𝐩𝐭. 𝐯

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞

ATSUMU HAD A habit of doing things in twos, and if not twos, then at least a number divisible by two. He typically fell back onto a combination of six-four-two, something about those numbers helping ease his mind when everything around him felt like it was getting too much.

He took six steps to do a jump serve. He took four to do a float serve. He took two to set up a perfect toss.

Sometimes, he found himself reversing the combination, typically when dealing with more mundane things.

He took two hours to look at his phone. He spent four trying to distract himself. He responded after six.

A(ssholes) A(nonymous)

11:23 a.m.

[ asian gordon ramsay: Yo congrats on graduating you art snob ]

[ pipsqueak: thank you, food snob!! it's surreal that i'm finally done ]

[ asian gordon ramsay: Do you know what you're gonna do now? ]

[ pipsqueak: oh that's right, I forgot to tell you guys, I'm moving back haha ]

[ asian gordon ramsay: To Tokyo??? ]

[ pipsqueak: yep! I got a job offer to be a curator at the tokyo met a few days ago and have been scrambling to get everything in order ]

[ asian gordon ramsay: That's amazing! Double congratulations then! ]

5:23 p.m.

[ congratulations << ]

Six-four-two, two-four-six.

Tokyo. You. Moving back. Those were four words that hadn't crossed his mind together in a long time. Two years, to be precise. It had been a little over two years since you'd waved goodbye to your group of friends— him and Osamu included —before walking into the airport, never looking back. Two years since he found himself typing out text after text only to delete it, never drawing up the courage to send any of them. Two years since the contact he had with you dwindled to the group chat you shared with him and Osamu.

It was... fine. Expected really. Things had never been the same since that night he let his tongue loose and you snapped back and everything both of you thought about the other crumbled in a matter of minutes.

Atsumu hadn't apologized, not verbally anyways, after all, no matter how good he was at picking himself and others apart, the instant he tried to express anything else the words never came out right. They jumbled in his mouth and tangled together until all that came out was an incoherent mess of kerosene soaked words that aggravated the other party.

You hadn't apologized either, not that he'd expected you to. There'd been a few days of static silence between the two of you, but it had finally ended when he caught a glimpse of you in the stands during his final volleyball game for the college team.

There hadn't been that much time left. Graduation had been less than two weeks away, and he'd found a receipt for a one-way ticket to Italy booked for four months from then, and something about the ticking timeline had somehow swept the argument aside as you two interacted in a similar manner. You'd never brought it up, so he'd seen no reason to do the same.

Still, something fundamental had broken that night and it hadn't been a surprise to him when he realized the foundation of your friendship had been completely obliterated once you moved.

But it was okay. You were okay. He was okay.

Life moved on, so did he. He'd found his footing in the professional world, living for the feeling of the lights burning overhead and the roar of the crowd pumping through his veins. He'd found unlikely friendships in old allies and enemies alike, forging ahead with renewed vigor. He'd moved into a new apartment, found himself signing with sponsorships he'd only ever dreamed of, and this was just the beginning.

Keeping in contact with you was a blessing and a curse. He had a vague understanding of your life, and you his, and he supposed that was better than knowing absolutely nothing.

But it was hard to ignore the ache in his chest when he thought of a stupid joke he knew you'd laugh at. It was hard to ignore the twisting of emotions that overcame him when he happened upon a picture you posted on social media. It was hard to pretend that he didn't think about you from time to time, wondering if it would be possible to rebuild the relationship he used to have with you.

Forward, backward; oscillating back and forth between the past and present had become a common occurrence in his life.

Memories would spring up beneath his fingertips without warning, slamming into him after weeks of peace. Sometimes, he wondered just how far he could move forward before something inevitably sent him spiraling back.

Forward: Atsumu had fulfilled his trail contract and signed onto the Black Jackals for another four years.

Backward: He was now required to go to certain charity events, one of which was an auction at NACT.

Atsumu had nothing against charity events, he'd long since accepted the fact that with his career came making public appearances, doing things to make sure his press image was good, and overall, allowing fans a peek into what he was like off the court.

But he'd been trying to push you out of his mind, and now he was expected to go to the one place where all he'd be able to think of was you.

Still, a contract was a contract, and now here he is struggling to get the knot in his tie to stop skewing to the side while Osamu provides absolutely no help, instead content to laugh at his brother through the video screen, occasionally leaving to stir his dinner before coming back.

Atsumu curses before yanking the tie off. "Maybe I should just call in sick."

"Are you really complainin' about this again? Just suck it up and go, you're the one who wanted to be a star."

Atsumu scowls down at his phone before walking away from it to glance through the ties in the drawer he currently had pulled open. "Shuddup. I wanted to play volleyball, not go ta some exhibit and look at splatter of paint on a massive canvas and pretend ta understand some philosophical meaning behind it."

Osamu hums in contemplation, his voice crackling through the speaker. "Are you sure ya just don't wanna go because it'll make you think of—"

"Don't." He cuts him off before he can finish his sentence.

"Look," Osamu's voice is saccharine sweet, sarcasm coiling beneath every word, "as much as I love playing mediator between you two, have you ever considered oh, I don't know, just talking to her yourself?"

"I do talk ta her."

"I mean actually talk to her. Not just a text checkin' in on Nugget or sayin' some generic shit. When was the last time you held a conversation with her outside of the groupchat?"

"I-"

"You don't even have to root around in that empty head of yours for a conversation starter." Osamu barrels on. "Just tell her about the exhibits you're going to see. All it takes is a little push and I'm sure she'd be happy to talk your ear off about art."

"No thanks."

"Why not?"

"I said no."

"And I'm saying yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"No."

"Yes, agh dammit 'Samu!"

His brother laughs. "Like I said, you have an empty head."

"Whatever."

Deciding to forgo a tie all together, Atsumu closes the drawer and unbuttons his dress shirt, abandoning it over his bed. He roots through his closet and fishes out a black turtleneck made of cashmere, tucking it into his black dress pants and switching his black belt out for one that'd been a gift from Gucchi, their signature logo in gold. He still wears the black suit jacket he'd been planning on, sliding it on and being grateful that it was still cold enough to wear all these layers, before making his way back over to his phone.

"Look I'm gonna go but seriously, it's one thing for you two to only talk superficially while she's in another country halfway across the world, it's going to be an entirely different scenario when she only lives a half hour away. I'm not plannin' on dropping my friendship with her anytime, and I'd prefer if whatever the hell has been going on between the two of you for... however long is finally resolved."

Before Atsumu can retort, his phone screen goes blank. He settles for fiddling with the jacket cuffs, straightening each side out two times. Then four. Then six.

(Funny, how that combination makes it so he can breathe a little easier.)

Atsumu puts on two thin, gold chained necklaces and glances in the mirror, fixing a few strands of his hair. After a second, he takes out the simple stud he had in his ear and replaces it with a tight golden hoop. Satisfied that he looked put together enough that he wouldn't look too out of place amongst all the people who wore the kinds of outfits he only saw in magazines, he grabs his keys and wallet off the counter.

After making sure he had everything, he made his way out of his apartment and to his car, sliding into the driver's seat and taking a deep breath. He inserts the museum's location into his gps and turns the music up a hair too loud, bass pounding through his body in place of his heartbeat.

The drive is too short, despite it being forty minutes long, and he turns his music off once he gets closer. A valet ticket and a half dozen photos later, courtesy of the flashing cameras lining the staircase up the entrance of the museum, Atsumu finds himself standing off to the side of the main entrance to the exhibits. People are lingering in the lobby, shaking hands and introducing partners but he can't find it in himself to do the same. He settles for reading the nearest banner.

Welcome to NACT's annual charity exhibit! With twenty small exhibits featuring artists from all around the world, we hope you will enjoy the variety of projects many have spent years, and even their lives, creating. Booklets with maps can be found in the glass boxes near the entry doors and at certain stations throughout the hall.

Each exhibit will include one to three pieces that are up for auction. Auction pieces are marked with a gold star and more information on where the money will go can be found in the booklets. The auction will begin shortly after dinner.

No photography or video recording of any kind is allowed in the charity exhibit. No food or beverages are allowed in the charity exhibit. Thank you for your cooperation.

Finished reading he glances around and grins slyly upon seeing a familiar face, currently contorted into one of discomfort. Sliding up to his teammate, Atsumu looks Sakusa Kiyoomi up and down. "Wow Omi-Omi, I never thought you'd be able to coordinate an outfit like that."

Sakusa glances down at himself, as though he'd forgotten what he was wearing. Grey plaid pants with thin veins of blue that matches the slate blue sweater he's wearing, the latter tucked in to show a matching colored belt. The white collar of a dress shirt is draped over the collar of the sweater and the only accessory visible was the mask hiding the lower half of his face. Despite his hands being tucked into the formal, tan trench coat he wore, Atsumu was almost certain Sakusa was wearing gloves of some sort.

Annoyance flickers through dark brown eyes, and the man uses the two inches he has on Atsumu to look down at him with a withering gaze. "I'm surprised you didn't show up in sweatpants and a holy hoodie that costs more than a small house."

Atsumu shrugs, "I thought about it, but decided ta change things up."

It's quiet for a moment and Sakusa's eyes flicker over Atsumu's shoulder. More people were arriving which meant the lobby was steadily filling up.

"Wanna head in?" Atsumu asks. "Unless ya want to wait for Bokkun and Shoyo too."

Sakusa's eyes tighten slightly as he thinks. It was no secret that he struggled from time to time with the two most out-going members of the Jackals. While Atsumu was certain Sakusa respected them as players, and that Bokuto did his best to quell his touchy nature while Hinata never got too close, Sakusa still found their presence overbearing, particularly when they attracted so much attention at events like this.

"This seems like their kind of scene." Sakusa says stiffly. "Besides we'll see them at the dinner."

Two-four-six, six-four-two.

Atsumu quietly counts his steps to the main door, plucking a booklet from the glass box and walking into the main hall. Almost instantly, the chattering behind them is softened, the overhead lights a gentler, warm yellow than the bright fluorescents outside. There's still conversations inside, but they're quieter, hushed as though just being in the presence of the art was enough to warrant their secretive nature.

Atsumu leafs through the booklet halfheartedly. "Where did ya want to start?"

It's quiet for a moment he looks up, only to find that Sakusa has already started walking down the pathway. Atsumu refrains from cursing and stuffs his free hand into his jacket pocket as he takes long strides to catch up.

The charity exhibit has been split into twenty sections, ten on each side, with a pathway that snakes through the room in a diagonal line. There's smaller pathways on either side that lead through the separate exhibits and at some point, Atsumu gives up on trailing Sakusa, who seems to know exactly where he's going, and instead wanders through the exhibits at his own pace, looking over the various pieces.

It's strangely soothing and times seems to loosen it's hold on him as he looks over the art. Some pieces are what he expected; intricately carved vases, brightly colored paintings, and strange metal sculptures that span from the ceiling to the floor. There's explanations for each exhibit on the side of the wall where it starts and he skims over each of them, flicking the booklet against his leg as he walks. The more he tries to focus on the art, on the titles and the meanings, the more he can hear a little voice nagging in the back of his head. His grip tightens on the booklet as he counts his steps.

Six-four-two. Two-four-six.

He stares at an oil painting without actually seeing it, the colors blurring together.

"Hmm, two weeks and three days."

Your voice echoes in his mind and his jaw tightens. A long time ago he'd agreed to go to a student art show from your college, none of your works were in it because it was for seniors only, and when it was clear he was growing bored you'd simply tugged on his sleeve so he'd bend down. You'd then told him your guess for how long each piece had taken, occasionally adding in a few quips.

His gaze moves to the next painting, the most elaborate one on display and the canvas a few feet tall. The detail is mind blowing and he can see texture from where he stands a good distance away.

"Now that is what we call a soul piece; there's no way they spent anything less than two months, three weeks, and... six days on it! Plus a bottle or two of wine to help get through it."

Atsumu quickly goes to the next exhibit.

At this point he's made it through over half the exhibits and is on the second side now. All the descriptions have begun to meld in one another and he gives up on the fourteenth exhibit of reading the artist introductions; they're too long and filled with jargon he doesn't want to even begin to try and comprehend.

It's only when he's passing the entrance of the eighteenth exhibit that he realizes something is different. He pauses and takes a few steps back, looking at the wall where the introduction was supposed to be. Most of the wall is blank except for the crisp number 18 in the upper left corner and the name of the project written neatly.

Unbiased Eyes by Mienai

Eyebrows furrowing, Atsumu heads back into the corner exhibit. There's five pieces total, with two on either side of the wall and one displayed on the center wall.

The first one is bizarrely captivating; the skyline of Tokyo inverted and fractured to the point he almost didn't recognize it, different things spilling out of the shapes it made and creating designs within the blank space. While the skyline is drawn in ink, everything else looks to be painted, and the more he looks, the more things he can find within the picture. Some of the edges of the paper look to have been burned, the edges charred black before softening to a grayish brown and then finally turning cream.

Atsumu looks down at the white card underneath the art, frowning when he finds it blank. He moves closer and realizes there's a tiny sentence close by.

Move the slates to reveal the name of each piece if desired.

He reaches out and blinks, surprised to be met with hard plastic instead of paper. He moves the slate to the left and is rewarded with a card that gives him next to nothing about the piece. Unlike the other cards that he'd read, this one doesn't give the year or the country it was created in. Instead it tells him only two things, the title and the material used.

Paracosm

ink and gouache on parchment

Atsumu moves onto the next piece after sliding the slate back into place.

He blinks. A few panels of wood have been nailed together to create a rectangle. Most of it is painted white, but there's a few parts that are chipped or simply left uncovered. He's almost positive this one is made of spray paint, sweeping lines creating full lips that are parted just enough to reveal the tombstones positioned just behind. He moves a bit closer and realizes that while most of the writing on the tombstones is essentially nonsense, there's a few English letters splayed out across the tombstones. His lips move silently as he tries to draw on his fractured knowledge of the foreign language. Finally, it clicks.

It says 'what if'.

He moves this slate aside, curiosity getting the better of him.

New Year's Kiss

spray paint on wood

He moves it back slowly and stares at the piece for a few more minutes. All he can think about is how much you'd love this piece, and how you'd talk for a solid hour about what it could mean or how you felt like it applied to you.

Atsumu closes his eyes for a second. Six-four-two; two-four-six. He taps the booklet against his thigh then moves onto the center piece.

It's a miniature series, the square paintings each having a portrait of a different person done completely in one color. There's nine in total. The first is blue, the woman painted with her chin tilted up, piercing eyes staring in judgement, a crown dripping in jewels across her brow. The second is red, the man's face contorted in a yell, the background a mess of torn up objects. The third is yellow, a little girl's curly hair filled with flowers and a genuine smile crinkling the sides of her eyes as she laughs, holding out a flower for the viewer. On and on it goes; pink, purple, orange, black, and white each having a new person depicting differing expressions.

When he moves the slate aside, he finds that there's a gold star on the paper, signifying that this was the piece up for auction.

The Spectrum of Human Emotion

oil on canvas

The next piece is the biggest and is a painting of a young man almost entirely done in blue, his left hand cupping the side of his jaw, his right hand laying against his right temple. His expression is hauntingly serene, a sense of melancholy hidden in his features, and it cuts off just above his waist. The background is the silhouettes of plants and grass cushioning him, as though he's laying down in a field. There's some red paint swirling around the canvas, dipping and twirling, and it's outlined part of his face and his hands to be a skeleton, moving down to outline part of his torso as well.

It's then that Atsumu realizes there are two pairs of glasses hanging on the wall next to the painting, tiny instructions underneath saying viewers could use if desired. One has red lenses, and the other blue. He picks the latter first and puts them on, blinking when he realizes he can no longer see the red paint. He puts them back then grabs the red ones, sliding them on.

Instantly the painting is transformed, the man fading away and leaving behind his skeleton, complete with flowers growing throughout the ribcage and consuming the rest of his limbs, a snake intertwined into a knot where the heart would be, half of its body skeleton as well as it devours its own tail.

Life and Death

paint on canvas

He puts the glasses back, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm gonna say at least eight months and like, a hundred dollars worth of shitty take out."

He nearly flinches when your commentary makes its reappearance.

Six-four-two; two-four-six.

Atsumu moves on, planning on just glancing over the final piece and leaving— his stomach was rumbling anyways —but he freezes, staring at it.

It's a multimedia portrait of a woman's face with pieces of thick paper, though the actual face is little more than an abstract of colors and vague shapes, giving the sense of the features being blurred out. The background is completely black and white, leaving the woman to be the only thing in color. Her head is tilted downwards, hair a multitude of midnight blues and purples cascading down her shoulders, and her hands are cradled to her chest. There's an empty space in her hands, the only empty space in the entire piece, and as he stares, he realizes that the portrait isn't squares of paper like he originally thought.

No, the entire piece is made solely of paper cranes.

Hundreds of them folded neatly and in various shapes and sizes, fitted together and placed on top of each other to create shapes and depth. And in the space in the hands was the perfect size for a single crane to rest.

Atsumu doesn't remember moving the slate to the side, but the words stare up at him.

One Thousand and One

multimedia on slate

He hides the name and walks out of the exhibit, going through the next two in a daze, doing his best to school his frown into a neutral expression.

Why was the world so intent on reminding him of you?

Six-four-two. He slides into his assigned seat, mumbling hellos to Hinata and Bokuto who are talking excitedly. Two-four-six. He vaguely remembers eating the fancy dinner, his thoughts a static mess. Six-four-two. Sakusa is the only one who bids on a displayed piece, some oil painting reminiscent of the Renaissance era. Two-four-six. Atsumu isn't entirely heartless, he makes sure to give a donation to a charity— he can't remember which one —and sticks around long enough to be deemed socially competent. Six-four-two.

Finally, finally he's able to leave.

He rolls the windows of his car down once he's far enough from the art museum, savoring the cold air that slams into him without remorse. The dwindling winter chill brings forth a flush to his cheeks and he can feel the tip of his nose becoming numb. Knowing he needed to keep his health up for a game in a few weeks, he reluctantly rolls up his window.

Atsumu lets the music wash over him, drowning out his thoughts and tapping his fingers in a soothing pattern on the steering wheel as the neon lights of Tokyo bathe him in a luminescent aura.

Six-four-two, two-four-six.

He pulls into the underground parking garage, his car locking as soon as he gets out. He takes the elevator in lieu of the stairs for once, his feet aching from the tightness of his shoes. The door of his apartment is white, just like the others on his floor, and it opens silently.

Atsumu flicks a light on, taking in his home. He'd moved here a little less than a year ago and everything was new, so unlike the previous places he'd lived. No longer did he have to memorize a pattern to walk on the floor to ensure it didn't squeak, nor did he have to kick his own bedroom door down. Everything was spaced out evenly and all the lights worked. Appliances were up to date and the couch was comfortable, enough so he'd fallen asleep on it more times than he liked to admit. Floor to ceiling windows take up the far side of the living room, allowing him to peer out at the rest of Tokyo, a sea of lights greeting him.

He loved his apartment, had been ecstatic when he'd signed for it. He'd never been one to care much about materialistic things, but it was a good feeling to see that his dedication to what he loved reaped other benefits, benefits that helped alleviate the stress of money from his shoulders.

So why did it suddenly feel so empty?

His keys clatter onto the countertop, followed closely by his wallet that skids closely to the edge as he toes off his shoes in the same breath. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a chair that's set in front of the kitchen island before grabbing a glass out of the cupboard, filling it with water and gulping it down. He fills it up again and turns around, leaning back against the counter.

Atsumu stares at the city. The city stares back.

With a loud sigh he drags a hand down his face before clicking off the kitchen light, making his way through the dark to get to his bedroom. He puts his clothes into his laundry basket, frowning when something tumbles out of his pocket. He leans down to pick up the booklet, roughly the size of a pocket notebook, and sets it on top of his nightstand.

A quick shower later, Atsumu flops unceremoniously onto his bed, laying on his stomach. He closes his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him.

Six-four-two. Atsumu turns onto his back. Two-four-six. He tries laying on his left side. Six-four-two. He switches to his right side. Two-four-six.

With an aggravated groan, he sits up. His mind refuses to quiet down and it's, unfortunately, a familiar feeling, one he used to deal with primarily when he was younger. Over time, he'd seemed to grow out of it, but occasionally he'd find himself back in this state of mind, particularly when he was stressed.

There were times when Atsumu simply felt off. There would be something that was bothering him, and that something felt like an itch on his back that he could reach. The more he thought about it, the more annoying the itch got, and the only way to get it to stop was to figure out what exactly was causing him trouble. It was usually little, inconsequential things.

Things like needing to tap his fingers on his stomach twice, then four times on his bedpost, and six times on his arm. Things like getting up to pace in that same pattern. Things like having to move Osamu's shoes to the left two spaces because they weren't in the proper spot.

Occasionally, it went beyond his urge to physically enact the combination in some fashion.

Sure, he might have to tap his arm, but he may also need to watch the same play of a volleyball game over and over until his mind was satisfied. He may need to rummage through the cupboards until he finds that one specific snack he couldn't remember the name of, but once he finds it that itch is satisfied.

Atsumu's mind was something he'd long since stopped trying to understand, so he gets up and opens his curtains so the citylights offer a soft haze of visibility.

He taps. He paces. He puts his dress shirt on a hanger and puts it in his closet. He shuts the drawer on his dresser that's sticking out slightly. He paces. He taps. Finally, he sits back down on his bed with his back against the headboard, reaching over to pull his laptop off the nightstand. He moves to set the booklet aside but ends up grabbing it too.

He flips through it, finally settling on a page, reading the sparse information on it.

Exhibit #18, it reads, is an exhibit that focuses on a long time project of Mienai, an anonymous artist that has been gaining steady recognition for the past five years since their work first appeared. For more information on their project, go to www.mienai.com/project-UE

Considering he didn't have anything better to do— unless he wanted to go down a rabbit hole of videos on the internet —Atsumu finds himself typing in the url, drumming his fingers as he watches the page load. A line appears across the screen before unfurling into words welcoming him. The layout of the website looks to be fairly minimalistic and he hovers his cursor over the text that sprawls across his computer screen.

WELCOME TO UNBIASED EYES

The welcome fades away and three options appear in its place; project explanation, project gallery, other works. After a moment of consideration, he clicks on the first option.

Project 'Unbiased Eyes' was created by the artist Mienai in the hopes to provide viewers with an unfiltered view of art, allowing them to find their own personal connections without influence from the artist. The artist asks that you view the art from your own lens of experience before learning about their own.

Click once to view a full resolution of the artwork. Click twice to reveal the title. Click thrice to read a small excerpt written by Mienai.

Thank you for visiting Unbiased Eyes.

Atsumu glances at the gallery section, but finds that it's just the paintings he'd seen in the exhibit and a few extras. He clicks on the 'other works' tab and scrolls absentmindedly through the page, eyebrows furrowing at the wide range of art; while it's clear the artist favors painting over other styles, there's still a few wire sculptors, a set of ceramic plates, and a handful of multimedia projects.

Atsumu slides down in bed, propping his laptop so that it rested securely between his stomach and his bent legs. When he hits the end of the page, he blinks, rubbing one of his eyes before quickly clicking on the very last painting.

The picture pulls up and he stares. It's a painting of the back of a boy standing tall, the sunlight emitting from in front of him casting his entire body into a hazy silhouette. The light swathes him in liquid gold and Atsumu can make out bits and pieces; slightly sunburnt skin, black hair simultaneously darkening to the darkest hue of night and the edges catching on fire, a t-shirt softened by the summer scenery with a worn picture on the back. The surroundings are out of focus, as though a camera had been pinpointed at the boy's back, hyper focusing on him and only him.

Atsumu knows that shirt. He clicks on the painting again.

A Comforting Sight it reads, followed by oil on canvas.

He clicks again.

A Comforting Sight is a piece about the mundane things someone else has done for you that impacted you in ways they may not know. It is based off of a summer I spent struggling to stand up for myself, assuming that I was alone in my fight, only to realize that I didn't have to always stand on my own.

Awards/Recognition: 2nd Place in Hyogo Prefecture for the Japan High School Art Awards; honorable mentions nationwide for the Japan High School Art Awards.

The world is still moving forward, the city alive despite the waning hour. And Atsumu is sent reeling backwards, thrown into a spiral as the past surges around him, the light of his screen burning his eyes as he rereads it.

Six-four-two, two-four-six.

"This," he mumbles out loud, "this could be anyone."

It's a futile attempt to retain what little control over his understanding that he had left. But that shirt, that goddamn shirt with the faded logo of a local shop that he'd worn to death over one summer, that shirt he and Osamu had fought over time and time again, that shirt that was intertwined with memories of warm grass and catching fireflies and convincing you to give him some of your snacks.

"A lot of people had that shirt." He whispers. "Osamu had one, this could be him..." annoyance curls in his stomach and he runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I hope it's not Osamu."

He tilts his head back, staring up at his ceiling, swallowing thickly. Was all of this— the psydenoum, the artwork, the exhibit in fucking NACT —was it all you?

Six-four-two, two-four-six.

And just like that, Atsumu went down the rabbit hole.

He tears through the website, unable to tear his eyes away as he devours the artwork, staring at the pieces and rubbing his eyes to keep awake, phosphenes dancing in his vision as he takes them in. Everywhere he looked, he found remnants of you; from the watercolor painting of a cafe he knew you used to frequent back when you lived together to the cat curled around a pair of socked feet that looked eerily like Nugget to the single space left in the paper crane portrait.

Atsumu knew it was possible that he was too enraptured in the thought of you and that all of these were just coincidences, but the more he dug, the more the thought roots itself in his mind.

Six-four-two, two-four six.

The graffiti had looked so much bigger in the exhibit, and yet somehow, on his screen its presence is undeniable.

He clicks once. Watches as the title appears. If this was yours, truly yours and not just him grasping for fragments of you in whatever he can, then... He clicks again.

New Year's Kiss is a piece based off of a very specific memory of a cold New Year's Eve night and the kiss that occurred then. While in the grand scheme of things, the kiss was rather small and, arguably, meaningless, it still haunted my mind for months afterwards as my mind wandered, making me think of all the 'what if''s that could've occurred from that single scenario. This piece is meant to represent the spiralization of thoughts after an event occurs where all you can think about is the different paths that moment could've taken if you'd just done one thing differently.

Just like that, any doubt he had is washed away in favor of a memory that comes to the surface.

("At-su-mu!" You'd sung out, laughing as you stumble over your own feet. He'd caught you by the arm, finding himself mirroring your joy subconsciously in the subtle curve of his lips as he tugged you forward.

"Yer a mess. Now c'mon, we're gonna miss it."

You'd wrinkled your nose playfully, following him as he kept his grip on your arm, the air around the two of you cold enough that it burned each time he inhaled. Behind the two of you music spills out of the open mouth of a house, trailing after you playfully as he leads you through the suburban neighborhood and to the nearby hill. Almost every house on the block has lights on and they seem to blink as the two tipsy college students hurry down the street.

At some point you grabbed his hand in favor of him holding your arm and the warmth of your fingers slotted neatly against his radiates in the winter night.

You laugh as you nearly trip again, Atsumu cutting up a steep hill. Snow crunches underfoot and he glances behind a few times to make sure you're not having too much trouble following him. You're out of breath by the time you reach the top and you let go of his hand to lean over, placing your palms on your thighs as you catch your breath.

"Heh. Wimp."

"Oh hush." You wheeze, straightening up. Your cheeks are flushed and the tip of your nose is turning red, a few snowflakes catching in your hair. Unlike some of your peers that had dressed up for the party, you'd opted for black jeans and a thick sweater over a turtleneck, your head currently burrowed down into the neckline of your sweater as you sought warmth.

Atsumu plops down onto the ground with little regards to the coldness now seeping through his jeans. You give him a blithering look but gingerly sit down next to him. The warmth of your leg pressed firmly against his helps chase the cold away and he pulls you closer to him, seeking out your warmth as much as you sought out his.

You were always a little more affectionate after a drink or two, and Atsumu was used to you randomly collapsing next to him and leaning into his side, claiming that his warmth was one of his few good uses— with the others being his ability to reach things on the top shelf, making excellent omurice, and his shitty puns —so he wasn't surprised when you shift closer. It's quiet for a moment as the two of you stare out at the city sprawled below the hill.

It look as though the sky had become a blanket pulled over Tokyo, constellations now meshed together into a network of crisscrossing fluorescent lights, flickering in tangent with artificial wishes.

"Are you sure you don't want to do the countdown inside?" You'd asked softly.

"Nah, it was gettin' too loud."

"But what about your New Year's kiss?" Your tone had turned teasing. "Aren't you the one who for the past, what, five years? have made sure you got one for... ah how'd you put it, good luck?"

He'd laughed, checking his watch for the time. Less than a minute til midnight. "Well maybe you'll just havta give me one then."

"I guess I will."

His head had whipped to the side and you'd turned to look at him, eyes crinkling as you grinned at the look on his face.

Fireworks light up in the distance, splattering overhead in a ray of silver and gold, the sound of their eruption crashing through the cacophony of the city. You'd leaned in— or had he? maybe it was mutual —and he remembers closing his eyes as the aftereffects of the bright fireworks are painted onto the back of his eyelids in a disarray.

Your lips had brushed his, slightly chapped and cold from the night air, and it had lasted for three heartbeats. He remembered that because of how loud his pulse had seemed to his ears; the sound of ba-dum, ba-dump, ba-dum taking over everything else and piercing through the light haze of alcohol.

Then it was over. The two of you had sat there in silence, your head resting against his shoulder as the two of you watched the rest of the fireworks.

"Happy New Year." You'd finally told him when you'd gotten back to that crooked apartment.

He'd mumbled back the same sentiments, watching as your door closed behind you. He wonders what would happen if he got the courage to knock on your door. What he would say. What you would say. He briefly considers it.

Then, he goes to bed.)

Atsumu closes his laptop, putting it back on his nightstand along with the booklet, leaning forward to hook his arms around his crossed legs. His thumb runs along his lower lip as he thinks, eyes partially closed.

His mind is a jumbled mess and he struggles to sort through it.

Six-four-two, two-four-six.

You. Tokyo. Moving back. How many times had he quietly thought of this? Not in the sense that he expected you to move back to Tokyo, but in the sense that at some point, you would come back. Not to Tokyo, not to Japan, but to him. Because that's what you did, coming in and out of his life at random, impacting him deeper each time.

At some point, Atsumu had made the assumption that no matter what, you would find him again.

But what if you were sick of finding him? What if, this time, you decide to stop fighting your way into his life?

(What if, this time, he went after you instead?)

He stares at his phone, his finger hovering over the screen.

[ Send | Delete ]

He remembers all the messages he typed out, all the messages he deleted. The generic I hope you're doing well's and the how are you's. The softer I saw this and it made me think of you's and the harsher I hate that you left's. The 3am please come back I can't stop thinking of you's and the 7pm I wish we could cook dinner like we used to's.

He remembers a metaphor you'd given him once; one about how sandcastles crumble easily, but can be built anew with enough time and patience. No two will ever be the same, but sometimes you never realized all the faults in the first one until you began building the second one. You may have to build a third, and even a fourth, before you can work out all the problems, and there's always the fear that it will collapse. You simply have to trust that you have finally built something that will stand on its own.

Atsumu had never been good with words like that, but you had always encouraged him to try. With a sigh that echoes in the room, he presses an option and turns his phone off, getting under the covers. Within minutes, he's out.

[ Send | Delete ]

(Message delivered!) 

thanks for reading!

let me know what you think :)