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It has to mean something, Shouyou thinks. He dreams of a world with two skies—the endless azure blue holding up the sun like its prize, and the mirror reflecting it, lapping and receding, shimmering underneath its flare. There is salt in the air, in his mouth, his lungs. He feels the spray of the water, hears the roaring waves. Grains of sand sift into the spaces between his toes, and they ground him, instead of weighing him down. Belatedly, Shouyou remembers he hasn’t made friends with the wind yet.
It isn’t the first one. There were many worlds before. Karasuno, meat buns, linoleum floors. Miyagi, uphill. Shiratorizawa, ball boy, an unopened toothbrush kit. Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, flying and then, falling.
Shouyou opens his eyes. In this world, he’s in a one-room apartment in Hirakata. Light wood, quadratic edges, dotted with souvenirs from all the worlds he’s lived in before—high school jacket draping over the Ikea clothing stand; framed photographs of yesteryear, of Heitor and Nice, embellishing the walls; a tattered Molten volleyball drifting idly across the wooden boards. There’s a kitchenette where he cooks breakfast and dinner from scratch, and a balcony facing east, where he meditates bathed in morning sunrise. In this world, Shouyou is the starting opposite hitter of the MSBY Black Jackals.
Squeezed into the super single bed next to him is Miya Atsumu. Sunlight filters through the window, dappling Atsumu’s face, illuminating his planes and ridges in soft, golden light. His cheek is smashed against the pillow, and breathy snores billow from between chapped lips. Instants like these, Shouyou cannot help cupping Atsumu’s face, even as his boyfriend lets out a subconscious groan.
In this world, Shouyou’s in a one-room apartment in Hirakata, and he’s holding the world in his hands.
It has to mean something, dreaming of Brazil for the sixth night in a row. Shouyou is hungry, starving, ravenous. Two hands, ten fingers, splayed over a leather ball. How many worlds can he fit into these hands? Shouyou is afraid to know.
☾
Shouyou wakes up in the middle of the night to find Atsumu pinching his nose.
“It’s cause yer snorin',” explains Atsumu matter-of-factly. Shouyou falls back asleep immediately, waking minutes later, again, to callused fingers pressing the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Shouyou-kun. Yer snorin'.” And Shouyou answers groggily, “Sorry, Tsumu.” But he falls back asleep again, wakes to Atsumu pinching his nose, again. A never ending cycle through the night, until he wakes properly in the morning, finds dark circles under his boyfriend’s eyes.
Some nights, Shouyou can’t fall asleep after the first time. His heart rattles around his chest from being awoken so suddenly, ripples of electricity pulsing through his blood. In the quiet that follows after, Atsumu finally falls into a restful sleep. Shouyou stares up at the ceiling, into the darkness, and thinks to himself, it’s not like you don’t snore too.
☾
It’s accidental when Shouyou finds out. He’s early to arrive at Atsumu’s apartment, and the sight of clothing strewn about the floor, unwashed mugs and dishes in the sink, makes him feel slightly unsettled. There’s an itch in Shouyou’s fingers and it has always belonged there, underneath his skin. Unfolding, beneath layers of epidermis, with every second, minute, and hour that passes between them.
Shouyou breathes out a sigh— Sorry, Shouyou-kun, I’m held up at Samu’s. Please don’t look at the mess, I was super tired last night. —and starts with the clothing. He picks up the sweat-soaked dri-fit, wrinkles his nose at the smell. Then Atsumu’s favourite pair of jeans, which are just the right side of a little too tight, which he’s overworn to death. The ugly sweater that Kiyoomi got him last Christmas during their team gift exchange. Shouyou lifts it to his nose, inhales the scent. It smells like skin, smells like home. It cheers him up a little.
When the washing machine starts up, whirring with life, he moves to work on the dishes. Contrary to popular belief, Atsumu’s a decent cook, just heavily overshadowed by his brother and maybe even Shouyou himself. Brazil has honed Shouyou’s cooking skills—it’s an inevitability when you’re halfway across the world, and think you might die if a bowl of tamago kake gohan does not appear in front of your eyes right now. But Shouyou digresses, Atsumu can still whip up a delicious meal. Scrubbing and rinsing the plates, he sees traces of last night’s dinner, stray grains of rice and a lone vegetable stalk. Atsumu must’ve had stir-fry, he thinks.
Half an hour passes, and Atsumu still isn’t done. Shouyou ambles into the bedroom, ready to plop himself down and become one with the sheets. But he notices that the laptop on the table is still plugged in, and that itch unfurls just a little wider beneath his skin. Shouyou’s a bit of an electricity conservation advocator. Atsumu left the house without turning off the switch. You know how this goes. Again he unplugs the wire, fingers accidentally brushing over the mousepad.
The screen lights up and Shouyou’s heart stutters. It’s a property listing for two-room apartments in Hirakata. Takatsuki and Neyagawa, too. 48m2, south-facing balcony, auto-lock entrance. 35 m2, a ten-minute walk from the train station, the toilet comes with a bidet. 39 m2, situated right above a konbini, pets are allowed.
Back in Rio, the apartment he’d shared with Pedro had been a 60m2 thing, with a tiny kitchen where he’d made oatmeal for two in the mornings, and a wooden table where they’d pored over Portuguese-translated manga. It didn’t face the ocean—that would’ve been unaffordable for fresh-out-of-high-school Hinata Shouyou, but it was home. Another world.
Once, Tadashi did ask Shouyou why they hadn’t moved in together yet. Shouyou had merely shrugged. It sounds like a given, with the way they spend weeks at a time in each other’s apartments, limbs tangled over too-small beds, falling asleep pressed up to bodily warmth. But Shouyou remembers how, a few dates in, Atsumu had poured his heart out about Osamu. Two halves of a whole scattered across Osaka, MSBY Black Jackals and Onigiri Miya. Atsumu had wanted to become his own person. It sounds like a perfect reason to live apart for now. In the brief moments of solitude, Atsumu could exist on his own terms.
But maybe, it’s Shouyou who wants to be his own person. Three years ago, he had left the world of Miyagi for Rio de Janeiro, to shake off Kageyama’s shadow. Maybe, there are days when Shouyou wants all the space on his bed to himself, to sleep through the night without worrying about his snores. Maybe, it’s because I don’t think I’m ready yet sounds like a truth he can’t admit to himself, much less aloud.
Maybe, there are still more worlds left to explore. Maybe, Shouyou is insatiable for the universe.
The screen glares at Shouyou, bright and daunting. Atsumu wants to move in together. Atsumu wants to move in together.
Shouyou lets it die and retreats to the bed. When the door clicks open, he’s greeted by the sight of a pouty and disheveled Atsumu, already making grabby hands for Shouyou and the bed. It makes him chuckle, his heart soft. He reaches his arms out to circle around Atsumu’s neck, pulling his weight flush above him. Presses a kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “Welcome home.”
Shouyou doesn’t mention the listing.
☾
Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he’s like this, pinned up against the wall, eyes slightly widened in fluster, pink dusting his cheeks. That split second of surrender—the tremble to his lip, the hollow of his throat, sinking as if he’s attempting to swallow the weight of the moment. For a split second, Atsumu, who towers over Shouyou by a whole eleven centimetres, is shy and enamoured, closed in on all sides by Shouyou. Shouyou’s right palm, Atsumu’s left ear. Shouyou’s left palm, Atsumu’s right ear.
This second bleeds into the next, then Atsumu is leaning in, always so eager to take control of the moment, the corner of his lip lifting into a telltale smirk. And it should be exasperating, but Shouyou just laughs, kisses Atsumu square on the mouth. Atsumu threads his fingers through Shouyou’s hair, and Shouyou reaches his hand up, tugging harder onto blonde locks. Atsumu bites on Shouyou’s lip to ease his mouth open, and Shouyou retaliates by sliding his tongue in, pink muscle caught between rows of pearly whites. Loving in equal measure, then doubles, then triples. Infinites.
Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he’s like this—pressed beneath his hands, into the sheets. Giving and taking, giving and taking. Seven years ago, Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium. One day, I’m gonna set for you. Shouyou, chasing zenith. Atsumu, chasing Shouyou.
☾
There are days when Miya Atsumu digs into Shouyou’s skin, tearing through his flesh and bone, and Shouyou is forced to confront the itch face-on. Today is one of those days. They’re lashing out at each other in the small confines of Shouyou’s kitchen, exchanging heated, angry words.
All things considered, the day hadn’t started out badly. Shouyou had picked Atsumu up from Onigiri Miya, shared light-hearted banter with Osamu over two tamago rice balls and a hot genmaicha. Then they headed down to Tsukashin with the intention of stocking up on cleaning supplies and doing some window-shopping. It had been when Atsumu was peeking his head into a tuna freezer that they bumped into Izumi.
Shouyou had beamed and thrown his arms around the other man, as easy as breathing. And with the way Atsumu froze in his spot, side-eying the both of them, it was clear that he caught on immediately.
Shouyou hasn’t told Atsumu much about his exes, doesn’t see the point in doing so. Most of them had been short flings anyway, just like Izumi. The story was they’d reconnected in Shouyou’s third year of high school and dated for two months, before deciding they were better off as friends. And they were! When Shouyou thinks of Izumi, the olive green colour of their middle school uniforms comes to mind. A scoreboard that reads five to twenty-five, eight to twenty-five. Gratitude, blooming within his ribcage for having had a chance to play at all. He doesn’t think about the furtive kisses shared between childhood friends, an abstruse emotion in his chest that hadn’t run deep enough.
“What are you doing here?” Shouyou asked brightly, extricating himself from Izumi.
“I’m visiting a relative in Osaka! How are you, Shou-chan?”
Atsumu had visibly stiffened at the nickname. Shouyou introduced them anyway, “Izumi, this is my boyfriend, Atsumu. He plays the setter on my team. Tsumu, this is Izumi. We were, uh- middle school classmates.”
“Nice to meet you, Miya-san! I’ve watched many of Shou-chan’s games, your tosses are very impressive,” Izumi praised kindly, extending a hand. But Atsumu didn’t take it, simply nodded his head in greeting. The first strike—nails sharp, even as carefully trimmed as they were, piercing into Shouyou’s skin. Divulging from the earth, that familiar itch.
Shouyou tried to lighten the atmosphere. “Izumi here actually helped toss for me during my very first volleyball match! Remember the one I told you about, Tsumu?” He elbowed at Atsumu’s side. A threat. Be nice.
But Atsumu merely cracked his trademark smarmy grin, delivering the final blow. “Is that why you guys sucked so bad then?”
Shouyou is furious thinking about it now. The anger is white-hot, effervescing through his bloodstream, impossible to temper. An itch he cannot scratch out.
“I was just teasin’. Learn to take a joke,” says Atsumu coldly. Shouyou feels like tearing his hair out. “Can’t you see it, Tsumu? In what world is it okay to talk to my friends like that?”
“Friends joke around, Shouyou-kun. Unless Izumi is more than a friend to ya?”
Shouyou doesn’t like this feeling, when anger is bursting at the seams, seeming impossible to contain. He is a vessel compounded by patience, and he doesn’t want to break. But he catches the look on Atsumu’s face, identifies zero remorse, and feels like he’s quickly losing his mind.
“Goddammit, Atsumu! I’ve already told you that we only dated for two months. It was years ago. I don’t even consider that anything, god. Izumi’s more of a friend to me than anything else.”
Atsumu snaps, “And so if he’s not anything like ya said, then why haven’t you told me about him? Or any of yer exes? Why should you hide these things from me, Shouyou?”
An itch he cannot scratch out. Shouyou decides he’s had enough. He grabs his keys, taking for the door. “I’m not doing this. Let’s talk when we’re both calmer.”
The cleaning supplies were left unbought.
☾
“Thank you for being so understanding, Tsumu,” Shouyou says, smiling with the phone pressed to his ear. He hopes Atsumu can hear the smile in his voice.
“It’s no problem, Shouyou-kun. I’m sorry for everything.”
“I’m sorry too.” All of a sudden, he’s acutely aware of the empty space next to him on the bed. Shouyou means it when he says, “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, Tsumu.”
There’s a brief moment of silence and Shouyou can conjure the exact image as Atsumu stills, that split second of misery in his eyes, quickly schooling into blankness in the next. That little quiver to his bottom lip, those clenched fists. Shouyou would laugh at the way Atsumu thinks he’s being so slick, obscuring these gestures behind blank eyes and a smarmy grin, if not for the way it fills him with so much dread in this moment.
“But if ya really wanted to see me though,” Atsumu starts, “wouldn’t ya drop everything now and come over to my place?”
Shouyou pauses, chancing a look at the clock on his nightstand. But it’s already ten, he wants to say. He goes to sleep by eleven every night. But if he takes the cab to Atsumu’s apartment right now, his sleep schedule will be ruined, and he won’t wake up on time for his morning run, he wants to say. And if he goes over, it means he won’t get to make the fruit smoothie he’s waited all week to have for breakfast, he wants to say. The bananas had taken days to ripen.
Shouyou looks at the empty space next to him on the bed and wonders, how could you miss a person and feel relieved, at the same time, that they’re not there?
☾
Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he’s like this, a little drunk, a little unhinged. There’s a flush skating across his cheeks, and his arm is draped haphazardly around Shouyou’s neck, lips brushing against the side of it, exhaling warm breaths. Shouyou’s laughing, they all are, at the sight of Inunaki slumped over the table, just one beer away from reaching Atsumu’s state of drunkenness. He’d been the one to challenge the blonde setter to drinks, after all.
Under the low lights of the izakaya, despite the redness creeping up Atsumu’s neck, his boyfriend is so devastatingly handsome, Shouyou thinks. It takes his breath away, all of it—the muted colours in his eyes, cheekbones glinting under dim glow. Black roots peeking out of his hair, clashing with the rest of its gold. Lips, full and alcohol-swollen, now tickling Shouyou’s nape, and it draws another burst of laughter deep from Shouyou’s belly. He’s warm to his toes.
Shouyou doesn’t drink, doesn’t advocate for it, even, but on nights like this, he’s thankful for the laughter, the languid atmosphere. He loves Atsumu most when he’s like this—pressed up against his side, heart on his sleeve. They stumble out of the cab, hand on shoulder, hand on waist, Atsumu mumbling sweet nothings into his jaw, and Shouyou just laughing and laughing.
“I really want to kiss you,” says Shouyou.
“Then kiss me,” drawls Atsumu.
“Mm, maybe later when you’re more sober.”
“I’m not drunk!” Atsumu complains, loud and petulant, and Shouyou’s laughing again. God, he loves him so much. “Shut up,” he retorts, settling Atsumu on the bed, pulling up the covers. Shouyou’s about to turn for the kitchen when a hand curls around his wrist, pulling Shouyou back, until he’s laying flush above the other.
“Stay here,” says Atsumu.
“I wanted to get you a glass of water.”
“Later. Stay here with me first.”
“Okay, clingy.”
“Ain’t clingy.”
The blush on Atsumu’s cheeks is equal parts alcohol, equal parts shyness, Shouyou thinks. His chest is pumping liquid warmth as he takes in the weight of Atsumu’s body beneath him, heaving to the rhythm of their heartbeats. Breathing hot and ragged on the skin under Shouyou’s nose, sweet like the five glasses of whiskey he’s chugged tonight. Atsumu, Shouyou’s entire world.
“Yer so cool, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says suddenly. It startles a laugh out of the orange haired-man. “Shut up, Tsumu.”
“Always thought you were cool,” he lilts again, scrunching his nose, “It made me mad.”
“Hm, why so?” Shouyou asks, tracing constellations on the setter’s skin, reveling in the way Atsumu shudders, succumbing to his touch. Once, Shouyou had seen the Southern Cross in Rio. He maps out these stars along the length of Atsumu’s clavicle.
“Because no one else could see it.”
That makes Shouyou’s heart skip a beat, index finger paused on the line connecting Imai and Mimosa.
“What do you mean, Tsumu?”
“It means I saw ya at seventeen and thought you were cool, Shouyou-kun. It means I see ya now and still think that you are.”
Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he’s like this, a little drunk, a little unhinged. A little honest. For a long moment, the earth stops rotating in its axis. Today, his one-room apartment in Hirakata. Seven years ago, Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium. A promise uttered across the net, a finger raised at him as if to say: In a world full of people, full of Kageyama Tobio, I see you. I only see you.
☾
They’re on the beach when Hinata Shouyou’s life is changed forever.
Though you'll have to admit, that sounds a little dramatic, because Hinata Shouyou’s life has changed forever approximately five times. One, Karasuno, Kageyama Tobio’s first toss. Two, Shiratorizawa, ball boy. Three, Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, flying and then, falling. Four, Rio de Janeiro, a delivery boy on his bicycle, paused in front of the bar screen: What a fearsome nineteen year old! Kageyama Tobio! Five, a one-room apartment in Hirakata, Miya Atsumu.
But, once again, Shouyou digresses. He’s at the Nishikinohama beach with Atsumu, Osamu, and Natsu. The water isn’t as blue as the beaches in Rio but it’s still pretty, greyish-blue waves shimmering under the sun. Shouyou enjoys the bustle around, families picnicking under striped umbrellas, teenagers burying their friends into the sand. Across the net, his boyfriend and sister smirking devilishly at him.
“Don’t think we’ll take it easy on you, oniisan!” Natsu yells over the noise.
“It’s a little unfair, no?” Osamu teases, elbowing Shouyou’s side, “MSBY setter and Niiyama Girls High ace versus Ninja Shouyou and a high school dropout onigiri chef.”
“Oh, yer scared of kids now, Samu?” Atsumu taunts and Shouyou cannot help bursting into laughter. His heart is so full.
“I’m the only one here with beach experience, Samu. You’ve got nothing to worry about!” he cheers, beaming brightly.
To be fair, Atsumu has played beach volleyball with Shouyou a couple of times, once at Naoetsu beach when they’d travelled for a practice match against EJP Raijin, and the other during R&R after an overseas game in Warsaw. Shouyou watches as his boyfriend makes the first serve, a little less flustered than the times before, movements calculated.
It’s one thing to be digging his feet into the sand again, baked hot by the sun, calves burning as Shouyou pushes himself up off the earth. Vertigo, because he’d dreamed about this world for many nights now, and it’s still not the same here, not quite. The water isn’t as blue. The sand isn’t as white. The winds do not howl at his frame, threatening to veer him off his direction.
It’s another to watch as Natsu flails to dig Shouyou’s spike, but Atsumu is there to take it, setting the ball in a nice, clean arc. There’s a natural synergy between them, two of the most important people in Shouyou’s life. Then, there’s Osamu by his side, a fast learner, quick on his feet despite the years that’d passed since his final high school match. Shouyou tosses to him, high and clean, and the subsequent spike is a little wobbly but it touches the corner of their marked area. When they bring up their sand-caked hands to hi-five each other, Shouyou thinks to himself that Osamu is found family. They are a found family.
After three sets, they retreat to the sidelines for a break. Shouyou dusts the sand grains off his hands and picks up his phone from his bag, frowning slightly at the missed call on the screen. It’s a Brazilian number, one that he hasn’t saved. Shouyou struggles to figure out who it might be.
Here in Japan, the sun is beginning to dip beneath the horizon, staining the sky with warm pastels. There in Brazil, it is only starting to rise. Shouyou steps off to the side, mouths to the rest that he’s going to make a call.
And here’s the moment Hinata Shouyou’s life is changed forever: Six, Nishikinohama beach; six, evening in Japan; six, morning in Brazil. The other person on the line picks up, greeting in crisp, clear Portuguese, “Good morning, you’ve reached the Asas São Paulo office. How may I help you?”
Later, when Shouyou is done with the call, Atsumu asks, “Who’s that? What took ya so long?”
Heart ricocheting around his chest, Shouyou answers, “No one. It’s no one, Tsumu. Let’s continue playing.”
☾
Four months ago, Shouyou had squeezed into a booth with Aran and Kita, drinking from steaming mugs of houjicha, watching as the twins made a fool out of themselves behind the counter while Suna recorded sneakily from a distance.
Shouyou liked hanging out with Atsumu’s friends. There was something about being there, amidst old faces, that drew out his boyfriend’s true personality. Not that Atsumu didn’t have fun with their MSBY teammates, but here, it was as though he’d completely stopped holding back. And Shouyou was eager to unravel Atsumu, layer by layer, until he reached the very essence of his being, the colours of his heart. It helped that Aran enjoyed sharing anecdotes about the twins, and Shouyou had simply sat there drinking them all in, thinking contentedly to himself that these people loved each other. That these people loved Atsumu, just like he did.
“He’s an idiot,” Aran had said fondly.
“The best kind,” Shouyou replied, chuckling as Atsumu almost spilled over the bottle of mirin. Tell me more, he’d meant.
“He’s always actin’ so smarmy. He thinks it’s the perfect disguise. Y’know setters, right? They always feel like they need to be in control. I’ve never seen anyone else work themselves to the bone like he does. Workin’ and workin’ until he’s gotten it down to pinpoint precision, until everyone else on the court is dancin’ to the tune he’s started.”
The perceptiveness in Aran’s voice had been reeling. Shouyou leaned in, like the proximity could help him absorb the words better.
“Off the court though, he doesn’t trust himself to extend this same control,” Aran added, eyebrows furrowing together, “He thinks that if he lets slip for a moment, he’ll lose it all. People. Relationships.”
Something had struck within Shouyou’s chest then, hearing that.
“Ah, I’m sayin’ too much, aren’t I?” Aran chuckled, tipping his head back as he drank the last of his tea.
“Oh no, not at all, Ojiro-san! You’ve known Tsumu nearly all your life, it’s nice to hear these stories,” Shouyou said, smiling politely.
“Some people have different coping mechanisms, y’know? For someone as crazy about volleyball as he is, there’s a reason why he’d chosen to stay in Kansai all these years, when he could be playing on bigger stages,” Aran started again, “but, Atsumu, he- he’s gotten a lot better now, with time. It was bad in middle school when teammates shunned him. It had been even worse in high school when Osamu decided to quit volleyball.”
Inside Shouyou’s head, gears had begun churning. Then Kita, who had been quiet the entire time, said suddenly, “There was once in our third year when Atsumu fell sick. I had prepared a care pack for him and he’d started cryin’.”
And in that moment, Shouyou had remembered something particular—that split second of vulnerability, of disbelief, washing over Atsumu’s brown, brown eyes whenever Shouyou had done something nice, before he’d schooled it back into blankness, as always.
“When you've grown up yer entire life believin’ that you’re a person who doesn’t deserve to be loved,” Kita said, an ultimatum, “ya think to yourself, I’ll just act like that person anyway.”
Kita’s words had hit him like a truck. Then, the gears finished clicking into place. Miya Atsumu, Shouyou’s entire world. Skin, blubber, muscle, tendon, sinew, blood, veins, capillaries, and at the core of it all, his fragile, beating heart.
☾
Shouyou dreams of a world with two skies—the endless azure blue holding up the sun like its prize, and on the other side, towers of glass and metal cutting into the clouds. The muted clunking of traffic, endless chatter of people, haphazard shuffle of footsteps. These skies meet halfway, where a single volleyball is suspended in the air. It meets his calloused hand, then the blue and orange floor, gleaming under gymnasium lights. Faceless teammates bound towards him, clad in red. Everyone’s speaking in Portuguese.
The crowd gets thicker and thicker, swarming until they’ve become splats of black in his vision. Everywhere he turns, he doesn’t find Atsumu’s face.
☾
It starts with, “I got an offer from Asas São Paulo. They have an opening for a starting opposite hitter and I’m leaving in two months.”
Something shatters in Atsumu’s eyes, and Shouyou waits for the blank look, the smarmy grin, but they don’t appear. Atsumu’s heart is now out there, in the space between them, for Shouyou’s direct examination. And he realises the itch in his fingers, the one that unfolds beneath epidermis—it exists under Atsumu’s skin, too. Love is the bigger picture, but there are parts of each other they’re still grappling to tolerate. Shouyou sees it in the anger that lines the other’s brown irises, the blatant disbelief. Atsumu’s gaze burns through him and Shouyou’s chest is enshrouded in blue flame. Burning, but cold. So, so cold.
Atsumu scoffs, “Ya really don’t fuckin’ surprise me anymore, Shouyou-kun.”
Shouyou feels his heart sink. But he knows this conversation is overdue, has been brewing in the hours that stretch between each of his dreams. He wants to move forward.
“Let’s talk about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.
“What’s there to talk about? You’ve already made yer fuckin’ decision. Ya said, and I quote, I’m leavin’ in two months. There’s nothing to say when I’m not a fuckin’ part of this equation.”
Shouyou takes a step forward in some valiant attempt to close the distance between them. The anger in Atsumu’s eyes does not falter. “Why do you say that, Atsumu? Why do you think you’re not a part of this equation? I’m coming to you now and telling you this so we can w-”
“So we can do what? So I can sit here waitin’ for ya while you fuckin’ chase Tobio-kun around the world?”
Shouyou feels something break inside of him at the mention of Kageyama’s name. A fever-like sensation under his skin, crackling like fireworks, now bursting at the seams.
“ You of all people should know,” Shouyou starts, “what being my own person means to me. Why do you have to make this about Kageyama?”
Atsumu scoffs again, a cold, ruthless sound, and Shouyou hates it.
“Hasn’t this always been about Tobio-kun? It’s why yer even here, right? Puttin’ up with me for now, because I’m just another setter who can toss at the speeds you demand-”
“Atsumu, are you even fucking hearing yourself? Do you really think that little of me?” Do you really think that little of yourself?
“Little of you,” the setter laughs bitterly, “Ya think this is me thinkin’ little of you? Shouyou, I think of you as the fuckin’ world. ” Atsumu’s lips wobble with that admission, like it’d physically pained him to say that aloud. Shouyou is shaking, too—this whole conversation feels like treading on unsteady waters. Heated, angry words tugging along stormy waves on a rainy day in Ipanema.
“But you are my world too,” Shouyou chokes out, a desperate sound. There’s a beat of silence and he watches Atsumu curl his fists tight, emotions flickering across his eyes, alternating rapidly between pain and emptiness, pain and emptiness, pain.
“When will that ever be enough?” he asks, almost quiet enough to be a whisper.
“Tsumu, you are, ” Shouyou stresses, “why does this have to be one or the other? Why can’t I have both?”
“Shouyou, did ya know?” Atsumu chuckles and Shouyou feels more than hears his voice, cold to the bone, “I wanted to ask you to move in together. I was lookin’ at fuckin’ apartments in Hirakata. Do ya know how this makes me feel now?”
Shouyou swallows thickly, stunned into silence. Because he knows, has seen the listings on Atsumu’s laptop. 48 m2, Hirakata. 35 m2, Takatsuki. 39 m2, Neyagawa. He tries opening his mouth but none of the words would come out.
“I’ll tell ya now. I feel like a fuckin’ idiot. I am a fuckin’ idiot. And you- you’re selfish as fuck, Shouyou-kun.”
Atsumu leaves the apartment and Shouyou doesn’t stop him.
☾
“Please talk to me,” Shouyou says to his one-room apartment in Hirakata.
“You quelled my hunger but I couldn’t do the same for you,” the one-room apartment in Hirakata replies Shouyou.
“Please talk to me,” Shouyou says to the voicemail receiver.
Silence, Atsumu replies with.
☾
A grand total of three days. That’s how long they last for without seeing each other. Shouyou follows him into the car and Atsumu doesn’t tell him to leave. The seats smell like mint and old leather. Atsumu doesn’t turn on the radio. It’s so they can chew on the silence, Shouyou thinks. Lots of things fester in silence, especially guilt.
Shouyou follows Atsumu into his apartment. The space is clean, no stray articles of clothing strewn about the floor or unwashed dishes in the sink. Shouyou doesn’t know why he wishes there were. It’s such an ugly feeling, to hold onto the itch beneath his skin. To weaponise these instances—unwashed laundry and unwashed dishes and leaving the switch on despite the number of times he’d asked him not to—because where can that get Shouyou? Shouyou could help pick up the laundry, wash the dishes, unplug the wires, and he’d still be foolish to believe that it would lessen his guilt. That there could be some possibility where Atsumu is the lesser person here.
Shouyou follows Atsumu into bed, the setter facing the wall and Shouyou facing his back. They’re always like this, squeezing into too-small beds, needy to be touching somewhere. But here, the millimetres between their bodies feel like miles. It’s funny, Shouyou thinks, for all his subconscious desires of sleeping alone, the past three nights had been the poorest quality of sleep he’s gotten in awhile. Even with all the space on his bed, even without Atsumu waking him in ten-minute intervals to ask him to stop snoring.
It’s different, facing Atsumu’s back. They usually sleep facing each other. Shouyou traces the length of Atsumu’s spine with his eyes, the curves of his muscles, the little moles dotted across his skin. It’s like watching the world from a telescope, he thinks.
Then all of a sudden, Atsumu whispers, so soft Shouyou almost misses it, “You knew I wouldn’t leave, right?”
In that instant, Shouyou widens his eyes and Atsumu turns around hurriedly, like he’s frantic to capture the look on Shouyou’s face.
“You knew I would stay here. You knew I would wait for ya, wherever you went. And that’s why you decided to leave so easily, right?”
Shouyou’s breath hitches in his throat, heart cleaving in two. Mouth hanging slightly agape in some futile attempt to force the words out but there’s nothing. There’s only horror and desperation, burning in Atsumu’s eyes, and Shouyou wishes he could deny it but perhaps, this is the crux of it all, the bitter truth—that he’s selfish, that what Atsumu said was true. Shouyou had kept quiet about the apartment listing, had agreed to Asas’ offer without considering Atsumu’s input. Deep inside, he had known that Atsumu loved him too much to walk away.
How many worlds can he fit into these hands? Shouyou is afraid to know the extent of his own hunger.
“Please- please tell me this isn’t true,” Atsumu quietly begs, voice trembling, a single tear seeping out of the corner of his eye. And as Shouyou lays here, in the face of his own greed, he reaches his hands out to cup around Atsumu’s face, thumb wiping the tear on his cheek, and says, “Atsumu, Atsumu. Please stop looking at me like I’m a god. I’m only human.”
☾
Shouyou wakes up before the sun rises. Atsumu’s apartment doesn’t have a balcony, so he meditates in the living room, basking in whatever light that manages to spill through the tiny window. Then he washes up, cooks a simple breakfast of mackerel and rice, and sets up the dining table.
“Good morning,” Shouyou greets when he catches Atsumu padding out of the bedroom, eyes still half-open. Atsumu grunts blearily in response, seating himself at the table. “Thanks for the food,” he mutters and it takes everything out of Shouyou to not burst into laughter at the gruffness of his voice.
“Have you brushed your teeth?”
“Of course. I’m not gross, Shouyou-kun.”
They dig into the food, the sounds of eating filling the room. Shouyou takes note of the atmosphere, the remaining traces of tension that linger between them. He’s had one whole night to think this through. Even this morning’s meditation had been momentarily disrupted by more pressing thoughts—what Shouyou wants, what Atsumu wants.
“Brazil and Japan are twelve hours apart,” he starts.
“I know. I searched it up on Google once.”
“When was this?” asks Shouyou, amused. Atsumu pauses mid-bite, a deer caught in the headlights. “Uhh. Maybe a few years back when I heard through the grapevine that you were goin’ to Rio.”
At that, Shouyou loses it, bursting into full-blown laughter. He watches the corner of Atsumu’s lip quiver, like he’s holding himself back from laughing, too.
“You’re such an idiot, Tsumu.”
“You don’t get to call me that. I’m still mad at ya,” Atsumu says though his words lack bite. And Shouyou is truly so selfish, so human, because at this moment he can’t help leaning in to press a kiss onto Atsumu’s open mouth. So selfish, as he relishes in the warmth that blooms in his ribcage watching Atsumu sputter. Those seconds of shyness, pink painting across his cheeks.
“I was saying,” Shouyou starts again, “that Japan and Brazil are twelve hours apart. We could call each other when it’s seven in the morning at São Paulo, and seven in the evening at Osaka, after the Jackals are done with training.”
“All offense intended, Shouyou-kun, you suck at phone calls.”
“And texting too, I know. But I’ll text you a few times a day at least, to keep you updated.”
Atsumu doesn’t say anything, mulling over the last scraps of rice. Shouyou continues, “And I’ll come back to visit during the holidays. You could come visit me too, if you want, though I know how much you hate travelling.”
Another beat of silence passes, then Atsumu is asking, “What does this mean?”
Shouyou reaches his hand out, lacing their fingers over the table. “It means I’ll never get tired of you. It means I’ll never stop loving you. It means, I want this as badly as you do.”
☾
Atsumu’s eyes are intensely focused, as if they’re on the court playing a crucial match that demands his absolute precision. In reality, they’re snuggled up on Shouyou’s couch, and he’s helping Shouyou trim his nails. It’s a wonder, the intent and care with which Atsumu takes care of his hands. A true setter, down to his bones. Ten fingers splayed over a leather ball, maximum care and maximum support for his spikers. Shouyou hums to himself, pleased, as Atsumu gently runs the blades, then the file, over the curve of his nails.
“Tell me more about the apartment that you want,” Shouyou asks. Atsumu stills, eyes going blank. “We don’t have to talk about this.”
“Why not? It’s our apartment.”
“Nice save there, Shouyou-kun. Ya don’t have to try to make me feel better,” he whines, a little sulky. Shouyou rolls his eyes, planting a kiss onto the underside of Atsumu’s chin, chaste, because from their position, that’s the only place he can reach with his lips. “Shut up. I want to know, Tsumu. What kind of apartment do you envision for us?”
There’s a long moment of hesitation before Atsumu starts speaking again, clipping Shouyou’s nails as he says, “A balcony would be nice, so you could meditate on it. We’ll need a shelf cause you have a fuck ton of books. And a bigger kitchen for you to cook-”
“I asked to hear what you want, Tsumu. This isn’t about me,” Shouyou reminds, fondness swelling in his chest.
“You said it’s our apartment. Are you goin’ back on yer words now?” Atsumu taunts and for that, Shouyou presses another kiss on the stubble below his mouth, hoping it would expel some of his insecurities. “It is. And you’ve nailed everything that I want, Tsumu, thank you very much. It’s only ours if you get a say in what you want too.”
Atsumu pauses, thinking. Then he says, “I would like a vanity mirror. And extra cabinets in the bathroom for my hair and facial products-”
“Of course you would.”
“Shut up, Shouyou. Oh, and a queen-sized bed please. I’m tired of achin’ all over every time we squeeze into the super single.”
Shouyou nods his head affirmatively. “That is a must.”
“And I would need really expensive earplugs to block out all your snorin-”
“Tsumu!” Shouyou complains, whacking him in the stomach. That causes them to topple over the couch, Atsumu letting out a string of curses as the nail clipper falls to the floor, chipping a tiny bit off Shouyou’s pinky fingernail. Meanwhile, Shouyou just laughs and laughs.
He imprints everything they’ve shared with each other to memory—the balcony, the shelves, the well-sized kitchen. The vanity mirror, bathroom cabinets. The queen-sized bed. An image paints across his head, coming clearer to life with each detail. A two-room apartment in Hirakata, and Shouyou’s starting to feel like maybe he could keep all these worlds in his grasp.
☾
The Venus Line is a seventy-six kilometre driveway connecting Chino and Ueda, that weaves through the Japanese Alps in Nagano. Shouyou reads about it on his phone with glee. He loves mountains, the spirituality of nature, the otherworldliness of standing on the peak, and the whole expanse of the earth right beneath his eyes. It’s something both he and Atsumu can agree on, having grown up near the countryside all their lives.
Shouyou’s packed a simple bento for the drive and an entire bag of snacks that’ll have the MSBY nutritionists nodding their heads—rice cakes, celery and carrot sticks, apple slices, hummus, peanut butter. He’s vibrating in his seat with excitement, as the car rides up the Merchen Highway. Watching Atsumu, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on Shouyou’s lap, squeezing to the rhythm of the bubblegum pop song they’ve got playing on the radio. Shouyou looks out the window, trees and greenery bleeding them by. The weather is nice.
They eat their lunch on a mountain hut 2,000m high above ground, trek through fields of yellow Nikkoukisuge flowers. Always touching each other somewhere, be it their elbows brushing, knees bumping, hands interlaced. Shouyou picks up a stray flower on the grass, tucks it behind Atsumu’s ear. “Yer gross, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu complains, but the blush on his cheeks says otherwise, and Shouyou laughs heartily into the breeze.
When they reach Lake Shirakaba, all the snacks demolished between them, Atsumu makes a stop at the konbini for more food. The water is relatively clear, reflecting the blue expanse of sky above them, the sun flares, the wisps of clouds. It reminds Shouyou of the dreams he’s had, the ones where he stands between two skies.
“Are there places like these in Brazil?” Atsumu asks. Shouyou ponders over it for a moment. “There is a city lake in Rio. I’ve also hiked the Sugarloaf mountain. It’s like endless greenery before your eyes, Tsumu. And you get to see bits of the city and the beaches, too.”
“What about São Paulo?”
“It’s more city than nature, but there are the Mantiqueira mountains. I could drive there or rather, someone will have to drive me because I-”
“Because ya hate drivin’.”
“That’s right, Atsumu.”
Atsumu hums, eyes still fixed ahead, at the gentle waves of the lake, people milling about the perimeter of it. And the view is pretty damn gorgeous, but Shouyou finds himself staring at Atsumu instead. Eyes trained on the side of his face, until the setter’s noticing, his cheeks flushing. Shouyou’s always liked having that effect on him.
“It won’t be the same as Japan, right?” Atsumu asks again.
“Of course it won’t be. But they’re both beautiful, in their own ways.”
“That figures,” he chuckles, “you would deserve all the beautiful things.”
Shouyou feels a smile bracketing the curve of his mouth, as he lifts his hands to wrap around Atsumu’s cheeks, tilting his head so they’re facing each other. Underneath his palms, that sweet, sweet blush deepens. “And that’s why I have you.”
They spend the night at an onsen hotel, kissing with limbs entangled in the heated water, then kissing with limbs entangled in the bed. Miya Atsumu, a flower blossoming under Shouyou’s touch, a reminder that, for all the worlds he’s found in different places, here, Shouyou could carve the universe out of a single person.
☾
Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he’s like this, hand on waist, hand on shoulder, as they slow-dance across the balcony, Atsumu deeming it a need to punctuate the silence with silly comments like yer so cheesy, Shouyou-kun and this is so lame, when it’s clear that he’s enjoying this moment, if the smile playing around his lips is anything to go by. Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he tries but fails to twirl, stepping on Shouyou’s foot when the orange haired-man cracks a laugh. Behind them, the light-polluted skies of Hirakata, where they pretend that satellites and city lights are stars in the night.
But also, Shouyou loves Atsumu most when he’s like this—when, on a tired day, he doesn’t wash the dishes or pick up his laundry. When he forgets to turn off the switches in his own apartment, without Shouyou to chastise him for it. When he pinches Shouyou’s nose at night to make him stop snoring. When he picks silly fights about Shouyou’s exes, when he gets irrationally jealous about the other men in Shouyou’s life. When he sulks because Shouyou’s forgotten to say good morning or because Shouyou hasn’t replied his texts for an hour. The itch that breathes underneath Shouyou’s skin, unfolding with every second, minute, and hour that passes between them. Shouyou thinks he loves Atsumu most, despite all of it.
☾
Many nights ago, in Atsumu’s bed, Shouyou had said, “Yachi once told me that falling in love is easy, but staying in love is difficult.”
And Atsumu had replied so quietly, so achingly, “Well, you can tell Yachi to eat her words, Shouyou-kun, because I’ve stayed in love with ya since I was seventeen.”
☾
“Please tell me where we’re goin’. The suspense is killin’ me,” Atsumu whines, tagging behind Shouyou with his arms akimbo. Shouyou reaches a hand out behind him, fisting into the fabric of Atsumu’s t-shirt, dragging him closer. “Don’t be dramatic, Tsumu. It’s just a fifteen minute walk.”
“The longest fifteen minute walk of my life.”
“Shut up.”
They round about a cluster of apartments in a residential area at the other end of Hirakata. Shouyou has to stifle a giggle upon the look of growing confusion on Atsumu’s face.
“Am I missin’ out on something? Are we visitin’ someone’s house? Whose surprise party is this?”
“Tsumu, no offense, baby, could you please keep your mouth shut for the next five minutes?”
When they reach the guardhouse, the property agent is already standing there. A bright, petite woman with her hair tied neatly into a bun. Uraraka Ochako, Shouyou remembers her name. She shakes his hand with a grin on her face. “It’s nice meeting you, Hinata-san!”
Shouyou can see the fragments of realisation in Atsumu’s eyes, the way he keeps blinking them away, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists as if he doesn’t dare to hope. And Shouyou wants to reach out, uncurl those fingers, bring them up to his lips. A kiss to seal his promise. But there’s an elevator to take and an apartment to visit, so he just gently pushes Atsumu forward into the lift lobby, Uraraka standing up front.
They take the elevator to the ninth floor. Uraraka lifts a finger out at the view from the corridor, a canvas of street lights and buildings and winding roads. “It’s not much, but the view here is definitely better than most apartments in the city!”
In his periphery, Shouyou notices Atsumu’s fists curling even tighter, the hollow of his throat bobbing up and down like he’s having trouble swallowing his words.
They enter the unit. It’s a roomy 50m2 space—Shouyou’s known this, has seen the pictures, researched the available listings extensively. All light wood like his one-room, except here it’s more polished, less sharp around the edges. Uraraka continues speaking, “It’s a bit of a walk to the train station but there are konbinis nearby! There’s also a giant supermarket just around the corner. Both the kitchen and master bedroom toilets come with bidets too!”
Shouyou sees the way Atsumu scans the apartment, eyes flickering with self-made disbelief, and goes up to lace their hands together. Squeezes their twined fingers.
“Well, I’ll leave you guys to look around. Let me know if you need any help!” Uraraka chimes kindly, tucking round cheeks behind her clipboard. Shouyou pulls Atsumu along towards the balcony first, grinning. It’s a small area, but there’s definitely enough space to spread out a yoga mat. The balcony overlooks a quiet street lined with camphor trees. “I could meditate here,” he says.
Then Shouyou pulls Atsumu into the kitchen, the size of which is at least double of his own kitchenette. “And the both of us could cook here without knocking into each other,” he says.
Then, the master bedroom. “It’s so big! We could definitely fit a queen-sized in here, and a vanity mirror in the corner.” Then, the bathroom. “Look, Tsumu, at all the cabinets for your endless supply of hair and facial products.” Then, the second bedroom. “We could turn this space into a small gym. Or a study, if you don’t mind. I could put all my books here.”
Shouyou chances a look up at Atsumu, who’s remained quiet this entire time, and says, “Tsumu, don’t freak out, okay? We’re just viewing. If you don’t like the place, you can tell me. We can always look at other units too, I have a list-”
“Shouyou-kun, what are you doing?” Atsumu asks breathlessly. Shouyou turns, hands coming around Atsumu’s shoulders to steady him, their faces a breath away from each other.
“I want to move in together with you, silly.”
“Yer going to São Paulo in a month.”
“Yes, I am. And that’s not going to change,” Shouyou explains carefully, “but I also want a place with you. Somewhere I can come home to every time I return to Japan.”
“Shouyou-kun…” There's a long moment of silence, the entire world condensed into the quiet sounds of their frantic heartbeats. Then Atsumu’s face crumples, tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes. “Fuck, don’t look at me. I’m not cryin’, I’m not cryin’.”
“Silly Tsumu,” Shouyou says softly, feeling his own eyes begin to water, “it’s okay to cry.” He moves a hand up to wipe away rivulets caught between Atsumu’s lashes, the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Ya don’t have to do this,” Atsumu chokes out and Shouyou aches at the brokenness in his voice. Tiptoes to kiss him on the nose, then the lips. Stealing the moisture from his skin, sealing his promise now.
“I don’t have to do this, I know. But I want to. Tsumu, when will you believe that I want this? That I want you?”
“I-” Atsumu tries to speak but sputters again, breaking into another sniffle. Shouyou fills in the sentences. “So do you like the apartment?”
“It’s perfect,” another sniffle, “and it’s near the Jackals training space too.”
Shouyou presses his fingers deeper into Atsumu’s cheeks, grounding him. “That’s good to hear, Tsumu. I’d really hoped that you would love this place.”
“Is this too rushed, Shouyou-kun? Are ya sure it’s not a reckless decision?”
“Trust me, I’ve had a long time to think about this. It’s- it’s more than just a decision to me,” Shouyou says, now closing his palms around Atsumu’s hands, keeping his pact within skin-against-skin. “It’s more of a promise to you, actually.”
“What does that mean?”
☾
Love is a feeling and then, love is a choice.
It means I love you. It means, I’ll choose you everyday, no matter what happens, over and over.