Chapter Text
Listen, they got married.
Well. If you want to hear parts of their story from where it’s left off—see flashes of their memories that build up over time, pennies under fountain water—we can do that. But it all amounts to the same thing, in the end. River run.
Eventually the professional-relationship boundaries become blurry, and Sakusa finds a different, staggeringly high-paid job somewhere halfway around the city, demanding and satisfying all the same. He finds joy in attentive duties, pride in finished tasks—the absolute best at it too. And Atsumu continues on. The wind he chases, the thrill of the stage lights, the sounds he hears even in the folds of his dreams—Atsumu thrives on them, a king in his time.
Through all the nightfalls and sunrises across the horizon, through all the years that trickle down before them, they come back to each other, again and again.
The seasons turn on a dime.
When snow melts for spring, for grass, they sit and watch the world turn into colour. Watch the soft gleam of flowers open at morning, the light of the sun glowing in through the foliage of their garden. One of the blossoms on a nearby branch unfurls, petals outspreading like a pinafore. Someday, says Sakusa, hand rested on the small of Atsumu’s back, we should go somewhere. Atsumu glances up at him, nearly champagne-giddy with affection. If a hill overlooking Tokyo is considered your sight to see, we should go somewhere.
Europe is a maze of beauty, they think, wandering through the streets and pavements of old. Venice, Munich, Lille. Everywhere, people are speaking something in a language neither of them know.
Didn’t find that guy fishing for marlins, Sakusa tells Komori, one day through the phone, but we did have fun.
They fuck each other until neither can see straight. After noons of sights, after evenings of wine, they stumble back to their hotel and magnetize, spilling onto every surface they can manage. Sakusa would lick Atsumu open, and Atsumu would gasp hues of profanity until he moans, Kiyoomi, like it’s the best of all invectives. And Atsumu would bring Sakusa to ruin in turn, holds him in his arms, chest to his back, until the last of their shudders fade.
And sometimes in the night, one of them would whisper something, knowing the other is asleep.
Thunderstorm. The smell of rain. Storm’s coming, Sakusa warned just hours before, staring at the gunmetal sky with Atsumu’s fingerprints on the windowpane. They watch the world unmake around the shape of their own home, the raging deluge of nature rolling across the space beyond their window. When the room suddenly brightens with the white-hot glare of lightning, they’re there: Atsumu’s hair tangled in a havoc around Sakusa’s fingers, his head on Sakusa’s lap.
Hundreds of miles away from them, the low crackle of thunder belts above the earth, and for a moment, everything stops. Even the wind holds its breath.
Isn’t it strange, says Sakusa, getting older?
Not really, says Atsumu. Kiss me.
Leaves. Lights. The scent of summer. On the hill overlooking Tokyo, the layers of grass spill green over the undergrowth. The wind rustles through them as they stand, a whisper apart, the sound of trees coming alive before them.
Sakusa watches the clouds turn into wisps above him, stretching thin across the sky, all blue. The city is steeped in the late-afternoon daze of summer, the comforting hum of its life like a warm cloak over him. Somewhere through the window of a nearby building, a piano is being played, its keys chanting clarity, chanting grace.
Let’s get married, Sakusa blurts out.
There is a beat of silence. Then Atsumu says, Argh, and ruffles his hair, fuck, Omi-kun. I can’t believe ya beat me to it.
Sakusa doesn’t seem to register it for a moment. When he does, his eyes widening a fraction, body turning around in a slow movement of disbelief, Atsumu is already on one knee. A little box is nestled in his hand, opened for its ring inside.
Atsumu grins.
Sakusa Kiyoomi, he begins, but doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Sakusa’s already pulling him into a hug, and god, Sakusa’s saying—well, what do you think he’s saying.
Their wedding is a bit of a mess, but it’s also a bit of a wonderful thing. River run.
Atsumu speeds down the highway. Sakusa crosses his legs on the passenger seat and rests his elbow against the open window, a lick of wind blowing through the cloud of his hair. It tastes like grass, smells like light. They drive and drive and drive, down the long and arrow-straight road, an old song on the radio as faded as dreams are. They can watch the world roll past like this, the grassland through the rearview mirror disappearing behind them. Only the sun hangs still. Because you can’t live as though your best years are behind you, they think; can’t look back until we’re pillars of salt. That’s not what memories are for.
And when they stop, somewhere beyond the endless road, at a little house they have a long call away from the city, Atsumu pulls out a round thing from his room and heads into the garden. Sakusa follows suit, tearing off his mask along the way.
Now? he asks. We just arrived.
I wanna play, Omi, says Atsumu, throwing the yellow and blue ball up in the air. Waits for it to land back on his palm, its weight just barely a gravity pull. The touch of it like a lionsong. I recently remembered somethin’ that I read when I was younger, and it makes me really wanna play.
So what, says Sakusa. You hit the ball to me, and I get it up in the air?
Yeah, says Atsumu, beaming, I bet you’ll love it, and takes four steps back.
.