Chapter Text
At the supple age of 23, Miya Atsumu raptly watches the figure of Suna Rintarou - half weary, half graceful; all parts beautiful - leisurely leaning against the metal of the balcony on which they both stand, the outline of his body distinct against the inky hue of the midnight sky. His head falls backward as he tips a bottle to his lips in a manner entirely too graceful for someone drunk out of his mind, and yet — Atsumu’s eyes can’t help but stare at the Adam’s apple that bobs up and down his throat like a vertical pendulum as liquid fills Suna’s throat.
If someone were to tell Miya Atsumu at the age of 15 that in eight short years he’d be standing on a quiet balcony with Suna Rintarou and feeling nothing but desire and want and longing for the boy (or rather; man) whose eyes match the dim lights on the streets below piercing through his chest, Miya Atsumu would have laughed in their face. He can't help but feel like that nonexistent someone is laughing at him now.
He wonders how exactly they got here. He wonders how they started from glares and cutting words to eventually end up here, with stares that last for too long and words that never seem to be enough.
That's what he always seems to do when it comes to Suna Rintarou - wonder.
At 8 years old, Miya Atsumu asks his mother what it was like to be in love.
The day is warm, the sun shining down tenderly on the world like a lullaby. Children run around a red and yellow playground, their grubby hands reaching for each other in a game of tag as two kids stumble sloppily on each other when one tugs too hard on the other’s shirt. As for Atsumu, he sits on a checkered orange blanket with only his mother, twin brother, and a picnic basket full to the brim in front of him. For an 8 year-old Miya Atsumu, it's as perfect of a day as it can get (though there really isn't much competition).
Save for one detail. A perfect day for a Miya Atsumu that barely reached the cusp of 127 centimeters tall didn’t necessarily include having to watch a man and a woman amidst what looked to be a fight (if the tears and words spoken far too loud - in Atsumu’s excellent opinion - are any indication).
Osamu ia busy chomping on an onigiri, so Atsumu knows that he can't bother him. On the other hand, his mother is preoccupied with trying (and failing) to convince Osamu to eat slower, lest he get a stomach ache later on. So, Atsumu is left to his own devices; and to an 8 year old boy, that means searching for any form of entertainment. Entertainment that just happens to be standing ten feet away from their picnic blanket, the fight playing out in front of him like the drama his mother was watching last night.
He’s been told several times by his mother and brother that he needs to keep his nose out of other people’s business, but he can’t help it - he's curious. And besides, how is he meant to focus on anything else when they're practically screeching (an over exaggeration) at the top of their lungs?
Satisfied with the excuse he makes for himself, Atsumu grabs a melon, stuffing it haphazardly in his mouth, and focuses his attention on the fighting couple.
At first, Atsumu doesn't quite see what the big fuss was about; but then again, the woman is speaking at words far above his intelligence level, so there isn't much that he understands anyway. Nevertheless, he watches on even though he can only understand a few words from each sentence (and some words that he figures he probably shouldn’t repeat in front of his mother).
His attention span is a short one, and he eventually finds his interest in the couple dwindling — that is, until he hears a particular sentence come out of the woman’s mouth.
“I can’t believe I still love you.”
A crinkle appears on the skin of his forehead. For a moment, Atsumu wonders why she can't just choose to love another person, or why they're making such a deal over something so insignificant (if she loves him, then what more is there to be fighting about?).
He pokes a finger at his mother’s bicep, his face scrunching in what might be determination. When she doesn't pay any attention to the poke, continuing to berate Osamu, Atsumu pokes a few more times - with a little more vigor.
Atsumu recognizes the fatigued sigh and exasperated expression on his mother’s face, but his curiosity wins out over his potential politeness. “Ma, why’re they fightin?”
His mother glances up at the couple, a look clouding her warm brown eyes like a drop of red food dye in water (which was spoken from experience - Atsumu and Osamu had once dyed themselves pink after trying to bathe in food-colored bath water). Atsumu tilts his head. The emotion that overtakes her eyes appears to be heavyhearted, even wistful. Atsumu hates it when his mother is sad.
“People fight, son. It’s natural in a relationship.”
He frowns. “But the lady said she loved him. Why are they fighting if she loves him?”
His mother sighs once more, the odd look still holding firmly on her soft features. Atsumu can't help but be frustrated that he doesn't quite understand what's going on. He figures it might have something to do with the man that she once said she had loved previously when Atsumu and his brother inquired about their father. But at the end of the day, he's only eight; and eight-year-olds don't quite understand everything.
“Love is complicated. Real complicated. It’s hard a lot of the time, but it feels worth it,” his mother explains.
Atsumu's mouth twists in displeasure. “Love sounds like a funky thing. I don’t like it.”
His mother laughs, and Atsumu feels comforted by the familiar, pleasant sound. He thinks that the laugh still sounds like it was infected with sadness, but he doesn't dwell on it.
“I have a feeling that’ll change. Especially since you’ve got a real large heart son.” She tousles his hair before giving him a gentle jab with her elbow. “Now come on, stop eavesdroppin’ and eat yer melons.”
Atsumu presses a hand to his chest then. His heart doesn't feel all that big.
At age 15, Miya Atsumu can be characterized as brash, loud, and akin to what can only be described as a cross between a tornado and a hot summer day. In the nature of a tornado, he sweeps through whomever is deemed unlucky enough to find themselves caught in the path of a boy in love and pushes them to strenuously work harder than they ever would’ve desired. Contrariwise, his demeanor is concordant to a hot summer day — in the ways where he's an overwhelming force that proves overbearing to some when it comes to meeting his expectations as a setter.
Let it be known that Miya Atsumu’s expectations are highest for the gangly 15-year-old boy that was scouted to Inarizaki for his supposed genius ability in blocking and in spiking; a duality that wakes a jittery excitement in the setter instincts possessed in Atsumu’s fingertips.
Miya Osamu can attest to those expectations, if having to hear his twin brother ramble exuberantly about how he saw the new kid hitting some sets with their coach and “jeez, Samu he was good — like really, really good!” counts as suitable proof for Atsumu’s excitement about working with Suna Rintarou.
But expectations are meant to be broken, if the frown growing on Atsumu’s face is of any indication. His eyes expectantly follow Suna Rintarou once practice commences, but the boy that's hitting sets at a slightly above average strength doesn't match the vision of a volleyball player that Atsumu caught earlier when he decided to eavesdrop from the gym windows during lunch.
Expectations are a fickle thing — a notion that Atsumu already knows slowly chips away at hearts like it did his mother’s. To Atsumu Miya, broken expectations of a person he knows little to nothing about would have been left in the past.
But that's before he discovers that carefully-articulated flexibility can be paired with strong precision and power to create a play that can easily be complemented by any set - from any angle, from any place.
The familiar feeling of determination fills his chest then; the same determination that makes him disagreeable and unfriendly to his teammates; that causes him to be on the receiving end of many scoldings about his unnecessary tactlessness when it comes to speaking to teammates he worked closely with. The same determination that he holds as a weapon of sorts — or perhaps even a wall, if anyone decides to analyze a deeper motivation for the obstinacy that Atsumu often practiced.
But despite the losses that this determination leaves him with, it's this same determination that allows for Atsumu to eventually shine over Osamu and claim his place as a potential star setter, to find comfort in the feeling of a volleyball in his hands.
In hindsight, maybe that determination was an overwhelming force, if Atsumu ever took the time to realize it.
Atsumu was always slow to realize.
Miya Atsumu always has a tendency to push limits - in positive connotations, negative connotations, and everything in between.
Perhaps it's due to the constant feeling of competition that comes with having a twin brother, or perhaps it's just something he picked up along the way somehow, unknowingly. However it came to be, this tendency to push limits eventually establishes itself as a defining trait of Atsumu’s character — from his unrelenting desire to constantly be a better volleyball player than the Atsumu of his past, of yesterday; to the rude persona that many of his teammates don't necessarily appreciate.
Suna Rintarou comes only second to Miya Osamu when it comes to familiarity with this characteristic of Atsumu's.
Atsumu saw something in Suna when he first discovered how powerful flexibility could be when paired with spiking, and Atsumu was near impossible to separate from determination once it overtook him.
So Atsumu pushes the limits of Suna Rintarou with the belief that if he can just chip away at whatever's holding Suna back from playing like he did in the one moment that caught Atsumu’s attention, then Suna’s potential as a double threat in both blocking and as a spiker could be made visible to everyone else.
But in hindsight, maybe he is an overwhelming force.
Atsumu still hasn't realized that fact.
Not even when his demands to Suna causes him to be met with green eyes full of frustration and some other feeling that Atsumu sees as both familiar and foreign at the same time. Not even when Atsumu’s pleads of “Ya can do better, I know ya can - I believe it.” are met with stubborn ears and a response of “stop believing then, because I’m not as good as you think I am.”
If Atsumu was just a little wiser, he might have heard the almost imperceptible shake in the frustration on Suna’s tongue.
Miya Atsumu was not known for being wise.
Over time, frustration turns into a loathing so strong that a spectacle of Atsumu Miya and Suna Rintarou at each other’s throats becomes a part of Inarizaki’s daily routine.
Practice would start off as usual, Suna might make a mistake, and Atsumu’s yelling would start before Suna’s feet could even reach the ground. In return, Atsumu would be on the receiving end of a middle finger or a snarky remark that would sometimes cause Osamu to grab hold of his brother to stop him from storming after Suna, who would already be making his way to the bench for a drink of water.
The dysfunctionality of their relationship causes the coaching staff and the captain to create a practice itinerary that involves the two having as little time with each other as possible, but the promise of Suna’s exceptional flexibility to get spikes through paired with Atsumu’s sets (which were second to no other setter in their region) can't go unused due to a few spats. It's at these times that they're often left alone to wear down each other’s fires as the rest of the team watches with bated breaths.
It isn't as if there's anything they can change as a team since Atsumu seems to be the only one that particularly sets off Suna’s nerves, and Suna seems to be at the end of Atsumu’s tirades far more than anyone else on the team (which in itself said a lot, considering the fact that his twin brother plays right alongside him).
“Stop draggin’ yer feet on the fuckin’ floor damnit, Suna!”
A month has passed, and each practice only seems to add more fuel to the fire — increasing volume in voices, increasing curse words thrown over shoulders at the other, and an air of tension so thick that the rest of the team feels it weighing heavily on their shoulders. They thought that maybe with time, something would begin to click; but it seems as if time only provided itself as an enabler in the disastrous relationship between the two. It doesn't help that even Osamu has a hint of worry playing between the creases of his forehead.
Suna’s eyes whip over to Atsumu’s figure, the green of his irises almost unnoticeable with how narrowed his eyes become. There's a difference in the way his jaw clenched this time. “Maybe if you weren’t late to setting to me every single fucking time, then I wouldn’t have to drag my stupid feet, Miya,” Suna says, his voice taut.
Though his voice remains at a volume that Atsumu has heard before, there's a bite to his words that make it seem as if they have been a thin rope this entire time — and it's close to breaking apart. Rage blinds Atsumu at the insinuation that he's the one that messed up.
The metaphor doesn't seem all that far-fetched.
Atsumu storms toward Suna’s figure, his heavy footsteps echoing over the gym walls like an alarm clock. He thinks back to their first practice together, when Suna declared to him that what he delivered was all that Atsumu would get. “Ya never listen when I tell ya to hurry the hell up, so the hell do ya want me to do?”
“I want you to shut your fucking mouth and just let me do what I do best,” Suna spits out. Atsumu's well aware of the fact that Suna had been the only one on their current team that was properly scouted to Inarizaki for volleyball. Hearing Suna confirm the fact that he holds self-awareness for his talent but chooses not to use it makes frustration take over Atsumu’s senses.
He just can't understand why someone who's so naturally talented at a sport that he works so hard to become exceptional at would ever waste that talent by stopping short of the potential they have. He’s seen it in past teammates, in Osamu, but in Suna — in Suna he sees the potential of a star.
Before he's even aware of what's happening, Atsumu closes the distance between him and Suna, grabbing a fistful of the front of Suna’s black t-shirt and pulling him closer to him. “You can’t be at your best if you can’t hit my fuckin’ sets right!”
Suna’s hand clenches around Atsumu’s fist as he raises a defiant glare to the setter, pulling their faces even closer. “Is that so? Well I don’t give a fuck. I’m not taking anymore shit from you,” Suna practically growls.
The air seems to silence. Atsumu stands frozen, his hand still clutching Suna’s collar. The sound of silence and heavy breathing finally begins to register in his ears, almost as if someone slaps him and brings him back to reality. He looks clearly at Suna, who seems to be undergoing the same process of sobering up. His eyelids blink slowly, quickly — lightly, heavily. His mouth is just slightly parted in surprise.
For a second Atsumu thinks that maybe the feeling poking at his chest is some mixture of humility and shame. Maybe.
Vaguely, Atsumu feels Suna’s grip on his hand loosening, and he subconsciously loosens his own grip. Suna looks up at him this time, his eyes scrutinizing, searching — realizing. The anger that felt so suffocating just a moment ago seems to have lifted off Atsumu’s chest, and all he can hear is the mingling of his chest heaving up and down with Suna’s tight intakes of breath.
Their coach’s voice pulls Atsumu back to reality. “Atsumu, Suna. Go outside and get a breath of air. Stand on opposite sides of the wall. I won’t hesitate to send you both home if I walk out to find you two in a physical fight. Don’t come back inside until you both learn to cooperate.” He doesn't sound all that angry, considering all things. He sounds more weary than anything else.
Suna pulls his hand away from Atsumu’s. Atsumu relinquishes his hold on Suna’s shirt.
“Hell, Miya,” Suna says once the gym doors are closed behind them, leaving Atsumu and Suna alone with themselves and the setting sky above them.
Atsumu takes a seat against the brick wall, allowing himself a sigh as his eyes flutter closed against the feeling of rough edges of the clay blocks making contact with the back of his head. Now that his face is met with the cool spring air rather than the suffocating and sweat-drenched atmosphere of the gym, he feels as if a bucket of ice-cold water was poured onto his body, drenching him from head to toe and awakening senses that were previously clouded with frustration and impulse.
With a slight twist of gaze, his eyes catch on Suna’s figure from across the gym doors, his shoulders slump and heavy eyes close against the sunset’s light — almost like a sculpture that's housed in an art display. The scene reminds him that sometimes Atsumu can get so caught up in expecting a certain degree from his spikers that he fails to contemplate their own feelings.
He realizes now why his mother always lectures him to be more considerate, or why Osamu is constantly staring at him in disappointment when he gets into a spat with a teammate that loses him yet another stable relationship on the team.
Regret begins to push heavily on his chest.
He never fights this way with anyone but Osamu — in real, callous anger and physicality. Major fights with Osamu often lead to them not speaking for a few hours before eventually falling back into their regular routine; but Suna isn't Osamu, and the knowledge that he nearly got into a serious fight with someone other than his horrendous twin brother leaves an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. The thought makes any of the remaining anger he might’ve felt drain away.
A formation of sorry fights its way onto his tongue, but the genuine apology holds a foreign taste, and Atsumu's afraid of what might happen if he allows himself to sincerely apologize. With his luck, it might make the situation worse.
“Hell is right,” Atsumu opts to say instead. He bows his head, picking lightly at the imperfections on his nail beds before speaking quietly, just loud enough for Suna to hear over the sounds of voices inside the gym, “I usually don’t get into physical fights with anyone but Samu.”
He allows himself to sneak a look at Suna once more, finding that he can just barely make out the traces of a grin playing softly on Suna’s lips. Atsumu tries to connect this image of Suna to the boy that cursed him out in front of their entire team not even five minutes ago, but finds himself finding no similarities in this calm expression when he compares it to the flashing anger in pale green eyes of before.
This must be the peaceful version of Suna that everyone but him has seen.
“Mmm. Not so much of a physical fight though. You just grabbed me by the shirt and got up in my face real close.”
Atsumu can't help but chuckle a little at that. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Silence falls over them once more. Atsumu focuses his gaze on the crumpled leaf that lies desolate just a few centimeters from his right foot.
“Look, I just hate it when people waste the talent they have. I fuckin’ despise it,” Atsumu starts again, vaguely sensing Suna’s head turn. When Atsumu looks back at him, he's met with furrowed eyebrows and a frown that almost looks unnatural. Atsumu realized that this foreign feeling stems from the fact that he’s only ever seen laziness or anger written on Suna’s face. “I want the best out of everyone on this team. And you, you’ve got it. Yer real strong, real good. I can see it. But yer not letting yourself be that.”
A scoff comes from the opposite wall. “This is my best.”
“No,” Atsumu immediately says. “No, it’s not. And ya know it.”
Before Atsumu’s words can fade into the air, Suna is on his feet, back turned so that Atsumu is met with his back rather than the side of his face. Though the movement is sudden, the energy he uses doen’t appear to be driven by anger. Instead, Atsumu senses something like a wall being built around Suna, as if his movements are full of a vulnerability that he doesn't want Atsumu to see.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what my best is?” Suna remains planted in the spot he takes up, his back rising in what appears to be heavy sighs.
Atsumu’s eyes follow the way that the rise and fall of Suna’s back holds a familiarity to it that Atsumu doesn't want to dwell on. It's much too similar to the way that Atsumu’s breaths are reduced to heavy inhales whenever he snaps at his twin brother anytime that he tries to convince him to be nicer to their teammates. The feeling remains nameless in Atsumu’s head.
Slowly, Atsumu stands so that he's eye level with the back of Suna’s head.
“Who the hell are ya to not owe it to yerself to be your best?”
The sentence comes out softer than he means, as if the recognition of the fact that he and Suna are similar on some unknown aspect is causing him to treat Suna with a kindness that he fails to give himself. Atsumu paces a few steps, trying to shake off the odd emotions that are suddenly fronting.
He knows that he hits a nerve, if the silence that follows his words is any indication. He also knows that maybe it isn’t any of his business — that perhaps he has no right to poke his nose at a possibly sensitive topic and that maybe he’s been too harsh on someone he’s only known for a few weeks. But Atsumu doen’t regret asking the question, despite it all.
As much as seeing Suna’s half-assed plays anger him, Atsumu always has an eye for spotting potential. It's why his teammates are often at the short end of his fuse — because really, why waste talent by not being your best when you’ve got so much of it? He knows that the potential he sees in Suna is the root of his anger, and though he might have had a few regrets on the way that he's been going about it, Atsumu isn’t afraid to let Suna know that he sees that spark of potential reflecting strongest in Suna’s plays.
“I hate you,” Suna finally responds after a few beats of silence. It sounds more like a resignation than an angry comeback.
The corners of Atsumu’s lips twitch upwards. He appreciates someone that's blunt with their perception about him. “Feelin’s mutual,” he says, looking over just in time to catch Suna’s expression mid-eyeroll. Atsumu continues on. “But that don’t mean that I still won’t force ya to be the downright monster I know ya are.”
Suna falls to silence for another moment and Atsumu is beginning to wonder if he should prepare for another fight.
A chuckle eliciting from Suna’s lips is the last response he expects, and Atsumu has to stare dumbfounded at the physical upwards curve on Suna’s lips to convince himself that the sound that enters his ears is actually real.
The sound is higher pitched than Atsumu would’ve imagined it to be, but now that he’s heard it, he can’t imagine another sound being Suna Rintarou’s laugh. If this really is who Suna is - light chuckles, tired eyes, breath full of hidden vulnerability - then Atsumu is beginning to see a truth behind Osamu’s exasperated request that Atsumu “give Suna a chance because he really isn’t so bad that it’s worth fighting over every day.”
“I really can’t tell if you’re insulting me or complimenting me,” Suna says. His head tilts ever so slightly in Atsumu’s direction. Atsumu just barely makes out the shape of a grin on his face.
Atsumu feels an odd feeling of relaxation situate on his shoulders. “How do ya feel about a little bit ‘a both?”
The voice that answers him sounds completely different from the voice that's been throwing seething words in his direction for the past few weeks. “I can live with that.”
That night — against the warm hues of a setting sun — Atsumu Miya finds that maybe there's more than just a lazy stare and a mouth full of curse words to Suna Rintarou. So much more.
Atsumu stares down at the arm in front of him, volleyball held upwards on a pale palm. It feels out of place — almost like an apology; a reconciliation for something he had been the first to wreck. Suna is taking the frayed strings of their discordance and sewing together something stronger, something much less volatile.
He's offering Atsumu the other half of the string. Atsumu isn’t sure that he deserves such kindness.
Atsumu blinks, still trying to find acceptance for the way that Suna taps his shoulder and offers to work with him on a few sets. “Ya wanna practice?”
It's tentative — like a foot into a cold lake on a spring day. One step in, a step back, two delicate steps forward.
Suna raises a dark eyebrow. “Yeah.” He appears to bite lightly into the side of his cheek, Atsumu notes. The next gaze that Atsumu is met with doesn't appear to completely meet his eye the way that Suna’s gazes always do. “You set to me, and I’ll spike,” comes Suna’s nearly toneless response.
Atsumu can hear the unspoken addition to his sentence — you set to me, and I’ll spike; and I’ll try.
“Okay,” Atsumu says. “ We’ll do that.”
Suna presses the volleyball into Atsumu’s hand. The ragged leather feels familiar against Atsumu’s skin.
Atsumu sets. Suna spikes.
Something falls into place.
At age 16, Suna Rintarou falls in love for the first time.
Or so Atsumu thinks.
To a Miya Atsumu that has never experienced a crush that goes farther than a simple flutter for the upperclassman that used to tutor him back in junior high, romantic love is a vague feeling that remains unvisited in his head. So Atsumu believes that Suna is in love — at least; by Atsumu’s incomplete and almost childlike perspective on what love might actually mean.
Here's what Atsumu knows about her:
A tall (but not as tall as Suna, who was a whopping 185 centimeters at the time), lean girl who often keeps her dark hair in a ponytail that never seems to hold together. She's charming in her own odd way, athletically gifted as one of the school’s highest placing track runners, and affectionate like a mother might be.
Atsumu thinks that she doesn't seem like Suna’s type.
Or perhaps she is, and Atsumu's wrong. He doesn't like to think often about what kind of person would pique Suna’s interest anyway.
Atsumu hardly wants to remember her name, but the way that it's seared on Suna’s tongue like a gentle love poem always makes him pause. He remembers her name anyway, if only for the sake of trying to keep friendly pretenses.
It isn't that Atsumu holds a disdain for her in particular; but rather, he holds a disdain for the idea of her — someone who sweeps into his daily life without warning and naturally becomes better liked than he ever can within his own little circle of people that he holds a mild care for.
Her presence fills in for his when he sets off for the Ajinomoto National Training Center for the first time, and Atsumu tries not to get hung up on the fact that his return doesn't seem to have much of an impact on his brother or on the one teammate that's closest to being called a friend of his. The looming date of the Spring Tournament saves him from having any spare time to particularly dwell on it.
As spring begins to fall softly on the skin of the earth, she makes fewer appearances. Her name no longer sounds like a love poem on Suna’s lips. Soft kisses on lips become quick pecks on cheeks.
Then, as quickly as she comes, she’s gone. Suna insists that it just didn’t work out.
Atsumu only nods. Time moves onwards.
At age 16, Miya Atsumu falls in love for the first time.
He doesn't quite know when his heart first starts to accelerate whenever Kita Shinsuke’s lips quirk upwards in a rare smile, but once he notices that his heart indeed betrays him in the way that it does, he can’t go back. Once his brain makes the announcement to itself that he’s fallen head over heels and tripping on his feet for his third-year captain, Atsumu is too far gone.
He knows he's a mess - from the way he responds to Kita’s calls quicker than anyone else, or the way he always offers to carry something, anything really for his much smaller captain.
He can feel eyes on him as he fails spectacularly at attempting to compliment Kita on their way out of the locker room, his brain and tongue seeming to be at odds when instead of saying “you’re real cute, Kita-san,” his tongue opts to instead let out a strangled “you’re cut like a real Kita-san.”
Kita just looks at him oddly before thanking him and making his way out of the locker room. From somewhere beside him he hears a snort that's so characteristically Suna that Atsumu just sends him a glare on instinct.
In his reflex, he fails to see how the look on Suna’s face isn't one of teasing, but instead - one of annoyance.
Not that he would’ve noticed anyway. Atsumu’s past few months has been seen through rose-tinted glasses that seem to focus solely on Kita Shinsuke.
“My god! I’m hopeless! What was that? ‘Cut like a real Kita-san’ - what’s wrong with me?” comes the raucous voice of a teenager in the midst of the crisp, autumn breeze. Atsumu buries his face in his hands for the upteenth time.
He replays the scene over and over in his head like a broken cassette tape. With each rewind, Atsumu feels a renewed need to complain, or yell; or maybe sprint home and hide in his closet until the embarrassment slowly dwindles away. He feels like the textbook definition of a lovesick teenager. Atsumu walks ahead of Osamu.
“You’re being annoying that’s what,” Suna quips back, his voice stilted. The tone in his voice isn’t necessarily mean, but there's an edge present in his voice that seems out of place in the situation.
Atsumu chooses not to entirely dwell on it. Suna has his days, just like he does.
“Oh shut up, Rin,” Atsumu grumbles in response. “Maybe if you got that stick out of yer ass, maybe some girl would actually like ya.”
Osamu and Suna don’t mention the fact that Atsumu is the only one out of the three that has yet to have a girlfriend. Instead, Osamu just lets out a small chuckle — an indication of his unwillingness to get caught up in what seems to be shaping up to be an argument.
“No thanks. Not if it’ll get me acting like you do around Kita-san.”
Atsumu turns his head to face Suna, his steps slowing to a stop. “There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little embarrassing in front of a crush. Yer just a big grump.”
Suna responds by looking away from where Atsumu stands, his gaze appearing uninterested. “It’s better than being a lovesick puppy,” he mumbles, dismissive and apathetic; and yet — his legs stop their forward motion, pausing just a few centimeters from where Atsumu stands.
Atsumu grips the nylon strap of his duffle bag, the rough material causing an irritating friction against his palms. He stares at the light clench in Suna’s jaw, his irritation growing further. “Better than bein’ an asshole, jerk.”
He wouldn’t say that he's hurt. The irritation that he can feel in his grip feels more synonymous with frustration rather than hurt — frustration for the never-ending enigma that is Suna Rintarou.
For someone who's classified by most as emotionally volatile, Atsumu never seems to have a secure grip on said emotions, and in extension - he never understands why it is that Suna is so vehemently against what he feels for Kita. Sure, he might not have had the best relationship with Suna’s past girlfriend, but even with his emotional ineptness, Atsumu doesn’t think that the dislike for the girl that seems all but forgotten in Suna’s mind warrants this kind of reaction.
Atsumu thinks that Suna's being dumb. Atsumu thinks that it's stupid to get all worked-up over something that would normally be irrelevant. Dumb, stupid, irrelevant — all words that mill around in Atsumu’s head.
But the eyes that Atsumu look into are neither of the three. Instead, they're confused, frustrated — familiar to Atsumu, yet foreign when they're staring back at him with blinking eyes.
“And I’m tired of your crush. It’s annoying,” Suna says. How he manages to withhold an uninterested, yet emotionally-twinged response, Atsumu doen’t know. He hates the contradiction, hates the weird paradox that comes attached to Suna Rintarou that he can never seem to understand (or perhaps, it's a different word that his English teacher had said; Atsumu didn’t particularly care).
Atsumu doesn’t get it. He wishes that he did. Frustration bubbles upwards in his throat.
Osamu interrupts before Atsumu can spit out a snarky remark that he may or may not regret. “Kay, knock it off,” he says, his voice firm. It's ironic that the person that Atsumu got into the most fights with often plays peacemaker when it comes to Atsumu’s non-familial relationships. “Yer both unbearable when ya fight.”
“There’s no fight here, Samu.” Atsumu directs a glare at Suna. “Sunarin’s just being a pain in the ass.”
Suna scoffs. “I’m the pain in the ass? You’re the one who’s at Kita-san’s beck and call with your stupid heart eyes and dumb little high-pitched laugh. Don’t even get me started on how you stare at him.”
Atsumu’s expression sours. “Oh well, I’m sorry! Let me just stop my crush real quick!” He throws his hands upwards in sarcasm. Then, he tilts his head to the side and continues on, “Oh wait, people can’t choose who they fall in love with ya big, stinkin’ grouch!”
“I don’t see why not,” Suna replies, his tone grating on Atsumu’s nerves. “Just find a flaw in Kita-san. Then you won’t be an annoying lovesick puppy anymore.”
Atsumu begins to stomp over to where Suna's walking. Osamu stands between them before he can reach him. “Samu, get outta the way!”
“No way.”
“And why the hell not?!”
“Because yer both bein’ weird for some stupid reason and need to stay the hell away from each other until ya cool off.”
Breaths heave up and down on Atsumu’s chest as he stands still in the place where Osamu’s arm stops him. The breaths feel angry, but Atsumu doesn’t quite know what exactly the anger is directed towards.
Perhaps it's at Osamu; with his instincts to stop Atsumu’s argument with Suna pushing at the irritation Atsumu felt — wanting nothing more than to yell something, anything at Suna’s face.
Or perhaps it's directed towards the clench in Suna’s jaw, an indication of some type of anger that Atsumu feels was entirely unwarranted.
Eventually, Osamu pulls his hand away, still using his body as a barrier between Atsumu and Suna. “Tsumu, go ahead without me. I’ve gotta talk to Sunarin real quick.”
Atsumu makes a noise of objection, but Osamu cuts him off again. “I’ll bring home some pastries from the bakery near the house if ya listen.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows pinch together, his eyes moving back and forth between Osamu, who's shooting him his stupid ‘just listen to me dumbass’ look; and Suna, who's staring off at the park in the distance with a hard expression.
Atsumu stalks off with a scowl.
A cool autumn wind breezes through the Kansai region, gliding placid over falling tree leaves and school campuses.
Atsumu stands beside Suna under the daunting tree that stands in front of their school, the silence between them feeling far greater than the meter that stands between them. With a restless hand, Atsumu pulls lightly at his school tie.
Arguments between them are usually left untouched and unspoken — left in the past the following day as if no altercation took place. It's been an unspoken routine for the two of them since that night that their relations turned from sour to nearly friendly, like a mutual understanding for the dysfunctionality of their friendship.
But arguments between them are often small, sparked by a harmless snarky comment or a mild disagreement on opinion. The space between them doesn't feel harmless to Atsumu.
He sneaks a glance to his right, just barely taking in the image of Suna (earbuds in and eyes downcast to gaze at the shoelaces on his feet) before hastily pulling his gaze.
They end up in such a position because Osamu insisted that they wait for him due to the fact that he had something to pick up from the library for some assignment or such (Atsumu really didn’t pay attention). Atsumu and Suna are both well aware that his afterschool library endeavor is really only code for “I’ll go to the library to wave awkwardly at the girl I’ve been meaning to ask out for months so you two can sort yer shit out while I’m gone”, but they entertain his request anyway.
Atsumu's not particularly skilled in dealing with awkward interactions without upsetting one of the parties involved. He definitely doesn't want to spend a walk home with Suna without Osamu to help ease the uneasy unspokeness between them. He figures that Suna feels similar.
“Hey,” comes Suna’s voice from beside him, quiet yet loud. Atsumu turns to meet his gaze.
Suna’s gaze is still fixated on a point on his shoes, but the earbuds that were previously nestled in his ears now hang loosely around his neck. “Your crush on Kita-san isn’t stupid.”
In hindsight, he should’ve expected that Suna would initiate the conversation, given Atsumu’s disastrous track record for being inconsiderate and illogical about feelings. Still, he doesn't want this to appear like a one-sided apology. He knows that there's something he has to apologize for - his attitude, his rudeness; his overall treatment of Suna (maybe).
Instead, Atsumu just nods. “Ya had a point,” he awkwardly says.
He was never good with apologies.
The corners of Suna’s lips quirk upwards. His head moves in an almost imperceptible shake. “Still. I shouldn’t have said all that stuff.”
Atsumu rubs the back of his neck. “I think I’ve said worse,” he replies, his voice an almost foreign tone of bashfulness. He makes the stark realization that he’s never actually said a verbal, genuine apology to anyone before.
If Suna is aware of the contrast in Atsumu’s voice to how he typically sounds, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he lifts his head to meet Atsumu’s gaze, his eyes flashing with that same uncertainty that Atsumu took note of the day before.
“But I was making fun of your feelings. It’s not the same.”
The unspoken apology that's minced between Suna’s words feels like a kindness that Atsumu doesn't deserve. It feels selfish to accept it as if being handed to him on a silver platter. Hearing ‘inconsiderate’ and ‘selfish’ used to describe him more often than any other words does indeed have an effect on him, despite how he might express an uncaring attitude to other people’s perception about him.
Atsumu wants to sew something new into the discordant blanket of a relationship that they're currently weaving — something comfortable. He only hopes that he wouldn’t manage to fail like a baby attempting to take its first steps.
“I was just a little mad that you were bein’ a jerk and I didn’t do anythin’ to deserve it.” Atsumu shrugs as nonchalantly as possible, hoping that this wouldn’t turn out to be an action that he's going to antagonize over in the near future. “Well, I didn’t do anythin’ that would be considered deserving at the time,” he said, his head and mouth tilting to the side. “Yellin’ at ya during practice doesn’t count,” he notes matter-of-factly.
The corners of Suna’s lips lift gently. “Why’s that?”
Atsumu shoots him a look. “Because I’m always yellin’ at ya and ya never get like that.” He's purposefully leaving out that bout of time from when they didn’t get along. “Ya were a different kinda jerk yesterday. Not like the lazy jerk that’s always like ‘Oh, shut up’ but listens to me anyway.”
Suna scoffs. “I do not listen to you.”
A smile creeps onto Atsumu’s lips. He's always proud of the fact that he's the only one besides Kita that can get Suna to run a full run without purposefully lagging behind.
Atsumu leans back against the metal fence, taking comfort in the easy breeze that billows lightly over his white button up. He clears his throat. “So? Why were ya so annoyed?”
“Because you’re annoying,” Suna immediately responds, not at all missing a beat.
On a regular day, Atsumu would accept that answer, because it technically isn't untrue. Today, it feels like a falsehood that stands as a wall of protection around something else. Atsumu wishes that he could understand Suna the way that Suna always seems to see through him like glass.
“But I’m always annoying to ya and yet you never get all like ya did yesterday,” Atsumu pushes.
A stillness falls between them. Atsumu focuses his stare at the crinkles of Suna’s red tie to prevent him from saying something that might destroy the fragility that lays into the air around them.
Then -
“My mom used to act like you do with Kita-san.” Suna’s eyes focus on something far into the distance, something akin to nostalgia and heartache dancing between the varying specs of green. “With my dad.” He begins to fiddle with the tips of his fingers. His next words drip with melancholy, a trait that sounds foreign on Suna’s usually easy-going remarks. “She doesn’t anymore.”
“What happened?” comes Atsumu’s immediate response. The impulse that comes with his words isn’t unfamiliar to him, but he silently wishes that maybe he could be more thoughtful in his response — that he could be more like Osamu, who's far more skilled in controlling the will of his tongue. Atsumu isn't built for the delicacy that Suna deserves.
If Suna is irked by Atsumu’s unthoughtfulness, it doesn't show. Instead, he continues on. “They’re always fighting now. I hate him.”
There's a subtle touch of finality to Suna’s words.
“Oh,” Atsumu says dumbly.
He bites his tongue at his inability to handle emotions gently. The strands of Suna’s face are now gently falling over his downturned head, and Atsumu can nearly imagine a smaller version of Suna standing in his place; eyes welled up with childish tears that Atstumu attributes to the same tears that found residence in a four-year-old Atsumu’s eyes when he first found his mother crying over an old photo of a father he couldn’t remember.
Sure, the situations don’t entirely line up, but Atsumu feels that maybe it holds a candle to the feeling that Suna must feel.
“Hey Sunarin?” Atsumu says. He doesn't even know what he's planning say — maybe an apology, maybe something he shouldn’t, maybe something that Suna won’t want to hear — but he wants to let it be known that while his words fail to reach its mark, Atsumu wants to try to be as much of a good friend as he can muster.
“Don’t say it,” Suna says before Atsumu can say anything more. “It’s not your fault.”
Atsumu breathes a heavy sigh. “Yeah, but I feel like I should be sayin’ something, I dunno, comforting? I’d probably say somethin’ stupid or harsh and then you’ll feel worse and I’ll feel .. bad, yanno,” he awkwardly stumbles out.
“It’s okay,” comes Suna’s voice, piercing through Atsumu’s awkwardness in its usual, familiar insouciance. Gone is the momentary melancholy, and Atsumu realizes that there's an almost calming aspect to Suna’s regular voice.
Again, Suna’s voice reaches Atsumu’s ears — this time soft, gentle, and a twinge bittersweet. “This is enough.”
Suna raises his head, meeting Atsumu’s gaze. Situated softly on his usual jaded features is a minuscule smile — barely tipped upwards, muted.
In Atsumu’s vision, the image of the unfamiliar smile that rests serenely on Suna’s face sounds like something loud, something that holds too much significance for something so small. He feels the need to sear it into his memories.
“It is?” Atsumu tentatively asks.
“Yeah.” Suna tilts his head. Atsumu feels an odd sense of comfort in it. Maybe it's happiness.
Suna lightly kicks Atsumu’s shoe, drawing Atsumu’s attention back to the present. “Stop staring at me like that,” he says, his tone playful.
Atsumu blinks, nearly choking on embarrassment. He tries to think of a reasonable excuse for whatever it is that he’s caught doing, but his tongue is empty. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pocket and pointedly looks at the ground, his features scrunching.
He can hear the ghost of a laugh in Suna’s next words. “You can be good company sometimes.”
Atsumu lifts his gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It was a compliment.” A sly smile plays on Suna’s lips — familiar, but not as comforting as the small smile that Atsumu still sees at the forefront of his mind.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Atsumu huffs, trying to ease his way back into the current conversation. “Didn’t feel like a compliment.”
Suna’s smile curls into a smirk. Contentment sinks down on Atsumu’s chest. The wind dances.
But words are still lingering on Atsumu’s tongue, emotional reactivity battling with emotional ineptitude.
Out of the corner of his gaze, Atsumu watches slender fingers slide into khaki pockets, delicately — softly. He clears his throat again. “Thanks for tellin’ me though,” he starts, attempting to will the awkwardness away from his words, “I can’t promise magically gettin’ over Kita-san, but I’ll try understanding if yer bein’ a little bit of a jerk about it.”
Suna blinks once; twice. “You don’t have to.”
“I wanna,” Atsumu blurts out before Suna can say anything else. Suna turns, posing a silent question with the raise of his brow. Atsumu plows on, “Nobody’s trusted me enough to tell me stuff like that before, and I don’t blame them cause I can be a jerk sometimes, but listenin’ to someone else’s problems instead of always complainin’ about my own —“ he takes a breath— ”felt nice.”
Suna nods silently. “Yeah, you really can be a jerk.” He bites his lip in an attempt to conceal his chuckle when Atsumu’s head involuntarily whips over to look at him. Suna continues on. “But you’re not bad to trust. They should try it sometime.”
His words leave a pleasant sweetness on the half-smile that graces Atsumu’s face, but Suna has one more thing to say.
“I’ll listen too, if you ever need it.”
A leaf falls gently onto the ground. A group of friends walk past. Tears prick at Atsumu’s eyes.
His chest feels heavy with some sort of happiness, or joy, or maybe appreciation. “Yer gonna make me cry sayin’ dumb things like that.” Atsumu sniffs, a small tear leaking out of the corner of his right eye.
To his horror, another follows it. Suna laughs as Atsumu shouts obscenities at him, the air — to nobody in particular.
They're okay.
He's 17 and Miya Atsumu has a vendetta against whoever it's that decided that he and Osamu would diverge from each other’s paths — that he would one day have to step onto a volleyball court without his brother at his side.
It isn’t that he's some self-centered jerk that has absolutely zero respect for anyone else’s feelings (which is totally not what Osamu calls him in the midst of the monumental argument that they have; of course it isn’t). He's just angry. Angry at Osamu. Angry at change. Angry at the world. Angry at himself. Hell, he's even angry at the clouds that decide that today's a good day to cry and make it everyone’s problem.
Atsumu is angry. And soaked in cold rainwater. And he just doesn't understand why he has to lose the one friend that he has.
“Atsumu, what the fuck are you doing?”
He immediately recognizes the voice as Suna’s, but he isn’t quite sure why Suna is still near the school at this hour, considering that Atsumu takes an extra hour and a half after everyone else leaves to practice his serves (which really just ends up becoming an hour of moping and hitting volleyballs so hard into the net that he's surprised that they don't break).
Atsumu snorts. He doesn't turn around to face Suna. Instead he continues walking into puddles and watching as droplets of rain falls onto the concrete sidewalk. “Walkin’ home, Rin. What’s it look like?”
If Suna's offended by his crude response, it doesn't show in his voice. “Without an umbrella? A week before a game?”
Atsumu knows that he’ll get chewed out by his mother later if he walks into their front door soaked to the bone and then by Kita the next afternoon if he comes down with a cold, but he can’t find it in himself to really care about the repercussions. He just wants to sit in the rain and just let the cold water flow down his back, as if it'll physically take the anger away from his body.
“Who fucking cares about a stupid game?” Atsumu grumbles instead. He doesn't really mean it, but at the moment, anger clouds all judgment.
A hand on his shoulder stops him from continuing on his bitter stroll.
Raindrops stop falling on his back, and suddenly he's met with the face of Suna Rintarou in a way he’s never seen before. His hair stands up at odd angles. Light raindrops cling to the tip of his nose. His face remains impassive, but the size of his pupils reveal the worry he feels.
“Stop, goddamnit,” Suna says, a little firmer than he usually does.
Atsumu scowls. He isn't in the mood for lectures. “It’s not illegal to walk home by myself. I’m not gonna forever be stuck to Osamu’s hip,” he grumbles, attempting to push past Suna.
Unfortunately for Atsumu, Suna’s odd flexibility and the few centimeters that he has over Atsumu proves to be useful in stopping Atsumu from walking away. Silently brewing in his own irritability, Atsumu clenches his jaw at the disruption, but he doesn't make any more attempts to muscle his way through Suna’s slightly taller frame.
“We all heard what went down, Atsumu,” Suna says, his voice remaining at a contrastingly calm tone that doesn't match his previous firmness. With his gaze directed at something to Atsumu’s side, he continues on, “Yell at the top of your stupid lungs, stay in the locker room shower for an hour, practice your serves until the floor is bruised, whatever. I don’t care.” Atsumu thinks that it sure looks like Suna does indeed care — at least to some small degree.
If it's up to him, Atsumu’s knack for disastrous impulsivity would already take hold and spew something snarky back at Suna’s words, but the change in Suna’s gaze freezes his tongue. Suna turns his head to focus his gaze on Atsumu, eyes mingling with something akin to an odd feeling of anger and some other emotion that Atsumu doesn't quite recognize.
“But don’t walk out here in the freezing rain and call it none of my business.”
If Atsumu is a little more emotionally adept, he might recognize the emotion to be something that's comparable to care.
But Miya Atsumu is 17, burdened with the struggles of being a nationally recognized teenager in the world of volleyball, and most of all — he's still rough around the edges; isn't quite so wise. Instead he only recognizes anger — anger dancing in Suna’s eyes, anger suffocating his own breath, anger in the drops of rainwater that littered the concrete street.
“I wasn’t aware that ya particularly cared, Rin.” Atsumu chuckles bitterly.
Frustration is added to the list of emotions Atsumu can recognize in Suna’s eyes.
“Atsumu.”
A taut voice.
Atsumu throws his hands into the air, taking a few steps away from where Suna stands. “Come on! We all know that teammates don’t usually like me cause I’m this big jerk or whatever.” His arms falls back against his sides, weary. With droopy shoulders and an unfamiliarly quiet voice, Atsumu speaks once more. “You’re not any different from them.”
“Are you serious? What do you think these past two years have been then?” Suna’s voice contrasts Atsumu’s own — tight and frustrated.
“People say that having Osamu around makes me just slightly tolerable,” Atsumu replies, eyes focused on the motions in which the rain falls onto the ground. “I think that applies here too.”
“Well it doesn’t.”
Atsumu shakes his head. “Ya don’t have to lie to me, Rin.”
Suna appears in front of him once more. “I’m not lying about shit. I’m serious.”
Green eyes sear into him. Atsumu looks away.
“Ya don’t hate my guts, whatever. Ya don’t have to pretend to like me … I mean, now that Samu’s set on leaving volleyball behind, ya won’t have to put up with me just to be friends with Samu anymore,” Atsumu says, his voice frenzied. “We’re not .. we’re not some package deal.”
“You’re a dumbass.”
Atsumu takes a breath.
“Thanks, Rin. Now just let me be-”
Suna puts a hand on his jacket to stop him. Atsumu stares at the fingers that wrap around his soaked track jacket.
“You’re a fucking dumbass,” Suna speaks, his voice firm and yet — wavering. Atsumu looks up to see that Suna’s eyes lock onto his sleeve too. His stomach churns at the way that wet strands fall over his eyes - proof that Suna did indeed rush over here. “Osamu’s Osamu, but you’re Atsumu. Osamu wasn’t the one that convinced me to bust my ass and actually play volleyball. He wasn’t the one who pushed me so hard that I actually ended up liking playing,” he says with a chuckle that loses all of his lightness.
When he continues on, he still doesn't look Atsumu in the eyes, remaining with a stiff stare on the place where his hand meet the wet fabric of Atsumu’s jacket (though, to Atsumu, it's in that very place that he feels warmth ignite). “You’re the biggest pain in the ass, sure. But that doesn’t mean that you’re not,” he pauses, letting go of Atsumu’s arm and leaving a feeling of loss to settle in Atsumu’s stomach, “someone I see as a friend.”
Atsumu blinks. He feels any retort leave him as he hears the word “friend” leave Suna’s lips. Nobody has ever called him a friend before.
Sure, his mother used to tell him and Osamu when they fought that they were lucky to be given a best friend at birth and Osamu never refuted that they were best friends, but Osamu was his twin brother — it wasn’t like they couldn’t have been friends (right?).
And sure, there was that one kid that invited him to play basketball with him in junior high, but he never called him a friend (quite the opposite actually, given how the boy turned on him the minute that his basketball team decided that they didn’t take a liking to Atsumu). And sure, Suna walked home with him and Osamu everyday (and still did when Osamu once came down with a cold) and always invited them to go out with his mom and little sister when he could, but — but he never said that Atsumu was his friend.
It comforts Atsumu, to know that someone who isn't his mother or Osamu sees something worthwhile in him — that possibly, he won't wind up alone in the world the moment that Osamu decides that he wants to take a different path.
Friend.
It feels like a lie. A lie he wants so badly to believe, even if it's likely to be something that Suna might later come to take back - to tell him that they aren't friends after all.
For a second he wonders what it would be like to trust in the lie, what worries it might relieve him of. Would he be fine with Osamu not being on the court with me anymore? No, he wouldn’t (he doesn't think he ever will) but it didn’t seem so life-crushing. Would he be happier? Maybe.
And the last question - the one question that's truly been the heart of the argument Atsumu had with Osamu: Would he finally feel less lonely?
That's what strikes him most about Osamu’s declaration for his plans after high school - plans that don't involve suiting up and playing alongside Atsumu in the electrifying world of professional volleyball that Atsumu had always believed that they mutually adored (he believed wrong). It's what makes such visceral anger and sadness pour out of him. It's the feeling of being left behind until Osamu is so far ahead of him that he never even bothers to look back.
It's the harrowing fear of being left alone.
Suna continues, still not looking him in the eye. “And it’s just you. Not Osamu, not this packaged version of you and Osamu. You are my friend. Fuck everyone that made you think that you’re only worthy of something if Osamu’s with you.”
Another tear falls to the ground, but this time, it isn’t a tear from the sky above. It's a tear that had slowly leaks out of the corner of his left eye, left unnoticed due to the way that the cold wind already has Atsumu’s eyes feeling like a container for tears.
Before Atsumu can even comprehend that a tear falls off of his cheeks, his body is wracked with sobs that he feels in his shoulders, his hands, his head, his bones. He can't recall the last time he's cried in this way - in such a childlike, yet guttural way. He doesn't even try to remember, because at the same time that tears threaten to take over his body, he feels the pit of loneliness opening up underneath him simultaneously; like this sharp stab in his side that's preceded by a series of papercuts that slowly accumulates over years.
Then a pair of arms circle around his waist, and the pit of loneliness slowly dissipates.
Some will say that the idea of a first love is a predetermined heartbreak in and of itself — like trees that bloom in the spring, only to find loss once autumn begins to dance in the air. To Atsumu, he cherishes first love like the heartbreak it is, for the broken pieces of his heart are proof that Miya Atsumu is indeed capable of loving.
But that's the Atsumu of tomorrow. The Atsumu of today only wonders why the notion of first love even exists if it's already doomed from the start.
In hindsight, maybe he should know better. He should know better than to spill his feelings for a boy that's so obviously infatuated with their ace, brown eyes trailing the figure of Aran Ojiro like he's the only star in the sky.
He should. But he doesn't.
The impending rejection is softened by last minute logic that stirs within Atsumu, who intensely sobers up from being a boy in love to someone much more logical once he has Kita in front of him, eyes wide with knowing and just the smallest hint of sadness. Atsumu can tell then, that some loves aren't meant to be.
Still, he plows on, feelings and emotions spilling from his lips at an embarrassing rate like a love letter overflown — even as a sad smile begins to crawl onto Kita’s lips.
Rejection comes in the form of gentle words and brown eyes full of emotion. Atsumu finds that he doesn't mind.
But heart rules over head in Atsumu’s life, and sometimes bittersweetness can taste like poison on his tongue. At least, until water comes along to wash the taste of poison off, leaving only the sweet tang of something pleasant.
“What are you moping about out here?”
The previously muffled sounds of laughter and merriment are temporarily brought forth to Atsumu’s ears as the glass door to their balcony opens; sounds mingling with the evening air and feeling far too joyful a soundtrack for the rejection burning through Atsumu’s chest.
Osamu visited him not long before, but Atsumu shooed him away as quickly as he came. It must’ve been some bout of twin intuition, or perhaps Osamu just took notice of the slanted posture Atsumu held against the stone wall and decided that it would be better to leave him alone. Atsumu figured that it was a little bit of both.
He knows himself well enough to know that he can't let himself partake in the party if his mood feels as sour as a lemon on his tongue. This is a party for the third-years, and even Atsumu possesses enough decency to keep his problematic temperament in check. Kita and Aran deserve at least that.
Atsumu doesn't have to look over to recognize the familiar cool tone present in the voice that calls out to him. Instead he moves wordlessly to the side, making just enough room on the straw bench to indicate that Suna is welcome to take a seat beside him - if he wants.
In usual circumstances, Atsumu would insist that he only moves so that Suna can also endure the discomfort that comes with sitting on the godforsaken straw bench that Atsumu begs over and over for his mother to throw out. Instead, he silently lets himself admit that Suna’s presence feels much more comforting than anyone else that might step out onto the balcony — lacking the awkward tension that comes with speaking to your brother about a crush, while also creating an easiness that Atsumu doesn't share with anyone else on the team save for Osamu.
“Nothin,” Atsumu replies grouchily. He knows that it's a limpid lie, one that Suna most definitely catches in the odd radar he always seems to have when it comes to observation, but Atsumu doesn't particularly care at that moment. Besides, Suna has seen him in worse states.
Out of the corner of his eye, Atsumu can just barely see the motion of an eyebrow raise on Suna’s face before the space beside him is occupied by the boy in question. He's mildly pleased to feel Suna squirm at the odd feeling of the straw, resigning to use that as evidence for his argument of throwing the dumb chair out.
A peaceful bout of silence descendes over them. Suna holds out his cup of punch in front of Atsumu. Atsumu wordlessly takes a sip.
“Come on,” Suna says after Atsumu hands him back the punch. He relaxes against the wall in the same manner as Atsumu. “I thought you were a better liar than that.”
Atsumu crosses his arms against his chest. “Well yer pissin’ me off.”
“What else is new?” Even though Atsumu’s gaze is focused on the peeling grey paint on the balcony wall, he can practically hear the smirk in Suna’s words. He almost wishes that he’d just leave him to sulk on his own, but knowing Suna, it would take more than just a bout of grouchiness to get Suna to leave him alone.
Suna takes Atsumu’s silence as a cue to continue.
“But I do have a heart sometimes,” Suna says, his voice quiet. Atsumu finds himself turning at the sudden change in the fragility of Suna’s voice, but finds that none of the gentleness he thinks he heard is present anywhere on the impassive features of Suna’s face. He almost chalks it up to mere imagination when Suna turns to him with a teasing half-grin and says, “I’m not leaving you out here when you look like that.”
The jab restores Atsumu's previously miserable mood, further worsening when he makes the mistake of taking a look inside his family apartment. His gaze seems intent on betraying him by immediately focusing on the part of the room where Kita sits in front of the kotatsu, Aran sitting beside him. A painful pang cuts through his stomach at the sight of the smile that sits Kita’s face when his eyes gaze at Aran.
The sound of Suna’s annoyed voice breaks him out of it. “Stop that. You’re only gonna give yourself a permanent frown on your face if you keep staring.”
Atsumu turnes his gaze just in time to catch the way that Suna’s jaw slightly clenches. For a moment, Atsumu feels a bout of indignation at the obvious look of irritability on Suna’s features, but the memory of a chilly autumn afternoon spent leaning against the school railing and sobbing at a soft spoken comment from the boy beside him causes his anger to recede. He decides to ignore the small voice in his head that seems to notice that there's a smidge of difference between the irritability of before and the irritability that Suna sports at the moment.
Unfortunately for him, the loss of anger only leaves him with the initial heartache that landed him outside on the balcony in the first place, but instead of allowing the heartache to swallow him whole once more, Atsumu just huffs; weary. “I look perfectly stinkin’ fine.”
When Suna remains silent, Atsumu allows himself to sneak a glance to his left. The previous irritability that littered Suna’s facial features seems to have melted away. In its place is a look of regret that Atsumu recognizes as the same expression that graces Suna’s face after a lackluster performance during a game.
For a few peaceful moments, the two of them sit in a comfortable silence. Atsumu finds that he's beginning to appreciate the serenity that comes with moments like this — moments that serve as a momentary pause for the constant racing of his thoughts and of the constant pressure he pushes on himself to better himself in volleyball.
A hand appearing in front of him breaks the state of silence, but it didn’t feel like an unwanted disturbance. In front of him is Suna's outstreatched arm, a jelly stick between his thumb and pointer finger. “Here. Have a jelly stick.”
Atsumu shoot a quizzical look at him, but takes the snack nevertheless.
“Why the hell do ya just have jelly sticks with ya?”
Suna just lets out an amused breath, busying himself with opening his own jelly stick. “Why the hell don’t you?”
Now that he thinks of it, Suna often offers jelly sticks to him and Osamu when they visit his house to play video games. Atsumu always assumed that maybe that was because Suna’s mother had a love for jelly sticks and urged Suna to hand them out to guests.
Staring down at the strawberry (his favorite) stick that lays in his hands, Atsumu figures that he should’ve known. “Fair enough,” he says before opening up his own jelly stick.
Suna had already finished his own jelly stick by the time that Atsumu began to slurp down his, but he waited until Atsumu’s plastic sleeve was empty to start conversation once more.
“So,” he begins, “you up for talking about it or are you just gonna sit and glare at the wall?”
Atsumu fidgets with the empty plastic, folding it over and over before switching to rolling it up like a cake roll. “I confessed to Kita-san.”
He sees Suna nod in his peripheral vision. “I figured as much.”
Atsumu turns his head in Suna’s direction. “How’d ya know?”
Suna gives him a deadpan stare. Atsumu just nods in some form of agreement.
He barely has enough time to divert his gaze back to the gray wall before Suna continues once more. “You’re an absolute pain in the ass, Atsumu,” Suna says, though it doesn 't feel like there's any malice behind his words. Even as he continues on, Atsumu still doesn’t detect any genuine hatred, but rather, something that's a hybrid of impasse and teasing. “You’re annoying as fuck, too loud, and just an overall asshole.”
Atsumu blinks at the string of insults. Though it isn't anything that he hasn't heard from Suna before, it still feels misplaced in the situation. Truth be told, Atsumu feels more confused than hurt at the sudden outburst.
“Gee, thanks Rin,” Atsumu replies dryly. “That’s a re-”
Suna interrupts him. “But it’s not your fault that Kita-san doesn’t feel the same way.”
The words on Atsumu’s tongue still, now forgotten as he catches up with the fact that Suna is attempting to comfort him. And though the method may seem unconventional, it feels so characteristic of their relationship to comfort each other in ways that would have others raising their eyebrows.
Atsumu nearly smiles.
“I can practically hear your brain saying ‘if only I was nicer’,” Suna continues. “Don’t ever be nicer. Seriously. Don’t change yourself to be some nice guy that’s friendly with everyone. It’d freak me the fuck out.”
This time, Atsumu feels the corners of his lips tip upwards. “You’d miss my constant yellin’ at ya to hurry yer ass up wouldnt ya?”
“Fuck no,” Suna immediately replies, but he returns Atsumu’s smile with a small grin of his own.
Atsumu’s smile widens. “Hand over another jelly stick, asshole.”
“Lychee or mango? I’m out of strawberry.”
“Lychee,” Atsumu answers.
Suna sends him an incredulous look. “What the fuck, Atsumu. You like lychee over mango? What kind of monster are you?”
“A sad one. Now hand it over, jerk.”
Suna grumbles at his choice of flavor, but passes the jelly stick to Atsumu anyway. Atsumu rips the plastic off the jelly stick before slurping it down the way that he's seen Suna do countless times before.
He nearly chokes, coughing and feeling a hand hitting his back in an attempt to alleviate his coughing. The sound of Suna’s laugh dances through the air, warm and mellifluous. “You’re terrible.”
Atsumu feels the urge to bottle up the sound and tuck it in some hidden part of his brain.
That night — with heartbreak and rejection slowly dimming within him — Atsumu sits beside a boy laughing at his expense, memorizing the shape and sound of Suna Rintarou’s laugh.
To a heart that nurses a broken heart, spring is a time for endings — of letting go. But with spring comes the changing of breeze, the promise of new memories, and perhaps to new beginnings.
Atsumu quite likes spring.