance wilts with immediacy. “Can ya just help me?”

A car honks outside.

Then, Osamu sighs.

“‘Course I’ll help ya,” Osamu murmurs, pushing the cutting board aside. He braces himself on the counter by his elbows, dipping his head closer to Atsumu’s conspiratorially.

It reminds him of how they’d pretend to be detectives in their childhood living room, convicting their stuffed animals with made-up crimes and ironically planning heists to nick ice-cream money from their aunt’s purse.

He stifles a laugh as Osamu’s face turns thoughtful, blinking slowly. He meets Atsumu’s eyes. “Can ya reverse it, somehow? Do the same thing that caused ya both to share thoughts?”

Atsumu presses his tongue against his cheek. “That means Bok-kun will have to give us a concussion again.”

“Ya’d rather Kiyoomi know you’re pathetic for him?” Osamu raises an eyebrow.

Atsumu wrinkles his nose, but says nothing in response. After a few beats of deliberation, he shifts ever so slightly, just enough to bury his head into the crook of his elbow as he slumps over the counter. “Kill me.”

***

He’ll manage.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

They’ve both gotten the hang of it— the whole mind-sharing thing. Somehow, they’ve learned how to control most of the thoughts that filter in through their heads. Seldom does he get random words from Kiyoomi’s thoughts now, only peeking through the link when emotions run too high, usually in the middle of matches.

Or when they’re trying to sleep, and Kiyoomi finds himself thinking way too many thoughts that Atsumu gets the brunt of.

Musings such as: I wonder how they discovered butter. Or, I should call my mother tomorrow.

Atsumu laughs to himself, shifting in his bed to rap his knuckles gently on the wall he shares with Kiyoomi, a quiet reminder that he, too, can hear everything. It was nice, and horrifyingly, he found himself looking forward to the late-night thoughts that should be annoying.

The second placating thing he tells himself is something he has yet to fully convince himself of. That is, the extent of his feelings for one Sakusa Kiyoomi. Certainly, they aren’t enough to break through the walls of control they’d managed to put up, right?

So: he hadn’t yet brought the idea of getting concussed again. He smiles at Bokuto, rustles Hinata’s hair, subtly ignores Kiyoomi because his heartbeat goes haywire whenever he’s in a ten feet radius.

Just the usual stuff.

But the distance he’d been so skillfully putting between them immediately gets dismantled by the media. They ruin everything, really, and the mandatory (albeit useless) press conference he’s sitting through right now only a finger-width away from the person he’d been trying to evade only fans the flames of his bone-deep hatred for the vultures with their cameras.

He’s cussing the journalist speaking out in his head, so much so that he completely misses the first part of the question directed at him. He definitely catches its tail end though because it was just so fucking outrageous, and his eye twitches as he fights the urge to flip the damn table and crush all the bloodsucking gnats and their microphones.

“—so, really, our question is: how did it feel when your twin brother abandoned you and volleyball?”

The cameras begin to flash more aggressively. The journalists lean in, pens ready to write down and twist every single word that Atsumu was about to say. The TV representatives begin to smile gleefully, like predators finally sinking their teeth into their prey that can’t, despite their burning desire to, fight back.

He should’ve known. The moment the media connected the dots between the matching faces of the nation’s new favourite onigiri restaurant’s CEO and the setter of the national team, he should’ve known.

His life was dug up. Old wounds were reopened. And none of them cared that beyond the bright lights of the gymnasium, he was still a human.

Seconds tick by. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, spit like molasses under the scrutiny.

Everyone is watching. Everyone is locked onto him, observing his every move. Perhaps they can even see the way his knuckles go white on his lap, hands wound tightly into fists until his nails dig into the flesh of his palm.

And suddenly: Miya.

He looks up. Kiyoomi is staring at him, eyes dark and offering, asking him for permission.

He blinks. He doesn’t even get the chance to respond properly: he didn’t need to anymore.

“What an idiotic question,” Kiyoomi says in that haughty way he always says his insults, making it hit ten times harder. The journalist immediately wilts in the face of its force, but Kiyoomi wasn’t quite done. “I can’t believe you’re being paid to come up here and make a fool out of yourself. Do you have a degree?”

“Y-yes,” the journalist stutters, eyes fluttering as he attempts to regain his footing. 

“Really? Perhaps your university should consider revoking it. It’s clear you slept through all your classes… and perhaps slept your way to passing grades, too.”

Atsumu nearly chokes on his spit as scattered bursts of chuckles ripple its way through the crowd. In the distance, he sees their PR representative brewing up a storm cloud, her eyes twitching as she begins to stride towards the panel.

The journalist’s face is a flaming red by this point. But he doesn’t back down, which exponentially increases Kiyoomi’s distaste. “I-it isn’t a bad question. Everyone is curious—”

“Everyone? Or just vultures like you that weren’t good enough to make it into The New York Times?”

Beside Kiyoomi, Meian sucks in a breath through his teeth. Along the panel, Hinata squeezes his eyes shut, visibly shaking from laughter held inside, and Bokuto has a grimace on his face, pressing his finger onto his arm and drawing it away hastily, mimicking the action of getting burnt.

The journalist immediately withdraws, stepping behind his cameraman in shame, just in time for their PR representative to shut the panel down, thanking all the journalists for coming.

It’s what that fucker deserved, and Atsumu can’t help the vindictive smile that creeps up on his face. He can’t look Kiyoomi in the eye, not when he knows how big of a deal this was. This was a week straight of daily PR training and a stern talking to by their PR representative, yet, Kiyoomi hadn’t hesitated.

Thanks.

There’s silence for a beat. Then: Anytime, Atsumu.

***

It becomes a certain truth: he’s completely fucked.

He is so gone for Kiyoomi that he genuinely cannot look him in the eye or it’s over.

It’s a difficult task indeed, avoiding your co-worker that just so happens to have a key to your head and your thoughts. Even more when you need unfailing communication with him to actually do your job.

“What’s wrong with you, Atsumu?” Coach yells from the sidelines, angry and unforgiving after Atsumu botches his fifth set of the day. “I need you to get it together!”

Atsumu is frustrated, all right. He clicks his tongue, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He also ignores the wide-eyed stares of his teammates. In particular, the stare laid on heavy by a pair of deep black eyes, because not only is Kiyoomi trying to catch his gaze, he’s also exploiting their connection and Atsumu is just not having it right now.

Miya.

Atsumu runs his tongue over his upper teeth, focusing on the other side of the net. He raises a hand, signals for the play to start, and the whistle blows.

Why won’t you look at me anymore?

The ball flies over the net, and Hinata dives to receive it. It hangs in the air for a beat, and Atsumu clenches his jaw as he steps forward, positioning himself perfectly underneath it.

Atsumu.

He misses. The ball slips through his fingertips, past his control, and bounces on the floor.

Silence engulfs the gymnasium. Not even Hinata has the heart to come bouncing over with conciliatory remarks.

Coach’s patience was tested today, and after his sixth failure, it seems to have ended. Without so much as a glance at Atsumu, not even a word, he waves a hand, severing Atsumu’s time on the court for the day.

There’s no protest when he steps out of the lines, head ducked and fists clenched until his knuckles were white.

Did I do something?

Atsumu wants to just slam his head into a wall. Get the concussion himself. Anything to get Kiyoomi out of his head.

Instead, he settles for a solution he’s intimately familiar with.

Fuck off, Kiyoomi, he thinks, shaking. Just fuck off.

Then, the line goes quiet.

It’s quiet for a very long time.

***

To his credit, Kiyoomi really does fuck off.

In fact, he fucks off so well that Atsumu doesn’t see hide nor hair of him aside from when they’re playing volleyball. Not in the kitchens of their sharehouse, not on the way to and from the gym, not even in his head.

This was the best case scenario. Kiyoomi never finds out that Atsumu is ass over tit in love with him, and Atsumu never gets humiliated by the exposition of the fact that he can become gooey and sentimental and insane over someone who would never love him back.

So. Life is good.

Tired. Hungry.

Atsumu frowns. He looks over at Kiyoomi, stretching on the floor next to Hinata, who, as always, is chattering on about this and that.

It had been a while since Atsumu had heard his thoughts on the link. Clearly, Kiyoomi had deliberately suppressed everything with care. But today was a particularly rough day, with Coach training them like they were about to march into war.

Perhaps Kiyoomi’s fatigue had gotten the best of him, and now, he can’t control his thoughts enough to keep his mental shields against Atsumu up.

When Kiyoomi meets his eyes briefly with a gaze that was equal parts questioning and disdainful, he balefully realises that the fatigue’s effects weren’t one-sided.

Stupid. Asshole.

Atsumu turns away. He attempts to begin his stretches, only to realise that Bokuto had been talking to him the entire time. With a strained smile, he re-enters the conversation midway.

“—with Akaashi, it was really romantic,” Bokuto sighs dreamily, eyes wide and sparkling. He feels his smile morph into more of a grimace at the thought of romance and love.

As he dips into his stretch, he flattens his lips into a straight line. “Romantic, huh? Ain’t that a dream.”

Bokuto immediately perks up, forgetting all about the stretches he should be doing to avoid career-ending injuries. With the energy of a chihuahua, he scrambles closer to Atsumu, grinning like an idiot. “Oh? Tsum-tsum is interested in someone?”

Atsumu gulps. “Uh—”

This gathers the attention of everyone and their mothers. Even Meian subtly shuffles closer, pretending as if he was just shifting positions into a new stretch. Inunaki, however, shamelessly runs towards them, plopping himself right down next to Atsumu, shoving his face next to his.

“Who?” Inunaki asks with his evil grin. “Who’s the unlucky gal?”

“It ain’t—” Atsumu begun to say, only for his words to get lodged in his throat because that was way too much information.

His restraint was futile, though, because Hinata immediately catches the subtext of his hesitation. “It’s a guy! Oh, Atsumu-san, that’s—”

“A guy!” Inunaki repeats, eyes now sparkling with a machiavellian sheen. “Is he a volleyball player? Better yet… is he on the team?”

And because he’s a fucking idiot and he hates himself and the world hates him back, his eyes move by themselves. The moment Inunaki’s words leave his mouth, his eyes drift to ‘the guy’ in question.

In the single most horrifying moment of his life, Kiyoomi’s gaze meets his.

He didn’t need to read Atsumu’s mind. No, that one glance was enough to confirm what Atsumu had been trying so hard to hide from him, everything he’s worked hard to conceal yanked out into the open.

Guts spilled along the floors, Atsumu abruptly stumbled onto his feet, feeling sick to his stomach.

He’s done, he’s finished, and Kiyoomi can sit and stew with and laugh about Atsumu’s feelings all he wants, but Atsumu won’t be there to witness it.

He’s out of the door before anyone could even move, choking on the frosty air in just his practice t-shirt and shorts. The cold nips at his skin, but all he can focus on is the burn of deep humiliation that consumes him. 

Atsumu.

He curses under his breath which materialises in the freezing breeze. Stop, Omi-kun.

Atsumu, come back.

I don’t wanna hear it, ‘kay?

It’s cold out there. Come back. Please.

You’re gonna break my heart, Omi, I know it. Atsumu swallows, pressing up against the gymnasium wall. He tries to even out his breathing, but he’s nauseous and sick and falling apart at the seams, and it doesn’t help that Kiyoomi seems to be fighting through an emotional whirlwind of his own. You’re gonna break it. So I don’t wanna hear it. 

Something that feels like shards of glass piercing his veins rushes through him, and he doubles over, crouching as he attempts to steady himself. With his head in his hands, he clenches his jaw and grits his teeth, trying his hardest to block out their link.

He doesn’t want to hear Kiyoomi, not anymore.

Atsumu, come back. They’re not letting me out. They won’t let me out. Come back.

At this, Atsumu lets out a bitter laugh. Only a few months ago was Kiyoomi cursing him halfway to death, chanting demands for him to get out of his head. But now that Atsumu is unequivocally gone for him and his stupid hair and his stupid moles and his stupid smile, he’s begging for him to come back.

He’s probably in hell. That’s what this is. He’s dead, and this is hell.

Atsumu, you don’t understand. You have to come back. You have to come back, because I—

Atsumu’s head jerks out of his hands. 

He waits, then waits a little more.

But there’s no response. There’s not even a sliver of static, not a trace of another presence in his head that had been there constantly since that day.

It’s silent. Not the kind that had crept up when Kiyoomi was ignoring him. No, it was pure, unadulterated quiet.

He listens to the snowfall, the breeze that carries his shaky breaths.

The connection had been severed.

***

“Ya gotta get up one day, scrub,” Osamu drawls, planting a foot on Atsumu’s back, nudging him with a little too much care to pass off as nonchalant. “Ya’ve got practice tomorrow.”

Atsumu grunts. “Not goin’.”

“Oh,” Osamu exclaims, loud and judgemental. “Are ya that much of a coward that ya’d rather ruin yer career than face the guy that rejected ya?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Seriously? I’m gonna win our bet.”

“Don’t care.”

“You won’t get to go to the Olympics, dumbass.”

“So?”

“Okay. Shut the fuck up,” Suna snips, rounding the couch and crouching down to meet Atsumu at eye-level. With a mild level of astonishment, Atsumu lifts his head just enough to peek an eye out, raising his eyebrows. “You obviously don’t mean that. You’re just being a dramatic little bitch. And unfortunately, you happen to be my best friend, and I can’t go to the Olympics without you. So get it together, slap Kiyoomi or something, and get yourself on that damn roster, do you hear me?”

“Jeez,” Atsumu huffs, pushing himself into a sitting position. He frowns at Suna, pointing a weak finger at him. “Can’t ya be a bit nicer ‘bout it? I jus’ got my heart broken, y’know.”

“No, you didn’t,” Suna says, matter-of-fact. “You ran away from him because you’re pathetic. To add to your patheticness, you refuse to talk to him—”

“Why would I talk to him? To confirm that he thinks I’m a weirdo for goin’ and fallin’ in love with him? Fuck no,” Atsumu hisses.

“I seriously hate my life,” Suna groans. He then waves his phone in the air right at Atsumu’s face. “Motoya hates his life, too. Put us out of our misery, please.”

Atsumu jumps forward so abruptly, it makes both Suna and Osamu jump. “Toya-kun? What’s he sayin’? Is Omi-kun talkin’ ‘bout me?”

He’s met with deadpan stares. Only then does he catch himself, throwing himself back onto the couch with a slump. “I mean, I don’t care.”

Suna’s palm flies to his forehead, and Osamu sighs himself into a defeated slouch.

“Jus’ talk to him, for heaven’s sake.” And for good measure, Osamu cuffs him upside the head.

Atsumu whines, hand shooting up to rub at his head. With a glare directed scornfully at his brother: “I can’t! The connection was cut! For some reason.”

“No, dipshit, talk with your fuckin’ mouth. It’s weird that ya can’t do that one simple thing when ya usually can’t shut the fuck up.”

“I don’t wanna!” Atsumu says, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “It’s awkward.”

Suna, having had enough of it all, stands up. He grabs onto Atsumu’s hood, and with ungodly strength, begins to pull. Atsumu thrashes, pulling in the opposite direction to stop himself from getting choked and dying young. “What the— Sunarin, are ya tryin’ to kill me? Let go, ya dick—”

“Go!”

“No!”

“I’m going to castrate you—”

“‘Samu, help!”

“Nah.”

“You’re hopeless,” Suna huffs, letting go of Atsumu’s hoodie with a shove. He makes his distaste clear with how he’s both physically (and mentally) looking down at Atsumu. “I know you think I’m joking, Atsumu, but this is spineless, even for you.”

Atsumu can’t seem to find the humour in anything, suddenly. Suna is looking at him like he’s truly disappointed, more so than the time he’d punched Osamu in the face after their biggest fight in high school: namely, the conversation where Osamu revealed he’d be hanging up his jersey after their third year.

“You never back down from anything,” Suna says, quiet and without a trace of jest. He’s looking at Atsumu strangely, as if he’s being observed underneath a new light that, frankly, might not be the most flattering. “Why back down from this?”

Atsumu sucks in a breath through his teeth.

It’s a good question. It’s a brilliant question. One he can pretend not to know the answer for.

With a heavy shrug, he manages a weak smile.

Suna and Osamu leave not long after that because they do have lives of their own and Suna has to get back to Shizuoka, sending Atsumu disapproving looks before disappearing behind the door.

He’s glad that they do, no matter how much he adores them. Because they don’t understand the perils of unrequited love, having been reciprocally infatuated with each other since the moment they met.

They don’t know the side of Kiyoomi that softens in the dead of night, sparking inane conversations with Atsumu out of boredom and the surprising inability to lull himself to sleep. They don’t know the hilarious hisses of mental disdain he hears whenever they verse against teams way too cocky for their skillsets, nor the aggressive ways in which he cares about people.

They don’t know how easy it was to fall for Sakusa Kiyoomi, and how unwittingly, Atsumu had gotten himself caught in the snare.

The good thing is that the connection is broken and Kiyoomi wouldn’t have to hear any of his sickening monologues about him. That’s a plus.

Atsumu thinks he’s been humiliated enough.

So much so that his next move was to escape, even just for a while. He pulls himself up, striding up to the doorway and swiping his coat off the rack. He takes the stairs too, because if he’s going to be alone with his thoughts and his thoughts alone, he’d prefer to be exercising while sending himself down a rabbit hole of psychological torture.

The air is a little less chilly than it was that day he was rushed out of the gymnasium, but this time, he’s armed with a coat and a scarf haphazardly shoved into one of its pockets.

He huffs, watching his breath materialise, observing the people passing by. The gentle sun dancing on his skin feels much like Kiyoomi’s happiness. The cold nipping alongside it feels like Kiyoomi’s sadness.

Atsumu wonders how he’s supposed to live when he’s felt these things. How he’s supposed to live when he’s experienced the intimacy of being one with someone, entwined as much as two people can be entwined.

In the quiet bustle of the winter day, he turns his head to the sun.

Time, he thinks for only himself to hear.

He just needs time.

***

Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t care about things such as time.

If he wants to do something, he does it without much preamble. So, he gives Atsumu a week more of distant silence at both practice and at home before he decides he’s had enough.

That’s how Atsumu finds himself cornered in their sharehouse, vulnerable and defenseless in his pyjamas. 

“Omi,” Atsumu says, taking a large step back when he spots Kiyoomi steadfastly approaching. The midnight toast he’d been preparing lays abandoned in their malfunctioning toaster, and Atsumu shoots it a helpless look before he meets Kiyoomi’s heavy gaze. “Um. My toast is gettin’ burnt.”

“Screw your toast,” Kiyoomi hisses quietly, because of course, even as he is actively in the process of ambushing Atsumu, he is mindful of everyone that is asleep. He digs a sharp finger into Atsumu’s chest. “Why?”

Atsumu blinks, managing a shaky smile. “Why what?”

“You know very well what I’m asking you.”

“I don’t think I do. I mean, if you’re askin’ me why I’m so wickedly handsome—”

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Kiyoomi asks. Atsumu gulps, quickly ripping his eyes away from Kiyoomi’s quivering hands.

At this, Atsumu frowns. He lets out a sigh of disbelief. “Are ya serious?”

“Yes. I haven’t got a clue,” Kiyoomi admits quietly. He stares at Atsumu, never breaking eye contact, and though Atsumu can’t hear his thoughts anymore, can’t feel him anymore, he can still somehow read the heaviness that haunts Kiyoomi’s eyes. “I used to know you. I didn’t have to guess. But now, I can’t—”

Kiyoomi’s face wrinkles. His eyes flutter shut, and then he’s backing away from Atsumu, wedging empty space between them. Atsumu stays stuck on the wall, watching wide-eyed.

A quiet settles.

Until:

“You’re in love with me,” Kiyoomi says, his head shaking ever so slightly. Atsumu flinches, because of course he does, as his heart beats against his ribs. “I’ve known for a while.”

This punches an incredulous laugh out of Atsumu. “Ya’ve what?”

“I’ve known,” Kiyoomi repeats, slowly this time. “Since before Bokuto hit us with that damn ball.”

“Can’t be. I only started—” Atsumu’s smile is frozen in place. After a few beats, he shakes his head. “Nah. It started after—”

“But that’s not the truth, is it?” Kiyoomi cuts in with determination. He’s right back to closing the distance, shuffling closer. It looks a bit ridiculous, given that they’re both in ugly pyjamas that are both definitely gag gifts, but Atsumu’s heart tries to leap out of his throat anyway. “You’re always staring at me. You’re always saying my name, you’re always around. You’ve always been around, Atsumu.”

The air is taut between them. It doesn’t help that the only light that illuminated the kitchen was the moonlight that spilled in from the window, casting a shadow over half of Kiyoomi’s pained face.

He looks so gently tortured, and Atsumu feels sick to his stomach.

Time, it seemed, didn’t help at all, when all throughout it, Atsumu’s heart had always been enclosed in Kiyoomi’s palms.

“So, tell me why you’re doing this,” Kiyoomi gulps. Pauses. Black eyes meet brown. “…Now that I’ve gone and fallen in love with you, too?”

“Don’t pity me,” Atsumu hisses immediately, scoffing in offense. “Don’t say shit ya don’t mean. I promise it won’t affect volleyball. Whatever I feel for ya hasn’t ruined anythin’ on the court, so whatever ya think you’re doin’, stop.”

Kiyoomi’s brows knit together. “Which bullshit romance book did you rip that off from?”

Atsumu flushes, straightening up before attempting to brush past Kiyoomi. He’s pushed back into place, forced to confront what he’d rather not.

“If I felt whatever you felt these past few weeks,” Kiyoomi enunciates, eyes set. “Then you felt whatever I felt. You know I’m not saying this for your fragile ego. You’re so vain that you can’t even think straight—”

“Is this a confession or a diss track?” Atsumu snaps as he bares his teeth.

“You just make it so easy to insult you—”

“Oh, because yer so perfect!”

“Better than being so self absorbed, one might think your brain is actually in your ass—”

And Atsumu lunges.

His lips meet with Kiyoomi’s, crashing with the passion that rivals the flame that burns on the court. Kiyoomi acts like his body is an extension of Atsumu’s, fusing into the touch and draping his arms around Atsumu’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

Atsumu leans in further, pressing their lips even closer together in a fervent attempt to melt into Kiyoomi. It begins to hurt as their teeth clack together, but Kiyoomi’s fingertips find the nape of Atsumu’s neck and drags him deeper into the kiss, so Atsumu doesn’t really care.

His palms find Kiyoomi’s hips at the same time Kiyoomi begins to laugh against Atsumu’s mouth, and they twist, stumbling across the kitchen, drunk on each other.

“Huh,” Atsumu hums when they break away. He lets his gaze linger on Kiyoomi’s reddened lips before meeting his eyes. “If I’d known it was that easy to shut ya up, I’d have done this ages ago.”

Kiyoomi raises a teasing eyebrow. He pinches Atsumu’s neck. “I would have slapped you.”

Atsumu pretends to think about it. Then, he breaks out into a grin. “Ya would’ve.”

They stare at each other for a few more beats, before Kiyoomi’s face twists into something devastating. Atsumu immediately frowns in concern, pulling away a little more to see Kiyoomi’s expression in its entirety.

“So,” Kiyoomi says, slowly and dubiously. “Is that— what’s your answer?”

Atsumu blinks. “My… answer?”

With an exasperated yet shaky sigh, Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “I hate you, Atsumu, seriously. Your answer to my confession, you moron—”

“I’m the moron?” Atsumu shrieks. “I just kissed the livin’ lights outta ya and you’re askin’ me if I like ya back?”

“God forbid a man wants some verbal confirmation!”

“Yer impossible—”

They jump when toaster dings as the toast pops back up, burnt to a crisp and charcoal black.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu blink at it before meeting eyes once more, sputtering out silent laughter as they step back into each other's arms.

***

“Why do ya think it happened to us?” Atsumu asked loudly the next time they were at practice. “The mind sharin’ thing.”

Inunaki straightens out of his stretch, leveling Atsumu with a deadpan stare. “‘Cause your pathetic pinin’ was embarrassin’. Some deity prob’ly took pity on ya.”

“So everyone knew but me?” Atsumu huffs. He turns to Kiyoomi sitting beside him on the bench, slinging his towel around his neck. “Was it really that obvious?”

Kiyoomi hums in response. His gaze slides towards Atsumu, who oddly feels like he’s about to be embarrassed all the way to hell. “When I brought in my Calvin Klein photoshoot pictures at Meian’s behest, you drained three bottles of water and had to sit out for the first few minutes of practice that day.”

Hinata bursts out laughing while Tomas grins, yelling out affirmatives as if Atsumu needed confirmation that he was, indeed, pathetic.

Grumbling, Atsumu pouts into his lap, wishing he hadn’t asked. And that he had a bottle of water, because he was a bit thirsty—

In the corner of his eye, he sees a bit of movement. When he looks up, Kiyoomi is staring at him with a gentle raise of his eyebrow, stretching out a hand that holds a water bottle.

Atsumu nearly laughs at the absurdity.

Instead, he lets his lips spread out into a smile as he raises his arm, taking the bottle into his grasp.