Chapter Text
When Miya Atsumu opens his eyes, it’s a frustratingly familiar environment that greets him. To be honest, he couldn’t tell you what time it is, the large red brick building blocking all sunlight to his apartment.
Though his eyes are bleary, he can still make out the white blur of takeout boxes strewn across his floor, the grey cast of dust settled on his table, and the stains marking his carpet. The assault on his senses continues as he moves, a permeating smell of damp dressing the entire room. He can’t remember the last time he cracked a window open to let the air and the sounds of the city roll in.
If his phone was on, he’d see the seven missed calls from his agent, the seventeen missed calls from his mother, and the seventy missed calls from his brother, who was luckily five hundred kilometres away.
If his phone was on, he’d be able to see his name plastered across every news website in the country. His family name, often associated with his brother’s Onigiri restaurant, but more often associated with his own golden career, slandered to hell and back.
Street Brawl or Professional Match: Miya ‘Monster’ Atsumu wins fight, but at what cost?
He’d see his photo smeared across social media; his eyes ringed in red, his skin pale, his hands still wrapped up in tape hiding his face as he left the stadium, a trail of cameras and hounding photographers behind him, the memory seared into his brain.
Fortunately for him, it died yesterday, thrown to the floor when Atsumu rolled over on the couch in the midst of a fitful night’s sleep.
It takes all the energy he can muster to sit up fully, stretching his hand forward to grab the spoon from the table, slumping back into the couch when he reaches it. He lifts it upwards to take in his own reflection.
Despite the distortion, he can still see the haggard man looking back at him. Blonde stubble wraps his jaw, something he hadn’t had for years, preferring a clean-shaven look. His skin looks pallid, insipid from his time inside. He drops the spoon with a clang, letting it fall to the floor below, somewhere near his mobile.
Then, he drags his hands over his face, feeling the coarse texture of his skin, the prickly beginnings of a beard against his palms. He breathes twice into his hands and sniffs, grimacing as he smells his own breath.
To him, the problem was plain and simple. He had fallen out of love with boxing. As the years went by, as he climbed further and further up the food chain, he focused more on his force than his skill. It hadn’t been intentional, and maybe if he had seen the signs creeping up on him, he would have done something more drastic to stop it.
But he had let it run its course, let it come to fruition during his fight with rival Bokuto Kotaro. His performance was sluggish; left hook, right jab, he had swung mercilessly, no rhyme or reason to his attacks, relying on the brute strength behind him to push him forward.
And it had, winning him yet another belt, embossed and golden, glinting under the stadium lights. He hadn’t been there to receive it, ten minutes away in a taxi.
“Miya, open up,” sounds through his apartment, accompanied by repeated knocking so heavy it might take the door off the hinges. It comes as no surprise. They had to come for him at some point, he just wishes it wasn’t so soon. “Let your old uncle Keishin in.”
He doesn’t have to answer it. Deep down he knows he can sit here until the cows come home, stewing away in the grime of his apartment and let the dust take him. But he stands anyway, feeling something crunch underfoot as he makes his way to the door, opening it to reveal a man who reeks of seven-day-old cigarette smoke.
“Miya!” he calls, wrapping his arm around Atsumu’s bare shoulder, shepherding him back to his sofa, motioning for him to sit as if it was his apartment and not Atsumu’s own.
Once settled, he produces a cigarette and lights it, letting the plume of smoke wander about. Atsumu opens his mouth to say something but realises he doesn't have a leg to stand on with the state of his current apartment. So he closes it, watching as Keishin Ukai takes a drag, whistling as he exhales.
“Yikes, you get robbed?” he says, his voice like gravel. Atsumu keeps his eyes trained on his agent, watching as he rubs his snotty nose and takes in the apartment. When his surveyance is complete, he turns his line of sight back to his client. “Ya’ look rough buddy. Even your trainer was say-”
“He’s not my trainer,” Atsumu interrupts, casting his eyes to the floor, feeling that bubbling nausea start to boil in his gut as the memories flood back.
It was the night before the fight against Bokuto; Atsumu and his trainer wiling away the evening, practising long into the wee hours of the morning. Looking back now, he thinks maybe it was the exhaustion that spurred him on. It wasn’t like Atsumu had known him for years, he had only been his trainer nine months.
“You’re getting sloppy, c’mon,” says his trainer, lifting the focus pads once more and shaking the one on the right. “Right left, left right. Keep the rhythm up.”
He drops the mitts once more as he watches Atsumu start to remove his gloves.
“Atsumu, come on, one more round and then we’ll quit for the night,” he says into the empty gym.
“Nah, I’m done for the night, thanks though,” he replies, beginning to unwrap the bandages from his hands.
“Atsumu, jus-”
“Just piss off, will you? Wanna go home and sleep. I’ll win anyway.”
That must have been the tipping point for Atsumu’s third trainer in two years, as he wrenches the focus mitts from his hands, throwing them decidedly on the floor below. It’s not his normal behaviour, which is why it stops Atsumuin his tracks, taken slightly aback by his usually collected trainer.
“You’re a fucking pig-headed, ignorant asshole, Miya Atsumu,” he says, his chest heaving as he regards Atsumu, a cruel sneer blossoming across his face. “You know that, right? Inarizaki golden boy, yeah right. Shove it.”
Even now, back in the ‘comfort’ of his apartment, the words still sting. He’s sure there are many people who feel the same about him, but none brave enough to vocalise it. Especially not the man sitting in front of him, whom he knows for a fact only puts up with him for his paycheque.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s only a minor detail,” he says, standing up from Atsumu’s filthy sofa, waving his hand dismissively in front of his face. “Anyway, get yourself cleaned up. Bossman wants one last fight and then you can slug out.”
“That was my last fight,” replies Atsumu, lifting his head from where it had been resting between his knees, blood rushing away from his head.
“No, no, bud,” he says, putting his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder once more. “You gotta have one more in you, eh?”
“What do you expect me to do, I don’t even have a trainer?”
The two men continue to speak as Atsumu guides him back to the door, away from his festering palace.
“Sure ya do! Boss got one lined up for you!” he says, swivelling to face Atsumu with a calculating grin.
“Who?”
-
“Sakusa Kiyoomi!” calls the receptionist from behind the desk and he stands to meet her. He’s dressed semi-casually in a crisp navy button-down and dark jeans. It’s in stark contrast, however, to the attire of everyone else around him. To and fro, people rush about the office space, styled immaculately in tight-fitting suits, hair slicked back, shoes freshly polished.
No expense is spared here; the office kitted out with high-sprawling water features, businessmen passing time in gaudy recreation rooms, the smell of chain coffee wafting through the building.
As he follows her through the lobby, he watches her back and wonders. Wonders how many times her panties have been on the floor of his childhood house. She turns back and smiles at him. Of course she does. She doesn’t recognise him. In one of his better moves, he hadn’t aligned himself with his father’s last name, choosing instead to associate with his gentle mother.
When they finally reach his office, she stops and spins on her teetering heels to face him, providing him with a curt nod, gesturing for him to enter.
“Kiyo!” shouts his father, standing up with slight difficulty from his chair.
“Dad,” he replies, expertly avoiding the bear hug his father intends to sweep him up in.
They shake hands instead, a happy medium. He hasn’t been in this office in a long time but he takes his normal seat in front of the desk. Not surprisingly, there are no family photos on the surface, just promotional posters of the greats adorning the walls behind him; annals of history pasted throughout the room.
“How’s business, son?” he asks, lowering himself back into the warmth of his chair.
“Fine.”
It’s not that they don’t get on well but some choice words six years ago had severed any chance of a truly loving and fulfilling father-son relationship.
It was a week after Kiyoomi’s university graduation; two parents, proud as punch of their son leaving university with a degree in sports science, had quickly turned sour when he told them he would not be joining his father to follow in his footsteps in the lucrative business of sports sponsorship. No, he’d be going out on his own, intending to start a business as a sports trainer.
“Kiyo, don’t be an idiot,” his father said back then, cornering him in their dining room, his mother sat like stone in the chair beside them both. Though his words were placating, Kiyoomi knew they were seconds away from a full-blown argument. “This is all set up for you. A straight path into a stable job with your old man!”
“This is not what I went to univers-”
“Like hell you did,” he shouted back, creating a tension in the room so palpable it could be cut with a knife. “I paid for your university and this is how you pay me back?”
“I already said,” Kiyoomi started, snapping his gaze up to meet his father’s relentless stare. “I will pay you back with the money I make in this career.”
“It’s not about the money. You’re fucking stupid, you know that? Walking away from a once in a lifetime opportunity like this. Training is a pipedream, get your head out of your ass.”
His father had ruffled his own feathers as well as Kiyoomi’s as he turned away from his son, smoothing down the front of his white shirt and leaving the room. His mother remained quiet, eyes trained on the meal in front of her.
That evening, Kiyoomi packed his bags and left the house for good.
“Is there a reason you called me in today?” Kiyoomi settles his gaze on his father in front of him.
“About that, I have a job lined up for you if you’re willing to take it on,” he replies, slapping down a folder in front of him, ‘Miya Atsumu’ stamped on the front in dark lettering.
“Miya Atsumu?” he asks. “Thought he already had a trainer.”
“They parted ways,” his father says with a smile and Kiyoomi is quick to understand the underlying meaning.
From what he’d read in newspapers and heard from previous clients, Miya Atsumu was thoroughly hard to stomach, though he’d never met him in person. Apparently, he was ever-demanding of those around him, barking at them to work harder, reach further.
Miya Atsumu was a tough pill to swallow, leaving a sour taste in people’s mouths.
“Isn’t he finished? His last fight a few days ago was terrible.” Kiyoomi had watched his fight live on TV and saw it all go down; the way he butted the cameras with his elbow, covered his face and fled the stadium after a truly monstrous fight.
Kiyoomi flips through the folder containing all of Atsumu’s information; his height, his weight, his class. It details his past wins, which vastly outweigh his losses. It outlines his growth from a run of the mill fighter into a star, dead set on glory.
“Think he has one more fight in him, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that just beating a dead horse?” he asks, closing the folder over, pushing it back across the table.
“It’s all about getting your money’s worth, Kiyo. Surely you know that by now?”
Not ready for another of his tirades, he stands and makes his way to the door, his father following closely behind him.
“I’ll arrange for you to meet with him sometime this week. You have the experience under your belt so come up with a schedule for the two of you and have him ready for the fight. I’ll get you more information soon. You’re going to need to drop your other clients for this one.”
Kiyoomi palms the handle, pushing it down to let himself out, before turning to face his father.
“Any reason why you picked me to train him?”
“If anyone is able to handle someone like him, it’s you.”
That evening, Kiyoomi returns to the quiet of his apartment; small, but sparkingly clean, all surfaces wiped meticulously before he left. He pours himself a glass of wine and casts a Youtube video to his TV.
Miya Atsumu Compilation Golden Days: Best Fight Bits
Reclining back on the sofa, he swirls his drink and sips, watching his future client fight. He breathes in Miya Atsumu’s exuberance, watching him raise his fist in the air before the fight starts, watching him roar into the crowd on a high after a win, so unlike his most recent fight.
Kiyoomi knocks his glass of red back, letting it slide down his throat as he wonders how to handle a monster like Miya Atsumu.