Archive of Our Own ^beta

The minutes crawl by, impossibly slow.

At the front of the lecture hall, a professor scrawls a long string of figures below a complicated equation on a whiteboard. The silence in the room is only punctuated by the scratching of pens across paper, and the occasional muffled groan. The words up on the projector screen – Times New Roman, bolded and underlined – read “MATHEMATICAL METHODS IN PHYSICS.” The guy in front of Atsumu openly scrolls through his Instagram feed on his phone, clearly conceding defeat to the indecipherable minefield of letters and numbers. Atsumu can relate.

The girl sitting next to him leans over. She’s pretty, her long hair held back with a gold clasp. Atsumu would probably hit on her if he were into girls. “Hey, did you catch what he just said?”

In response, Atsumu slides a page of his notes over to her. His elegant script covers the page from corner to corner, highlighted headings in neon yellow and green. The girl smiles gratefully and whispers her thanks.

Atsumu doesn’t have legible handwriting, let alone knows how to write in cursive. He can’t remember the last time he sat in a physics class. He looks down, and sees that his right hand has been moving of its own accord, taking down the professor’s words in verbatim. His left hand rests on the narrow desk, long and spindly fingers splayed out wide.

Atsumu stares at the unfamiliar appendages for a heartbeat. Then-

Oh, he realises, and wakes up.

“Dude, I got my first soulmate dream.”

“Congratulations,” Osamu drawls through the phone. “About damn time, seeing as your sorry ass has been moping all over the place for years. Our prayers have been answered.”

Easy for Osamu to say. He got his first soulmate dream at eighteen, Suna’s point of view of their daily walk home from school. Suna had gotten the same dream from Osamu’s point of view, on the same night. Cue the rest of Atsumu’s life.

Over the years, his schoolmates and friends have steadily started pairing off as they found their soulmates. A girl in Atsumu’s class has a dream where someone calls out her soulmate’s name, and finds him the very next day. Bokuto, his MSBY teammate for the past few years, dreams of the pages of the manga his best friend edits. Yet up until the night before, Atsumu’s dreams have stayed the way they’ve always been- bizarre and nonsensical. Atsumu thinks- nay, he knows - it’s because life is out to get him, specifically.

Like now. Osamu and Suna’s faces, pixelated through the video call, wear identical mischievous grins at Atsumu’s expense. Atsumu thinks sourly that no one should be allowed to meet their soulmate if he hasn’t met his.

“Maybe that’s why you haven’t met your soulmate,” Suna points out, and Atsumu realises he’s spoken aloud. “Because you’re such a piece of shit.”

Osamu sees Atsumu open his mouth to protest and cuts in. “Any idea who they are?”

Atsumu frowns, attention successfully diverted from thoughts of virtually throttling his brother and his smug boyfriend. “No,” he admits. “I mean I know they’re in university and they major in something related to science. And they have these freakishly long, knobbly fingers. Could be anyone.”

“Kinky,” Suna croons. Osamu laughs, and Atsumu resolves to serve directly into Suna’s face at the next match against EJP.

He doesn’t get another soulmate dream for the next couple of weeks. He goes to bed at night, almost breathless with anticipation each time, and wakes up disappointed. 

He is almost convinced that first dream was a weird fluke conjured from some part of his brain desperate for a soulmate, until he falls asleep one night and a crowded room swims into his vision.

It’s clearly a recreation room of sorts. It’s the kind one would see in a university residence, complete with a ping pong table and a foosball machine, pushed up against the wall to make room for the throng of students mingling in the room. Judging by the way some students are swaying on their feet, yelling directly into the ears of their friends next to them, someone has found a way to spike the punch.

Atsumu snorts to himself. Psh. Typical university students.

His soulmate appears to be standing a little apart from the crowd of students, right in the corner of the room. He doesn’t make an effort to approach anyone or strike up a conversation. Atsumu wonders why he even bothered to show up. 

A boy with spiky hair saunters up to his soulmate, giving him a half-lidded gaze. “Hey, handsome. You here alone?”

Atsumu bristles indignantly. The nerve of this guy, hitting on his soulmate? Never mind the fact that Atsumu would probably be flirting his way around the room if he were a single guy at a party too. That’s different. No one is allowed to hit on his soulmate but him.

“Yes,” his soulmate says stiffly. “And I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Come now,” a voice wheedles from next to him. A handsome blond guy – Atsumu is instantly jealous because hey, that’s his thing – has slung his arm around his soulmate’s shoulders. They must be friends, because his soulmate doesn’t make an effort to lean away from him. “He doesn’t mean that! You’ll have to pardon this guy, it’s his first time at one of these things even though it’s his last year at university.”

“My first and last time,” his soulmate mutters. “I’ll be damned if I let you drag me to another one of these things.”

“Aw,” the spiky hair guy seems to have regained some of his confidence. “You sure I can’t convince you to have one drink? What’s your name, anyway?”

Atsumu never finds out whether his soulmate replies, because suddenly he’s blinking awake in his tiny bed in the room he shares with Bokuto. At the other end of the room, Bokuto gives another earth-shattering snore. Atsumu scowls at him fiercely, and chucks his pillow at his head.

“Bro,” Bokuto protests sleepily. “Whaddya do that for?”

“Your snoring woke me up,” Atsumu hisses. “Right when I was about to find out his name!”

“Mmph,” Bokuto mumbles. “Go back to sleep?”

Atsumu huffs, and turns his back on Bokuto. As he tries desperately to return to his dreams, an unwelcome thought occurs to him. His soulmate is apparently, according to that spiky-haired bastard, handsome. 

Atsumu knows he’s no slouch himself, but will his soulmate find him attractive, too? What if blonds aren’t his type? What if, god forbid, his soulmate thinks he’s average? Atsumu does not think his ego could handle it if someone ever looks sympathetically at his partner and goes, “As long as you’re happy, bro.”

Right. He needs to get a new skincare routine.

At first, it’s a little hard to tell the difference between his regular dreams and the dreams from his soulmate’s point of view. Once, Atsumu spends a good two minutes trying to figure out which university his soulmate goes to based on the decor on the walls of the classroom before realising that it’s an old Inarizaki classroom and yep, that’s Ginjima in a dress behind the teacher’s desk. 

Over time, though, he learns to identify the little tells that distinguish soulmate dreams from regular dreams. There’s a sense of clarity that is often absent from his usual weird dreams, the tiny details sharpened and played across Atsumu’s subconscious in high definition. This would be helpful, if not for the fact that the snippets of his soulmate’s life that Atsumu gets are vague and plain mundane. He’s not complaining, especially since he’s been waiting for this for years, but he had been hoping that he would find out something more helpful than the fact that his soulmate is big on skincare and sour candies. 

His soulmate dreams are kind of like a daytime reality TV show, he muses, as he finds himself in a dream where he’s shuffling along the aisles of a supermarket. His soulmate is ticking things off his shopping list (also handwritten in perfect script) with terrifying efficiency. Atsumu examines the contents of his basket – canned sardines, cup noodles, premium 3-ply tissues – your typical college student staples. The only moment where he seems to hesitate a little is in the cleaning products aisle, where his hand hovers between two different types of cleaning spray for a moment. Then he picks one and moves towards the cashier, snatching up two umeboshi onigiris without a second thought.

Atsumu jolts up from that particular dream in cold sweat, and dials Osamu.

“Better be good,” Osamu grumbles when he finally picks up. “Talk.”

“What does it mean when a person’s favourite onigiri flavour is umeboshi?”

Osamu is quiet for a moment, long enough that Atsumu thinks he’s fallen back asleep. “You called me,” his voice has taken on a slightly murderous edge, which is never a good thing, “At six in the morning. To ask me about onigiri flavours?”

“Come on!” Atsumu puts some distance between his phone and his face gingerly. He wouldn’t put it past Osamu to reach through the receiver and stab him in the eye. “You’re the onigiri man, an’ all. What does someone’s favourite onigiri flavour say about them?”

“Umeboshi?”

“Yeah!” Atsumu says excitedly. He opens the Notes app on his phone, where he has been collating a list of things he’s learned about his soulmate. 

• Studies physics (smart???)
• Nice handwriting
• Weird fingers
• Handsome (?)
• Doesn’t like parties
• Prefers sour Skittles to regular ones
• But likes umeboshi the best
• Gets his brows done (good pain tolerance)
• Good pores (according to brow lady)
• Mostly buys canned foods and pre packed meals (can’t cook? LOL)

“Well, if a person’s favourite onigiri flavour is umeboshi,” Osamu says slowly. Atsumu leans forward in anticipation, fingers poised on his screen, ready to jot down his latest clue. “It means their soulmate is a little bitch.” 

He puts down the phone. Atsumu stares at it incredulously. “Fine,” he says to his darkened screen. “Be that way.” 

No matter. Atsumu will figure this out on his own.

“Check this out!” Bokuto exclaims excitedly. “Some sports journalist wrote an article on who’s going to join the V League next season.”

“Ooh,” Inunaki leans over in interest, nearly crushing Atsumu’s thighs in the process. “Wait, they’re saying Nichollas Romero is joining the Adlers next year?”

“Ushijima, Hoshiumi, Kageyama, and Romero in one team?” Meian raises an eyebrow. “Surely there has to be some kind of rule against that.”

Atsumu shudders internally. Since he’s started playing professionally, MSBY have yet to beat the Adlers in an official match. They’ve stuffed a few of Ushiwaka’s spikes with three-man blocks, but their floor defence is still lacking somewhat, a fact that Ushiwaka exploits mercilessly. It doesn’t help that the Adlers is home to the newest national team starting setter slash Monster Curry brand ambassador either. No, Atsumu is not bitter. 

“Hey, they also said Sakusa Kiyoomi is joining the V League next year!” Inunaki says, scanning through the article on Bokuto’s phone.

Atsumu does look up at that. “The guy who they say will most likely be the collegiate MVP this year?” Meian asks. “Did they say which team he’s looking to join?”

“Nah,” Inunaki says after a moment. “Apparently he’s still considering his options.”

“Keiji says he’s gotten even better since high school,” Bokuto pipes up, eyes lighting up as they always do when he finds a way to start a sentence with “Keiji”. Atsumu would like to reiterate his earlier belief that no one should be allowed to find their soulmates until he does. “His team always loses three sets to nil when they play Waseda.”

“‘Course they do,” Atsumu grumbles. “Stupid, perfect Sakusa.”

All eyes turn to him. “I always forget you guys all knew each other in high school,” Meian says. “So what’s he like? Is he nice?”

“Nice?” Atsumu considers this. Summertime is nice. Fatty tuna is nice. Heckling his brother and his brother’s boyfriend is nice. Sakusa Kiyoomi, however… “That’s not the word I would use to describe him.”

Asking if Sakusa Kiyoomi is nice is like asking if a lion would be friendly towards an injured, limping deer. He still recalls Sakusa approaching Kageyama at training camp in his second year, demanding to know why Shiratorizawa had lost to Karasuno, and then later squinting at Hoshiumi’s toss judgmentally before running up to spike it. Atsumu couldn’t help but notice that Sakusa never hesitated when it came to his sets, though, and remembers feeling smug about that.

If you can’t hit my tosses, then you probably suck, he tells Sakusa in their first year at training camp.

Good  Sakusa had replied. Because I don’t spike tosses from lousy setters.

The last time he ran into Sakusa was at Nationals in their third year, right after he’d led Inarizaki to win the championship. He had been high off their win, euphoric enough to swagger up to Sakusa, not quite an acquaintance but still not a friend, and ask him which team he was planning on joining after graduation.

I’ve signed to the MSBY Black Jackals, Atsumu had bragged. ‘M gonna be their starting setter in no time.

I’m going to Waseda, Sakusa had replied stiffly. I got my acceptance letter yesterday.

Atsumu had turned to gawk at him. What do you mean? Don’t you wanna go pro?

I do. But our bodies aren’t going to stay in shape forever. I’d like to have something to fall back on when the time comes.

Ever the realist, Atsumu had sighed. Well, see ya when I see ya, then.

Atsumu didn’t mean to keep track of Sakusa over the years, but he comes across the occasional tale along the grapevine every now and then anyway – how Sakusa had turned down an offer from a Polish team to complete his degree (the audacity), how he had amassed something of a cult following in the collegiate volleyball circuit (the injustice), how his spike had somehow become even nastier (the sheer gumption!)... Atsumu grits his teeth just thinking about the guy. 

He wonders what kind of person Sakusa Kiyoomi’s soulmate would be. With that personality, he wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be one of those people without a soulmate. 

That night, he dreams about playing volleyball. He isn’t too surprised by this, since this is approximately how ninety percent of his dreams begin.

The gymnasium he’s playing in is nondescript enough, with polished wooden floors and windows near the ceiling revealing that it’s nighttime outside. There is a cart full of Mikasa volleyballs (his preferred brand) next to him, and he seems to be the only person in the gym. He takes a ball from the cart, tosses it high into the air, and begins his run up to serve.

Atsumu has had this dream a thousand times before. He’s seen every possible variation of this dream. More often than not, the ball ends up landing just outside the white line, and Atsumu will try again and again, until he wakes up. In the more annoying iterations of this dream, Osamu appears just as the ball is about to land, and bumps it into a perfect receive, smirking at Atsumu the entire time. One time, the court turned into a giant swimming pool right as the ball lands, and a bunch of water polo players shouted at him for ruining their game, and Kita-san had appeared with a giant trident in hand, telling Atsumu that he had trespassed on his domain. That had been a weird one.

All this to say – Atsumu knows every possible way this dream could end, but nothing can prepare him for how the ball sails through the air perfectly upon contact with his palm, and lands right inside the corner of the court.

Atsumu feels like whooping. He wants to celebrate, he really does. That would almost definitely have been an ace in real life. But dream him only “tch”s in obvious disappointment, before heading back to the ball cart to pick up another ball.

Atsumu is confused for a moment, before he sees his hand – narrow and bony, complete with freakishly knobbly fingers – reach out to grasp another ball. Then he understands.

He’s so excited that he jumps out of bed, and goes to shake Bokuto awake. “He’s a volleyball player, Bokkun!”

Bokuto only groans. “What does a guy have to do to get one night of peace around here?”

If Atsumu was obsessed with finding his soulmate before, that’s nothing compared to after he finds out his soulmate plays volleyball. And, he’s good at it.

“Must you really hunt him down like this?” Aran complains as Atsumu drags his childhood friend to watch Nippon Sports Science University play against Sendai University on a rare day off for the both of them. “What if you creep him out with your stalking?”

“It’s fate,” Atsumu says adamantly. “The universe is sending me these dreams now, because I need to find him and make sure he’s good enough to get into the V League after he graduates. I’m meant to mentor him. I can feel it.”

“How are you even going to tell it’s him?” Aran says wearily. “Go up to every player and ask them what their favourite onigiri flavour is?”

“Well, I still don’t know what position he plays,” Atsumu considers. With those long-ass fingers, his soulmate definitely had the makings of a setter. Or a middle blocker, actually. “Or what university he plays for. But I’ll be able to feel it if he’s there, I’m sure!”

Aran stops in his tracks then. “You made me buy a last minute train ticket to Sendai just so you could sit there and feel?” 

“Are you saying you don’t like spending time with me?” Atsumu goes to elbow his friend in the ribs, and gleefully dodges the responding swipe at his head. “I’m hurt, Aran-kun.”

Aran mutters something about showing him real hurt, but grudgingly follows Atsumu into the gymnasium. Their trip bears little fruit, sadly, even though Atsumu and Aran do recognise some old Karasuno members playing for Sendai University and go to greet them afterwards.

Over the next few weeks, Atsumu convinces new and old friends alike to accompany him to various university games wherever MSBY plays a match. He doesn’t have much luck, and he doesn’t dream of his soulmate playing in official matches either, so he still has no clue what team he even plays for. All Atsumu continues to get are little mundane details of his life, like the way he brings his own pot to the communal kitchen to boil a pack of salad (Atsumu is frightened but also a little intrigued), and how he has a little Kuromi charm dangling from his phone case. He doodles disparaging things about his lecturers and his classmates in the margins of his notes, and avoids crowds like the plague. Here is a man after Atsumu’s own heart.

It’s all so strangely endearing, and Atsumu doesn’t quite know what to do with the overwhelming fondness he feels for a guy he’s never even met. It threatens to fill him up and explode out of his chest every time he collects a new tidbit about him, and he stores away these precious nuggets of information in the locked Notes app on his phone.

As the season comes into full swing, Atsumu is forced to take a break from his new hobby to focus on his real job. Every game is important, no matter the opponent, and Coach Foster has stressed the importance of putting up a good show to attract as many talented youngsters as possible for the next season. 

His team are as reliable as ever, and Atsumu is genuinely proud to be a part of them, but it still doesn’t take away the sting when they play the Adlers in Tokyo and lose, again. He glares at Ushiwaka and Tobio-chan and Hoshiumi “Wonder Pigeon” Korai through the net, and vows to beat them next time.

“That’s what you said last time, too,” Ushijima says placidly, no hint of malice in his voice whatsoever. Behind him, Hoshiumi squawks that he’ll make sure MSBY doesn’t make it to five sets the next time they play – he’ll beat them in one set!

“That’s not how volleyball works, Hoshiumi-san,” Kageyama says. 

Atsumu’s bad mood only improves slightly when he gets ready for bed that night, looking forward to a calming dose of his soulmate’s daily routines. 

No such luck, apparently. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and Ushijima’s face swims into his focus. 

Someone up there really hates him. As if it’s not enough for him to be taunted by Ushiwaka’s stupid left-arm cannon during his waking hours, his subconscious has apparently invented a new kind of nightmare where Ushijima haunts his sleep too. Ugh.

It’s only when the scene fully solidifies that Atsumu realises that Ushijima’s face is clear and sharp, along with the details of the cafe in the background. He looks down, and sees long, thin fingers drumming on the table.

Oh, no.

“I took the liberty of ordering a chai latte for you while waiting,” Ushijima says to his soulmate, sliding a cup across the table to him. “As I recall, that is your favourite drink.”

His soulmate accepts the cursed beverage, and swirls a wooden stirrer around his cup. “I apologise for keeping you waiting, Wakatoshi-kun. I know you have a match later, and I would hate to hold you back from it.”

Wakatoshi-kun? Atsumu wonders if it’s possible to throw up in his sleep, because not only does the object of his dreams (literally) know Ushijima Wakatoshi, they are on good terms with him.

The corners of Ushijima’s eyes crinkle up, and it takes Atsumu a moment to realise that he’s smiling. He wonders whether it is a recruitment criteria for potential members of the Schweiden Adlers to have the most terrifying smiles known to mankind.

“No need to worry,” Ushijima says. “I have accounted for enough time in my schedule, along with buffer time for any additional delays. Will you be coming to the game later?”

“I have a midterm due this evening,” Atsumu can hear the regretful tone in his soulmate’s voice. “I will have to find time to watch the recording. By the way, please let Tendou-san know that payment is due for our joint V League account.”

Ushijima hums. “I had a dream that he’s at a retreat for culinary students somewhere in the French countryside. He doesn’t have access to the Internet there, but I’m sure he will contact you whenever he can.”

Thank the gods. Ushiwaka has a soulmate of his own. Atsumu doesn’t know what he’ll do if it turns out that Ushiwaka has been clandestinely seeing Atsumu’s soulmate. Still, he feels a pinch of jealousy all the same at how easily Ushijima converses with his soulmate, as if they’ve known each other forever.

The silver lining of that nightmare is that he does find out that his soulmate lives in Tokyo. On the downside, MSBY is slated to play only home games in Osaka for the next few weeks, so Atsumu has no choice but to rely on the occasional dream for updates on his soulmate’s life. 

Before he started dreaming of his soulmate, Atsumu had always regarded the whole soulmate business as some kind of twisted lottery. The idea of having one person who was supposedly perfect for him sounded like a scam at best, and Atsumu wasn’t too pressed about his soulmate having to be someone he was romantically linked with. He would have been more than fine with his soulmate being a platonic one, as long as he knew there was someone out there for him.

But this – finding solace in the methodical way his soulmate puts away his clean laundry, knowing that his hands cramp up after long hours of scribbling away, the urge to interlock their fingers as he goes on his coffee run every morning – this is a real nasty thing. A true affliction. Bona fide romantic feelings. 

Atsumu has romantic feelings for a guy whose name and face he doesn’t even know.

Osamu takes one look at his face when Atsumu calls him after this realisation, and laughs his ass off. “Oh man,” he wheezes. “You have a crush on a guy who eats boiled vegetables for dinner.”

Of course that’s the part Osamu chooses to fixate on. “He can’t cook,” Atsumu says defensively. “Doesn’t matter. ‘M gonna make you cook for him when I find out who he is.”

“If you ever find out who he is.” Osamu always has a knack for twisting the knife right where it hurts. “Speaking of, why haven’t they come to find you? They might know who you are.”

That’s true. A few nights ago, his soulmate had watched a recording of the match between MSBY and the Adlers. Atsumu had nearly jumped in excitement when his soulmate paused the recording right after Atsumu sent a risky set all the way from the back of the court into Bokuto’s waiting palm. The blockers didn’t even have time to react – it was Atsumu’s best play of the match. 

His soulmate had replayed the recording several times, and then whipped out a heavy-looking leather bound notebook. He flipped past pages of carefully drawn diagrams and formations, before coming to a blank page and sketching out the play. Then he scribbles “TO TRY ” at the top of the page in pencil.

Atsumu had walked around with his chest puffed out for days after that. “They know who I am,” he gloats to Osamu now. “Even if they don’t know we’re soulmates. They look up to me, ‘cause I’m a respected setter. Who they admire. They wanna model their plays after mine.”

“The more you talk about it, the more I’m convinced you somehow made it all up in that big fat head of yours,” Osamu says. “Maybe you got so obsessed with them that your brain started making up a bunch of shit in your normal dreams.”

Atsumu absently flips him off. He used to wonder if it was the universe’s idea of a sick joke, giving everyone their perfect match but him. But now he understands – this is the joke, giving Atsumu a soulmate but also never giving him enough information to pin down who he is. He’s never once caught a glimpse of a last name or even a university name on a jersey, never seen his soulmate play in an official match, never even heard someone call his name. The universe is laughing as it dangles Atsumu’s soulmate just out of reach, like Tantalus’ fruit.

MSBY finally find their way back to Tokyo for a game against EJP Raijin, and for once it isn’t Atsumu’s idea to watch a collegiate game on their day off. Bokuto had all but begged Atsumu to accompany him to watch his soulmate’s team play against Waseda University. 

“Keiji says they’re gonna lose! I need moral support if I have to watch that,” Bokuto pleads.

Atsumu pretends to consider it, as if he hadn’t already been planning to sneak into the match anyway. “Dinner is on you,” he says.

“Done!” Bokuto says excitedly, and Atsumu actually feels a little bad. No one gloats about taking candy from a baby.

The match is held in Waseda’s gymnasium, with the University of Tokyo on the away side of the gym. It’s pretty packed for a collegiate game, and Atsumu doesn’t miss the groups of giggling fans who hold up signs with various players’ names and jersey numbers on them. Atsumu’s lip curls when he spots a few signs with “SAKUSA #15” on them. 

The players stream out onto the court, and cheers erupt around the gym. Sakusa cuts the most striking figure in the Waseda contingent, sharp shoulders rising above his teammates. He pays no attention to the fans squealing for his attention, making a beeline straight for the bench to set down his bottle and wipes. Clearly, Sakusa’s prickly personality is no deterrent for these shallow, vapid tweens. So what if he has perfect, glowing skin, or delicate curls swept from his face after he finally managed to tame them post-high school? Atsumu likes to think that his fans are of a more discerning, mature breed. 

Atsumu is so busy scowling at Sakusa’s marble countenance that he barely registers any other players, and only remembers that he’s supposed to be scouting out potential soulmates when Bokuto whoops loudly when Akaashi enters the court with his team.

“I really hope Keiji wins this one!” Bokuto says earnestly. “He’s not going pro, so it’s his last year playing competitively.”

Atsumu doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. Amongst Sakusa’s teammates, he sees a vaguely familiar looking guy with a mohawk – Atsumu thinks he used to be from Nekoma – and Shiratorizawa’s old setter. Atsumu runs through the mental catalogue he keeps of rival high school setters and recalls his name – Shirabu Kenjiro. Right. He wonders if Shirabu can keep up with Sakusa’s demanding, critical nature. Atsumu knows he can.

The first set starts with Sakusa’s serve. Atsumu knows in his bones it’s a good one as soon as he tosses the ball into the air and begins his run up. He leaps, and is suspended for a moment in midair, perfect form outlined by the bright lights of the gym. The ball streaks through the air, landing awkwardly on the opponent libero’s arms before veering off course in a wicked curve.

It’s a service ace. Atsumu’s heart goes out to the Tokyo University guys.

“Jeez,” Bokuto mutters under his breath, slouching in his seat. “Talk about a nasty serve.”

The left corner of Sakusa’s lip curls up in a smirk as he snatches up another ball for his next serve, and Atsumu feels something hot flicker in his gut at the almost predatory look in his eyes. 

He wants him. On his team, he means.

Tokyo University stands no chance. Akaashi makes a few good sets here and there, but it seems like Sakusa has improved on his receiving too, because their spikes never seem to find the floor. That one sports journalist wasn’t kidding about Sakusa being named the MVP. Out of all the collegiate matches he’s watched so far, there has been no one who plays quite like Sakusa does, turning the sport into something of an art form, every eye in the gym fixated on his every move.

Tokyo University manages to pull themselves together in the third set, Akaashi’s plays slowly picking apart Waseda’s blocks. Bokuto is practically vibrating in his seat, hooting when Akaashi pulls off a setter dump that has Sakusa gritting his teeth in frustration. The next spike from Tokyo University is heavy as well, and Waseda’s libero botches the receive. Shirabu has to scramble to the back of the court to cover it.

Shirabu has to send it back over the net now, Atsumu thinks. Waseda’s best chance would be to try and get the next spike, and attack from there.

But Shirabu somehow manages to get under the ball, and sends it up in a toss towards the front of the court. Atsumu’s mouth falls open — it’s going to get shut down instantly by Tokyo Uni’s blockers if no one is there to spike it.

The ball arrives at the top of the net in the blink of an eye. Then Sakusa materialises out of nowhere, flying above the three man block, and sends the spike at the blockers’ fingertips in the most perfect wipe Atsumu has ever seen.

Pin-drop silence. Even the referee looks dazed for a moment before blowing on his whistle, as if even he is unsure of what just happened. 

Atsumu knows. He knows that play, because it’s his. It’s the one he executed against the Adlers, and the one his soulmate marked out to try. A series of images flash before his eyes. The quiet streets of Tokyo early in the morning. An empty gym late at night. Ushijima Wakatoshi’s smiling face across a chai latte. 

The corner of a leather bound notebook, embossed with gold initials at the top corner. S.K.

Atsumu shoots out of his seat, and stares. 

Atsumu doesn’t know what he had expected finding his soulmate to feel like, but he didn’t think it would feel like a colony of fire-breathing ants had made a nest in his stomach.

He waits with Bokuto outside the changing rooms, fidgeting nervously. How does a normal person tell someone that they are soulmates? Wait, did people usually make a big deal of it? Was he supposed to buy flowers? Rent out a rooftop restaurant?

Bokuto slaps Atsumu on the back encouragingly. “Go for it, bro! I’m sure he’s gonna be thrilled.”

Atsumu wonders where Bokuto gets his otherworldly optimism from, because he could really use some right now. The Waseda players start to stream out, chattering amongst themselves. A few of the younger players cast starstruck looks at Bokuto and Atsumu, two V League Division 1 players, but wisely avoid conversation with them. That’s good, because Atsumu will not be held liable for anything he says or does in this current state.

He spots him emerging from the changing room. It’s now or never, Atsumu thinks, and approaches him. 

“Shirabu Kenjirou,” Atsumu calls, striding forward. “You have a moment?”

The other Waseda players part for him. Shirabu stares at him, totally poker-faced. Jeez. Way to make a guy on the verge of peeing his pants feel better.

“Yes?” Shirabu says.

Go big or go home. Atsumu reaches down and grabs Shirabu’s hands with his, and plasters on what he thinks is his most charming smile. He’s pretty sure someone is filming this, but whatever. “Shirabu Kenjirou. You eat umeboshi at the rate most people eat chips. You start eating from the tail end of the taiyaki, because you’re secretly a romantic. You have a robotic vacuum cleaner in your dorm room, but you manually clean your floors with disinfectant spray anyway. I don’t know if you’ve already figured this out, but I’m your soulmate.”

Shirabu gapes at him for a moment. Atsumu takes a moment to study his appearance. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t help but feel like he wasn’t quite expecting his soulmate to look like that. He supposes he had been picturing someone taller, maybe with dark hair and dark eyes. Maybe he had been thinking of some movie star.

Everyone around them has fallen silent, eyes swivelling from Shirabu to Atsumu like they’re watching a particularly riveting rally. Out of the corner of his eye, Atsumu sees that even Sakusa has frozen on his way out of the building, eyes wide and round.

Atsumu waits graciously for Shirabu to collect himself. He knows it’s a lot to take in, after all – if he were a mere collegiate player who just found out that his soulmate was a rising V League superstar, he would be awestruck too.

“Miya-” Shirabu frowns. “Sorry, which one are you?”

Atsumu feels his smile begin to slip off his face. “Atsumu,” he says indignantly.

“Right, Miya Atsumu-san.” It is actually remarkable how fast Shirabu regains his composure. He’s heard from someone that the guy is in medical school, so he supposes this makes sense. “We cannot possibly be soulmates.”

“What do you mean,” Atsumu says.

“The last time I ate an umeboshi, I threw up. I dislike sour foods. I don’t eat taiyaki often enough to know if I eat it from the head or the tail. I don’t even know what a robotic vacuum cleaner is.”

Atsumu feels faint. “But you play volleyball at a Tokyo university! And aren’t you Ushiwaka’s junior? I dreamt that you met up with him – you even called him Wakatoshi-kun!”

“There are probably more than two hundred collegiate volleyball players in Tokyo,” Shirabu says calmly. He seems to be on some kind of sadistic roll. “And I assure you, I do not refer to my senpai as Wakatoshi-kun. Did you consider that Ushijima-san might have friends outside of the Shiratorizawa volleyball team?”

Atsumu actually had not considered that. Shirabu decides to drive the knife home. “And unless you were playing at an amateur rock festival last night, you’re definitely not my soulmate either.”

Atsumu looks down at where his hands are still grasping at Shirabu’s. Shirabu’s hands are small, with normal-sized fingers. Nothing like the spindly appendages that have haunted Atsumu’s waking thoughts. Horror begins to dawn on him.

“I have to go,” Atsumu announces, dropping Shirabu’s hands like they’re made of hot coals. “I have to – er, buy a new sofa. In Osaka.”

He makes a beeline for the exit. He sees Sakusa step forward. “Miya–”

Atsumu doesn’t think he can handle pity from Sakusa Kiyoomi, of all people, especially not now. Refusing to meet his gaze, he mumbles an apology under his breath and promptly flees the building.

Samu [19:03]

Stop moping

If it makes you feel any better, your hair doesn’t look like total shit in the video

Me [19:04]

WHAT video

Samu [19:04]

Oops

Thought you knew

My bad

Meian talks Atsumu out of moving to the North Pole, and Atsumu returns to practice on the following Monday, all recent memories freshly suppressed and forcibly locked up in a metaphorical box. His teammates do a decent job of pretending that they haven’t seen the video making its rounds through both the collegiate and the professional league, and Bokuto even stops making soothing baby noises every time Atsumu comes within earshot. 

Everything is hunky-dory. Life is just peachy. Atsumu has received this particular message loud and clear from the universe. DO NOT MEDDLE WITH FATE, OR ELSE, the universe says.

It’s fine. Atsumu has officially given up on meddling or pseudo-stalking, as Osamu would put it. After all, who’s to say that his soulmate would even want him in the way Atsumu does? His soulmate is quiet, tidy, and disciplined – all qualities that Atsumu does not possess. What if his soulmate has been looking in on Atsumu’s life through his dreams and decides, Ew, pass? Could his soulmate have been intentionally staying away from him? Atsumu does not want to find out the answer to that. 

The universe seems to sense his repentance and starts sending him increasingly specific dreams. In one, his soulmate seems to be up on a stage shaking hands with a man in a suit as applause rings out from around him. He receives some kind of plaque, and Atsumu doesn’t even bother trying to read the words on its shiny gold surface. 

So his soulmate appears to be some kind of high achieving genius. Big deal. Atsumu can recite eight digits of pi. That may not be a lot, but Osamu can only recite five, so. Ha.

Life is cruel, so it decides to taunt him further one night. Atsumu is a little disoriented at first because his vision is partially obscured and blurry. Then his soulmate sits up and Atsumu realises that he had been folded in half, pressing his face to the inside of his thigh. His soulmate is ridiculously flexible, and Atsumu finds out about this because he is apparently doing yoga. On a mat in his dorm room. At what appears to be five in the morning.

His soulmate leans down again, and Atsumu is greeted with the creamy inside of his pale thigh, dotted with tiny moles like a constellation. He wonders if the rest of his soulmate’s body is similarly adorned, and is alarmed by how much he wants to press his lips to every one of those marks. When he wakes up with crescent-shaped indents in his palms from how hard he had been digging his nails into them, Atsumu isn’t surprised.

“Stop telling me about your weird fantasies about your soulmate,” Osamu hisses. “Why would you even do this to me?”

“Well, I definitely can’t tell him,” Atsumu says. “And that look on your face is hilarious .”

Osamu throws a piece of dumpling skin at him in disgust, and Atsumu dodges, cackling. He and Osamu are home for the holidays, and Atsumu has missed being able to mess with his twin brother in person. Also, Osamu may be a jerk but he can cook. By the time dinner rolls around, he and their mother have whipped up a combined total of ten dishes, and Atsumu sends a mental apology to the team’s dietician before diving in greedily. 

Their mother smiles indulgently. “Slow down, Atsumu.”

“He’s eating his feelings, Okaa-san,” Osamu says around a mouthful of chicken. “He still doesn’t know who his soulmate is.”

Atsumu sniffs haughtily. “‘M not looking for them anymore. I’m focusing on volleyball.”

“Well, it’s completely ok if you don’t end up with your soulmate,” Okaa-san says comfortingly. “Lots of people don’t, and they’re still happy and fulfilled. You should find a nice boy who plays volleyball too, Atsumu. What about that boy you liked during your National Youth Camp?”

“What boy?” Atsumu scowls.

“You know, the one you were always going on about. You wouldn’t stop talking about his bendy wrists and his nice spikes.”

Atsumu sputters, and Osamu nearly hacks up a lung from how hard he’s laughing. “I did not like Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says indignantly. “He was from a rival team. We weren’t even friends. I was just admiring his technique. From a volleyball perspective.”

“Oh my god, that’s why you were always trying to get his attention,” Osamu says gleefully. “You kept finding reasons to go talk to him at Nationals!”

“He was just there!” Atsumu says shrilly. “What was I supposed to do, not talk to him?”

“You had a crush on Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Osamu says in a singsong voice. 

“Don’t act like you were any better, with your disgusting crush on Suna–”

“At least I ended up dating him,” Osamu says smugly. “Sakusa probably forgot you existed, or maybe he thinks you were some weirdo who wouldn’t leave him alone–”

“Boys,” their mother says, and they both subside immediately. Their mother may have a few more grey hairs than she did when they were kids, but there was a reason she had been able to single-handedly raise both of them. “The food is going to get cold.”

That shuts them both up, and the room is peaceful for the next few minutes as they devour the entire table of food. Atsumu thinks of his soulmate, and his meals of boiled cabbage and canned mushrooms. He wonders if his soulmate is home for the holidays, and whether he’s thinking of Atsumu too.

He gets an answer of sorts that night. His soulmate is seated at a long marble table, poking at a tiny pudding on a large plate. He seems to be in a penthouse with floor to ceiling windows, the lights of the city sparkling far below. A chandelier hangs overhead, and soft orchestral music is playing in the background. The whole atmosphere smacks of decadence, but in that vast room, Atsumu can’t help but feel lonely.

Someone clears their throat to his soulmate’s left, and Atsumu realises that there are other people seated at the table: a stern man with greying hair, an even sterner-looking woman in a pantsuit, and a man and woman in their thirties, both with dark, curly hair.

“I need to return to New York,” the older man says, and stands from the table. The older woman follows suit. “Your mother and I will be expecting to see you children at the charity event in March.”

They sweep out of the room without waiting for any goodbyes, and a heavy door slams shut in the distance. The younger man – his soulmate’s older brother – shrugs off the napkin around his neck and loosens his tie. “God, this gets more painful every year,” he mutters. “Ok, I’m about to crash. Happy fucking New Year.”

That leaves his soulmate and his older sister in the room. Atsumu half-expects her to make some excuse and leave too, but instead she shoots his soulmate a conspiratorial smile. “More dessert for us,” she says, and pulls the untouched plates of pudding to them. “How’s school? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

“Onee-chan, you text me all the time,” his soulmate says. Atsumu feels relieved that at least one person in his soulmate’s life isn’t a heartless asshole. “And you call twice a week.”

“Yeah, but you’re a terrible texter, and even worse over the phone.” His soulmate’s sister reaches out to pinch at his cheek, and he doesn’t even swat her away. “Do you know who your soulmate is yet?”

Atsumu sits up straight at that. “I’m not entirely sure who he is,” his soulmate says slowly. “And I don’t know if I want to know.”

“Why? Does he seem like a bad person?”

“No,” his soulmate says, and Atsumu sags in relief. “I don’t know much about him, but he seems nice. He tidies up his room in the morning, and he files his nails. He feeds the stray cats in the neighbourhood, and he cooks dinner for his roommate. He helps old ladies take things from the top shelf at supermarkets. He doesn’t fling water droplets around after he washes his hands. And I think he plays volleyball, too, because I saw a Mikasa ball lying in his room.”

“Sounds like you like him already,” his soulmate’s sister is smiling. “So what’s the issue?”

His soulmate is silent for the longest time. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I’m… me. What’s there to like?”

The dream falls away then, and Atsumu blinks up at the bright light streaming in through his window. Everything, he thinks. I’ll show you.

The new year brings tryouts for the next season, and the MSBY gymnasium hosts a flock of fresh-faced prospective players, looking eagerly around as Bokuto leads them through the warmups. 

Atsumu spies Hinata Shouyou amongst the candidates, looking tan and built from his time in Brazil. He grins and gives him a thumbs-up – he hopes Hinata gets in, because he would love to see the look on Tobio-chan’s face when Atsumu demolishes the Adlers with Kageyama’s own soulmate next season. 

A lone figure at the edge of the group catches his eye. It’s Sakusa, looking haughty as ever as he completes his laps around the court without breaking a sweat. He’s in a plain black dri-fit shirt that clings to his body almost sinfully, unlike some other candidates who have chosen to show off their alma maters in their flashy jerseys. His hair is swept up in his usual style post-college, and up close, Atsumu can see that his hairdo reveals two perfectly aligned moles right above his eyebrow, a stark contrast against his blemish-free, porcelain skin.

Atsumu may or may not be head over heels for his soulmate, but he still has eyes. He can admit that Sakusa Kiyoomi is hot. 

Then Sakusa makes eye contact with Atsumu, and Atsumu realises that he’s been caught staring, and looks away hastily. Sakusa probably already thinks he’s weird as hell from his botched confession to Shirabu. He doesn’t need another reason to not join MSBY. Atsumu doesn’t know why, but the thought of Sakusa joining any team other than his makes him feel sick. Maybe he’s coming down with something.

Meian organises the candidates trying out for the hitter positions into two teams, with Atsumu and their second string setter on either team to test their compatibility. By some stroke of luck, Atsumu ends up in the same team as Sakusa, who strolls over to him as soon as his name is announced.

“Hope you don’t still suck at serving,” Sakusa says without preamble. “Because I intend to win this.”

Atsumu is still trying to process the fact that Sakusa is willingly standing next to him without spraying him down with disinfectant first. “Unh,” Atsumu says intelligently. “You do that without my help.”

“Maybe I should get your brother to play setter then,” Sakusa muses. He quirks an eyebrow at Atsumu, who belatedly realises that he’s being teased, and sputters at Sakusa’s retreating back as he gets ready to make the first serve.

If Atsumu had thought that watching Sakusa play was bewitching, then actually playing with him was a revelation. Sakusa receives spikes like the ball is made of air, easily sending it up in a high arc to wherever Atsumu is. He is a setter’s dream, really. Selfishly, Atsumu wants to keep him for himself. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes is just icing on the cake.

The other side puts up a good fight. Hinata in particular makes a few incredible digs and somehow seems to soar higher into the air than he did in high school, spiking from above the block. He’s mesmerising, but Atsumu’s gaze always finds its way back to Sakusa. Pathetic, he hears Osamu’s voice in his head.

Then their block goes wide, and the ball is soaring its way out of the court. Atsumu knows he can get to the back of the court in time to set it – he’s just that good – and ideally it would be a quick, but he doesn’t think he’s synced up with any of these hitters to execute that particular play yet –

But then his eyes meet Sakusa’s across the court, and Atsumu acts on instinct. He sends the ball speeding towards the net, and Sakusa jumps at the same time, his right arm arching back like a whip and freakishly long fingers outstretched. Before the ball even makes contact with the ground, Atsumu knows two fundamental truths: One, Sakusa will not be leaving this gym without a solid offer to play for MSBY, possibly forever.

Two – that’s his soulmate.

It’s a miracle that Atsumu manages to make it through the rest of the game without getting hit on the head by the ball. He barely registers anything else, mind racing as he tries to reconcile the two individuals together – Sakusa Kiyoomi, prickly collegiate MVP and Atsumu’s alleged high school crush, and Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu’s soulmate and current infatuation.

It’s bizarre, but also makes an enormous amount of sense. Of course the embossed “S.K.” he’d seen in his dreams stood for Sakusa Kiyoomi. Atsumu doesn’t know how he’d even considered anyone else. So maybe he's been a colossal idiot.

For some reason, the realisation fills him with a sense of calm, more than anything. He feels none of the jitters he’d felt at the Waseda game. He’s known Sakusa for a long time, after all. This feels like coming home.

After tryouts end for the day, Atsumu sees Sakusa sitting on a distant bench in the stands, scrolling on his phone in between gulps of water. A familiar Kuromi charm dangles from his phone. Atsumu steels his nerves, and walks over.

Sakusa looks up as he approaches, his dark eyes unfathomable. He doesn’t lean away in disgust though, so Atsumu takes this as a good sign. He sits down next to him, making sure to put a respectable distance between them.

He catches sight of the sprinkling of beauty marks along the inside of Sakusa’s thigh where his shorts have ridden up, and very nearly loses his nerve again. Before that can happen, he clears his throat.

“So, which team are you gonna join?”

Sakusa gives him a long, searching look out of the corner of his eye. His gaze pauses on the birth mark on Atsumu’s cheekbone, and the scar on his lip.

 Atsumu knows that he knows, too. 

“It depends,” he says. “On a few things.”

“How did you find out?” Atsumu asks.

“I first started suspecting when you basically described half my personality to Shirabu.” Sakusa smirks a little at that, and Atsumu drops his face into his hands and groans. He remembers Sakusa attempting to say something to him as he left the Waseda gymnasium, and groans even louder.

“Please don’t ever bring that up again. MSBY rule.”

“And then I dreamt of you making onigiri with your family,” Sakusa continues. He’s blushing a little now. Atsumu thinks it’s a lovely look on him. “I saw your brother throwing something at you. That’s when I knew for sure.”

“I’ve been practising, y’know,” Atsumu says. “Learnt from ‘Samu and everything. Ever since I found out you like umeboshi onigiri. Store-bought food isn’t healthy, y’know.”

“You should count yourself lucky you got dreams like that,” Sakusa says. “You know, it was basically impossible to tell who you were in the first few months.”

“Why?” Atsumu barely had any dreams of Sakusa doing anything other than chores or errands. It can’t be worse than that.

Sakusa gives him a long-suffering look. “You spend an extraordinary amount of your life on the toilet.”

“I have IBS!” Atsumu exclaims indignantly. “And I’ll have you know my morning shits are sacred. This is an invasion of my privacy–”

“Every night for three months,” Sakusa says loudly. “Nothing but shitty old magazines, the inside of your toilet cubicle, and your pants around your ankles.”

“Speak for yourself, boiled vegetables,” Atsumu retorts. “You eat sardines straight from the can.”

Sakusa juts his chin out at him. God, he’s adorable. “You got a problem with that?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Words are as easy as breathing. Atsumu has never felt so light before.

“What are you going to do about it?” Sakusa leans forward ever so slightly. Atsumu could possibly die happy.

“Take you out to dinner,” Atsumu says. “Promise I’ll wipe down the cutlery and seats for you.”

Sakusa somehow turns even redder. “Fine.”

He puts his hand down on the bench, right next to where Atsumu’s hand is resting. His long, thin fingers curl outwards like Atsumu has seen them do a thousand times before, until his pinky touches Atsumu’s ever so gently. He lets it rest there.

Atsumu looks up, slightly dazed, to where Sakusa is still refusing to meet his gaze. And then he grins, so broadly that his cheeks start to hurt. 

He knows what they will both dream about tonight.

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu waves excitedly when he spots Kiyoomi in the sea of graduates emerging from the Waseda auditorium. “Over here!”

It’s a beautiful day. Atsumu had woken up at the ass crack of dawn and taken the shinkansen down from Osaka with nothing but an Onigiri Miya paper bag. He didn’t stop tapping his foot the entire way, probably annoying the whole carriage of commuters. Sue him – it had only been three months since the MSBY tryouts and a month since they’d started dating officially. Of course he’s still nervous.

Kiyoomi makes his way through the crowd, which easily parts for him. His eyes curve up in the way they do when he sees Atsumu, and the rest of the world melts away. Atsumu can’t even remember what he’d been worried about. Kiyoomi’s Waseda graduation gown looks great on him, but Atsumu knows the brand new MSBY jersey stashed away in his bag will look even better. “Are you ever going to drop that nickname?”

“It’s only been three months,” Atsumu replies. “You’ve got years to get used to that.”

The tips of Kiyoomi’s ears turn red, as they still do whenever Atsumu flirts shamelessly with him. He reaches out to straighten Atsumu’s tie, and Atsumu lets his fingertips rest on Kiyoomi’s waist. “I like that you went with the gold tie,” Kiyoomi says. “I dreamt about that last night, you know. Your fashion dilemma. Do your socks really match your pocket square? You’re so vain.”

“Hey, I have to look my best for my soulmate’s graduation,” Atsumu says. He is not blushing. “Dinner with your sister last night?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. “She wants to meet you,” he adds, a little shyly.

“So I heard,” Atsumu says. “Is this the part where she threatens to kill me if I ever hurt you?”

“Onee-chan is a big softy,” Kiyoomi says dismissively. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Atsumu fears for his life anyway, but decides to leave that problem for another day. “Speaking of siblings, ‘Samu made me bring you this.” Atsumu brandishes a box with Onigiri Miya’s stamp on it. “He and Suna send their congratulations. So does Bokuto. And Aran-kun and Kita-san.”

Kiyoomi takes the box from him and lifts the lid. “Boiled vegetables,” he says flatly.

“You were living like a peasant, Omi-kun. What would you do if you never found me?”

“Die, probably,” Kiyoomi says bluntly. Atsumu clutches at his heart and pretends to swoon. 

“You have such a way with your words.”

“So do you,” Kiyoomi puts on his dopiest expression, and clutches at Atsumu’s hands. “You start eating from the tail end of the taiyaki, because you’re secretly a romantic–”

“LA LA LA LA,” Atsumu interrupts loudly, sticking his fingers in his ears. “MOVING ON. Are you all packed?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi looks pensive for a moment. “It’ll be my first time living outside of Tokyo, you know.”

“I know.” Atsumu reaches down to lace their fingers together, just like he’d longed to ages ago. “But Osaka is great, too. And there’s a cleaning supplies store five minutes from the MSBY dorm.” Kiyoomi opens his mouth to protest, but Atsumu ploughs on. “And we can always come back to visit Tokyo whenever you get homesick.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll be homesick,” Kiyoomi says. His eyes sparkle in the sun. Atsumu briefly considers getting a grip on himself, but decides against it. He's going to be his full, disgustingly sappy self because Kiyoomi deserves it. “You’ll be with me, won’t you?”

“Always,” Atsumu says.

Cue the rest of their lives.