Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Atsumu, I’m becoming increasingly concerned with the state of your shoulder,” Satō said, his fingers finally easing out of the muscle like he was reluctant to let it go, like he didn’t trust it not to seize up again the second he stopped.

Atsumu sat up slowly, rolling his shoulder once out of habit, then immediately regretting it when the familiar tight pull caught halfway through the motion. He clicked his tongue and rubbed at it, frowning over at him. “Well how do we fix it then?” he asked, more annoyed than worried, like it should’ve already been handled.

Satō didn’t answer right away. He pulled his stool over instead, sitting across from Atsumu properly this time, elbows resting on his knees as he studied him.

“You don’t prioritize your body, muscle recovery, or actual relaxation, Atsumu,” he said finally. “And this is the result of that. Your shoulder isn’t the problem. It’s compensating for everything else you’ve been ignoring.”

Atsumu frowned deeper, shifting where he sat, the paper on the table crinkling under his hands. “I do my stretching though,” he argued immediately. “Before practice, after practice, every time. And I’ve been meetin’ with you for months.”

Satō snorted softly, shaking his head. “Stretching isn’t recovery. And coming to me just means I keep fixing the same issue you recreate the next day.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Atsumu muttered.

“It’s a you problem,” Satō corrected without missing a beat.

Atsumu huffed, looking away, jaw tightening just slightly. The clinic smelled faintly like disinfectant and cheap citrus cleaner, the low hum of the air unit filling the silence.

Satō watched him for a second, then asked, more casually, “Have you ever gotten a massage?”

Atsumu made a face immediately, like he’d just bitten into something sour. “No,” he said flatly. “What do I look like.”

“It’s a legitimate question.”

“Spas are for rich people, Satō-kun, ya know that,” Atsumu went on, scrunching his nose. “Like celebrities an’ people who sit around all day. I go to the onsen when I’m home. Sit in the hot water, sweat it out. That’s enough. Isn’t that basically the same thing?”

Satō gave him a look. “No,” he said. “It’s not even close.”

Atsumu clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. “Feels like it should count.”

“It doesn’t,” Satō said simply. “What you need is targeted bodywork. Circulation, fascia release, proper lymphatic movement. You need to actually let your body come down from constant strain.”

Atsumu squinted at him. “Yer makin’ it sound like I’m broken.”

“I’m saying you’re heading there if you keep going like this.”

There was a brief pause.

Atsumu exhaled slowly through his nose, then dragged a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll find somewhere. There’s probably some cheap place near a station, one of those quick massage spots. In and out.”

Satō shook his head immediately. “No.”

Atsumu blinked at him. “No?”

“I have a place in mind for you.”

“That already sounds expensive,” Atsumu said.

“It is,” Satō replied, not even trying to soften it. “But listen first.”

Atsumu leaned back slightly, skeptical, arms still crossed.

“It’s a private spa in Tokyo,” Satō continued. “Not the kind you pass by on the street with signs outside. It’s membership based. Invitation only. Most clients are executives, public figures, athletes. People who don’t want to be seen lining up at a place under fluorescent lights next to a pachinko parlor.”

Atsumu snorted quietly at that.

“They do full treatment courses,” Satō went on. “Headspa with scalp cleansing and circulation work, full body deep tissue, lymphatic drainage, facial treatments, foot reflexology. Everything is tailored. You’re in a private suite, not a row of beds. Hinoki baths, seasonal infusions, yuzu in the winter, herbs depending on what your body needs. Tea service, proper meals if you’re there long enough. It’s designed so your body actually recovers.”

Atsumu’s face went flat the longer he talked. “That sounds like somethin’ out of a drama.”

“It’s real.”

“How much.”

“Single sessions can run anywhere from ¥200,000 to ¥400,000 depending on what’s done.”

Atsumu let out a short, incredulous laugh. “For one time.”

“Yes.”

“That is insane.”

Satō shrugged.

Atsumu shook his head, dragging a hand down his face. “Why would I go somewhere like that?”

“Because you need more than what you’re willing to do on your own,” Satō said calmly. “And because they’re working with Olympic athletes this season.”

Atsumu stilled slightly at that.

“They’ve partnered with the committee,” Satō continued. “Select players are being offered access. Dedicated practitioners. Consistent care leading up to the games.”

“That’s excessive,” Atsumu muttered.

“Bokuto has already been going,” Satō added.

Atsumu blinked, then immediately scoffed. “Well yeah, Bokuto grew up rich, didn’t he? Boarding school, fancy stuff, all that. He’s probably used to places like that.”

Satō didn’t react. “He’s going because it works.”

Atsumu clicked his tongue. “I’m not goin’ to some rich people place where they look at me like I don’t belong.”

“They won’t.”

“They will,” Atsumu insisted. “Places like that got rules. Quiet voices, perfect posture, probably gotta bow a certain way just to sit down. I’m not doin’ all that.”

Satō leaned forward slightly, gaze steady. “If you care about your volleyball career, you will.”

Atsumu went quiet for a second, jaw tightening again, eyes dropping to the floor. The scuffed linoleum, the edge of the treatment table, the same place he’s been coming to for months because it’s simple and it works enough.

“Ugh,” he exhales finally, pushing a hand through his hair.

“If they make me drink somethin’ weird or start playin’ those forest sounds, I’m leavin’,” he mutters.

Satō almost smiles. “You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t,” Satō repeats.

Atsumu huffs under his breath, but he doesn’t say no.

-

Atsumu almost turns around twice before he even gets on the train, the hesitation settling somewhere uncomfortable in his chest as he stands on the platform with his phone in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder, rereading the address Satō sent him with a growing sense that it belongs to a place meant for someone else. The characters stay the same every time he looks, the pin unmoving on the map, fixed in a part of Tokyo he has never had a reason to step foot in, and that alone is enough to make him shift his weight, jaw tightening as the train pulls in with its usual chime.

The station is loud in the familiar way, the kind of layered noise that blends into the background when you’ve spent enough time in it, announcements echoing overhead in polite, measured tones, the rush of footsteps, the soft murmur of conversations that never quite rise above a certain volume. People move with quiet efficiency, bodies flowing around each other without collision, everyone already knowing where they’re going before they get there. Atsumu moves with them easily, slipping into the train, grabbing a strap as the doors close behind him, his reflection briefly catching in the window, hoodie slightly wrinkled, hair still not fully settled from his shower, expression already a little more tense than he wants it to be.

He checks his phone again, more out of habit than necessity, eyes flicking between the map and the station names scrolling past above the doors, counting the stops in his head even though he doesn’t need to. The first transfer is routine, automatic, something his body does before his brain catches up, following the colored lines, the overhead signs, the arrows painted along the floor, moving with the crowd without thinking. It’s the second transfer where something shifts, subtle at first but noticeable enough that he slows half a step as he steps off the train.

There are fewer people here.

Not empty, not quiet, but the density is gone, the press of bodies replaced with space that feels intentional rather than accidental. The station itself looks newer, cleaner, the tiled floors reflecting the overhead lights without scuff marks breaking the surface, the walls unmarked, the signage crisp. Even the convenience store near the exit looks different, the shelves fully stocked and perfectly aligned, no clutter near the register, no rush of people grabbing quick meals before the next train. It feels maintained in a way that goes beyond normal upkeep.

Atsumu boards the next train without commenting on it, but the awareness sits there, growing as the stops pass and the crowd continues to thin, until by the time he steps off again, the difference is impossible to ignore.

The station he exits into is smaller, quieter, the sound of his own footsteps carrying slightly more than expected as he passes through the gates. The vending machines line the wall in perfect rows, bright but not harsh, stocked with canned coffee, bottled teas, sports drinks, everything clean and orderly, no dents, no flickering lights. He taps his IC card and steps outside, and the change follows him there.

There is space.

The street in front of the station isn’t crowded, the sidewalks open, the buildings set back instead of pressed together. Cars pass, but not constantly, the sound of them softened by distance rather than muffled by sheer volume. The air feels less compressed, less filled with movement.

He slows without meaning to, glancing down at his phone again as if the map might explain it.

It doesn’t.

He starts walking, following the route laid out for him, and the further he goes, the more the area shifts into something he recognizes only from passing glimpses on television or in magazines. The streets aren’t lined with bright storefronts or hanging banners or handwritten menus calling people in; instead there are low stone walls, dark wood fencing, hedges trimmed so precisely they look sculpted rather than grown. Gates stand where doors would usually be, most of them closed, offering no view of what sits beyond them.

There’s no one trying to get his attention. No overlapping noise spilling out from restaurants or shops. The quiet is deliberate, maintained.

He passes a small café set back from the road, the entrance narrow and easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. There’s no large sign, only a simple wooden board with neat writing placed near the door. Inside, he catches a glimpse of polished wood, soft lighting, a few customers seated with porcelain cups, their conversations low, contained. No one looks rushed. No one looks out of place.

Further down, there’s a boutique with a glass front so clean it barely registers as a barrier. The clothing inside is spaced out, each piece given room, neutral colors arranged carefully, no price tags visible, no signs advertising sales or promotions. The kind of place where the cost is understood without needing to be stated.

Atsumu’s gaze drops to himself without him meaning it to, taking in the hoodie, the track pants, the worn sneakers that have carried him through more practices than he can count, and he exhales quietly through his nose.

He keeps walking.

The deeper he goes, the more the area withdraws from the street, the buildings set further back, some hidden almost entirely behind walls and greenery. The roofs that rise above them are traditional in shape, tiled and angled, but everything is too clean, too exact to be old in the way those structures usually are. It’s preservation without wear, tradition maintained through money rather than time.

There are no sounds coming from within those spaces. No televisions, no raised voices, nothing spilling out into the street. Just the occasional movement of leaves, the distant hum of a car passing somewhere beyond view.

He checks his phone again, more frequently now, confirming each turn, each street, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than necessary.

When he turns onto the final street, it narrows slightly, the pavement giving way in sections to stone laid carefully into the ground, the transition smooth but noticeable underfoot. A small shrine sits tucked into one corner, a red torii gate standing clean and bright, the wood maintained, an offering box placed neatly in front. Fresh flowers sit beside it, recently arranged.

Atsumu dips his head as he passes without thinking, the motion automatic, ingrained.

He slows when the map tells him to stop.

The address matches.

He looks up, and for a moment, he assumes he’s wrong.

The entrance sits behind a low stone wall, a wooden gate partially open, the wood dark and polished, the grain visible in a way that suggests careful maintenance rather than age. Inside, there’s a noren hanging, thick indigo fabric, the dye deep, uneven in the way that comes from deliberate craftsmanship rather than imperfection.

Beyond that, the structure is set back, partially obscured by trees placed with intention, stone arranged to guide the eye without revealing too much at once. The building itself follows traditional lines, sloped roof, exposed beams, but everything about it is too precise, too controlled to be old. It holds the appearance of tradition while being clearly sustained by money.

There is no sign.

Nothing that announces what it is, no branding, no indication beyond the address in his hand that this is the place he was sent to.

He looks down at his phone again.

The same address stares back at him.

He doesn’t move.

A car pulls up behind him, quiet enough that he only notices it when it’s already stopped. He steps aside automatically, giving space as the door opens and someone steps out.

She is composed in a way that is immediately noticeable, her posture straight without stiffness, her movements precise without hesitation. Her clothing is simple in design but unmistakably expensive in quality, the fabric sitting cleanly, tailored to her without excess. Her heels make almost no sound against the stone as she moves.

She doesn’t pause to check anything. Doesn’t look around.

She walks straight through the gate, the noren shifting slightly as she passes beneath it, and disappears inside without a second thought.

Atsumu watches her go, something tightening further in his chest.

He looks down at himself again, taking in the details he hadn’t cared about earlier, the slight creases in his hoodie, the worn edges of his shoes, the way his hair still sits a little off from drying too quickly after practice. Even after showering, there’s still the faint trace of the gym clinging to him, something he’s never thought twice about until now.

Everyone he passed on the way here carried themselves with quiet certainty, dressed in a way that matched the space around them, moving without hesitation.

Standing in front of the gate, he feels out of place in a way that settles deeper the longer he stays still, something tight and unfamiliar sitting just under his ribs.

He shifts his grip on his phone, thumb brushing over the screen without actually doing anything.

“This is stupid,” he mutters under his breath, quieter now, more to himself than anything else.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays where he is, staring at the entrance, trying to make himself step forward.

He finally moves when standing there any longer starts to feel worse than whatever is waiting inside, his hand tightening slightly around his phone before he shoves it into his pocket and steps through the gate, the wood smooth under his fingers for the brief second he brushes against it. The shift is immediate the moment he passes under the noren, the fabric heavy as it grazes his shoulder, and the outside world falls away in a way that feels almost unnatural, the quiet inside not empty but controlled, deliberate.

The entry path is short but intentional, flat stone set carefully into the ground, bordered by low greenery and dark rock, each piece placed with precision rather than decoration. There’s the faint sound of water somewhere ahead, not loud, not meant to draw attention, just steady enough to settle into the background. The air is warmer inside, faintly humid, carrying a clean, layered scent that doesn’t hit all at once, hinoki wood first, soft and grounding, then something citrus underneath it, yuzu or maybe sudachi, and something floral woven through it that he can’t place but registers as expensive without needing to know why.

By the time he reaches the main entrance, his steps have slowed again without him realizing it.

The sliding doors open smoothly, silent, and the lobby reveals itself in a way that makes him stop just inside the threshold.

It’s larger than he expected.

Not wide in a loud, open way, but deep, layered, the space unfolding rather than presenting itself all at once. The floors are polished stone, pale but not reflective enough to glare, the surface broken up by long sections of warm toned wood that guide the eye forward. To the side, a low indoor water feature runs along a recessed channel, water slipping over dark stone in a continuous, quiet flow, the sound soft but constant, grounding everything else in the room.

There’s a seating area arranged near it, not crowded, just a few low chairs upholstered in neutral fabric, spaced out enough that no one feels close to anyone else. A small table sits between them, set with neatly arranged trays, ceramic cups, a teapot, small dishes that hold delicate sweets, each one placed with intention. Nothing looks touched.

The lighting is low but not dim, warm and even, no harsh overheads, everything softened. The ceiling carries exposed wooden beams, darker than the floor, drawing the space upward without making it feel open. Along the walls, there are simple displays, one with a carefully arranged ikebana arrangement, branches and flowers balanced in a way that feels more structured than decorative, another with a single piece of calligraphy framed against a pale background.

Everything feels traditional. Everything also feels impossibly expensive.

Atsumu stands there for a second too long, aware of it.

“Miya Atsumu-sama.”

The voice pulls him forward.

The reception desk sits slightly elevated at the far end of the lobby, crafted from dark wood that matches the beams above, smooth and unmarked. Behind it stand two attendants, both dressed in clean, minimal uniforms, soft neutral tones, tailored perfectly, nothing excessive but nothing out of place either. Their posture is straight without stiffness, movements precise, controlled in a way that looks practiced over years rather than trained recently.

One of them steps forward and bows, the motion smooth and exact.

“Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

Atsumu straightens instinctively, suddenly aware of himself again, of how he’s standing, how his shoulders are set. “Uh—yeah. Hi,” he manages, voice a little lower than usual without meaning it to be.

“If you could follow me, please.”

His shoes are gone before he fully processes taking them off, replaced with soft indoor slippers that fit better than they should. Another attendant appears just long enough to take his bag, bowing slightly before disappearing again without drawing attention to it.

It’s seamless in a way that makes him feel clumsy just standing there.

He’s guided to the reception counter, where a place has already been prepared for him. A small tray sits to the side, holding a folded oshibori, still warm, steam faintly rising from it, and a ceramic cup filled with tea.

“Please, have a seat.”

He sits carefully, trying not to look as out of place as he feels.

The oshibori is placed in front of him, and he hesitates for half a second before picking it up, pressing it lightly to his hands. It smells faintly of green tea, clean and soft, and he suddenly becomes very aware of the contrast between that and the faint trace of gym still clinging to him.

“Your tea,” the attendant says gently, sliding the cup a little closer.

The cup itself is handmade, slightly uneven at the rim, the glaze subtle and matte. The tea inside is a pale green, clear, no bitterness in the scent when it reaches him.

Beside it, a small plate holds two delicate sweets, something wagashi, shaped carefully, seasonal, the kind that looks too pretty to eat without thinking about it first.

“Feel free to enjoy these while we complete your check in.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says quietly. “Thanks.”

A tablet and a set of forms are placed in front of him next.

“We’ll need you to fill out a brief intake form,” she continues. “Medical history, areas of concern, any sensitivities, allergies. Your practitioner will review this prior to your session.”

Atsumu nods, picking up the pen.

The form is not brief.

Page after page, asking about everything, previous injuries, chronic tension areas, sleep patterns, stress levels, digestion, hydration, even questions about how often he trains, how his body feels immediately after, how long it takes for soreness to settle. There are diagrams of the body where he’s meant to mark areas of discomfort, scales to rate pain, spaces to describe it in detail.

He shifts in his seat, glancing down at his hands for a second before continuing.

He feels… out of place.

More than before.

Everyone around him moves quietly, efficiently, no wasted motion, no raised voices. The air smells clean, expensive, layered in a way that feels intentional down to the smallest detail. The sound of the water feature continues in the background, steady, controlled. Atsumu knows the environment is meant to be relaxing but he feels more on edge than he’s ever been.

His hoodie suddenly feels heavier on him. The fabric too casual, too worn. His posture feels wrong. His hands feel rough against the smooth surface of the pen.

He takes a small sip of the tea, more to do something than anything else.

It’s warm, balanced, nothing sharp about it.

He sets it back down carefully.

Atsumu bends over the form again, answering what he can, skipping what he doesn’t know how to put into words, aware of the way his own presence feels louder than everything around him, even when he’s not making a sound. Aware of his messy handwriting. He obeys everyone else here has perfect calligraphy skills.

The form keeps going.

Atsumu flips the page, then another, the pen pausing in his hand as the questions shift from simple intake to something more detailed, more structured, less about just “where does it hurt” and more about everything surrounding it. Sleep, diet, hydration, stress levels, recovery habits. There’s a section asking how often he eats convenience store food, how much caffeine he drinks before training, whether he wakes up during the night, whether his muscles feel tight immediately after practice or hours later.

He frowns slightly at that, filling in what he can, skipping over a couple where he doesn’t have a clean answer.

The next page is different.

It isn’t questions. It’s a breakdown.

He leans forward slightly without meaning to, reading more carefully now.

The session is outlined step by step, written in precise, almost clinical language but arranged in a way that makes it clear this is not something quick or casual. It starts with a consultation, detailed, one on one, covering physical condition, training load, nutrition, lifestyle patterns. A “full body structural assessment,” it says, posture, muscle imbalances, joint range, tension mapping. There’s a small diagram next to it, labeled points across the body.

“…Tension mapping,” he mutters under his breath, reading it again.

It continues.

Pre treatment thermal therapy.

Steam room session infused with seasonal botanicals, designed to open pores, promote circulation. Followed by alternating hot and cold immersion, mineral bath, cold plunge, to stimulate recovery response.

Atsumu’s brows pull together slightly.

“Cold plunge,” he repeats quietly.

He shifts slightly in his seat.

Then the bodywork.

Full body treatment, front and posterior, combining deep tissue massage, fascia release, and lymphatic drainage. The description goes into detail, targeted release of connective tissue, stimulation of lymph flow to reduce inflammation, realignment of muscular tension patterns.

The next section lists headspa.

Scalp cleansing, deep circulation massage, pressure point stimulation, oil treatment customized to scalp condition. There’s a note about improving blood flow to the head and neck, reducing tension carried from upper body strain.

There’s reflexology listed separately.

Foot mapping, pressure applied to corresponding organ and muscle zones.

He glances down at his own feet instinctively before continuing.

Hand and foot treatments follow, warming compresses, oils, detailed work on smaller joints and tendons, the areas usually ignored.

Then a body wrap.

Marine based, it says. Seaweed infusion, mineral absorption, skin hydration, muscle relaxation. Wrapped and left to absorb under controlled heat.

“What the hell,” Atsumu mutters under his breath.

There’s more.

Private shower suite with temperature controlled settings, aromatherapy options. Cold mist, warm cascade, alternating pressure jets.

He flips the page.

Nutritional recovery meal, customized to athlete profile.

Then final recovery phase.

Traditional bath, hinoki or stone, depending on preference, infused with seasonal elements. Yuzu, herbs, minerals. Designed for nervous system downregulation.

Atsumu reads that part twice.

The whole thing spans hours.

An entire day, laid out in sections, each part feeding into the next, nothing rushed, nothing left out.

He sits back slightly, staring at the page for a second.

“This is insane,” he murmurs.

It doesn’t feel real. Not something he would ever choose on his own. Not something meant for him.

He looks down at the rest of the form, realizing there are sections asking for preferences, temperature tolerances, pressure levels, sensitivity to scents, even whether he prefers silence during treatment or light conversation.

He hesitates over that one.

Marks silence.

He finishes the last few sections slower than the rest, handwriting a little messier than when he started, then sets the pen down carefully, stacking the pages together the way they were given to him.

For a second, he just sits there, hands resting on top of the paper, aware again of everything around him, the quiet, the water, the scent in the air, the way nothing here feels accidental.

He lifts the stack and hands it back.

“Thank you,” the attendant says, accepting it with a slight bow, scanning it briefly before setting it aside.

Atsumu nods, not sure what else to do with his hands, so he reaches for his tea again, taking a small sip.

It’s still warm.

“Your practitioner will be with you shortly,” she says. “In the meantime, please relax.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu answers quietly.

“If you need anything, let us know.”

He nods again.

The attendant steps away, leaving him seated in the same quiet, controlled space, the sound of water continuing somewhere nearby.

Atsumu sits back slightly, cup resting between his hands, shoulders still a little tense despite everything around him telling him to do the opposite.

He glances down at himself again, at the hoodie, the track pants, the way he feels too rough for a place that has been thought through down to the smallest detail.

This isn’t a quick appointment.

It isn’t something he can get through and leave.

He’s going to be here for hours.

Waiting. Being seen. Handled.

He exhales slowly, staring into his tea for a second.

“Great,” he mutters under his breath.

And he waits.

Waiting stretches in a way that makes him more aware of himself than anything else.

Atsumu shifts in his seat once, then stills, hands wrapping loosely around the ceramic cup just to have something to hold. The tea has cooled slightly but is still warm, the surface barely moving when he tilts it. The scent in the air hasn’t changed, clean wood, citrus, something soft underneath, and the quiet is so consistent it almost feels structured, as if even the silence has been designed.

He tries not to stare at everything, but there’s too much to not notice.

The water feature isn’t just decorative. Up close, it runs through a carved stone channel, the edges smooth, the water slipping over a series of staggered planes so the sound never spikes, never splashes, just a steady layered flow. The seating around it is arranged in a way that doesn’t force anyone to face anyone else directly, angled just enough for privacy. The ceramics on the tables aren’t uniform; each cup is slightly different, subtle variations in glaze and shape that make it obvious they weren’t bought in bulk.

Even the air feels curated.

He sets the cup down carefully again, straightening without realizing he’s been leaning forward.

Footsteps approach, quiet but distinct against the stone.

Atsumu looks up.

The man who steps into view doesn’t rush.

He moves with the same control as everything else in the space, posture straight, shoulders relaxed, nothing wasted in the way he walks. His clothes are simple at a glance, but the longer Atsumu looks, the more it becomes clear that none of it is random. The fabric sits cleanly against his frame, fitted without clinging, the color neutral enough to blend into the space but sharp enough to look intentional. The sleeves are rolled just below his elbows, exposing his forearms, the lines of muscle there lean, defined without bulk.

His face is what catches next.

Sharp, but not harsh. Clean lines through his jaw, high cheekbones, skin clear and even toned. His hair falls naturally, slightly wavy, controlled without looking styled too deliberately. There’s nothing exaggerated about him, nothing trying to stand out, and that somehow makes him stand out more. He’s stunning. Free of any imperfections. He fits perfectly in with the curated space Atsumu has found himself in.

His expression is composed, neutral, his gaze steady when it settles on Atsumu. He has beautiful doe eyes and long eyelashes. Atsumu blinks at the sight of him.

“Miya Atsumu-san,” he says, voice low and even, polite without being overly warm. “I’ll be overseeing your session today. Sakusa.”

Atsumu straightens immediately, setting the cup down a little too carefully. “Ah—yeah. That’s me. Nice to meet you,” he says, running a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it. He feels ugly all the sudden, in the presence of someone so beautiful and put together. He feels his cheeks heat.

Sakusa inclines his head slightly. “I’ll walk you through the facility before we begin, just so you know what to expect.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Atsumu says awkwardly.

Sakusa turns without hesitation, and Atsumu falls in step behind him.

Up close, it’s worse in a way he can’t really explain. Not intimidating on purpose, just… everything about him feels precise. Clean. Like he belongs here in a way Atsumu doesn’t.

They move down a hallway that branches off from the main lobby, the transition subtle but noticeable. The flooring shifts slightly underfoot, still stone but darker, with a matte finish that softens the light instead of reflecting it. The walls here carry more texture, wood panels spaced between sections of plaster, the grain visible, each panel aligned perfectly.

“This area is for thermal preparation,” Sakusa says, his tone steady, not rehearsed, just matter of fact.

They step into a wider space, and the air changes immediately.

It’s warmer, more humid, and the scent deepens, herbal now, layered over the citrus. Along one wall, steam rooms sit behind frosted glass panels, the edges framed in dark wood. The doors are thick, insulated, the handles metal but warm to the touch. One opens briefly as an attendant exits, and a wave of steam slips out, carrying a stronger note of herbs, something medicinal but not harsh.

“We use seasonal infusions,” Sakusa adds. “Right now it’s a blend of citrus peel and warming herbs. Helps with circulation before bodywork. But you can also customize your infusion based on your preferences.”

Atsumu nods, eyes moving over the space. “So I just… sit in there?”

“For a set duration. You’ll be guided through it.”

“…Right.”

They move further in, and the space opens again.

The bathing area is built into the architecture rather than added to it. The main bath sits low, set into stone that’s been carved rather than assembled, the edges smooth, the water clear and still. A section along one side is lined with hinoki wood, the pale grain catching the light softly, the scent stronger here, clean, almost sweet.

There’s another bath nearby, smaller, the water darker, cooler, the surface barely moving.

“Hot and cold immersion,” Sakusa says. “We alternate to stimulate circulation and reduce inflammation.”

Atsumu glances at the cooler one, then back at him. “That’s the cold one.”

“Yes.”

“Lovely.” Atsumu mutters, not looking forward to that at all.

Sakusa doesn’t react, already turning toward the next section.

They pass into a quieter corridor, and the tone shifts again.

Treatment rooms line both sides, each door closed, each one identical from the outside, dark wood, clean lines, no labels. Sakusa slides one open, stepping aside just enough for Atsumu to see inside.

The room is larger than expected, but it doesn’t feel empty.

The treatment bed sits at the center, wider than standard, layered with thick linens and neatly folded towels arranged in precise stacks. The headrest is adjustable, the frame low and solid. Along one wall, a long counter holds rows of glass bottles, oils, serums, each labeled in small, clean handwriting. Ceramic bowls sit beside them, some already prepared with mixtures that catch the light.

There’s a basin set into the floor near the head of the bed, steam rising faintly from it, herbs floating at the surface.

“Bodywork is done here,” Sakusa says. “We adjust pressure and technique based on your assessment.”

Atsumu nods slowly, taking in the details, the lack of clutter, the way everything has a place.

They continue down the hall.

The headspa area is separate, and it’s obvious why the moment they step in. Reclining chairs are positioned in a row, but spaced far enough apart that each one feels private. Each chair curves into a built in basin, the design smooth, seamless, the fixtures modern but unobtrusive. Above each station, adjustable arms hold different shower heads, nozzles designed for controlled pressure rather than a single stream.

“Scalp treatment is done here,” Sakusa explains. “It includes cleansing, circulation work, and pressure point stimulation.”

Atsumu shifts slightly, glancing at one of the chairs. “So I just sit there the whole time?”

Sakusa pauses just long enough that it almost feels intentional. “You’ll be reclined.”

Atsumu exhales quietly. “Right. Okay.”

They move on again.

The shower suites are enclosed, each one separated by glass and stone. Inside, there are multiple fixtures, overhead rainfall, side jets, handheld nozzles, panels set into the wall to control temperature and pressure precisely. Shelves hold products in minimal packaging, everything uniform, no branding visible.

“Post treatment cleansing,” Sakusa says. “Temperature and pressure can be customized.”

Atsumu nods, already a little overwhelmed by the number of options.

They reach the locker area next.

Sakusa slides the door open fully, allowing him a proper view this time. The space is quiet, insulated from the rest of the spa. Lockers line the walls seamlessly, no visible hinges, no handles protruding. Benches sit low in the center, upholstered in neutral fabric that looks soft but structured. Towels are stacked in perfect folds, robes hung evenly, slippers arranged in pairs.

“You’ll change here,” Sakusa says. “Everything you need will be provided.”

Atsumu nods again, quieter now.

The final space Sakusa shows him is set deeper inside.

The lighting softens further, filtered through wooden slats that break it into clean lines across the stone floor. The bath here is larger, more secluded, built into the ground with a wide edge for sitting. Steam rises slowly from the surface, and the scent is stronger, citrus again, but fresher, layered over the wood.

“This is for your final recovery phase,” Sakusa says. “You’ll remain here after treatment, and a meal will be served.”

Atsumu glances at him. “A whole meal?”

“Yes. It’s part of the recovery process.”

“Right.”

They stand there for a second, the quiet settling around them again.

Atsumu takes a slow breath, then exhales.

“This is… a lot,” he admits, more honestly this time.

Sakusa looks at him briefly, expression unchanged. “It’s comprehensive.”

Atsumu huffs softly, not arguing.

They turn back toward the hallway, retracing their steps, and Atsumu follows, more aware now of every detail he missed on the way in, the way everything fits together, the way none of it feels accidental.

And the longer he walks beside Sakusa, the more aware he becomes of the fact that all of it, every room, every step, every part of that schedule he read, is about to include him.

They step back toward the exit to the locker area, the quiet settling again as the rest of the spa fades behind them, and Sakusa stops just before the entrance, turning slightly to face him.

“There are showers just through here,” he says, gesturing toward a separate corridor branching off the lockers. “I ask all my clients to fully cleanse before we begin.”

Atsumu nods quickly, even though his shoulders tighten a little at the idea, his hand instinctively brushing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Your locker is number twenty eight,” Sakusa continues, tone even, professional. “A robe and slippers have been prepared for you. Change into those after you finish. I’ll be waiting outside for your assessment.”

“…Okay,” Atsumu says, voice a little quieter than before.

Sakusa inclines his head once, then steps back, giving him space without lingering.

Atsumu watches him go for half a second longer than he should, then exhales slowly and pushes the door open.

The locker room is even quieter now that he’s inside it alone.

He moves toward the row of lockers, finding number twenty eight exactly where Sakusa said it would be. It opens smoothly, no resistance, and inside everything is already arranged, his robe folded neatly on the shelf, thick but lightweight, the fabric soft even just brushing it with his fingers. Slippers sit below, perfectly aligned, his size without him ever saying it out loud.

There’s a small tray set inside too, holding a tie for his hair, a comb, a sealed packet of something he assumes is skincare, everything laid out with intention.

He sets his things down, hesitating for a second before starting to undress.

It feels different here.

Not the usual quick, careless motions of changing in a locker room after practice, surrounded by noise and movement and teammates talking over each other. It’s quiet enough that every small movement feels louder, the rustle of fabric, the shift of his shoes against the floor.

He folds his clothes more neatly than he usually would, placing them into the locker before closing it, standing there for a second with his hand still resting against the wood.

Then he turns toward the showers.

The space opens up again, and it’s immediately obvious this isn’t just a standard wash area.

Each shower is separated by low stone partitions rather than full walls, giving privacy without closing the space off completely. The floors are textured stone, warm underfoot, with narrow channels that guide the water away without pooling. The fixtures are built into the walls, sleek metal, no exposed piping, everything clean and minimal.

There’s a small stool at each station, along with a bucket and ladle, traditional style, set beside more modern controls built into the wall.

The products are arranged on recessed shelves, bottles without branding, just simple labeling, the contents clear, amber, pale gold. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Everything looks… expensive.

Atsumu steps into one of the spaces, pausing again for just a second before reaching out to turn the water on.

It starts immediately, smooth, the temperature adjusting faster than he expects, settling into a steady, warm stream that doesn’t fluctuate.

He exhales slowly, stepping under it.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his back, and he tilts his head slightly, letting it hit the back of his neck, the tension there easing just a fraction.

Even this feels different.

The pressure is consistent, not harsh, not weak, just… right.

He reaches for the shampoo, working it through his hair, the scent clean and subtle, not overly perfumed, something that blends into the rest of the space instead of sitting on top of it. He takes a little longer than usual, scrubbing more thoroughly, rinsing, repeating without really thinking about it.

He’s aware of himself in a way he doesn’t usually bother with.

Of the soreness in his shoulders. The pull along his back. The way his muscles feel tighter now that he’s standing still long enough to notice.

And underneath that, the awareness that someone is about to go through all of it. Touch it. Assess it.

He exhales again, scrubbing at his arm a little more than necessary before rinsing it clean.

The body wash lathers easily, the scent faintly herbal, and he works through it methodically, slower than he normally would, making sure there’s nothing left undone. He rinses carefully, stepping back under the stream, letting the water run over him again, washing everything away.

For a moment, he just stands there.

The sound of the water fills the space, steady, uninterrupted, and it gives him something to focus on besides the knot forming in his chest.

“It’s just a massage,” he mutters quietly to himself.

But it doesn’t feel like just anything.

He reaches to turn the water off, the sudden quiet settling back in immediately, heavier now that he’s gotten used to the sound.

Atsumu grabs a towel from the neatly stacked pile nearby, drying off quickly but not rushed, still more aware of his movements than usual. He dresses in the robe after, the fabric soft against his skin, lighter than it looked but warm enough to be comfortable. The slippers fit perfectly, silent against the floor when he steps.

He runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back, then pauses, looking at himself briefly in the mirror set along the wall.

He looks… the same.

Just cleaner. Slightly more put together.

Still out of place.

He exhales once more, then turns and heads back toward the entrance, shoulders set a little tighter than before, knowing Sakusa is waiting just outside.

When Atsumu steps out of the locker room Sakusa is exactly where he said he would be.

Standing just outside, posture unchanged, hands resting loosely at his sides, expression composed in that same quiet, unreadable way. He doesn’t look impatient, doesn’t check the time, doesn’t shift his weight. He just… waits.

Atsumu slows slightly as he approaches, suddenly aware of the way the robe sits on him, the way his damp hair probably still looks a little messy no matter how much he tried to smooth it back.

“Um—yeah. I’m done,” he says, stopping a step away.

Sakusa’s gaze moves over him briefly, not lingering in any one place, just a quick, efficient check. “Good. We’ll begin with your assessment.”

“Right,” Atsumu nods.

Sakusa turns, already walking, and Atsumu follows, the soft soles of the slippers barely making a sound against the floor.

The treatment room looks different now that he knows he’s actually about to use it.

It feels smaller somehow, more contained, even though nothing has changed. The bed is still centered, the linens still perfectly arranged, the faint scent of oils and herbs sitting in the air. The steam from the low basin curls gently upward, the surface of the water barely disturbed.

Sakusa steps inside first, moving to the side table to adjust something, then turns back to him.

“For the assessment,” he says, tone even, “I’ll need to evaluate your full musculature and range of motion.”

Atsumu nods automatically, then hesitates half a second too long. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sakusa watches him for a moment, then adds, “If you’re uncomfortable being fully unclothed, we have disposable undergarments you can wear.”

Atsumu’s ears go a little warm immediately. “Ah—no, I mean—uh—”

He rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. “I don’t need… It’s just… yeah. It’s fine.”

Sakusa nods once, accepting the answer without pushing it further. “Let me know if anything becomes uncomfortable during the process.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu mutters. “I will.”

There’s a brief pause, then Sakusa steps back slightly, giving him space.

Atsumu takes a breath, then reaches for the robe tie, fingers fumbling for a second before he manages to loosen it. He shrugs the robe off, folding it more out of nervous habit than necessity, setting it aside carefully even though his movements feel anything but careful.

Standing there, he becomes acutely aware of himself.

Of the tension sitting in his shoulders, the slight unevenness when he shifts his weight, the way his muscles feel tight under his skin instead of loose. He’s used to being seen in a physical sense, locker rooms, games, practices, in the onsen at home, but this feels different.

This feels like being looked at for what’s wrong. Being analyzed. He feels awkward being naked with his dick out with Sakusa who’s fully clothed looking like he just stepped out of a magazine shoot.

“Stand naturally,” Sakusa says, stepping closer.

Atsumu exhales slowly, letting his arms hang at his sides, trying not to overthink where to put them.

Sakusa circles him once, not touching yet, his gaze moving methodically, shoulders, back, posture, the alignment of his hips, the way he holds himself even when he’s trying not to hold himself any particular way.

“Raise your arms,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu does, slower than usual, and he can already feel the restriction before he even reaches the top.

Sakusa steps in closer, one hand lifting slightly but not making contact yet. “Higher.”

“It doesn’t go much higher,” Atsumu admits.

Sakusa nods, then finally reaches out.

His touch is… precise.

Not tentative, not hesitant, just exact, fingers settling against Atsumu’s shoulder, then along the joint, testing the range of motion carefully. There’s no lingering, no unnecessary pressure, just controlled movement, guiding his arm slightly, stopping when resistance meets it.

“Tension through the anterior shoulder,” Sakusa says, more to himself than to Atsumu, his fingers shifting to trace along the muscle, pressing lightly, then deeper.

Atsumu tenses without meaning to.

“Relax,” Sakusa says, not unkindly, just stating it.

“I am relaxed,” Atsumu mutters.

“You’re not.”

“I’m tryin’,” he admits, a little under his breath.

Sakusa’s hand moves to the base of his neck next, pressing into a point that makes Atsumu suck in a quiet breath.

“Significant tightness through your cervical spine,” Sakusa notes. “Compensating for instability in your shoulder.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Been told that.”

Sakusa hums softly, fingers moving down along his upper back, following the line of muscle, pressing in specific places, gauging the response.

Each touch is deliberate.nClinical.

There’s nothing suggestive about it, nothing lingering, and somehow that makes it worse for Atsumu’s nerves, not better. There’s no space to deflect, no room to joke his way out of it.

He just has to stand there and let it happen.

“Forward,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu bends slightly, and Sakusa’s hands shift again, pressing along his back, mapping tension in a way that feels both thorough and uncomfortably accurate.

“You hold a lot of tension here,” Sakusa says, fingers pausing at a specific point.

Atsumu lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I gathered.”

Sakusa doesn’t react to that, continuing the assessment, moving down, checking alignment, testing flexibility, noting the way his body responds without needing Atsumu to explain it.

Atsumu’s shoulders stay tight longer than he means them to, his breath not quite steady, the awareness of everything, of Sakusa, of the room, of himself, sitting too close under his skin.

He keeps his gaze forward, jaw set slightly, trying to ignore the way his nerves keep spiking every time Sakusa’s hands shift to a new place, every time he points out something that feels a little too accurate.

It’s not rough. It’s not uncomfortable in a physical sense. It’s just… a lot.

And there’s no hiding from any of it.

Sakusa steps back just enough to shift position, his focus already moving downward in a way that feels continuous, not abrupt, like this is all one process rather than separate parts.

“Stand normally,” he says, his tone unchanged. “Don’t correct your posture.”

Atsumu straightens instinctively anyway, then forces himself to relax again, shoulders dropping a fraction, weight settling unevenly between his feet before he catches it.

Sakusa notices.

“Your weight shifts more to your right,” he says, stepping slightly to the side to get a better angle. “Even at rest.”

Atsumu glances down without meaning to. “Huh.”

“Likely compensating,” Sakusa continues, crouching slightly, his gaze level with Atsumu’s hips and legs now. “Stay still.”

“Okay,” Atsumu mutters, trying very hard to do exactly that.

Sakusa’s hand comes to rest lightly at his hip, not gripping, just placing, checking alignment. His other hand traces down along the outer line of Atsumu’s thigh, fingers pressing in briefly, testing the muscle.

“Tight through here,” Sakusa says, more to himself, then presses again, a little deeper this time.

Atsumu exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah, okay—yeah, that’s—”

“Tender?” Sakusa asks, glancing up at him briefly.

“A little,” Atsumu admits, trying not to shift.

Sakusa nods once and continues, his hands moving with the same controlled precision, working down the length of Atsumu’s thigh, front first, then slightly to the side, checking how the muscle responds under pressure.

“Quadriceps are overactive,” he says. “Likely from repeated explosive movement.”

“Makes sense. I play volleyball so…,” Atsumu mutters awkwardly. Sakusa doesn’t respond.

He just shifts position again, moving behind him this time.

Atsumu’s shoulders tense immediately before he can stop them.

“Relax,” Sakusa says again, not unkind, just steady.

“I’m tryin’,” Atsumu says under his breath, a little defensively.

Sakusa’s hand settles at the back of his hip, then along the upper part of his glute, pressing carefully, testing the muscle underneath.

Atsumu goes very still.

It’s not inappropriate. Not even close. It’s just… specific. Focused. It’s odd to have someone touch him there.

Sakusa presses again, slightly deeper, then adjusts his hand placement, mapping the tension with the same clinical attention he’s been using everywhere else.

“Gluteal muscles are tight,” he says. “Limited activation in certain areas.”

“Is that bad,” Atsumu asks, voice a little tighter than he wants it to be.

“It contributes to the imbalance,” Sakusa replies. “Your lower body isn’t distributing load efficiently.”

“Right,” Atsumu says, staring straight ahead.

Sakusa continues without pause, moving down the back of his thigh, fingers pressing into the hamstring, testing flexibility.

“Bend forward slightly,” he says.

Atsumu does, slower this time, and Sakusa’s hand follows the movement, tracking the muscle as it stretches.

“Restricted,” Sakusa notes. “Do you feel pulling here?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu answers immediately. “Back of my leg.”

Sakusa nods, then releases the pressure and moves lower, checking the back of his knee briefly before continuing down to his calf.

The shift is subtle but noticeable, the pressure firmer now, thumbs pressing into the muscle.

Atsumu exhales again, quieter this time. “Okay, that one’s not as bad.”

“Calves are less restricted,” Sakusa says. “Still tight.”

“Everything’s tight,” Atsumu mutters.

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

Atsumu lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t quite make it.

Sakusa moves to the front again, repeating the process on the other leg, his hands consistent, methodical, never lingering longer than necessary, never rushing either. He asks the same questions, checks the same points, notes the differences.

“Left side is slightly less restricted,” he says. “But still compensating.”

Atsumu nods, even though he doesn’t really know what to do with that information.

By the time Sakusa steps back fully, the assessment feels… thorough in a way Atsumu isn’t used to.

Nothing rushed. Nothing missed.

Sakusa straightens, his gaze moving over him one more time, taking everything in.

“Your body is holding tension in multiple areas,” he says. “Upper body compensation is affecting lower body function, and vice versa. We’ll address it in stages.”

Atsumu nods slowly, finally letting himself shift his weight a little now that the direct pressure is gone.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause after that, but Sakusa doesn’t immediately move on. Instead, his attention sharpens slightly, like he’s moving from what he can observe to what he needs confirmed.

“You train frequently,” Sakusa says, not as a question.

Atsumu nods. “Yeah. Pretty much every day.”

“What kind of training,” Sakusa asks.

Atsumu blinks, a little caught off guard by how direct it is. “Volleyball,” he says. “Professional.” He adds, then feels immediately embarrassed after. Like he’s bragging.

Sakusa’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a small shift in focus, like something clicks into place.

“What position do you play?” He asks, a small intonation of interest in his voice.

“Setter.”

Sakusa nods once, and this time when his gaze flicks briefly toward Atsumu’s shoulder, it feels more specific.

“That explains the pattern,” he says. “Repetitive overhead movement. High frequency.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu mutters. “I use it a lot.”

Sakusa steps just slightly closer again, not touching, just observing more closely.

“And your recovery routine,” he continues.

Atsumu exhales through his nose. “Stretching After practice. Physical therapy sometimes. And ice if it’s bad.”

“Massage?”

Atsumu huffs a short, quiet laugh. “Never.”

Sakusa looks at him.

“Like—actually never,” Atsumu adds quickly. “This is my first time doin’ anything like this.”

There’s a brief pause, then Sakusa nods once, like that confirms something.

“That contributes,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m startin’ to see that,” Atsumu mutters.

“Sleep,” Sakusa continues.

Atsumu shifts his weight again, suddenly aware, again, that he’s still standing there completely naked, having what feels like a very serious breakdown of his entire lifestyle.

“Um like seven hours,” he says. “Sometimes less.”

“That’s insufficient.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “I know.”

Sakusa doesn’t linger on it, just continues through the list.

“Nutrition.”

Atsumu hesitates, then shrugs slightly. “I eat. Just, not consistently. Team meals, convenience store stuff, whatever’s around. My brother’s restaurant when I can.”

“And hydration.”

Atsumu winces. “Could be better. I try to drink water..” He says weakly. Feeling embarrassed.

Sakusa doesn’t say anything to that, but he doesn’t need to.

Atsumu exhales. “…It’s bad.”

There’s a quieter pause after that.

Sakusa’s gaze moves over him again,not lingering, just assessing in that same precise way, and Atsumu shifts again, more subtly this time, his arms hovering for a second before settling awkwardly at his sides.

“You’re really just—gettin’ all of it, huh,” he mutters.

“It’s what’s provided by this service,” Sakusa says.

“Yeah. Right.”

Atsumu glances away for a second, then back, something a little more serious settling in now that the nerves have dipped under the surface.

“So what does that mean,” he asks. “Like—what’s actually wrong.”

Sakusa doesn’t rush the answer.

“Your body is compensating for a lack of consistent recovery,” he says. “Your shoulder is overused, your upper back is holding tension to stabilize it, and your lower body is compensating for both.”

Atsumu nods slowly. “So everything’s just kinda… working harder than it should.”

“Yes.”

Atsumu lets out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair before dropping it again, not quite sure what to do with himself under the weight of all that information.

“Alright,” he says. “That makes sense.”

Sakusa continues, tone even, grounded.

“This is manageable,” he says. “But it requires consistency. Recovery, hydration, structured rest, and treatment. Massage is very beneficial.”

“That’s a lot,” Atsumu mutters.

“It is.”

There’s no judgment in it. Just fact.

Atsumu exhales slowly, nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I can- I can try.”

Sakusa studies him for a moment longer, like he’s deciding whether that answer is enough.

Then the tension in the interaction shifts. The assessment feels complete.

Sakusa steps back properly this time, his posture returning to something more neutral

Sakusa gestures toward the robe. “You can put that back on. We’ll begin with thermal preparation.”

Atsumu doesn’t waste time grabbing it, pulling it back around himself and tying it a little tighter than necessary, the fabric settling against his skin again.

He exhales quietly once it’s secure, shoulders still not fully relaxed, but better than before.

Sakusa doesn’t rush him.

He waits just long enough for Atsumu to tie the robe properly, to settle back into himself a little, then turns and leads him out of the treatment room, his pace steady, unhurried, like there’s no reason to move faster than necessary.

Atsumu follows a step behind, more aware now of everything than he was on the first walk through. The quiet feels heavier this time, not unfamiliar anymore, just… inescapable. Every detail stands out more, the way the lighting shifts slightly between spaces, the faint change in scent as they pass from one area to another, the softness of the robe against his skin where it brushes his arms.

They reach the thermal area again, and Sakusa slows as they step inside.

The warmth is immediate, settling over his skin, not suffocating, just present. The air here carries more moisture, the faint curl of steam visible near the ceiling, and the scent is stronger than before, herbal, citrus, something grounding underneath it.

“This is where we begin,” Sakusa says, turning slightly toward him.

Atsumu nods, hands instinctively adjusting the sleeves of his robe.

“We start with thermal preparation to increase circulation and soften the tissue before any manual work,” Sakusa continues, his tone still even but more detailed now, more engaged. “Heat helps relax the superficial muscle layers and allows deeper structures to respond more effectively during treatment.”

“So it makes it easier for you to fix everything,” Atsumu says.

“In simple terms,” Sakusa replies.

He gestures toward the steam rooms.

“You’ll begin with steam therapy. The humidity allows heat to penetrate more gradually than dry heat, which is beneficial for reducing surface tension without overstressing the body.”

Atsumu glances toward the glass doors, watching the faint movement of steam behind them. “How long am I in there?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes initially,” Sakusa says. “We adjust depending on your tolerance.”

“Right.”

Sakusa steps toward a small counter set into the wall nearby, where several ceramic bowls are arranged. Each one holds something different, dried citrus peels, bundled herbs, small sachets tied with thin cord.

“We use botanical infusions during steam sessions,” he says, picking one up carefully. “These are added to the steam to enhance circulation and provide mild respiratory benefits.”

He sets them down one by one as he explains.

“We have different options. Citrus, yuzu or sudachi, stimulates circulation and has a mild uplifting effect. It’s commonly used in traditional bathing practices. You are welcome to choose which you would prefer.” Sakusa says, motioning at the different herbal preparations that are set up.

Atsumu nods slightly, then hesitates, glancing at the different options before looking back at him.

“I mean, you’re the expert,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “What do ya think I need?”

Sakusa’s gaze settles on him more directly this time, not sharp, just assessing.

“You are holding a significant amount of tension,” he says. “Your musculature is already tight before we’ve begun treatment. That will limit responsiveness if not addressed first.”

Atsumu exhales quietly. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

“And you’re visibly tense,” Sakusa adds, tone still even, not critical. “Your breathing is shallow, and your shoulders have not relaxed since we started.”

Atsumu’s ears go a little warm at that, his hand dropping from his neck. “I’m… workin’ on that.”

Sakusa nods once, then gestures toward one of the bowls.

“A circulation focused blend would be most beneficial,” he says. “Citrus and warming elements will encourage blood flow and help prepare your muscles. But you will also need to actively relax. The treatment will be less effective if you resist it.”

“Okay,” Atsumu mutters. “No pressure.”

Sakusa doesn’t react to that, simply selecting the blend and setting it aside.

“After steam, we’ll move to contrast bathing.”

Atsumu glances toward the baths again, already knowing what that means.

“Hot immersion will allow further muscle relaxation,” Sakusa says. “The heat dilates blood vessels, increasing circulation. Immediately after, cold immersion constricts them, creating a pumping effect that helps reduce inflammation and flush metabolic waste.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” Atsumu mutters.

“It’s effective,” Sakusa replies.

Atsumu huffs quietly under his breath.

“We don’t keep you in the cold long,” Sakusa adds. “Short exposure is sufficient.”

“Good,” Atsumu says.

Sakusa continues, his attention returning fully to the process.

“This sequence prepares your body for the rest of the treatment. Without it, deeper work would be more uncomfortable and less effective. Your muscles are currently holding tension at multiple levels. Heat allows us to access those layers without forcing them.”

Atsumu nods slowly, processing that.

“After thermal preparation, we move into bodywork and scalp treatment,” Sakusa goes on. “Circulation will already be elevated, which improves response to both.”

“You’ve done this a lot,” Atsumu says, quieter now.

“Yes,” Sakusa answers. There’s no hesitation in it.

Atsumu shifts again, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve.

“Do I… leave this on?” he asks, gesturing to the robe.

“For the steam, yes,” Sakusa says. “You can remove it once inside. There are hooks provided. You’ll have privacy.”

“Okay,” Atsumu says.

Sakusa picks up the selected infusion and moves toward one of the steam room doors, opening it just slightly to adjust something inside before stepping back.

“You can go in when you’re ready,” he says. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything.”

Atsumu nods, then hesitates again, just for a second, standing there at the threshold.

The warmth, the quiet, the awareness that this is only the beginning.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

Then steps forward.

The steam room door closes behind him with a soft seal, and the shift is immediate.

The heat wraps around him first, thicker than the air outside, humid in a way that settles against his skin instead of just warming it. The light is dimmer in here, softened through frosted panels, everything slightly blurred at the edges by the rising steam that curls upward in slow, constant movement. It smells different too, stronger than the hallway, the citrus Sakusa chose layered with something deeper, warmer, almost grounding, the scent sitting low in his lungs when he breathes in.

Atsumu stands there for a second, hand still resting near the door, adjusting to it.

“Okay,” he mutters quietly.

There’s a small wooden hook along the wall, exactly where Sakusa said it would be. He steps toward it, fingers finding the tie of his robe again, loosening it slower this time, more aware of the space even though he’s alone.

The fabric slips from his shoulders, pooling briefly in his hands before he folds it and hangs it carefully, the motion more deliberate than it needs to be.

For a moment, he just stands there.

The heat settles over him more fully now, the steam clinging lightly to his skin, already starting to bead along his shoulders and chest. The faint tension that had been sitting tight along his neck and back hasn’t gone anywhere yet, but it feels… closer to the surface somehow.

He exhales slowly, stepping further into the room.

There’s a low bench built along the wall, smooth wood, warm from the air around it. He sits, careful at first, then shifts until it feels stable, feet flat against the stone floor.

The sound inside is different than outside.

Muted.

There’s a faint hum,something intentional, maybe soft ambient music or just the system running, but it blends into the steady hiss of steam so completely it’s hard to separate one from the other. Nothing sharp. Nothing distracting.

Atsumu rests his forearms loosely on his thighs, hands hanging between his knees for a second before he straightens again, trying to remember what Sakusa said.

Relax.

He exhales through his nose, slow, then inhales again, deeper this time.

The air is warm when it fills his lungs, carrying that citrus scent with it, something clean and bright under the weight of the heat. It settles in his chest, and he holds it for a second before letting it out again, longer this time.

His shoulders drop a fraction. He doesn’t notice it until the next breath comes easier.

The heat starts to work its way in gradually, not overwhelming, just consistent. His muscles feel heavy rather than tight, the tension still there but less sharp around the edges. A line of sweat forms at the back of his neck, slipping down along his spine, and he shifts slightly, adjusting his posture.

“Just sit,” he mutters under his breath. “It’s not that hard.”

He leans back a little, resting against the wall, closing his eyes for a second.

The quiet presses in, but not in a bad way. There’s nothing here demanding his attention, nothing to react to, nothing to keep up with. Just heat. Breath. The steady rhythm of both.

He inhales again, slower now. Exhales.

The tension in his jaw eases just slightly, enough that he notices it.

His body feels… present in a way he doesn’t usually let it be. Every tight spot, every sore muscle, everything he usually ignores is there, but instead of being sharp or irritating, it’s just… there. Waiting.

He shifts his shoulders again, rolling them back just slightly, testing the movement.

Still tight.

But less resistant.

The steam curls around him, the scent deepening as it settles, the warmth consistent against his skin.

Atsumu stays there, letting it happen, trying, really trying this time, not to fight it.

Time passes differently in the steam.

Atsumu doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there until the door slides open just slightly, enough to let a thin line of cooler air cut through the warmth.

“Miya-san,” Sakusa’s voice comes, calm and even. “Your time is up.”

Atsumu blinks, eyes opening slowly, the haze of heat and stillness clinging to him for a second before it clears. “Ah—yeah,” he says, pushing himself up from the bench, his movements slower than before, less sharp around the edges.

The heat has settled into him.

His muscles feel heavier, looser, the tension not gone but softened, easier to carry. His breathing comes more evenly now, deeper without him having to think about it.

“Okay,” he mutters quietly, stepping toward the door.

He slides it open and steps out—

—and immediately realizes.

The cooler air hits his skin, and his brain catches up a second too late. He’s completely naked, steam still clinging faintly to his body, droplets trailing down from his shoulders, across his chest, down his abdomen, along his thighs. He didn’t even think about the robe. Just walked out.

“—Ah, shit—” he breathes, the words low and sharp, his whole body tightening again in an instant.

His hands move instinctively, one coming up awkwardly to cover himself, the other hovering like he doesn’t even know what to do with it, shoulders pulling in as the awareness slams back all at once. His cock and balls are just… there, completely exposed in a space that suddenly feels too open, too quiet, too intentional.

“I—uh—” he starts, already half turning back toward the steam room.

“You don’t need it,” Sakusa says, cutting in smoothly.

Atsumu freezes.

“We’re proceeding directly to the baths,” Sakusa continues, tone unchanged, eyes steady but not fixed anywhere inappropriate, his attention clinical, detached in a way that makes it clear this is routine for him. “I’ll make sure your robe is brought for you afterward.”

“…Right,” Atsumu mutters, heat rushing up the back of his neck.

There’s no reaction from Sakusa. No shift. No awkwardness.

Just expectation.

Atsumu exhales slowly, forcing his hand to drop after a second, even though every instinct is telling him not to. His fingers curl briefly at his sides before settling, his posture still tighter than it was in the steam.

“Okay,” he says, quieter now.

He steps forward.

And immediately becomes aware of everything again.

The air against his skin. The way the cooler temperature settles across his chest, his stomach, his thighs. The faint movement of air as he walks. The fact that Sakusa is right there, just ahead of him, composed and unaffected while Atsumu feels every inch of himself in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.

It isn’t unfamiliar, being naked in front of other people. Locker rooms, games, training, onsen, it’s normal.

But this is different.

There’s no noise to hide behind. No distraction. No one else.

Just him, and Sakusa, who is fully clothed. and the quiet.

He keeps his gaze forward, jaw set slightly, doing his best not to overthink the fact that he can feel himself moving with each step, that there’s nowhere for his body to go unnoticed even if Sakusa isn’t paying attention to it in that way.

Sakusa leads him into the bathing area again, this time stopping near the edge of the main bath.

“This will be the next stage,” he says.

Up close, the details are sharper.

The bath is carved directly into stone, the edges smooth and uninterrupted, the water perfectly still except for the faintest movement at the surface. Steam rises slowly, carrying the scent of hinoki wood, deeper here than anywhere else, clean and slightly sweet, mixed with the faint citrus from earlier.

The ledge is wide, meant for sitting, the stone warmed just enough to not feel cold underfoot.

“This bath is maintained at a higher temperature,” Sakusa explains. “It continues the relaxation process after steam exposure, allowing deeper muscle layers to soften.”

Atsumu nods, focusing on the water, on anything but the awareness of himself standing there.

“And this,” Sakusa continues, stepping slightly to indicate the second bath, “is the cold immersion.”

The contrast is obvious even without touching it.

The water is darker, clearer in a sharper way, the surface still and flat, no steam rising from it. The air around it feels cooler just standing nearby.

“You’ll alternate between them,” Sakusa says. “Short intervals. The temperature change causes vascular expansion and contraction, improving circulation and reducing inflammation.”

“So hot, then cold, then back again,” Atsumu says.

“Yes.”

“…Right.”

Sakusa turns slightly back toward him.

“I’ll guide the timing,” he adds. “You won’t need to keep track.”

“Good,” Atsumu mutters.

There’s a brief pause.

“You can enter when you’re ready,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu nods, stepping toward the edge of the bath.

He hesitates for half a second, then lowers himself in slowly, the heat wrapping around him immediately, deeper than the steam had been, sinking into his muscles in a way that makes his shoulders drop without him meaning to.

He exhales, long and slow.

The water settles around him, the warmth consistent and steady.

The heat settles deeper the longer he sits, the water climbing up over his hips, his abdomen, pressing evenly into his back where he leans slightly against the stone. It should feel good, objectively, it does, but Atsumu can’t quite let himself sink into it the way he did in the steam.

He’s too aware.

Of the space. Of the quiet. Of Sakusa standing just off to the side, close enough that Atsumu can feel the presence of him without even looking.

He shifts slightly, adjusting where he rests his arms along the edge of the bath, trying to find a position that feels natural. His shoulders lift without him meaning them to, then drop again when he notices, his breath coming in just a little too controlled.

Relax.

He exhales slowly, trying to follow the rhythm he had a few minutes ago.

In.

Out.

The water laps faintly against his chest when he moves, the surface disturbed just enough to remind him he’s still not still.

“Miya-san.”

Atsumu’s eyes flick up immediately. “Yeah?”

“You’re holding tension again,” Sakusa says.

It’s not critical. Just… stated.

Atsumu huffs quietly through his nose, looking down at the water for a second. “Yeah. I know.”

His hand drags briefly over the back of his neck, then drops back into the water.

“I’m tryin’,” he adds after a second, voice a little lower. “Just—”

He hesitates, then exhales again, a little sharper this time.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits. “Any of it. Not like this.”

Sakusa is quiet for a moment.

Then he shifts slightly closer, not enough to invade the space, just enough that his voice carries more easily without needing to be raised.

“That’s fine,” he says.

Atsumu glances up again, a little surprised at how simple the response is.

“You don’t need to approach it perfectly,” Sakusa continues. “Your body will adjust as we go.”

Atsumu lets out a small breath. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It will,” Sakusa says.

There’s something different in the way he speaks now.

Still controlled and professional. But less… distant.

“The purpose of this stage isn’t just physical,” he goes on. “The heat is affecting your muscles, yes, but it’s also signaling your nervous system to slow down. If you stay tense, you’re working against that process.”

Atsumu nods slightly, watching the water shift around his hands.

“I don’t really know how to not do that,” he admits.

Sakusa doesn’t react to that immediately.

Instead, he says, “Focus on your breathing.”

Atsumu huffs quietly. “Been tryin’ that too.”

“Not just the act of breathing,” Sakusa says. “The pace. Let it slow naturally. Don’t force it.”

Atsumu pauses, then inhales again, a little less deliberately this time.

The heat presses evenly into his back. The water holds him in place.

“Your shoulders are still elevated,” Sakusa adds.

Atsumu lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “You’re really callin’ me out on everything, huh.”

“It’s my job.”

“…Yeah.”

Atsumu exhales again, longer this time, and consciously lets his shoulders drop.

The difference is small. But it’s there.

Sakusa continues, his tone steady, quieter now, less instructive and more… guiding.

“The heat increases blood flow to the muscles,” he says. “That’s what allows them to release. But tension is often maintained by habit, not just physical strain. If you’re used to holding it, your body will keep doing it even when the conditions change.”

Atsumu listens, eyes dropping back to the water.

“So I just… stop,” he says.

“You allow it to stop,” Sakusa corrects.

“…That sounds like the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

Atsumu huffs again, softer this time. He shifts slightly, adjusting how he’s sitting, then lets himself settle again, trying to follow what Sakusa’s saying without overthinking it.

The water is steady. The heat consistent.

His breath comes a little easier now, not perfect, but less forced.

Sakusa continues speaking, explaining without overwhelming him, his voice even, low, carrying easily through the quiet space.

“The transition to cold after this will stimulate your system again,” he says. “It will feel sharp at first, but the effect is brief. Your body adapts quickly.”

Atsumu glances up at him. “You say that like it’s not gonna suck.”

“It will be uncomfortable,” Sakusa says plainly. “But controlled discomfort is part of the process.”

“…Great.”

There’s the faintest shift in Sakusa’s expression. Not quite a smile. Just less rigid.

Atsumu notices it without really thinking about it. And somehow, that helps more than anything else he’s said so far.

He exhales again, slower now, shoulders finally settling a little lower, the tension not gone, but loosening enough that it doesn’t feel like it’s fighting him anymore.

He sinks just slightly deeper into the water.
And this time, he doesn’t immediately pull himself back out of it.

Sakusa doesn’t say anything for a while after that.

He lets the space settle again, stepping back just enough to give Atsumu room without leaving entirely, his presence still there but not pressing. The quiet returns, the steady rise of steam, the warmth of the water holding constant around Atsumu’s body.

Atsumu leans back a little more this time, letting his shoulders sink properly, his arms resting along the edge instead of bracing. His breathing evens out gradually, less forced now, the rhythm coming easier without him trying to control it.

The tension doesn’t disappear. But it loosens.

His head tilts back slightly, eyes closing for a moment, the heat pressing evenly into his muscles, the water supporting him in a way that makes it easier to just… exist there without doing anything.

For a few minutes, nothing happens.

And that helps more than anything else so far.

“Miya-san.”

Atsumu’s eyes open again, slower this time.

“It’s time,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu already knows what that means.

He glances toward the other bath, the surface still and cold looking in a way that makes his stomach tighten immediately.

“Right,” he says.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

“…So,” he starts, dragging a hand briefly over his face before letting it fall back into the water. “Just to confirm.”

Sakusa waits.

“That one’s actually cold,” Atsumu says, nodding toward it.

“Yes.”

“Like—properly cold.”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

Atsumu exhales, longer this time, then shifts forward slightly, like he’s going to get out—

—and then doesn’t.

“Okay, but—” he starts again, the words coming faster now, a little more uneven. “Hypothetically, if I get in there, and immediately regret every decision that led me to this moment—”

“That’s expected,” Sakusa says.

“—and my body shuts down completely—”

“It won’t.”

“—and my dick shrinks six sizes—”

There’s a pause. Sakusa lets out the faintest breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. But close enough that Atsumu notices.

“The physiological response to cold exposure does include temporary vasoconstriction,” Sakusa says, tone still composed, but lighter now, just slightly. “That is normal. It is also temporary.”

“…So that’s a yes,” Atsumu mutters.

“It’s not permanent,” Sakusa replies.

Atsumu huffs, dragging a hand through his hair, water dripping down his arm.

“Fantastic,” he says under his breath.

Sakusa continues, steady, measured.

“The cold immersion will feel intense initially,” he says. “Your body will react quickly, sharp breath, increased heart rate, but that response stabilizes within seconds if you don’t resist it.”

Atsumu looks at him. “You say that like it’s not gonna be awful.”

“It will be uncomfortable,” Sakusa says. “But brief. The benefit is immediate. Reduced inflammation, improved circulation, faster recovery response.”

“You’re really sellin’ it,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa doesn’t react to that.

“Focus on your breathing again,” he adds. “Enter slowly. Don’t tense before you’ve even made contact.”

Atsumu exhales, shoulders tightening again despite himself.

“Right,” he says.

He shifts forward again, this time actually committing, pushing himself up out of the hot bath, water streaming down his body, the air cooler now against his skin. He steps carefully toward the edge of the cold bath, every instinct already telling him this is a terrible idea.

He pauses there for half a second.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay.”

Then lowers one foot in.

And immediately sucks in a sharp breath.

“—Oh, that’s—no, that’s bad—” he hisses, his whole body tensing on reflex as the cold hits.

“Continue,” Sakusa says calmly.

Atsumu glares at him for half a second, then forces himself to keep going, lowering himself further, the water climbing up his leg, then the other, the cold biting sharper the deeper he goes.

“—No, this is worse than I thought—” he breathes, voice tight, his hands gripping the edge as he lowers himself the rest of the way in.

The moment the water reaches his torso, it hits fully.

Every muscle locks.

His breath stutters, chest tightening as the cold wraps around him completely.

“—Oh my—” he cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut, his whole body trying to pull away from it.

“Breathe,” Sakusa says.

“I am breathin’—I just don’t like it—” Atsumu shoots back, voice strained, shoulders up near his ears again despite everything.

“Slowly,” Sakusa corrects.

Atsumu exhales sharply, then drags in a breath, forcing himself to stay where he is, even though everything in him is telling him to get out.

The cold doesn’t get easier immediately.

But it stops escalating.

After a few seconds, it plateaus, the shock settling into something more stable, still uncomfortable, still sharp, but not overwhelming in the same way.

Atsumu’s grip on the edge loosens slightly.

“…Okay,” he says, breath still uneven. “Okay, that’s—still bad—but less bad—”

Sakusa watches him, expression steady.

“Your body is adapting,” he says.

“Yeah,” Atsumu mutters. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Atsumu stays in longer than he wants to.

Not because he’s enjoying it, he very much isn’t, but because Sakusa is standing there, watching him in that calm, steady way, and something about that makes him refuse to be the first one to break.

His shoulders are still tense, breath uneven, the cold wrapped around him in a way that feels sharp at the edges, but not unbearable anymore. Just… there. Constant. Demanding his attention.

“…So,” Atsumu starts, because silence feels worse now, his voice a little tighter than usual. “Be honest with me.”

Sakusa looks at him.

“Have you ever actually gotten in this thing,” Atsumu continues, nodding slightly at the water around him, “or do ya just stand there and make everyone else suffer while you stay nice and warm.”

There’s the faintest shift in Sakusa’s expression. Not enough to call it a smile. But close.

“I’ve used it,” he says.

Atsumu narrows his eyes slightly. “Used it, or actually used it.”

“I understand the process I’m guiding you through,” Sakusa replies evenly.

“That is not what I asked,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa exhales quietly through his nose, the smallest hint of amusement slipping through before it disappears again.

“I’ve done it,” he says.

“Huh,” Atsumu breathes, a little surprised despite himself. “Alright. I respect that a little more.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond to that, but he doesn’t shut him down either.

Atsumu shifts slightly in the water, his grip on the edge loosening another fraction now that the initial shock has passed. His breathing steadies, still not relaxed, but not as sharp.

“Still think it’s terrible,” he adds.

“It’s not meant to be comfortable,” Sakusa says.

“Yeah, I got that part.”

Atsumu huffs, then glances down briefly at his dick before immediately looking away again.

“…This is humiliatin’,” he mutters under his breath.

Sakusa’s gaze flicks toward him, not questioning, just acknowledging the shift in tone. When he notices what Atsumu is referring to he looks away.

Atsumu scrubs a hand quickly over his face, then lets it drop back into the water.

“I mean—ya weren’t kidding about the vasoconstriction thing,” he says, voice quieter now but still edged with that nervous humor. “Like—don’t look at my dick, this is—this is bad.”

There’s a beat. Then Sakusa lets out a short, quiet breath that is very clearly a suppressed laugh.

Atsumu catches it immediately, his head snapping up. “Oi—don’t laugh—”

“I’m not,” Sakusa says, tone composed, though there’s still that faint trace of amusement lingering at the edges.

“You are,” Atsumu shoots back. “I heard that.”

Sakusa’s expression smooths again, but it doesn’t fully return to what it was before.

“Your time is sufficient,” he says instead, shifting the focus cleanly. “You can return to the hot bath.”

“Thank god,” Atsumu breathes, pushing himself up almost immediately.

The moment he stands, the air feels colder than before, the water streaming off him quickly, and he steps out with far less hesitation than he had going in.

He moves back toward the hot bath, lowering himself in with a quiet exhale the second the heat wraps around him again.

“Yeah, okay, that’s way better,” he says, shoulders dropping almost instantly.

The warmth sinks in faster this time, his body already primed for it, the contrast making it feel deeper, more immediate.

He leans back slightly, eyes closing for a second before opening again.

There’s a quiet stretch that follows, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

Atsumu exhales slowly, then glances over at Sakusa again, a little more aware now, not just of himself, but of the difference between them.

The way Sakusa carries himself, composed, controlled, every movement measured. The way he speaks, precise, calm, like nothing ever throws him off balance. It fits this place. Fits everything about it.

And then there’s him.

Talking too much. Filling the silence. Babbling like an idiot because he’s nervous and feel out of place. Making jokes that probably don’t belong here. Standing naked in a place meant for people who know exactly how to exist in it without thinking twice.

He looks away again, settling back into the water.

“…Sorry,” he mutters after a second, quieter now. “I talk a lot when I’m—yeah.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. But it’s obvious.

Sakusa watches him for a moment, then says, simply, “It’s fine.”

The second round of heat settles into him faster. Atsumu doesn’t fight it this time, his body already half primed from the first cycle, the warmth sinking deeper, loosening what the cold had shocked tight. His shoulders drop more easily, his breathing evening out without him needing to think about it as much.

He doesn’t realize how much more relaxed he is until Sakusa speaks again.

“That’s sufficient.”

Atsumu exhales, slower this time, then nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

He pushes himself up, water sliding off him in steady streams, the air cooler again against his skin but not as jarring as before. This time he doesn’t hesitate as much stepping out, just reaches automatically for the towel Sakusa is already holding out.

“Dry off,” Sakusa says, tone even, handing it to him without looking away or making it feel like anything more than routine. “We’ll proceed to bodywork next.”

“Right,” Atsumu mutters, taking it.

The towel is thick, heavier than the ones he’s used to, absorbing water almost immediately. He dries off quickly but not rushed, running it over his shoulders, his arms, down his chest, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Sakusa is right there, waiting, watching in that same neutral, professional way.

His body still feels more present than usual, but less sharp around the edges now, the earlier tension dulled into something more manageable.

Sakusa holds his robe out once he’s done.

Atsumu takes it this time without forgetting, pulling it back on, tying it a little tighter than necessary again before exhaling quietly.

Sakusa nods once and turns, already moving.

They walk back through the corridors, retracing their steps toward the treatment rooms, the shift from heat to the cooler, controlled air of the main space settling around him again. The scent changes subtly as they move, less humid now, more layered oils and clean wood.

Sakusa steps inside the treatment room first, adjusting the bed slightly, smoothing a section of linen that didn’t need smoothing, then turns back to him.

“We’ll begin with full body treatment,” he says. “Followed by scalp therapy.”

Atsumu nods, stepping inside, his hands instinctively brushing down the front of his robe.

Sakusa gestures toward the table. “Before we begin, I need to confirm your preferences.”

“Preferences,” Atsumu repeats.

“Yes,” Sakusa says. “Pressure level, techniques, and any additional elements you want incorporated.”

Atsumu exhales quietly. “Uh… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to pick.”

“That’s fine,” Sakusa says. “I’ll guide you.”

He moves toward the side table, where the oils are arranged, picking up one of the bottles and setting it down again as he speaks.

“For pressure—light, moderate, or deep. Based on your assessment, I would recommend deep, but I will adjust if needed.”

“Deep’s fine,” Atsumu says. “I mean—if it’s supposed to fix things, just… do whatever works.”

Sakusa nods.

“For technique, we combine several approaches. Standard deep tissue, fascia release, lymphatic drainage. There are also additional options.”

He gestures lightly toward another section of the table.

“Hot stones can be used to maintain heat in deeper muscle layers. Bamboo tools apply consistent pressure along larger muscle groups. There is also cupping, though that may leave temporary marks.”

Atsumu blinks. “Marks.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe not that one,” Atsumu says.

Sakusa inclines his head slightly. “Understood.”

He continues.

“Hot stones would be beneficial for your level of tension. Bamboo is optional.”

Atsumu shifts slightly. “The stones sound… less aggressive.”

“They’re not aggressive,” Sakusa says. “They allow sustained heat while reducing strain during pressure application.”

“Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”

Sakusa nods again, then gestures toward the oils.

“We also customize the oils used during treatment. Some are neutral, others include essential blends for circulation, relaxation, or muscle recovery.”

Atsumu steps a little closer, looking at them, though he clearly has no idea what he’s looking at.

“This one is a circulation blend,” Sakusa says, lifting one slightly. “Citrus, warming elements. Similar to what we used in the steam.”

Another.

“This is more grounding. Wood based, calming. Useful for reducing nervous tension.”

Atsumu hesitates, then glances at him. “Probably the first one, right.”

Sakusa meets his gaze briefly. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “Let’s do that.”

Sakusa sets it aside.

“For lymphatic work, pressure will be lighter. That’s intentional,” he adds, anticipating the question. “It’s not meant to be deep.”

“Got it,” Atsumu nods.

“For scalp treatment later, we’ll use a separate set of oils based on your skin and hair condition. I’ll determine that during the session.”

“Okay.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You can remove your robe and lie face down,” Sakusa says, gesturing toward the table. “Draping will be used throughout. You will remain covered except for the area being treated.”

Atsumu nods, swallowing once, then reaches for the tie again.

This time, it’s still awkward. Still a little too aware. But less than before.

He shrugs the robe off, setting it aside, then climbs onto the table, the linens warm against his skin as he settles face down, adjusting slightly until it feels stable.

The quiet returns.

Sakusa starts moving somewhere behind him, preparing.

Atsumu exhales slowly into the headrest, the last of his tension sitting there, waiting to see what happens next.

The table is warmer than he expects. Clearly heated. Expensive.

Atsumu settles into it slowly, face settled against the cushioned headrest, arms resting where Sakusa had indicated, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel stiff. The linens are soft, heavier than they look, and there’s a faint residual warmth in them that makes it easier to sink in, even if his body hasn’t quite caught up yet.

He hears Sakusa moving behind him.

Quiet. Measured. The faint clink of glass, the soft shift of fabric, the sound of oil being poured into a dish and warmed between hands.

Atsumu’s shoulders tense again without him meaning them to.

The first touch is light.

Not the pressure he was expecting, just Sakusa’s hands settling briefly along his upper back, spreading the oil evenly, the warmth of it noticeable immediately against his skin. It smells faintly citrus, clean, grounding, the same undertone from earlier but deeper now, closer.

Atsumu exhales into the headrest. And then immediately starts talking. He’s nervous. He really can’t help himself.

“So—uh—this is—yeah, this is nice,” he says, the words coming out too fast, a little uneven. “I mean, I can see why people do this. Probably should’ve done this sooner, huh.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away.

His hands shift slightly, moving across Atsumu’s shoulders, still light, mapping, not yet applying real pressure.

Atsumu keeps going.

“I mean not that I’ve never thought about it or anything, just—never really seemed like my thing, ya know? Always felt kinda—extra.”

There’s a pause.

Then Sakusa says, calmly, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but didn’t you indicate a preference for silence on your intake form?”

Atsumu freezes.

“…I did,” he admits into the headrest awkwardly.

There’s a beat.

Then he exhales sharply, the embarrassment hitting all at once.

“Sorry—yeah—sorry,” he says quickly, words tumbling over each other now. “I just—I talk a lot when I’m nervous. You probably figured that out already. With the baths. And everything.”

Sakusa’s hands don’t stop moving, but they don’t increase pressure yet either.

“I’m just—this is new,” Atsumu continues, voice muffled slightly by the headrest. “I’ve never had a massage before, not like this. And you’re—like—” he hesitates, then pushes through it anyway, “you’re clearly an expert, and this whole place is… a lot, and you’re about to touch me all over, so—yeah.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then Sakusa says, tone still controlled but with a faint edge to it now, “If you’re uncomfortable, I can have another practitioner assigned.”

Atsumu’s head snaps up slightly before he catches himself and drops it back down.

“No—no, no, I didn’t mean that,” he says immediately, a little louder than intended. “Not at all.”

Sakusa’s hands still for a fraction of a second.

“I’m not uncomfortable with you,” Atsumu rushes on. “Like—not in that way. I think you’re—uh—”

He stops.

Then groans quietly into the headrest.

“…I think you’re really good at what you do,” he corrects quickly. “And I want you to—uh—do it. I want you to touch me. The massage. I mean.”

Another pause.

“That sounded wrong,” he adds immediately. “Not like that. Not—like—sexual. I just meant—like—you’re the one who should be doing this. Because you know what you’re doing. For the massage.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand briefly across the sheet before letting it fall again.

“…Sorry, Sakusa,” he mutters. “I’m just nervous. I should just—shut up and relax.”

There’s a moment where nothing happens.

Then Sakusa’s hands return, this time with more intention, settling at the base of Atsumu’s neck, the pressure increasing just slightly, enough to ground the contact.

“It’s fine,” Sakusa says.

The edge from before is gone.

“Like in the steam room and the baths,” he continues, voice lower now, steadier, not distant but not overly soft either. “Focus on your breathing.”

His thumbs press into a point at the base of Atsumu’s neck, firm but controlled.

“The sound of the room. The scent of the oil. The sensation of the pressure.”

Atsumu exhales, slower this time, his body reacting automatically to the touch despite everything still running through his head.

“Don’t anticipate what’s next,” Sakusa adds. “Just respond to what’s happening.”

The pressure shifts slightly, moving outward along his shoulders, deeper now, more deliberate.

“Let me take care of it.”

Atsumu’s fingers curl slightly against the sheet, then loosen.

He inhales.

Exhales.

The tension doesn’t disappear. But it starts to give.

Sakusa’s hands don’t stop once he starts properly.

The pressure shifts from exploratory to intentional, thumbs pressing in along the base of Atsumu’s neck again, then dragging slowly outward across the tops of his shoulders, working into the muscle with a firmness that makes Atsumu’s breath catch for a second before he exhales into it.

It’s deeper now.

Not painful, but close enough that it demands attention.

Atsumu tries to focus on what he said, breathing, the room, the scent, but his thoughts still drift, catching on everything at once. The warmth of the oil, the weight of Sakusa’s hands, the quiet, the fact that he’s still very aware of himself even though he’s supposed to be letting that go.

“You talk more when you’re tense,” Sakusa says after a minute.

Atsumu huffs quietly into the headrest. “Yeah. Noticed that, huh.”

Sakusa’s thumbs press into a point at the top of his shoulder, holding there just long enough to make Atsumu’s fingers curl slightly against the sheet.

“You also relax more when I’m speaking,” Sakusa continues, tone thoughtful, not critical.

Atsumu pauses.

“Do I?” he mutters.

“Yes.”

There’s a brief silence.

Atsumu shifts his head slightly against the cushion, then exhales.

“Well,” he starts, already feeling the embarrassment creeping back in. “Your voice is—uh—”

He hesitates.

“…It’s nice,” he finishes, then immediately grimaces even though Sakusa can’t see his face. “That sounds weird.”

Sakusa doesn’t interrupt.

“Not like—” Atsumu continues quickly, trying to fix it, “I just mean—it’s calm. Kinda… smooth? I dunno. It’s relaxin’. And you know what you’re talkin’ about, so that helps too.”

There’s a beat.

“…I’m gonna shut up now,” he mutters. “So you can actually do your job.”

There’s the faintest pause behind him, then Sakusa’s hands shift again, moving lower along his shoulders, increasing pressure more deliberately now.

“You don’t need to be silent,” Sakusa says.

The tone is neutral. But not dismissive.

Atsumu exhales quietly, but doesn’t respond this time.

The massage changes.

It’s not just placement anymore, it’s work.

Sakusa’s hands move with more structure now, pressing deeper into the muscle, then releasing, then returning again with slightly different angles, following the lines of tension he already mapped earlier. His thumbs press along the edge of Atsumu’s shoulder blade, slow and deliberate, then drag downward, easing through resistance instead of forcing it.

Atsumu inhales sharply the first time. It is painful—a bit. Sakusa is getting into the knots in his back now.

“…Okay—yeah, that’s—” he cuts himself off, exhaling instead, letting his head drop more fully into the rest.

“Your upper trapezius is holding most of the tension,” Sakusa says, not pausing in his work. “It’s compensating for the instability in your shoulder.”

“Feels like it,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa adjusts his pressure slightly, shifting to the other side, maintaining the same rhythm.

“Don’t brace against it,” he adds. “Let the muscle respond instead.”

Atsumu nods slightly, then realizes Sakusa can’t see that and exhales again, trying to follow it.

The pressure increases.

Not suddenly, gradually, layered, building in a way that makes his body want to tense before it realizes it doesn’t need to.

Atsumu’s breath stutters once, then steadies.

“Pain?” Sakusa asks.

“Not—bad,” Atsumu answers. “Just… a lot.”

“That’s expected.”

Sakusa’s hands shift lower, working down along his back now, pressing along the muscle in long, controlled strokes, then focusing in on specific points, pausing where the tension is thicker.

“Your body will try to resist deeper pressure at first,” Sakusa says. “That’s a reflex. It will ease if you don’t reinforce it.”

Atsumu exhales again, slower this time, his shoulders dropping just a fraction more.

The oil warms under Sakusa’s hands, the scent deepening slightly as it spreads, and the room feels quieter the longer he stays still.

“You’re already less reactive than when we started,” Sakusa notes.

“That’s good,” Atsumu murmurs.

“It is.” Sakusa says. The praise helps Atsumu to relax further.

The pressure shifts again, moving further down his back, thumbs pressing into a line along his spine before easing outward, following the structure of the muscle rather than fighting it.

Atsumu’s fingers loosen against the sheet. His breathing evens out.

And for the first time since they started, he doesn’t immediately fill the silence.

The pressure deepens.

Not all at once, not abruptly, but in a way that builds, Sakusa’s hands settling into a rhythm that feels deliberate, controlled, each movement layered over the last. His thumbs press into a point along Atsumu’s upper back again, slower this time, holding there just long enough that Atsumu’s breath catches before he can stop it.

“…Ah—” He groans, it slips out of him quietly, more reflex than anything.

He stiffens for half a second, embarrassed even as it happens, but Sakusa doesn’t react, doesn’t pause, just maintains the pressure, letting it sit there until the muscle starts to give instead of resist.

“Breathe,” Sakusa says, voice low, steady.

Atsumu exhales, longer this time, forcing his shoulders to drop instead of pulling up again.

The sensation shifts.

What had been sharp at first, tight, almost uncomfortable, starts to change as Sakusa works into it, easing through the resistance instead of pushing against it. The pressure stays firm, but the edge softens, the tension underneath loosening in a way that feels unfamiliar.

Sakusa moves with it, adjusting, following the change.

His hands travel lower along Atsumu’s back, long, controlled strokes, then focusing again, pressing into another point, working it gradually instead of forcing release. The warmth of the oil, the steady rhythm, the quiet in the room, it all starts to settle into something cohesive.

Atsumu exhales again, his body reacting before his brain catches up.

Another sound slips out, softer this time, less startled.

He doesn’t try to stop it.

His fingers loosen against the sheet, his grip easing as his body finally starts to respond the way Sakusa had been telling him to. The tension that had been sitting so tightly across his shoulders and back starts to unravel in pieces, each pass of Sakusa’s hands pulling it apart, smoothing it out.

“Your muscles are beginning to release,” Sakusa says, almost quietly.

Atsumu nods faintly against the headrest, not trusting himself to speak without it coming out uneven.

The pressure shifts again, deeper along one side of his back, and this time when it hits, it’s different.

Not sharp. Not something to brace against.

It sinks in, spreading through the muscle in a way that makes his breath hitch, then fall into a slower rhythm.

“…That’s—” he exhales, the rest of the sentence dissolving as he lets his head sink further into the cushion.

Sakusa doesn’t respond, just continues, maintaining the pace, the pressure consistent, never rushing, never losing control of it.

The room feels warmer now, or maybe it’s just him.

The scent of the oil settles deeper, the faint sound of water somewhere in the distance blending with the quiet ambient music, low enough that it doesn’t pull attention but fills the space just enough to hold it together.

Atsumu’s body feels… different.

Looser. Heavier. Like he’s sinking into the table instead of holding himself above it.

Another press, another slow release, and the tension that had been sitting tight along his spine gives way again, and this time the sound that leaves him is quieter, less startled, more… natural.

He exhales, long and slow, not even trying to stop it anymore.

Sakusa’s hands move with steady certainty, working through each area methodically, his voice occasionally cutting through, low and even, guiding just enough to keep Atsumu from drifting too far back into tension.

“Don’t anticipate it,” he reminds him. “Just let it happen.”

Atsumu does.

And the longer it goes, the less he thinks about anything at all.

Sakusa’s hands leave him for a moment.

The absence registers now, brief but noticeable, because Atsumu’s body has already settled into the rhythm of it, the pressure, the warmth, the steady, controlled way everything has been handled so far. There’s a faint sound behind him, ceramic against wood, something being lifted and set down, and then the heat returns in a different form.

The first stone presses into his back and Atsumu’s breath stutters.

“…Oh—” it slips out of him before he can catch it.

The heat is deeper than anything before it.

It doesn’t just sit on the surface, it sinks in immediately, the smooth weight of the stone gliding along muscle that’s already been worked open, amplifying everything Sakusa has done. When it moves, slow, deliberate, following the lines of his back, it spreads that warmth outward, deeper, broader.

Atsumu exhales, long and uneven, his shoulders dropping even further.

“…That’s—yeah,” he murmurs, voice softer now, less controlled. “Feels good.”

Sakusa doesn’t react to the sound, just continues, alternating between the heated stone and his hands, using one to maintain the temperature, the other to work deeper into the muscle without resistance.

“The heat allows for sustained relaxation,” Sakusa says, tone even, grounding. “It reduces the need for force.”

Atsumu nods faintly into the headrest.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Feels amazin’.”

His fingers loosen completely against the sheet. His breathing slows.

After a while Sakusa transitions again, seamless, setting the stones aside and shifting lower, his hands moving to Atsumu’s sides, then down to his hips, the pressure changing, broader now, heavier, working into larger muscle groups with the same precision.

Atsumu’s breath catches again.

Sakusa’s hands move down along his thighs next, slow, controlled, pressing through the muscle in long strokes, then focusing in, working through the tension that had been built up there.

The sensation is stronger here. More immediate.

Atsumu exhales, trying to stay loose, trying not to react too sharply, his body shifting slightly before he stills it again.

“Your lower body is more reactive,” Sakusa says. “That’s expected.”

“No kidding,” Atsumu mutters under his breath.

Sakusa continues, working methodically, following the muscle, pressing, releasing, letting it respond instead of forcing it.

When his hands move higher, into his glutes again, deeper now, more direct, Atsumu’s entire body reacts before he can stop it.

His breath hitches. His hips shift just slightly, instinctively, then go still. His dick rubbing against the linens below him is unavoidable. Atsumu tries to ignore how good it feels. He tries not think of how attractive the man who’s massaging him is.

“…Sorry,” he mutters automatically.

“It’s fine,” Sakusa says, not pausing.

The pressure remains consistent. Unchanged. Professional.

But Atsumu is suddenly aware again in a way that feels different from before.

His body is relaxed, more than it’s been in a long time, and because of that, every sensation feels amplified. The warmth, the pressure, the way the tension is being worked out of him piece by piece.

And the response that comes with that. It’s not something he’s choosing. It just… happens.

He’s hard.

He feels it before he fully processes it, the shift in his body, the way his cock responds despite everything in his head telling him this is not that kind of situation.

Atsumu goes still.

“…Ah—” he starts, then cuts himself off, his face heating where it’s pressed into the headrest.

For a second, his brain scrambles, trying to decide if he should say something, if he should apologize again, if he should move—

He doesn’t.

Because Sakusa doesn’t react. Not even a little.

His hands don’t pause, don’t change pressure, don’t acknowledge it at all, continuing exactly as they were, steady and controlled, like nothing has shifted.

And somehow, that makes it easier.

Atsumu exhales slowly, forcing himself to settle back into the table, to focus on his breathing again, on the rhythm of Sakusa’s hands, on the way the tension is still being worked out of him.

“Stay relaxed,” Sakusa says quietly.

Atsumu nods faintly.

“…Yeah. Trying,” he murmurs.

And he tries—again—to let himself do exactly that.

Sakusa’s hands slow gradually, not stopping all at once, but easing out of the rhythm he’s been holding, finishing the last pass along Atsumu’s lower back with the same control as everything before it.

“That’s sufficient for posterior work,” he says.

Atsumu exhales into the headrest, voice a little rough now from how much he’s been breathing through everything. “Okay,” he murmurs.

There’s a brief pause.

“Turn over,” Sakusa adds.

Atsumu freezes. Not subtly. Completely.

“…Uh,” he starts, then stops.

For a second, he just stays there, face still pressed into the cushion, body suddenly very aware again in a way it hadn’t been a moment ago. The relaxation is still there, heavy in his muscles, but now there’s something else layered over it, sharp, immediate embarrassment creeping back in.

“Is there a problem,” Sakusa asks, tone neutral.

Atsumu lets out a quiet, strained breath. “…Yeah. Little bit.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter, more awkward, “I—can’t really—uh—flip over right now.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately. Not impatient. Just waiting.

Atsumu drags a hand slightly against the sheet, like that somehow helps.

“…This is gonna sound bad,” he mutters.

“You can explain,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu exhales sharply. “…It’s not—like—I’m not—” he cuts himself off, frustrated with his own words. “It’s just a body thing, okay, I didn’t—mean for it to—happen.”

There’s a brief silence.

Then Sakusa says, evenly, bluntly, “It’s not unusual. To become aroused.”

Atsumu blinks against the headrest, feeling himself blush. “It’s not?”

“No.”

“…Great,” Atsumu mutters, which sounds like the opposite of great.

Another pause.

“You can still turn over,” Sakusa says. “It doesn’t affect the treatment.”

Atsumu lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Feels like it does.”

“It doesn’t,” Sakusa repeats.

There’s something steady in the way he says it. Not dismissive. Not awkward. Just… matter of fact.

“It’s a normal physiological response,” he adds. “There’s no need to avoid the next stage because of it.”

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

“This is so humiliating,” he mutters.

“It doesn’t need to be,” Sakusa replies.

Atsumu exhales again, long and resigned, then finally shifts, pushing himself up slightly.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay, fine.”

He reaches for the sheet automatically, pulling it with him as he turns, trying to cover as much as possible in the process, movements a little clumsy compared to how controlled everything else has been.

By the time he settles onto his back, the draping is in place—but it’s not subtle.

The fabric doesn’t hide everything. His dick is making a tent in the sheets. comically stereotypical.

Atsumu stares straight up at the ceiling, refusing to look anywhere else, face noticeably warmer now, his entire body suddenly very aware again despite how relaxed he had been seconds ago.

“…Sorry,” he mutters.

Sakusa steps back into position like nothing has changed.

“It’s fine,” he says.

There’s a brief moment where his gaze passes over Atsumu as part of the normal adjustment, clinical, quick, and there’s the faintest pause, not enough to be called a reaction, just acknowledgment.

Then it’s gone. Professional again.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Sakusa continues, adjusting the draping slightly so Atsumu remains covered appropriately. “It’s a common response during relaxation and increased circulation.”

Atsumu exhales through his nose. “Still sucks.”

“It will pass,” Sakusa says simply.

Atsumu nods faintly, still staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

And despite everything, the embarrassment, the awareness, the fact that he knows Sakusa can tell even through the fabric, Sakusa’s hands return to his body with the same steady, controlled pressure as before.

Like nothing about the situation has changed at all.

And slowly, despite himself, Atsumu starts to relax again. The transition to working on his front feels different immediately.

Atsumu is still aware, too aware, when Sakusa adjusts the draping and begins again, the linen shifted so only the area being worked is exposed, everything else covered with the same careful precision as before. But he closes his eyes and tries to relax again.

The air feels cooler against his chest at first, a contrast to the lingering warmth in his back, and his breath comes out a little uneven before it settles again.

Sakusa starts higher.

His hands move to Atsumu’s shoulders first, thumbs pressing in along the front this time, just beneath the collarbone, working into muscles Atsumu hadn’t even realized were tight. The pressure is firm, controlled, and the moment it sinks in, Atsumu’s head tips back slightly against the table.

“…Ah—” the sound slips out of him again, quieter this time, less startled.

It feels… different.

The tension here is sharper at first, less worked out than his back had been, but Sakusa doesn’t force it. He eases into it, building pressure gradually, letting the muscle respond instead of locking against it.

“Your anterior chain is also restricted,” Sakusa says, tone calm, steady, like he’s just stating something obvious. “Not as pronounced, but still contributing.”

Atsumu nods faintly, even though his eyes are closed now.

Sakusa’s hands move outward, then down, following the lines of his chest, controlled and precise, never lingering, never anything but professional, but the pressure is… good. Too good, almost, in a way that makes Atsumu’s breath catch and then slow as he sinks into it.

The oil is still warm, the citrus scent deeper now, mixing with the heat of his skin, the quiet of the room, the faint music in the background.

Atsumu exhales slowly, his body reacting before his mind catches up again.

The earlier embarrassment hasn’t fully gone away.

He can still feel it, still knows, in the back of his mind, that his cock hasn’t settled, that even under the draping it’s obvious, that this is not a situation where that should be happening.

But Sakusa hasn’t reacted. Not once.

And somehow that makes it easier to let it go again.

Sakusa’s hands move lower, working along his abdomen next, the pressure adjusting automatically, lighter here, more controlled, following the structure of the muscle without forcing it.

“Abdominal work will be more subtle,” Sakusa says. “It supports lymphatic flow and reduces residual tension.”

Atsumu exhales, his stomach tightening instinctively at first before easing under the pressure.

“Feels weird,” he admits quietly.

“It’s normal,” Sakusa replies.

The movement continues, steady, intentional, each pass smoothing through the tension that had been sitting there without him realizing it.

Atsumu’s breathing evens out again. His body sinks further into the table. The awareness fades, not completely, but enough that it stops sitting at the front of his mind.

When Sakusa moves to his thighs again, this time from the front, the reaction is immediate.

The pressure is firm, deeper than the abdominal work, and Atsumu’s breath hitches again, a low sound slipping out of him before he can stop it.

Sakusa doesn’t pause.

He works methodically, the same as before, pressing through the muscle, releasing, following the structure of it with practiced precision. His hands are strong, controlled, never wavering, and the consistency of it makes it easier for Atsumu to just… let go.

It all builds into something that feels almost overwhelming, but not in a bad way.

Atsumu exhales again, longer this time, another quiet sound slipping out as the tension in his legs gives way under Sakusa’s hands.

He doesn’t try to stop it anymore. Doesn’t try to control how he reacts.

His body is too relaxed now, too responsive, the earlier nerves worn down by the consistency of the treatment.

And even though that awareness is still there in the background, that his cock hasn’t gone down, that it’s still a physical response he can’t really do anything about, it stops feeling like the most important thing in the room.

Sakusa doesn’t treat it like it is. So eventually, Atsumu doesn’t either.

He just breathes. Lets the pressure sink in. Lets his body respond the way it wants to.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he has to hold himself together at all.

Sakusa doesn’t rush the last part of it.

He finishes Atsumu’s legs the same way he started everything else, controlled, thorough, not cutting corners just because it’s the end. The pressure gradually eases, shifting from deep, focused work to longer, smoother strokes, letting the muscles settle instead of leaving them abruptly.

Atsumu barely moves.

He’s fully sunk into the table now, his body heavy in a way that feels unfamiliar but not unpleasant, his breathing slow and steady. Every now and then a quiet sound still slips out of him when Sakusa hits a spot that lingers just right, but it’s softer now, less reactive, more… automatic.

The room feels warmer than before. Or maybe it’s just him.

His mind isn’t racing anymore. Not really thinking about anything, just drifting somewhere in between the pressure of Sakusa’s hands and the steady rhythm of his own breathing.

By the time Sakusa’s hands finally still,m after massaging his feet, Atsumu doesn’t notice right away.

There’s a moment where nothing is touching him anymore, and it takes a second for his body to register the absence.

“We’re done with bodywork,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu exhales slowly, eyes still closed for a second longer before he blinks them open, staring up at the ceiling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t really want to.

There’s a quiet rustle as Sakusa adjusts the draping again, then reaches for the robe, holding it out for him.

“You can sit up slowly,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu nods faintly, pushing himself up with a little more effort than he expected, his body still heavy, loose in a way that makes his movements feel delayed.

The robe goes on quickly this time.

He doesn’t even think about it, just pulls it around himself, tying it securely, the fabric settling over him, covering everything, and the relief of that hits more than he expects.

He exhales quietly.

“Thanks,” he mutters, running a hand back through his hair.

Sakusa steps back slightly, giving him space again.

“How was the pressure,” he asks, tone steady, professional as before.

Atsumu lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I think that was the best my body’s ever felt,” he says honestly, glancing down at his hands for a second before looking back up. “Like—ever.”

Sakusa nods once, accepting it without reacting much, but there’s the faintest shift in his expression again, something small, almost satisfied.

“I’m glad,” he says.

There’s a brief pause while Sakusa moves to reset a few things in the room, his motions quiet and efficient, then he turns back.

“We’ll proceed to scalp treatment next,” he says. “It’s a different process, more focused on circulation in the head and neck, as well as relaxation of the nervous system.”

Atsumu nods slowly, still feeling a little dazed. “Okay.”

“It will be done in a separate area,” Sakusa continues. “I’ll guide you there.”

Atsumu adjusts the tie of his robe again, more out of habit now than necessity, then stands, his legs feeling steadier than before, lighter in a way that makes him shift his weight just to test it.

“That was amazin’,” he says under his breath.

Sakusa glances at him briefly. “We’re not finished.”

Atsumu huffs quietly. “Good.”

And follows him out.

The shift out of the room feels strange.

Not abrupt, nothing here is abrupt, but noticeable enough that Atsumu is aware of it the second they step back into the hallway. His body still feels loose, warm, almost heavy in a good way, and the quiet of the spa wraps back around him just as easily as before.

“…That was—” he starts, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “That was actually really good Sakusa.”

Sakusa doesn’t slow, but he does glance back briefly. “That’s the intention.”

“Yeah, well,” Atsumu huffs quietly, shaking his head a little. “Mission accomplished.”

There’s a short stretch of silence, but this time it doesn’t sit as heavily. Atsumu fills it anyway.

“I mean, I didn’t think I was gonna like it this much,” he continues, words coming easier now, less sharp, less defensive. “Kinda thought it was just—y’know. Fancy people stuff. Waste of money.”

He winces slightly as soon as he says it.

“…Not that—” he adds quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it is expensive. Like—really expensive. I wouldn’t usually be anywhere near a place like this.”

Sakusa doesn’t interrupt.

Atsumu exhales again. “Sorry if that sounded rude,” he mutters. “I just—yeah. I’m not really… used to this kind of thing.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Sakusa says.

His tone is the same as before—calm, even—but there’s less distance in it now, or maybe Atsumu just notices it differently.

Atsumu nods, glancing down for a second. “…Still. Thanks. For—well, not you specifically, I guess, but—” he gestures vaguely, “whoever decided to sponsor this whole thing. Olympic stuff.”

“You’re an athlete,” Sakusa says. “It’s a logical investment.”

Atsumu huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. Still feels kinda ridiculous.”

Another pause, then Sakusa says, “You play volleyball.”

Atsumu looks up immediately.

“Yeah,” he says, a little more alert now. “You ever watch?”

“Sometimes,” Sakusa replies.

“Oh,” Atsumu says, then grins faintly despite himself. “Well you should watch me if you ever get the chance. I play for MSBY.”

Sakusa nods once, acknowledging it.

“You get a lot of athletes?” Atsumu asks, falling into step a little easier now, the conversation pulling him out of his own head. “Or is this more like—models and CEOs and whatever?”

“Athletes are common,” Sakusa says. “Different demands, but similar recovery needs.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu nods. “Makes sense.”

They turn into the next area, and the space shifts again.

The headspa room is quieter in a different way, more enclosed, more focused. The lighting is softer, the air slightly warmer, carrying a lighter scent now, something cleaner, less citrus, more neutral.

The chairs are the first thing Atsumu notices.

Reclined, curved, built into smooth basins that sit behind them, everything designed so the body can rest without effort. The surfaces are clean, seamless, the fixtures minimal but clearly high end, every edge softened, every line intentional.

“This is where I get my hair washed like a rich person,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa doesn’t react to that, just steps toward one of the chairs and gestures.

“Sit.”

Atsumu moves toward it, lowering himself carefully, adjusting once before settling back. The chair supports him immediately, the angle shifting just enough that his head rests comfortably near the basin behind him.

Sakusa steps behind him, adjusting the setup slightly, checking the position of his head, the alignment of the basin.

“Scalp treatment focuses on circulation and tension release in the head and neck,” he says. “It complements the bodywork.”

Atsumu nods faintly, his body already starting to sink into the chair the same way it had into the table.

“You just keep making it better, huh,” he murmurs.

Sakusa doesn’t answer. But his hands settle lightly at the back of Atsumu’s head.

And Atsumu’s shoulders drop before he can stop them.

Sakusa doesn’t start immediately.

Instead, his hands lift from Atsumu’s head again, and there’s a quiet shift behind him, the soft sound of something being moved into place, wheels gliding smoothly across the floor.

“We’ll begin with a scalp analysis,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu cracks one eye open slightly, then lets it fall shut again. “That sounds official.”

“It is,” Sakusa replies.

There’s a faint click, then Sakusa adjusts the angle of the chair just slightly, guiding Atsumu’s head back a fraction more so it rests properly against the support.

“Try not to move.”

“I’ll do my best,” Atsumu murmurs.

A moment later, he feels something near his scalp—not touching at first, just hovering—then a light contact, precise, controlled.

Sakusa is quiet for a few seconds.

Atsumu, predictably, is not.

“So what does this thing actually do,” he asks, voice low but curious now, less nervous than before. “Like—are you gonna tell me I’m secretly baldin’ or somethin’.”

“No,” Sakusa says evenly.

“Good,” Atsumu exhales. “That would ruin my whole day.”

There’s a pause.

“You have a healthy density,” Sakusa continues, his tone shifting slightly into something more instructive, more focused. “No signs of thinning.”

“Thank god.”

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in the air, though Sakusa doesn’t directly acknowledge it.

He adjusts the device slightly, moving it along Atsumu’s scalp.

“Your scalp itself is… moderately dry,” he says. “There’s some buildup near the follicles. Not excessive, but enough to affect circulation slightly.”

Atsumu frowns, even with his eyes closed. “That sounds bad.”

“It’s not severe,” Sakusa says. “But it’s not optimal.”

“Yeah, okay,” Atsumu mutters. “I don’t exactly have a routine for my scalp.”

Sakusa hums quietly, continuing the assessment, shifting the device to another section.

“You also hold tension here,” he adds, fingers pressing lightly at the base of Atsumu’s skull for a moment before releasing. “This area.”

Atsumu exhales, nodding faintly. “Yeah. That’s been a theme today. Apparently I hold tension everywhere. Who knew?”

“It affects blood flow to the scalp,” Sakusa says. “Which impacts overall health over time.”

“So my hair’s gonna suffer ‘cause I’m stressed,” Atsumu says.

“In simplified terms.”

“Great,” Atsumu murmurs. “Love that for me.”

There’s a small pause, then Sakusa adjusts the device one last time before pulling it away.

“The treatment will address most of this,” he says. “Deep cleansing, stimulation, improved circulation.”

Atsumu lets out a quiet breath. “You say that about everything and somehow it keeps bein’ true.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond directly, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, something less rigid than before, less distant.

Atsumu notices it, even if he doesn’t fully process why.

“So what, you’re gonna fix my entire body and my head,” he continues, a little more relaxed now, words coming easier. “Kinda unfair I didn’t come here sooner.”

“You didn’t prioritize recovery,” Sakusa says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu mutters. “I’m learnin’.”

There’s a quiet beat.

“You’re really good at this, by the way,” he adds, a little more genuine this time, not rushed, not defensive. “Like—not just the massage. The explainin’ stuff. Makes it easier to not feel like I’m just gettin’… manhandled or whatever.”

Sakusa pauses for a fraction of a second.

Then, calmly, “I’m glad you feel that way.”

Atsumu hums softly, settling further into the chair, his body already anticipating what comes next, the earlier nerves worn down into something quieter, easier.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Fix my scalp too, I guess.”

And for the first time since he walked in, it sounds less like a joke and more like trust.

Sakusa adjusts the chair a final time, one hand steady at the base of Atsumu’s head, the other reaching to turn on the water.

It starts as a soft stream.

Not harsh, not sudden, warm, controlled, the temperature settling immediately as it flows over Atsumu’s scalp, threading through his hair and down into the basin behind him. The sound is gentle, steady, blending with the low ambient noise already in the room.

Atsumu exhales the second it hits.

“Oh—” his voice drops without him meaning it to. “Okay, that’s—yeah, that’s nice.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away, his fingers already moving in, guiding the water through evenly, making sure everything is fully saturated before he shuts it off again.

The absence of the water is brief.

Then Sakusa’s hands return.

And it’s completely different from anything before.

His fingers settle into Atsumu’s scalp, not pressing hard at first, just mapping, spreading the product through his hair, working it in with controlled, circular motions that feel light for half a second—

—and then deepen.

Atsumu’s breath stutters.

“…Ah—” it slips out, quieter this time, but there’s no stopping it.

The pressure is precise.

Not random, not just rubbing, Sakusa’s fingers move with intent, pressing into specific points along his scalp, rotating slowly, then shifting, then returning, each movement measured and consistent. It’s firm enough to stimulate, but not sharp, not uncomfortable, just… overwhelmingly good.

Atsumu exhales again, longer, his shoulders dropping immediately.

“Your scalp responds well to pressure,” Sakusa says, almost absently, focused on the work.

“No kidding,” Atsumu murmurs.

Sakusa’s hands move toward the base of his skull, fingers pressing in just beneath it, and Atsumu’s entire body reacts.

“Oh—okay—yeah, that’s—” he cuts himself off, a quiet groan slipping out instead as his head tilts back further into Sakusa’s hands.

The tension there, something he didn’t even realize had been sitting so tight, starts to unravel almost instantly under the pressure.

Atsumu exhales, slow, uneven.

“You’re amazing,” he says, voice soft, a little unfocused now. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Sakusa doesn’t pause, but there’s a faint shift in the way his fingers move, something just slightly more fluid, less rigid.

“It’s part of my job,” he says.

“Yeah, but you’re like—really good at it,” Atsumu continues, words coming easier now, looser. “Like—this is—this is unfair. I would tip you so hard if I could.”

Sakusa’s fingers press into another point, slower this time.

“That’s not necessary.”

“No, it is,” Atsumu insists, a quiet breath leaving him as Sakusa shifts pressure again. “You’ve got—like—magic hands or somethin’. This is insane.”

“I was trained,” he says.

“Yeah, where,” Atsumu murmurs, his voice softer now, his head practically melting into the support. “Where do you even learn how to do this.”

Sakusa’s fingers move through his hair again, slower now, working the product evenly, then returning to the pressure points along his scalp.

“Specialized training programs,” he says. “And experience.”

“Well,” Atsumu exhales, a quiet sound slipping out again as Sakusa presses just right behind his ear, “whoever taught you—yeah. They did a good job.”

There’s a small pause.

Then, quieter, more genuine, “I’m glad I came here.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer immediately.

His hands continue, steady, controlled, working through the last of the tension, the movements now smoother, more rhythmic, less focused on breaking anything up and more on maintaining the release.

Atsumu’s breathing evens out again.

His body is fully relaxed now, no edge left to it, no tightness sitting under the surface. Just warmth, and pressure, and the steady, grounding presence of Sakusa’s hands.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

“I won’t,” Sakusa replies.

And he doesn’t.

Sakusa’s hands don’t slow.

If anything, they settle into something even more deliberate, his fingers moving through Atsumu’s hair with practiced ease, working the product in, then shifting to those same precise pressure points that keep pulling quiet sounds out of him no matter how much he tries to stay composed.

Atsumu has stopped trying.

His head rests fully back now, throat exposed slightly with how far he’s leaned into the support, shoulders completely slack, arms loose at his sides. Every time Sakusa’s fingers press just right, his breath catches, then spills out softer, less controlled.

“This is actually unreal,” he murmurs, voice low, a little hoarse now. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed in my life.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away, but his hands shift again, slower this time, drawing the sensation out instead of moving past it.

“That’s the intended effect,” he says.

Atsumu huffs a quiet breath, eyes still closed. “Yeah, well. You’re overachievin’.”

Atsumu tilts his head slightly without thinking, following the pressure of Sakusa’s fingers, and Sakusa adjusts with it automatically, his hand steady at the side of Atsumu’s head to guide the movement without breaking the rhythm.

“Are you always this quiet with people?” Atsumu asks after a second, voice softer now, less jittery, more… curious.

“Yes,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu hums, like he expected that.

“I feel like I’ve been talkin’ your ear off all day,” he adds, a little quieter.

“You have,” Sakusa says.

There’s no bite to it. Just fact.

Atsumu lets out a soft laugh, the sound dissolving halfway through when Sakusa’s fingers press into a point behind his ear again.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Sounds right.”

There’s a pause, then he adds, “You don’t seem like you mind it though.”

Sakusa’s hands don’t stop, but there’s a slight shift in the way he answers.

“I don’t,” he says.

“Huh,” he murmurs.

Sakusa moves his hands forward again, working along the top of his scalp now, slower, more fluid, less about breaking tension and more about maintaining the calm that’s settled in.

There’s a quiet stretch after that, but it doesn’t feel empty.

Atsumu’s breathing stays slow, steady, his body completely loose now, no edge left to it at all. His thoughts drift in and out, not catching on anything for long.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, eyes still closed.

Sakusa’s fingers pause just briefly, then continue.

“In what way?”

Atsumu shifts slightly under his hands, not pulling away, just settling more comfortably.

“I dunno,” he says. “Figured a place like this, everyone’d be kinda… stiff. Polite. Like—too put together.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer immediately.

“And you are,” Atsumu adds quickly. “Like—you are. Just not—” he exhales, searching for the word, “not in a way that makes me feel like I gotta be.”

There’s a quiet pause.

Then Sakusa says, “You don’t.”

Atsumu’s mouth quirks slightly, just a little.“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Sakusa’s hands slow again, shifting into longer, smoother movements now, the kind that feel less like treatment and more like something meant to keep everything settled where it is.

Atsumu tilts his head again without thinking, and Sakusa adjusts with him just as easily, his hand steady at the side of his head, fingers still moving through his hair.

“You’re kinda easy to talk to,” Atsumu says after a second, voice softer now, less teasing.

Sakusa doesn’t dismiss it this time.

“That’s not usually what people say,” he replies.

Atsumu lets out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh.

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs. “Maybe they’re just tense.”

Sakusa exhales quietly through his nose. A laugh. Small, but there.

Atsumu grins, feeling relaxed and warm.

With Sakusa’s hands steady against him, and the quiet between them no longer something he feels the need to fill.

Sakusa’s hands shift again, easing out of the deeper pressure and back into something smoother, more fluid, his fingers threading through Atsumu’s hair before the water starts again.

It’s warmer this time.

A steady stream that runs over Atsumu’s scalp, rinsing clean in long, controlled passes, Sakusa guiding it with one hand while the other works through his hair to make sure nothing is left behind. The sound fills the space, soft and constant, and Atsumu exhales the second it hits.

“God,” he murmurs under his breath. “I could fall asleep right here.”

“You won’t,” Sakusa says, but there’s no real warning in it.

Atsumu huffs quietly. “Yeah, probably not. Don’t think my brain would let me miss any of this.”

Sakusa adjusts the angle slightly, his hand steady at the base of Atsumu’s head, tilting it just enough to rinse clean along the sides. The movement is automatic now, practiced, but there’s something more relaxed in it than before, less rigid.

The water stops again.

Then Sakusa’s hands return, this time cooler at first as he applies something new, thicker, smoother, working it through Atsumu’s hair in slow, even motions.

“A treatment mask,” Sakusa says. “It will restore moisture and support scalp and hair health.”

“You just keep fixin’ things,” Atsumu murmurs.

Sakusa doesn’t answer that directly, just continues working the product in, his fingers slower now, less about stimulation and more about care, smoothing it through evenly, making sure it settles where it needs to.

Atsumu’s head tips back further into his hands.

“So this is your job all day?” he asks, voice quieter now, not restless, just… interested. “You just do this for people.”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa’s hands pause briefly, then continue. “In what way.”

Atsumu lets out a soft breath, thinking about it.

“Just—how good it is,” he says. “Like—this actually helps people. You can feel it. Not just… temporary.”

“It’s not temporary if it’s maintained,” Sakusa says.

“Yeah,” Atsumu murmurs. “Guess that’s the part I need to work on.”

Sakusa hums quietly.

There’s a stretch of silence, but it doesn’t feel empty.

Atsumu’s thoughts drift, slower now, easier, until something slips out without him overthinking it first.

“I kinda wanna be your friend after this,” he says.

Sakusa’s hands still for a fraction of a second.

Not long. Just enough to register.

Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice.

“I mean—” he continues, a little more awake now that he’s said it, “this whole place is—yeah, it’s a lot, but it’s kinda cool too. Just not—” he exhales, searching for the word, “not like this. Not all quiet and… proper.”

Sakusa’s fingers resume their movement, slower now.

“You find it restrictive,” he says.

“A little,” Atsumu admits. “Feels like I gotta act a certain way. Which I’m clearly not great at.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then Sakusa says, lightly, “You described it as stuffy.”

Atsumu’s eyes open immediately.

“I did not—” he starts, then stops, remembering. “Okay, yeah, I did.”

He groans quietly, one hand lifting just slightly before dropping again.

“—I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds quickly. “I just meant—like—the environment. Not the place. The place is—” he gestures vaguely with one hand, even though Sakusa can’t see it, “—ridiculously nice. Like. Way nicer than anything I’ve ever been in.”

Sakusa’s hands don’t stop, but there’s a faint shift in the air, something lighter.

“And you’re good at what you do,” Atsumu continues, a little more earnest now. “Like, really good. I just—” he exhales, quieter, “I’d wanna see what it’s like when you’re not in… work mode, I guess.”

There’s a pause.

Atsumu shifts slightly, suddenly aware again of how that might sound.

“If that’s weird, just ignore me,” he mutters. “I’m still—yeah. Relaxed. Sayin’ things.”

Sakusa’s fingers slow again, smoothing the last of the mask through his hair.

“It’s not offensive,” he says.

Atsumu lets out a quiet breath. “Okay. Good.”

Another small pause.

Then Sakusa adds, just slightly, “You’re not behaving in a way that requires formality.”

Atsumu huffs softly. “That’s one way to put it.”

Sakusa’s hand steadies again at the base of his head, adjusting him just slightly so the mask settles properly.

“You’re more relaxed this way,” he says.

Atsumu closes his eyes again.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I am.”

The water runs one last time, slower now.

Sakusa rinses the mask from Atsumu’s hair with the same care as everything before it, guiding the stream evenly, fingers working through to make sure nothing remains. The warmth is consistent, the pressure of the water controlled, and by the time it shuts off again, Atsumu feels… light.

Sakusa’s hands linger briefly, smoothing through his hair once more before stepping back.

“That concludes the scalp treatment,” he says.

Atsumu exhales, slow, reluctant to move. “That was really nice,” he murmurs, voice low.

“You responded well,” Sakusa replies.

There’s a small shift as Sakusa adjusts the chair upright again, his hand steady at the back of Atsumu’s head as he guides him forward.

“We’ll continue,” Sakusa says. “Next is a body wrap.”

Atsumu blinks a little, still half out of it. “Right. Yeah. I remember that part.”

He stands slowly and follows Sakusa.

The next room is warmer.

Not as humid as the steam, but close, the air holding heat in a way that settles immediately against his skin. The lighting is softer here too, more enclosed, the treatment bed already prepared with layers of linen and what looks like a darker material laid out across it.

Sakusa gestures. “You can remove the robe again.”

Atsumu exhales once, then does it, movements slower now, less tense than before, though the awareness is still there in the background. He sets the robe aside and climbs onto the table when directed, lying back this time.

The surface is warm.

He feels it immediately along his back, his shoulders, his legs.

Sakusa moves beside him, already preparing something, there’s a faint scent now, different from before. Earthier. Marine. Not unpleasant, just distinct.

“A mineral wrap,” Sakusa says, as if answering the question before it’s asked. “Seaweed based. It supports circulation, draws out impurities, and promotes muscle recovery.”

“Seaweed,” Atsumu murmurs. “Alright.”

“It will be applied evenly,” Sakusa continues. “Then you’ll be wrapped to retain heat.”

“Sounds… messy,” Atsumu mutters.

“It’s controlled,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu huffs quietly. “Tuen me into sushi then Sakusa.”

Sakusa snorts and comes forward with the body mask.

The first contact is cooler than expected.

The mask is smooth, slightly thick, and Sakusa applies it with steady, practiced motions, spreading it across Atsumu’s shoulders first, then down his arms, even pressure, no hesitation. The texture is different from oil, denser, but it warms quickly against his skin.

Atsumu exhales, watching the ceiling, letting himself settle again as Sakusa continues.

Across his chest. Down his abdomen.

The application is methodical, clinical, no part rushed or skipped. Sakusa works evenly, ensuring full coverage, his hands steady, controlled, nothing lingering unnecessarily.

The mask moves lower, over his hips, down his thighs, and Sakusa continues without pause, maintaining the same professionalism, the same focus as before. When he reaches more sensitive areas, there’s no shift in demeanor, just the same precise, efficient application, ensuring everything is properly treated as part of the process.

Atsumu exhales slowly, forcing himself not to overthink it, letting the earlier calm carry through.

“This is wild,” he mutters under his breath.

Sakusa doesn’t respond, continuing the application, finishing along his legs, then moving to ensure complete coverage, including areas that are typically overlooked but relevant to full body treatment. The approach remains clinical, consistent, no change in pace or tone.

Once it’s done, there’s a brief pause. Then the wrapping begins.

Layers are drawn over him, first a thin sheet, then a thicker one, sealed carefully to retain heat. It’s snug, not restrictive, but close enough that he can feel it holding everything in place, the warmth building gradually underneath.

“Okay,” Atsumu murmurs, shifting slightly before settling. “That’s… yeah.”

“The heat will activate the minerals,” Sakusa says. “And continue the relaxation process.”

Atsumu exhales, slower now.

Sakusa steps back slightly, giving him space again while the wrap does its work.

The warmth builds steadily. Not overwhelming.

Atsumu’s body sinks into it, the last of his tension dissolving further, his breathing evening out again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this taken care of before,” he says quietly, more to himself than anything.

Sakusa doesn’t interrupt.

Atsumu doesn’t move much once Sakusa finishes sealing the layers around him. At first, he’s aware of everything, the snugness of it, the faint weight pressing evenly along his body, the texture of the mask against his skin, but that awareness softens quickly as the heat starts to build.

It’s gradual. Not sharp, not suffocating, just… steady.

The warmth seeps in from all sides, held close by the wrapping, settling deeper the longer he stays there. His muscles, already worked loose from the massage, seem to sink further, the last bits of tension unwinding without effort.

He exhales slowly.

The scent is different here too.

Not citrus, not wood, something more mineral, faintly oceanic, mixed with the clean warmth of the room. It lingers in the air and under the wrap, subtle but present.

His body feels heavy. Loose.

There’s nothing to do but lie there, and for once, that doesn’t feel uncomfortable. His thoughts drift, slower, less structured, not catching on anything for long. Every now and then, he shifts just slightly, feeling the heat settle deeper into his back, his legs, his shoulders.

When Sakusa finally steps back in fully, his movements are just as quiet as before.

“That’s sufficient,” he says.

Atsumu hums faintly in response, not moving right away.

“I don’t wanna get up,” he admits.

“You’ll feel better after,” Sakusa replies.

“I already feel pretty good,” Atsumu mutters, but there’s no real resistance in it.

Sakusa begins unwrapping him carefully, undoing each layer in reverse, the cooler air brushing against Atsumu’s skin again as the heat dissipates. The mask remains for a moment longer, then Sakusa helps him sit up slowly, steadying him with a light, grounding hand at his arm.

“Careful,” he says.

Atsumu nods faintly, a little slower than usual as he adjusts, his body still heavy, almost sluggish in a way that feels more relaxed than tired.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Sakusa hands him a towel again, thicker than before, and gestures toward the adjacent area.

“We’ll rinse here.”

The shower space is… different from anything Atsumu’s used to.

It’s not just a shower.

It’s an entire section, stone flooring, slightly textured for grip, with multiple overhead and wall mounted fixtures. The lighting is soft but brighter than the treatment rooms, reflecting off the polished surfaces. Along one side, there’s a panel built into the wall, sleek and minimal, clearly controlling everything.

Sakusa steps in just enough to show him.

“This controls water pressure, temperature, and direction,” he says, gesturing to the panel. “You can switch between rainfall, directional jets, and mist.”

He taps a setting briefly, and one of the overhead fixtures releases a soft, even stream, wide, gentle, like the earlier rinse but more encompassing.

“Aromatherapy can be added here,” Sakusa continues, indicating another option. “Steam as well, if you want to maintain heat.”

Atsumu blinks at it. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Sakusa doesn’t react.

“There are also contrast settings,” he adds. “Though I don’t recommend that immediately after the wrap.”

“Yeah, no,” Atsumu says. “I’ve had enough of the cold for today.”

Sakusa nods once.

“You can take your time,” he says. “Rinse thoroughly.”

Atsumu nods, still looking around like he’s trying to process all of it. “Yeah. I will.”

Sakusa steps back toward the entrance.

“I’ll be just outside,” he says. “Once you’re finished, we’ll proceed.”

“Right,” Atsumu says.

There’s a brief pause, then he adds, quieter, “Thanks.”

Sakusa inclines his head slightly, then leaves him to it.

-

The water feels different when it’s just him.

Atsumu steps under it slowly, letting it hit his shoulders first, then his chest, washing away the mask in smooth, warm streams. The pressure is perfect, strong enough to rinse clean, but soft enough that it doesn’t disrupt the calm that’s settled into him.

He exhales, long and quiet.

The scent shifts slightly when he adjusts the settings, something subtle added to the water, faintly herbal, clean.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t feel the need to.

By the time he finishes, his body feels lighter again, clean, warm, the earlier heaviness replaced with something softer, easier.

He steps out, drying off slowly, the towel absorbing the last of the water as he pulls his robe back on.

When he steps out, Sakusa is exactly where he said he’d be.

Ready.

“We’ll proceed to your meal,” he says. “Then finish with a hinoki bath.”

Atsumu exhales quietly and nods, adjusting the tie of his robe again.

Sakusa leads him through another quiet corridor, the transition subtle but noticeable.

The air shifts again as they approach the next space, warmer than the hallways, but not humid like the baths. There’s a faint scent of food now, clean and delicate, nothing heavy or overpowering. The lighting opens slightly too, still soft, but less enclosed.

They step into a dining area.

It isn’t large.

Intimate, more than anything else.

Low tables arranged with deliberate spacing, each one set perfectly, no clutter, no excess. The floors are smooth wood, polished but not reflective, and along one wall, wide windows look out into a small enclosed garden, stones, moss, a carefully placed tree, everything arranged with quiet precision.

Sakusa gestures toward one of the tables. “This is yours.”

Atsumu steps closer, lowering himself down onto the cushion with a little more ease than he expected, his body still loose, still relaxed in a way that makes everything feel slower.

The table is already set.

Lacquered trays. Small ceramic dishes. Chopsticks resting neatly across a holder. A covered bowl, steam just barely escaping from beneath the lid.

“This is a whole thing,” Atsumu says.

“Yes,” Sakusa replies.

He steps slightly to the side, his tone shifting back into that steady, informative cadence.

“The meal is tailored to your profile,” he explains. “Based on your activity level, muscle recovery needs, and hydration balance.”

Atsumu blinks up at him. “You had a hand in that too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane,” Atsumu mutters.

Sakusa continues.

“High quality protein for muscle repair,” he says, gesturing lightly toward one of the dishes. “Balanced carbohydrates to restore glycogen levels. Fermented components for digestion and gut health.”

Atsumu lifts one of the lids slightly, peeking underneath.

Inside, the food is arranged carefully.

Grilled fish, lightly salted, the skin crisped just enough. A small bowl of miso soup, still steaming, the scent rich but not heavy. Rice, perfectly shaped, each grain distinct. Pickled vegetables in bright, clean colors, daikon, cucumber. A small portion of simmered greens, seasoned lightly.

Everything looks simple. But intentional.

“This looks way too nice for me,” Atsumu says quietly.

“It’s appropriate,” Sakusa replies.

Atsumu huffs softly at that, setting the lid back down.

There’s a brief pause. Then Sakusa steps back slightly.

“I’ll leave you to eat,” he says.

Atsumu looks up immediately.

“…Oh,” he says, the word coming out before he can stop it.

Sakusa pauses.

Atsumu hesitates, then rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little less composed than he had been a second ago.

“You don’t have to—like—leave,” he says, a little awkwardly. “I mean, I get it, if you’ve got other clients or whatever, but—”

He trails off, then exhales.

“I just—” he shrugs slightly, looking down at the table for a second before glancing back up, “I kinda liked talkin’ to you.”

There’s a small pause.

Atsumu shifts, a little more self aware now.

“If that’s allowed,” he adds, quieter.

Sakusa studies him for a moment. Not long.
Just enough to take it in.

“I don’t have another client,” he says.

Atsumu’s shoulders drop slightly. “Oh.”

Sakusa steps forward again, slower this time, and takes a seat across from him. The movement is controlled, but there’s less distance in it now than before.

Atsumu watches him for half a second, then lets out a quiet breath, something softer settling into his expression.

“Cool,” he murmurs.

He reaches for the chopsticks, then pauses, glancing up again.

“You gonna tell me how to eat this properly too?” he asks, a faint grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Sakusa looks at him. “You already know how to eat.”

“Yeah, but this feels like there’s rules,” Atsumu says.

“There are,” Sakusa replies.

Atsumu snorts softly. “Of course there are.”

Sakusa doesn’t elaborate on what they are. Probably some stupid thing about what order he’s supposed to eat in. Atsumu doesn’t ask.

He just picks up the chopsticks.

And starts.

Atsumu doesn’t rush once he starts eating, but he also doesn’t hold back.

The first few bites are almost instinctive, his body catching up to how hungry he actually is now that everything else has been taken care of. The rice is warm and perfectly soft without being sticky, the kind that almost melts when he chews it, and the fish has that balance of salt and clean flavor that doesn’t feel heavy at all. It’s simple, but not in a boring way, everything tastes intentional.

He pauses after a few bites, shoulders loosening a little more as he exhales through his nose.

“Okay,” he says, quieter now, more thoughtful than earlier. “This is actually really good.”

He glances up at Sakusa, like he needs him to confirm it somehow, then looks back down at the tray, picking up another piece of fish.

“Like.. not just fancy good,” he adds, shaking his head slightly. “I thought it was gonna be one of those things where it looks nice but doesn’t really taste like anything. But this is—yeah. This is good.”

Sakusa watches him without interrupting, his posture still composed, but there’s something less rigid about him now, like he’s not just observing anymore, he’s listening.

Atsumu eats a little more, slower this time, then lets out a soft breath that almost turns into a laugh.

“My brother would still say his is better,” he says, glancing up again, a faint grin pulling at his mouth. “And honestly, he might not be wrong.”

Sakusa’s gaze shifts slightly. “Your brother?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu nods, already warming into it. “Osamu. My twin. He’s a chef. Owns his own restaurant. He’s—” he pauses, trying to figure out how to describe him, then just exhales, “—he’s annoyin’ about food, is what he is.”

There’s a small pause, then he adds, more fondly than anything, “But he’s really good. Like, actually really good. He does onigiri mostly, but not the basic kind. He’s got his own place, does all these different fillings, seasonal stuff, real particular about the rice and everything. You’d probably like it.”

Sakusa hums quietly, taking that in.

Atsumu picks up his miso again, taking another sip before continuing.

“He’d probably sit here and start pickin’ this apart,” he says, glancing down at the tray again. “Not in a rude way, just—he notices everything. Texture, balance, all that stuff. He’d be like, ‘this is good, but—’ and then go on for ten minutes about what he’d change.”

He stops, then winces slightly, like he just realized how that might’ve sounded.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with this,” he adds quickly, looking back up. “This is really good. I’m just sayin’—he’s picky.”

Sakusa doesn’t seem offended in the slightest.

“That’s expected for someone trained in it,” he says calmly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu exhales, relaxing again. “Exactly.”

He eats another bite, then slows, his gaze flicking up again as something else occurs to him. Without really thinking, he nudges one of the dishes slightly forward across the table.

“You sure you don’t want any?” he asks, a little more tentative this time. “Feels weird just eatin’ while you’re sittin’ there.”

Sakusa shakes his head once, his response immediate but not dismissive. “You’re the one being treated. This is for you.”

Atsumu leans back slightly, frowning just a little. “Yeah, but still.”

“I’ve had it before,” Sakusa adds. “It’s good.”

That seems to settle it enough for Atsumu, even if he still looks a little unconvinced.

“Alright,” he mutters, pulling the dish back toward himself. “Just feels rude.”

“It isn’t,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu huffs softly under his breath, but he doesn’t argue further, just goes back to eating, though slower now, more aware of the moment than he had been at the start.

There’s a quiet stretch where he just focuses on the food, the warmth of it, the way his body actually feels satisfied in a way that isn’t rushed or distracted. It’s… different. Everything today has been.

After a minute, he glances up again, studying Sakusa more openly this time.

“You really just sit with people like this all day?” he asks, tone softer now, less teasing, more curious.

Sakusa doesn’t seem thrown by the question. “If the treatment requires it.”

Atsumu tilts his head slightly. “Feels like more than that.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer right away, and that in itself feels like an answer.

Atsumu lets it sit for a second, then shifts again, resting one arm loosely on the table as he looks back down at his meal.

“So you grew up around all this,” he says, circling back, his voice quieter now. “Like—this level of everything?”

“Yes.”

Atsumu nods slowly, processing that in a way that feels more grounded now than it did earlier.

“What’s that even like,” he asks, not rushed, not filling space, just asking. “Does it feel normal to you, or do you still notice it?”

Sakusa’s gaze lowers slightly, thoughtful.

“It’s normal,” he says after a moment. “It doesn’t stand out unless I compare it to something else. I’ve never known anything different.”

Atsumu hums softly, like he expected that.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I’d notice it all the time. I’ve never even been to this part of town. I’m from the country. So ya know… It’s different. For me.”

He gestures vaguely around them, the space, the food, everything.

“It’s just… a lot,” he says, not negatively, just honestly. “Everything’s so precise. Quiet. Feels like you’re supposed to know how to exist in it already.”

Sakusa watches him.

“You’re doing fine,” he says gently. Atsumu could swear he sees Sakusa’s eyes soften.

Atsumu lets out a small breath, something softer than a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably because you’ve been explainin’ everything all day. You’ve been a good help. I figured everyone here would be super judgmental and uptight because it’s pretty obvious I don’t frequent spas.”

Sakusa doesn’t deny it.

Atsumu glances up again, holding his gaze for just a second longer this time.

“Did you always know you were gonna do this?” he asks.

“Yes. I enjoy the commitment to one’s own health and wellness. I wanted to be a part of it.”

Atsumu shakes his head slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him.

“That’s wild,” he says. “I didn’t even know what I wanted to do until I was already halfway into it. I knew I loved volleyball. So I just chased what I love. But I never really had a plan.”

He looks back down at his food, then adds, more lightly, “Volleyball just worked out perfectly though. It’s everything to me.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately, but there’s something in the way he watches him now that feels less distant, less purely professional. He softens almost into a smile.

Atsumu notices.

Atsumu slows toward the end of the meal without really meaning to.

Not because he’s full, though he is, but because he doesn’t want it to be over yet. He picks at the last few bites more thoughtfully, finishing the rice, then the vegetables, lingering over the miso until the bowl is empty and there’s nothing left to distract him.

He sets the chopsticks down carefully, exhaling through his nose, shoulders still loose in a way that feels unfamiliar but easy.

“That was really good,” he says, quieter now, more settled than earlier. “Like—actually good. Not just part of the whole experience thing.”

Sakusa inclines his head slightly. “It’s meant to support the treatment.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu nods, glancing down at the empty tray. “Feels like it does.”

There’s a brief pause, then Sakusa stands, smooth and composed as always.

“We’ll move to the final stage,” he says.

Atsumu looks up, then pushes himself up a second later, adjusting his robe again as he follows.

The walk is shorter this time.

The space they enter feels more open than the others, not large, but calmer in a different way. The hinoki bath sits slightly recessed into the floor, the pale wood surrounding it smooth and clean, the grain visible even in the softened lighting. Steam rises gently from the surface, carrying that distinct scent, light, almost sweet, clean in a way that feels deeper than just water.

It’s quieter here. Not just in sound, but in feeling.

Sakusa steps slightly to the side, gesturing toward it.

“This is the final treatment,” he says. “Hinoki immersion. It supports circulation, reduces residual tension, and stabilizes the nervous system after the earlier stages.”

Atsumu nods slowly, taking it in.

“Smells good,” he murmurs.

Sakusa watches him for a moment before continuing.

“The structured portion of your session is complete,” he says. “You can remain here as long as you’d like.”

Atsumu blinks, looking back at him. “That’s it?”

“For the guided treatment, yes.”

Atsumu exhales softly, something in his chest dipping just slightly at that. He doesn’t want Sakusa to leave.

Sakusa continues, his tone steady, returning briefly to that more formal cadence.

“You won’t be charged,” he adds. “This is covered under your Olympic program. You’re eligible for repeat sessions on a monthly basis.”

Atsumu nods again, processing that slower than he normally would.

“Monthly,” he repeats quietly.

“Yes.”

There’s a small pause.

Atsumu shifts his weight slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his robe, his gaze lingering on the bath for a second before drifting back to Sakusa.

“Will I get you again?” he asks.

Sakusa’s expression doesn’t change immediately.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Atsumu exhales, a little more self aware now, but he doesn’t back off.

“Like—if I come back,” he says, more directly. “Will it be you? Takin care of me?”

There’s a beat.

Atsumu rubs the back of his neck, glancing away for a second before looking back again.

“Because I don’t really wanna do this if it’s not,” he adds, quieter now, but more honest. “I mean—I could, I guess. But it wouldn’t be the same.”

Sakusa stills. Not obviously. But enough that it’s there.

Atsumu shifts again, suddenly a little unsure, but he keeps going anyway.

“I’d request you,” he says. “Specifically.”

For a second, Sakusa doesn’t respond at all.

And then, just barely, something changes.

The faintest shift in his posture, the slightest hesitation before he answers, and, more noticeably, the color that rises just slightly along the line of his cheekbones.

“Clients can make requests,” he says.

His voice is still controlled. But not quite as untouched as it was before. He sounds almost shy.

Atsumu notices immediately. He can’t help but grin.

“So that’s a yes,” he says softly.

Sakusa’s gaze shifts, just briefly, then returns.

“If I’m available,” he says primly.

Atsumu’s shoulders loosen again, something lighter settling into his expression.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

There’s a quiet stretch after that, the steam rising slowly between them, the scent of hinoki settling into the space.

And for the first time, Sakusa looks just slightly less untouchable.

Just slightly more… human. Shy and almost bashful. It’s cute.

After a moment of awkward silence Sakusa inclines his head once more towards the bath, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to professionalism.

“You can begin whenever you’re ready,” he says, clearing his throat, gesturing lightly toward the bath. “Take your time.”

Then he turns.

Atsumu watches him take a step away, then another, the soft sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet of the room, and something in his chest tightens before he can stop it.

It’s immediate, Instinctive.

He doesn’t think about it long enough to filter it.

“Wait,” he says.

It comes out sharper than he means it to.

Sakusa pauses.

Not turning right away, just stopping.

Atsumu pushes off the edge of where he’s standing, taking a step forward without really knowing why, his brain scrambling to catch up with what he just did.

“Can I—” he starts, then stops, running a hand quickly through his hair, already feeling the heat creeping up his neck. “Can I get your number?”

The silence that follows is immediate.

Atsumu freezes.

“…That—” he exhales, the realization hitting all at once, “that sounded wrong. I didn’t mean it like that—”

He winces, dragging his hand down over his face before dropping it again.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just—I didn’t mean it in an inappropriate way. I’m not tryin’ to—yeah. I don’t wanna get you in trouble or anything.”

Sakusa hasn’t moved yet.

Atsumu keeps going, words coming faster now, more uneven.

“I just—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated with himself, “I liked talkin’ to you. And I wanna keep doin’ that. Not just—here.”

He glances around the room, then back at Sakusa.

“This place is great,” he adds quickly. “Obviously. It’s—yeah. Incredible. But it’s also kinda… stiff.”

He grimaces immediately. “That’s not—again, not in a bad way—”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“Forget that part,” he mutters, then looks back at him, more serious now. “I just mean—I wanna know you when you’re not workin’. When you’re not—” he gestures again, smaller this time, “—paid to talk to me.”

There’s a beat.

Atsumu’s voice drops just slightly.

“We could get a drink or somethin’,” he says. “Outside. Somewhere normal.”

He pauses, then adds quickly, almost tripping over it, “Not instead of this—I still want you for the next treatment. I’ll request you. I just—”

He exhales, quieter now.

“I think we’d get along,” he finishes weakly. Feeling like an embarrassing idiot for asking.

The room goes still again.

Steam rises slowly from the bath behind him, the scent of hinoki settling into the space, and Atsumu stands there, a little too aware of himself now, of what he just said, of how it might’ve come across.

“Sorry,” he mutters again, softer this time. “If that’s not allowed or whatever.”

Sakusa finally turns. His expression is composed. But not untouched.

There’s a pause before he answers, just long enough to make it clear he’s actually thinking about it.

“You’re asking me to step outside a professional boundary,” he says.

Atsumu nods immediately. “Yeah. I know.”

He doesn’t argue it. Doesn’t try to twist it.

Just stands there, waiting.

Sakusa’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer than it has before. His cheeks still pink.

“That would be separate from this,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu nods again, a little quicker this time. “Yeah. Completely separate.”

Another pause.

Sakusa exhales quietly through his nose, something small shifting in his expression again, something that isn’t quite hesitation, but isn’t fully certainty either.

“I would need to be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” Atsumu says immediately. “Yeah. I don’t wanna mess anything up for you.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sakusa says, more quietly, “Give me your number.”

Atsumu blinks.

“Yeah?” he says, a little surprised.

“Yes.”

Atsumu doesn’t hesitate this time, already reaching for his phone, the earlier tension in his chest easing just slightly as something steadier takes its place.

He can’t help but grin as he watches Sakusa type on his phone before handing it back.

Sakusa notices his expression and gives him a pointed look, “Take your bath Atsumu,” he murmurs, pointing at the tub behind him.

Atsumu’s grin turns into a smirk, “I will Sakusa-san. Whatever you say.”

“Good,” Sakusa says, before starting to retreat the room.

Atsumu whisper shouts one more time as he’s walking away, “Hey Sakusa?”

Sakusa glances back, “Yes?”

Atsumu smiles, “I’ll text ya.”

Sakusa just shakes his head and walks away, but Atsumu could swear he caught a glimpse of a smile before he was out of the room, leaving Atsumu alone with a hinoki bath that was probably the same price as his rent.