Chapter Text
One final match, one final loss.
Goddammit.
For the rest of his days, Miya Atsumu will wonder how one Sakusa Kiyoomi - he of the invincible kills and judgmental glances - can captain a team to victory above his. Across netted nylon, their matching number 1’s designate those identical roles of leadership. But now, four fiercely fought sets at Nationals later, he grudgingly admits that there is only a lone “1” at the top.
“Good game, Miya.” From his long-time rival comes the usual monotony, flat tone and flat lips displaying no joy whatsoever towards the recent triumph.
“Congrats, Omi-kun!” He grins as he always does, setting their expressions in reversal, surely to fool any new spectators as to the true winner of this semi-final.
Their outreached fingers barely brush, but this no longer surprises, as anyone in the elite high school tier - Atsumu himself among them - has long been subject to Sakusa’s notorious handshake aversion. By this point, Atsumu can’t tell if he should feel lucky to be at least worth a little effort, or feel slighted that after so many years of intense back-and-forths, he still isn’t worth a proper touch.
But alas, he respects what’s to be expected. As far as he’s concerned, Sakusa can be the one to initiate, even if that moment never ever comes.
On the sidelines, he returns to a team steeped in disappointment, and embraces Osamu with what remains of his strength.
“I really wanted yer last one to be a win.”
“Top four is more than fine, ‘Tsumu.” His twin pats his sweat-stained back, the usual mockery absent. “None of us thought we’d get this far this year - not even you.”
Indeed, no seeding had accompanied the Inarizaki name coming into this tournament, the result of a mediocre performance at InterHigh prelims and bizarre losses throughout the season. But once again, they had shocked this Spring Nationals crowd, erasing any unsavoriness from the previous year with new upsets - this time much more favorable to their cause.
And so, Atsumu guards the door to the locker room, a pillar of encouragement consoling the last of his juniors as they file past one by one, sulking postures confident again after his brief words. He had kept all their spirits high throughout volatile months, with his unwavering energy playing conductor to the final few matches that had really mattered. The championship trophy does not land in their hands in the end, but at least, on this last day of his high school volleyball journey, Miya Atsumu continues his claim over the precious element of surprise - and managed to exceed all expectations.
Expectations - the rule of thumb for the elite. Conditions he must eclipse.
He wanders the stadium corridors one final time, seeking out the few who will continue on this path, all their hands grasping at straws dyed in National Team red. There are those few names who had made him a better player through association alone, but perhaps even moreso through the discipline of constant defeat. Alas, failure is temporary, having never clouded his unconditional love for this sport. Now with high school sorted away and Osamu’s decision a matter of the past, new dreams of success and partnership already color his eager mind. Who Needs Memories, after all? Fresh alliances lie just ahead - quite literally - ripe for his picking.
“Moto-kun! Omi-kun!” He harvests ripened banana yellows with audacity. “Glad I caught ya before I left!”
The Itachiyama pair approaches with casual steps, as if they hadn’t just ascended to cloud nine from a traditional locker room celebration. Their disheveled selves, however, give away the chaotic event, and Atsumu hides his surprise at Sakusa’s messy hair and wrinkled clothes - a far cry from his usual, well-groomed appearance.
So he does allow himself to be touched. His personal expectations readjust, so very slightly. Despite the affectionate nickname for his opponent, they had never spoken much throughout the years, and Atsumu likely knows more about the his fellow 3rd year’s favorite type of toss than his favorite afternoon snack. But Sakusa’s cryptic aura had always tempted him to decode and keep decoding, so - ice pops, he guesses then and there by impulse, not logic, since they’re just as cold as him.
“I’ll see you soon in the V. League, Atsumu-kun?”
Motoya nudges with an elbow, reminding him of his original intentions. Though they’ve never discussed in-person, Atsumu knows very well that the libero has already signed his contract with the Raijins, while his cousin the ice pops lover - probably - had decided to embark on a four-year academic career first, much to the shock and awe of the entire Japanese athletic system.
He swallows disappointment that he won’t face Sakusa consistently for the next few years - after all, Monster Gen only begets Monster Gen, and in the face of adulthood and all its obligations, he would much rather continue playing alongside what’s already familiar. A joke that Sakusa should consider joining his team post-graduation nearly escapes his reckless tongue, but the masked one looks like he wants to dig a hole and dodge any chit chat, so Atsumu resorts to soliciting Motoya about some still unspoken plans.
“Moto-kun, I got a great idea for how we can prepare for our amazin’ and paid careers.” The emphasis is not meant to make Sakusa envious, of course - does the guy even feel envy? Or anything at all? He doubts it.
“Oh? Do tell!”
Well, at least his cousin has an actual spectrum of emotions.
“How ‘bout watchin’ some international matches live together and analyzin’ ‘em over video call? I did that sometimes with my high school ‘mates to warm up, and it always helped.”
“Ohhh, definitely a good idea! But I only get a chance to see those when I go over to Kiyoomi-kun’s place - his family has all the international channels!”
“Ah, but now that ya will be in Hiroshima…”
“Yep, probably won’t get much access, so I’ll just stick to highlight reels.” Motoya shrugs, though the glint in his eyes does not extinguish. “But...Kiyoomi-kun, you’ll still watch a lot of matches while at Waseda, no? You’re dedicated to doing that already.”
So we have one thing in common, at least.
“Maybe…” The word is barely audible through Sakusa’s mask, his expression clearly miffed that Motoya had outed his viewing habits.
“Well, my offer’s open to anyone!” Atsumu exclaims, expecting little in return. “Do ya use Skype, Omi-kun? I get on it with ‘Samu whenever one of us is away. But obviously, he won’t watch any more games that don’t have me in ‘em now.”
Sakusa frowns directly at him. “Yah, I use it. To keep in touch with my older siblings.”
Whaddya know? Two things in common. “How ‘bout addin’ me to yer contacts then? Isn’t it more fun to watch volleyball with someone?”
A smooth forehead succumbs to folds, irritation as deep as their crevices. “No…?”
“Ouch.” Despite sustaining a smile, Motoya sounds genuinely hurt, no doubt reliving his many experiences at the Sakusa household.
Likewise, Atsumu cannot rationalize why he’s even invested. If Motoya won’t join the fray, there are certainly much better second options than the disgruntled one alongside them. But as with much else, once he latches onto something, it becomes impossible to let go. Maybe, he reasons to himself, it’s a way to decode Sakusa Kiyoomi once and for all.
“C’mon, Omi-kun. Gimme a chance.” Thus, he cocks his head, playing up the charm. “Ya know how much I love volleyball at this point! I’m fun to play with and to watch with, I swear.”
“Why would I need more commentary than what’s already on TV?”
“Dontcha wanna hear volleyball speak in some lovely Kansai dialect??”
“Not exactly?” Sakusa, future elite university attendee with an IQ of who-knows-what, seems understandably confused at his awful logic. “Can’t you just ask...Suna? He’s going pro, too...”
Atsumu tosses a sideways look. “Moto-kun, do you think Sunarin has ever paid attention to this kinda stuff?”
“Highly doubtful.” The shakes of Motoya’s head are confident. “And as his teammate next season...that should probably scare me a little, ha!”
The two of them exchange chuckles then, and Sakusa looks dreadfully concerned at their growing camaraderie.
“Just humor him, Kiyoomi-kun.” Oblivious to his cousin’s distaste, the libero pushes a final persuasion. “I literally don’t know two people more dedicated to following the professionals.”
The quietest ten seconds in Atsumu’s lifetime pass, marked only by a heavy sigh from Sakusa at the tailend, his half-closed eyes buried in an elongated thought.
“...I’m allowed to mute you at any time?” A muffled question sounds, voiced almost like a demand.
Startled, Atsumu barely registers the change in attitude. “Sur...sure! Whateva’ ya want!”
“Ok...fine.”
Between them, even Motoya looks impressed.
“Perfect then. I think uh, World League starts in...late May?”
“Yah, I know. It’s on my calendar already.”
“Right, ‘course it is.” Atsumu scratches his nape as he laughs. A degree of nervousness bubbles at all this development, but his more provocative side still decides to test boundaries. “Then...it’s a date? Four months from now?”
The spiker visibly freezes, and the curious once-over he soon gives Atsumu is anything but subtle.
“No, just a date on my calendar.” The denial is adamant, but Atsumu swears - swears - that it comes right when dark eyes briefly hang onto an imaginary hook around his hip. Before he calls out the stare, however, Sakusa’s tall frame has already dashed past.
“Bye, Atsumu-kun.”
Motoya trails him, leaving behind a wave and a thumbs up.
-*-
I’m an idiot. He realizes five minutes into the busride back to Amagasaki. I never even asked for his screenname.
It’s just a few extra steps: a text to Motoya - whose information he has somehow possessed since 2nd year - a half-assed attempt at conversation, a pretend-casual question for Sakusa’s mobile number. But Atsumu can practically hear the libero’s laughter as he trains back to the Itachiyama dorms, and he hopes to the volleyball gods that a certain cousin isn’t right next to him.
Before he even adds the newly acquired digits to the contacts list, a message notification arrives.
[Unknown Number]
You’re an idiot
Saves me extra typing, at least. With a sigh, Atsumu enters the not-so-mysterious number directly from the new panel before conjuring up a response.
[Me]
Yah I’m stupid sometimes
But still graduating in two months
Just like you are
[Omi-kun]
So your head does have non-volleyball thoughts too huh
My screenname is Saku.Kiyo
But the display name is my full name
DON’T add me until we get closer to the World League dates
“This is going so well already.” He mutters as he flips the phone shut, more than willing to comply.
-*-
In the midst of his countless lifestyle transitions, obeying Sakusa’s request ends up easy. It’s not until months later, late night on the 23rd of May, when he finally presses the green button to commence their not-date, reconnecting them beyond the few terse texts.
Calling... Sakusa Kiyoomi
His fingers tap impatiently against the wooden surface supporting both his laptop and tablet, the former blanketed in random windows with Skype as the topmost layer, and the latter tuned into a decent quality, albeit illegal, livestream of EuroSport.
The bubbly “pop” of a new window nearly makes him jump, and the muddled mosaic within slowly morphs into a masked human figure. Sakusa is dressed in a t-shirt doused in Waseda maroon, ruly-yet-unruly curls somewhat longer than back in January. A quick scan proves that his surroundings are as tedious as can be: vague signs of a recent move-in, an immaculate desk, walls empty save for one poster of indecipherable contents.
Off the court, and to Atsumu’s slight relief, Sakusa Kiyoomi devolves into the epitome of predictable.
“Hey---” He greets the usual Skype way - loudly, a necessary test of the audio feed. “Heya, Omi-kun! CAN YA HEAR ME?”
Within the sizable window, his counterpart gives a visible cringe and a struggled wave, his arm moving quickly to smash an unseen keyboard button - turning down the volume, no doubt. Before long, Sakusa returns to a stern posture within his chair, prompting both their spines to adopt the formality. For a few seconds, they sit on opposite ends of Japan, obedient like elementary students on the first day of school - or worse yet, two unfortunate candidates at a marriage interview.
“So uh, why d’ya have a mask on?” Mind otherwise blank, Atsumu highlights the most obvious detail as an ice breaker. “Aren’t ya in yer dorm?”
“...I’m sick.” Comes the most unconvincing excuse he has ever heard.
“Ya don’t seem sick.”
Uneasy eyes narrow further, and a previously hidden fist lifts to Sakusa’s covered mouth. The few fake coughs that ensue have no effort invested to make them appear legitimate, but the action is immediately effective, as Atsumu decides to quit pursuing the topic.
“So how’s Wased--”
“Miya.” Sakusa reveals his dislike for inane chatter much sooner than expected. “Did you shower already?”
“Omi-kun.” Unsure of how to adapt to these blunt speech patterns, he feigns aggravation. “That’s kinda forward of ya…”
The younger man looks unmoved. “I’ll be more comfortable watching with someone who’s clean.”
“But...we’re lookin’ at each other through a screen??” Atsumu protests, resisting the sudden urge to give his shirt a just-in-case sniff.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to see your grime, even in pixel form.”
Waseda. High IQ. Grime visible via webcam. With that, all his assumptions of Sakusa’s intellectual capabilities are set aside for further evaluation. But the start of the game is imminent, so Atsumu half admits defeat to the unyielding request.
“Yes, it’s almost 11pm. I already showered.” He clumsily fluffs damp hair with splayed fingers and a few shakes of his head. “See ? My hair’s still a bit wet.”
Within the frame, Sakusa’s figure freezes, as if suspended by lackluster internet speed. But there is a blink, followed by an obvious shift in the wells of his eyes, replenished in charcoal rather than dark grey.
Trick of the camera focus? He wonders, but doesn’t mull on it for long. “Um, anyway, how are ya watchin’ the match?”
Two more blinks, and Sakusa emerges from stagnance. “I’m streaming it...here.” He pulls a tablet into view, its screen displaying the exact same broadcast as Atsumu’s, on the exact same website.
“Illegal streaming? Mr. Perfect Sakusa Kiyoomi, committin’ a crime?!” With the instinct of a jester, Atsumu slaps a hand against his chest, maximizing incredulousness.
“What, Miya? Are you going to report me to the internet police now? Contrary to what Motoya assumed, I’m not paying for any international channels if I’m not using them daily.”
“Nah, I won’t tell. Since I’d only be arrested as yer accomplice.” He smirks while grabbing for his tablet, flaunting it proudly like a prize both of them successfully stole.
The showcase inspires an eye roll, but even through hazy striations and the obscurity of a mask, Atsumu detects a hint of amusement.
Right then, uniformed figures begin to fill the onscreen court.
“Oh hey, it’s startin’.”
Like on auto-pilot, their personalities drift into that other mode fueled by hunger and intrigue, the eagerness to learn flicking on concentration towards every on-court action, while emptying their mouths of snide comments. For seconds upon minutes, their eyes only track the rapid movements of names they admire, completely ignoring the Skype window. A strong play comes about every few minutes, prompting brief conversation between them about its potential strategy. But even then, they speak while maintaining focus, directing all words and statements towards their tablets and not each other.
To his delight, Sakusa only seems to mute him once - and rightfully so, as the decision comes during an especially long rally on Brazil’s set point, throughout which Atsumu’s hollering uncontrollably like a madman.
By the time Italy wins, three sets to one, Sakusa has yet to sign off out of annoyance, and Atsumu secretly celebrates his own small victory.
“So? How was I?” He grins into the camera, a player of this personal game, seeking analysis.
A hand lifts to the mask again, but rather than fielding another false cough, it remains clutched to Sakusa’s chin, expressing contemplation that rings authentic.
“...not as unbearable as I imagined.”
Ah. For him, the younger man’s tolerance is a new mystery, but also one most welcomed. “Tomorrow, then? Round two?”
“Yah...sure, I guess.” The nod is singular and typical, but an extended - almost endearing - yawn follows it, giving Atsumu a rare display of vulnerability that he may never witness under stadium lights.
He clears his throat, and tries to clear his head of any overtly tender adjectives. “It’ll start a couple of hours earlier than tonight’s.”
“I know. It’s all in my calendar, remember?” Sakusa arches an eyebrow in arrogance, effectively ridding himself of said tender qualities. “Night, Miya.”
“Night, Omi-kun.”
-*-
They settle into this bizarre routine with no label, an absolute minimum of conversations bookending those initial, prescheduled gatherings. But what Sakusa doesn’t share verbally, Atsumu observes and absorbs: there is the occasional open textbook on the desk, revealing the subject of his next college exam; the way he spins a pen with the dexterity of a magician’s slight-of-hand during intense rallies; the calls of his roommates in the background asking where some household item is, and the surprising patience Sakusa offers them, even if it keeps him away from the match for quite a while. In those times, Atsumu finds himself recalling memories of vocal frustration at his parents, which he had openly expressed whenever his viewings were interrupted. By any means, his current companion appears more patient than most give him credit for, and perhaps, his past ability to lead Itachiyama should’ve never been in doubt.
Above all, however, it’s the extended hours of simply Sakusa himself on open display, allowing for much longer timeframes to decipher that uncrackable surface. He’s almost regal in all his refined, porcelain-like complexion, Atsumu realizes in the middle of Brazil vs. Poland’s third set. An intangible young monarch of sorts, crowned not only by the kingdom of volleyball but also the citizens of academia, both of whom’s lands he now rules with reverence.
Does he even regard me as an equal? Or simply a “peasant from the west?” Strange thoughts of this ilk begin to bother him in the middle of Atsumu’s days. And to his chagrin, such doubts always detour towards something much more trivial.
Either way, his eyelashes are annoyingly long.
Their sixth not-date becomes a significant defiance of Atsumu’s expectations. Once they connect, what appears on screen is Sakusa with no mask at all. Instead, a familiar pink sphere rests in front of his chest, its bottom half hidden, but identity obvious.
“Is that...a Vabo-chan plush?” He attempts to camouflage the extreme shock at barefaced Sakusa with another, lesser one.
“Yah. I brought it to school with me.” Shapely eyebrows quirk, as if daring judgment. “What of it?”
“Well…” He wanders over to his bed and retrieves something identical, still supple with aged stuffing. When the plush makes its grand entrance, a childlike wonder overcomes Sakusa’s features.
There’s a bizarreness to establishing their status as equals this way, a child’s toy negating any differences between monarch and peasant. By now, he has lost count of all the commonalities they share, this one being the latest. But the sight of both of them embracing the same plush constructs a connection far stronger than anything previous, for it represents not only nostalgic comfort, but also mutual commitment they bring to all their games, whether as players or spectators.
“Oh.” An unusual softness inundates Sakusa’s voice. “How long have you had yours, Miya?”
“Since I was around...twelve?” He searches for the month and year within his lifetime. “Figured I should bring it with me to Osaka for good luck or somethin’. I even had sweaters of him back in the day.”
“I’ve had mine since around 10.” Sakusa counters. “So I win.”
“Is everything a competition with you??”
“We’re literally about to watch one, Miya.”
The next 70 minutes or so is the longest Atsumu sees Sakusa maskless outside of a court - and the sight is also the most unexpected distraction. Contrary to popular belief, the spiker regards a match with far more awe than intensity or boredom, like he’s seeing the most typical plays for the very first time. During hard-won points, his pensive face exudes a subtle energy rivaling Atsumu’s clamorous one, finespun excitement supplemented by how he devotedly clutches the plush. It’s as if the surgical mask exists as a defense mechanism, a last means of protection from all the purer expressions Sakusa wishes to hide.
He realizes, then, that the one he faces about twice a week is Sakusa, but also Sakusa Kiyoomi, an alternate identity summoned between color filters and liquid crystal, entrapped within that resizable yet inflexible frame. But despite being a duplicate, perhaps Sakusa Kiyoomi is the bona fide existence, a gentler persona intentionally hidden beneath more insipid, volleyball-obsessed analogs.
At the end, Atsumu maneuvers his Vabo-chan to wave goodbye into his webcam - stubby arms, stuffed white hands and all. Sakusa Kiyoomi pauses with skepticism to start, but then does the same right back, completing an awkward yet satisfying exchange.
It’s a mostly sincere bond from then on, formed through fragile dependencies on high-speed internet and low-res videos. The subpar framerates not only capture two rooms, but also the tiniest evolutions taking place within them - each either challenging one of Atsumu’s expectations, or unraveling one of Sakusa’s mysteries.
Never to be outmatched, Atsumu begins to keep the visible parts of his background in almost painful neatness - stark furniture done and dusted, no hint of scattered clothes or clutter as weaknesses to be snarked at. It's not as if Sakusa ever comments on his efforts, much less compliments them, but the fruitless rituals maintaining that single corner still carry on over days, nights, weeks - and eventually permeate into his whole apartment. Soon enough, far beyond the focal length of his webcam are laundry organized by color, and bathroom tiles kept spotless, and magazines always stacked perfectly for no reason at all.
“Omi-kun’s influence” is what he proudly answers when Meian praises the state of his home during a random visit. His senior clearly does not understand the reference, but no follow-up question ever arises.
Those occasional matches that fall around meal time expose rituals of other kinds - though much more on Sakusa's part. Rather than textbooks, displays of intricately plated dinners surface on his desk instead, the contents far too delectable to originate from the Waseda cafeteria or a random konbini. As points stack up for both teams on the livestream, food disappears into Sakusa’s mouth via testing first bites and dreadfully slow chews, as if they may contain doses of poison - despite being his own creation.
"Yours looks good." Atsumu mumbles not-so-mindlessly at perfectly-grilled mackerel one evening.
"It is."
As Sakusa concurs, his signature glance lands on Atsumu’s store-bought sushi, persecuting its existence from 500 kilometers away.
It doesn't take long after that for Atsumu to dial Osamu's number, demanding a list of manageable recipes that won’t have him hiding future meals in shame.
“This is homecooked, ya know.” He boasts less than a week later, tilting a steaming bowl of curry into view. “Wish ya could smell it!”
Sakusa wordlessly evaluates while picking at his oyako-don, expression otherwise composed.
"Text me your brother's recipe." He motions with both chopsticks right before the game's starting whistle sounds. It’s a deduction as accurate as his in-game ones, exposing strategy at its core and identifying involved parties, all while he himself remains completely unbothered.
-*-
What Sakusa is even more unbothered by, he notes, is any measure of stress.
The spiker’s resilience levels so high that he seldom displays signs of post-training fatigue, much less post-match. As a consequence, Atsumu nearly forgets how the collegiate volleyball season has long since begun. Those rookie volleyball experiences at Waseda pass on in obscurity, ironically never brought up as a topic of conversation, even as they watch the exact same sport in other contexts.
When he finally realizes the oversight, Atsumu rushes to seek out those much rarer college match broadcasts in secret, and commits hours to the flights of a single maroon uniform numbered 13. From the first play he witnesses, he already swallows disdain at how Waseda’s starting setter can’t deliver what his talented wing spiker deserves. But some time during those unmentioned daily practices, Sakusa adjusts to the flaws he’s given and completes countless kills game after game, unruffled throughout the school’s string of consecutive victories.
Still. He thinks. He deserves better.
“A couple of yer spikes last night looked exactly like the one just now.” In June, during one of their European League viewings, the compliment Atsumu had meant to share for ages escapes. “Yer even scarier these days.”
He can feel the heat of a surprised stare through the laptop screen; formerly lightless spheres now alert, widening to the size of Vabo-chan’s plastic eyes - that silent confusion of You watched? resounding above the commotion of the broadcast. The concentration on his tablet never breaks as he prepares to provide one of several rehearsed excuses. Yes, of course I watched! I love volleyball, remember? I enjoy seeing anyone play at any level, including you. Especially when it’s you---
“Thanks. I guess.” The anticipated question never comes.
Oh. He’s almost unprepared for the lack thereof, but with such an opening, his instincts immediately nudge him in a whole other direction. Because ultimately, Miya Atsumu possesses little to no self-control.
“So, ya likin’ the tosses ya get?”
“I’m...becoming used to them.” Sakusa squeezes palm against knuckle, and gives grudging grace. “They’re not as good as Iizuna-san’s, but I don’t think anyone will ever surpass his, anyway.”
“Mm.” A mental goal post self-constructs within Atsumu’s mind then, for no reason in particular - or so he has convinced himself.
And thus, the brief comments of Sakusa’s own gameplay finally get inducted into their conversations, with one party never directly admitting that he watches any moment he can find, and the other never questioning why this happens in the first place. On rare occasions, a teasing critique replaces a compliment, but past those initial frowns flashed back at Atsumu in low resolution, the relevant tweaks Sakusa makes by his next game are jarringly noticeable.
“Your dump that won the second set last night was nice.” It’s Sakusa who speaks nonchalantly weeks later, the night after Atsumu debuts for the Black Jackals.
“Thanks. I guess.” He doesn’t ask why, either. Of course he watched. He loves volleyball, too.
-*-
It’s not ice pops, he also discovers soon enough.
In fact, Sakusa’s favorite snack is the total opposite, and he eats so much pickled plum during some of their viewings that Atsumu’s shocked his lips haven’t turned the same color as his Waseda t-shirts yet - not that he’s paying extra attention to anyone’s lips, of course. He berates himself for only considering coldness as a factor back then, because in the end, ice pops have another very specific quality, and Sakusa Kiyoomi, gentle as he may occasionally be, is anything but sweet.
“Are those actually that good?” He comments in between points one day.
Not-sweet Sakusa looks back not-so-sweetly, but his next gesture is all contradiction.
“You want one?” He offers into the camera.
For reasons unbeknownst to himself, he leans in with mouth wide open, a slackened tongue welcoming the undeliverable. A goofy chomp precedes faked chews, puffed cheeks, and thoughtful expressions - an on-camera performance of a restaurant critic, pondering flavors as perplexing as the chef.
Onscreen, his exaggerated antics inspire a just-as-exaggerated eyeroll.
“And? How does it taste?” Sakusa quips, tossing the snack back into his own mouth.
“Kinda like...air?”
For the first time, there is a wholehearted laugh at one of his terrible jokes. The sounds echo across unflavored air and WiFi wavelengths before reaching Atsumu's ears, each reverb strangely delightful - strangely sweet.
A day before their next watch, there is a package of the exact snack brand Sakusa favors in his mailbox, arriving via express delivery. He accepts the challenge, but sucks on a few ice cubes prior to the game to numb his mouth.
“Sendin’ me this was kinda... sweet of ya.” That night, he unseals the pouch in plain view, holding back a snicker at double meanings known only to himself.
Sakusa sinks a pointed chin into cupped palms before leaning forward, whispering secrets into their makeshift privacy. “I just wanted to see your face as you struggle through them.”
It is, indeed, a struggle. But by the end of the match, they’re both more than halfway finished with their respective bags, and Sakusa has snorted at his pinched face at least seven times, so Atsumu decides that maybe sour is not such a terrible flavor, after all.
He retaliates by an original method the next time around, lifting Vabo-chan over his face and commentating the entire game with the squeakiest voice he can conjure up. It draws a nonstop mixture of snickers and ashamed grumbles from Sakusa, but he never mutes him, much less blocks him as Atsumu had feared.
At every sign of the other’s amusement, Atsumu grins wide behind the plush - and is beyond glad for the camouflage. For the first time, it's apparent how differently these particular smiles feel on his face, and he begins to fear what may happen if they’re actually revealed.
By the time World Championships arrive, Sakusa's vocal cords have been given total freedom - out comes the satisfied grunts accompanying fist pumps, the occasional yes loudly hissed in response to any god-like receives. Granted, he's still muted compared to the ruckus Atsumu indulges in on a nightly basis, but Sakusa is far more verbal nonetheless, and their literal distance, previously represented by many, many periods of silence, also seems to shorten in correlation. The separation is practically nonexistent whenever they happen to support opposing teams, harkening back to the high school matchups Inarizaki had never managed to conquer. On those nights, speaker-transmitted hollers amount to double the enthusiasm their old rivalry had ever brewed, and Atsumu wonders - only wonders, of course - how they might behave had they actually sat together in the stands.
Playful punches to an arm? Arrogant sticking out of a tongue - or two? Shutting each other up by--
"Ha. I win."
"Ya mean Iran won."
"Yes, and that means Italy -- you, lost." Months in, the spiker no longer dampens any of his smugness, or the smirks that come along.
There is the same large void in the wall right behind Sakusa's chair. Atsumu has a sudden urge to shove him up against it, and count exactly how many kisses it takes to reshape those sneering lips.
But distance - literal - exists again the moment the commercial for a French supermarket blasts its annoying jingle on both their tablets. And he bids a flustered farewell to the smirk he never erases, as well as the mirage of a touch-swollen mouth.
-*-
In the end, even unnamed routines evolve.
It feels inevitable, the first time they connect without fulfilling their usual purpose, on a night when icicles begin to form below the uneven terraces of Tokyo’s concrete jungle. The decorated cityscape is breathtaking to behold, but the day itself is one Atsumu would much rather forget - after all, how does one reconcile being a top-seeded team, yet prematurely knocked out of the year-end tournament?
He is in the capital for the first time all year, but his recent mentions of the visit to Sakusa had them both acknowledging its overlap with some critical final exams. And thus, the idea of meeting in-person had become a pipe dream long before a prospect. Probably for the best, Atsumu thinks as he exits the stadium, hoping to leave disappointment behind. The way so many of my tosses failed - he would never let me hear the end of it.
But right as his keycard unlocks a temporary home, his phone glimmers with signs of life, paving paths for another type of progress.
[Omi-Kun]
hey, back at your hotel yet?
sign on if you are?
Rather than returning the texts, he responds by scrambling towards his laptop. The hotel WiFi is less than ideal, taking annoyingly long to activate, and there is a sharp despair when his video call request fails to connect the first few tries.
When success finally manifests in a form blurrier than he’s accustomed to, Atsumu has to fold his lips to hide the pump of glee.
“You alright, Miya?” Sakusa's voice battles through distortion, though it does not conceal evidence of genuine concern.
“Yah...don’t tell me - ya watched?”
Within lengthy fingers, a pen twirls a few rounds before coming to a halt. “I may have taken...a few peeks in between studying.”
His glee grows at the admission, muffling worries about judgment just moments ago. “Kinda upset for my team. But they seemed fine in the end, so I guess I’ll swallow my woes.”
“Yah, don’t pity them." Sakusa's professor-like tone turns suggestion into instruction. "They deserve more than that from you.”
“Just worried since...” He follows the scenario in kind, like earnest student seeking counsel. “The media’s gonna have a field day tomorrow. Y'know, a top team knocked out in the first round…”
The pen now taps against a plump cheek. “I seem to remember that happening to you once before.”
It takes Atsumu a few seconds to gather those 2nd year memories - of crows relentlessly chasing him into a foxhole. “Argh. Right…” His neck slumps, forehead knocking lightly unto the keyboard before elevating again. “Ya watched that one, too.”
“What are your expectations, Miya? For yourself?”
The questions turn their dialogue into something insightful yet ironic, as the transition itself is most unexpected.
“Huh?”
“Well, that’s why there might be a media frenzy, no? Because you didn’t fulfill what people thought you were capable of?”
“For myself…” He contemplates the lifelong question briefly, but fails to find an alternative to his lone answer. “I expect...everythin’? You?”
Sakusa blinks at first, as if caught off-guard, but the recovery comes swift.
“I expect nothing. Laissez-faire.”
The French rolls off his tongue a bit too sensually for Atsumu's liking, its enunciation already settling a permanent home in his mind.
“So, yer never surprised about anythin’?”
The spiker slumps down this time, though his newly bent posture appears to refocus his attention, rather than reflect fatigue. “Not really. But there are...occasional exceptions.”
“Interestin’.” Atsumu teases, and mirrors the pose from his end. “I’d love to be there when yer surprised for once.”
Stacked wrists shield the bottom half of Sakusa’s face like a mask, but they’re nowhere near as effective, and Atsumu spies the upward twitch of an alluring smile. The greatest surprise up to now, perhaps, is their ever-broadening familiarity, full of wordless understandings learned over weeks, and all the added comforts conceived in each other's digital presence. And tonight - when no noise from a court or a commentator distracts - somewhere between the soothing quiet and a pair of inquisitive eyes, that hovering suspicion of a truth reconfirms itself.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is beautiful. Atsumu decodes - knows, accepts. And for once, he is within physical reach.
“Hey um, ya doin’ anything for the rest of the night? I am in Tokyo.”
The decline he expects is much softer in reality, and arrives much, much slower.
“Sorry.” Sloped shoulders eventually shrug before Sakusa raises a textbook from just off-camera. “Got another exam first thing tomorrow.”
“Ah right.” Atsumu pretends to remember what he never actually forgot. “Never mind.”
“Any idea when you’ll be here next, Miya?”
His spine nearly straightens at the follow-up, energized by unpredictability and opportunity both.
“Um...not for a while, at least. Gonna go home to see my family during the off-season.” He divulges, but doesn't mention how the mere posing of a question had nearly convinced him to change his plans.
“Mm, I see.” Something in Sakusa's gaze can almost be interpreted as forlorn, but Atsumu can't tell whether it's solely part of the pipe dream. “...well, have to study now.”
There is no verbal goodbye - that hasn't been part of their routine for a while - as his companion seeks the exit button with the trackpad. But this time, Atsumu takes advantage of the lack of closure - one that leaves anything still open to possibility.
“Hey. Just text me whenever ya wanna get on? Doesn’t have to be to watch a game.”
Can just be like this. Us.
He receives another once-over, resembling the one from Spring Nationals in all its gradual appraisal. What prevails behind the look, however, appears far more keen than mere curiosity.
“Yah. Sure.”
The window vanishes alongside the affirmative.
And so, unnamed routine becomes uncounted hours, spent together yet far apart. They dwell within the same window frames, but fully at ease, all reservations and boundaries matters of the past. Gone is the stiffness from their first greeting, making way for more relaxed selves - figuratively laid bare, softening into the most natural postures and visible reactions.
Once in a blue moon, even the match of the night proves uninspiring, and they mentally tune out before occupying their time with other means. Two, four, five evenings a week - game or no game, now dominated by chatter Sakusa surprisingly engages with, the free flow of words chipping away at his protective dams. Any disdain originally directed towards Atsumu converts into grumbles about incompetent teaching assistants, or excitement about the latest series to debut in Weekly Shonen Jump. To Atsumu's great envy, there are also the stories of Sakusa's occasional outings with the Adlers trio, each instance rife with enough ridiculous details to make the spiker question his life choices. But ultimately, Atsumu figures those aren't taking place nearly as often as their one-on-ones, so for him, that’s some solace still.
Other times, Atsumu listens to ramblings about astronomy and all its probabilities. The vernacular is foreign yet fascinating - bolide, supernova, faculae, gamma rays - Sakusa rattles each one off like a shopping list of the universe's offerings, distant entities that may take generations to solve.
In the end, it always reads like an autobiography: a faraway mystery, perceived through a lens, studied by the curious. For Atsumu, the research concludes scientific truth of a personal kind, uncovering supernovas glittering within two much smaller, ink-black galaxies, aflame with not only probabilities, but also inevitabilities.
His kitchen becomes one of those extraterrestrial realms, a change of setting and pace when words alone seem mundane. The webcam captures his live demonstrations of those old recipes from Osamu, throughout which he swings kitchenware with the flair of a celebrity chef.
“ Annnnnd here’s yer share.” Whether cold or piping hot, the second serving of the night's dish usually lands gracefully in front of his laptop, unable to be consumed, but ready for cross-country judgment.
“My share? You mean your leftovers for tomorrow.”
“Not my fault if yer not here to eat it.” He sticks out his tongue, admonishing them both for missed opportunities, before using it to clear his own plate.
Some days, they sit silent, leaving both cameras on as one studies and the other peruses volleyball forums. Two windows of private access left ajar, defining a muted yet intimate companionship, designating each other as the only accepted voyeurs.
Shifts, creeping shifts - warping Atsumu's perspective along the way, managing what still remains of his expectations. There are stirrings in his chest whenever he leaves Sakusa fullscreen for hours at a time, an acute aura spanning corner-to-corner, leaving no room for other tasks or thoughts to occupy. In turn, he notices the constant waver of Sakusa's focus, those numerous stolen glances lingering upon him, especially during their most dormant moments. And yet, Atsumu knows - Atsumu knows he only notices because his eyes also linger for too long.
There comes a point, breaking through their arbitrary veils like the outburst of spring beyond their apartment walls. He commits that habitual mistake during a boisterous championship match, when his attention trains on Sakusa’s enthused profile for more seconds than he intends.
“Why are you watching me and not the game, Miya?”
“I’m not.” He protests, but doesn’t turn away.
Instead, Sakusa swings his neck to reciprocate, an enigma now challenging both their dilemmas.
“Why are you lying?”
Atsumu tugs a corner of his mouth upward.
“Because ya would've also lied, if I asked ya the same question last night.”
Contrary to him, Sakusa doesn’t voice any denial, and merely stares back to affirm that hypothetical lie. Atsumu loses track of the minutes that pass before a cheer drags both their eyes back to the game, and somewhere along the way, he sheds one of his last layers of inhibition.
The back-and-forth looks continue for endless nights, long and often longing. But no matter the length, or who takes first blame, those are particular life decisions neither of them question.
-*-
Weeks come and go, paving the entrance to a new school year, and Sakusa’s subsequent move into his own apartment. The intermittent disruptions from roommates cease, and their meetings become all the more exclusive, both actions and words prospering under the guarantee of privacy.
Nevertheless, Atsumu at least anticipates each session to begin with a variation of Sakusa sitting down at his desk. So on one particular evening, when the popup transitions to a camera angle facing a twin-sized mattress, he barely withholds a stammer.
“H--hey.”
He stammers, because the scene is much more complex than a shifted angle. There is complexity in Sakusa’s pose - naked legs split apart at nearly 180 degrees, outstretched arms extending towards toes; there is complexity in his clothing - a loose tank top instead of his customary t-shirt, dark shorts much more snug than usual against the curves of his ass; there’s complexity in his glance - its inherent cynicism replaced with something strangely beguiling.
There’s complexity in the younger man’s entire existence, compromising a whole batch of Atsumu’s assumptions - and going further beyond.
“What?” Sakusa stops just short of accusing him of staring again.
“Nothin’. I just forgot how...flexible you are.”
“Have to keep working on it, otherwise I’ll lose it.”
Work on this. Don’t lose this.
“Hey Omi-kun.” The question slips out, a wayward ball defying all his coordination. “Ya gotta significant other yet?”
On his laptop screen, Sakusa barely reacts as he tows a lower leg towards an arched back, the distinct outline of his calf muscle almost - keyword almost - delectable. “No. Why?”
A tinge of relief overwhelms him as much as surprises him, sending Atsumu scrambling for excuses he had never prepared.
“Well, as they say, college is that kinda time…”
“Do you?” The interruption comes far too swift, as if Sakusa had the words armed and ready right at the mesmerizing bend of his waist.
Atsumu swallows. “...No.”
“Well, as they say, being a popular professional athlete is that kind of time…” The deep voice elevates in pitch, just enough to add mockery to its mimicry.
“Popular?” Rather than focusing on the tease, he leans closer and teases a bit himself, unwilling to admit defeat for this portion of his few mastered crafts. “Have ya been lookin’ at the fan polls or somethin’?”
“I voted a few times. For fun.”
Atsumu swears, swears that right then, the shorts-clad hip within the screen gives an intentional jut in his direction. For a second, he forces his full weight into his seat, suppressing that primal urge to follow suit.
“Did ya...vote for me?”
“Never in any of the good categories.”
With that, Sakusa twists with inhuman ability, transforming his horizontal split into a side one. Atsumu watches, mouth suddenly devoid of all moisture, as the most controlled parts of himself also coil in response. It’s officially another competition, without the need for fan input or player histories - but history does provide one clue, in the form of a high school gaze attached to his hip.
Two can play this game. He decides, and dismisses all pressure to stay composed. The next second, he is elevating both legs onto his desk, unabashed about the tantalizing way fabric rides up his upper thighs.
“Really now, Omi-kun?” He positions himself tediously, ensuring that his quads are front-and-center in Sakusa’s limited vantage point. “I’m hurt.”
Sakusa holds his pose firm, a portrait of impressive self-control on the surface. But by now, Atsumu has spent sufficient hours studying and deciphering all his nuances. Within the streaming footage, he does not miss the severe roll of an Adam’s apple hinting at crumbling composure, or the quickened blinks exposing just how bothered Sakusa must be underneath.
Right then, a cellphone rings, the disruption far worse than roommates in its timing.
“One second.” Sakusa slides off his bed and out-of-view, effectively ending their contest in a draw.
-*-
In the ensuing days, Atsumu admits defeat, as his mind curses him with images of Sakusa’s stretches throughout both conscious and unconscious hours. Each snapshot takes on the grainy textures that afflict all webcam footage of this era, but none are low-quality enough to lead him astray from what he had seen on open display.
A slim waist, bowing in unholy directions; shapely calves, defined by perfect curvatures of muscle. Other than the already familiar bulges of bicep and tricep, it is a figure enveloped by bodyforming fabric, leaving everything beneath to imagination.
One particular dream puts said imagination into overdrive, as it propels him into some fictional future where projections evolve. Sakusa, not only 2-dimensional upon the laptop, but also a 3-dimensional clone upon Atsumu’s bed. The clone bends, poses, tempts - but every time Atsumu moves towards the expanses of pale skin, a solid sheet of glass blockades his fingers.
Within sight, within mind - but akin to reality: completely out of reach.
He carries that frustration with him through the next V. League game, his tosses much wilder than average and rendering victory impossible. In a solo binge afterward, he downs twice as many drinks as usual, allowing deep cracks to invade the walls of his tolerance.
Somewhere between a taxi ride he doesn’t remember and stumbling steps into his bedroom, fingers that failed in their dreamed quest tap out a mangled version of a typical greeting, seeking satisfaction by another route.
[Me]
heysdfsign onn//?
[Omi-Kun]
Are you drunk?
[Me]
no
yeaa
Even without Sakusa’s agreement, he hauls himself towards his desk, knocking over a number of objects along the way and disturbing that impeccable backdrop. The fight through material chaos continues via laptop opening failures, followed by him selecting the wrong application icon at least three times. By the time Sakusa appears, his silhouette even more mirage-like behind the veil of alcohol, Atsumu has already slid halfway down his chair.
“You’re hammered, Miya.” The heavy tone of disappointment permeates the most clouded parts of his brain.
“Hehhh. Yahhhhh, sorta.” He giggles, swallowing a hiccup along the way. “Ya look so funny, Omi-kun, all swirly…….’n like, more swirly…”
“I think that’s your sake vision talking for you.” The muddled form states matter-of-factly, but only one word registers.
“Sake...I had lots and lots...tonight...hehhh…”
“Argh. Why am I even here? You’re disgusting right now.”
Atsumu means to banter, to speak snide counters at his laptop screen as he had done hundreds of times before. Yet the lethal combination of dizziness and imbalance ensnare him, dashing any hopes of a comeback.
But Sakusa stays put, not breaking their almost-nightly promise - glowing with a blend of fondness and enjoyment. It’s then that Atsumu’s inebriated neurons blast off one excessive logic in the midst of confusion - Sakusa is Sakusa Kiyoomi and vice versa, one and the same. Always earnest - honest - never a duplicate masked by a screenname.
And hence, he deserves honesty in return.
“I’m disgusting, yah. And yer pretty, Omi-kun. Always so pretty every time I see ya…but so, sooo far away…”
No matter the consequence, Atsumu does get one past wish fulfilled: being present when Sakusa expresses genuine surprise. In his drunken vision, unstoppable synthesis rouses those two dark galaxies he had explored time and again. The supernovas within them, rapidly progressing towards core collapse, before exploding into colors bearing no name - also pretty, also far away, and as unidentifiable as the emotions that overwhelm him.
But then, that universe extinguishes, in the form of a sudden sign off and a window that automatically disappears.
“Oh shit...shit...” His treasured access revoked, he tries to regain enough sensibility to at least text a retraction, or even an apology.
Amidst mental wrestling, he wonders whether his sober self had never imagined a drunken confession by webcam, his background a visual mess from those earlier stumbles, harshly revealing old habits and his truest self. He had so carefully matched, perhaps exceeded many of Sakusa's expectations over the course of a year. But what happens when he returns to unacceptable states outside of what a webcam records, vulnerable and in utter disarray? What happens when reality labels him as someone far below those expectations: subpar culinary skills, no academic accolades, and a string of professional failures?
Sadly, said failures don’t seem limited to his career, as he falls asleep with his phone still in hand, half-written text message left unsent.
-*-
A morning shower clears the fog to a degree, though no amount of water comforts his mood. Atsumu is thrust back to Spring Nationals 2014 again, no longer in the role of encouraging captain, but brooding like one of his juniors had done.
He deletes the undelivered text, and rewrites a dozen more versions before deciding on the most neutral.
[Me]
Hey
Can we chat?
[Omi-kun]
Yah
Calling... Sakusa Kiyoomi
No matter how many expectations he has set aside over time, Atsumu is still unprepared for what graces his vision next.
It’s an empty chair initially, accompanied only by a bare wall’s matte coat of paint. And then, Sakusa enters the frame, also freshly showered, raven hair dangling in wet tendrils as he sits down.
But between the two of them, one critical difference - no tank top, t-shirt, or fabric of any sort covers Sakusa’s torso. For the first time, he literally lays bare, the remnant drops of liquid like condensation upon a porcelain surface, a few visible dark spots tempting Atsumu to imagine the existence of even more.
“So. Why did you want to talk?” He questions with his typical tone, posture perfectly upright, the edge of the desk falling just below the lean musculature of his chest.
“Um. Well.” Atsumu tries to avert his eyes, but finds that such a movement would only appear more dubious. “I might’ve said some stuff last night on accident...so I…”
“On accident?” Supporting an elbow against his lone furniture, Sakusa tilts his cheek into an open palm. “You mean everything you said was true, then?”
In that moment, Atsumu recognizes who is truly dubious between them.
“I mean, I dun’ remember everythin’ I said to ya, but…”
“Am I pretty right now, too, Miya?”
He gasps lightly, chilled by his own admission from hours ago, revised into such a candid question. It’s only then that Atsumu looks closely into his screen again, and he discovers dual galaxies still lit aflame, never actually extinguished - a patient blaze, awaiting the forging of brand-new stars.
“...yah. Very.” He affirms, and waits for the same.
Despite the stream’s discoloration, the tint of Sakusa’s skin visibly morphs from head to chest, flushing at the blunt acknowledgement. A makeshift overbite catches his bottom lip for a few seconds, before fateful words escape.
“Can I see how pretty you are, then?”
It’s not a request Atsumu ever predicted, or even a transparent instruction, but his limbs react with automatic purpose, as if having known this moment would arrive. And so, the hem of his t-shirt travels upward, over his abs and past the puzzle of his shoulders, the fabric turning damp as it makes contact with a swathe of wet hair. At the end, Atsumu abandons it onto the floor, caring little for anything currently outside of his webcam’s range.
“Is this another competition ya gotta win, Omi-kun?”
“Yah.” Sakusa nods once, his voice almost hypnotized. “But the judging for this one...takes time.”
So they stare, and look, and drink in. A nude torso is nothing either of them haven’t seen before, but here, within the dreadful confines of a screen - a constant reminder of the massive distance between them - even a sliver of skin, or a single uttered word, entices beyond belief.
What can be seen and imagined, yet not touched, has triggered the most unexpected of all - a fervent desire, reserved only for their two open windows.
And then, there - the moment. Surpassing all Atsumu could’ve foreseen, Sakusa reaches out, and initiates.
It’s a sense of victory he has never felt in 298 lifetime volleyball matches played, and who-knows-how-many-more viewed. Those fingers he has memorized, now inching towards a corner of that window, stretching into spaces along Sakusa’s computer that the camera installed up top can’t even capture. Atsumu practically feels the fearless fingertips appreciating his body, gliding across sensitive places that make his lungs hitch.
This must be ideal for Sakusa, he realizes, in all the ways it subverts handshake aversions and hesitations about Atsumu’s personal chaos. Past conflicts forgotten, they now thrive in a non-committal commitment that can only exist in the age of technology, one that disregards separation while satisfying their most basic yearnings.
Palpable tension builds, both their breaths now loud enough to be carried through speakers. Having sat still throughout Sakusa’s artificial contact, Atsumu finds himself debating between sliding hands towards his screen or his crotch. When the urge to do both becomes equally agonizing, he provides himself an ultimatum.
“O--Omi-kun.” He gasps out, no matter how hard voicing the appeal proves to be. “I...I think I gotta go.”
Sakusa snatches back his arm, ceasing any ongoing movements. “Okay. Yah, same here.” His eyes, distracted, yet as hopeful as his next words. “But sign on...tonight? If you’re free?”
“Yah, I’ll text ya.”
Atsumu slams his laptop shut, before running into the shower for a second time that morning. Under another round of blasting rain, his head is drunk again, this time on the rosy hues of nipples, touches never actually felt, and scattered moles that dust across alabaster.
How many more could there be? He speculates, a trembling hand finally wrapping around what had demanded gratification.
4? He tugs four times, then another three. 7?
Inconsequential black dots, now an absolute calamity upon his mind.
Omi-kun probably doesn’t even know.
But maybe I will. Another stroke, and he comes, comes, comes - ecstasy at the mere thought of distant, but endless discoveries.