Work Text:
- Energy cannot be created, nor can it be destroyed, but it can change forms and flow between systems, between the gaps in time and space.
- There is a kind of irreversibility to most known things; every energy transfer becomes less efficient, less organized, increasingly (unceasingly) chaotic; the universe is always moving closer to a state of entropy.
- Entropy is only nonexistent in the total absence of heat (absolute zero).
----
black hole: a region of spacetime where gravity is so strong that nothing - no particles or even electromagnetic radiation such as light - can escape it.
i.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is five years old, and he uses his bottle of hand-sanitizer 37 times during his mother’s funeral.
She hadn’t been sick for very long - there had only been ten days between when his father touched the back of his hand to her too-warm forehead and when Sakusa touched her too-cold hands to his trembling lips for the last time. Sakusa’s father tries to explain that the flu isn’t usually this bad, that people typically get better - Sakusa’s mother had simply been unlucky. His father doesn’t cry, so Sakusa doesn’t, either.
The harsh whites of winter finally begin to soften into the hazy cotton-candy pink of spring. Sakusa stands in the temple’s rear because his feet seem incapable of bringing him closer to the temple’s front where his mother resides. He robotically douses his hands with the sanitizer, uncomfortable and unfamiliar with his own proximity to death. The ceremony is short, and when it ends, Sakusa and his father return home carrying a ceramic vase with his mother crammed inside.
A week after the funeral, his father drops him off at his cousin’s house and doesn’t return.
----
Komori shows more kindness than Sakusa had been anticipating when it comes to the hand-sanitizer issue.
Sakusa doesn’t go anywhere without his hand-sanitizer, tissues, a surgical mask, and the crippling dread that took root the moment his mother died in a place where people go to be healed. He goes through one 8-ounce bottle of hand-sanitizer every ten days or so. When he’s at home (this is his home now, isn’t it?), he washes his hands with soap and water every 15 minutes or so because one can never be too careful. The skin on his hands is raw and dry and cracked like an abandoned concrete parking lot, and they bleed where the skin becomes thin over bone and cartilage, rubbed raw and robbed of moisture. His aunt tries, again and again, to convince Sakusa that soap and water aren’t miracle-workers, that even the cleanest hands in the world can’t turn back time, can he please stop washing his hands like there’s a reason to repent. She doesn’t understand the hand-sanitizer thing, and Sakusa doesn’t blame her.
Komori doesn’t understand either, so he buys Sakusa hand lotion. He says that Sakusa can clean his hands as often as he pleases; the lotion is just to help keep his hands moisturized, to act as a barrier between the brittle clean and the sharp, unforgiving air.
He’s right. It helps.
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 11 years old, and he’s sick of explaining what it means to be doubled-jointed.
His shoulder pops back into place while his classmates, arranged around the front of his desk in a semi-circle, make various sounds of disgust and wonder. Sakusa supposes he should be used to this by now. Every year, without fail, one of his peers will catch wind of the freaky thing Sakusa can do with his arms and will demand loudly at lunchtime that he demonstrate this talent. Then they’ll freak out about it, like its the eighth goddamn wonder of the world.
He rolls his shoulder, popping it a few more times. “Gross! Can you show us the thing you do with your wrist?”
Sakusa huffs through his nose and bares a skinny, pale forearm for all the world to see. Then, exerting little effort, he touches the backs of his fingertips to the back of his arm before reversing the movement, his fingers brushing the skin of his inner forearm—one girl gags (in disgust or awe, Sakusa doesn’t know).
He stands at an alarming, head-spinning speed, and excuses himself to the restroom. He washes his hands for 3 minutes and 17 seconds.
----
Motoya Komori is 12 years old, and he has an amazing idea.
“Sounds stupid.”
Komori rolls his eyes. “I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”
Sakusa pauses his twice-daily ritual of disinfecting every surface in Komori’s room, leveling him with a withering look that should look out of place on an 11-year-old’s face but isn’t. “Yeah, well. I still bet it’s stupid.” He turns back to his task, which Komori takes as Sakusa’s blessing to keep talking.
“You know how you have those freaky-ass wrists?”
Sakusa whips his head around with a faux gasp: “What?! I had no clue!”
Komori licks the television remote in an act of rebellion, and Sakusa looks like he might pass out. “Now that I have your attention: you and I are trying out for volleyball club after school tomorrow. And before you complain about it, Mom says if we don’t join a club, she’ll make us go to an English tutor instead.”
Sakusa wrinkles his nose, plucking the remote out of Komori’s hand and drowning it in Lysol. “I don’t know anything about volleyball.”
“Well, neither do I,” Komori says with a shrug. “Should be fun.”
Sakusa huffs again but doesn’t protest any further. Komori counts that as a win.
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 11 years old, and he’s pretty good at this whole volleyball thing, apparently. Komori is good at it, too, if the coaches’ reactions are anything to go by.
Sakusa is good at quite a few things. He’s good at reading, algebra, handstands, making microwaved corndogs, and cleaning (he’s very good at cleaning). Volleyball feels like a different kind of good, the kind of good that belongs to him and nobody else. Sakusa is good at reading and algebra and microwaving foods and scrubbing the dirt off of his hands because if he doesn’t, it’ll kill him - but when the volleyball sails from his hand and slams against the floor with an echo, he feels a little more complete. Like the last puzzle piece snapping into place; like discordance becoming harmonic.
Sakusa is good at other things because he has to be. He’s good at volleyball because he wants to be.
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 18 years old, and he’s not sure where to go from here.
His father dropped him off at his cousin’s house 13 years ago and decided not to come back, and Sakusa can forgive him for that because the only reason he left in the first place is that someone on the subway sneezed on his mother and killed her. Sakusa only has one picture of his mother, and she looks just like him. Sakusa thinks he’d leave, too, if someone sneezed on the love of his life and killed her, and life asked him to love her face on a different person.
He’s good at volleyball - good enough that reporters eagerly shove dirty microphones in his face and ask what he’s doing now that he’s finished with high school, what’s next for Sakusa Kiyoomi, which is unfortunate because he doesn’t have the answer to that.
He decides to go to college because he thinks that’s what his mother would have wanted him to do, and he keeps playing volleyball because that’s what he wants to do. The day after he graduates from college, he gets a phone call from Coach Samson Foster of the Black Jackals, who convinces him that he’s not done with volleyball quite yet.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 18 years old, and this time, he knows what he’s doing next.
----
Years later, Komori will reveal to Sakusa that his mother never threatened the boys with choosing between a school club and English tutoring.
Komori had seen the way Sakusa walked around on broken glass, terrified that the ghosts behind him might finally catch up, had watched him creep through hallways with unblinking eyes like a moment’s inattention would cause the floor to open up underneath him and swallow him whole. Sometimes, Komori would wake up in the middle of the night and put his ear against the wall between his room and the bathroom and listen to the sink turn on and off, on and off, masked only by the sound of Sakusa’s soapy hands against one another. In the morning, those same hands would be drier than dust, cracked like asphalt in the summertime, and Komori would pinch his face like his hands were hurt, too.
Sakusa will ask Komori why he lied. Komori will reply that he needed to give those hands something else to do.
----
entropy: an expression of disorder or randomness of a system; a measure of chaos.
ii.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 20 years old, and he’s probably too old for this kind of thing.
“You’re gonna break your neck, dipshit.”
Miya Atsumu only scoffs in response and tightens the chinstrap of his helmet until it rests snug against the soft underside of his jaw. “No, I’m not, ya fuckin’ buzzkill! Listen up; if I break my neck, I’ll give ya all the money in my wallet right now, hm?”
“Can I have your credit card, too?”
Atsumu laughs and lowers himself onto the mattress. He turns back once more to give a mock salute to Sakusa, who is a good sport and salutes right back. Atsumu blows a kiss to the heavens, perhaps in prayer, then tilts the mattress forwards and goes careening down the stairs, each bumpy jolt accented with a groan, finally reaching the bottom. The mattress skids to a halt, but Atsumu still has some momentum and flips over the mattress’s front. He thuds gracelessly against the ground. On the floor below Sakusa, Bokuto whoops excitedly while Akaashi claps politely. And even though Atsumu’s neck will live to see another day, Sakusa takes what little money is in his wallet (but leaves his credit card, because he’s a nice person). Atsumu attempts to cajole Sakusa into taking a turn on the mattress, and Sakusa (who is a grownup) informs them that he’s probably too old for this type of thing. Probably.
And if Sakusa shows up to practice the next day with a massively bruised elbow and a cut on the bottom of his chin, that’s no one’s business but his own.
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 20 years old, and he knows far more about South America than he’d ever expected he would.
“Omi-omi, did you know that the hottest month of the year in Rio is February??”
Sakusa has been working on being more patient, so he doesn’t snap his towel against Atsumu’s thigh just yet. “Yes, Atsumu, I did know that.”
Atsumu isn’t listening to him. “I hope Shouyou-kun is wearing plenty of sunscreen! Even when it’s cloudy, you can still get a sunburn. Did you know that Omi-omi?” he asks, because he’s a dick. Atsumu yelps as Sakusa, who is also a dick, gives into temptation and whips his towel against his bare thigh.
Sakusa had made his fatal mistake about two weeks ago when he asked Bokuto why Atsumu won’t shut up about Brazil, and even then, he’d only asked because he was concerned that Atsumu was planning a trip - Sakusa knew for a fact that Atsumu didn’t have all of the proper immunizations, and he wasn’t about to let his teammate travel abroad unprotected. Bokuto quickly put these concerns to rest, though, by informing Sakusa that Atsumu was simply over the moon for Hinata Shouyou, who currently lived in Rio.
Like a dog summoned by the dinner bell, Atsumu materialized out of thin air when Shouyou’s name was mentioned. “Heya, guys! It’s raining in Rio today, did ya know?”
It only gets worse from there.
Atsumu claims that he just really wants to toss for Shouyou, that’s all, nothing sinister about it! But Sakusa was born with eyes, and it’s readily apparent that Atsumu is enamored with the tiny wing spiker. Sakusa finds himself wishing Shouyou would come back to Japan already so that he didn’t have to listen to Atsumu spin love stories out of nothing anymore, but he also wishes Shouyou would stay in Brazil forever with some gorgeous South American lover so that Sakusa didn’t have to witness anything unhygienic and unholy with his own two eyes. He’s beginning to prefer Shouyou return, though, because anything beats Atsumu’s constant whining.
But because luck is rarely on Sakusa’s side, it’s another two years before Hinata Shouyou reclaims this soil as his home.
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 21 years old, and he’s not quite sure how he got here.
For reference, here is a damp karaoke bar in Osaka with an odor that Sakusa doesn’t trust. It’s dark, save for the pulsating LED lights that change color in time with the music, and the floor is sticky in a way that makes the alarm bells in Sakusa’s head blare urgently. But Sakusa has learned that patience is important (allegedly), and there’s value in “team bonding” (also allegedly), so he doesn’t turn tail and quit this place just yet.
Bokuto Koutarou slings a thick and sweaty arm around Sakusa’s neck, and because eardrums are for scrubs, chooses to scream directly in Sakusa’s ear: “YOU’RE HERE!”
Sakusa pretends like he doesn’t notice the spittle fly from Bokuto’s mouth and onto his cheek. Had they not been in public, Sakusa probably would have curb stomped Bokuto, but Shougo would kill them both for embarrassing themselves and, by extension, the good name and reputation of the Black Jackals. So instead, he bites the inside of his cheek and pretends like he’s not furious. “Apparently.”
Akaashi Keiji either noticed Bokuto spewing saliva onto Sakusa or is just a genuinely good person because he’s suddenly next to Sakusa and pushing a shot glass into his hands. Sakusa accepts it and taps the glass against Akaashi’s with a smile before knocking it back. It tastes like rubbing alcohol, which most people detest. It burns like long-lost love in the base of Sakusa’s throat.
He’s grateful for the drink because it’s not ten seconds later that Atsumu makes an appearance. He’s wild-eyed and frantic, and Sakusa has half a mind to be worried before Atsumu has a hand on both his and Bokuto’s shoulders and announces: “he’s coming back.”
And Sakusa, saint that he is, almost feels happy for his teammate. Almost.
----
Hinata Shouyou hasn’t grown noticeably taller, but his skin has darkened from endless days in the sun, his legs have grown bulky from the unforgiving Brazilian terrain, and the sunny beaches of Rio have only stoked the quiet and intense fury of his gaze.
Sakusa didn’t know Hinata Shouyou very well in high school. They never had the opportunity to stand on the court together, always one victory or loss away from the chance to be opponents, and Sakusa is suddenly bitter towards this fact because Shouyou has the same look in his eyes that Ushijima Wakatoshi always has, the look that Sakusa both admires and detests. But then Shouyou turns that grin onto Sakusa like bottled-up sunshine, and the ice in his heart melts just a fraction.
Shouyou introduces and re-introduces himself to strangers and former opponents alike. Sakusa decides to be an asshole and shake Shouyou’s hand to get a reaction out of Atsumu - but when he turns towards him to boast, Atsumu’s starry eyes are for Shouyou and Shouyou alone.
Sakusa wants to vomit.
----
Here’s a quick physics lesson, because Sakusa was good at physics the way he’s good at everything else. There’s a set of rules that govern the way energy behaves known as the laws of thermodynamics. There are three of these laws, but screw the first and third ones because they don’t matter for this analogy.
The second law of thermodynamics stipulates that as time goes on, everything in this universe moves in the direction of disorder. Every energy transfer, every change in a phase of matter: each action in this universe is more chaotic than the last. This principle is called entropy, and Sakusa is starting to see it in nearly everything.
Exhibit A: Sakusa has forgotten his hand-sanitizer at his apartment. The same hand-sanitizer he uses after every play he’s involved in, after each high-five, after each accidental brush against the back of Bokuto’s nasty-ass jersey (note to self: gift Bokuto with better laundry detergent). Usually, he’d turn around and return to his apartment to get it, because he’d rather be late to practice than become sick and die. However, this time, he figures he can live without the sanitizer because his teammates haven’t been exposed to malaria or rubella or polio, and it’s not flu season yet, and maybe his hands can survive one afternoon of risky behavior.
Exhibit B: They’re eating dinner at a Korean BBQ restaurant, and Akaashi sneezes. Sakusa hands him a handkerchief, which is nothing unusual, but it’s more out of kindness than fear.
Exhibit C: Shouyou is practicing his quick with Atsumu while Sakusa prepares to leave the gym. Atsumu turns to wave goodbye to Sakusa, but slips on a volleyball and meets the ground with a comical ‘oof.’ Shouyou laughs his full-bellied laugh, and this should have been loud enough to mask the sounds of Sakusa snorting, but both Atsumu and Shouyou hear it anyway. Sakusa leaves the building with a smile on his face.
----
Sometimes, Komori will text him and ask him things like: tell me about your teammates; what’s the weather like in Osaka this weekend?; what’s the most recent movie you saw?
What he’s really trying to ask is are you happy?
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 22, and he’s disgusted.
“I’m disgusted.”
Bokuto scoffs, offended on behalf of Shouyou and Atsumu. “It is not! It’s cute.” Golden eyes wander to where Atsumu stands with Shouyou, helplessly drinking in every word that comes out of the man’s mouth, as though if he looks away for even a moment, Shouyou might disappear.
Sakusa bristles. He’s been patient, hell, he’s almost been kind to Atsumu for the past month and a half because he pitied the man. But his grace period is nearing its end because Atsumu is still motionless and starry-eyed, his obsession and infatuation clear as day to everyone other than Shouyou, and Sakusa wants to rip his hair out. “It is absolutely not cute. He’s going to drool any minute now, and when he does, I’m gonna go apeshit.”
Bokuto begins to laugh right when a bit of spittle dribbles out of the corner of Atsumu’s mouth. He’s quick to wipe at it, eyes already flying to Sakusa in alarm.
Sakusa does, in fact, go apeshit.
----
Sakusa wants to be sympathetic to the situation. Honestly, he’s trying. Under different circumstances, he might even be helpful. But the circumstances are this: Miya Atsumu is not a subtle man, and Hinata Shouyou evidently has the depth of an inflatable kiddie pool.
Sakusa’s acquaintances sit around the small dining table in Bokuto’s and Akaashi’s apartment. Bokuto has been regaling his guests with a story about something for the past five minutes. Sakusa isn’t sure what the story is about because he hasn’t been listening. He hasn’t been listening because he’s been staring at Atsumu, and Atsumu hasn’t been listening because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Shouyou for the duration of the evening. Sakusa wants to impale his eyes with his chopsticks. Shouyou laughs when Bokuto delivers the punchline, and Atsumu looks like he might cry. Sakusa might cry too, but for different reasons.
When they finish eating, Sakusa volunteers himself and Atsumu to do the dishes. Atsumu looks like he would like to protest this, but Sakusa’s nostrils are flaring with irritation, and Atsumu thinks he wants to live a bit longer, so he follows Sakusa to the kitchen in silence.
They begin scrubbing at Akaashi’s ceramic plates, the water in the sink turning to murky brown, and Atsumu is starting to feel smothered by the silence when Sakusa decides to break it: “can you please tell Shouyou-kun that you’re in love with him?”
Atsumu drops the plate he’d been drying, and Sakusa watches it hit the tiled floor and fracture into multiple pieces, each racing off into a different corner of the kitchen. He thinks again about the laws of thermodynamics and is briefly awestruck by the reminder that nothing is ever really destroyed. Yes, the plate is broken, but it’s not gone. Sakusa could collect the fragments of glass and break each of them again and again until they were practically dust: yet the matter than constituted the ceramic that constituted the plate could never be destroyed. Kinetic energy becomes something else, becomes something else, and never disappears.
Atsumu curses and bends down to pick up the bits and pieces of chipped fragments. Sakusa tells Akaashi he’ll cover the cost of replacing the plate - just because matter never disappears doesn’t mean it can’t become obsolete.
----
Later that same night, Sakusa’s phone buzzes.
22:56 fugly rat licker
what did u mean earlier???
22:56 fugly rat licker
i’m. not in love with him lmao
22:57 omi-omi <3
don’t text me until u’ve removed ur head from ur ass goodnight ugly <3
22:57 fugly rat licker
u r a terrible friend <:(
----
03:17 fugly rat licker
i. now i see
----
kugelblitz (astrophysics): (German: “ball lightning”) a concentration of heat, light, and radiation so intense that its energy forms an event horizon; essentially, a black hole formed from radiation as opposed to matter.
iii.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 22 years old, and he’s ready to be put out of his misery.
It’s been months - months of flirting disguised as camaraderie between teammates, late-night whispers at the front of the bus, the streetlights of Tokyo a technicolor blur outside the window, the yearning between them so potent it could put Mr. Darcy’s hand flex to shame - and Sakusa doesn’t think he can do this for much longer.
It’s November, now, and the Jackals have finally played against and defeated the Adlers in an official match. Bokuto hosted a “small get-together” (his words, not Sakusa’s) after the game and invited the entire team (and the entire Adlers team, and every mutual friend and teammate from high school, and their spouses) and Sakusa had been sure that if anything was ever going to happen between Shouyou and Atsumu, it was then.
Unfortunately for Sakusa, certainty never pans out well for him, and his evening is spent playing shrink for a tipsy Miya Atsumu. “Shouyou played so well today, Omi-omi, it was incredible. He’s incredible. ”
“Yes. I was there.”
“God, I love setting the ball to him. I love it so much. I love him so much.”
“I’m aware.” Sakusa decides that he hates existing. He remembers learning about anti-natalism in his college philosophy class: it was the idea that merely existing causes one to suffer. The harm caused by being brought into existence was always more significant than any potential benefit that one garnered from being alive. Sakusa thinks that’s an overly pessimistic view on life, but with Atsumu close to tears next to him, he believes that the anti-natalists might have been onto something. Despite his better judgment, Sakusa finds himself advising the man sitting next to him. “Why don’t you just tell him? He’s obviously in love with you, too.”
“Omi-omi, I’m shy, ” Atsumu wails.
“Bullshit, you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met. And I know Bokuto.”
“I know, but it’s different. ”
Sakusa can feel his patience grow thinner, like the loose thread on the frayed edges of a shirt, the kind that bunches up the fabric when you pull on it until finally, the only remaining choice is to snap it off entirely. He grinds his teeth, reminding himself that patience is a virtue and that he’s a virtuous person. “How is it different?”
Atsumu’s lip trembles. “Because if I’m wrong - if I love him and he doesn’t love me back - that’s it. Things would never be like this again.” His eyes find Shouyou standing with Kageyama and Ushijima on the opposite end of the room. He’s explaining something to Kageyama, gesticulating wildly with his hands, and accidentally spills his drink down Ushijima’s leg. Ushijima also looks like he’s contemplating the validity of anti-natalism. Atsumu sighs and knocks back what’s left of his drink. “I’d rather - I’d rather never find out, ya know? I’d rather the hurt that comes from loving him in silence than live knowing I’ve ruined our friendship.”
Sakusa crumples the empty cup in his hand because that sounds remarkably similar to anti-natalism (better to spare yourself the pain than take a risk at pleasure), and Sakusa thinks that’s far too pessimistic a view to have on one’s life.
----
Sakusa isn’t surprised, then, when someone rings the buzzer to his apartment the following morning.
Hinata Shouyou, as everyone in existence knows, is an intense person. Sakusa hadn’t known him well in high school, but he’d had the misfortune of watching as 16-year-old Shouyou collapsed in a heap on the court, his body overworked to the point of illness. By now, Sakusa has been Shouyou’s teammate for several months: he’s seen him get frustrated and angry and sad - but always for volleyball reasons, because to Shouyou, what is there other than volleyball?
This morning is different. Shouyou is grinding his teeth before Sakusa can fully open the door, fingers pressed into his palms hard enough to leave tiny red crescent moons indented on his skin. “Please excuse me,” Shouyou says through clenched teeth.
Sakusa’s eyebrows draw closer together. “You’re excused?” He closes and locks the door behind Shouyou as he enters and removes his shoes. Even now, Shouyou is a gracious guest, settling into the only chair in Sakusa’s entire apartment that guests are permitted to sit in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Shouyou blows air hard out of his nose, still looking pissy. “Have you talked to Atsumu-san lately?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Is he, like, dumb or something?”
Sakusa sighs and plops onto his couch. “I need you to be more specific.”
Shouyou stands and begins to pace back and forth across the dark hardwood floors. Sakusa makes a mental note to mop later. “I’m not stupid, am I? Because I have been flirting with him for months . And I was pretty confident that he was flirting back all along because Bokuto and Akaashi said they think he likes me and-” Shouyou’s volume continues to increase, “I thought so too, but he’s done nothing. I have given him every opportunity, and he’s done jackshit!”
Sakusa sucks on his teeth and thinks of what to say: obviously, he would love to sit here and talk shit about Atsumu; but he also sees the value in being helpful because the only person who wants this back-and-forth Pride and Prejudice torment to end more than Atsumu and Shouyou is Sakusa. He finally settles on a reply when the buzzer to his apartment blares once more.
“I’ll get it,” Shouyou says, and Sakusa feels like he’s watching a car accident happen in slow motion. “Oh, goddammit.” Shouyou turns to Sakusa and loudly whispers “Omi-san, it’s Atsumu-san. ” He spins back around to face the door: “Omi-san is busy right now, sorry, I’m calling dibs!”
Sakusa puts his head in his hands and reminds himself that patience is a virtue, and he is a virtuous person. He stands, slides on his shoes, and opens the door. “I’ll be back in half in an hour, and the two of you better have this shit worked out. Idiots.”
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 22 years old, and he decides that acts of kindness just aren’t his thing.
Sakusa doesn’t remember his mother very well, but he recalls how she always said he was a curious little boy. Once, when he was five, she had taken him to the botanical gardens for a mother-son day trip. The gardens were massive, filled with various plants and flowers from all over the world, and Sakusa loved every single one. However, the thing he loved the most was the quaint koi pond that sat on the gardens’ outer perimeter. While his mother admired a shrub of purple hydrangeas, Sakusa leaned over the pond to get a closer look at the colorful fish, and with all the grace and coordination of a young child, promptly topped over and fell into the water.
His mother hadn’t been angry; in fact, she’d smiled and laughed with her son as soon as she was sure he wasn’t hurt. They apologized to the person working at the gardens, still laughing behind their hands like schoolchildren who knew some grand secret and had no intention of sharing it with you.
On the subway ride back home, Sakusa began to drift off: but before he could succumb to the exhaustion that only children can know, a man sneezed on his mother. He apologized profusely, and she waved him off like it was no big deal. You know the rest.
That sense of childlike wonder and curiosity never left Sakusa - even with a dead mother and an invisible father, he was always a curious boy. So when he comes back to his apartment 30 minutes later, as promised, and sees Atsumu and Shouyou’s shoes but not Atsumu and Shouyou, no red flags pop up in his head. From his bedroom (which absolutely nobody is allowed in), he hears a strange yet rhythmic thudding spill out from his bedroom accompanied by shaky breathing. Enraged over the fact that those assholes went into his room with their nasty little germs, he barges in without really thinking things through. He catches an eyeful of something he shouldn’t repeat and leaves his apartment again.
He makes a mental note to buy some bleach for his eyeballs.
----
11:23 fugly rat licker
i’m sorry omfg i’m so sorry
11:25 omi-omi <3
hahahaha what size coffin do u wear?
----
A box adorned with yellow gift-wrap is shoved into his hands with little ceremony at practice two days later. “Happy birthday!” Shouyou says confidently.
“My birthday is in July.”
Atsumu hovers behind Shouyou, like a planet caught in the Sun’s orbit, unable to deviate from the patterns etched in stone since the universe exploded into being all those years ago. “Would ya just open it? It’s not nice to turn down a gift!”
“Whoa, really? Do you know what else isn’t nice? Giving your boyfriend a blowjob in someone else’s-”
“Whoa, Omi-san, please!” Shouyou turns those brilliant puppy-dog eyes to him, and Sakusa looks away. He wonders what the opposite of a black hole is. His own eyes are dark, and it seems like they absorb light like a vacuum. Shouyou’s eyes are the inverse, light enough to reflect every wavelength - maybe even bright enough to emit a light of its own. Sakusa rolls his eyes. Atsumu is so screwed.
Sakusa opens the gift wrap, revealing a new set of sheets. He laughs. “You guys are assholes.”
----
Sakusa Kiyoomi is 25 years old, and Komori asks him if he’s happy.
And Sakusa turns around in his seat on the Japanese Olympic Men’s Volleyball team bus to see the people he might call friends still high off the thrill of victory. He looks at Ushijima, who pretends to be asleep but watches as Bokuto piles one Twizzler after another into a sleeping Kageyama’s mouth. Hoshiumi tries to goad Yaku into another arm-wrestling match. Aran and Hyakuzawa speak quietly on the back of the bus. Sakusa turns his eyes to see Atsumu sling an arm around Shouyou’s shoulders with so much tenderness and care than Sakusa kinda wants to claw his eyes out.
And he turns finally to his cousin: his cousin who gifted him with a bottle of hand lotion when Sakusa was five years old and convinced that the world would snuff him out the same way it did his mother, his brother in name if not in blood who answered the phone when Sakusa’s father called and told him not to call this number again, who saw his hands, raw and cracked apart like desert rock, and loved him enough to extend his own hand and say
follow me, I’ve found the answer
- “yes,” he says. “Yes, I’m happy.”