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It strikes Atsumu suddenly that he’s never quite been the first in anything.
He realises this, as he watches Tobio step on court, the number 9 blazing with the heat of a meteor’s war-path on the back of his red jersey. It’s unfortunate timing, but the epiphany isn’t anything self-pitying.
Nah, he’s too mature to spiral like that when they’re literally about to begin one of the most important matches in his life. Rather, it’s just a simple observation — like a general theory about physics, as factual as how his feet move into position before he even needs to think about it.
See, the thing is, apart from his birth, being first in anything has never quite come naturally to Atsumu. And perhaps, if Atsumu had known then, that his birth order was the only time he’d place first without even trying, he may have appreciated the moment a whole lot more.
Instead, fetus Atsumu had just spent the entire seven minutes without Osamu screaming his lungs out, indignant at being brutally ejected into the harsh fluorescent lights of the real world. As it was, he had cried himself hoarse until Osamu joined him, after which they’d competed to see who could howl the loudest.
Since they’d started training for the Olympics, Atsumu had asked Shouyou to give him a few tips on meditation and what not. It seemed to work for Shouyou, and Atsumu is more than willing to pursue any lead that’ll give him more time on court.
“Like a leaf flowing down the stream,” Shouyou had explained, about being mindful, waving his hands wildly to demonstrate the concept in a series of motions that seemed to run counter to being calm. “You see it and it’s there, then whoosh , it’s gone, and that’s okay.”
And so, Atsumu lets the thought go, like a breeze in the wind, like the smell of Osamu’s cooking drifting out of the kitchen, the ball leaving his fingertips.
Opposite them, across the net, is a sea of Argentine blue and a familiar impish face — Atsumu’s never seen him in real life before. He looks more beautiful in person than he does on footage. Even then, he’d already glowed in the clips they’d watched.
“I don’t need to tell you that Tooru is a piece of shit,” Iwaizumi had mentioned at team dinner the night before, sounding like he didn’t mean any of it. He’s responsible for 100% of the unflattering photos that Atsumu has ever seen of Oikawa. It’s common knowledge that the two of them are friends; and if the rumours are true, probably exes — but Atsumu isn’t one to pry, especially not when Iwaizumi could probably crush his head in between his biceps without breaking a sweat. “You better kick his ass, or he’s gonna be insufferable.”
A mere camera wouldn’t be able to capture the sheer confidence that’s exuding from Oikawa. He looks at home on the other side of the court, in a team with a language he surely had to have bled to master.
What drives a person halfway around the globe?
Atsumu doesn’t have time to ponder too deeply, even from the comfort of the substitute bench. He is, after all, a professional, and there is no need to chase memories nor rabbit-hole train-of-thoughts when he’s standing — or well, sitting for now, only for now — on the national stage.
Bring it on, he thinks, his fingers curling into white knuckles. The whistle blows, signalling the start of the game; and it’s barely a few seconds before Tobio’s already underneath the ball, sending it expertly towards Bokuto, who’s going in for the first strike. The ball explodes onto the other side of the court with a fearsome sound, but the Argentine libero is already there to scoop it up, turning its terrible trajectory into a gentle, friendly arc instead.
The ball sails to Oikawa.
Time is suspended in that very moment, a conductor’s baton poised in the air. His lips quirk upwards when his long, slender fingers find the ball, in that 0.1 seconds.
“Someone’s excited,” a strong grip on Atsumu’s wrist pulls him back to reality, and he realises he’s halfway standing up, one step already taken towards the court. Suna’s face is expressionless as ever, as he says, “Might not want to get carded before you even step on court.”
To anyone else, Suna’s calmness would probably be infuriating. But Atsumu has been friends with Suna for an unfortunate decade and teammates for almost half that time. He sees the way Suna’s eyes are narrowed just the slightest, how he’s sitting up a little straighter. Dumbass, tryin’ to play it cool.
Atsumu only grins, as he sits back down on the bench, “‘M just getting ready to play, s’all.”
Because, when the spotlight finally lands on him, he’s going to make sure no one else will ever shine brighter.
Japan loses to Argentina, but sweeps the rest of the other nations in their qualifying round.
It’s not like Atsumu is keeping count or anything; but he does earn 12 points in total across the games, just from his serve alone. Tobio racks up 14 points, like the all star he can’t help but be. That’s alright, the only competition they have is against those across the net. Like he said, he’s mature enough to know this.
They play and play some more. Atsumu gets to serve again and again, gets to feel the ball — solid and sure — against his fingertips as he sends it fast and up, up and away. He gets the entire court dancing to his tempo, waiting on him each split second he has the chance to make contact. He, too, can wield the conductor's baton, although perhaps the symphony they’re leading are in completely different genres.
He wins points and he loses points and he plays and plays.
Each time, he watches, carefully, from the bench. He doesn’t think that should be me starting because he’s no longer the same ball of anxiety he was in high school. Even so, Tobio’s back is a familiar shape, just like Osamu’s, like Omi’s and Shouyou's and Bokkun's — maybe he’s in the wrong sport, Atsumu should have gotten into long-distance running, with the way it feels like he’s been chasing after people his entire life.
Nah, this’ll always be the one for me , Atsumu’s heart bursts during the award ceremony, pride spilling out and staining his jersey a darker red. The silver around his neck is heavy, especially with the gold against Argentine blue, but hey, Atsumu has always known: coming in first is never something that has come easy.
It takes eight matches, two of which they face off each other, across 16 days, an after-party (in which Atsumu does not get terribly drunk, and does not try to hit on Iwaizumi only to be turned down very badly — it does not get captured on video by Suna and Osamu does not see any video evidence of this shambolic display) and half an afternoon before Atsumu meets Oikawa in the flesh and off the court — well, kind of.
“Yer Oikawa,” is how Atsumu greets him, because whatever he has in setter skills, he doesn’t have in social skills apparently.
Oikawa takes this in his stride. He doesn’t even seem surprised to find Atsumu here, lying spread-eagled on the floor of the Ariake Arena, now quiet and empty without the fanfare and competition.
If Atsumu closes his eyes and holds his breath, he can almost feel the ghosts of the week’s games around his body. The players on court would be treading over him, jumping, landing, soaring. Atsumu’s fingers tingle, more like a phantom itch than muscle memory.
He wants to play again. The adrenaline of the game has long washed itself out of his bloodstream, but the pull of the court is seductive, regardless.
“Brilliant observation,” Oikawa says, breaking the spell Atsumu had been trying to cast. The ghosts around them evaporate in an instant, “If we’re stating the obvious, you’re Miya Atsumu.”
“Tsumu’s fine,” Atsumu answers, making no attempt to get off the floor.
“Tsumu-chan then,” Oikawa sings happily, as if they’ve been friends for decades. He flops down on the floor to sit next to Atsumu, tucking his legs underneath him. “I heard a lot about you.”
“Yeah?” Atsumu says gruffly, not sure why he’s feeling suddenly prickly towards Oikawa.
Maybe it’s because he’d came here for the explicit reason of being alone, to decompress, somewhat, after the week’s game. Maybe it’s the easy familiarity he’s emanating, a friendliness that Atsumu finds disorientating to find directed towards him, when he’s usually the one leading a conversation, or the lightness to Oikawa’s being, as if a heavy weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.
Maybe it’s just pure simple jealousy, that Oikawa has one more Gold medal than Atsumu does.
“Whycha leave?” The annoyance crawling over his skin like something fierce makes him blurt this question out more rudely than should be acceptable for a first conversation with a near stranger. He, at least, has the emotional maturity to recognise that his antagonism comes from a place of wanting to cause Oikawa some level of discomfort, if only to decrease his own.
Unfortunately, he’s not mature enough to not be petty like this.
Oikawa doesn’t even blink at Atsumu’s question. It pisses him off more to see how collected Oikawa is, and his tongue is already curling around another snappy remark.
But then Oikawa interrupts him before he can — his answer to Atsumu’s unnecessarily rude question is neat and simple, “To see how far I could go.” The words sound like he’s repeated them so many times that whatever clumsy rocky sentiment it may have been borne out of has now been sanded down into smooth stone.
Atsumu sees the fire in Oikawa’s eyes as he says this, the blaze of pride at his growth.
“Oh,” the syllable comes out in a puff of air, and expelled along with it, any annoyance with Oikawa. Left behind in its place is an uneasy mix of nerves and curiousity, a fluttering in Atsumu’s stomach that prompts him to push off the ground and sit upright instead.
He studies Oikawa.
In this moment, they could be anyone: two childhood friends who coincidentally met in the bleachers of an Olympic event; university teammates who knew they could never make it pro but wanted to feel the thrill of representing the country anyway; two strangers who’ve snuck into an Olympic venue after-hours, honestly, they should have had better security.
Oikawa sits there serenely, humming a tuneless thing to himself, as if he’s waiting for Atsumu to collect his thoughts. That considerate bastard.
The thing is: Atsumu had received an offer to go overseas as well. It had came in his third year of playing with the MSBY Jackals, after he made himself well-known on the international stage for his powerful serves and his insane sets.
A one-year contract in a V1-equivalent Spanish team. An open possibility of extending his term there, if he performed well. And there’s no doubt that Atsumu would perform ridiculously well the moment his feet touch the court there.
He'd had jumped at the chance.
But it turned, he miscalculated the gravitational pull that home had on him. It weighed him down so that it wasn’t so much of a leap as a hop. His throat had been dry and his hands had been shaking as he misspelled, Thank you for the offer, but there’s still much more I would like to do with my current team. about a hundred times while on video-call with Osamu.
It’s funny, how Atsumu’s first Olympics (because he knows, he fervently believes it won’t be his last) is held in Japan, like he can’t quite let go of his own country yet. You’d think a national athlete would have learnt how to soar on his own wings. Osamu had to watch him flip-flop for at least 15 minutes before he mustered up the conviction to click send.
“Was it hard?” Atsumu asks, and then wishes he didn’t sound as watery as he did. He clears his throat and clarifies, “It’s a whole different language and all.”
What he doesn’t say is: how do you not miss home?
Oikawa just laughs, “Chibi-chan did it too. It’s not as bad as you think.”
It’s a sobering thought, one that hollows out his stomach and leaves him feeling a little weightless, as if he could just float off the floor any moment now. Atsumu had always thought of his dedication to volleyball as limitless, yet it seems like there are geographical boundaries to his love.
He can’t imagine twisting his tongue to a foreign set of vocabulary, he doesn’t want to think about being more than a few hours drive from Osamu — don’t tell him that — how sometimes, even though it’s almost been half a decade, he still wakes up thinking he’s in their bunk-bed at home and they’re about to step on court together as the Miya twins.
“Yeah,” Atsumu’s answer catches in his throat, all thick and heavy.
Maybe the question should have been: how do I be like you?
It’s probably an open secret that Oikawa is basically Japan’s the one who got away. For all three years he’d been at Aoba Johsai, they’d never made it to Nationals, not even once. Heck, Atsumu didn’t even realise that Oikawa had gone pro until the one time Hinata had been sharing his stories of Brazil and he’d gushed about how much fun it was playing with Oikawa.
“Who?” Atsumu had asked, like the scrub he’d been. But then again, it had been a fair question, highschool was years ago and he’d been more preoccupied with staking out the competition amongst the current V1 players.
Shouyou had looked at him all weird, like it wasn’t even a question worth answering. “Oikawa! The Great King,” he’d cawed, flapping his arms to emphasise the point. Despite how insistent Shouyou seemed to be on imitating a crow, no amount of flapping helped to clear away the foggy tendrils of forgetfulness that surrounded this Oikawa-fellow in his memory. Shouyou laughed, “Anyway, Kageyma was so angry when I told him we got to play together. He just gets weird about Oikawa, you know? So it’s fun to mess with him when I can.”
At that time, Atsumu didn’t quite understand what Hinata meant. But the moment they’d ended for the day, Atsumu had searched up Oikawa’s name on his phone, then clicked Google Translate on the first article he’d pulled up. The wall of incomprehensible text flashed once, then turned into characters he could read, “ Oikawa Tooru, a Japanese setter that’s making waves in the Argentine A3 divisions…”
There was a photo of Oikawa at the end of the article. An action shot of him in a game: light brown hair matted with sweat, plastered against his face, eyes narrowed in focus, presumably on a ball just out of frame.
Atsumu had recognised it immediately — even in the photo, the tension and force that took hold of Oikawa’s form, the hunger that had been driving him. That drives him still.
In the present, Oikawa watches him curiously. Atsumu turns away, hoping that Oikawa’s terrifying ability to read a player’s movements doesn’t extend off-court. Well, tough luck, they’re literally sitting in a volleyball court.
Instead, Oikawa says, “I almost quit once.”
“Quit?” The concept of walking away from volleyball is so foreign that Atsumu has trouble getting the word out. He looks at Oikawa, eyes wide, like he’s only seeing the other player for the first time.
“It was just a thought, for a few months,” Oikawa chuckles, almost sheepishly, like he’s embarrassed to be telling this. “Sometimes, you’ve a bad day on court. Then a day turns into a week and so on, well, I’m sure you know.”
Atsumu doesn’t respond because he honest-to-God doesn’t know how to. The last time someone had told him that he wasn’t going to play volleyball anymore, he’d stopped talking to them for about a week until their mother made him apologise to Osamu for being a giant dick about the entire thing. And because he’s a mature human capable of emotional growth, he’s not going to make the same mistake twice.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Oikawa exclaims, jostling Atsumu with an elbow. He guffaws then slaps Atsumu on the back; the imprint of the hit lingers for a brief moment. “You look like someone just died. Anyway, I’m the one with the gold medal hanging in my room right now, aren’t I?”
"Are ya sure yer supposed to be tellin’ me all this?”
“Why not — we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“I dunno about friends, you did kick our asses pretty badly. Wouldn’t it have been patriotic and shit to sabotage yer own team so Japan could win?”
“Iwa-chan would never let me live that down,” Oikawa says simply. There’s an odd bristling in Atsumu’s heart, at the thought of how often Iwaizumi and Oikawa must talk, even separated by oceans. He’s sure he would have daily calls with Osamu if he did go overseas, but they’re twins, it’s different. “Anyway, what’s the point of a victory if it’s just handed over to you?”
“Shit, would’ve been nice to have gotten a gold though,” Atsumu grumbles, a little too sensitive for it to sound playful. Sue him, he’d just wanted his first Olympics to be special.
“You’ll get it next time. Or maybe not — that’s the fun of playing, isn’t it?” Oikawa shrugs, and smiles at Atsumu like he knows he agrees.
“Yeah, well, it’s hard though,” Atsumu says, more truthfully than he intended. His answer might as well be made of ten-tonne bricks with how they weigh the mood of the conversation down.
“Your serves were really good, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa’s reply is light and jokey. Yet, from what Atsumu knows of Oikawa from how Iwaizumi and the others talk about him, Oikawa isn’t one to give out compliments baselessly. His words shine golden in Atsumu’s mind, twinkling like a medal slightly out of reach. “Bet you gave Tobio a run for his money.”
“Well, that goody goody still managed to out-run me though,” Atsumu rolls his eyes, trying to sound good natured. “Maybe I gotta get on the treadmill a little bit more.”
“Iwa-chan says he has to chase you home from the gym all the time. It sounds like you’re working out more than enough.”
Atsumu raises an eyebrow, tries to sound smug but it’s obvious that he’s trying to fish for a compliment, “So ya’ve been talkin’ about me?”
“Hmm, I keep tabs on all my competition,” Oikawa says, non-committedly. Atsumu’s heart sinks for a second, until Oikawa continues. “You’re good, don’t let anything tell you different.”
“We’re at the Olympics, of course I am,” Atsumu says. It would sound snotty, if not for the fact that it’s the truth; and Oikawa just laughs, all tinkly and light like a dumb romantic cliche of windchimes in a cool breeze. It’s infectious and Atsumu grins, then breaks out into chuckles as well. “Omi-omi says I brag too much, but I can’t help it if I’m just that good.”
“Cute,” Oikawa comments, and that immediately shuts Atsumu up.
There’s a long stretch of silence that settles between the two of them, as Atsumu feels his face heat up with everything he’s not quite sure he’s supposed to say or ask. Think:
- How can someone like you want to leave volleyball, and where does that leave a player like me?
- Why does it seem that no matter how fast I run, there’ll always be someone else sprinting ahead?
But also:
- Cute???
Atsumu is only human.
He may be 90% professional volleyball player, a setter extraordinaire determined not to think too hard about his place in the team lest it trips him up, but the other 10% is made of what Osamu likes to call, pure idiot, this is why ya gonna die alone — like the two of them don’t share the same damn DNA.
“You know,” Oikawa hums, breaking the silence. “I’m not flying back to Argentina until next month.”
“Yeah, ya definitely deserve a break,” Atsumu nods, thankful for a change in subject. He wonders if he’ll be able to discreetly fan his face, just to help it cool down a little. “Ya gonna go back to Miyagi?”
“Mmhmm, just for a week.”
“Cool.”
“I was thinking of exploring Tokyo. I’ve never actually spent more than a week here before.”
“Oh, yeah, Tokyo’s pretty nice! Ya should ask Bokkun for places to go. He made a whole list of places with Akaashi-kun. Half of them are gooey couple places, but Akaashi-kun’s got supernatural senses for where there’s good food.”
“Yes, thank you,” Oikawa sniffs, entirely unimpressed. He’s looking at Atsumu almost disdainfully with those brown eyes of his — the colour of the milk chocolate brand, the connection suddenly strikes Atsumu, that he likes to indulge in on his cheat days. “I suppose I could ask them.”
It takes a moment for Atsumu to realise what Oikawa’s hinting at. The metaphorical shoe drops with as much finality as the last ball Oikawa had set to secure Argentina their Gold.
“Oh, oh , ya mean like —” Atsumu splutters, as a smirk replaces the bemused expression on Oikawa’s face. It grows wider with each word that tumbles out of Atsumu’s mouth like a pile-up in a car accident, “‘Mean, I’m not from Tokyo but we’ve been stayin’ here for training for the past few months. Yeah, yeah, I could totally show ya around if ya’d like.”
“Thank you for gallantly offering, Tsumu-chan, I’d like that very much,” Oikawa says, in a tone that manages to both sound sarcastic and sincerely happy. Atsumu suddenly understands why Tobio worships the ground that Oikawa walks on, not that that scrub would ever get the concept of sarcasm. Then, the older setter checks the time on his phone, and puffs out his cheeks in annoyance, “Okay, I gotta go. We’re having a team dinner to celebrate tonight.”
“Wow, way to rub it in,” Atsumu’s emboldened enough by Oikawa’s suggestion of a date (is it a date?) that he pouts. “Still hurts y’know.”
“Want me to kiss it better?”
Atsumu almost chokes, catches himself in time before he coughs all over Oikawa.
“Yeah, tha — that would be nice,” he finally answers, which would have sounded incredibly suave and cool if not for the fact that he’s heating up again, so hot that the tips of his ears are burning red. If he were a kettle, he’d be whistling right now — one of those loud obnoxious shrilly whistles that lets the entire apartment block know that hot water is ready , and oh, Atsumu desperately wants a pity kiss!
Oikawa leans in towards Atsumu like he’s contemplating the suggestion. It takes all of Atsumu’s courage not to flinch away. Then, eventually he says, “Oh Tsumu-chan, I don’t kiss on a first date.”
“Shame,” Atsumu says — or rathers, squeaks — as Oikawa moves away in a fit of self-satisfied giggles. He clears his throat and turns on the charm because he’s a player like that, “Lucky, we’re goin’ on a second one then.”
It surely must be worth a thousand victories, the smile that Oikawa gives him.
Honestly, Atsumu knows he’s not special. He’s gone on multiple dates before with people he thought he had a fireworks display of attraction with only for it to fizzle out like those crappy sparklers you played with as kids; and Oikawa’s probably never lacked a line of suitors, the number one of them being one Iwaizumi Haijime, who would probably tear Atsumu’s head off if he’d ever messed with Oikawa (scratch that, he’s sure half the Japan National Team would end his life if he did anything wrong by the Argentine setter).
Still, it’s not anything new that Atsumu hasn’t known before. After all, he’s never been first in anything much. By this point, it’s not something that he’ll begrudge himself for.
“Sounds like a plan, Tsumu-chan,” Oikawa says, then hands Atsumu his phone for him to key in his phone number. Atsumu adds a ;) at the end of his contact name, because apparently he’s 15 and doesn’t know how to flirt any other way.
“Cute,” Oikawa says again, and Atsumu thinks maybe if he’s received this endorsement from one of the best setters in the world, he can pretty much add it on his Instagram bio without any reprimand. There’s another flash of a smile from Oikawa before he wiggles his fingers in a goodbye and leaves for his team victory dinner, with a cheery, “I’m ready to be wowed!”
He watches Oikawa leave the hall, before he collapses back onto the floor, half in disbelief.
Atsumu may not be great at placing first on the first try, but there’s no denying that he always gets where he wants in the end. And this round, he’s going to make sure that it’s the best date that Oikawa’s ever been on in his entire life, Argentina beaches and childhood romances be damned.
But first — the call connects in just two rings, “Hey Bokkun, wanna give me a crash course on the best places to bring a date in Tokyo?”