The Distance We Closed

The apartment felt wrong. That hit Atsumu every time he walked through the door—the silence where there should have been pages rustling, a podcast humming through earbuds, or that sharp exhale of disgust at whatever he’d left on the counter. The space had turned into a monument to their fight, every corner haunted by Kiyoomi’s absence.

Six days. Six days since Atsumu said something stupid—something about how Sakusa cared more about his stats than him—and watched his boyfriend’s face slam shut like a storefront in a storm. Six days since Sakusa packed a bag and walked out, voice flat: “I need some time. Don’t call me.”

And Atsumu hadn’t called. He’d texted twice: once to ask if Sakusa needed his spare inhaler, once to say sorry. The replies were coldly polite. No. I have it. Then, hours later: I know you are.

But sorry wasn’t enough. Sorry didn’t fill the bed on his side, didn’t bring back the familiar weight of a long, lean body curled around his at three in the morning. Sorry didn’t stop Atsumu from lying awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the words that tore a rift between them.

He missed Sakusa’s hands. That thought kept surfacing, unbidden, at the strangest moments. The way Sakusa’s fingers would card through his hair when he was half-asleep, the way his palm would press flat against Atsumu’s lower back during practice, grounding him, claiming him without words. Atsumu needed touch like air, and without it, he felt like he was suffocating.

He’d stopped eating properly. The grocery delivery sat untouched in the fridge, a testament to his inability to care for himself when the one person who made him want to try wasn’t there. His teammates noticed. Hinata asked if he was okay twice. Bokuto clapped him on the shoulder with a worried frown. Even Meian pulled him aside after practice to ask if everything was all right at home.

“Fine,” Atsumu said, his voice tinny in his own ears. “Just a fight. He’ll come back.”

He hoped.

---

Practice that morning was a special kind of hell. Sakusa arrived early, hair freshly washed, gear immaculate. He didn’t look at Atsumu when he walked into the gym. Didn’t acknowledge him beyond a clipped, “Morning,” directed at the room.

Atsumu felt the sting like a slap. He tried to catch Sakusa’s eye during warm-ups, tried to offer a small smile, but Sakusa’s gaze slid past him like he was made of glass. The space between them on the court stretched into a canyon, and every time Atsumu set for him—because of course he still set for him, because he was a professional and this was his team and he wouldn’t let his personal life ruin their rhythm—Sakusa took the ball with mechanical precision and didn’t even grunt in acknowledgment.

It was worse than silence. It was erasure.

During a water break, Atsumu finally cornered him by the bleachers. “Kiyoomi,” he said, low enough no one else would hear. “Please. Can we just—talk? Five minutes?”

Sakusa’s jaw tightened. He capped his water bottle with deliberate care. “We have nothing to talk about until you understand what you said.”

“I do understand. I was an ass. I know.” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “I just… I miss you. I miss us.”

For a split second, something flickered in Sakusa’s eyes—a softness, a crack in the ice. Then it was gone, and he stepped around Atsumu, shoulder brushing past without stopping. “We’ll talk after the season,” he said. “I have work to do.”

Atsumu watched him walk away, chest aching so fiercely he thought he might break apart. The season. That was another two months. Two months of this cold distance, sleeping alone, reaching for warmth that wasn’t there.

He didn’t know if he could survive that.

---

That evening, Sakusa found himself in a small izakaya with a few teammates. Not his usual scene—crowded, noisy, air thick with grilled meat and beer—but Inunaki insisted, and Sakusa agreed out of inertia. He didn’t want to go back to the sterile hotel room. Didn’t want to think about Atsumu’s red-rimmed eyes, the way his voice trembled when he said I miss you.

Didn’t want to think about how much he missed him too.

“Oi, Omi-kun, you’re brooding again,” Komori said, sliding into the seat beside him. His cousin’s tone was light, but his eyes were sharp. “Still fighting with Atsumu?”

“It’s not a fight,” Sakusa said, reaching for his water. “It’s a break. Cooling-off period.”

“Right. How’s that working for you?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Komori could read him too well.

The conversation drifted to the upcoming match, a new serve technique Bokuto was trying to perfect, the usual banter. Sakusa half-listened, letting noise wash over him, until Inunaki leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

“Hey, I saw this thing on the internet,” he said, pulling out his phone. “It’s a challenge. You pretend to hit your partner, and see how they react. Like, do they flinch? Do they fight back? Supposed to tell you about trust or something.”

Bokuto snorted. “Sounds fake.”

“No, no, it’s a thing. People record it.” Inunaki scrolled, showing a video. “Watch this guy—he swings, and his girlfriend doesn’t even blink. That’s true love, man.”

Sakusa’s stomach turned. He didn’t like the premise. Testing someone’s trust with violence, even pretend violence. But Komori, ever the instigator, nudged him.

“You should try it with Atsumu,” he said, grinning. “I bet he’d dodge. That guy’s reflexes are insane.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Come on, Omi-kun. It’d be funny. And maybe it’d break the ice.”

Sakusa shook his head, but the idea lodged itself in his mind like a splinter. A test. A stupid, reckless test. He knew Atsumu would dodge—Atsumu was a setter, quick as a snake, always aware of his surroundings. He’d probably duck and grin and ask what the hell Sakusa was doing. And maybe that would be something. A crack in the wall between them.

He didn’t fully decide to do it. The thought just followed him out of the izakaya, through the train ride home, to the hotel. And when he saw Atsumu leaving the practice facility the next evening, alone, shoulders hunched against the chill, something in Sakusa snapped.

He followed.

Atsumu had stopped by the small park near the building, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. When he heard footsteps, he looked up, and Sakusa’s heart clenched. Atsumu’s eyes were red, swollen, rims raw like he’d been crying for hours. Nose pink from cold, hair a mess. But when he saw Sakusa, a tremulous smile broke across his face—hopeful, fragile, desperate.

“Kiyoomi,” he breathed, standing up. “You came.”

Sakusa stopped a few feet away. The splinter in his mind had grown into a shard. He needed to see. Needed to know if there was any fight left in Atsumu, any spark of the fire that had first drawn him in.

“I’m still mad,” Sakusa said, voice flat. He let his hand curl into a fist at his side. “You think you can just apologize and everything goes back to normal? You said I don’t care about you. Do you have any idea how that feels?”

Atsumu flinched, but didn’t retreat. “I know. I was wrong. I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” Sakusa took a step closer, heart pounding. He raised his fist, slow and deliberate, making sure Atsumu could see the trajectory. “You hurt me, Miya. So maybe I should…”

He didn’t finish. He swung—an open-handed slap aimed at Atsumu’s cheek, but pulling the force at the last second. A pantomime of violence, a test. He expected Atsumu to flinch away, catch his wrist, snap something sharp and defensive. Expected resistance.

But Atsumu didn’t move.

He closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped. His head tilted slightly, exposing his neck, as if offering himself to the blow. A single tear slipped from beneath his lashes, catching the fading light.

Sakusa’s hand stopped an inch from his skin. The air between them went dead.

“What are you doing?” Sakusa’s voice came out rough, scraped raw. “Why didn’t you dodge?”

Atsumu opened his eyes slowly, and the look in them—resignation, acceptance, a bone-deep weariness—made Sakusa’s blood run cold.

“I hurt you,” Atsumu whispered. His voice was steady, but his hands shook at his sides. “I made you feel like you don’t matter. That’s… that’s not okay. So if you need to… if you need to hit me, I… I can take it. I deserve it.”

For a long moment, Sakusa couldn’t breathe. The words echoed in the hollow of his chest, wrong and twisted, a confession so dark it seemed to swallow the light around them. He stared at Atsumu—at the boy who yelled and threw pillows and argued with fire in his eyes—and saw only a shell, emptied of all his fight.

“No,” Sakusa said, and the word came out broken. “No, Atsumu. That’s not—you never deserve that. Never. If I ever, ever raise my hand to you for real, you run. You fight. You leave. You do not stand there and let me hurt you. Do you understand?”

Atsumu blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “But you said…”

“I didn’t mean it. It was a stupid test. A game.” Sakusa’s voice cracked. He grabbed Atsumu’s shoulders, gripping hard enough to bruise, but gentle enough to hold him steady. “I would never hit you. I could never. And you—you should have dodged. You should have defended yourself.”

“I thought…” Atsumu’s lower lip trembled. “I thought if I let you, maybe you’d feel better. Maybe you’d come home.”

Sakusa pulled him into his arms. The embrace was desperate, overwhelming, Atsumu’s body shaking against his own. They stood there in the darkening park, trembling together, until Atsumu’s sobs quieted into shuddering breaths.

“I’m coming home tonight,” Sakusa said into his hair. “I’m coming home, and we’re going to talk. Really talk. No more cold shoulders, no more hotel rooms. Okay?”

Atsumu nodded against his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of Sakusa’s jacket. “Okay.”

---

The apartment felt different when they walked in. Still quiet, but the silence had shifted—charged now with a fragile hope instead of the hollow ache of absence. Sakusa set down his bag, the one he’d packed six days ago, and looked around. He noticed the uneaten groceries, the rumpled sheets on the bed, the way Atsumu’s things had begun to creep into his side of the closet.

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself,” Sakusa said softly.

“Neither have you,” Atsumu replied, voice raw from crying. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.” Sakusa sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Let me shower, and then we’ll talk. I promise.”

Atsumu nodded, hovering in the kitchen doorway as Sakusa walked to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, Sakusa just stood there, leaning against the cool wood, letting the weight of the evening press down on him. The test. Atsumu’s words. The horrifying realization that his boyfriend had been prepared to be hurt.

He needed to wash it all away. Clean the day off his skin.

He turned on the light, and the first thing he saw was the razor on the edge of the sink.

It was a standard disposable, the kind you’d buy in a pack of ten. But it was out of place—Sakusa kept his toiletries organized, everything in its designated spot. This razor sat on the counter, uncapped, the blade glinting under the fluorescent light. And there was blood on it. A thin smear of red drying along the edge, like it had been used recently and set aside.

Sakusa’s heart stopped. He picked up the razor with trembling fingers, turning it over. The blood was fresh enough to still be tacky. He looked around the bathroom, eyes scanning the sink, the counter, the floor. And then he saw the small, dark flecks on the white tile near the toilet. Drops of blood, already dried.

No.

No, no, no.

His mind raced back to Atsumu’s words in the park. I deserve it. The way he’d closed his eyes, bracing for pain. The tears. The hollow look. And then the razor, sitting out like an accusation.

Atsumu had laser hair removal years ago, back when they first started dating. He’d bragged about it, called it the best money he’d ever spent. He never needed to shave. He had no reason to own a razor.

The realization hit Sakusa like a spike to the chest. He dropped the razor into the sink with a clatter and wrenched the door open.

“Atsumu!”

His voice was too loud, too sharp. Atsumu jumped from where he stood in the kitchen, a cup of water halfway to his lips. “What? What’s wrong?”

Sakusa crossed the space in three steps, grabbing Atsumu’s wrists. He pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes frantically scanning the pale skin underneath. And there they were—thin, parallel lines on the inside of his forearms, some pink and healing, a few angry red and raw. The newest ones were on his left arm, shallow cuts that had barely scabbed over.

“Kiyoomi—” Atsumu tried to pull away, but Sakusa held tight.

“How long?” His voice was barely a whisper. “How long have you been doing this?”

Atsumu’s face crumpled. The fight drained out of him, leaving only shame. “A while. A few months. It got worse after you left.”

“Why?” The word was torn from Sakusa’s throat. “Why would you—Atsumu, why?”

“Because I can’t stand being alone!” The confession burst out of Atsumu like a dam breaking. His body shook, tears streaming down his cheeks. “When you’re not here, I feel like I’m disappearing. Like there’s nothing left of me. The pain—it makes me feel real. And I thought if I hurt myself, maybe it’d hurt less inside. I know it’s stupid. I know you’re going to leave me for real now that you know. I’m a mess.”

Sakusa let go of his wrists. For a moment, he just stood there, hands shaking at his sides. Then he pulled Atsumu into his arms again, holding him so tightly that Atsumu gasped.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Sakusa said, his voice fierce and broken at the same time. “I was an idiot. I thought giving you space would help us both cool down. I didn’t know. I didn’t see. And I’m sorry—God, I’m so sorry.”

Atsumu sobbed into his shoulder, his fingers digging into Sakusa’s back. “I have this thing. A phobia. Distance phobia, or something. I can’t—the idea of being abandoned, of you walking away and never coming back—it makes me want to tear my skin off. I’ve been like this since I was a kid. I just… I never told you because I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Sakusa pulled back, cupping Atsumu’s face in his hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears, smearing them across Atsumu’s cheeks. “I think you’re hurting. And I think we need help. Professional help. A therapist, or a counselor, or whatever it takes. We’re going to get through this together. But you have to promise me—no more razors. No more hurting yourself. When you feel that way, you call me. You come find me. You do anything except that. Okay?”

Atsumu nodded, his breath hitching. “Okay. I promise.”

“And I promise I’ll be better at being present. I’ll stop burying myself in work when we fight. I’ll come home. I’ll hold you.” Sakusa pressed his forehead to Atsumu’s. “I love you, Miya Atsumu. Even when you drive me insane. Especially then.”

Atsumu laughed—a wet, broken sound that was half tears. “I love you too, you dramatic old man.”

“I’m two years older than you.”

“Feels like twenty.”

They stood there in the kitchen, arms wrapped around each other, until the trembling stopped and the tears dried. The razor still lay in the bathroom sink, a reminder of how close they’d come to losing each other. But Sakusa would throw it away tonight. And tomorrow, he’d find a therapist. He’d sit with Atsumu during the first appointment, hold his hand, and learn how to support him through the darkness.

Tonight, though, they had each other. Sakusa guided Atsumu to the bedroom, helped him out of his hoodie, and pulled back the covers. They lay down facing each other, legs tangled, hands clasped between them.

“I missed this,” Atsumu murmured, his eyes already heavy. “I missed you.”

“I’m here,” Sakusa said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a week, Atsumu believed him. They fell asleep like that, breathing in sync, the distance between them finally closed.

Outside, the city hummed along, indifferent to the small miracle unfolding in a fourth-floor apartment. But inside, two broken hearts were slowly, carefully, learning how to beat together again.