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Entry tags:
mellow drama
sakuatsu kiyoomi/miya atsumu // ~2k
> Moving on is a process of patchwork.
They could listen to her voice on the TV. Sakusa can see the way Atsumu hangs onto her every word even though he probably doesn’t mean to. There’s a reason they say that no one believes a boy when he says he’s completely over a girl, and there’s a reason Atsumu is proud and petty enough to actively make an effort to prove them wrong.
He never makes it obvious, but in moments of vulnerability like these, when he’s in the safe confines of his home with dim lighting and the dull buzz of coffee brewing by the kitchen, the mask slips and the lock on his heart cracks open. She’s a newscaster and takes the night shifts for her station. She is two years older and met Atsumu on his first game as the starting setter of MSBY. She ties her hair in double-braids and used to pretend to laugh at Atsumu’s jokes until she became genuine about it. Sakusa knows there’s a specific brand of coffee she uses and that it’s in boxes tucked at the back of Atsumu’s cupboard. She likes the quirkiness of mismatched bed sheets and pillowcases; she finds it funny when Atsumu flirts with other girls instead of getting jealous. She could beat Bokuto in arm-wrestling and make onigiri as good as Osamu. She is everything Sakusa is not and everything he doesn’t want to be.
She breaks up with Atsumu after they win against the Tachibana Red Falcons. The victory is shallow against the heartbreak of a three-year long relationship coming to an end. Atsumu doesn’t cry, but he disappears from the world the moment off-season starts and Sakusa finds him relentlessly spiking balls in one of the public courts their neighborhood has while he goes on his usual morning jogs. Osamu is on the other side of the net, receiving them all in silence. When he sees Sakusa, he gets his stuff, tells Sakusa that Atsumu is a lost cause, and walks out like he was never there.
Sakusa steps inside and takes Osamu’s place. The raw power of Atsumu’s serves haven’t deterred despite seemingly playing for hours. Sometimes Sakusa misses; sometimes he succeeds. They play until noon and he insists on taking Atsumu home for a proper shower.
That night, they tangle their legs together on Atsumu’s plain pink sheets and blue star pillowcases. It’s a sight for sore eyes, but there’s something alluring enough about Atsumu’s scent and the way he presses open-mouth kisses on Sakusa’s skin that the latter lets it slide for the meantime. There’s no alcohol in their systems, just grief and regret, patience and want. Atsumu holds his hand the entire time, like he’s afraid Sakusa will walk away any minute now. Sakusa knows what it’s like to love and not be loved back, so he doesn’t say a thing.
He wakes up in the middle of the night with Atsumu’s chest pressed against his back, his head nuzzled in the crook of his neck. Sakusa doesn’t move. There’s light coming from the entrance area of Atsumu’s apartment, and it’s bright enough for him to vaguely make out a corkboard of reminders he hadn’t noticed until now. The handwriting isn’t Atsumu’s, much more cursive and careful. There are grocery lists, New Year resolutions, birthday reminders.
The next day, Sakusa tears them all off and rewrites them.
Little things about her are scattered all over Atsumu’s home. As Sakusa learns more about Atsumu, he learns more about her—said through fleeting anecdotes, tipsy rambles, mementos dispersed around nooks and crannies. He doesn’t intend to remember them, but to remember one thing about Atsumu is followed up by one thing about her. Bits of her play a part in what makes Atsumu the person he is. Sakusa knows what it’s like to love and not be loved back, but he’s aware that what he’s gone through cannot compare to Atsumu’s experience. It’s not that simple, because Atsumu loved and was loved back until the love wasn’t there anymore. It’s the kind of love that can’t quite leave you, even if the person has.
The relationship went on for three years with four months of courting. Sakusa learns to see Atsumu outside of the court and past the mocking grins and over dramatic behavior in the span of five months. He doesn’t really remember when it all started, only knows that he doesn’t want it to stop.
During the sixth month, they sit on the couch and turn on the TV. When her face appears and she starts talking, it hits Sakusa that he never caught her name. The rest don’t say it and Atsumu refers to her with a nickname that doesn’t make much sense to anyone but himself. An inside joke, he’ll explain, but no one’s smiling.
On the screen, her profile is clear. A soft jaw, high cheekbones, bright eyes. Her hair is in double braids. Atsumu used to religiously do them. There are hairbands on the bedside table that Sakusa brushed aside one time by accident while they were kissing. Now they’re shoved in the drawer; neither of them need it but it’s a waste to toss them out. She talks like any other normal person does, but Atsumu stares at her like each sentence she crafts is a melody. Atsumu complains that Sakusa grunts more than he talks. She laughs at something her co-host says. Sakusa doesn’t laugh at Atsumu’s jokes, but his mouth twitches under his mask when he sees Atsumu marvel at newly opened comic book shops and when he whoops in joy whenever he does a successful setter dump.
“She’s a real beauty,” Atsumu suddenly says.
“She looks like a child.”
Atsumu lets out a sharp exhale. Sakusa can’t tell whether he’s trying to suppress amusement or annoyance. “So blunt. No need to be jealous, Omi-kun. You don’t see me complainin’ ‘bout Toshi-kun.”
Sakusa huffs. “Toshi is a cactus.”
“Yeah, and who names their plants after their ex-crushes?” retorts Atsumu. “No wonder you’ve never been with anyone before.”
Before. Atsumu says. Sakusa doesn’t waste his time dwelling on the implication behind the word. It means too many things and Atsumu's absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the couch, right beside Sakusa’s own hand in a way that stops him from thinking of anything else. Atsumu still stares at the TV screen but he doesn’t look as mesmerized anymore.
Sakusa doesn’t reach out to touch him, but it doesn’t matter in the end, because Atsumu falls asleep on his shoulder to the sounds of the nature documentary they’ve settled on half an hour later. The coffee on the counter they’ve prepped is useless. Sakusa ends up drinking it because to leave it would be a waste, and he spends the remainder of the night watching Atsumu sleep and realizing that the bits of her are being replaced by the bits of him—his neat scrawl posted on the corkboard, his mouthwash by the sink, his most preferred kind of tea, his hand holding Atsumu.
But Atsumu is rambling about how their coffee has this uniqueness to it you can’t find anywhere else and Sakusa ends up zeroing in on him instead. Atsumu likes his coffee bitter while Sakusa prefers the tea they sell. He doesn’t know what she would’ve liked, and it’s the first time in a while that he’s discovered something about Atsumu that’s simply about him.
The tea has a minty aftertaste to it. Atsumu said he hated it the first time he tried it, but he bought similar versions of it to store in his apartment anyway. They don’t live together, but Sakusa spends as many nights at Atsumu’s place as he does in his own home. Atsumu has extra pairs of slippers in Sakusa’s unit; there’s also a spare can of hair dye, an occasionally used red toothbrush, a black neck pillow that isn’t Sakusa’s. Both their hands sit on the table and the tip of their fingers touch. Atsumu says, “Yer mouth’s dirty.”
Before Sakusa can ask where, Atsumu picks up a tissue and gently dabs it on the side of his mouth. “I’m not a child,” he points out, but he doesn’t make much of an effort to stop Atsumu, and the latter merely grins at the recycled words. Then his eyes unintentionally flicker to the side and the expression fades off in an instant when the bell of the front door chimes.
Sakusa turns his head. Her hair is set down and wavy like she pulled out her braids and she’s in a blue sundress on a Thursday evening, setting her closed umbrella by the stands as her boots thump on the wooden flooring. There are little stars spread out across the fabric. She moves in a swift manner to the counter to order something, and her voice still has that noticeable lilt that Sakusa knows can easily get Atsumu hooked.
The sky is gradually clearing out, the rain slowly dissipating. Atsumu averts his gaze but Sakusa knows he’s still hyper-aware of her presence. Sakusa wonders if Atsumu will pull his touch away if she turns and makes eye contact with him. It would be so easy when they’re right in the line of her sight. Sakusa knows what it’s like to love and not be loved back, to love and be loved, but he realizes now, in this moment, he might finally know what it’s like to love and be loved until the love isn’t there anymore.
From the corner of his eye, he sees her pick up her order from the pick-up counter and turn on her heel to leave. She gazes forward the entire time. Atsumu doesn’t call out her name; he simply watches her go. The umbrella is pink.
Later, when they return to the familiarity of Atsumu’s apartment, switching off the lights, settling into the sheets, Atsumu tells Sakusa, “I’m over her.”
Sakusa turns to him. The light from the entrance area is turned on. When he stares at Atsumu, there’s no trace of sorrow. He doesn’t see hairbands or cursive and careful writing, a soft face broadcasted through a tiny screen with a sing-song voice. Sakusa sees himself instead, right under the glisten of Atsumu’s bright, sincere eyes.
“Okay,” Sakusa says, believing him.
He changes the bed sheets and pillowcases. He makes onigiri. He beats Bokuto in receiving practice. He learns how to properly dye hair. Atsumu stops staring at her through a black box and his eyes trail after Sakusa instead.
“Omi-kun,” he’ll say, and there’s a story behind the nickname that he’ll someday tell.
Sakusa looks back. Atsumu smiles.
> Moving on is a process of patchwork.
They could listen to her voice on the TV. Sakusa can see the way Atsumu hangs onto her every word even though he probably doesn’t mean to. There’s a reason they say that no one believes a boy when he says he’s completely over a girl, and there’s a reason Atsumu is proud and petty enough to actively make an effort to prove them wrong.
He never makes it obvious, but in moments of vulnerability like these, when he’s in the safe confines of his home with dim lighting and the dull buzz of coffee brewing by the kitchen, the mask slips and the lock on his heart cracks open. She’s a newscaster and takes the night shifts for her station. She is two years older and met Atsumu on his first game as the starting setter of MSBY. She ties her hair in double-braids and used to pretend to laugh at Atsumu’s jokes until she became genuine about it. Sakusa knows there’s a specific brand of coffee she uses and that it’s in boxes tucked at the back of Atsumu’s cupboard. She likes the quirkiness of mismatched bed sheets and pillowcases; she finds it funny when Atsumu flirts with other girls instead of getting jealous. She could beat Bokuto in arm-wrestling and make onigiri as good as Osamu. She is everything Sakusa is not and everything he doesn’t want to be.
She breaks up with Atsumu after they win against the Tachibana Red Falcons. The victory is shallow against the heartbreak of a three-year long relationship coming to an end. Atsumu doesn’t cry, but he disappears from the world the moment off-season starts and Sakusa finds him relentlessly spiking balls in one of the public courts their neighborhood has while he goes on his usual morning jogs. Osamu is on the other side of the net, receiving them all in silence. When he sees Sakusa, he gets his stuff, tells Sakusa that Atsumu is a lost cause, and walks out like he was never there.
Sakusa steps inside and takes Osamu’s place. The raw power of Atsumu’s serves haven’t deterred despite seemingly playing for hours. Sometimes Sakusa misses; sometimes he succeeds. They play until noon and he insists on taking Atsumu home for a proper shower.
That night, they tangle their legs together on Atsumu’s plain pink sheets and blue star pillowcases. It’s a sight for sore eyes, but there’s something alluring enough about Atsumu’s scent and the way he presses open-mouth kisses on Sakusa’s skin that the latter lets it slide for the meantime. There’s no alcohol in their systems, just grief and regret, patience and want. Atsumu holds his hand the entire time, like he’s afraid Sakusa will walk away any minute now. Sakusa knows what it’s like to love and not be loved back, so he doesn’t say a thing.
He wakes up in the middle of the night with Atsumu’s chest pressed against his back, his head nuzzled in the crook of his neck. Sakusa doesn’t move. There’s light coming from the entrance area of Atsumu’s apartment, and it’s bright enough for him to vaguely make out a corkboard of reminders he hadn’t noticed until now. The handwriting isn’t Atsumu’s, much more cursive and careful. There are grocery lists, New Year resolutions, birthday reminders.
The next day, Sakusa tears them all off and rewrites them.
Little things about her are scattered all over Atsumu’s home. As Sakusa learns more about Atsumu, he learns more about her—said through fleeting anecdotes, tipsy rambles, mementos dispersed around nooks and crannies. He doesn’t intend to remember them, but to remember one thing about Atsumu is followed up by one thing about her. Bits of her play a part in what makes Atsumu the person he is. Sakusa knows what it’s like to love and not be loved back, but he’s aware that what he’s gone through cannot compare to Atsumu’s experience. It’s not that simple, because Atsumu loved and was loved back until the love wasn’t there anymore. It’s the kind of love that can’t quite leave you, even if the person has.
The relationship went on for three years with four months of courting. Sakusa learns to see Atsumu outside of the court and past the mocking grins and over dramatic behavior in the span of five months. He doesn’t really remember when it all started, only knows that he doesn’t want it to stop.
During the sixth month, they sit on the couch and turn on the TV. When her face appears and she starts talking, it hits Sakusa that he never caught her name. The rest don’t say it and Atsumu refers to her with a nickname that doesn’t make much sense to anyone but himself. An inside joke, he’ll explain, but no one’s smiling.
On the screen, her profile is clear. A soft jaw, high cheekbones, bright eyes. Her hair is in double braids. Atsumu used to religiously do them. There are hairbands on the bedside table that Sakusa brushed aside one time by accident while they were kissing. Now they’re shoved in the drawer; neither of them need it but it’s a waste to toss them out. She talks like any other normal person does, but Atsumu stares at her like each sentence she crafts is a melody. Atsumu complains that Sakusa grunts more than he talks. She laughs at something her co-host says. Sakusa doesn’t laugh at Atsumu’s jokes, but his mouth twitches under his mask when he sees Atsumu marvel at newly opened comic book shops and when he whoops in joy whenever he does a successful setter dump.
“She’s a real beauty,” Atsumu suddenly says.
“She looks like a child.”
Atsumu lets out a sharp exhale. Sakusa can’t tell whether he’s trying to suppress amusement or annoyance. “So blunt. No need to be jealous, Omi-kun. You don’t see me complainin’ ‘bout Toshi-kun.”
Sakusa huffs. “Toshi is a cactus.”
“Yeah, and who names their plants after their ex-crushes?” retorts Atsumu. “No wonder you’ve never been with anyone before.”
Before. Atsumu says. Sakusa doesn’t waste his time dwelling on the implication behind the word. It means too many things and Atsumu's absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the couch, right beside Sakusa’s own hand in a way that stops him from thinking of anything else. Atsumu still stares at the TV screen but he doesn’t look as mesmerized anymore.
Sakusa doesn’t reach out to touch him, but it doesn’t matter in the end, because Atsumu falls asleep on his shoulder to the sounds of the nature documentary they’ve settled on half an hour later. The coffee on the counter they’ve prepped is useless. Sakusa ends up drinking it because to leave it would be a waste, and he spends the remainder of the night watching Atsumu sleep and realizing that the bits of her are being replaced by the bits of him—his neat scrawl posted on the corkboard, his mouthwash by the sink, his most preferred kind of tea, his hand holding Atsumu.
==
There’s a small coffee shop that Atsumu likes to go to because they make the best sandwiches even though it’s right beside Onigiri Miya; Osamu constantly complains about how Atsumu would rather support a rival business than support his brother’s even though they don’t sell the same kind of food. Sakusa and Atsumu end up there on a rainy evening, sitting right by the window. Through the glass, Sakusa can see Osamu’s shop right across, the light still on and a few people milling around inside, either for the sake of the food or for the shelter. He feels slightly torn between enjoying the cafe’s soothing classical music or leaning closer to the pane to hear the downpour.But Atsumu is rambling about how their coffee has this uniqueness to it you can’t find anywhere else and Sakusa ends up zeroing in on him instead. Atsumu likes his coffee bitter while Sakusa prefers the tea they sell. He doesn’t know what she would’ve liked, and it’s the first time in a while that he’s discovered something about Atsumu that’s simply about him.
The tea has a minty aftertaste to it. Atsumu said he hated it the first time he tried it, but he bought similar versions of it to store in his apartment anyway. They don’t live together, but Sakusa spends as many nights at Atsumu’s place as he does in his own home. Atsumu has extra pairs of slippers in Sakusa’s unit; there’s also a spare can of hair dye, an occasionally used red toothbrush, a black neck pillow that isn’t Sakusa’s. Both their hands sit on the table and the tip of their fingers touch. Atsumu says, “Yer mouth’s dirty.”
Before Sakusa can ask where, Atsumu picks up a tissue and gently dabs it on the side of his mouth. “I’m not a child,” he points out, but he doesn’t make much of an effort to stop Atsumu, and the latter merely grins at the recycled words. Then his eyes unintentionally flicker to the side and the expression fades off in an instant when the bell of the front door chimes.
Sakusa turns his head. Her hair is set down and wavy like she pulled out her braids and she’s in a blue sundress on a Thursday evening, setting her closed umbrella by the stands as her boots thump on the wooden flooring. There are little stars spread out across the fabric. She moves in a swift manner to the counter to order something, and her voice still has that noticeable lilt that Sakusa knows can easily get Atsumu hooked.
The sky is gradually clearing out, the rain slowly dissipating. Atsumu averts his gaze but Sakusa knows he’s still hyper-aware of her presence. Sakusa wonders if Atsumu will pull his touch away if she turns and makes eye contact with him. It would be so easy when they’re right in the line of her sight. Sakusa knows what it’s like to love and not be loved back, to love and be loved, but he realizes now, in this moment, he might finally know what it’s like to love and be loved until the love isn’t there anymore.
From the corner of his eye, he sees her pick up her order from the pick-up counter and turn on her heel to leave. She gazes forward the entire time. Atsumu doesn’t call out her name; he simply watches her go. The umbrella is pink.
Later, when they return to the familiarity of Atsumu’s apartment, switching off the lights, settling into the sheets, Atsumu tells Sakusa, “I’m over her.”
Sakusa turns to him. The light from the entrance area is turned on. When he stares at Atsumu, there’s no trace of sorrow. He doesn’t see hairbands or cursive and careful writing, a soft face broadcasted through a tiny screen with a sing-song voice. Sakusa sees himself instead, right under the glisten of Atsumu’s bright, sincere eyes.
“Okay,” Sakusa says, believing him.
He changes the bed sheets and pillowcases. He makes onigiri. He beats Bokuto in receiving practice. He learns how to properly dye hair. Atsumu stops staring at her through a black box and his eyes trail after Sakusa instead.
“Omi-kun,” he’ll say, and there’s a story behind the nickname that he’ll someday tell.
Sakusa looks back. Atsumu smiles.