it’s because he gets hornier than a dog in heat.

you need to leave for the miyas’ birthday dinner? guess now you’re both gonna be twenty minutes late because someone got bricked up sniffing your perfume.

making breakfast in nothing but suna’s old jersey and panties? don’t blame him if you suddenly find yourself bent over the kitchen counter with him all pressed up against your back, rubbing his bulge against your ass.

you can’t even try on sweaters without being stuck in the changing room for another fifteen minutes, attempting to suppress the slick noises as you give him a quick handjob. you didn’t even take anything off. damn dog got hard watching you put more stuff on.

then there’s the parties, where you can never leave when you want because suna’s already got a decorative pillow placed suspiciously over his crotch by the time you sidle up to him on the couch with a tired “ready to go?”

“i need a moment,” he mutters, and your eyes linger on the pillow placement just long enough to realize what’s happening.

“oh my god, rin, you idiot,” you gape at him. “we fucked before we left the house so this wouldn’t happen.”

he shrugs, a wall of complete indifference despite the boner. “you looked hot, mingling and shit. i almost came in my pants when you started talking to akaashi.”

you blink. “…do we wanna unpack that right now?”

it really does.

her name is kiyomi; a quiet, soft spoken graphic designer the team hired three months ago.

right now, atsumu – your atsumu – is looking at her with the kind of reverent, breathless awe he usually reserves solely for you. 

you.

and you know, know it with all your heart, body, soul, that he isn't yours. not really. the two of you are merely best friends, but that hadn't stopped you from getting hurt by falling for him.

there had been no one to catch you.

you step back into the shadows of the vending machines, the plastic grocery bag of his favorite meat buns crinkling loudly in your tight grip, feeling so heavy now.

but he doesn't even blink, or acknowledge the noise. you're not sure if he even heard it. he is entirely consumed, and for the first time in a decade, your presence doesn't seem to register on his radar at all.

maybe it's no surprise, painful as it is.

looking back as you sit across from him at your usual a week later, it's impossible to miss. 

atsumu is aggressively flipping pieces of pork belly on the grill, his bleached hair falling into his eyes, but his mind is clearly miles away. 

later, when you tell him about your promotion at work – something you've been stressing over for three months – he just nods vaguely, eyes glued to his phone screen. a small smile tugs at his lips, the sharp, arrogant edge of his usual grin completely melted away. 

god, it hurts. when it used to be you.

"earth to ‘tsumu," you say, keeping your voice light, even when your chest feels like it's being tightened by a rope. "did you hear a single word i just said, or is the meat burning your last two brain cells?" the joking lilt in your voice isn't quite there.

atsumu blinks, snapping his head up and shoving his phone into his pocket with an uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck. "ah, sorry," he laughs, sheepishly. 

huh. he didn't use your nickname.

"kiyomi just sent me this sketch she did of bokkun getting hit in the face with a volleyball. it's unreal." 

you force a laugh, even worse than his, swallowing the bitter taste in your mouth. 

you want to ask him when they started texting outside of work, when she became the person who could make him ignore a conversation with you, but instead you just take a sip of your beer and nod. 

it's not your place, anyway.

not anymore.

"she's talented," you say quietly instead. 

atsumu's eyes light up, leaning across the table eagerly at the opportunity to talk about her. "right? she's so quiet during meetings, but she's got this crazy sharp wit. i didn't think she'd like me, honestly. she seems so sophisticated, y'know?" 

you smile and nod again, even though you don't know. you don't know her at all.

hearing him sound insecure about a girl is a knife to the gut; with you, he has always been loud, unapologetic, and entirely atsumu. 

but it's crystal clear, with a sinking certainty, that he isn't just amused by her. he is utterly defenseless against her.

but you hold your tongue, and slide smoothly back into the role of supportive best friend who will only ever be that.

— 

three weeks later, and you know it's over.

it's a rainy tuesday, and atsumu had begged you to come over to his apartment to help him organize his tax documents – a task he notoriously panics over every year.

and selfishly, you think, that this can be the moment to fix the cracks that have broken between the two of you, to finally mend what's broken.

you arrive with takeout, wet around the shoulders, using the spare key to let yourself in. 

but oh, atsumu isn't the only person in the apartment. 

kiyomi is sitting on his couch, wearing one of atsumu's old inarizaki high school jackets – the one you had begged him to keep for years, only to be told it was a ‘sacred relic’ and even you, his bestest best friend in the whole world couldn't touch it, no one except him’.

she seems to be apart of him now.

kiyomi looks up, startled, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as she immediately hastily stands up. "oh, you must be his best friend," she says, her voice gentle and sugary sweet, lacking any malice. "’tsumu talks about you all the time."

‘tsumu.

"i'm kiyomi," she finishes, flashing you a bright smile, and you nod back faintly. 

"i know," you murmur, plastering on a smile. "he talks about you a lot, too." more than he talks about me, i bet.

her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush, if possible, even darker. "he- he does?" she asks, voice hopeful.

before you can reply (not that you have one – all you want to do is scream for her to get her and her pretty pink attitude the fuck out), atsumu emerges from the kitchen holding two mugs, freezing when he sees you standing in the entryway. 

for a fraction of a second, panic flashes in his golden brown eyes, a guilty twitch in his jaw that tells you everything you need to know. 

he hadn't told her you were coming – or worse, he had completely forgotten you were supposed to be there. 

"hey!" atsumu says, his voice a little too loud, and a little too jovial as he sets the two mugs down on the coffee table. "you're- um, early. kiyomi dropped off some layout designs for some stuff, and we got caught up talking." 

kiyomi smiles at him, and atsumu smiles back.

you stare at the jacket adorning her shoulders, then pointedly staring down at the takeout bags in your hands, feeling like an intruder in a space you helped him decorate. your second home.

don't cry. don't fucking cry. not here, not now.

"i can come back, ‘tsumu," you mutter, voice remarkably steady despite the roaring and pounding in your ears. 

kiyomi quickly shakes her head, looking incredibly guilty. stop being so fucking sickeningly sweet.

"no, please don't leave on my account! i was just leaving anyway. atsumu, thank you for the tea." she smiles at him again, a soft, intimate look that he returns with a helpless, goofy grin, before she turns and gives you a polite bow, slipping past you and into the hallway.

the door clicks shut, and the apartment is filled with silence. 

you fiddle with the bag, eyes still on the floor. when you glance up slightly, it's to see his gaze glued to the door kiyomi's just left.

atsumu rubs the back of his neck, evidently jolting out of his dreamy daze before walking over to take the takeout bags from your hands. 

you let him take it, flinching when his hand brushes yours and flinching even more when his hand darts back so fast like he got electrocuted.

"look, I'm sorry," atsumu starts, not quite meeting your eyes. "time just kinda slipped away from me. we started talking about school, and she mentioned she gets cold easily, so i just.." he trails off, gesturing vaguely to the missing jacket. 

you walk past him into the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa where the cushions are still warm from her presence. "you like her." you state flatly. and not me.

it will never be me.

 it's not a question. atsumu visibly stiffens, dropping the bag onto the counter. he turns around slowly, expression shifting from defensive to something raw and vulnerable. 

and he doesn't deny it. 

instead, he walks over and sits on the coffee table directly in front of you, leaning forward so his knees brush yours. you jerk back, eyes wide, but he doesn't even notice.

 "is it that obvious?" he whispers, a breathless, terrified smile breaking across his face. "i've never felt like this before. it's like.. every time she looks at me, i want to be a better version of myself. i want to win every match just so i can see her smile in the stands. it's driving me crazy." 

he reaches out, grabbing your hands in his, grip tight and desperate. 

he is looking at you as his best friend, his confidant, completely blind to the way your heart is splintering into a thousand pieces beneath his touch. 

he wants your blessing. he wants you to tell him it's okay to fall.

but for him, for atsumu,

there is someone to catch him.

you look at his hands holding yours, the calluses from years of setting volleyballs, the hands you have held through injuries, defeats, and victories. 

if you tell him that you have been in love with him since you were sixteen years old, that every late night drive, every shared meal, and every quiet moment was filled with your unspoken devotion, you might ruin his chance at the happiness radiating off him right now. 

or worse, he might look at you with pity.

you don't want his pity. the only thing you want is his love.

 "then you should tell her," you say, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. you force your lips to curve upward into a smile that feels like it's tearing your face apart. "don't be a coward, miya. go get her." 

atsumu's face lights up with a brilliant, blinding joy, and he pulls you into a fierce rib crushing hug, burying his face in your shoulder. 

"thank you," he mumbles into your neck, holding you so tight you can barely breathe. "i don't know what i'd do without you. you're the best friend i could ever ask for." 

you close your eyes, resting your chin on his shoulder, letting yourself hold him back for just a few seconds longer. you can smell her perfume on his collar, a faint scent of jasmine that doesn't belong to you, and you finally let the silent tears fall into his bleached hair.

"yes," you whisper. "that's what friends are for, of course."

and you're falling again, blindsided by the depth of your own grief.

down

and down

and down.

oh how i love angst

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