UNTIL IT’S NOT

Excerpts from incomplete fanfiction based on characters from Haikyuu. March 2024.

When he was younger, Atsumu never understood the appeal of a relationship. Sure, he read all of the stories and watched all the movies, but when it came to real life…

Atsumu is 18 when he finally gets his first boyfriend.

It’s exciting and new and it's so wonderful.

Until it’s not.

Atsumu didn’t want to kiss his boyfriend. He longed for cuddles and soft touches, the late night caresses, and the whole nine yards. He could write poetry about his boyfriend’s beauty or how bright and happy he makes him feel or how lovely and kind he is. But Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to kiss him. Something about kissing him just made his skin crawl. Maybe it was the fear of being bad, of not tasting right or using too much tongue or not enough. Maybe he was worried about his inexperience, while his boyfriend already had a handful of girlfriends and boyfriends. Maybe he was just overthinking all of it.

His friends always told him that it would feel natural, that he would know what to do in the moment. He read about desire, about how desperately a character wanted to kiss their interest and how their lips were so enticing, but as his boyfriend tries to kiss him for the fourth time, he still feels nothing. There’s no urge, no pull.

He doesn’t understand.

His boyfriend was patient at first. He was kind and sweet and he understood that Atsumu was new to all of this. Atsumu had already voiced his worries a handful of times and he appeased him every time. He knew that he had more experience and let Atsumu take the reins, but as time went on, he became restless. It became a common arguing point, his boyfriend mentioning how his friends think it’s weird they haven’t kissed and how it must be that Atsumu hates him or something, but it’s not. He can’t explain how his boyfriend makes him feel warm and content when he holds him, but the moment his face is near– and Atsumu knows what’s coming next– his skin feels too tight and the fabric of his shirt is too much and his breathing is too loud and his thoughts are running around, clanging a spoon against a metal pot in his head while screaming nononono.

They were a month into the relationship when Atsumu finally got his first kiss. The problem is, he doesn’t remember it.

They were going to a party, pregaming and drinking steadily. He was having fun: dancing to music, playing whatever drinking game they decided on, and laughing along at the jokes and stories. All of a sudden, he’s no longer at his boyfriend’s house, but at this house party and his boyfriend’s hands are all over him and his tongue is in his mouth. Atsumu should feel elated. He should feel infinite and cosmic, like the stories talk about.

That “spark” never comes. Instead, everything is unnatural and robotic. He’s grateful for the alcohol in his system, because it allows him to loosen up enough to not overthink it all.

He calls his brother the next day to tell him all about it, but when his brother asks for the details, he realizes that he has none. He recalls the hallway, and waiting for the elevator and being pressed against the wall of the it. He remembers an argument–but when don’t they argue anymore. It’s a repetition of all the others, his boyfriend was annoyed that Atsumu wouldn’t kiss him. He remembers being annoyed with his almost belligerent boyfriend, how he was too drunk to round out the sharp edges of his words. He doesn’t know how his first kiss happened. He doesn’t know if he finally had enough liquid courage to act on it. Or maybe he just finally gave in. Or maybe his boyfriend finally had enough and took what Atsumu promised him.

It takes four months for them to have sex. His boyfriend is better about that bit, satiated by the kisses that they often shared. But eventually, the novelty wore off and he became restless again. He would bring up stories about his exes, reliving his trysts with past girlfriends and boyfriends. They talked about sex a lot, about what they liked and what they were interested in. That part didn’t phase Atsumu. He was honest and brash with the subject, as he was with everything else. He didn’t have a problem with telling his boyfriend about what he desired, but didn’t understand why his boyfriend wouldn’t accept his reasoning for his hesitations.

It wasn’t that Atsumu didn’t want to have sex, or that he was utterly appalled by it. He didn’t enjoy the roughness of porn but indulged in stories he read online. The idea of sex made him flustered in a way his boyfriend never did. He decided that he needed time. Everything was all so new to him, while his boyfriend had so much experience. Atsumu presumed that it was easy for him to forget about the first time nerves and apprehension. Maybe it was his chaste upbringing, how ingrained his parents’ religion became in him: deep seeded fear of being unclean. But Atsumu didn’t care about any of that, frankly, he thought it was utter bullshit. He just needed time to adjust, time that he knew he didn’t have.

The final straw was when he complained about his friends, how they thought it was weird that they hadn’t fucked yet. He realized then that his boyfriend was telling people about Atsumu, complaining about his boyfriend, and making it seem like it was embarrassing. He made it seem like Atsumu was embarrassing.

So, Atsumu made a decision.

They were sitting on the couch watching the cooking channel–extremely unsexy, sorry Gordon Ramsey– when Atsumu turned to his boyfriend and plainly told him, “I think I want to suck your dick,” and that was that.

Atsumu didn’t allow his boyfriend to touch him, though. He still wasn’t ready. He was buying time by doing this.

For the next two months, it was like clockwork. He spent almost every night at his boyfriend’s apartment and they would snuggle up together at night and then the routine would start. They would watch whatever show his boyfriend was interested in at the time–always his choice, Atsumu told him he didn’t care– and then they would kiss. He’d make out with his boyfriend until he was good to go and then Atsumu would get him off and then they would go to bed. It was almost clinical.

He didn’t mind it, though. He liked hearing the noises his boyfriend made. He liked seeing the faces he made. He liked the way he gripped at his thighs and pulled at his hair. He liked how snuggly his boyfriend got afterwards, how he gave soft, barely there kisses to his temple as he fell asleep. It was nice. Simple. And Atsumu was okay with that.

He could tell his boyfriend wasn’t.

Atsumu had always been a giver. His mother remarked on it one time, telling him how it was so wonderful that he put his whole heart and soul into what he was passionate about. She always warned him of the downfall, though. Your biggest strength can also be your biggest weakness, she told him once after he came crying to her over one of his so-called friends being mean to him. You love and love and love and don’t ask for anything in return, Pumpkin, she had said. People see your abundant love and realize they can take and take and you will never say no.

(It took him five years and three failed relationships to realize that she was what she was talking about.)

On the day that he finally allowed his boyfriend to touch him, he didn’t feel sexy. He didn’t feel wanted or desired. He felt obliged, like it was his duty to fulfill. Kissing still felt off to him, even after all of these months. He was better at it, learned what his boyfriend liked, but it wasn’t languid and sensual like he always expected it to be. He hated it, to be honest. It was a means to an end for him. Whenever they started making out, he knew it was only a short period of time before his boyfriend was hard and needy, then he could get him off and go to sleep. He never lost himself in kisses, like the stories say. Instead, he was hyperaware. All he could think about was the angle of his head and the pressure of his lips and if he was teasing his tongue right or if his breaths were heavy enough to be considered moans.

Their first time was horrible. His boyfriend was over-eager and didn’t give Atsumu enough time to relax. He’s not soft and comforting, and doesn't do anything to calm Atsumu’s nerves. Atsumu sacrifices his comfort for an unfair trade of bruising kisses, hard groping, and two fingers shoved into him without any warning. It’s rough and painful and in that moment, Atsumu doesn’t feel love; it’s the most hollow he’s felt in a long time.

Atsumu blinks away the tears and takes deep breaths and wills himself to find some pleasure in it. He focuses on his boyfriend’s face, how he takes in all of Atsumu with a hunger that he’s never been able to replicate. Afterall, he’s the reason for this all happening in the first place, right?

The pain dulls out to a low level of pleasure. It feels good, he guesses, but he doesn’t feel connected to it, like he’s watching himself, like his senses are disjointed. He amplifies the noises he’s making and reacts the way he thinks he should, but not even the pleasure etched across his boyfriend’s face can make him feel alright.

He busies his brain while he waits for it to be over.

After that, the routine changed a bit. Now, like a fresh piece of meat, he’s thrown into the cage as well. His satisfied boyfriend slowly becomes impatient again, growing annoyed as Atsumu denies one of his advances again.

“I just wanna make you feel good, Atsumu, like you make me feel.”

Atsumu lets him touch him sometimes, when he’s feeling right. There are some days that are better than others, but even on the best days, he can never turn his brain off enough to enjoy it. He still feels vulnerable and empty in a way that he never wanted to.

When they break up, he tries to be sad. Instead, he finds himself relieved.

***

The second boyfriend is better.

They had been friends for almost two years when the confessions happened.

Atsumu was hosting a pregame at his apartment and his whole friend group was all pretty far on their way to being wasted after several rounds of The Poster Game. He almost had been dared to kiss his best friend, but the coin fell directly between “flip the coin again and kiss whomever’s name you land on” and “take your top off for one whole round”. The majority vote of course chose to have Atsumu strip, winning him cheers and hollers as he teasingly unbuttoned his shirt to show them what good volleyball had done for him.

For shits and giggles, he grabs the coin.

“‘Wanna see who the lucky bastard would’ve been,” he says and flips the coin. It bounces on the table and rolls, falling onto the name of his best friend. Kita. All the air in his lungs leaves him and he looks up to meet his eyes across the table. There’s a beat where it seems like everything is silent, but it ends the moment Osamu throws Atsumu’s shirt back at him and tells him to “cover up, whore.”

Everyone disperses after someone spills their drink onto the board and the marker blends into blobs of black.

After the game, emboldened by a couple shots and two shotgunned beers, he saunters up to his Kita as he sits on the edge of the couch in the now-empty living and tells him:

“Damn, I think everyone got to kiss someone in the game but us.”

“We almost did,” he replied, close enough that Atsumu could smell the sweetness of whatever cheap wine he got his hands on. “What a shame.”

“What a shame,” Atsumu echoes.

He doesn’t recall who leaned in first, or if it was simultaneous, or if there was any leaning at all, but they suddenly crash into each other in the middle of his living room, frantically grabbing at each other, the kissing is messy and rough. They only stop when Atsumu hears a squawking noise and Osamu yelling “can ya stop tryna devour each other in my living room!”

They break apart, drunkenly giggling, but the damage is done. There’s a fracture in the dam and the flood comes after Atsumu sleeps over after a late movie night. They're facing each other in Kita’s bed and they’ve been dancing around each other for weeks. In the moonlight, Atsumu lets himself look at his best friend. He’s beautiful, really. Atsumu lets his eyes linger on his lips and finds himself wanting, for once, to see what they feel like against his own.

So, because he’s a gentleman, he whispers out a question: “Can I kiss you?”

He holds his breath, scared that if his words didn’t ruin everything, any movement might. But he watches the mirth swirl in Kita’s eyes and exhales shakily when he nods with a small smile.

Atsumu misses the mark the first time– he’s nervous and it’s dark, dammit– but then a hand rests against his cheek, guiding him softly and suddenly Atsumu is thrumming with energy, and he finds himself restless, shifting against Kita. It’s weird, Atsumu thinks, to kiss someone you know so well. He already knows a majority of what Kita likes, knows that his neck is sensitive before he kisses it, while Kita knows how much Atsumu likes when people thread their fingers through his hair. It’s easy and natural, not even a shade of what he had before or the couple of random kisses he had between his ex and now.

They break apart after a while, laughing softly to each other. It’s easy. There’s no fear running through his veins, no worry about pushing things further. He doesn’t worry about pleasing Kita in the way he had done in the past. He knows that Kita cares for him and he’s happy about a kiss for once. Even if they wake up and decide not to go any further than this, he’s happy it happened, content and snuggled up to his best friend.

They date for six months. The beginning is so wonderful and it’s not much different than how things were before, just kissing added. The sex is actually good and it’s fun. He already knows Kita so well that they’re able to tease each other and laugh through any awkwardness.

…

You’re lying in bed with him, friendship still dumbly intact, and for once, your hand aches and your skin tingles and you find yourself counting your breaths, counting theirs, wondering if some divine deity out there would align your inhales just to give you a sign that you were right, that this is happening and that it is good. You haven’t uttered a word in twenty minutes, or maybe twenty seconds, or even twenty hours, but you stare into his eyes as they look back and you feel seen in a way that you feel under your skin, but it doesn’t bring disgust this time. Instead, it’s a slow and gentle warmth, like the fireplace in your father’s den that you sit at every winter, back facing the fire and waiting ‘til it gets too hot to bare. Because that’s when you move, that’s when you know. So you wait until you feel it, the pinnacle of heat as it burns under your skin and urges you to move.

So you do.

You lean over and press your lips so softly to his own that you can’t even feel it. You can’t feel anything, can’t feel the breath stalling in your chest, or how you cannot seem to move, even as your body screams to leave, abort mission, save yourself. You shift the hand against their face,--whenever that happened– and cradle their cheek as you move your lips against theirs, only once, maybe twice, because you learned how things usually come in threes and that’s always how you see everything now, that there cannot ever be just one, there must be a middle and an end as well. So you kiss him, pressing threes into their skin, telling them I like you, I am sorry, and I don’t know into their lips because you can’t bear to say it.

Then you pull back.

Your heart beats loud enough to be heard over your swallows and you wait,

He pulls you close, tucking you against his warm chest and it’s not an answer, but as he shifts you a specific way, so his leg can rest straight and his arm doesn’t fall asleep, you think it may be his own way of speaking.