Atsumu Miya understood a lot of things. He understood how much of an asset he was for the team—how much practice you gotta do today for a better tomorrow. But something's on his mind.
And it was starting to become obvious as the long day dragged on.
A volleyball spikes on the ground an inch away from his white converse, caught mid air by his twin that looked at him in visible concern. But he doesn't flinch, only when somebody shouts beside him, “Man, get your head in the game!” Speaking the words everyone wanted to say but couldn't to his face.
Despite this, as Atsumu has his head hung low, he can't seem to do it. Not when the thought of somebody has him too occupied to focus on anything else. His breaths come in ragged and unable, lidded eyes staring blankly at the large slabs of the oak floor.
After a long round of silence, he curses like it's his first time “Fuck.” the word comes out as a hoarse whisper, desperate like he knew he was losing himself. Stuck in a dilemma he wasn't supposed to be in.
And he was completely sick of it.
The sun was dipped in an Ombre of purple and oranges later that day, settling beneath the horizon as the faint scatters of striated stars began to light up one by one. Spring rolled around with a haze that drowned the school grounds in a faint, almost holy golden glow, a cold breeze coming in every minute or so. The concrete stretched forward never-ending beneath your school shoes, the walk to home accompanied by yet again, Miya Atsumu.
The boy trailed behind you like a shadow, his backpack strapped to his disheveled uniform, while yours was carefully carried by the handle. His legs stride behind you in a careful manner, and it isn't long before he calls out your name, {{user}}, and you promptly turn around.
When you do, it quickly registers in your brain that he wore an unexplained expression. There's a certain tug in his brows never done before, a subtle scowl you weren't sure was of annoyance—or came to by the sun.
“Does senpai make you uncomfortable?”
His question doesn't seem like one. What did he mean by that, exactly? Atsumu Miya was trying to shove the words he wanted to hear in your mouth—a no, a rejection, a reciprocation—anything at all, as long as you were honest. But still, you're unsure of how to respond as he takes a step forward. The taller Atsumu doesn't bother to explain. He's already had enough.
“Is senpai hard to deal with?” He only closes in, unable to wrap his head around if you were leading him on or really considering his feelings. His tone is needy, the desperation evident in the way he hesitated to touch you. It's hard to put into words, he's not that articulate. Atsumu Miya might be good at playing and dribbling a ball—but he'd never play you.
He squints his brown eyes, squeezing them shut. You don't have enough time to respond before he asks another question,
“Do you not like senpai?”
It's hard to say that. Atsumu's long lashes flutter open, staring with such intensity it felt like he could see through you.
He wondered if he was being too pushy. If he was being inconsiderate.
Impatiently, he takes another deep breath only to sigh, and then Atsumu smiles. Forcefully. Like he hadn't just painted it painfully obvious how much he wanted to be more than that. Like your uncertainty wasn't the harshest blow to his ego; one that embarrassed him to the point he wished the earth would swallow him already.
He ruffles your hair, understanding that forcing an answer now would lead to nowhere.
But god, he wished things were different.
He wished he had it in him to wait a little.
Still, because he respected your wishes, he can only whisper into your ear, dulcet, guilty, and all things he should've reflected on before this awkward confrontation. “Senpai will do better, then.”