Last One to Midnight Loses! - Chapter 1 - evelynwrites (2024)

Chapter Text

The Claus of It All

It begins with a kiss.

Reams of ravaged wrapping paper and torn tinsel litter the hardwood floor. Spools of unraveled starlight. A kaleidoscope unfurled into a thousand colors. The aftermath of eager fingers and many missed shots at still empty trash cans. Atsumu almost sympathizes with whoever has to clean everything up tomorrow. Won’t be him though. He made all of his free-throws.

f*cking losers.

In Tokyo to spend his first Christmas without his full family—courtesy of he and Osamu’s lavish gift of a holiday cruise to their parents—a blanket bundled Atsumu sprawls out across one of Aran and Kita’s burgundy couches and basks in the holiday glow, while they snuggle up passed out on the other. Everything is wonderfully warm. Meaning the lights on the Christmas tree are more than a little blurry. Runny from laughter’s tears and popped champagne. Atsumu breathes deep—the air tasting of evergreen and a little infinity. Liminality lit by a fire born dying. Flames slow dance in their hearth, while flickers from the TV stretch out across the furniture. Too tipsy to do anything else. Atsumu understands.

White Christmas. White noise.

Absolute perfection.

That is until Osamu’s bitchass decides to ruin it.

Through the veil of his heavily lidded lashes, Atsumu watches Osamu as he kneels and coos a despicably gentle, “hey Rin, ya gotta get up,” to one Suna Rintarou. Suna Rintarou, who currently curls up under Aran and Kita’s imported glass coffee table as if it’s his comforter. Suna Rintarou, who in his unmatched eloquence, groans mid-spit bubble, “nmmphf I’m comf.”

“Yer drunk.”

“No, I’m Rin.”

“Yer really drunk.”

“Shhhhhhh,” Suna slurs, attempting to poke Osamu’s lip and ending up somewhere in the region of his nose. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Osamu whispers, guiding Suna’s arm back to the floor. “But I think everyone else is asleep anyway.”

f*cking nope.

Suna hums in acknowledgement, while Osamu begins tracing the curve of his ruby cheekbone. Suna leans into his palm, as wine fills a glass. Hopeless to resist its shape. “Ya really do gotta get up,” Osamu murmurs. “Yer gonna hurt yer neck like that.”

Reconfiguring himself into a position that’s only possible if he’s a Newtonian fluid, Suna looks up at Osamu with his cheeks pinched pink by something other than rosé and smiles. “You worried about me, ‘Samu?”

“I’m worried ‘bout yer spine.”

“What about the rest of me,” Suna asks, way too f*cking sincere for him. If Atsumu wasn’t actively developing a scientific breakthrough by fusing with the sofa, he’d flee the room.

Or start recording.

“Do you worry about the rest of me?”

“‘Course,” Osamu assures, equally if not more earnestly, since he’s always been a try-hard. “Yer always on my mind, Rin.”

“Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Really, really, really?”

“Really, really, really, really.”

It takes every ounce of Atsumu’s willpower not to gag. This has to be a healthcode violation. Osamu should know better than this. Atsumu could choke. He could vomit. He could sue.

“I like being on your mind,” Suna confesses, “but I don’t want you to worry, so I’ll move.” And he does. Very, very slowly, he fumbles his way through detangling his Gordian knot of limbs. Whispers of encouragement fall from Osamu’s lips like snow. Careful crushes of breath. Suna savors each word, catching them with tongue and cheek.

As Osamu rises to his feet, he extends his palm for Suna to take. And Suna operating on some primordial—read: horny—instinct, grabs it just entirely too f*cking soon. He seizes Osamu’s hand and yanks himself up—not remotely out from under the table yet—slamming his skull directly into the glass with a crack! An impressive blow that knocks him back onto his stomach with a pathetic oof and sends Osamu doubling over, as he tries to hold back his laughter.

Briefly, Atsumu wonders how adult Aran and Kita’s hot chocolates were to sleep through this nonsense.

“Owwwwww, who put that theeeereeee,” Suna laments into the rug. “Meanies.”

“Y-yeah,” Osamu chokes. “f*ckin’ meanies is right.”

Suna whimpers. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’d never,” Osamu swears, like this is a court of law. Atsumu does feel like witnessing this could qualify as a hate crime.

“You are,” Suna accuses. “This is bullying.”

“Now Ri—”

“I could have a concussion.”

“Ya could.”

“I could die.”

“Well—”

“I’m never moving again.” Suna, judge, jury, and executioner announces his verdict swiftly and mercilessly.

“C’mon Riiiiiin.”

“No,” Suna huffs, burying himself further into the carpet. “This is my final resting place. Tell everyone the funeral is on Friday and it’s fancy dress. Except for Atsumu, tell him it’s a costume party.”

“I will,” Osamu promises and Atsumu nearly suffocates on his swallowed f*ck you. “Now,” Osamu says, lowering his voice and himself back down to the ground, “what’s it gonna take for ya to get up?”

“Nothing,” Suna snips, petulant even in death. “I’m dead. You better bring me flowers.”

“I will if ya get up.”

“Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Really?” Not this sh*t again. “Ooooh.” Thank god.

The possibility of peonies raises Suna up from his grave—his mischief revived and emerald eyes peering through the blades of plush polyester. A predator that lurks within the weeds. “You mean that?”

“Maybe,” Osamu replies, rightfully sensing a trap and thus proving at least one his brain cells still hung around to work the holiday shift.

“What else can I get if I get up,” Suna muses. It’s coy, coquettish. Punctuated by batted lashes and licked lips. Oh god is this foreplay? Some deity needs to put Atsumu out of his misery right now.

“Anything,” Osamu breathes, followed by a very belated, “within reason.”

The prospect pulls Suna onto his back by the line of his smirk. He’s hooked on the hope. His green irises glitter. Flashbang mischief. Wiggling so his head rests right before Osamu’s knees, Suna’s hand slithers out from under the coffee table and clumsily pokes his forehead. “Kiss it better then,” he instructs. “Kiss it.”

Suddenly, Osamu achieves the physically impossible—becoming the living version of a cinematic freeze frame. Atsumu half-expects for a voice over to kick in, which would likely just consist of a tea kettle screeching and a frat guy shouting LETS GOOOOOO!

“B–but ya hit the back of yer head.”

The neuron manning Osamu’s mind needs to be fired, effective immediately.

“I don’t care.”

“Rin—”

“Kiss it better and I’ll get up.”

That’s not the only thing that will be getting up.

“O…okay,” Osamu hesitates before his resolve hardens. Hopefully not with what’s in his jeans. “I will,” he huffs. “I will kiss it better.”

And he does. But there’s something so tragically tender about it.

Osamu bends to kiss Suna as he would kneel before a shrine. Utterly reverent. Briefly believing in magic. He cradles Suna’s head in his palms so delicately, so desperately. Someone he thinks he can’t hold onto. A chance he’s not meant to have. It will slip from his grip, fall through the gaps of his fingers. If only he’d form a fist. Fight for this.

Atsumu could scream.

Then carefully, oh so carefully, he places his lips onto Suna’s skin and presses a decade’s worth of longing into the softest second. Sweet as laughter, full as a chest. An airless oh buds in Suna’s open mouth, while a blush blossoms upon his cheeks. A rose picked down to its last petal and the answer is clear.

I love you.

Then Osamu pulls away and Suna climbs out from under the table on his own.

But you don’t love me.

“Uh oh,” Suna slurs, as his legs begin to gelatinise. “Going down.”

Osamu’s palm reflexively juts out and seeks purchase on the small of Suna’s back. “Whoa there,” he rushes. “I got ya.”

“You were right,” Suna warbles, as he drops his head onto Osamu’s shoulder.

“Can I get that in writin’?”

“Only if I get those flowers.” It’s breathless, as if the rug has been ripped out from under Suna’s lungs. “f*ck, I am drunk.”

“Just a bit.” Osamu’s laugh tangles in Suna’s hair. “But I won’t tell anyone.”

Before Suna finishes transmuting into Jell-O, Osamu scoops up his Raggedy-Anne body bridal style and carries him off to a futon they don’t have to share but will, all with the intention of nursing him back to health, whilst avoiding any and all conversation about their obvious feelings for one another, thus ruining Christmas.

f*ck.

Atsumu needs medical attention.

He thinks he just burst a blood vessel.

Once certain they’re gone, Atsumu beelines for the kitchen and sets himself by the pile of pots and pans reaped by their dinner that they left near the sink. A mess he knows Osamu won’t be able to leave unwashed, since they occupy Suna's favorite countertop seat. There, he waits, where the final slivers of his patience wane, whet into something serrated. Sharp as the filed blade of his tongue. Ready to strike.

Osamu’s inevitable return comes excessively later, with him whisper-shouting over his shoulder, “drink yer water, Rin, I’ll be back in a bit,” f*cking knew it, “take the pillows off my futon, we’ll share,’” knew it again, “I’m just gonna do some of these dishes,” knew it AG—

“‘Tsumu?” Osamu says, nervously hovering within the doorway. “What are ya doin’ in here?”

“Yer a f*ckin’ baby bitch boy.”

Osamu bristles and shoulders his way to the sink. “I dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Yes, ya do,” Atsumu argues, as Osamu turns on the faucet and throws a rag in Atsumu’s face.

“Drop it, ‘Tsumu,” he spits with a shove.

“No!” Atsumu shouts, digging his fingers into old wounds and anchoring himself in place. “Twelve years, ‘Samu!” He seizes a plate and waves it wildly, as a matador would to incite a fight from a bull-headed brother. “Twelve years ya’ve been pining after Sunarin! That’s more than a decade! That’s a whole ass seventh grader!”

“Yer a seventh grader,” Osamu bites back, but it’s weak. Somehow, that hurts worse. “And stop flailin’ yer gonna break somethin’.”

“The only one breakin’ anythin’ around here is ya with yer own damn heart, ‘Samu,” Atsumu seethes, knowing on a normal night he would likely cringe at his own sentimentality. “I mean, sh*t!” But he’s blinded by the burn of his too many merry molotov co*cktails. “The balls on yer crush are probably gonna drop before yer own!”

“Will ya shut the f*ck up?”

“Will ya man the f*ck up?”

“Guys…?”

With their hair love-mussed and voices still shrouded with sleep, Aran and Kita lean heavily on each within the entryway—their eyes flickering between Osamu and Atsumu like candlelight.

“What’s goin on’,” Aran attempts to ask, though his words are currently locked in a losing property battle against a yawn seeking to occupy the space of his mouth. “Why are y’all yellin?”

“Everythin’ alright?” Kita adds, engaged in his own lost cause case of tongue-tied litigation.

“Great,” Osamu bemoans, the kingdomless drama queen. “Ya woke up Aran and Kita!”

“That was ya!”

“Nah uh!”

“Uh huh!”

“Nah uh!”

“‘Samu made out with Sunarin’s forehead!”

The sound that comes out of Osamu can only be described as an unholy fusion between a hiccup and a bullhorn. “It was a peck ya f*ckin’ scrub!”

“And he carried him to bed!”

Osamu’s face flames with such ferocity he’s now the leading cause of climate change. “Cuz he was drunk ya motherfu—”

“And they’re sharin’ a futon!”

“He’s cOLD—”

“AND I’m sick of it! Sunarin!” Atsumu charges over to hall’s entrance, drills down to the molten core of his lungs, and bellows, “‘SAMU’S BEEN IN LOVE WITH—”

He should have seen the tackle coming.

Slammed into the hardwood, Osamu reigns his inferno of fists and hissed shUT uPS, while Atsumu writhes beneath him. Turns out the floor serves as an incredibly effective makeshift gag, since Atsumu can’t get a word out edgewise, as Osamu smashes his face into it. “I will ya f*ckin’ kill ya, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu babbles. “I will f*ckin’ kill ya so hard that we’ll become fraternal twins!”

“Mmmgpphmmph!”

“Alright enough,” Aran groans, heaving Osamu off Atsumu the way a lion picks up their young by the scruff of their neck. “No more of this. For Christsake, it’s one in the mornin’.”

Spluttering, Osamu fumes, “b-but he was gonna—”

“We know and we don’t approve,” Kita interrupts, as he scrapes Atsumu off the floor like the chewed-out piece of gum he is. “Atsumu, leave your brother alone.”

“HA!”

“Osamu, confess to Suna.”

“HUH?”

“Atsumu is right,” Kita declares, shepherding them back into the kitchen. “This has gone on for far too long and clearly, it’s affectin’ ya, Osamu.” Osamu winces. “You owe it to yerself to say somethin’.”

“But…” Osamu protests and Atsumu braces himself for a hair-brained, half-co*cked, under-baked excuse, but what comes out is a terribly quiet, “I’m scared.”

“We’ve been there,” Aran assures, freeing Osamu from his iron grip, only to rest his hand on his sadly sloping shoulder. “So trust us when we say ya will feel better when ya do.”

“And it doesn’t have to be now,” Kita tacks on, each word placed so gently before Osamu’s turned in feet. “Just, maybe, sometime soon. Give yerself a timeline.”

“Make it yer like New Year’s Resolution or somethin’,” Aran jokes with a wry grin.

“Oh yeah,” Atsumu snorts. “Nothin’ works like a f*ckin’ double negative. ‘Samu’s never completed a New Year’s Resolution in his goddamn life.”

“Like yer any better dipsh*t.”

“I am! By a f*ck ton!”

“Technically, zero times anythin’ is still zero.”

“Aran!”

Glee bursts out Osamu with a soda pop! Fizzy fits of laughter. “Yer so right,” he rasps in between his carbonated cacklings. “f*ck,” wheeze, “the day ‘Tsumu,” wheeze, “completes a New Year’s,” double wheeze, “resolution is the day I’ll ask out Rin.”

Suddenly, things trigger click into place. A plan locked and loaded in Atsumu’s mind. All he has to do is aim, “ya know what,” and fire, “deal.”

“Wah?”

“Ya heard me,” Atsumu drawls. “ Deal.”

It’s a killshot. All the life leaves Osamu’s face with the theatricality of a silver screen star. Old Hollywood Horror. It’s cinematic, the white wash to his skin, the bulge of his bug eyes, the violent, violin-esque string of swears squeaking in his throat. He’s filmic. He’s f*cked.

“Wait,” Osamu squawks. “T-that’s not fair! That’s too easy and—”

“Okay,” Atsumu interrupts. “Make it harder then.” It’s a testament to how little oxygen reaches Osamu’s brain that he fails to take the bait on that innuendo. “I’ll still do it,” Atsumu affirms. “I’ll do it and then yer confessin’ to Sunarin.” He curls his lips, as the devil beckons with his hand. “Unless yer a coward that is.”

Osamu’s eyes flash. Lighting ready to strike its bargain. “Make it twenty resolutions.”

“Five.”

“Fifteen.”

“Seven.”

“Ten.”

“Deal!”

“What?”

“By when,” Aran interjects.

“When what,” Atsumu parries.

“When does he have to complete them?”

“New Year’s Eve,” Osamu asserts.

“Okay—”

“This Saturday.”

“Now hold on—”

“‘Tsumu, ya complete ten of yer old New Year’s Resolutions,” Osamu starts with his voice steeled, “which I pick, by 11:59PM on December 31st and I’ll not only tell Rin how I feel, I’ll kiss him when the clock strikes midnight in front of everyone.” Everyone being all of their friends and nearly half of the V-league that always attends their annual holiday party held at Onigiri Miya’s Tokyo Location. The ultimate audience. Mass catharsis. Atsumu could receive sainthood for this. “I swear, Aran and Kita as my witness,” Osamu proclaims, with a nod in their direction, as he extends his palm. “So, whaddya say?”

Atsumu breathes deep, grinning. The air tastes of evergreen and infinity. He’s unstoppable. “I say yer f*ckin’ on,” he declares, shaking Osamu’s hand.

“Think of me when ya finally get f*ckin’ laid.”

“Oh gross ‘Tsumu—”

The List

After twelve and a half minutes hunkered over the kitchen counter with a thoroughly constipated expression, Osamu not only throws down the gauntlet, but backhands Atsumu with it too. A coffee stained piece of paper riddled with his serial killer scrawl that compiles ten of Atsumu’s most ambitious, most impossible, and most unsuccessful New Year's Resolutions to date. All to be completed within five days.

They are as follows:

f*ck.

This isn’t Atsumu vs. His New Year’s Resolutions.

This is Osamu vs. A Totally Unnecessary Vow of Celibacy.

Hunching over the coffee table, Atsumu arms himself with pen, paper, and a dangerous amount of caffeine as he scripts out his plan of attack. He dedicates most of his efforts to assembling the skeleton of a schedule. An aneurism–inducing juggling act of hypotheticals. How long will a resolution take and who’s help will he need to complete it?

Good thing Atsumu’s morally bankrupt, but rich in favors. Time to f*cking cash in.

After rabbiting down several Reddit holes, placing an order on Toys R Us with expedited shipping, and sending a myriad of texts extorting help from his friends, Atsumu finishes compiling the bare bones of his itinerary. He then sets about his next issue. He’ll have to present proof of all of his resolutions to Osamu at the party. Several of them, such as 2013, can be demonstrated live. But the rest will require a form of documentation.

Meaning Atsumu needs a cameraman.

Typically, he’d use Suna, whose supreme emotional unavailability and soul bond with his cellphone makes him the first successful human cyborg. But given the nature of the bet and Suna’s Holmesian observation skills, he’d likely deduce Atsumu’s intentions and blab about it to Osamu, thus leading to Atsumu’s subsequent and tragically premature death.

Or maybe it wouldn’t.

Osamu literally opened up an Onigiri Miya in Shizuoka for the sole purpose of seeing Suna more regularly—he can claim franchisem*nt as his motivation to his investors all he wants but Atsumu knows the truth—and Suna still remains none the wiser.

But better to be safe than brutally murdered.

Atsumu eliminates Aran as his prospect next, since every photo he takes somehow turns into the easiest game of Where’s Waldo, except instead of Waldo it’s Aran’s dumb thumb and it’s always in the same place.

Over Atsumu’s face.

Kita is out due to the fact that he still inspires dual awe and crippling fear in Atsumu that occasionally results in full body paralysis. Bokuto has broken every phone he’s had within six months of purchase, including two that he snapped clean in half. Hinata, while willing to assist, needs to finish his Tour de Japan before he flies back to San Paulo. The rest of the Jackals have “family” that they “love” and want to “spend time with.” And anyone else Atsumu knows is either out of town or too mature to join in on his antics.

That leaves one person.

“You are the reason God abandoned the earth.”

Who’s Atsumu kidding? Sakusa Kiyoomi was his first choice from the start, anyway.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin,” Atsumu trills into the phone, as he splays out across the sofa.

“I’m breaking it in for you,” Sakusa muses, with his belladonna baritone brutal even at 4:18AM.

“Yer killin’ me, Omi.”

“Yes. That’s the goal.”

Physically restraining himself from pointing out that that makes Atsumu Sakusa’s goal, he says, “listen, I need a favor.”

“No.”

“Ya owe me after I was yer date to yer sister’s weddin’!"

“You weren’t my date,” Sakusa blusters. “You were a glorified garbage disposal, where I dumped all of my unwanted food and relatives.”

“And I was damn good at it too. I saw how ya looked at me when ya fed me that rare ass f*ckin’ steak.”

“Sickened."

“Smitten.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Coffin’s ready.”

“What’s the favor,” Sakusa asks, because for all of his arm twisting turns of phrase, he still stands as one of the most trusted and beloved people in Atsumu’s life. Outdone only by Osamu in his loyalty and assholery. A match struck across the net twelve years ago that slowly burned, blazed, and became Atsumu’s other twin flame.

His best friend.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

That being said, Atsumu doesn’t actually expect Sakusa to do it.

“Let me get this straight,” Sakusa drones, sounding as if he hand wrings each word out of his tongue. They drip with disdain. Atsumu drinks it up. “You bet your brother you could complete ten of your failed New Year’s Resolutions, a thing you’ve never successfully done once in your life, in five days so he’ll finally ask out his high school crush, who already obviously loves him back.”

“Yup.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Hey!”

“I’ll do it.”

“What?!”

“Motoya and Suna are on the same team,” Sakusa enunciates, as if talking to one of his very small, very stupid nephews.

See, an asshole.

“He’s watched Suna pine after Osamu for an eon and whined to me about for equally as long,” Sakusa explains. “Usually in an ungodly high pitch only dogs should hear. I’m tired of it.”

“How tired of it Omi,” Atsumu asks, “‘cuz ‘Samu, the bastard, ain’t f*ckin’ around.” Any bite the barb could have is blunted by the fuzz of fast approaching sleep. And maybe, just maybe, a little sadness too. “It’s like he’s tryin’ to speedrun dyin’ alone.”

“Well, let’s see,” Sakusa sighs. A surprisingly soft thing. How Atsumu imagines the break of dawn would sound. Dark dissolving, warmth waxing. “I imagine we’re not the only people in the V-League frustrated with their yearning.”

Atsumu cringes. “Okay, one, gross, don’t f*ckin’ call it that. And two, whaddya mean?”

In place of an answer, Sakusa says, “just send me the list and I’ll see what I can do.”

“What are ya in the mob,” Atsumu half-jokes, as he types. It’s not improbable. The Sakusas are an old bloodline with old money—their wealth likely in some old profession.

Say, metallurgy.

Or murder.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Oh, sexy,” Atsumu drawls, savoring how he can practically hear Sakusa’s disgusted nose crinkle. “I sent ya the list and an address. I got somethin’ lined up tomorrow with Shouyou around eleven.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Okie dokie.”

“Until then, Atsumu,” Sakusa’s voice is quiet, drawing in as curtains close. “Get some sleep please.” A pause. “You sound even stupider than usual.”

Atsumu’s eyes flirt with fluttering shut, as he hums, “I hope dirt gets in yer coffin when they bury ya.”

“Not my coffin,” Sakusa singsongs. Atsumu’s favorite lullaby.

“Yer right, ya don’t sleep in a coffin,” Atsumu coos, vainly resisting the tug of his dreams’ tides.

“Thank you—”

“I’ll let ya plug back into yer outlet now.”

“You bast—”

“Night-night Omi-borg!”

“Miy—”

Using his last bit of consciousness, Atsumu hangs up with an ember of a cackle and declines all of Sakusa’s attempts to call back. The smile on his face feels hand-stitched. Love, tailor-made.

Sparing one final glance at the fleeting fire, Atsumu studies the cinders that line the hearth like a horizon. The dawn of something twelve years in the making. Atsumu’s heart swells. A buoy that carries him out to the sea of sleep. Only one thought remains within his mind before he goes under.

He can f*cking do this.

2022: Learn A New Language (English Doesn’t Count)

He cannot f*cking do this.

Atsumu carves a trench into the velvety carpet of Hinata Shouyou and Kageyama Tobio’s trendy Tokyo hotel room, as he paces up and down its length. He wages his war alone. Not an allied power in sight. For over two and a half hours, Atsumu has been attacked on all fronts, from the missiles lexically launched by Hinata to the empty shells of advice dropped by Kageyama. Not to mention the occasional dirty bomb dig tossed out by Sakusa that detonates with deadly deadshot deadpan.

Atsumu is f*cked.

Completely, cataclysmically f*cked.

“Okay, let’s try this again!” Hinata says, with a wave of his marker of mass destruction. “From the Beijing-ing!”

Maybe Atsumu’s first mistake was trying to learn Mandarin from someone who doesn’t speak Mandarin.

“Chinese!”

Or know it’s called Mandarin.

Hinata gestures with the pizazz of a showgirl, compensating for his lack of sequins with his kilowatt grin, to a white board pilfered from a conference room. Hardly an inch remains uncovered, with the entire thing riddled in butchered attempts at Hanzi symbols, their Hiragana counterpart, and corresponding pinyin pronunciation, which, by the way, requires perfect pitch precision, lest you intend to tell someone you’re going to eat their dog instead of finishing your meal.

Not that Atsumu would know anything about that.

“Start from the top,” Hinata cheers. “You can do it, Atsumu!”

Atsumu can, in fact, not do it.

This a Rorschach test with only one right answer. The scribbles on the board writhe as if sentient. Senseless symbols that swirl and curl together into a muddied monster with its sight set on Atsumu. It’s kill or be killed and this language refuses to die first.

“Ni hǎo,” Atsumu begins and begs for death, “wo–ǒ, no uh, wõ deh, f*ck de m–míngzì chi—sh*t.” His frustration strikes like a flint, singeing his already wooden delivery. “Can I start over?”

“Atsumu, aren’t you dyslexic,” Sakusa interjects, like the asshole armchair linguist he is.

“I thought he was bisexual,” Kageyama replies.

Atsumu can almost hear the whistling wind as it passes through that empty skull of his.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says again, “you’re dyslexic.”

Perched primly on the desk, Sakusa serves as his own Rorschach test. The swoopy strokes of his midnight hair brush black against the ivory canvas of his skin. His carved features curve with the delicacy a crystalline vase, holding the rosy reds of his high cheekbones and full mouth. The feather wisps of his raven lashes perfectly frame his churning, charcoal eyes. Warm, whirling pools of bottomless ink. Infinity interwoven into an iris. Enough color to pen a hundred languages, paint a thousand pictures.

Breathtaking.

Bitchy.

“What’s yer point, Omi,” Atsumu spits. “Ya think I can’t do it?”

“Correct.”

“Omi!” Hinata gasps simultaneously with Kageyama’s entirely unnecessary, “duh.”

Why is he here again?

“Dyslexia makes it difficult to recognize and distinguish between patterns,” Sakusa explains. “The high visual similarity between Hanzi and Hiragana juxtaposed with the discrepancy between the definitions of the words themselves would make Mandarin one of the last languages you’d want to learn.”

He makes a valid point. But Atsumu has never let a valid point stop him in his life.

“Well, I don’t needta learn Mandarin,” Atsumu argues, digging his heels into what feels like wet sand. “I just need to convince ‘Samu I learned Mandarin.”

“He’s going to fact-check you.”

“Please, ‘Samu’s lazy as sh*t.”

“No one is more vigilant than a coward.”

Rising from his stoop, Sakusa crosses to the board and plucks the marker from Hinata’s grip. “He’ll likely plug a few random phrases into an app like Lingojam,” he circles several of Hinata’s scribbles, “and score you. Say anything wrong and he’ll know exactly where you’re f*cking up. f*ck up too much and the resolution won’t count.”

His words leave Atsumu burning all over. A fire that lights the frayed fuse of his temper. Atsumu explodes. “And ya didn’t think to mention this three f*ckin’ hours ago?!”

“I was trying to have faith in you.”

“Don’t do that!”

Ping!

Within the pocket of his sweats, Atsumu’s phone sounds off once, twice, then incessantly.

It’s Osamu.

No one else knows how to be this annoying from a distance.

Too tired to care for privacy and half hoping his brother will say something stupid, Atsumu puts Osamu on speaker and flops face first onto the bed, where he tries and fails to ignore the fact that Hinata and Kageyama definitely had sex here. He saw the bottle of lube they forgot to hide when they first arrived. He spent eleven minutes swallowing his own acid reflux and trying to convince Sakusa Sliquid Silver was the name of a hand sanitizer brand in Italy.

He failed on both fronts.

“Whaddya want ya, ‘Samu?”

“Did ya eat all my f*ckin’ leftovers?!”

Atsumu thinks of the licked clean Tupperware container currently shoved at the bottom of his bag with a name scribbled on it that he ostensibly ignored and replies with the utmost confidence, “no.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes.

Atsumu can’t see him but he knows. He just knows.

“I set those aside to help Rin with his hangover!”

So, Osamu claims, but clearly he’s not really thinking of Suna’s hangover, since he chooses to speak to Atsumu with that level of volume.

“Ya know how sensitive his stomach is!”

“What ‘bout my stomach?!”

“Ya can eat anythin’ ya f*ckin’ pig!”

“That’s it!” The realization bursts out of Hinata like a firecracker. Joy effervescent. “Atsumu, hang up!”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Atsumu huffs, as he slams down on the end call button like it could eject Osamu into outer space.

“That’s what, stupid,” Kageyama asks.

“Atsumu,” Hinata blurts, a flurry of fiery hair and sun-kissed limbs, “you’re fluent in English, right?!”

“Mostly?”

“Have you ever heard of pig latin?”

“Is this cuz I grew up near farms Sho—”

Hinata cuts whatever Atsumu has to say short with a decisive slice of his hand. “I learned about it from Oikawa.” Neither Atsumu nor Kageyama’s eyes twitch at that at all. “Who learned about it from Iwaizumi, who learned about it while in California.” Snatching up the eraser, Hinata roughly runs it over the board and begins writing a set of words in his cutesy, crooked English.

Or well, what looks like English.

Either all of the letters are jumbled or in his efforts to learn Mandarin Atsumu gave himself Dyslexia: The Deluxe Edition®

Gesturing with his marker, Hinata says, “it’s where you take the first consonant or set of consonants in front of an English word and move it to the end of the word and add an ‘ay’ sound.” He quickly scribbles out a set of arrows depicting this process. “So like pig latin becomes…” Hinata’s mouth corkscrews in concentration. “Ig-pay atin-lay!”

“Holy f*ck,” Atsumu breathes, struck dumb by Hinata’s brilliance, “yer a genius, Sho.”

And he really is. Rather than forcing Atsumu to shove as many scraps of vocabulary and syntax into his head—where they will inevitably be misplaced by his memory—he can just focus on a simple set of rules to re-conjugate a language he already knows into an entirely new one.

It’s probably cheating.

It’s definitely playing dirty.

But given Osamu’s current moonlighting as a monk, dirty may be exactly what’s needed.

“Do you think it’s enough of a real language, Omi,” Atsumu can’t help but ask. “‘Samu specifically said no English.” Of everyone in the room, Sakusa is easily the most educated, with both a college degree under his belt and half of a masters. He technically earns it online, but still.

Better than Hinata “Beijing-ing” Shouyou, Miya “I ate my dog” Atsumu, or Kageyama “Anything I say” Tobio.

Sakusa cants his head and pushes a brisk breath out of his elvan nose. “It technically uses the Roman alphabet,” he concedes, “but that alphabet also serves as the foundation for over one-hundred languages. And each of them is as distinct from the other as the next, despite their shared roots.”

“So…?”

“So, pig latin uses a cipher,” Sakusa explains, artfully tracing his finger over Hinata’s curly craftsmanship. “A code to transform its base, English, into something unrecognizable, which makes it an argot.” His lips lift. “A new language by definition.” A foxglove grin. “It’s purpose is twofold.” A winsome weed. “Communicate and deceive.” Bait, beguiling and bewitching.

“It’s perfect for you, Atsumu.”

“Birds of a feather, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu drawls, breathing in Sakusa’s woodsy bergamot cologne as he worms his way into his space. “I knew there was a reason I picked ya for this.”

“Everyone else blocked you?” Sakusa’s words are thorns, but his petal cheeks are pinched primrose pink. Spring in the midst of December. The prettiest, prickliest thing.

“Yer funny.”

“One of us has to be”

“And cute.”

“What?”

“When ya blush.”

“What?”

Whoops.

“Anyway, thanks for the help, Sho,” Atsumu cheers, opting to turn a blind eye to every metaphorical mirror in his mind so he doesn’t have to reflect upon what he just said. “We gotta go meet Bo!” Not for another several hours. “Real soon! See ya at the party!” Atsumu flies out of the room like a bat out of hell, with a still blush blooming Sakusa in tow. Hinata’s calls of concern chase vainly after them as the sun does with shadow. Light that seeks shine on an answer and its question,

You meant that.

Atsumu did.

Do you know what that means?

He hopes he doesn’t.

2008: Do a Backflip

“This feels like a live demonstration of natural selection.”

Standing on the outskirts of Bokuto and Akaashi’s recently cleared out living room, Sakusa begrudging holds his phone and awaits instructions to record what will either be a successful resolution attempt or a future submission to a Try Not to Cringe Challenge: Career Ending Sports Injuries Edition (NOT CLICKBAIT)

sh*t.

Maybe, this is actually Atsumu’s speedrun of unemployment.

With all of their impossibly eclectic, yet elegant furniture pieces pressed against the wall, Bokuto and Akaashi’s townhome becomes a makeshift tumbling gym. Colorful yoga mats line the floor like a disassembled rainbow, while strategically strewn throw pillows and couch cushions aim to soften the more unsavory falls, hopefully staving off any ER visits.

Hopefully.

“Thank ya for that, Omi,” Atsumu grumbles from his standing crouch. “Very helpful.”

“I’m just saying be careful,” Sakusa says. Dusk drips down his face like watercolor paint. Rivulets of jewel tones. Splashes of pastels. Glazes of molten golds. Day bleeds out into night on the alabaster altar of Sakusa’s skin. Enchanting even in death. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu huffs, waving Sakusa off. They’ve just spent the past hour with Bokuto walking Atsumu through the logistics of a backflip with surprisingly methodical care. He provided Atsumu with numerous demonstrations, specific stance instructions, and even safety tips for how to land if the attempt goes awry. All in all, Atsumu couldn’t be more prepared.

Except for the fact that he retained absolutely none of what Bokuto said.

But that’s not something Sakusa needs to know.

“Don’t listen to Omi, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto cheers, with the unlaced silver lining of his thundercloud hair brushing into his sun stare. “Whatever happens, you’ll be fine! I give you my word!” Bokuto puffs up his broad chest for good measure, as if offering up his heart. “I mean, I’ve hit my head plenty of times and I turned out great!”

“Well—” Whatever spitfire remark poising itself on Atsumu’s tongue is quickly snuffed out by the disciplinary dart of Akaashi’s ocean-blue eyes, who coils upon a neighboring loveseat. Atsumu swallows his snark and tastes ash. “Thanks Bo,” he replies.

“You ready?”

“Just gimme a second.”

“Sure!”

“While you’re paused,” Akaashi lilts, “I might mention that Kou showed me your list.” His voice reminds Atsumu of a veil. Delicately deceptive. “I know of some people who could help you with a few items. Do you remember Kuroo Tetsurou?"

Atsumu scoffs. “No man who meets the devil ever forgets his face.”

“Kuroo is great,” Sakusa chides. “I went to college with him and his partner.”

“Speaking of Kenma,” Akaashi interjects, unfolding his origami arrangement of limbs, “that brings me to my proposal.”

“Oh yeah, Kenma’s gift!” Bokuto shouts, barreling over to sit beside Akaashi. “You know Kenma, right, Tsum-Tsum?” Atsumu does know Kenma. Half the world knows Kozume “Kodzuken” Kenma, per his global gaming empire. “For Christmas, Kenma rounded up all of the old Nekoma alumni who played volleyball during Kuroo’s third year of high school,” Bokuto explains, “to play a pick up game as a present!”

“However, one of them recently broke his leg in some absurd Santa-related incident.” Akaashi adds. “Why he thought he’d fit down a chimney, I’ll never know.” He threads his hand with Bokuto’s, as they speak. Honey sun and sugar moon. A man-made eclipse. Something slithers in Atsumu’s chest.

“Now, they’re short a player,” Bokuto proclaims, gesturing wildly with a still attached-Akaashi, who makes no efforts to anchor Bokuto’s enthusiasm. “Specifically a second setter. Keiji said he’d play, but we’re supposed to meet my baby niece that weekend so—”

“I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I’ll do it,” Atsumu repeats.

“I must say I’m surprised by how committed you are to this,” Akaashi confesses coolly. “I honestly would’ve guessed you’d use your brother’s romantic ineptitude to your own advantage.”

“Oh, I will,” Atsumu drawls. The arch of Akaashi’s brow is reminiscent of a scalpel’s curve. Clinical. Cutting. “‘Samu’s taste is f*ckin’ sh*t. I mean, Sunarin? Dude looks like someone enchanted a f*ckin’ bong and made it a real boy.”

Sakusa covers his laugh with a cough.

“But,” Atsumu concedes, softer than he means to, “‘Samu loves him more than anythin’,” He thinks of kisses that can only be given with the permission of pain. “So, here I am.” Moments away from becoming a timestamp in a YouTube comment that simply says, loser. “‘Sides,” Atsumu chimes, “we made a promise to each other after he quit volleyball.”

“And that is?”

“To live a happier life than the other,” Atsumu quotes. “And I wanna win, but I wanna win fair and square.”

The surface of Akaashi’s sea-smooth stare briefly breaks. Intrigue bubbles up. “And you think Osamu isn’t playing fair?”

“I think that he isn’t being fair to himself,” Atsumu clarifies. “Self-sabotage is still sabotage.”

“Interesting,” Akaashi muses. “Even if he’s not aware of it?”

“No one’s that stupid,” Atsumu snorts.

“You’d be surprised,” Akaashi hums. “Well, Kou and I have dinner plans with some old friends soon.” He casts a calculated glance at the clock. “So, I think it’s now or never, Miya.”

“Ah, shi—I mean, okay sure.” The words rattle out Atsumu’s mouth and onto the floor along with a mumbled f*ck. He does a futile shake out, trying to knock lose any remaining jitters. He fails.

“Don’t record this one, Omi.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Atsumu, we don’t have time for—”

“It’s a test run,” Atsumu interrupts and no his voice did not crack. “Have ya no respect for the process?”

“The process, sure. You? Never.”

“Omi,” Atsumu says again, the closest he’ll get to pleading. The last thing he needs is another unnaturally flexible pretty boy with video evidence of his shortcomings

“Fine,” Sakusa acquiesces. A true holiday miracle. “Just…don’t fracture your neck.”

“Deal.”

At that, Bokuto begrudgingly rolls out of the bed of Akaashi’s embrace to spot Atsumu and/or dispose of his dead body. Slowly, Atsumu arranges himself in Bokuto’s prescribed posture, while his breath begins to flutter. He inhales deep, hoping to harness wind for the wings of his lungs. Enough to carry him to and from the earth. Or up to Heaven.

Who’s Atsumu fooling?

He sends a silent prayer that Hell is nice during this time of year and bends his knees.

Locked onto his focal point, Atsumu raises his arms, swings them back, and jumps. The floor flies away from his feet, as his knees knock into his sternum. Around him, the world blurs into a zoetrope. A psychedelic somersault of disorienting shapes, shades, sunsets, and Sakusa.

Sakusa.

I don’t want you to get hurt.

Immediately, Atsumu unfurls his legs and slams down into a wibbly-wobbly squat. His arms whirl around him like propellers and his insides briefly entertain the idea of becoming outsides, but he remains upright.

He did it.

He actually did it.

“Holy f*ck,” Atsumu gasps. “Holyf*ckholyf*ckholyf*ckholyf*ckholyf*ckholyfu—”

“Okay,” Sakusa interrupts, moved so much by Atsumu’s performance that he pockets his phone and now struts towards the door. “We can leave now.”

“Nice seeing you again, Sakusa,” Akaashi waves with Bokuto’s blurted, “bye Omi!!”

Atsumu splutters. “What the f*ck, Omi, are ya—”

Ping!

Lost between two couch cushions, Atsumu’s phone resounds. He stomps over to dig it out, stitching together a slew of swears for Sakusa, only for them to catch and come apart in this throat when unlocks his device and sees this:

“Ya recorded it, anyway,” Atsumu whispers.

“I did,” Sakusa affirms, as he gathers their coats.

“I told ya not to,” Atsumu reminds him, as he crosses to meet him by the foyer.

“You did,” Sakusa muses, extending his jacket out for him to take. “You also said not to have faith in you. And yet…” He smiles and Atsumu wonders if he’s an angel or a devil for the way he clips the feathers of Atsumu’s breath. For a moment, he freefalls.

“Omi.”

“C’mon,” Sakusa says, as he swings the door open, “there’s one more resolution I think we have time to complete today.”

2021: Beat Iwaizumi in Arm Wrestling

According to those nerdy ass podcasts Sakusa listens to, the strongest substance posited within the known universe lies within the crust of neutron stars. A type of degenerate matter lovingly nicknamed nuclear pasta.

How quaint.

Atsumu would like to propose a new theory for the literature.

The strongest substance in the known universe is whatever material makes up Iwaizumi Hajime’s f*cking right bicep because holy sh*t (Miya, 2022).

Inside the exorbitantly luxurious penthouse hotel room of the beloved athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime (now 28) and his world-famous partner, Oikawa Tooru (still annoying), the beady eye of Sakusa’s phone camera judges Atsumu as he ruins the resale value of an artisanal Bocote coffee table by drilling his elbow into it an effort to stave of Iwaizumi’s impossible attack.

He defies biology.

He defies physics.

He defies God.

Iwaizumi cages Atsumu in a lawless, liminal void of pain and suffering, leaving him no choice but to hang on for dear life. Atsumu’s molars grind themselves down to his molecules, while his muscles collapse on an atomic level. His whole body trembles, quakes, as his remaining strength evaporates with the steam of his sweat. Both rising off Atsumu like the smoke of a viking funeral. Fitting, since he’s moments away from death. His only consolation is the single drop of perspiration snaking its way through the rugged valley of Iwaizumi’s furrowed brow, just narrowly missing the forest of his tree-green gaze.

At least Atsumu will die with a great view.

Except for…

Resting a spidery white hand on Iwaizumi’s tanned shoulder, the wicked and willowy Oikawa Tooru stands. A bronze medaling Olympian plucked right out of the Classical Age. His crown of copper-spun caramel curls frames the sleek slopes of his marble carved features like a laurel, while his alluring amber eyes press onto Atsumu with piercing, prehistoric pressure. As sap once entranced and entrapped insects a millenia ago, so Atsumu too feels imprisoned in the syrup of Oikawa Tooru’s sad*stic stare.

He is a bug beneath his designer boot, waiting for it to drop.

“Omi,” Atsumu wedges in between his pants. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can’t,” Oikawa purrs, as a predator does to its prey. “But my Iwa-chan can.”

“Your Iwa-chan,” Iwaizumi grunts with a fond roll of his eyes, “needs you to be quiet.”

“Why,” Oikawa asks, all arsenic and lacey lashes. “Blondie here looks like he’s either about to pass out or pass a kidney stone within the minute.”

Atsumu can’t even argue with him. Literally. All he can eke out is a desperate, “Omi.”

“My money is on the kidney stone.”

“You can do this,” Sakusa whispers, from where he kneels by Atsumu’s side.

“I really, really can’t.”

“I promise.” Sakusa’s bergamot and belladonna breath brush against Atsumu’s cheek. Soft and certain. “You can do this.” His hand swims up and runs over the nape of Atsumu’s neck like a wave of warm water. Atsumu never knew drowning could feel so divine. This is a tide of touch that never recedes. It stays. It seeps. Permeating past Atsumu’s skin and pooling within the hollow of his chest. Hot, healing honey. For a moment, nothing hurts. “I know you can,” Sakusa murmurs. “Now show them too.”

“Atsu.”

It’s a single word anchor. Strong, sinking, steel that has Atsumu diving down to the bottom of the ocean and dragging Iwaizumi with him. A rip current in his own right. He slams Iwaizumi’s knuckles against the wood with a knock that could be heard next door.

CRACK!

He won.

Holy sh*t.

Holy f*cking sh*t Atsumu won.

“Nice work, Blondie,” Oikawa claps with alarming levels of sincerity. “And to think,” he coos, turning off the recording and tossing Sakusa his phone, “I didn’t even have to betray my Haji to help you.”

Huh?

“What do you mean ‘betray’,” Iwaizumi questions with a co*ck of his gunpowder brow. More curious than cut.

“Saku reached out to me to help Blondie win a bet against his brother,” Oikawa delineates. “With the expectation I’d provide assistance if necessary.” Atsumu can practically hear the swish of Oikawa’s sliced grin. “Turns out you were right Saku, he didn’t need my aid at all.”

The flush to Sakusa’s cheeks is blood in the water to Oikawa’s already carnivorous smirk.

“What were you even going to do,” Iwaizumi asks, incredulous.

“Just a little foul play,” Oikawa teases.

“Tooru.”

“In my defense—”

“You have none.”

“Why should I when I have you around to protect me,” Oikawa muses, as ruffles the umber spikes of Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi, who immediately swats at Oikawa’s fingers, just to tangle them together with his own and pull Oikawa into his lap.

“The only people who need protection around here are us from you, sh*ttykawa.” Iwaizumi deadpans. “You’re a menace. And a traitor."

“I’m not a traitor,” Oikawa gasps in faux offense. “I’m a trader.” Digging into his back pocket of his well-fitted slacks, Oikawa pulls out his phone. “After all,” he sings, “in exchange for my help, I got us this.” He turns his screen to the group, displaying in all his white-bright glory the most bizarre photo of Ushijima Wakatoshi Atsumu has ever seen.

And he saw that one nationals picture with Kageyama.

“What the f*ck, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu rasps, with all the air blown out of his lungs. “Ya really must be in the f*ckin’ mob if ya got Ushiwaka to do this.”

“He can take it down twenty-four hours,” Oikawa trills. “But I’m printing it out and putting it over our mantle anyway, Iwa-chan. Just to let you know."

“Holy sh*t Assikawa,” Iwaizumi breathes, narrowly beating out Sakusa in their race to see who can fly through all five stages of grief the fastest. “You…you are such trash.”

“Mmm, and you love me for it ,” Oikawa croons, holstering his phone and diffusing the divot in Iwaizumi’s forehead with a kiss.

“What would’ve you even done to sabotage me,” Iwaizumi wonders, as his brain reboots. He breathes heavily, like a cooling fan desperately trying to salvage its fried hardware.

“Sabotage is such a nasty word,” Oikawa says with a scrunch of his pixie nose. “I prefer distract.”

“Tooru.”

“All I would’ve done is…” Oikawa twists within the cradle of Iwaizumi’s hips and whispers within his ear. It’s a quick little affair, hardly allowing for more than a few words to be exchanged. All done with such breezy grace, Atsumu wonders why Oikawa even bothered with secrecy in the first place.

That is until Iwaizumi speaks.

Or well, squeaks really.

“Yup,” Iwaizumi says, with his voice cracking like a chasm. “That would’ve worked.”

A laugh bursts out of Oikawa. A proper one. An orchestral swell of musical mirth. How Atsumu imagines stars would sound when they fall. Iwaizumi basks in it. His very own meteor shower.

“I’m gonna call us a cab,” Sakusa blurts and abruptly rises to his feet. “I’ll meet you downstairs, Miya.” Before Atsumu can even reply, Sakusa zips out of the room like a bottle rocket, leaving in his wake a trail of questions fizzling out on Atsumu’s tongue.

“Thank ya for yer help,” Atsumu mumbles instead, with muscle memory manners piloting his mouth, as he clumsily stands and stumbles towards the door. “I’ll text ya ‘bout the party if y’all would like to—”

“Atsumu,” Oikawa interrupts—his expression settling into something delicate and knowing. It’s the most unnerving one of them all. “Before you go, I want you to know that I think what you’re doing for your brother is quite an honorable crusade.”

“Thank ya…” Atsumu hesitates, holding his voice close to his chest.

“But might I point out,” Oikawa continues with a nod towards the entryway, “that in an age of bets and favors, there is someone who stands beside you and asks for nothing in return.” His irises shimmer. Age-old stardust. “I wonder why.”

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi warns. “Stop being cryptic."

“I’m not,” Oikawa chirps. “Atsumu understands what I mean.” He smiles at that—the lines of his expression spelling something out to Atsumu in a language he struggles to read. “Or will come to eventually.”

Rearranging their knot of fingers in his lap, the wedding rings Oikawa and Iwaizumi wear catch beneath the moonlight, glowing a glimmering gold. A star split in half. Two true norths for two hemispheres. “Remember Atsumu, the best things in life aren’t free,” Oikawa chimes. “They just feel like they are.” Iwaizumi tightens his hold of Oikawa’s waist. “The price of them is inconsequential compared to what they’re worth.” Brushing his nose against Iwaizumi’s, Oikawa coos, “after all, what’s nine thousand kilometers to the single greatest love of my life?”

“Sap,” Iwaizumi jabs.

“Brute,” Oikawa parries.

Atsumu knows they mean something else.

“So, my question to you, Atsu,” Oikawa muses, all sharp teeth and soft eyes, “what would you want to have if it didn’t cost you a damn thing?”

Oikawa asks it as if Atsumu knows.

Atsumu thinks he might.

He just might.

2018: Hit a Million Followers on Instagram

The joint Kozume-Kuroo residence in Roppongi Hills looks like a cross between the set of Tron and a full page spread in Architectural Digest. Electric neons and brooding blacks somehow coexist in perfect harmony alongside sweeping windows and classic furniture pieces. Two personalities frankensteined together in one space. A living collage. Hand-picked, hand-crafted. Each piece stitched together with love.

In the kitchen, Kuroo Tetsurou clangs around as he prepares lunch for them all, while Atsumu and Sakusa sit too straight spined on the cushy couch, watching a Kozume Kenma clad in Kuroo’s clothes shuffle between his skyscraper shelves in search of a game to play.

Initially, Kenma asked if Atsumu had anything in mind. A preference. A poison he wishes to pick. But Atsumu couldn’t even bullsh*t his way to an answer, with all the titles whirling together into a waterfall of color and shape. A stream of senselessness that left Atsumu stuttering out an unconvincing, “ya know what, ya choose, Ken-Ken. My treat.”

This leads them to their current state of limbo, with Kenma having held up well over twenty boxes for Atsumu to look at, only to receive some variation of the same clueless shrug in place of approval.

They’re stuck.

“You don’t know how to play any video games, do you,” Kenma hums, slotting a copy of the Outer Wilds back into its place.

“Not at all,” Atsumu confesses, collapsing over. A puppet freed from the strings of false pretense.

“Hmmm.” Kenma twiddles with one of the ends of his honey-dipped hair. “One moment.” Slinking over to the cabinet beneath the large flatscreen, he takes out a familiar, faded case. “Do you like Mario Kart,” he asks with a pull of his bow string brow.

“Oh, f*ck yeah,” Atsumu cheers, relieved to finally recognize a name. “‘Samu and I played it a lot as kids.”

By “played” Atsumu really means to bully each other off the track at every possible opportunity, even if it cost them the win.

“What about you, Sakusa,” Kenma says, causing Sakusa to jolt by Atsumu’s side, as he rummages about for Switch controllers. “Do you like Mario Kart?”

“Mario who?”

The edge of Kenma’s lips tugs like a tripwire. “I’m supposed to stream in an hour,” he says in lieu of an answer. “That should be enough time to familiarize you with the controls.”

“Me?” Sakusa splutters.

“Him?” Atsumu seconds.

“Yes, him,” Kenma affirms, laying the remotes across the sleek coffee table. “You see, the videos that perform the best on my channel are, unfortunately, the ones that involve Kuro.”

“Thanks babe!” Kuroo calls with a wave of his spatula, as he pokes his head out from the kitchen. He dons a dirtied apron with a mockup of a lab coat post-explosion on it, which he compliments with his own raveled hair and mad scientist smirk. Say what you will about Kuroo (seriously, please do), but he is nothing if not an expert on brand management.

The brand, of course, being positively batsh*t.

“Can always count on you!”

A flash fondness flickers within Kenma’s rolling eyes. Sunlight skittering over the sea. “He’s terrible at Mario Kart,” Kenma drones, with the edges of his flat delivery curling with his mouth.

“So supportive,” Kuroo hams, with a fan of his spatula.

“And all other Nintendo games.”

“So loving!”

“Actually, all games.”

“So tender!”

“Really he’s dreadful at anything involving buttons.”

“So sexyyyy—”

Not once breaking away from Sakusa and Atsumu, Kenma plucks a plushie off a neighboring beanbag and flings it at Kuroo with startling pinpoint accuracy. Kuroo catches it like a bullet, letting it send him tumbling back into the kitchen. “But, he’s fun to watch,” Kenma concedes with a full smile now, wrinkling the velvet of his monotone.

Sighing, he says, “to maximize how many people watch both the stream and subsequent video I’ll work with my team to rush edit and upload to my channel, he,” Kenma points without glancing back at Kuroo, who enters as if cued with four balanced bowls of chicken katsudon on his arms, “needs to be there to banter off of me. Which means to not look like a third wheel, you,” Kenma recalibrates his spindly finger to Atsumu, “need a partner. Ergo, you,” and then shifts it to Sakusa. “Need to play.”

“No,” Sakusa snips, ever the team-player.

“It’s the most effective way to guarantee Atsumu gets enough exposure to hit a million followers,” Kuroo counters, as he sets down everyone’s lunches and snakes his arms around Kenma's waist.

“But Omi sucks with technology,” Atsumu protests. “He still unironically sends me chain emails!”

“I’m being cautious.”

“You’re bein’ a moron.”

“I hope Eyeless Jack kills you.”

“I hope I’ll get to haunt ya if he does.”

“This,” Kuroo interrupts, draping his cloaked, cashmere drawl over them, “is also good for views.”

“What, delusion?” Atsumu squawks, as he sticks a thumb in Sakusa’s face. He tries to bite it.

Asshole.

“Tension,” Kuroo corrects. “Of the sexual variety.”

Sakusa violates the limitations of human anatomy with the expression his face contorts into. “I take it back.” he spits.

“What,” Kuroo prompts, nonplussed.

“Every remotely nice thing I ever said about you.”

“Please.” Kuroo rolls his eyes the way a gambler toys with coins between his fingers. “Neither of you can be that unaware of your whole…” Sacrificing an arm embracing Kenma, he flails it in a gesture that’s not nearly as self-explanatory as he thinks it is.

“What are ya talkin’ ‘bout,” Atsumu blusters.

“For Chrissake,” Kuroo groans, with his head tipped back. “The only two lovesick idiots in the V-League worse than Suna and Osamu are—"

“Let’s familiarize Sakusa with the controls,” Kenma interjects, with his cadence cool and cutting as ice. “Everyone grab a remote.”

With that, all four of them arrange themselves on the couch in an order that pays homage to the bumblebee bee and take turns educating Sakusa in his underdeveloped childhood experiences. How to steer, access Mystery Box items, use said Mystery Box items, and so and so forth. As expected, Sakusa proves himself to be stiff as backed up sh*t and grandmotherly cautious, which prevents him from driving off the map, though results in NPCs consistently double lapping him.

When Atsumu claims this is because Sakusa wants to catch up with his fellow robot brethren, Sakusa discovers the joy of bombing the sh*t out of him with a Spiny Shell and makes a hard left into becoming a ruthless road hazard with a preference for absolutely obliterating Yoshi (Atsumu).

Just in time for the stream.

“I hope you crash so much it ruins your insurance rates for life,” Sakusa sneers, once Kenma finishes introducing them.

“They don’t have insurance in Mario,” Atsumu snaps.

“A pity,” Sakusa sighs. “You’ll need it.”

The afternoon soon becomes a blur of technicolor, teasing, and tinsel tenor tunes. Taking suggestions from the chat, they run the whole game’s gambit, from the rage-inducing rat races of the flat tracks to the sophisticated circuits that rob players of their revelery every time they veer off road into oblivion. Atsumu’s screen is more screen black than rainbow during the infamous Rainbow Road. He ensures Sakusa’s is too, after forcing him into a murder-suicide pact with him.

Meanwhile, Kuroo’s performance is, well, a performance, though not necessarily any better than Sakusa and Atsumu’s, with him reciting bastardized versions of Shakespearean monologues after every “tragedy” inflicted upon him. Atsumu didn’t pay too much attention in school, but he remains fairly certain that there were no Koopas in King Lear.

And Kenma? He grinds them all down a fine powder, rolls them up with his nimble fingers, and positively smokes them. In vain, Sakusa and Atsumu try to rise from their ashes together as some sort of unholy, hybrid phoenix, only to be struck down with ease by Kenma’s gamer god fists. Kuroo, the third hand of the devil, only cackles.

After five hours and two crashes of Atsumu’s Instagram from the exponential uptick in activity, Kenma concludes the stream with a succinct, yet effective, “okay, bye.”

And now they wait.

“See, not too bad, right?” Kuroo leers, leaning far too close to Sakusa for Atsumu’s comfort. He’s several feet away and putting away the Switch for Kenma, but still. It’s the principle of the point. “Atsumu’s already up by fifty-thousand followers and you got a head start on your allotted four smiles for next year, Sakusa.”

“Whatever,” Sakusa murmurs, scooting closer to Atsumu on the sofa. The line of his thigh burns into Atsumu’s like a brand. Marking him as his own.

“And that’s just after the initial stream,” Kuroo emphasizes. “Wait, until the video is up on the main channel, along with the Instagram and Twitter shoutouts.”

“Yer so schemey,” Atsumu grumps.

“Don’t say that,” Kenma deadpans through a mouthful of reheated katsudon. “He’ll blush.”

“I will,” Kuroo echoes. “That is a threat.” Bouncing to his feet, he nestles beside Kenma in the beanbag chair and says, “now, I do believe Akaashi mentioned that we could help you with two resolutions.”

Oh f*ck.

“What other resolution could you possibly help me with,” Atsumu asks, dreading the answer.

Kuroo grins. Cat-like and killing the canary.

“Well…”

2016: Run a Marathon

Atsumu is going to die.

Lactic acid eats away at his muscles with a vengeance, gnawing down to Atsumu’s bones, where it then cannibalizes the marrow. Fatigue flashes its incisors too, nipping at Atsumu’s already weakened ankles. Hungry to trip him up. Not to be left out, the cold air joins in on the carnage, as it chews up the tissue of Atsumu’s heaving lungs with frigid fangs. Together, they all paint Atsumu blue, from blood failing to oxygenate his body to the frostbite likely nibbling at his extremities.

There’s no way he’s going to make it.

Thirty-nine kilometers out of forty-two and a half behind him and the only line Atsumu is going to cross is the one that separates the living from the dead.

At least, the park he’ll croak in is nice. And Kurooless.

Kuroo already finished his run. Atsumu knows this from the picture sent to him by Kenma of Kuroo wearing a finisher’s tee like a scarf, while he lies supine on the ground near the medical tent, drooling.

Yeah, Atsumu is doomed.

Citing Ushijima Wakatoshi wiping the floor with him during their meet up in Poland as his inspiration, Kuroo threw himself into endurance training the way Atsumu now longs to throw himself into oncoming traffic and he still scarcely survived. Also, why did the race officials have to shut down half the road for this stupid thing, anyway? They deprive Atsumu of his mercy kill.

It’s cruel.

Near the quarter mark of the marathon, Kuroo abandoned Atsumu, as his sides splintered with cramps, with a lazy salute and prophetic, “don’t forget to lube up,” as they broached an intersection. At the time, Atsumu brushed it off as one of Kuroo’s sundry attempts at snark. An hour later, Atsumu brushed the Vaseline Kuroo chucked at his head before he disappeared all over to his pecks, desperately trying to stave off his Ken Doll neuter job

He may have spared nipples, but no amount of KY Jelly would ever be enough to save Atsumu now.

With fumbling, half frozen hands, Atsumu removes his phone from the pocket of his compression leggings and numbly swipes through his apps. Osamu’s victorious peels of future laughter pound against his skull to the rhythm of his ragged, rabbiting pulse, as he searches for Uber. He finds it, hovering his finger over thewhere to button. A guillotine seconds away from its fatal fall, the execution of Atsumu’s dreams, stopped only by Sakusa’s incoming call. Atsumu’s airpods auto-answer.

“Don’t quit,” Sakusa demands, without introduction.

“How the…” Atsumu rasps.

“I said don’t quit,” Sakusa repeats.

“Omi, I don’t think I—”

“And look to your left,” Sakusa instructs. “Your other left.”

With great, herculean effort, Atsumu rolls his head as if it’s been chopped off and finds Sakusa Kiyoomi weaving his way through the towering trees and wobbly-kneed weeds of other runners towards him. “Keep going,” he shouts, holding in one hand a poster board with CONGRATULATIONS ATSUMU! scrawled across it and in the other the largest sports drink ever engineered. “Stop and I’ll f*cking kill you!”

“Omi,” Atsumu says, winded for an entirely new reason. “What are ya doin’?”

“Not letting you quit,” Sakusa huffs, as he falls in stride with Atsumu. His cheeks burn a brilliant, beautiful red. The spark needed to revive Atsumu’s dying fire. “Now, pick up the pace,” Sakusa says, shoving his bulbous bottle into Atsumu’s grip. “You’re embarrassing the Jackals.”

Sakusa jogs alongside with Atsumu for the remainder of the race. He alternates between nudging him along with metaphorical and literal kicks to his ass, effectively bruising both his ego and butt-cheeks. It’s worth it. All the while, Sakusa does this while wearing leather boots, corduroy pants and the clunkiest winter coat anyone could conceive.

It’s ridiculous. It’s kind.

Atsumu can’t breathe.

As they broach the final stretch, Sakusa scrapes the bottom of his own dwindling tank of energy and scampers ahead. As he passes beneath the balloon archway commemorating the marathon’s end, he brandishes his phone and records Atsumu while he stumble-trudges his way to triumph.

Resolution Complete.

“Yaaaaaaay,” Atsumu slurs, woefully missing the high-fives of a patiently waiting Kenma and Kuroo, who looks like a zombie that stopped his transformation 10% of the way in. They both opt to clap his bowing back instead. Atsumu thinks his ribs crack.

“You did it,” Sakusa exclaims, with the whites of his hands fluttering like doves at Atsumu’s sides. “Atsu.” They land on his swaying waist. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks Om-Om,” Atsumu garbles. Then, pulling perhaps the worst page he possibly could from Suna’s book, he says, “uh oh, goin’ down,” and proceeds to faint right into Sakusa’s arms.

Nailed it.

After what Atsumu presumes to be several hours later, he wakes to the feeling of cloud-woven linen against skin and the feather-brush of moonlight over his eyes. Above his head, a fan whirls with a whisper, as if singing along to the tinkering tin-pan tune playing in a faraway kitchen. Everything has a soft certainty to it. The kind of comfort that can only be found in one place.

Ah, Atsumu thinks breathing in the scent of bergamot, home.

How lovely it is to be home.

It’s only when Sakusa enters with a plate of fatty tuna that Atsumu realizes his mistake.

2014: Get Over Your Fear of Heights

The nebulous nature of this resolution proved it to be one of the more difficult ones for Atsumu to organize. How exactly does he prove to Osamu he conquered his life-long phobia? A trip to Tokyo tower, a rollercoaster ride, a bungee jump?

Suna Rintarou, who overheard Atsumu’s attempt to sound out his problem to Sakusa after his successful arm-wrestling engagement against Iwaizumi, extricated himself from the fridge mid-midnight snack raid for he and Osamu and plopped down at the kitchen table with a venom dipped grin. “Atsumu’s brown pants days are finally over, huh,” he coos with his cobra cadence. “I think I might be able to help.”

And now, three days later, Atsumu is going to die.

Again.

But also for real this time.

After eight hours of training and a written test, Atsumu stands— just barely—in a flight suit alongside Sakusa, Komori, and Suna in a tin can of doom 3,887 meters in the air. Robed in the whites of the clouds, the pure, pale light of the sun pokes its head of golden curls through the vacuum sealed windows. Curious to see which of these souls shall take their seat amongst the stars. With a hum, the flimsy metal under Atsumu’s bowing legs wonders aloud too. A swansong strummed out upon aluminum floors and chattering teeth. Down below, distance paints the landscape in pointillist pastels. Powder blues, diced greens, sugar asphalts. All artfully splattered against the earth’s rich canvas.

Just like Atsumu’s guts will soon do.

f*ck.

They are about to skydive.

In an effort to escape his body before it inevitably pancakes, Atsumu’s organs sprint up his throat, vying to see which will make it out his mouth first. It would appear his half-digested lunch is in the lead.

“I’m gonna puke,” Atsumu splutters, as he doubles over. Sakusa, eternally gracious, takes the largest step conceivably possible within the tiny aircraft away from him.

“Relax,” drawls Suna, ever the hypocrite. After all, who can call themselves a thrill junkie when they fear the thrill of Osamu’s junkie? “Komori and I have done this like five times,” he assures, as he snaps a selfie of Atsumu. Presumably for the obituary. “Plus, his sister is a great pilot. I swear, you’ll live.” Atsumu’s heart, having recently discovered its calling as a construction worker through its violently hammering of his ribs, would beg to differ. “Just remember your training.”

About that.

Atsumu struggled to retain the basic techniques needed to do a backflip.

He’s supposed to remember how to do this how?!

“We’ve reached our altitude,” Komori hollers.

Sauntering over to the plane’s door, Suna shoves his phone into a velcroed pocket and slides the hatch open with a lazy, lurching tug. Immediately, the bullying winds blast their way into the unpressurized cabin, wrap their grabby, gale hands around Atsumu’s clothes, and yank. Hard. With enough force to unravel the thread of Atsumu’s fate and coil it around their fists. A chain yanked at their pleasure, rendering Atsumu a marionette. His future in the fickle fingers of a cyclone.

Where are Sakusa’s arms?

Atsumu is about to faint again.

“Newbies first,” Suna shouts over the roar of the atmosphere. “As your instructors, Komori and I will be right behind you.”

“Somehow,” Sakusa deadpans, as he fidgets with the goggles and GoPro strapped to his face, “I struggle to find that comforting.”

“And I struggle to find reason within a world that has Atsumu in it,” Suna retorts, “but we all make do.”

Atsumu is too terrified to even feign offense.

“He looks like he might not be in it for much longer,” Komori says, attempting to cut Atsumu’s shoulders down from where they hang by his ears with a swing of his arm. “Atsumu, you good?” A challenging question to answer, really, as Komori asks it while ushering Atsumu to the plane’s edge.

The ground stares up at him as a gaping mouth, threatening to gobble him up in broken, bone bites. Masticate him into minced meat. Kiss his life away. Atsumu’s eyes sting. His last will and testament penned in the pinpricking of his tears.

“I–I can’t jump,” he weeps. “I’m callin’ it off.”

“What,” Suna exclaims, shouldering his way to Atsumu’s side. “You can’t!”

“I’m sorry, Sunarin,” Atsumu blubbers, with his newly freed shoulders shaking in the breeze. “I’m callin’ it off.” He’s failed. “I’m not doin’ it.” He’s failed Suna. “I don’t wanna do it.” He’s failed Osamu. “I can’t do it.” He’s failed Sakusa. “I won’t do it.” He’s failed himself. “I–I mean, f*ck, e–evolution gave me this f–f–fear for a reason. So who am I to q–question—”

Suna kicks him out of the plane.

“ATSU!” Sakusa screeches.

H

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Atsumu’s life flashes before his eyes in a blur of blue and gold. A montage played out on the sky’s sunlit screen. The winds whip his flailing limbs. A race to see which one can get the last hit in before Atsumu meets his end upon the earth. He screams. He screams until his voice becomes an open wound. But the cut isn’t clean. It festers. Coagulating with the crusts of coughs and the clots of cries.

Perhaps, Atsumu will suffocate before he splats upon the ground.

A mercy kill. One resolution too late.

“ATSU!”

A thunderous call of his name crashes out of Sakusa’s mouth, electrifying every inch of Atsumu like lightning. Sakusa swandives towards him. Heaven-sent. An angel with his hand outstretched.

“SPREAD OUT YOUR f*ckING BODY YOU IDIOT!”

The command turns Atsumu’s terror as a key would release a lock, and he finds himself rotating onto his stomach with his arms and legs splayed out in the formation Suna demonstrated to him. His descent slows. His hyperventilating does not.

Tucking his own limbs into his body as the nock of an arrow meets its sinew, Sakusa shoots down to Atsumu. Dipped in the ichor of daylight. Fired by Apollo’s bow. As he reaches Atsumu’s level, Sakusa releases his paraglider of pale limbs and angles himself alongside Atsumu.

“Atsu, breathe,” Sakusa says. A sound so soft, so silky. It should be lost amongst the deafening winds, yet it slips from their grip. Atsumu steals it for himself. “Breathe.” Sakusa extends his arms across their freefall divide and takes Atsumu’s hands. He squeezes them. Atsumu squeezes back. “You are okay,” Sakusa affirms. “I’m with you.”

“Please, don’t go Omi,” Atsumu begs.

“I won’t,” Sakusa says.“I won’t.”

Sakusa keeps Atsumu with him as if he were a promise. Unwavering, unshakeable. As storms smuggle rain, so Sakusa showers Atsumu in oaths of assurance. Vows to stay. Pledges that this shall all be okay. Slowly, he washes away all the stricken sediments that stone Atsumu with terror. Slowly, he unfurls the fist of fear that Atsumu feels holds his doomed fate. Slowly, he pulls Atsumu close. Sakusa pulls him close, so he may finally let go.

And Atsumu does. With a yank of his parachute, he floats on the winds’ of the earth and the whispers of Kiyoomi.

He is all helium.

All happiness.

All love.

Ah.

Oh.

As his feet connect with ground, Atsumu hears not the rambling apologies of Komori or the snickered I told you so’s of Suna. No. Atsumu hears only the echo of a simple, unanswered question.

What would you want to have if it didn’t cost you a damn thing?

Atsumu glances at Kiyoomi, who meticulously scrubs through his footage in search for a clip with the most snot bubbles to send to Osamu, and smiles.

I know, now, he thinks.

I know.

2009: Learn How to Cook

“Ease up on the pressure, will ya,” Osamu barks, like the backseat chef that he is, “yer gonna f*ck up my fillet.”

Slumped over the kitchen table, Osamu studies Atsumu as strips the scales of a katsuobushi fish with a kezuriki knife block to garnish his completed dashi rice bowl. The test of this resolution. Atsumu must prepare a meal both of Osamu’s choosing and without his help to earn his approval. His dish of choice being pork katsudon topped with aforementioned katsuobushi flakes—deemed the most difficult food item to prepare out of all traditional Japanese cuisine. Osamu texted Atsumu a copy of the recipe following the issuing of his New Year’ Challenge, with the simple caption:

“Why did ya pick the resolutions that ya did, anyway,” Atsumu asks, begrudgingly accepting and applying Osamu’s unsolicited advice. Technically, his anal nature made Osamu unwittingly break his own rules. But Atsumu will be damned before he points that out.

“Huh,” Osamu hums.

“I said why did ya pick the resolutions that ya did.”

For all the ways Atsumu wears his heart on his sleeve, Osamu stashes his own within the lining of his coat. Stitched into a secret pocket. Protected by placid polyester. His emotions are something he keeps buttoned up. Close to his chest. His lips zipped and the hood of his eyes drawn down. A face impossible to read.

Except for Atsumu.

Atsumu believes twins enter this world with a built in cipher. A secret code etched into the scabs on their knees. Stored in the breaths between bunk beds. A cheat sheet for jaw jumps and lip quirks that spell out exactly how the other feels no matter how jumbled the sequence. The cryptology of knowing. The study of someone loved.

So, when Osamu shrugs out an evasive, “I dunno,” Atsumu, an expert in this field, responds with ease.

"Bullsh*t."

Short sniff. Brow furrow. Lip bite.

Atsumu is right.

“Bold to back talk to the man who’s ‘bout to judge yer food,” Osamu grumbles. “Hope ya didn’t under season it like ya always do.” He leans back within his chair and folds his arms. Fingers flexing. Teeth grinding.

Nervous.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Atsumu retorts. “Why this resolution? I’ve been cookin’ for myself since I was eighteen.” He gathers up his katsuobushi shavings and sprinkles them into his bowl. “Pretty damn well if I do say so myself.”

“Yer tonkatsu would argue otherwise.”

Atsumu’s irritation buffs away at his even tone. “The only cookin’ ya ever approve of is ma’s!”

Osamu snorts. “Duh. That’s the point, dipsh*t.”

He pales, eyes widening, breath shallowing.

A confession. Not meant to be said.

“What,” Atsumu presses, abandoning his kezuriki. He’s made enough flakes for his dish, anyway. “What did ya say?”

“Oh c’mon, ‘Tsumu.” Osamu forces a laugh. It’s cheap, counterfeit. A sandpaper scrape of his throat. “Ya know I’m not exactly gunnin’ for ya to succeed here.”

Atsumu did know. But to hear it is something else entirely. “Jesus Christ, ‘Samu.”

“‘Tsumu—”

“Are ya really that afraid?” Atsumu exclaims.

“No.”

Throat bob. White knuckles. Averted gaze.

Lie.

“Yes, ya are,” Atsumu shouts. “Ya send me on this wild ass f*ckin’ goose chase that’s damn near physically impossible to complete all ‘cuz yer too damn scared to give someone the gift of tellin’ ‘em that ya love ‘em?” Atsumu’s heart strains. Its fabric pulled taut. Its seams splitting. “Is it really that horrible, ‘Samu,” he pleads, "to let a person know that ya care for them? That ya’d kill to be with ‘em? Is that really such a horrible thing for Sunarin to have?”

Flinch away. Red eyes. Slow sigh.

Yes.

“He wouldn’t want it,” Osamu murmurs.

“Ya’ve never f*ckin’ asked,” Atsumu yells.

“I don’t need to,” Osamu counters. Cruel. But only to himself. “I don’t I—” His voice tightens, tears. The coat slips off. He is bare. “I don’t want to.”

“Why,” Atsumu demands.

“Christ almighty, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu groans, his hands fisting his hair. “Haven’t ya ever loved someone before?!”

“Maybe.”

Silence.

Open mouth. co*cked head. Soft stare.

Shock.

Belief.

Relief.

Atsumu loves someone. The proof lives in Osamu.

“Well, then ya should know that yer not ‘posed to make demands of people who yer grateful just showed up." Osamu says.

"Then what are ya 'posed to do," Atsumu whispers.

"Take them as they are,” Osamu breathes, “not who ya wish them to be.” He traces letters on the table. Rewriting a note he never passed in class. “Ya accept them as they come to ya. To ask them for anythin’ else, to ask them to be anyone else other than themselves…that isn’t love.” Osamu drags his hand over the oak. Always, always throwing his words away.

“That’s greed."

“They can’t sit at the table unless ya pull out a chair.”

“Stop tryin’ to be deep and sh*t, alright, yer not Kita,” Osamu grouses. “‘Sides, Rin prefers perchin’ up on the counter top, anyway.”

Pink cheeks. Lifted lips. Long breath.

Love.

Deep, unconditional love.

“Do ya really think that,” Atsumu whispers with his heart strung completely out. “That who Suna is, is someone who doesn’t love ya?”

“‘Course not,” Osamu mumbles. “I know Rin loves me. It’s just...”

“What?”

“If ya never—f*ck.” Osamu huffs, shifting the jacket that pools at his feet. Wondering if it’s worth pulling back on. He lets it lie. “If ya never invite them to sit down, the sight of an empty chair won’t ever hurt.”

Tight neck. Quiver lips. Wet eyes.

Pain.

Overlooked, overwhelming.

“But the spot on the counter top will still,” Atsumu murmurs.

Osamu laughs. A worn, wooly thing. “Guess yer right about that.” Swiping at the few tears playing hookie as they creep out from his eyes, he breathes deep and snatches up a pair of chopsticks. “Let’s try this katsudon, eh?” He sifts through pieces of pork and katsuobushi shells, as if his thoughts bury themselves within the bowl. Eventually, he pieces together a bite and pops into his mouth.

“Whaddya think,” Atsumu asks tentatively.

Low hum. Raised Brows. Pursued lips.

“It’s good.”

Pride.

“As ma’s?” Atsumu jokes.

“Better.”

Half smirk. Right dimple. Steady stare.

Truth.

“Lemme try.”

Atsumu plops down in the chair beside Osamu, already aiming to steal all his mushrooms. Osamu stomps on his foot. Atsumu squawks.

They eat.

A dinner defined by full stomachs that test their limits with aching laughter and elbow jabs. Resolutions briefly lost between the rice grains. It is only when Osamu rises to wash the dishes he never leaves undone that Atsumu remembers the package sitting by the front door.

A toy house.

Waiting for people to sit at its table.

2019: Buy A House

Early in the morning on December 31st, Atsumu builds with ink-stained fingers his store-bought home in the center of Aran and Kita’s living room. Constructed out of play-plastic shutters and shoddy shingles, it stands crooked and half-wrong. Completed with barely-read instructions and uncertain hands. A love letter to imperfection. An emblem for mistakes. Flawed, innately. Cherished, instinctively. Atsumu builds a home out of a box and 1:00AM a dare. He builds a home out of clandestine kisses and a coffee-stained paper. He builds a home out of twelve years of wanting and hopefully many more of having.

Atsumu builds Osamu a home and hangs his list on the door.

With each number checked and a note at the bottom.

You made your bed, but I’ve ensured it fits two.

I think it’s time for you both to lie in it.

Don’t you?

2015: Sing in Public // 2013: Ask Out Hottest Person in School

The stars sneak out of the sky and stowaway to earth, where they hide within the glitter that litters and glimmers upon the floor of a glammed out Onigiri Miya. Guests kick the spaceshine up. Cosmic dust beneath their feet, as they waltz about the jam-packed restaurant. Some sway to the blasting music. Most dance to their own off-beat drum. Atsumu smiles. All around him, laughter falls like confetti. Joy pours freely as wine

Familiar faces find Atsumu all night, swimming up to him like the bubbles of his champagne. Hinata, drunk on giggles, drags a red-faced Kageyama up to Atsumu, demanding to know why it's called pig latin when pigs “oink” not “ay.” Akaashi tangos on by with a bouncing Bokuto, who requests Atsumu record the pick-up games he plays with Nekoma the following Saturday. Iwaizumi and Oikawa inquire if the bathroom door locks for reasons Atsumu wishes he didn’t know. Kuroo and Kenma stroll on by, armed with a marathon finisher’s tee Atsumu never grabbed and a screenshot of his most recent follower count (1,003,129). Suna sends Komori as bait to distract Atsumu from his plate of chicken karaage, so he can steal the rest for Osamu.

Almost all of them eventually ask the same question. All of them receive the same answer.

Not yet.

At that, they wobble away from Atsumu, in search of another set of shoulders to sling their arms around—bliss and bourbon warming them from within. Only the hands on the clock manage to stay standing up straight. They soldier on. A sobering reminder.

Atsumu glances over at the makeshift stage Osamu somehow squeezed in between the two Christmas trees he’s yet to take down and breathes deep. The air tastes of evergreen.

It’s time.

With a guitar slung over his shoulder, Atsumu crosses the room as if it's the final slash of his signature and hops aboard the platform. His whole body buzzes. Vibrating with such ferocity, velocity, he wonders if he’ll be the first human successfully launched into space without a rocketship.

Maybe, that should be his resolution for next year.

“Excuse me?” Atsumu taps the head of the microphone Osamu set up. His voice crackles like a fireworker, bursting out the speakers. “Can I have yer attention?”

Someone, Atsumu thinks it's Kita, gestures for Aran—the designated iPhone DJ of the night—to kill the music. He does. Silence falls with all the eyes that land on Atsumu.

Ten Resolutions.

Ten minutes to Midnight.

Here, it goes.

“Ank-thay ou-yay everyone-yay or-fay oming-cay out-yay onight-tay.”

“Aw, what the f*ck, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu moans with a mouthful of karaage from his place at the back bar, with Suna perched on the counter top to his left. “What are ya doin’?”

“I'm-yay eaking-spay in-yay another-yay anguage-lay, asshole-yay.”

“What did ya just call me?”

“Othing-nay.”

“He said…” a belladonna baritone interjects, “‘he’s speaking in another language.” Sakusa Kiyoomi emerges from the audience. A rose among lilies. All red petals, black satin, and burnt passion. Atsumu’s twin flame, who leaps atop stage and purrs into the microphone, “pig latin to be specific.” He grins. “Go ahead and check.”

“Osamu-yay.”

Christ, Atsumu loves him.

“Oh no.” Osamu’s expression of Old Hollywood Horror returns with a reckoning. Bleached blanching. Monochrome mortification. Grayscale gobsmack. Osamu transforms into a starlet taking her last stand. Though this time, the movie may end a little differently.

Happily.

Though not without a little torture first.

“Oh yes,” Atsumu muses, dragging a stool up beside Kiyoomi at the mic stand. “Oh yes, indeed.” He plops down on the seat, plucking at his guitar’s strings in time to Kiyoomi’s curiously pulling brow. Atsumu smirks. Kiyoomi blushes.

The prettiest, prickliest, most perfect thing.

“I think I got some explainin’ to do,” Atsumu confesses with a chuckle to the likely very perplexed patrons. “Five days ago, my baby brother, Osamu-yay, also known as asshole-yay, bet me I couldn’t complete ten of my previously failed New Year’s Resolutions by midnight tonight.” A wave of whispers washes over the room. “Incluuuuuuding,” Atsumu drawls, strumming out a chord, “learning a new language.”

The crest of the crowd’s curiosity swells—their murmurs lapping at Atsumu’s feet.

“Well, I’m very f*ckin’ pleased to report, that not only did I complete that one, I completed almost all of them!” Atsumu boasts. “And only have two left. Ya guys alright if I finish them up here for ya!”

The wave completes its arc, crashing into a cheer.

“Great,” Atsumu beams. Then, “Sunarin!”

Suna jolts, accidentally slapping Osamu instead of administering what appears to be a series of reassuring back-pats.

“Get yer chapstick ready,” Atsumu winks.

“Did you just call me crusty,” Suna exclaims.

“I think ‘Samu will be able to answer that question better than me in just a few seconds.” Atsumu puckers his lips. Kiyoomi whacks him up the side of his head.

Scowling, Atsumu rubs at his skull as he says, “now. before I finish my final resolutions, I haveta to be honest and say there’s no way I could have ever done any of this without help.” He feels his own voice soften—sweeten by the wine of friendship. “So, in the honor of the holidays, I would like to say a little something to everyone who aided me in my quest.” He smiles. Open-mouthed, open-heart. “Yer all better people than I.”

“To Shouyou and Tobio, I must confess not only do I think he’s cute when he blushes, I think he’s cute all the time.”

“To Bo and Akaashi, I’ll admit that I was a little stupid, but what does it matter when I have his faith in me?”

“To Iwaizumi and Oikawa, the answers to yer questions are, one, the bathroom doors do lock, and two, I know exactly what I would want.”

“To Kenma and Kuroo, let the record show this is the only time in life I’m ever willin’ take second place to ‘Samu, ‘cuz there ain’t no way I’m worse than he is with this love sh*t. That, and thanks for the lube.”

“To Suna, I needed that kick to the ass. But I think ‘Samu would like one too. Or maybe he’d prefer to kick yer ass. Either way, be safe and remember our walls are thin.”

“To Toys R Us, I had no idea ya guys were still in business. Lemme know if you wanna strike up a brand deal of some sorts ‘cuz that shippin’ was f*ckin’ quick.”

“To Osamu, I know yer afraid. I am too. I’m f*ckin’ terrified up here. But I think it’s time we ask them to sit at the table.”

“And lastly, to Sakusa Kiyoomi, current masters student and the hottest guy I know in school, I have just one thing to say to ya.” Atsumu’s hands find their way to the finger positions on his guitar through blind faith—his eyes overflowing flutes of tears. Cheersing to the New Year.

“And that’s this.” Trembling, Atsumu strums the notes of Auld Lang Syne like they make up the very chords of his being. The rhythm of his heart. The serenade of his soul. A song, age old, that asks to grow old. Atsumu opens his mouth and sings.

“What I’d want no matter the cost

Is to take ya on a date

What I’d want no matter the cost

Is to kiss yer lovely face.”

A clap begins, led by tear-streaked Osamu. Atsumu belts the next verse even louder.

“I’ve loved ya my whole life

I love ya so

I’ll love ya even after I die

I swear I’ll love ya through it all.”

“Everyone,” Osamu shouts, conducting the crowd to join in on Atsumu’s revised chorus. They do. Sobs and all.

“What I’d want no matter the cost

Is to take ya on a date

What I’d want no matter the cost

Is to kiss yer lovely face”

“One last time,” bellows Osamu.

“What I’d want no matter the cost

Is to take ya on a date

What I’d want no matter the cost

Is to kiss yer lovely faaaaaaace!”

The anthem ends orchestrally. A symphonic triumph of off-key lyrics and butchered guitar arrangements that all harmonize together into what Atsumu decides is the sound of love. A truly priceless thing.

“So, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu sniffles, rising wonderfully weak-kneed to his feet. “I went with ya to yer sister’s weddin’.” He cracks a grin open, as if it's champagne. A celebration is in order. “Wanna be my date to my brother’s?”

Kiyoomi stands before Atsumu like the all stars he’s wished on during his life. A flame without pain. A question with every answer. An angel that sticks around. Kiyoomi stands before Atsumu as a rose with only one petal. A promise impossible to break. A fall from Heaven with no end. A dream Atsumu never knew he could have, let alone hold.

A chance that takes his hand.

“Depends,” Kiyoomi hiccups, wiping furiously at his tear-streaked cheeks. “Will you eat my steak?”

“Mhmmm.”

“Handle all the relatives?”

“Uh huh.”

“Kiss me?” Kiyoomi cups Atsumu’s face with his palms. “Atsu.” He fills it as wine does glass. “Will you kiss me?” Impossible to resist.

“I thought ya’d never ask.”

And as Atsumu prepares to press his lips to Kiyoomi’s own, so too does Osamu finally choose to sit beside Suna on the countertop. A long, overdue I love ya on his tongue and a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

The clock strikes twelve.

They kiss.

A kiss, that much like before, brings the end of a year, but the beginning of something more. A kiss that tastes of bergamot and evergreen.

Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s very own little infinity.