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Miya Atsumu could tell you with an ease that’s born only over time, that he hated losing. No matter what it was, whether it was against his twin brother, Osamu, or a game of volleyball. Whether it was silly or not, Atsumu despised losing.
He took every loss to heart, and when no one was looking, let it out. He hated showing emotion in front of others, letting the tears fall only when everyone was gone. And it wasn’t quiet by any means. It was loud, sobs wrenching themselves from the bottom of his lungs and out, tears harsh and hot pouring down his cheeks.
Because every loss hurt. Every missed spike, every flubbed toss. Seeing the other team rack up points, while his own team’s stayed at such a lower number.
Every loss etched its way on his heart, like a crack that would never heal, no matter how many wins he had blooming in his chest, carving their way into the bracket of his ribs.
Because brandings don’t change once they’re made. Cracks get infested, weeds shoving themselves through where ever they can fit, and sometimes his chest feels so tight, he wonders if the weeds found their way at home in his lungs.
Those weeds weren’t pretty. They weren’t like wild dandelions that people were okay with seeing. They were ugly gross weeds that took over everything, covered wherever they wanted. They made it hard to breathe.
Miya Atsumu hated losing.
So why did he find himself loving Sakusa Kiyoomi?
Feelings weren’t fun, he thought. In all of the movies, the shows, the books, love is supposed to be happy and warm, bright and shining, like a sun in a solar system.
But love was cold, love was painful, more like Pluto than anything.
Love left him gasping for air when he looked in his direction. Love took him by the heart and squeezed until it hurt and turned his stomach into knots so painful, he thought it might have been a medical issue.
Love wasn’t happy and bright.
Love was sad and dark, like cold rain on a gloomy evening, soaking you to the bone and leaving you freezing.
Maybe, Atsumu thought, if it had been anyone else, love could have been warm. Love could have been happy and bright and shining, and everything he had seen on tv when he was much younger and had seen the world with wide curious eyes and a full heart.
But love wasn’t anything to look forward to when it was Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Because when Sakusa Kiyoomi looked at him, it wasn’t warm, it wasn’t inviting. It was cold, a glare, a warning that said stay away from me. Loving Sakusa Kiyoomi meant standing six feet away from him for him to be comfortable. It meant the annoyed tick in his eyebrow whenever Atsumu opened his mouth. It meant the exasperated sigh that got caught in his mask when Atsumu was even within his vicinity.
Loving Sakusa Kiyoomi meant his chest hurting whenever he saw his little cheer and fist pump when he made a good spike. It meant his heart racing at the smallest hints of a smile. It meant flushed cheeks when they won and Sakusa turned to him and gave him a grin.
Loving Sakusa Kiyoomi meant-
“Loving you is a losing game.”
“What was that, Atsumu-san?” And he startles, turning to their orange haired spiker, who was looking at him with wide eyes.
“What?” he says, dumbly.
“You said something just now, but it was kinda quiet. Was it important?”
He’d said it outloud, didn’t he? That explains the quiet atmosphere of the locker room.
He plasters on a fake grin and waves him off. “It’s nothing, Shou-kun! Jus’ mumblin’ to myself. Ya know how it is, right?” If it had been anyone else, they wouldn’t have let him off so easily, but Hinata usually drops topics pretty quick, and he’s right when he nods enthusiastically.
“Yeah! Kageyama says it’s stupid to talk to yourself, but I think that’s a bunch of bull.” And Hinata’s laughter is bright.
Bright, warm, and happy. Like the sun in a solar system, and it throws Atsumu off orbit for a second.
Why couldn’t he have loved Hinata?
Because he sees the way Hinata looks at another setter, and he knows that he just would have gotten hurt all the same.
The quiet returns, as the rest of them finish up changing, and someone opens the door to leave when he speaks.
“Why are you trying to fool everyone, Miya?”
And Atsumu freezes, and feels it in his chest, the icy way it spreads throughout his lungs, and he vaguely wonders if it’s possible to get frostbite in his heart.
He keeps his back to him when he gives a halfhearted laugh. “What do ya mean?”
“I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, but I’m not stupid.” And Atsumu spins on his heels, and feels the way the fire melts the cold in his chest.
“Whoever said I was tryin’ ta fool anybody?” He can see, somewhat, how Inunaki and Tomas take a step back as Atsumu himself plunges forward and closer to Sakusa.
“You didn’t have to. It’s pretty clear to see when you can’t even set properly.”
Loving Sakusa Kiyoomi meant comments like this, meant the regret underneath his ribs because of it. Loving him meant the shame he tasted in the back of his throat.
Meian steps forward, but he feels his hesitance to step in yet.
He’s good at respecting others’ boundaries, even if he does like to push them. But he can’t stop himself from fisting his hands in Sakusa’s sweaty jersey and practically shoving him against the lockers behind him.
And now Atsumu’s shaking, but he doesn’t know when that happened. He can only focus on the furrow of Sakusa’s eyebrows, the two moles that sit stacked neatly above the right one. He can see the pull of his mouth, the set of a frown, but he makes no move to throw him off.
Which is new to him, because he was certain that Sakusa would have shoved him away immediately.
“It’s yer own damn fault I can’t fuckin’ set!”
Sakusa’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance.
“Mine? And how the hell does that make any sense? I’m not the one setting the damn ball!”
“Because loving you is a losing game!” he yells, eyes welling up.
And that makes him a little angrier, because he never wanted anyone to see him cry. But here he is, fingers fisted into Sakusa’s jersey, in the Black Jackals’ locker room, alongside the rest of the team might he add, with hot tears rolling down his cheeks and little hitches in his breathing.
And Sakusa, damn him, just stands there with a blank expression. And that’s enough, he decides. He loosens his grip, takes a step backward. The air is awkward, and he feels a brush against his arm. It’s Meian, with sympathy in his eyes, and that makes the tears come faster, and he can’t stop the sob that tears from his throat. Atsumu knows that’s it. That’s the decider.
Because Miya Atsumu hates losing.
He hates the way he feels, how much it hurts, and he screams, tears rolling fast off his chin, breathing harsh and fast, and he feels dizzy.
Hyperventilating , someone says, but he doesn’t know who, and he’s not sure he’s in a state to care enough to find out.
There are hands on his face, warm hands, and he looks through distorted and watery vision to see Hinata’s worried brown eyes.
His mouth moves, but he doesn’t hear him. His chest hurts. His throat hurts, his head hurts.
“All I know,” he croaks, and he sees everyone stop to look at him. “All I know is loving you is a losing game.”
And Sakusa’s still in the same position, against the lockers, and he’s so tired, but he sees the set line of his mouth. And his own mouth twitches upward.
Because this was another loss.
He ended up addicted to a losing game.