Chapter Text
The first time you met him was because high school decided to ruin your life.
More specifically, the transition from middle school to high school forced you to start taking the bus every morning because your new school was stupidly far away. Like, “why-is-this-even-in-the-same-city” far.
After waiting at the stop half-asleep and regretting every decision that led you here, the bus finally arrived. Way too early.
The sun wasn’t even fully awake yet. Working adults packed shoulder-to-shoulder with exhausted students, all crammed together in one moving metal coffin. It probably didn’t help that the route looped around two huge schools: Inarizaki High School, famous for sports, and yours, famous for slowly killing students through STEM workloads.
Judging by the number of people standing, you assumed you’d be standing too.
Then you saw it. A free seat near the back. Like a divine revelation nobody else seemed to notice it, so you immediately squeezed through the crowd before some faster, stronger commuter stole it first. You practically threw yourself into the seat with the desperation of a Victorian orphan finally seeing bread.
Only then did you glance at your seatmate. Definitely an Inarizaki student, judging by the uniform. He had sandy blond hair with darker roots, an undercut that looked messy in an annoyingly effortless way, and shoulders so broad they practically invaded your personal space without permission. His gym bag rested on his lap while he slept face-first into it. Even half-conscious, he looked huge. Long legs, athletic build, arms that looked unfairly strong for a teenager.
He looked older than you. Maybe a third year? But then his face looked softer when he slept. Younger. Maybe he was a first year too? It was confusing. Annoyingly confusing. Not that you cared. You weren’t about to sit there psychoanalyzing some random guy at six in the morning, so you quickly looked away.
As the bus started moving, he shifted beside you and slowly lifted his head. Half-lidded eyes blinked at you. He squinted like your existence personally offended him. Then he glared. Not a normal glare either. A deeply judgmental, “how dare you sit near me” glare.
You stared back for exactly one second before looking away. What the hell was that? The guy was a complete asshole. Actually, maybe that explained why the seat was empty in the first place.
Whatever. You’d just sit somewhere else next time.
Except, Wrong. Because at the end of the day, when you dragged your exhausted body back onto the same bus, there he was again. Same seat. Same giant bag. Same irritated expression. And somehow, somehow, the seat beside him was empty again.
You sat down with a sigh. Because if the glaring wasn’t bad enough, he smelled like pure gym sweat and cheap deodorant. It was even more irritating because you assumed barely any students took the late bus home. Tomorrow would be different. You’d find another seat.
Wrong again. The next morning, he was there. The next afternoon too. Then the day after that. And the day after that. And somehow, against all odds, you ended up beside him every single day for weeks.
Not that you minded. Because honestly? Guaranteed seating was guaranteed seating. Even if it came with an aggressively moody blond athlete attached to it.
Eventually, it became a routine. You’d sit down. The blond asshole would let out the loudest, most dramatic sigh imaginable, like you had personally ruined his day by existing. Then he’d shove his stupidly huge gym bag against your feet just to annoy you.
And you, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, would completely ignore him. Twice a day. Every day. Going to school was tolerable. Going home was psychological warfare. But eventually…You got used to it. Which was honestly the most disturbing part.
This continued for an entire month.
A whole fucking month.
And the more the school year dragged on, the more exhausted both of you became. So eventually, you started falling asleep on the bus too.
The first time it happened, you woke up to someone aggressively poking your forehead. “You’re at your stop.”
You looked up groggily to find him staring down at you with the same annoyed expression he always wore. Like waking you up was an inconvenience. You mumbled a tired thanks and stumbled off the bus.
After that, it just… became another part of the routine.
If he fell asleep first, you’d wake him up before his stop. If you fell asleep first, he’d wake you. Neither of you ever properly introduced yourselves. No names. No real conversations. Just silent coexistence. Maybe it was because you were both always exhausted. The only two idiots spending their entire day trapped at school, you drowning in endless assignments while he practically lived at practice.
Sometimes he didn’t even bother changing back into his uniform after school. He’d still be wearing his jersey when he got on the bus, hair damp from sweat, headphones around his neck, looking half-dead. That’s how you found out he played volleyball.
Month two was where shit got weird. Not normal weird either.
It started one morning after you stayed up until nearly 3 a.m. trying to understand English homework that looked less like a language and more like an elaborate social experiment. Seriously, why were there silent letters? Why did “colonel” sound nothing like “colonel”? Why was English invented by people who clearly hated others?
By the time you got on the bus, you could practically see vocabulary words floating around your head like hallucinations. Naturally, the second you sat down, you passed out.
Usually when you slept, your head would just bob around awkwardly while you fought for your life against potholes and sudden bus stops. This time, however, Your face planted directly into his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Unfortunately real.
The moment it happened, his entire body went stiff. You felt it even in your sleep. Like every muscle in him collectively screamed, what the fuck. But weirdly enough… he didn’t move you. Didn’t shove you away either. He just sat there painfully straight, tense as hell, probably contemplating every life decision that led him to becoming a human pillow for a stranger.
When you finally woke up, it was because something was aggressively poking your forehead. You blinked awake.
He stared down at you. “You’re at your stop.”
Then you noticed it. The wet spot on his uniform. Silence. Horrified silence. You had drooled on him. Actually drooled. On a real human being. A very judgmental human being.
“Oh my God-” You practically launched yourself out of the seat. “I’m so sorry, holy shit-”
He looked down at the damp shoulder of his uniform with the expression of a man who had seen war. Then he sighed. Not even an annoyed sigh anymore. Just a tired, accepting sigh. Like he already knew this was his life now.
You ran out of the bus in pure humiliation and considered transferring schools, cities, and possibly countries.
Unfortunately, the universe hated you. Because later that same day, it got worse. You fell asleep on him again. Except this time, he was asleep too. So instead of one-sided suffering, you somehow ended up sleeping on each other. His head tilted onto yours. Your face buried against his shoulder.
Both of you dead to the world. And somehow, somehow, that became normal.
After that, the bus rides slowly evolved into complete nonsense.
Sometimes you’d wake up practically folded into his chest because apparently your sleeping self had no understanding of personal space or human dignity. Other times his stupidly long legs would get tangled with yours while his head rested against your back like an oversized exhausted cat. Once, you woke up with your legs sprawled across his lap while your face hung off the edge of the seat at an angle that definitely should’ve broken your neck. Meanwhile his head was resting on your chest like this was completely acceptable behavior between two people who had never even exchanged first names.
At some point, poking each other awake became less aggressive too. Before, it was forehead jabs with the force of personal hatred. Now it was usually a tired shove to the shoulder.
Or a quiet: “Hey.”
“Your stop.”
And every single time, one of you would wake the other up before getting off. No questions asked. It was weird. So unbelievably weird. Because somehow you had become emotionally attached to a bulky volleyball player whose first name you didn’t even know. A guy who still glared at people. A guy who was still sweaty. A guy who sighed dramatically every morning.
But, your body had collectively decided: Yeah. This is a safe place to sleep.
Today, for once, you were actually awake. Which honestly felt unnatural at this point. The bus hummed quietly as it moved through the early morning streets, packed with the usual crowd of exhausted office workers and students who looked seconds away from collapsing face-first onto the floor.
Beside you, the blond menace was asleep as usual. His head rested heavily against your shoulder, warm and annoyingly comfortable, while you balanced your school bag on your lap and reviewed chemistry notes for your upcoming exam.
Or at least, you tried to review them. “Fucking hate organic chemistry,” you muttered under your breath for probably the fiftieth time that week. Nothing about it made sense. Every mechanism looked like someone made shit up while high and called it science.
You stared at your notes with dead eyes. “Okay, nucleophilic substitution…” you whispered to yourself. “Reagent, reagent, reagent…”
Beside you, he shifted again. And again. And again. Jesus Christ, was he fighting demons in his sleep? His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he moved around trying to get comfortable, his shoulder pressing harder into yours before sliding away again.
You ignored him and kept reading. “Hydrolysis, oxidation-”
Suddenly-Plop. His head dropped straight into your lap.
You froze. Completely froze. Because your lap currently contained:
Your bag
Your chemistry notes
Your rapidly deteriorating sanity
His face squished slightly against your papers while his blond hair spilled messily across your thighs and backpack.
You stared down at him in disbelief. “…Seriously?” He didn’t respond. The asshole was fully unconscious. You groaned quietly. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Now there was a very real possibility he’d drool all over your notes and destroy the last remaining fragments of your will to pass chemistry.
But despite that…You couldn’t bring yourself to move him.
Instead, carefully, ridiculously carefully, you slid the loose papers out from under his face one by one like you were defusing a bomb. The entire time he stayed asleep. Peacefully asleep, somehow.
Which was unfair, because awake, he constantly looked annoyed at the existence of humanity. But asleep? Asleep he looked… soft. Relaxed. His breathing was slow and steady, lips slightly parted, blond hair falling into his face while the morning sunlight filtered through the bus window and hit him at just the right angle to make him look stupidly pretty.
You immediately looked back down at your notes. Absolutely not. Nope. Not dealing with that. Still…Your face felt weirdly warm. This was the first time he’d fully fallen asleep on your lap. Usually it was shoulders. Maybe leaning against your back. But this? This felt different.
Thankfully, your bag sat between him and your thighs, which made the whole thing slightly less mortifying. At least there was some kind of barrier protecting your rapidly declining mental stability.
Even so, every time the bus turned slightly, his head shifted against your lap. And every single time, your brain short-circuited a little harder. Meanwhile, he slept through all of it completely unaware. Unbelievable. You were out here fighting for your life over one sleeping volleyball player while this idiot was having the best nap of his career.
As the bus approached your stop, you gently nudged him awake. At this point, both of you had gotten surprisingly good at it.
“Hey,” you whispered. “My stop.”
He stirred slightly. Then his eyes slowly opened. For a second, he just looked confused, like he had forgotten where he was, who he was, and possibly what year it was. Then his gaze shifted upward. Right at you. And suddenly you realized the position you were both in. His head was in your lap, your face was directly above his. Way too close. Close enough for you to see how messy his eyelashes were from sleep. Close enough to notice the tiny crease on his cheek from where it had been pressed against your bag. Close enough to see the exact moment his brain caught up with reality.
His entire face turned red. Instantly. Like someone flipped a switch. Then, in his panic to sit up, he jerked forward too fast-
SMACK.
His forehead slammed directly into yours.
“OW-”
“SHIT-”
Both of you recoiled violently. You grabbed your forehead while he stumbled backward into the window looking horrified.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” he muttered quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Honestly the sight was incredible. Absolutely incredible. Because this was the same guy who spent two months glaring at you. And now he looked genuinely pathetic. Flustered, embarrassed, unable to even look you in the eye.
You had never wanted to tease someone more in your life. You opened your mouth, fully prepared to make his life miserable, but the bus stopped. Your stop. Tragic.
You hurriedly shoved your chemistry notes back into your bag while standing up. His eyes followed you the entire time. Still red. Still avoiding eye contact. Unfortunately, before you could say anything evil, the doors opened and you rushed off the bus before being late.
The next day, you didn’t show up. Not because you wanted to skip school. Absolutely not. You had an attendance streak and academic anxiety severe enough to qualify as a medical condition. But apparently your mother had finally reached her limit after hearing you cough like a dying Victorian child all night.
“You’re staying home.”
“I’m literally fine.”
“You have a fever.”
“It builds character.”
“You’re going to bed.”
And somehow, despite your protests, you got dragged back under the blankets and sentenced to a full day of rest like a criminal. It was a terrible experience.
The next morning, you finally got back on the bus. And immediately stopped. Your seat was occupied. Well, not occupied. Blocked. A familiar volleyball bag sat right in the middle of it while its owner slouched dramatically beside the window. Pouting. Actually pouting.
You stared at him in disbelief.
He stared right back. “…Are you serious?” He looked away dramatically. You tried to move the bag, but his hand shot out to stop you. “You left me.”
You blinked. “…No the fuck I didn’t?”
“Yes, ya did.” His tone somehow managed to sound both offended and accusatory. “Where were you?”
You tilted your head slowly, genuine disgust on your face. Was this idiot actually guilt-tripping you right now? “I was sick,” you deadpanned. “I had a fever.”
At that, he finally looked back at you properly. His eyes scanned over your face carefully like he was checking for signs of illness himself. Then, without another word, he moved the bag.
You sat down beside him with a sigh. Drama queen. The bus started moving again. A few seconds later, you pulled your phone out and shoved it toward him. “Add your number.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“So I can text you if I’m sick again,” you said casually. “Since apparently abandoning you causes emotional damage.”
His ears turned slightly pink. Which immediately boosted your mood. He took your phone anyway and typed something in before handing it back. You glanced at the contact name. Atsumu Miya. Miya? Wait, you finally knew his name.
You turned toward him. “Miya? Should I call you that?”
“Nah,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Atsumu’s fine. We’re both first years anyway.”
You stared at him. “…You’re a first year?” Your voice came out way louder than intended. Half the bus turned to look at you. Mortified, you slapped a hand over your mouth and bowed your head apologetically before lowering your voice. “You’re a first year?” you whispered aggressively.
He frowned immediately. “What? Do I look old?”
“Yes.” The answer came too fast. “Like, really old. I thought you were at least a third year.”
He looked personally offended. “What the hell does that mean?!”
“You just have that vibe!”
“What vibe?!”
“You’re built like a grown man!” He groaned loudly and rolled his eyes while you tried not to laugh.
Honestly, this explained so much. He wasn’t some mature upperclassman. He was just another equally sleep-deprived first year pretending to have his life together. Pathetic, honestly.
The moment you mentioned him at school, your friends lost their minds.
“WAIT-him?!”
“You sit next to him every day?!”
“You mean the Miya Atsumu from Inarizaki High School volleyball?!”
You blinked slowly.
“…Who?” That single word caused genuine outrage.
Apparently, Atsumu was kind of a big deal. Actually-not “kind of.” A huge deal. According to your classmates, he was some insanely talented setter with a ridiculous middle school record, highlight reels online, interviews, articles, and apparently actual documentaries following his volleyball career. Documentaries. About a teenager. Which was horrifying.
One girl even shoved her phone into your face to show you clips of him playing during middle school nationals.
It was weird. Because the person on-screen looked cool. Too cool. He was fast, sharp, confident, yelling plays with this cocky grin like he knew he was the best player on the court. Crowds screaming his name while commentators talked about him like he was volleyball’s next big thing.
Meanwhile, the version you knew spent most mornings drooling on your shoulder. The disconnect nearly gave you whiplash. Even worse? The fangirls. Apparently half the female population within a five-kilometer radius was obsessed with him. Which made absolutely no sense. This was the same guy who glared at strangers for breathing too loudly.
Who was finding this attractive? Actually, scratch that. A disturbing number of people, apparently.
By the time school ended, your brain felt fried. Unfortunately, your body still felt equally awful. You were definitely still sick. The bus ride home was painfully late, and by the time you dragged yourself onto it, your throat felt like sandpaper.
Atsumu was already there. Of course he was. You sat beside him with a tired groan, immediately coughing into your sleeve. And coughing. And coughing. You reached into your bag for your water bottle with the desperation of a dying traveler in the desert. Empty. You stared at it in betrayal.
“No…” you whispered weakly. Another cough hit you immediately after. Beside you, Atsumu glanced over. Then, without saying anything, he snatched the bottle out of your hands. “Huh-?”
Before you could react, he unscrewed the cap, grabbed his own water bottle, and filled yours up. Just like that.
You stared at him in complete silence. You almost cried because your throat genuinely felt like it was lined with broken glass and that water tasted like salvation itself. You practically chugged it.
The cold water hit your sore throat and you nearly ascended spiritually. “Oh my God,” you croaked. “I owe you my life.”
He rolled his eyes. “So dramatic.”
Still clutching your water bottle like it was holy, you dug through your bag searching for something to repay him with. Pens. Notes. Three dead highlighters. An alarming amount of crumpled candy wrappers. Finally, your fingers brushed against one of the date bars your father kept stuffing into your bag while lecturing you about “nutrition.” You pulled one out and held it toward him.
“Want a date?”
Atsumu choked. “…Huh?”
“A date,” you repeated casually. “You want one?”
The poor idiot looked horrified. “What the fuck are ya saying?” he sputtered, face twisting in disgusted confusion. “Why would I wanna date you?!”
You stared at him blankly for exactly two seconds. Then launched the date bar directly at his chest. He flinched on instinct and caught it awkwardly. Silence.
The realization hit him slowly. You watched the exact moment his brain connected the dots. Date. The fruit. His entire face turned bright red.
“Oh my God,” you wheezed between coughs. “You thought I was asking you out.”
“I DID NOT-”
“You absolutely did.”
“I DIDN’T!”
“You got defensive real fast for someone who didn’t.” He looked like he wanted the bus floor to open up and swallow him whole. Meanwhile, you were fighting for your life trying not to laugh yourself into another coughing fit.
Grumbling under his breath, he unwrapped the bar aggressively and took a bite. Honestly, the thing was disgustingly sweet. Like chewing compressed honey. But athletes were terrifying creatures who willingly drank protein shakes that smelled like drywall, so he didn’t even complain.
While chewing, he muttered quietly “…Thanks.”
You looked over at him in surprise. Then smiled a little. Because somehow, despite all the glaring and sighing and dramatic attitude, Atsumu Miya was actually kind of nice sometimes. Unfortunately, you’d never let him know that.
“I heard you are some popular volleyballer,” you said, leaning back in your seat.
“Mhm,” he replied, still chewing the date bar. “I’m not all that though. Still haven’t made the main team.”
You snorted immediately. “You’re a first year. No shit you haven’t made the main team. I hate perfectionists, man.”
He froze for half a second. Then turned toward you slowly, like you had personally insulted his ancestors. “…Did you, yes you, of all people just call me a perfectionist?” he said, breaking into a laugh that almost turned into a cough. “You spend your entire life studying. On the bus. On the way back. On the way here. You’re, besides me, the only student on this damn bus at ridiculous hours!”
You blinked. Okay, rude. “I’m just keeping up with my studies,” you said flatly.
“Please,” he cut in immediately. “You’re still sick and you came to school anyway. That’s worse than anything I do.”
That made you pause. Because, annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong. You clicked your tongue. “Ugh, whatever. You smell like sweat every time I see you. How am I worse?”
That earned you a full head snap in your direction. “Excuse you?” he said, scandalized. “I smell amazing. I’ll have you know I spend-”
“Blablabla,” you interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Nanana. I don’t care how much deodorant you buy. You smell like pure gym floor every time I see you.”
His jaw dropped. “GYM FLOOR?!”
“Yes.”
“That’s-no, that’s not even a smell!”
“It is to you, apparently.”
“I literally shower after practice!”
“Then your shower is bullshit.”
He stared at you like you had just declared war. “You are impossible,” he muttered, leaning back with a dramatic sigh.
“You started it,” you said immediately.
“I did NOT-”
“You did.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly realizing there was no winning this.
So instead, he snatched your bag and took another bar, ripping it and taking a bigger bite than necessary, chewing aggressively like it was personally responsible for your insults. You leaned back in your seat, satisfied.
“…You’re still annoying,” he muttered after a moment.
“You’re still sweaty,” you replied. He clicked his tongue.