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Atsumu stumbled down the dark street, his leg screaming with every step. One flimsy plastic bag dangled off his wrist, clinking softly with the few cans of beer inside, the last luxury he could afford this month. His phone vibrated in his pocket, lighting up with another notification. He did not even look at it, because he knew who it was—Osamu again. There was already a series of missed calls and unread texts piling up like Osamu’s concern could somehow fix any of this. The thought of his perfect, stable, got-it-all-together twin lecturing him on his life choices made Atsumu chuckle, and that sound turned into a bitter cough.
He made his way up onto the bridge, limping a little as he walked, the ache in his knee a reminder of everything he’d thrown away—or had taken from him, really. The wind whipped through his hair, chilly but not nearly as cold as the emptiness gnawing at his chest. He tilted his head back, hoping maybe he’d catch sight of something worth looking at, and for once, he actually did.
Stars. A whole sky full of ‘em.
Atsumu stopped in his tracks, a soft “huh” slipping out. Kinda reminded him of back in the day, when they’d win a big game and then spend hours cooling down under the stadium lights with the night stretching out above them. His mind drifted, uninvited, back to those nights—back to the smell of sweat and worn-out sneakers, back when every step he took onto the court felt like it meant something—like he had a purpose. When he was Miya Atsumu, one of the best setters in Japan, with a future so bright it had practically blinded him.
And Sakusa was there, that scowling face lined with irritation whenever Atsumu got too close, teased him a little too much, maybe leaned in just a little too far, hoping, waiting.
Then came the one bad landing, a twisted knee, and a doctor’s grim face telling him he’d never play the same way again. Atsumu tried for months to rehab, but it didn’t matter. No matter how much he pushed, his knee kept giving out, leaving him in agony and erasing any chance he had at a real comeback. It had been Osamu who sat by his side through it all, Osamu who told him to let it go, to find something else. Atsumu didn’t want to hear it—not then, not now. He’d shoved everyone away, tried to drown his frustration, his anger, his heartbreak, in anything he could find.
Atsumu gripped the cold railing of the bridge, his knuckles turning white against the rough metal as he leaned forward, letting the night air bite into his skin. Just as he let out a shaky breath, a sharp glint cut through his peripheral vision—a sudden flash streaking across the sky, fast and blinding against the dark.
A falling star.
For a moment, he just stared, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Ridiculous. Childish, even.
But somehow, he found himself closing his eyes, teeth clenched as he let the thought come, raw and desperate: if he could just go back, just rewind to before everything fell apart, before that one bad landing, he’d do anything. He’d give up anything to be on that court again, to feel like Miya Atsumu again, with everything ahead of him.
And with him by his side.
Atsumu’s chest tightened, a wish rising up before he could stop it. Just one more chance, he thought, clinging to the image of Sakusa as if it were the last star in his sky. One chance to say everything he’d held back, everything he’d let slip through his fingers. Atsumu’s lips parted, a thought barely forming, barely a whisper in his mind: If only.
He opened his eyes, expecting the cold night to greet him again, but the world around him had stilled, like it was holding its breath.
The street was bright, bathed in daylight instead of the harsh glow of streetlights. Atsumu blinked, his heart hammering with a mix of awe and confusion. Am I losing it? he thought, panic scratching at the edges of his mind. But he wasn’t drunk, hadn’t touched anything stronger than that cheap beer still clinking in the plastic bag gripped tightly in his hand. He glanced around, disoriented, expecting the bridge, the dark river, the cold wind. Instead, sunlight poured down, casting warm shadows.
With trembling fingers, he pulled out his phone, the screen blinking to life. A few notifications flashed up—texts from Hinata. Atsumu stared, mind reeling, before he clicked on them:
Yo, where are you? Coach is pissed. Practice started like ten minutes ago.
Seriously, Miya, if you’re napping, I’m gonna kill you.
The words swirled in his vision as Atsumu’s heart dropped, realization crashing into him like a punch. He shook his head, trying to steady his breathing, then glanced at the date on the screen. It was impossible. Completely insane. The date was exactly three days before the accident that had destroyed his knee, shattered his career, and scattered everything he’d worked for.
This couldn’t be real. No way. It had to be some messed-up joke, like the universe was dangling the one thing he wanted in front of him, just to yank it away again. Atsumu squinted, rubbing his eyes hard enough to see the little white things. But no—everything stayed right there: like it was any other Tuesday.
Before he could process it, some guy on a bike came out of nowhere, nearly mowing him down. Atsumu stumbled back, cursing as the biker threw a “Watch it, idiot!” over his shoulder. Atsumu barely heard him, one realization hitting him like a bolt from the blue.
His knee. There was no pain.
He bent it, slowly at first, almost afraid it’d explode or something, but nothing. He straightened it, bent it again, this time deeper, pushing it, expecting that sharp, familiar stab to shoot up his leg. But there was nothing—just smooth, easy movement, like his leg had never been busted in the first place.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, barely breathing.
Then, before he could stop himself, he dropped the plastic bag, the beer cans clattering on the pavement behind him. He took a step forward—then another, faster this time. His heart pounded as he sped up, and before he knew it, he was flat-out running.
He could feel the wind rushing past him, his arms pumping, legs moving like they’d never been broken. It was insane, surreal, like he was in some twisted fever dream, but it didn’t matter. He was running, dammit, and he couldn’t stop. He was sprinting, tearing down the street like he was chasing something, or maybe like something was chasing him. He laughed, breathless, almost hysterical, but he kept going, because who the hell knew when this dream would end?
For now, he was running like he could race back to everything he’d lost.
Atsumu slammed through the gym doors, chest heaving, dripping with sweat under the heavy winter jacket that still clung to him like some kind of absurd costume. He hadn’t thought twice—hadn’t even stopped—after crossing that bridge. He’d just run, pushing past the disbelief and the burning in his lungs, running straight here even though it was miles from where he’d started. This place. The one place he’d wanted to be more than anywhere.
The gym fell silent. Every head turned, faces scrunched in confusion. The whole team was gathered around the coach, mid-discussion, some drill talk or strategy, but now every single player was staring right at him, bewildered.
And then Atsumu’s eyes landed on Sakusa. Same dark, piercing eyes, same slight frown of disapproval, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was bracing himself for the chaos Atsumu always seemed to bring. Sakusa stood there, perfectly unbothered, gaze fixed on him with a look that said, what in the world are you doing here?
The irony was almost painful. Atsumu had half expected the guy to look like a ghost of his memories, something faded or softened by time. But Sakusa hadn’t changed a bit. He was still every bit as steady and unreadable as ever, like time itself couldn’t touch him.
Atsumu’s chest tightened, his pulse quickening with a rush of something bitter and painfully nostalgic. It was ridiculous, really, how much he’d missed even that judgmental stare, that look of mild irritation Sakusa seemed to reserve just for him.
“Why is he wearing a winter coat?” Hinata’s voice broke the silence, sounding equal parts confused and amused, his eyes darting up and down Atsumu’s ridiculous, sweat-soaked winter gear. Atsumu caught his gaze, grinning like a madman, unable to hold back the rush of relief that flooded him just seeing them all again, like some dream he’d run straight into.
Coach cleared his throat, crossing his arms with that familiar look of annoyance that hadn’t changed one bit. “Miya. You better have one hell of a reason for showing up late like this.” His gaze narrowed, cutting right to the point. “And where’s your gear?”
“Forgot it,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual, though he knew he was probably grinning like an idiot.
Coach’s expression tightened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in exasperation. “You forgot your gear,” he repeated, as if trying to make sense of the words. He paused, letting out a deep sigh, hand still pressed against his nose. “You know what, never mind,” he muttered, like he’d decided it wasn’t even worth it. “Twenty laps around the court, Miya. Now. And next time, try to remember that you actually play volleyball here.”
Atsumu’s smile didn’t falter. He gave a quick, sharp nod. “Yes, Coach.”
Atsumu sat on the cold bench in the locker room, bouncing his knee like he was trying to set a personal record. Everyone else had already cleared out, their sweaty, loud selves thankfully gone. And, as usual, Sakusa was still in the showers, taking his sweet time. Always had to wait until the place was practically sterilized before he’d even consider sharing it with everyone else’s contaminated germs.
But Atsumu was ready. Sort of. Mostly. Okay, not at all, actually. His heart was hammering like a drumline in his chest, and his palms were so sweaty he had to wipe them on his shorts. He kept rehearsing what he’d say, or at least trying to. Every version so far sounded either like a tragic romantic confession or a bad comedy sketch.
Hey, Sakusa, ever think about me like, uh, you know, outside of wanting to kill me?
Kiyoomi, I think I might love ya. No, not might. Definitely. And by the way, you look ridiculously hot even when you’re scowling.
Yeah, right.
Atsumu groaned and buried his face in his hands. What was he thinking? If Sakusa didn’t laugh in his face, he’d probably just walk out without a word. But he was here, now, and after everything—after getting this impossible second chance—he couldn’t just not do it. Even if he botched the whole thing, he had to try.
As the sound of the water finally stopped, Atsumu sat up straighter. This was it. Sakusa would walk out, probably looking as unapproachable as ever, and Atsumu was going to blurt out something. Something that made sense. Hopefully.
But sitting there made him feel like his going crazy so he shot up from the bench and, without thinking, just stood there, staring at the spot where Sakusa would walk out any second. But after a beat, he realized how creepy that looked. He quickly glanced around, trying to look casual with some “cool” poses as leaning against a locker, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them, then pretending to inspect his nails, which looked ridiculous since his hands were still a little shaky.
He was so lost in his awkward attempts at nonchalance that when Sakusa finally stepped out, Atsumu wasn’t even ready. His brain short-circuited.
Sakusa fresh from the steam, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges, framing his face in a way that was almost, well, perfect. Water droplets glistened on his skin, tracing the lines of his shoulders, arms, and chest, his towel wrapped low around his hips. He looked like he’d just walked off the cover of some high-end magazine, except way hotter, because this was Sakusa in real life, right in front of him, every sharp line and detail.
And those eyes—dark, steady, and completely unreadable—landed on Atsumu, raising an eyebrow in that way he always did, somewhere between annoyed and mildly curious. Sakusa looked like some kind of untouchable, flawless figure, a strange contrast with the shower slippers he was wearing, and yet somehow it only made him even more painfully attractive.
Atsumu swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, as if his brain was reminding him, Hey, remember that thing you came here to say? Yeah, neither do I.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, like some weird standoff in a movie. Atsumu felt rooted to the spot, every nerve buzzing, feeling like he’d just run another set of laps. But then Sakusa moved, breaking the stillness, and walked over to his locker, not even sparing Atsumu a second glance.
Okay, now. Say it now, his mind screamed. Or maybe not. He struggled to form a coherent thought and then he tried to take a deep breath, but it felt like all the air had left the room. Every scenario ran through his mind, each one more ridiculous and nerve-wracking than the last. Just act cool, Miya. But what’s cool? A compliment? A joke? Just anything that doesn’t sound like a confession or maybe it should be a confession?
As the seconds ticked by, his panic only grew, words jumbled and stuck in his throat. And before he could think better of it, he blurted out, “Sakusa!”
It came out way too loud, practically echoing off the locker room walls like he’d just yelled at him. Sakusa froze, hand still halfway to his locker, and turned around slowly, fixing Atsumu with a look that was a mix of confusion and something dangerously close to disgust.
Atsumu’s face went red, his heart now beating so fast he was sure it would actually stop. Great. Nice work, Miya. Nailed it.
Sakusa raised an eyebrow, his gaze as sharp as ever. “Yeah?”
Atsumu’s stomach twisted, and he forced a shaky, nervous smile. “Uh… yeah! So, um… yeah.” He coughed, scratching the back of his neck and looking everywhere but at Sakusa. “Just, y’know… I was… I mean, we don’t… I don’t usually, uh, get the chance to—uh, to talk to ya like this… like, alone and all. Not that I, uh, planned this or anything, I mean, that’d be weird, right?”
Sakusa’s expression barely changed, but there was a definite glint of annoyance growing in his eyes.
Atsumu’s mind scrambled, trying to find something—anything—that didn’t make him sound like a complete idiot. “It’s just, y’know, we’ve been teammates and stuff for so long, and I’ve always kinda thought you’re… you’re… y’know, not like, weird weird, but like, interesting? And, uh… intimidating in a cool way? Like a… silent ninja? Or… maybe a samurai?”
Oh, god. Stop talking, Miya.
Atsumu gave a forced laugh, feeling his face heat up even more. “Anyway, I just thought, uh… it’d be nice to, uh… get to know ya better. Not in a weird way. Just, y’know, in a normal… teammate way… or… not just that, either…”
You’ve gotta say it, Miya. Just get it out there. Stop circling around it and just say it.
He forced himself to look up at Sakusa, his mouth going dry all over again. “So, uh… what I’m really tryin’ to say is…” He hesitated, then tried again, fumbling over his words. “I mean, it’s not just, like, teammate stuff, right? Like, we’re more than that, or at least… I think about it that way, sometimes. A lot, actually.”
Sakusa’s eyes narrowed slightly, making Atsumu’s pulse spike even higher. No backing out now.
Atsumu clenched his fists, steeling himself. “I like you.” The words tumbled out louder than he’d intended.
The locker room went dead silent, so quiet that Atsumu could practically hear his own heartbeat echoing off the walls. Sakusa was just staring at him, not moving, not even blinking. Atsumu’s heart hammered harder, the silence stretching on way too long, and suddenly, the panic hit.
He let out an awkward laugh, waving his hands as if that would somehow erase the last thirty seconds. “I mean, y’know, not like it’s a big deal or anything! Just a little… y’know, tiny thing. Like… a teammate crush! Or… not a crush, maybe just an… admiration thing? Completely normal. Nothing serious, so you don’t have to—”
“Atsumu,” Sakusa interrupted, his voice calm but firm. Atsumu’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide as he stared back at Sakusa, feeling his heart practically stall. “I like you too,” Sakusa said, his tone steady, almost matter-of-fact, like he was stating some undeniable truth.
Atsumu just stared, his mind going completely blank. Wait, what? There was no way Sakusa could actually mean that. Was this some kind of twisted joke? Was Sakusa secretly cruel enough to mess with him on this level? Atsumu’s thoughts raced, trying to piece together if he’d somehow misheard or if Sakusa was, against all odds, actually serious.
Finally, he blurted out, “You… what?”
Sakusa sighed, looking at him like he was the world’s biggest idiot. “I’m not repeating myself, Miya.” With that, he turned back to his locker and started pulling out his clothes, clearly done with the conversation. He watched Sakusa go about his business, looking completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t just dropped the single most life-altering statement in Atsumu’s entire existence.
Atsumu let out a nervous laugh, shifting from one foot to the other. “Wait, so… what does that even mean? Like, do we go on dates now? Or—do we text each other good morning or… something? Or, I mean, are we technically already dating because you like me back? Or is there, like, a… step-by-step thing here?”
He started pacing, his hands gesturing wildly as he kept talking. “I mean, I’m not saying I need some big, dramatic thing, but just… some clarity, maybe? Like, do we get matching bracelets now? Or maybe I’m supposed to just… kiss you? Right now? Because, honestly, I’d be down, just so we’re clear. Or—or do we wait until after practice? Do we even tell people? And then there’s your whole… thing with, y’know, germs and stuff, so is kissing even on the table, or—”
Sakusa’s locker door suddenly slammed shut with a sharp clang that made Atsumu jump. Atsumu watched, wide-eyed, as Sakusa turned from his locker and started walking toward him. Slowly. Purposefully. Closer and closer. Sakusa didn’t stop until he was right in front of him, invading Atsumu’s personal space in a way that made his heart race even faster. Atsumu’s brain short-circuited; he was pretty sure Sakusa had never been this close before.
“Open your mouth,” Sakusa said, his tone calm, but his eyes sharp.
Atsumu blinked. “Wait—what?”
Sakusa’s gaze narrowed, a look that said he wasn’t in the mood to be questioned. Atsumu gulped, quickly muttering, “Okay, okay,” and parted his lips. His mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what was happening.
“Stick out your tongue,” Sakusa ordered.
Atsumu hesitated, then complied, sticking his tongue out as Sakusa leaned in, inspecting him, studying like he was searching for something. Atsumu just stood there, tongue out, feeling his face turn redder by the second.
After a few moments, Sakusa leaned back. “Close your mouth.”
Atsumu did as he was told, blinking in confusion. “Is… is this, like, a thing for you? A, uh… a kink or something? ‘Cause, I mean, I’d be open to trying new things, but maybe we could start with something a little more, uh—”
“Can you please just shut up for one minute, Miya?”
And then there were lips on Atsumu’s.
For a split second, his mind went blank, and then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Those are Sakusa’s lips. Sakusa is kissing me. Sakusa is actually kissing me. His brain scrambled to process it, each thought coming in sharp, breathless bursts. Sakusa is kissing me.
Atsumu’s heart practically leapt out of his chest, and he had to stop himself from pulling away just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But the warmth was real, and oh god, Sakusa lips are moving, and oh god, I’m kissing Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Atsumu’s brain finally kicked into gear, and with a surge of confidence, he gripped Sakusa’s neck, pulling him in hard. Sakusa’s lips were warm and somehow soft but demanding, meeting him with an intensity that Atsumu hadn’t quite expected. And then Sakusa’s tongue traced his bottom lip, and Atsumu’s mind went haywire.
This is insane. Sakusa’s actually kissing me. His tongue is in my mouth— and he tasted clean, like mint, with a hint of something sharp Atsumu couldn’t quite place, but he was sure he could get used to it. A shiver ran through him as he leaned in harder, their teeth clashing briefly, and he couldn’t tell if the thrill was from the kiss or the fact that he was kissing him. Sakusa, who was usually so guarded, so distant, was right here, pressed against him, kissing him like he’d been waiting for this just as much as Atsumu had.
How is he this good? Why is he this good? Every movement, every press of Sakusa’s lips felt perfectly controlled yet rough enough to drive Atsumu out of his mind. He didn’t even care about breathing anymore; he’d give up air entirely if it meant staying like this.
I’ve waited for this, he thought, the realization hitting him with a force that almost made him dizzy. He’d waited years—hell, he’d waited in that future, stuck and bitter, wondering what he’d lost. He’d spent so many days trying to forget, trying to convince himself it was just a crush he could laugh off. Atsumu knew he hadn’t been wrong to wait, to hold on to that hope—even if he’d never admitted it.
All the time, all the moments that had slipped through his fingers, felt like they were melting away, leaving him here, right where he wanted to be.
Atsumu couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips as he broke just enough to murmur, low and teasing, “Just so you know I scrubbed up. Really scrubbed up.”
Sakusa rolled his eyes, but his breath was coming fast, his voice rough as he muttered, “You’d better keep it that way.”
Atsumu smiled, tilting his head as he opened his mouth to speak. “So… you think we could get back to—”
He didn’t even get the words out before Sakusa’s mouth was on his again. Sakusa kissed him deeply, insistently, and Atsumu felt every coherent thought dissolve. His hands found their way to Sakusa’s hips, then drifted lower, and he gave a firm squeeze, unable to hold back a smirk. Smooth, Miya. Real subtle.
Sakusa froze for just a split second, their lips still pressed together, and muttered against his mouth, “Don’t push it, Miya.”
That morning, Atsumu was sprawled on his couch, feeling like he was on cloud nine. Sakusa hadn’t exactly sent a heartfelt “get well soon” text, but he had sent a random sticker of a grumpy-looking cat with narrowed eyes that said “feel better” in the least encouraging way possible. Atsumu smirked, staring at the sticker, thinking it looked exactly like Sakusa himself when he was annoyed.
Today was supposed to be game day—the one that should’ve wrecked everything. Instead, he’d sent the coach a dramatic text about being “sicker than a dog,” “practically glued to the bathroom floor,” and “unable to even stand.” Atsumu grinned, feeling a strange thrill at the thought of dodging the fate that had haunted him.
For once, he’d beaten it, sidestepping disaster with nothing but a little bit of acting and a “sick day” text.
He was in the middle of congratulating himself when a loud knock jolted him from his thoughts. He stilled for a second before setting down his phone, and stood up, wondering who on earth would be here this early. Shuffling to the door, he swung it open—only to find himself face-to-face with Osamu.
Osamu stood there with a plastic bag in one hand, giving Atsumu a once-over that took in the pajamas, the messy hair, and the guilty look on his face.
“Ya don’t exactly look like you’re on death’s doorstep,” Osamu drawled, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.
Atsumu’s eyes widened, and he immediately launched into a dramatic fit of fake coughing, clutching his stomach with one hand and covering his mouth with the other. “Ah, ‘Samu, you really shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice strained like he was barely hanging on. “I’m so sick. Really bad. Ya don’t wanna catch this—it’s nasty. Maybe you should just go, yeah?”
Osamu raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and without a word, he simply reached out and gave Atsumu a firm shove to the side, pushing him out of the way as he strolled into the apartment. Atsumu let out a defeated sigh, rolling his eyes as he closed the door and followed his brother into his living room.
Osamu walked over to the table and plopped down the plastic bag, which promptly spilled its contents. Out rolled a couple of bottles of medicine, cough drops, a box of tissues, and a container of soup. Osamu glanced at the pile, then shot Atsumu a skeptical look.
Osamu crossed his arms, giving Atsumu a deadpan look. “Alright, so are ya gonna explain why you’re playin’ sick on game day? Or should I just assume you’ve finally lost it?”
Atsumu hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “If I tell ya, you’re gonna think I’ve gone crazy.”
Osamu rolled his eyes. “Atsumu, ya say crazy stuff all the time. Remember when you thought switching to left-handed sets would make ya ‘unpredictable’?”
Atsumu’s face grew serious, his eyes holding steady as he met his brother’s gaze. “I’m serious, Osamu.”
Osamu stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, then let out a sigh and pulled up a barstool, plopping down with a resigned look. “Alright, spill it,” he said, crossing his arms as he braced himself for whatever bizarre explanation was coming his way.
Atsumu took a deep breath, “I kinda went back in time.”