Work Text:
When Atsumu wakes, it’s a violent thing.
The air deprived from him just seconds before scrapes against his dry throat as he gasps. His body jerks against the phantom hold on his limbs, against the pressure on his chest, and he stumbles out of bed.
Immediately, the sheets pull taught around his legs, and he collapses to a knee. His clumsy hand catches on the edge of his night stand. The momentum shoves the table against the wall, and there’s a nasty sounding scrape from the other end, but Atsumu can’t find it in himself to care.
His breaths come in sharp rasps, and his bones feel as if they’re rattling underneath his skin. He feels composed of white noise and static, like he’s a second away from vanishing in thin air.
No matter how many times Atsumu is forced to experience it, sleep paralysis never gets any less terrifying.
Sometimes they follow a pattern, like if he has too many days of unrest or spends too many hours over-thinking. Other times, they spring up on him like a shark in open water.
By some miracle, he manages to stumble his way to the closet. He rips a heavy sweater from a hanger, but even as he drags it over his head and shoves his arms through the sleeves, the weight is hardly enough to give him any relief, any sense of security.
The darkness seems to deepen despite the moonlight shining through his blinds.
Atsumu trudges out his bedroom and through his apartment, his hands blindly bracing against the walls for support as he passes. He learned long ago to avoid looking into any reflections.
When he makes it outside, he sucks in the night air like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in years.
It’s routine how he beelines to the community patio of the complex.
His steps are clumsy, but he makes do. He just needs to count, to reaffirm that he’s awake and not in danger of being sucked back underneath the crushing, suffocating weight that clings to him like a shadow.
“Atsumu?”
Atsumu stills.
For a long moment, he doesn’t know what he’s seeing. But then his wide eyes finally focus on the man curled up in the awaiting wicker couch, a dark blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Sakusa blinks at him, his brows furrowing in confusion.
Atsumu can’t even manage a response. Mortification creeps up the back of his neck and stings at the skin of his cheeks, rendering him useless.
His hands twitch at his sides. But he hardly has the mental capacity to feel greater humiliation than the fear that still clogs his throat, still claws at his skin—so he pushes through the patio, right past the wicker couch, until he’s pressed against the balcony ledge.
His hands find stone, and he clings to it desperately.
When his eyes find the first familiar tower on the skyline, he begins to count.
“One...” His voice sounds like gravel, like he’d been gargling broken glass up until this second, but he continues.
He chokes on two.
At three, the pressure in his chest lessens just so.
Four allows him a deep breath, and five clears the fog from his eyes.
Six brings back the feeling in his hands.
Finally, after seven, Atsumu lets himself slump forward against the ledge.
He shuts his eyes to focus on the cool air caressing his cheek. His breath still rattles slightly in his chest, but it’s miles above the stifling pressure of his apartment.
The fog in his head begins to clear.
He’s awake. He’s in the community patio of his apartment complex, home to the MSBY Black Jackals. He has been their setter for almost two years. They had a game two nights ago. The flowers are in bloom. And the time is…
Atsumu pats his pocket, but finds it empty. He curses under his breath.
There’s a small sound behind him, like fabric shifting, and Atsumu is suddenly reminded of the present company.
Atsumu sighs. He takes another grounding gaze at the skyline—always so beautiful at night—before he glances over his shoulder.
Sakusa startles slightly at the direct eye contact from Atsumu’s previously hazy eyes. The man is sitting on the very edge of his seat like he’d been a moment away from rising. To do what, Atsumu doesn’t quite know.
Atsumu clears his throat. “What’s the time, Omi?” he asks. Croaks.
Sakusa doesn’t seem to hear the question until Atsumu turns fully to face him. The man’s eyes do a quick once-over, his face betraying nothing despite the fact that Atsumu knows he looks like he’s been dragged through Hell and back.
“A few minutes past midnight,” murmurs Sakusa after a glance at his phone. He’s still doing his half-perch thing, and it’s straining Atsumu just by looking at him.
“I’m fine,” Atsumu mutters. “Sit back before ya pull something.”
Sakusa does so, albeit hesitantly. He doesn’t seem to believe Atsumu, which is understandable. The bone-deep chill in his bones is still there, and he’s not very good at masking the tremors.
Of course his first witness to an episode had to be Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Sakusa—his newest wing spiker, and his greatest rival since they were sixteen.
Atsumu still doesn’t know what game the man is playing at, or what he’s trying to achieve. He helps Atsumu stretch after grueling sessions, he somehow manages to procure Atsumu’s favorite snacks right when he’s craving them, and he lets Atsumu nod off against him during the bus rides back from away games.
The man used to be the sole activation method for Atsumu’s fight or flight instinct—which almost always ended in fight. But with the kind acts he’s been pulling recently, Atsumu thinks he’s closer now to choosing flight.
It’s weird. It’s strange. It’s entirely out of character for them to be able to have a proper conversation with each other.
Just last week, they had an argument about who could do the most set-and-spike drills, which of course ended with them exhausted in the gym with an angry Meian chastising them about overuse.
But it was different. The residual banter afterward had been light-hearted. Welcome. Not like the venomous remarks that they would exchange, all those years ago.
Atsumu doesn’t know where he stands with him anymore. The uncertainty bothers him more than he would like to admit.
“Trouble sleeping?” Sakusa murmurs, breaking the sustained silence.
They both know it’s a bit of an understatement. Maybe the biggest of the century.
Atsumu manages a weak smile. “Something like that.”
“Ah.”
Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the dimly lit pathway leading back to the apartments. But, with his body as weak as it feels right now, he knows he won’t be able to make it. He’d only made it to the patio by sheer force of will alone, and that has already run dry.
Atsumu purses his lips as he weighs his options.
The wicker couch is big enough to fit three average people, but seeing as they’re both pro athletes, it would be cutting it close.
“Do you want to—?”
“Mind if I—?”
They both pause. Sakusa gestures for Atsumu to continue first.
“Mind if I sit?” Atsumu rasps, nodding at the space beside him.
Sakusa shakes his head.
Atsumu takes a deep breath to steel himself. He shifts his weight onto the top of his foot, ready to close the short distance.
He manages a single step before his knee gives out from under him. It’s reflex how his hands shoot out to brace against the nearest support, but it’s unneeded.
When his brain finally catches up, his hand registers cotton stretched over muscle.
Sakusa tightens his arm around Atsumu’s waist. His breath recovers quickly, even after taking Atsumu’s full weight.
Atsumu stares at him, wide-eyed. “S-sorry.” His hand curls against the back of Sakusa’s shirt.
Sakusa brushes the apology off easily, while Atsumu’s heart hammers in his chest.
He tries to tell himself that it’s no different from a teammate helping him up after a particularly brutal receive.
But Sakusa isn’t yanking him up by their clasped hands, or clapping him on the back with a reminder to take it easy. His arms are strong around his waist, his eyes carefully searching Atsumu’s face.
With Sakusa’s face as close as it is, Atsumu can see the small flecks of grey in his irises, illuminated by the moonlight. The way his long lashes brush his cheek when his gaze drops to find their footing.
The beginnings of dark circles around his eyes.
“Omi, ya…” Atsumu’s eyes stay locked on the man’s face, even as it turns away slightly. Even as he’s placed so gently on the couch, like he’s something precious. “You, too?”
“Off night for the joints. That’s all,” Sakusa murmurs, rubbing a knuckle underneath his eye.
Atsumu’s eyes fall to the man’s wrists. The weather is turning colder, and if it’s enough to irritate Atsumu’s bones, he can’t imagine what it must be like for Sakusa.
Atsumu is sure the man has other problems to worry about. He never wants to be an inconvenience, even if he hadn’t planned on running into him.
He expects Sakusa to leave him to his devices, to let him recover alone. He wouldn’t be offended if he did. After all, Atsumu has been doing fine on his own, and it’s not fair to expect anyone to help him, whether they are emotionally available or not.
But to Atsumu’s surprise, Sakusa returns to his seat.
His previous estimation is right. Their knees knock together instantly, which causes the other man to jump.
Atsumu sputters out an apology and prepares to move away, but a large hand wraps around his knee to stop him. The man gives a light squeeze before letting his hand fall away.
The small point of contact remains—Atsumu’s tremors against Sakusa’s firm and reassuring presence.
Atsumu feels his throat tighten at the gesture. It makes his chest ache, makes his eyes sting below his tired lids.
“Sorry ya have to see me like this,” whispers Atsumu.
Confident, loud, and self-assured Atsumu—reduced to a pathetic, trembling shell.
Sakusa shifts beside him. It pulls his gaze up from their connected knees, right to the blanket that man holds out in a silent offer.
Atsumu stares at it like it’s something foreign.
A long moment passes. Then, his hand reaches out, hesitantly at first. Sakusa doesn’t try to shove it into his hands. He holds it out patiently for Atsumu to take, if he wants.
Atsumu takes the blanket. Holds it tight to his chest to quiet the thumping against his ribcage.
Sakusa turns towards the skyline to gaze at the city bustling below, his profile startlingly handsome underneath the moonlight.
“It’s not something you can control,” Sakusa murmurs. “You don’t need to apologize for that.”
Atsumu’s gaze falls away. His fingers stroke gently at the soft material lining the inside of the blanket before he drapes it over himself.
It smells clean, like detergent, but there’s also the underlying scent of Sakusa. Like fresh cotton, and citrus, and rain.
Once Atsumu is huddled properly underneath the warmth, he’s struck with a feeling of familiarity. He tugs at a corner to peer at the tag.
After a quick glance at the label, he realizes that this is the same blanket that Atsumu keeps at home, albeit in a different color.
It’s also the same blanket that Atsumu had recommended to Sakusa a few weeks ago, when the man had entered the locker room looking worse for wear.
It’s weighted perfectly—enough for Atsumu as an athlete to feel secured, but not overly so that he feels suffocated. Just the right balance of heaviness and softness.
At the time, Atsumu was convinced that Sakusa had raised the volume on his headphones loud enough to tune him out—since his glare that day was strong enough to incinerate lesser men on the spot—but Sakusa had actually paid attention. And took his advice. And uses it, to this day.
It makes an odd feeling well up in Atsumu’s chest. His hand tightens around the blanket.
Atsumu opens and closes his mouth. It takes him a few tries to get the words out.
“Sleep paralysis,” he exhales. Sakusa’s face turns, just enough to show Atsumu he’s listening. “Do ya know what that is?”
“I’ve heard about it, but I haven’t experienced it myself,” Sakusa replies quietly. “I know it’s different for everyone.” He peers at Atsumu from the corner of his eye. “You can talk about it, if you want.”
Atsumu chews on his lip, picking at the fabric of his joggers. He draws the blanket tighter around him.
“For me, it feels like I’m drowning,” he starts in a low murmur. The reminder doesn’t hurt as much with company, which surprises him. “Except I can’t do anything but sink. And when I wake up… I feel like I’m not fully there. Like I’m only an outline filled with static. Like the real me is still stuck in that nightmare.”
Sakusa is silent beside him.
Atsumu blows out a breath. He tries at a smile, but it’s weak, and it slips away too quickly.
“I’m usually fine,” he insists, which pulls Sakusa’s coal eyes to him again. He clears his throat. “Usually.”
“I’m sorry,” says Sakusa, his voice just above a whisper. “That must be terrifying for you.”
Atsumu offers a weak shrug. “It helps me to come out here. And… being with you helps, too.”
Sakusa looks at him. Really looks at him.
But the words on his tongue are interrupted by the sudden shiver that runs down Atsumu’s spine.
The man frowns at Atsumu’s responding grimace. “Still cold?”
Sakusa watches him carefully, not judging, but gently taking him in as he is. It’s strange to see this kind of concern on his face up close. Strange, but not unwelcome, as Atsumu is coming to find.
“A little bit,” Atsumu admits, “but I’ll be okay.”
He tests his feet against the ground, but his legs still feel too weak to walk. He still has some time to go before he can return safely to his apartment.
Sakusa’s hand twitches in his lap. Then he lifts an elbow, offering the space underneath.
Atsumu stares. For a long time.
“You can…” Sakusa’s eyes are avoiding Atsumu’s face. His cheeks are slightly pink, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he fails to speak altogether.
“That’s—I didn’t mean—” Atsumu starts ashamedly. But the genuine gesture and lack of hesitance tugs at his heartstrings. “I can’t ask that of ya.”
“I’m offering.”
Atsumu stares at Sakusa, long enough for the man’s rare open expression to shift.
His elbow sinks slightly, but Atsumu hurriedly stops it with a hand.
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes stinging.
He wiggles closer until their thighs are flush together, checking about a dozen times just to make sure it’s still okay.
When Sakusa doesn’t stop him, he quickly shrouds the other half of the blanket over the man’s broad shoulders to cocoon them together.
“Thanks,” Sakusa murmurs, despite the fact that it’s his own blanket to begin with. He settles his arm carefully around Atsumu once he stops shifting.
They sit in companionable silence for a long moment. Atsumu basks in the shared warmth, the minute tremors deep in his bones slowly dissipating.
Admittedly, Sakusa has a few inches of height over him, but Atsumu fits perfectly underneath his arm as they are, so he isn’t too mad about it.
Sakusa inhales, like he wants to begin a sentence, but he doesn’t follow through.
Atsumu listens to him repeat the process thrice before he makes a soft, inquisitive noise to help him along.
“Do you remember that time during the Youth Training Camp? When I…” Sakusa winces, like the memory is vivid and ugly.
Atsumu frowns. But then, he remembers.
He doesn’t know the full details, nor will he hound the man for them, but he remembers the panic attack well. He remembers how the others, mere teenagers at the time, had looked on in shock and at a loss. No one was around to help—not even his cousin—so it was Atsumu who offered a hand.
And by hand, he means yelling at everyone to stop staring and get out while he had stayed behind to help Sakusa breathe.
“And you still tried to help me,” Sakusa recalls. “Even though I was foul to you from the start.”
“To be fair, I was pretty foul to ya, too.” Atsumu manages a half-hearted smile. “We were dumb teenagers with competitive streaks.”
Sakusa’s lips twitch. “Now we’re dumb adults with competitive streaks?”
Atsumu shakes his head with a small huff of laughter. “We both grew up. After our last match at Nationals, we ended on a good note. Our teams got ramen together after… Do ya remember that?”
Atsumu had nearly forgotten that himself, but Sakusa nods with a hint of a smile on his lips.
“It was a good night,” he agrees softly.
Atsumu mirrors the smile, but it’s bittersweet. “And then ya went to university.”
“And you joined the Jackals.”
Then, after two years, here they are.
The air turns contemplative. Miles away, a train passes through.
There’s a question lingering in the air—one that has plagued Atsumu for weeks now.
He asks quietly, “We’re okay now, aren’t we, Omi?”
Sakusa looks at him then, his dark eyes boring holes right into Atsumu’s soul, his entire being. Atsumu lets him.
Whatever he finds on Atsumu’s face seems to be enough for him. He gives a soft nod and says in an even softer voice, “Yeah. We’re okay.”
Atsumu smiles, and this time, it lingers.
“Tell me about yer university days,” he murmurs.
Sakusa tells him of the horrors of finals season. Of his favorite spot in the university library. Of his temporary stint at the local coffee shop, and the subsequent and dramatic quitting of said coffee shop. It’s all so very… normal. Endearing.
Atsumu makes him list every one of his favorite drinks divided into different tiers—so that maybe, in the morning, Atsumu can treat them both. Though, if he’s being honest, it’s because he wants Sakusa to keep talking in that soft voice of his.
He has never truly noticed before, how many different facets there are to Sakusa’s voice alone. Low and steady and calm. Soothing to Atsumu’s ears and his frayed nerves.
It settles something inside of him that he can’t place. His eyes grow heavy, and his breaths even out.
Atsumu sinks deeper into the warmth of Sakusa’s side. He thinks about how nice it is to be surrounded by this constant warmth. Sure, Atsumu gets pats on the shoulder and hugs in greetings and farewells, but it’s different—this sustained touching, from someone who is usually so rare with his affections.
Sakusa’s arm is a comforting weight around him. It makes him feel safe, even with the nightmare long since faded from existence. Makes him well up with unfeigned sincerity.
“Hey, Omi?” Atsumu keeps his eyes on the city in front of them, open and captivating like an abstract painting come to life. “I know this is probably the last thing ya wanted to do, but… I’m really glad it was you. I hope I didn’t completely ruin your night.”
Sakusa’s hand pauses its gentle stroking; it’s something that Atsumu realizes only once the man stops.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Sakusa murmurs. “I’m… right where I want to be.”
Atsumu doesn’t remember the last time he was able to share a moment as tender as this. He never thought it would be Sakusa who could make him feel this way.
But as his heart pounds in his chest, in a rhythm that it hasn’t in years… maybe a large part of him always knew it.
After a small hesitation, he lets his head rest on Sakusa’s shoulder.
“Thank you for staying with me,” Atsumu says quietly, “Kiyoomi.”
Sakusa’s breath catches lightly. He pulls Atsumu closer, his body warm and welcoming. Atsumu goes willingly.
“Do you need anything else?” Sakusa whispers, like he’s afraid that any louder will shatter this delicate moment between them.
Atsumu shakes his head gently. “Just this,” he promises.
The hand at his arm resumes, and Atsumu’s eyes drift shut.