PEOPLE PLEASER

Excerpts from incomplete fanfiction based on characters from Haikyuu.

Atsumu has had four girlfriends–five if you count the first one, the one that stopped before it even started. He’s never been broken up with, and he thinks—as he and Osamu drunkenly shoot the shit on a warm August night—that he knows why.

He’s seventeen years old, halfway through relationship number four, when he realizes he’s never been in love.

It’s a crushing reality, honestly. There’s nothing like saying “I love you” after “I love you” just to realize that you have no clue what you’re even saying. It’s like those horrible translation shirts, where you go to a foreign place and get a souvenir, just to find out later that it means something stupid and silly like “barbeque grill”. It stops him in his tracks, makes his heart hiccup a beat. Osamu notices right away–being a twin is exhausting– and asks him what’s up.

“Have ya ever been in love, ‘Samu?”

He scoffs, but there’s a soft smile there. Only for a second. Barely enough time for it to truly matter, but yet is enough to define something, like the six minutes and forty two seconds between their births.

“The hell you askin’ me for? Yer the one who’s in a relationship.”

Atsumu hums to himself, deciding to play it off to drunkenness, but goddammit, the bane of his existence still knows him like the back of his almost identical hand and waves a hand in front of Atsumu.

“Oi. What’s that face for?”

“Just thinkin’.”

“Your thinkin’ face is stupid,” Osamu says and the balloon is popped, and the pressure is released as Atsumu slugs his arm.

“We have the same face!”

“But Ma likes mine better.”

**

It’s been a little shy of a month since that night. Atsumu woke with a headache and a weird feeling of being uneven, like the tectonic plates had shifted the night before but no earthquake had come. He expects himself to be slouching to the side as he walks out of his bed and it isn’t until he makes it to the fridge and downs several mouthfuls of juice straight from the carton that he remembers.

He wipes the drip of it from his chin and remembers.

Fuck.

He’s not in love with his girlfriend.

He’s quiet through breakfast and chalks it up to his hangover when asked about it. He looks at his mother, how she flits around her father, both stuck in their own routine, but still integrated, his mother passing their father a mug for the tea before he can ask. His father clears the table without a word. They don’t exchange declarations of love, but if someone asked, Atsumu would tell them that his parents were in love.

He doesn’t know how to explain it, but he just knows.

He supposes then that love must mean that–the unexplainable. He knows that long term love brings familiarity, like with his parents, like with him and Osamu. Even with him and his teammates. He knows how his spikers like their sets. Is that what love is? Being so familiar with someone that you know what they need before they can even want it?

He doesn’t know what his girlfriend wants. Hell, he barely knows what he wants. Does he even know what he wants?

It always seems like he’s two steps behind, while simultaneously five steps ahead. He asks her about her day, about what shows she’s watching, about the drama that happened between her two other friends that she was ranting about the other day. He knows when she wants to hold his hand, when she wants him to drive, when she wants him to stay on the phone a little longer. And he says yes to it all, to every request, even the ones unsaid. Gives her kisses when she gets needy. Holds her things when they walk around. Massages her shoulders when her cramps get bad. Eats her out when she asks with the low bat of her lashes.

He’s a good boyfriend. He’s loud and abrasive and a bit of an asshole, but that’s one thing he can pride himself on. He’s a good son, a good setter, and a great boyfriend.

He enjoys being a boyfriend. It’s why he’s been in four long term relationships already. He’s not ever single for long. His breakups– always initiated by him– don’t always go smoothly but they do iron out and he’s always able to stay amicable with them. He’s a realistic and practical guy. Logical. He sees a problem, weighs his decisions, and chooses the best route. It’s what makes him a good setter. Not all of the girls think the same way, which is probably why they get upset that they don’t also see how it will not work out. Atsumu is just used to finding the weaknesses first. It’s not pessimistic. He’s not looking for an “out”, as Suna once called it. He enjoys his girlfriends. He enjoys being a boyfriend. He enjoys a relationship. He doesn’t enjoy hurting them.

The truth about it all, is that he’s a people pleaser, through and through. He gets the attention he wants from being brash and gets the praise he needs from good. He’ll obey his mother, he’ll help the old lady cross the street, and he’ll be the best boyfriend he can be. He loves it when his girlfriends get to coo to their friends about the “asshole setter” who they were able to tame into a respectable man who will hold the door for them but also hold them down until his jaw and wrists are sore and she’s shouting out and arching for the fourth time that night. He’s good because he doesn’t ask for anything in return. Honestly, he doesn’t need it. He’s a giver, or whatever. He takes the utmost pleasure in making his partner happy.

***

His relationship starts to fracture about a week later. They’re making out, soft and slow, when his girlfriend presses into him and tries to deepen it all. She’s rolling her hips on his lap and making noises he knows should entice him, but he’s so tired. He had a long day on the court and he just wants to hang out with her and play with her hair while they watch a bad movie and talk their way through it, but he knows what she wants. So he kisses along her neck and bites on the lobe of her ear, just like he knows she likes.

She snakes a hand down between them, but he grabs her wrist before she can reach the edge of his jeans.

“Atsumu,” she whines.

“Let me take care of you,” she reaches.

“You always take care of me,” she remarks, pulling away to look into his eyes. It’s too much for Atsumu. He always has hated how vulnerable he feels in these situations. He prefers the lights off if they’re getting hot and heavy, or he’ll have them face away. He knows it’s not the classiest, that it doesn’t make sense, but the position feels good for them and he tries his best to compensate with his performance. They never seem to care after that.

He’s only had one girlfriend truly complain before. She told him he had such a nice body, that there was nothing to hide, that she wanted to look at him, to which he obliged her. He felt different after that, felt like something was off rhythm between them, and they broke up a month later. He knows he has a good body, hell, he works his ass off to perform the best he can on the court. He knows he’s got great legs and strong arms, and a back that girls love to scratch up; all casualties of his favorite passion.

He doesn’t know what it is about this, though. He can strip fully in the locker rooms or take enough lewd photos to make a playboy blush. But this? It’s different. He doesn’t know why.

So instead, he tucks his head into his girlfriend’s shoulder, peppering kisses and little love bites as he redirects. She relents after a small moment and lets him press her into the mattress while he shows her how much he loves her, how much she means to him, how good he can be for her, how his loud mouth and setter’s hands can reward her as much as they benefit him . He snuggles into her later, satisfied and content, without her having laid a single finger on him.

“Are you sure?” she asks for the fourth time after she catches her breath and her heartbeat slows back to normal. “I just wanna make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

He tells her he’s sure, kisses the crown of her head, and pulls her in close. He can feel it though. There’s a rigidness in her spine. He wonders if she can hear his thoughts, if she’s found out about how he might not love her.

He wakes up to find space between them and has his answer.

***

He ends it three weeks later when he’s found his answer: he’s not in love.

He loves her. How can’t he? She’s lovely and sweet and gets along with his mother. But that’s kind of it.

“She’s too nice,” Osamu tells him one day when he’s ranting yet again. Atsumu’s pacing in his room while Suna sits on Osamu’s bottom bunk with him, reading some magazine or whatever.

“Too nice?” Atsumu echoes and stops.

“Yah,” Osamu says between bites of whatever new concoction he’s whipped up from the kitchen. He passes it to Suna without him even asking and he takes a big enough bite for Osamu to complain, but he doesn’t.

“Not bad,” he says to the silver haired twin and Osamu beams.

“Oi,” Atsumu interrupts. “Whaddaya mean?”

“Yer kind of an asshole,” Suna tells him and Atsumu punches his thigh.

“He’s right,” Osamu says after Suna yelps.

“Thanks, this helps a lot.”

“‘M just sayin’. Ya keep dating these sweet things who look nice ‘n are nice but that’s kinda…it.”

“Are you calling me shallow?”

“You are shallow,” Osamu corrects. “Not for the girlfriends though. They’re just–”

“Easy,” Suna completes and Osamu agrees.

“Easy?”

“Yeah,” Suna sits up, closing the magazine. “Ya date easy girls who will get along with ya and who yer mother will like.”

“Ain’t that the whole point?”

“Well,” Osamu looks at Suna, who wordlessly lifts one eyebrow. “No?”

“Like ya got all the wisdom, Mr. I-have-never-dated-in-my-life.”

Osamu looks to Suna and then looks down to his hands, finding the worn out comforter suddenly quite interesting.

Suna sighs. “Why did you date Emiyo?”

Atsumu thinks for a moment. To be honest, his first, immediate answer was that she's nice. But that’s the whole point isn’t it? He knew so much about her. He knew her favorite color and how she hates horses because of one incident in second grade that still stays with her and how she hates her uncle because of something he said to her father one time and how she likes her tea and what her favorite sleepwear is. But as he’s cycling through it all, he realizes that she doesn’t know him. She never really did.

She knew his best friend (his brother) and his favorite food (fatty tuna, especially made by Osamu) and she knew what his favorite hoodie was, only because he yelled at her (it was only once) for stealing it without permission and he freaked out over it being gone. But anyone who listens to him for more than five minutes would know that. She didn’t know about how his favorite smell is his grandmother’s cider, and how he hugs his mother when he’s sad because her heartbeat calms him, and how he’s loud because he’s grown up with a twin and hates silence.

“Oh.”

“Ding ding,” Suna says to Osamu, “The idiot finally gets it.”

***

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard come from your mouth and, to be honest, you stay a lot of stupid shit, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu groans and flops onto the bottom bunk. He had come up with a solution, one that seemed so smart and foolproof.

“Suna and ya said I pick the easy ones, so I don’t see how this won’t work.”

Osamu balks. Suna snickers from behind his phone.

“I cannot believe I’m related to ya.”

“C’mon,” Atsumu pleads, “It’s smart!”

“It’s not. Frankly, I don’t know why my suggestion to stay single is so wild. I think ya need some time alone.”

“But that’s boring. I don’t know how yer surviving, but also that explains why you’re so uptight.”

“Ass,” Osamu grumbles.

“Listen, ya said I go for the easy, cute girls I can take home to mom, so what if I only date the exact opposite. Foolproof.”

“So ugly, asshole-ish boys,” Suna states and Atsumu goes red in the face.

He had come out to them both a while ago, stuttering out a loud and abrasive “I THINK I LIKE BOYS” only to have Suna go “cool” and go back to his phone while Osamu looks at him with the most unamused expression and says “ya know we’re twins right? I knew this about us years ago.”

Atsumu fries his brain over the concept of “wait, that wasn't so bad” and “holyshit you like boys too?” and also “fuck you, Osamu, for stealing my thunder” and is pissed at his brother for seventeen whole days until he gives up.

He learns about bisexuality when Suna sits him down after day sixteen. It’s the most vulnerable and serious that Atsumu has ever seen Suna be, which is absolutely fucking terrifying. He tells him about his own feelings, offers a name to what Atsumu’s feeling, and details how he’s gonna kick his ass if 1) he doesn’t stop icing out Osamu because he’s sick and tired of the silver haired boy’s moping and 2) he ever says anything to anyone about this conversation.

It’s been almost two years since then, but Atsumu has yet to find a boyfriend. Hell, he can barely think of the concept before he bursts into a flaming ball of blushing bashfulness. He definitely had a crush on Kita at some point, hence his own discovery, but no one ever acknowledged it, even though everyone knew. Once Atsumu had a name for it, the crush faded into simple admiration.

Still, the idea of finally getting a boyfriend stirs something in his chest, something he can’t quite name, doesn’t quite want to name.

“He can’t date himself, Suna,” Osamu jokes and Atsumu’s chest releases as he guffaws.

“We have the same face, asshole!” he yells as he grabs the closest pillow and whips it at his brother.

“Yeah, yer both ugly,” Suna grins before being whacked in the face by Osamu.

***

Much to Osamu and Suna’s disdain, Atsumu goes forward with his plan.

It’s not very fruitful, mind you. He prefers the classic route of a meet-cute. He likes the idea of meeting someone, of clicking with them, of a doubletake met with a pink-cheeked gaze.

Sue him; he’s a secret romantic.

The problem is that he’s popular. He knows a lot of people and everyone knows him. Volleyball and his above average looks (thank you very much Suna and Osamu) have treated him well. Unfortunately, the only way he meets people these days is either through volleyball, or through the very small pool of people that he has yet to get to know from his school. He’s not desperate enough to go outside of his school just yet.

He finally finds a suitable option three weeks into what Osamu and his team has dubbed as his “experiment”. She’s dorky and a first chair flutist–very much outside of his usual pool. She turned her nose up at his athletic prowess, but he can’t lie about how enticing that was. He liked the idea of starting from ground zero, where a girl isn’t salivating over him having some of the largest muscles of their age.

It starts off well, he guesses. He holds the doors, he pays for the coffees they get, and the conversation is stilted, but decent. It’s too forced, though. He’s about to say something about it and makes the mistake of leaning in while the bean grinder is whirling about just so she can hear him without him yelling and her eyes go wide and she closes her eyes and squeaks out “I’m gay!”. The grinder stops and the silence is louder than anything, louder than the crowds at his games, louder than the alarms that Osamu somehow sleeps through, louder than his heartbeat when he first uttered his own set of those words.

She slaps a hand over her mouth and curls into herself, humiliation settling in. She looks to him quickly, before looking away, and then looking back again. He realizes after a beat that she’s expecting a response, and from her body language, she doesn’t expect it to be good.

“I’m bisexual,” he says. For the first time.

She takes a deep breath and he suddenly takes his own breath as well, unaware he was also holding himself back.

“Oh,” she says, uncurling. “Cool.”

“Cool,” he parrots.

“I’m sorry I agreed to this. My parents are not that great about it and have been all over me for ages about whenever i'm getting a boyfriend,” and the way she says boyfriend with such disdain makes him chuckle. It makes her smile a little too, not a full grin, but it brings some color back to her face.

“Sorry,” she says again, “I just wanted them to get off my ass and you asked and–”

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching out placate, “This can just be friends getting coffee.”

She looks at him, eyes thinned like his mother does when she’s trying to figure out which one of her twins messed up.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hm,” she says as she grabs her cup and sips it. She relaxes into her chair, suddenly a completely different person from who he met thirty minutes ago. “You’re a lot different than I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought you’d be an asshole. Or whatever. Typical jock shit. But you’re alright. I guess.” She takes a sip. “Sorry about your date. I’m sure your next girlfriend will be real lucky.”

“Thanks,” Atsumu says and grabs his own cup to hold in his palms.

“Or boyfriend,” she amends.

“Or boyfriend,” Atsumu says, feeling how the word feels in his mouth.

They depart later as friends, and Atsumu rushes home to tell Osamu all about it but he throws open their bedroom door to find Suna there, on top of Osamu, with his hand in his brother’s hair and his tongue down his throat.

The door bangs against the wall and the two separate, both in various states of disarray that Atsumu doesn’t even want to acknowledge. Instead, he does what every stable, almost eighteen-year-old does, and runs away yelling.

***