Archive of Our Own

mayhaps our souls haven't crossed yet
and your eyes haven't experienced
the first touch of color
if we look at each other,
or how the red string of fate
grows shorter and shorter
as we wade into a thousand years

(by agatha on hellopoetry) 

It all starts with a string.

They say there’s a string that connects you to the person you’re destined to be with. He doesn’t remember when he first saw it wrapping around his little finger, stretching out into the horizon, so far he couldn’t even see where it ended. It’s thin and delicate as it tethers between each person in a sophisticated manner, glowing in a crimson-reddish shade under the sun. Rumor has it that when the time comes for two destined people to meet, there’s a brief, unprovoked and unyielding tug that brings you closer to your soulmate. The string may tangle, but it never breaks, or so the legend goes. Both he and Osamu are able to see it which only makes sense because they are two halves of what was once a whole, single being – and they don’t talk about it. They’ve come to this agreement after messing up once and causing a pretty messy breakup between a few family members because, as they learned it then, apparently not everyone has the ability to see them as they do.

And even if they were once a single being, they couldn’t be more different. While Atsumu always thought about the string as something weirdly comforting, Osamu thought it was uncomfortably restraining, to have your whole life sorted out before you were even born. While Atsumu daydreamed about the person behind his own string, Osamu never mentioned anything about his (but Atsumu saw the way he tugged lightly on it with a fond smile when he thought no one was paying attention).

They say the string is invisible so you can’t touch it – but the twins do it sometimes. Usually, when they’re too upset, they tug on it softly. Osamu tries to hide it behind his back or under the covers, but he seems to forget that Atsumu can see it as well (and he sees it shaking whenever Osamu’s fingers brush over his string, he sees it moving when he tugs it closer to his chest). Atsumu, on the other side, has no intention of hiding it. He plays with it while having breakfast and rolls it around his fingers when he’s bored in class. Sometimes he teases his twin saying he felt a tug on his own string when both of them know the chances are slim, almost impossible, and yet Osamu believed him the first and second time (but on the third time he got a karate chop on the top of his head because yer being ridiculous).

He was and he didn’t care – because there would have to be someone else in the world who also saw the strings, someone else in the world who could touch them. Maybe, if one of them was lucky enough, the people on the other side of their strings would also be seeing theirs. But they weren’t.

I hate being able to see this, was what Osamu said to him once after they got home from school. He threw himself on his bed and was staring at the ceiling when Atsumu popped up in front of him with a surprised Why? because he simply didn’t get it. It was beautiful, watching it flow along with the wind, swirling around in all its grace. It was thrilling to see two people connected to each other talking, the string seething brighter than fresh blood, while both parties remained blissfully unaware that yes, this is the one. It was comforting knowing there was someone else at the end of the thread just waiting for you to show up and share the rest of your life with them. So how could he ever wish he wasn’t able to see it?

I don’t like to have my whole life sorted out for me, was what he said back. I see people who aren’t connected being the happiest they’ve ever been. Why does the thread hafta be all I think ‘bout? and Atsumu couldn’t come up with an answer. Sure, lots of people never got to spend their lives with the ones they were connected to but that was because they can’t see the string, Samu. Would ya really throw this chance away? We can see them!

They spent days, weeks even, hunched in front of their shared computer looking up stories about the thread. It’s red, check. It stretches and tangles, check. It’s unbreakable, check. It connects you to the one you’re destined to, check. But people can’t see it, for it is invisible. Atsumu remembers them both giggling over it because wrong, we see it! in their childish manners. Eventually, Osamu stopped bothering with the legends and started to dread the sight of the red thread wrapped tightly around his pinkie although Atsumu never really managed to understand why.

He kept on searching, though. There was another thing that came with the ability to see the string, for it is not only tangible, but also prone to manipulation. Along with the ability to see the string, one could also alter it as they pleased and although it sounded like a very interesting thing, he never managed to grasp the meaning behind snipping and reconnecting one’s string. That goes against the whole soulmate thing, doesn’t it? It made him sick to his stomach. It’s unbreakable, uncheck.

That night, Atsumu tugged on his string and wrapped it around his wrist for comfort before falling asleep. It had been the first time he wished his soulmate couldn’t see the string – if they did, he could be thrown away if they thought he wasn’t to their liking. All of a sudden, he started to dread the sight of his own string as well. Maybe ‘Samu knew that something like that could happen, he thought at the time. Maybe seeing the string truly is a curse rather than a gift.

They say there is a pull between two linked people like that of the gravity between celestial bodies, the axis around the sun, something that never ceases but only grows over time. It’s something inevitable, really, always tugging at his pinkie, always enveloping his wrist whenever he moves in a direction he wasn’t supposed to, but for the most part he manages to ignore its existence. Atsumu can pretend the string doesn’t exist, can pretend it’s not there, can pretend it doesn’t draw him to someone he’s never even met before, someone he doesn’t even know if he’s going to like. Of course you will, his brain screams at him, that person is supposed to be your one and only. Bullshit.

He ignores the string, pretending that it doesn’t drain all the iron from his veins and all the oxygen from his lungs, leaving him gasping in agony late at night – for air, for love, for literally everything he can think of. It glows brightly on the morning light and it seems darker at night, strong and whole, but he ignores it nonetheless, living his life as if there’s nothing wrapped around his finger. He knows better than to hope for someone to come into his life and accept him with all of his flaws and wrongdoings. He knows better than to hope for someone who will eventually get tired of him just like everyone else did. He ignores the string because he knows better than to be hopeful because there’s no room for that anymore. The string doesn’t mean anything in the end if people can’t see it.

He knows Osamu thinks the same – even if they sometimes walk in on the other tugging their strings lightly, even if he hears him whispering softly to his string at night in hopes it truly connects two people that are destined to be together. He did that once, too. It doesn’t work. The string doesn’t mean anything – he’s seen plenty couples living happily ever after without being liked to each other. Hell, his parents aren’t linked! Still, there’s something about the idea that the universe picked out someone especially for him that makes his heart feel warmer somehow. Atsumu knows it’s useless to think about it, knows it’s not worth it, but he still does.

When he gets into college, it’s impossible to ignore the string’s existence. It wavers along thousands of others, the reddish tangle making his hand burn. He watches people starting relationships when they’re not even connected to each other. He learns about people with more than one string, something he once thought it was impossible. He sees strings in lots of different colors. He sees people with no string in sight and he can’t help but feel bad for them. He tugs on his string involuntarily sometimes, too. He doesn’t mean to, but it comforts him having it tied tightly around his pinkie.

He still tries not to pay attention to the string, sitting closer to the window than he would’ve liked to, but it’s better for him to not get caught in the midst of the labyrinth the strings made whenever people decided to gather in one spot. It’s not like he doesn’t like to be around people – that’s far from the truth –, it’s just that it takes a while to untangle the threads and if no one else can see them he’d just look like an idiot moving his hands through invisible strings. He doesn’t want that, no. So he stays put, staring at the mess the strings make right in front of his eyes.

Atsumu has seen them pulsing in crimson waves, brighter and brighter the closer the two linked people get. He’s seen them withering, fading into darker shades the more they distance themselves. He’s seen frayed, delicate strings, almost faded due to unforeseen circumstances. He’s seen them twined, stretching out and diverging in wavering paths, connecting more than two people. He’s seen it all, really. It’s not a surprise when the guy in front of him turns around with an absent-minded smile directed towards the girl that just sat beside him. She’s not connected to him, though.

Things like that can happen, Atsumu has come to know after staring at people for way too long. Sometimes you’re connected to someone and that person isn’t connected to you because the universe decided you needed them whereas they won’t ever need you. Fate is a pretty sadistic mistress, as far as Atsumu’s concerned. He tried talking to Osamu about it, but nowadays he seems completely uninterested in everything that has the red string as a topic. Atsumu can’t blame him – he would’ve liked to forget about it, to stop feeling it tugging his pinkie and pulling him towards the uncertainty that is the person on the other side. He’s been drowned in an ocean of longing, a yearning that is dangerous for the unprepared heart, and he’s known all along he wasn’t supposed to let himself fall under its spell, but it’s always there, that silhouette that lingers just beneath the surface, waiting for him to waver before dragging him in and consuming him whole.

He’s seen the strings in various ways, yes. He’s seen them as red as blood right before two people meet, he’s seen them a light, baby pink right before they fade away and he’s seen them a burgundy, rusty shade right before they snap but he’s never seen one so bright as the one that’s dragged inside the room in a millisecond. It’s hotter than blood, it seems, and Atsumu can’t bring himself to look away from it, not when his own string wavers in response.

Oh. Oh.

The rumors were right – you do know when you meet them, even if you can’t see the string. Atsumu feels hot all over, and even more when beautiful raven locks walk towards him, slowly and graciously, nothing like the person he’d been painting in his mind for heavens know how long. He doesn’t mind it, though, because this guy is a lot more than he could’ve ever wished for. He walks beautifully and seems to be everything Atsumu wished he were and even more. He’d cut Fate some slack if that is the one it chose for him.

He hears his footsteps, loud and rushed, before he flops down right next to him. Atsumu can’t help but want to look at him, to analyze his every feature because no one ever told him he’d feel this overwhelmed – and it’s only fair, not that many people could see the string and where it leads to, but fuck, the universe could’ve at least given him a warning that hey, your soulmate is the most handsome guy in the world, alright?, take care! right? It feels suffocating in the best sense of the word if such a thing even exists, he thinks, because no one could’ve ever prepared him for the man sat next to him.

The string is tied tightly around his finger, long and winding between them and he can’t help but flinch when someone walks through it – not because he feels it, but because he feels nervous it’ll break now. He’s never seen it happening when the string glowed this brightly, but it’s always a possibility in Fate’s sadistic fingertips. He’s always seen the string, just like Osamu did for they were two halves of a whole, but they never saw where the string led to. They never knew what kind of person would be on the other side of their strings and sometimes they pulled all-nighters creating scenarios about it.

It felt mundane and at the same time otherworldly. Nothing could’ve prepared him for it.

Atsumu wants to reach out to him and take his hand in his and see for himself if it does actually burn when the string around their pinkies touch for the first time, if it’ll send shivers down his spine as people said it would. But he doesn’t – because his soulmate looks very intimidating dressed all in black with what seems like a permanent frown on his face. He’s pretty, sure, but Atsumu wants to see how he looks like with a smile breaking his lips apart. He bets he’ll look even better.

So instead of reaching out to him, Atsumu tugs lightly on his end of the string, watching him carefully from his seat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t show any kind of reaction, but Atsumu sees the way his pinkie twitches softly once and then twice. Atsumu watches him tucking his hands inside his pockets, eyeing the classroom slowly as if he’s trying to find someone, his frown never leaving his face. He doesn’t look very friendly, is what Atsumu thinks when he tugs on the string again and the guy huffs in discomfort. He doesn’t look like someone who’d be baffled by Atsumu’s cheeky advances or his teasing remarks. He also doesn’t look like someone who’d believe him if he said they’re connected by the red string. Atsumu can’t blame him, though – if he couldn’t see it, he wouldn’t believe it himself.

He steals glances at him from time to time, not really paying attention to class. He watches the way black curls cascade down whenever his (handsome) fated one looks down to his pinkie, twitching every time Atsumu tugs on the string. When he looks up and to the side, their eyes meet and Atsumu is sure his heart stops for a few seconds because fuck, he knows. But he doesn’t. He looks at him as if he was no more than a bump in the road, the frown bringing his eyebrows together. He almost scoffs at him, too, looking back to his pinkie in a frustrated attempt to make the movement stop. It doesn’t – because Atsumu refuses to stop tugging on the string. His reactions are too entertaining for him to stop now.

He finds out his name when the professor first takes attendance – to get to know you better, he said. Atsumu doesn’t care about that, he only cares about Sakusa Kiyoomi and the two adorable moles he has on his forehead and maybe the annoyed click of his tongue when his pinkie twitches for no particular reason. His reactions are cute, he thinks, and it only makes him want to tease him some more just because he can. But as soon as class is over, he darts out of the classroom and Atsumu doesn’t even have time to approach him before he blends in the crowd, disappearing from his sight as quick as he showed up.

All throughout the week, Atsumu tugs on his string whenever he’s bored in class. He thinks about Kiyoomi's hair and about how soft his curls would be if he could brush his fingers through them. He thinks about his moles and how it would feel to kiss them. He thinks about his frown and if he’d be able to make it go away for good. He thinks about Sakusa Kiyoomi because there’s no way he wouldn’t. He also finds out from their brief encounters on the hallways (because they had no other classes together, much to his dismay) that Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t like people. In every sense of the word, apparently. He doesn’t like touching or to be touched and he can always be found by himself in a corner, usually on his phone but sometimes reading a book. Atsumu thinks it’s funny how Fate decided to bring them together when they were so different at first glance.

He tugs on his string whenever he sees him walking to class or out of the library. He tugs on his string whenever he walks past him or whenever he ignores his cheerful good mornings. He enjoys seeing him lose composure for that millisecond where his eyebrows flock down and he bites his lips involuntarily because what the fuck, is what he might think. But thing is, he doesn’t get many opportunities to talk to him because, as he’s come to know, Sakusa Kiyoomi avoids people. He doesn’t get a good morning back and only gets glares as answers when he does manage to grab his attention. The most effective way to get to him is, well, tugging on the string.

The first time Atsumu managed to talk to him without being shunned or interrupted felt like liquid fire travelling at light-speed through his bloodstream. It was too much and too little all at once, that overwhelming desire pulling his body underwater until he could no longer breathe. Sakusa Kiyoomi had a nice, deep voice and Atsumu would be lying if he said his knees didn’t give in under his weight when he chuckled along with him because yeah, this class is pretty terrible, I don’t even know why I’m taking it. He remembers wanting to answer that it’s because we needed to meet, ya dummy, but not saying anything because for the first time ever since he first saw him, Sakusa Kiyoomi wasn’t frowning. He remembers tugging on the string just because he could, and in a matter of seconds the frown was back.

What’s up with ya?

This stupid tic of mine.

Oh?

My fingers sometimes twitch at random. It’s pretty bothersome.

I suppose it would be, yeah.

Osamu tells him he’s being ridiculous when he tells him about his soulmate. The thread don’t mean anything, stupid. He laughs, shaking his head because of course it does, he doesn’t hate me, something that meant a lot when you were talking about Sakusa Kiyoomi because apparently he hated everyone. It was hard to get him to talk to you, and even if you did manage that, it would be hard to keep him interested. Atsumu managed to catch his eye and even have a nice, friendly chat with him sometimes. So far he was winning. Fate could be a cruel, sadistic mistress, yes, but he was learning how to dance along with the wavering threads she weaves.

It’s fun to spend time with Kiyoomi when he allows him to. It’s fun to see his reactions when he tugs on their string (because now it’s not only his, Atsumu thinks, it never has been) and his pinkie moves immediately towards wherever Atsumu is standing. It’s fun when he comes up to him in the morning already complaining that I went to bed at 3AM last night because of this fucking tic. I’m seeing a neurologist in two days, this is getting ridiculous. It’s fun when they meet in the hallways and he furrows his brows because his pinkie acts up as soon as Atsumu enters his sight. It’s fun when he comes up to him again to complain that my nerves are fine, what the fuck. Atsumu doesn’t tell him – how could he? Sakusa Kiyoomi might be a lot of things, but he would never believe him if he suddenly came up with the red string talk. As far as he was concerned, he wouldn’t even care if he was the one seeing the string.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was an observer and a skeptic. He believed facts, not rumors. He believed what he could see and sometimes not even that because he was that kind of person, Atsumu found out. They had a group project once and Atsumu would be lying if he said he didn’t find it amusing how his personality changed in the blink of an eye. He became bossy and assigned roles for everyone as soon as they met up. He told them he wanted to get that over with so he could go home and work on his own things (something that might have made people even more scared of him while Atsumu only giggled whenever he shot him a menacing look because you’re not working properly, Miya).

Being around Sakusa Kiyoomi was unpredictable and thrilling at the same time; the best and worst thing in the world. Being around him always makes Atsumu feel like he’d been dipped in hot lava, like he’s this close of drowning in shallow waters, like there’s this part of him he never knew existed just because it was always supposed to be born from his desire, from his incessant and unyielding yearning for this handsome, nerdy, kind of rude guy who has the cutest moles on his forehead and the most kissable lips Atsumu has ever seen. He asked Osamu once if he ever thought about what his soulmate tasted like and got a ya creep in response. He thinks Sakusa Kiyoomi tastes like the cheap coffee from the cafeteria and peppermint gum because that’s all he ever sees him consume but he thinks he wouldn’t mind if he tasted like the strawberries or lemon pie clichés because he’d take everything he possibly can.

This won’t end well, Osamu tells him one day. He says he shouldn’t keep pulling the string like that for whatever reason. It’s not supposed to be malleable, he says, and Atsumu is playing with fire. He is, because something as simple as standing in the same room as the hurricane that is Sakusa Kiyoomi makes his blood boil. He wonders if he feels it too, that desperate, raw yearning that comes with the string wrapped around their fingers. He wonders if he thinks about Atsumu as much as he thinks about him. He probably doesn’t. Yer thinking too much into this, Samu, he says back because, honestly, he doesn’t want to stop doing what he’s doing. Watching Kiyoomi has become a habit of his, and tugging on their string makes him feel ticklish in the best way possible.

Wanna grab a drink?

Why would I ever want to go out with you? I have better stuff to do at home.

Aw, come on. Don’t be mean, Omi-kun!

Atsumu pretends his disgusted face doesn’t make him want to howl with laughter even though it stings a bit. They’re not close, not really, and he knows it. They’re partners who happen to share a table and help each other out in group projects, but that’s about it. Atsumu doesn’t mention the string and Kiyoomi still thinks it’s a tic. But he wants to go out with him for no particular reason.

When did I ever say that nickname was okay?

Ya didn’t. Come on, I’ll pay.

There’s another thing about Sakusa Kiyoomi that makes Atsumu’s skin feel feverish: he’s very weak to alcohol and gets drunk really easily. He giggles and talks a lot more when he’s not sober. He’s touchy when he’s drunk, but the good kind of touchy. He pats Atsumu and twirls his hair around his finger, giggling like a kid as he says that I thought your hair would be less soft than it actually is. Atsumu asks him if he could touch his hair as well and he fucking purrs under his touch because of course he’d be this kind of person, right? He pretends his heart isn’t about to burst when Kiyoomi looks up at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes because fuck, he doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve someone as gorgeous as him. It’s unthinkable that the universe thought he deserved him, yes, but he’ll take it, he’ll take everything if it means he’ll be able to look at him like that.

He doesn’t mean to, but he asks What do you think about soulmates?

Because he truly wants to know if he can mention it to him. He wants to tell him he’s not having a tic, he wants to tell him it was him all along, ever since they were kids – because they belong to each other and there’s nowhere else Atsumu would rather be or anyone else he’d rather have. But Kiyoomi just stares at him, a huge question mark above his head as he gulps down the last drops of his drink.

It’s a cage. A metaphorical cage.

How so?

If soulmates really do exist, it means we don’t have full control over our own lives. We’re empty puppets who dance around the threads of fate. Isn’t that what a metaphorical cage means? We have nowhere to run to. I don’t like the idea of having someone chosen for me when I’m not even aware of it.

Atsumu feels like his heart is on the verge of tearing, like his skin is about to break, like he’ll cease to exist right this second because the oxygen doesn’t seem to last long enough, his lungs are suddenly empty and he’s no longer able to process anything. Because of course he wouldn’t like the soulmate thing, of course he wouldn’t believe it was real. This is Kiyoomi he’s talking about, there was no other way. Maybe it’s because of the alcohol, but he’s suddenly dizzy and he feels like he’s about to throw up. He wishes he could tell him about the string and have him believe it. He wishes he could show it to him. There is a pull, there always is, he’s feeling it now, but he doubts Kiyoomi ever felt it as he does, he doubts Kiyoomi ever wished to meet him as he did. He wants to give up on it, wants to sever his own string all of a sudden because Kiyoomi never wanted a soulmate to begin with.

His chest hurts as Kiyoomi looks at him again with those hazy, adorable eyes and smiles softly.

It’s kind of romantic though. I think it would be nice if it was true.

It feels wrong to make him talk when he’s drunk, but he can’t help wanting to know more. He realizes they’re closer now, their arms are brushing each other and he feels his skin tingling wherever Kiyoomi touches. It’s inebriating – even more than the alcohol they just drank. He tugs on their string and watches him carefully. Kiyoomi stares at his pinkie with a frown, sighing lightly before looking back at Atsumu with sparkling eyes.

That’s where the string is supposed to be, isn’t it?

Atsumu nods and listens to him as Kiyoomi blabbers about how he thinks the legend is stupid, that there’s no way there’s a single person out there who’s perfect for him because well, there’s no such thing as a perfect match, don’t you think?, to which Atsumu snickers. There is, he wants to say, and I’m right here in front of you. He doesn’t, though. He nods and nods until Kiyoomi can no longer talk, his tongue seemingly too big for his mouth in his drunken state. It’s only when Atsumu pays for the drinks and gets up that Kiyoomi looks up at him with a smug smirk, letting his head fall to the side as he suggestively chuckles Will you take me home?

He does take him home – and that’s it.

He tugs on their string as he leaves Kiyoomi by the door and waves goodbye.

He tugs on their string as soon as Kiyoomi closes the door.

He decides, right then, that he’ll no longer tug on their string when they’re apart.

He decides he’ll make Kiyoomi realize he’s his perfect match.

“What do you mean it just fell off?!”

They’ve seen lots of different strings – they’ve seen them as red as blood, they’ve seen them almost black, they’ve seen them light pink and almost translucent in the morning light just before they faded away. They’ve seen them wavering along with the breeze and they’ve seen them rigid, hard to the touch. They’ve seen them tangle and they’ve seen them being broken right before their eyes.

None of the articles mentioned anything about the string just randomly falling from one’s finger like that. It didn’t tear, it didn’t fade, it just… fell. Atsumu panicked as Osamu just stared at it with wide eyes, mouth hanging open and a thousand question marks floating on top of his head because what the actual fuck just happened. As his brother stares at the fallen string by his feet, Atsumu searches for any trace of emotion on his face that’s not panic or the good old whatthefuckisthis, but he doesn’t find anything.

Somewhere deep inside, he wants to tease him, wants to say Who was the one who said he didn’t care about the string again? but decides against it because, well, if it happened to him he’s sure he would’ve been bawling his eyes out in three seconds, maybe even less.

“It’s just there!” Osamu yells back, pointing to his fallen string. “I was reading and I guess I moved around too much because when I turned around it wasn’t there anymore and now I’m soulmateless or somethin’.”

Atsumu holds in his chuckle as he kneels before the string. It glows brightly. “We can touch’em. I could just wrap it ‘round yer finger again if you’d like?”

“I don’t trust ya with my string, ya doofus,” he snorts. “What if it ends up breaking because you’re incapable of handling something so fragile? Don’t touch it!”

He sighs, shaking his head and resigning himself to watch as Osamu picks his string from the ground, tugging on it lightly before sighing in relief, letting his body fall limp on the ground. He has his eyes closed, Atsumu notices, and if he didn’t know him, he’d think he was about to cry. Truth is, he talked a lot about refusing his own string, about this whole soulmates aren’t an actual thing discourse, but in the end it seemed like it was still reassuring to have it tightly wrapped around his finger.

Well. It had been.

Atsumu considers telling him to look it up, but he knows it’s useless. They’ve done their research a billion times already, always looking up new things and frowning in disappointment when they found out they were seeing things that weren’t online. It was supposed to be an unbreakable bond, but now they know the string can be severed. It was supposed to be tightly wrapped around one’s finger, but there it is, lying unceremoniously on their bedroom floor, glowing a bright red as if it’s mocking them for worrying.

“Come on,” Atsumu says, finally. “Lemme wrap that real tight on ya again.”

“That’s never happened before,” Osamu replies.

“I know.”

He does.

As he touches Osamu’s string, he feels it twitching on his palm. It’s brighter than his own, a scarlet shade that glows in the sun so brightly it hurts his eyes. It looks thinner than his as well, so fragile he’s scared it’ll break if he handles it too harshly. Osamu stares at his every movement and, as Atsumu brings the string closer to his hands, he notices he’s shaking. He can’t blame him, though – it must be terrifying to just see it falling off like that when they didn’t even know that was an option.

Now they know the string can break and it can fall off at any second. Fate truly is a cruel, sadistic mistress who promises the best and takes it away in a whim. If only they couldn’t see it, he thinks, Osamu would’ve never had the opportunity to meet his fated one. If only they couldn’t see it, Atsumu never would’ve met the hurricane he calls Omi-kun so enthusiastically in the morning just because he looks so intimidating.

“Don’t rip it,” Osamu whispers.

“I know that, ‘m not stupid.”

He hopes he doesn’t see his hands shaking as he wraps the delicate string around his pinkie, as he carefully ties it in a well-made knot once and then twice just to make sure it doesn’t fall off like that again. Both of them sigh in relief as soon as Atsumu lets go of the string, their muscles relaxing immediately after it’s done. He dares to look up only to find Osamu longingly staring at his string, moving his finger just to make sure it's tied properly now. Atsumu almost jokes, almost tells him that I know how to make perfect knots, ya know?, but decides against it when he sees him closing his eyes with a frown.

“What’s up?”

“I hate this,” he replies, voice low and quivering. “What if we weren’t able to see it? It would’ve just fallen off and that would’ve been it, ya know? What if I decided I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore? What if one day I just cut it because I’ve had enough? What then?”

“Then you’ll be soulmateless,” he replies with a shrug. “Ya said it already. If that’s whatcha want, I don’t see a problem. But is that really somethin’ ya wanna do?”

Osamu opens his eyes, staring at his string as if it’s suddenly burning his skin. He squints at it, tilts his head to the side and sighs, shaking his head so lightly that Atsumu isn’t even sure he moved at all. He tugs on his string softly, letting his fingers run through the silky texture, wrapping it around his wrist before looking up at his twin. He shakes his head again and Atsumu smiles at him as he nods back at him. Of course he doesn’t, he thinks.

“Aren’t ya running late already?” he asks all of a sudden. Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “For that thing with that Omi-kun of yours or whatever.”

Shit.

He doesn’t think he’s ever gotten up this fast before – there are black spots all over and he feels dizzy, stumbling towards his desk to grab his bag. He waves Osamu goodbye and can’t help but snort when he yells something mildly inappropriate because, well, it’s not like he’d have a chance of even thinking about it knowing the person he’s meeting up with in, what?, ten minutes? He’ll be scolded for sure – because if there’s one thing he’s come to know about Sakusa Kiyoomi is that he and Osamu have more in common than what he initially thought – they’re both meticulous people who like to stick to a plan and are especially stingy when it comes to lateness. And apparently Atsumu is the one person who makes it impossible for the both of them to actually stick to them. Oops?

He doesn’t run, he doesn’t rush – he knows he should, but he doesn’t. He’s come to enjoy the side-eyed glances he gets when Omi-kun gets mad because he knows it’s a façade. He feels it in their string, feels it in how it tingles as it wavers between them. He knows Kiyoomi doesn’t mind it as much as he says he does because he sees him smiling for a second before he frowns and gulps down his smile. He knows he doesn’t mind because he looks at him differently now, even if he tries to deny it.

When Atsumu took him out for drinks, he saw that one bit of him he refused to show to the world. He saw a vulnerable, clingy Kiyoomi who’s buried under layers of black clothes and face masks because he’s too scared to let himself be seen like that. When Atsumu tugs on their string and his pinkie moves, he sees that flustered, embarrassed Kiyoomi who thinks it’s just a tic he can’t seem to get rid of no matter how many times he tries. When he excitedly yells good morning as he gets a little bit too closer than what Kiyoomi would’ve thought was acceptable, he sees the maybe-disgusted-get-away-from-me Kiyoomi that makes his tummy hurt from laughing too hard. When he buys him lunch and follows him around, he sees the slightly upset but grateful Kiyoomi who chuckles when he ends up choking on his own spit because you’re such an idiot, Miya. He is – especially when he’s around him.

He doesn’t dare to touch his string when they’re not together. It tangles itself around his wrist and it wavers in the morning breeze as soon as he’s out of his dorm room. It mocks him as it flows swiftly, so close to his fingers he can’t help but want to touch it. He doesn’t. Kiyoomi hasn’t been complaining about his tic anymore – he once said it got so bad he couldn’t get any sleep before that one nerve-wracking presentation. Atsumu was to blame for that, he was too nervous to fall asleep and tugging the string helped him with it. Oops?

“You’re late.”

He is.

“Sorry,” Atsumu replies as he sits down in front of him. “My brother had some, uh, issues and needed my help. Have ya been waiting long?”

Sakusa Kiyoomi never fails to surprise him, that’s another thing he’s come to know in the few months they’ve known each other. He’s always dressed nicely and smells like literal heaven. Atsumu asked him once what kind of shampoo he used and got elbowed on the stomach in response. Their string glows brightly, sitting comfortably over their textbooks as Kiyoomi sips his coffee. If handsome was a person, Atsumu thinks it would be fair to say they’d look like him. His hair is silky and smooth, black curls cascading down his face and the fucking moles, man.

He’s dressed casually, something Atsumu has the pleasure to see every couple of days when they meet up to help each other out because apparently he’s got some qualities that even Kiyoomi couldn’t ignore. Watching him struggle as the words came out wrong had been fun enough – who the hell asks someone for help with a I heard you’re good with this and doesn’t say anything else? Sakusa Kiyoomi, apparently. That handsome bastard.

“A good twenty minutes,” he replies with a sigh. “Did you run here? You look gross.”

“Thanks, Omi,” Atsumu giggles, falling back in his chair. “I love you too.”

“I don’t love you.”

But you will. Just you wait.

“How mean, Omi.”

“Stop with the weird nickname, Miya.”

Atsumu pretends he doesn’t notice the amused smile that breaks Kiyoomi’s lips apart. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way his eyes scan his face, looking for something none of them really know what it is. He pretends he doesn’t stare at his hands with furrowed brows when Atsumu touches the string – accidentally, he’d say, but it wasn’t, not really. When Kiyoomi finally looks elsewhere, Atsumu tugs on it lightly, just enough so that his pinkie twitches and brings his attention back to their table.

Kiyoomi sighs before taking another sip of his coffee. He has dark circles under his eyes, a purplish shade Atsumu has never seen before. His shoulders are curved downwards and he looks exhausted. He wants to reach for his hand, resting so peacefully over an open textbook, and touch his pinkie, trace their string with his fingers and tug on it from his end just to see what he would do. He tugs on their string again – from his end. He might be cheeky but he doesn’t want to die yet.

When Kiyoomi clicks his tongue in annoyance, Atsumu almost giggles. He tugs on it again and again and again until Kiyoomi is gripping his own pinkie, staring at it with a huge frown on his face. He shouldn’t be doing this, he knows that, but his reactions are far too cute and he finds out he can’t ignore them like that.

“Yer finger’s acting up again, isn’t it?”

“It gets worse when I’m tired,” he shrugs. “I just want to get this over with so I can go back to my dorm and sleep throughout the rest of the weekend.”

“We could’ve rescheduled if you’re so tired, Omi.”

He almost tugs on their string again – almost.

Kiyoomi stares at him lazily, his eyes droopy and tired. He’s wrecked, Atsumu notices, and it feels like there’s something crushing his heart because all of a sudden it’s a little bit harder to breathe. When he shrugs, Atsumu smiles because of course he’d act like that, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi they’re talking about, the self-righteous, meticulous, overly-cautious person. He wouldn’t miss this even if he was dying, Atsumu thinks. That’s just the kind of person he is and Atsumu would be lying if he said it didn’t make him want to scream sometimes.

So they open their textbooks and they talk and talk until Kiyoomi’s coffee is cold and long forgotten by the corner. Atsumu talks as Kiyoomi stares at him with eager eyes, mouth hanging open as he nods a few times before looking back at his textbook. They take notes from each other and Atsumu even manages to make him laugh a few times when he complains that my brain is too overwhelmed for this, I want a new one. He buys him another coffee and a bagel even if Kiyoomi complained over and over again that it wasn’t necessary. In exchange, he lets him treat him to a cappuccino and a small muffin.

They start talking about other things as well, their textbooks forgotten on the table.

“So yer living alone in your dorm room,” Atsumu munches on his muffin as he talks.

“Yeah, my roommate couldn’t handle living with me for some reason,” he shrugs. “Not that you’d need to know that, though. What’s gotten you so interested in my life all of a sudden?”

Atsumu hums. “Just figured what kind of person you’d like to live with, s’all.”

“I like living alone. It’s easier to clean.”

“So it’s about cleanliness now, is it?” Atsumu can’t help but giggle. “Yer too serious for a college student. I can’t believe we’re working together.”

“Tell me about it,” Kiyoomi replies with a chuckle. “You’re not my ideal partner at all.”

Now that gets his attention.

He wants to laugh and shake his head, he wants to tell him that uh, yes I am because Fate said so, linking them with the brightest and silkiest thread there is, and he can prove it because it’s sitting right there, on top of their forgotten textbooks, wavering whenever one of them moves, even if by a single inch. He wants to show it to him, wants to wrap it around his wrist, wants to tug on it so hard he has no choice but to let himself fall over him and let himself be embraced by him. He wants to do so, so many things – but he doesn’t.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is a hurricane in the best way possible, Atsumu thinks. He’s yearned for him, he’s fallen deep inside an ocean of longing that pulls him down every time he smiles at him, every time he calls him Miya just because he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being called by his first name. Atsumu is drowning in everything that Sakusa Kiyoomi consists of, his lungs are burning and his heart is being gripped tightly by an invisible hand that rips through his ribs and dips its long, dark fingernails in his ventricles, making it harder for him to even blink without feeling like he’s dying. Sakusa Kiyoomi makes him feel like he’s on the brink of death while simultaneously making him feel the most alive he’s ever been. Talk about conflicting.

“Then who would be yer ideal partner, Omi-kun?” he asks with a smooth voice as he tugs on their string lightly. It’s me, he wants to answer himself. Why can’t you see the string? Why am I the only one who sees it wavering this magnificently right beside us?

“It’s none of your business,” Kiyoomi replies, uninterested and unwavering as he looks down at his twitching pinkie.

“Didn’t know you were a romantic, Omi,” he teases, tugging on it again. When Kiyoomi frowns, he giggles. “Are ya waiting for yer soulmate, then? They must be very lucky to have someone as faithful as you…”

“I don’t believe this soulmate bullshit,” he snarls, hiding his hands under the table. I can still see your reactions, ya dummy.

“Why?”

He sees the way the words get stuck on his throat when his pinkie twitches again. He sees the way he frowns and looks down at his hands in confusion. Atsumu is still staring at him, not a hint of a smile or amusement on his face because, well, he should’ve been able to realize it by now, even if the string remained invisible in his eyes.

“There’s no proof,” he says simply. “There’s a red, invisible string connecting people? Says who? If no one can see it, doesn’t that mean it doesn’t exist? I’ve never met anyone who could, how can I believe it?”

You did meet someone who can. I’m right here.

He tugs on their string on it a bit harder this time. Kiyoomi sighs, closing his eyes for a second before looking up at Atsumu again. His eyes are dark and hazy and he almost feels kind of bad for teasing, for pulling the string and riling him up when he’s not even sure his brain is processing what’s happening in front of him. He feels a tug on his own finger and his stomach coils, his heart races and all of a sudden he can see that silhouette lingering right behind Kiyoomi, waiting for him to give in so it can drag him underwater and consume him as it always happens. From all the rumors about the red string online, not a single one of them ever mentioned how much it hurt to long for the person on the other side of your string, to see them in front of you and be unable to touch them for whatever reason.

Fate is a cruel, nasty and sadistic mistress who manipulates the silkiest threads only to make it crumble down again, he’s come to know. He watches himself panic as if he’s out of his own body, he watches Kiyoomi stare at him with worry in his eyes and he tugs on their string to ground himself once again.

“You looked like you just saw a ghost,” Kiyoomi mentions as he waves in front of his face. “Are you alright?”

“Just thinking,” he replies, his fingers still brushing the string. “Say, d’ya think soulmates might exist? Not talking ‘bout the red string or anything, just… if some people really were born for each other. D’ya think that’s possible?”

Kiyoomi snorts. “Not really? Why would I?”

“I dunno,” Atsumu shrugs. He tugs on their string again and, this time, Kiyoomi doesn’t react. “Is yer tic any better?”

“How can it, when all I feel around you is stress and despair?”

Atsumu allows himself to giggle, shaking his head as he crosses his arms in front of his chest because of course Kiyoomi would say that. He doesn’t look like it, but he’s actually pretty funny if he allows you to get into his shell. Atsumu likes to think he’s been invited in without ever really asking for an invite – when, in reality, he knocked the door down and made himself at home, leaving Kiyoomi no other choice than to accept him. Whatever. They were fated to be together, anyway. What was the point in dawdling?

So he laughs and soon he sees Kiyoomi’s lips breaking into a smile even if he fights against it.

“Ya have a nice smile, Omi,” he says, his fingers slowly tracing the string again. “Ya should smile more, ya know? It’s easier to make friends when yer not frowning like a maniac or somethin.”

He tugs on their string again when Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, shaking his head before frowning dramatically at him as he tries to mask his grin with a low “Shut up, Miya.”

They say the world stops spinning when you fall in love. They say the colors burn brighter than before. They say you start feeling dizzy when it dawns upon you, that realization that the world is slowly being swept off from under your feet. They say it makes your stomach churn as butterflies fly freely around your body, cold, pleasant liquid flooding your veins whenever you do as much as look at the one you’ve fallen for because yes, there they are. They say it burns when they touch you, they say an electric current runs through your veins, climbs up your spine and leaves you speechless because yes, they just touched you and all of a sudden you no longer know how to breathe or to think because they’re right there in front of you. They say falling in love makes a person stupid. Atsumu kind of agrees.

Weeks pass.

Months pass.

Atsumu has come to know that Sakusa Kiyoomi can be a very impatient person sometimes. He’s come to know that Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t like surprises and that he’d rather have a cup of coffee than go out for drinks after class ends. He’s come to know he enjoys poetry a bit more than the average college student and that he can recite Shakespeare by heart with heavy, difficult words always at the tip of his tongue. He’s come to know Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t like to invite anyone over and that’s why he hasn’t been to his dorm room yet even though he’s been coming over for the past few weeks to finish that one insufferable project that never seems to end, much to his dismay actually. We could’ve done this at the library, was what he said, and Atsumu had nodded but shrugged as he said that It’s more comfortable at home. And my brother said he’d cook for us, and that had been enough. After that first day, he’s come to know Sakusa Kiyoomi enjoys his twin’s presence a lot more than his own because, in his own words, he’s less of an asshole. Atsumu remembers throwing a pillow at his brother as soon as Kiyoomi turned around.

Contrary to what the rumors say, Atsumu doesn’t feel like his world has stopped. If anything, he feels as if it’s been speeding up, going so fast he has to grip at the edges to steady himself. He doesn’t feel like he’s flying, no, it’s more like he’s drowning in an ocean of desire he can’t put a lid on and it seems like everything’s overflowing in an agonizingly slow pace.

“You’re not paying attention.”

Oops?

Atsumu giggles, shaking his head as Kiyoomi frowns at him, throwing his body back with a dramatic sigh. He looks handsome today, his hair still wet from the shower and tucked neatly behind his ears. Atsumu wonders if that’s something he could see regularly if he told him about the string (probably not, he reasons, because he’d never believe him). He wonders if Kiyoomi still thinks the twitching is a tic. He wonders how he’ll react when he finally realizes his soulmate is right there in front of him, smirking as he tells bad jokes and buying him the crappy coffee from the cafeteria as they work on their projects.

“What are you smirking for?”

“Ya look pretty today,” he replies with a smile. Kiyoomi scrunches his nose in disgust and Atsumu laughs whole-heartedly before shaking his head. “I mean it. D’ya have a date or somethin’?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but Atsumu sees the way his lips slide up.

“Why?” he asks with an arched eyebrow, the smirk never leaving his face. “Does that make you jealous?”

It does, he thinks, because the string linking them together wavers on its own as soon as the words leave his mouth. It does because his chest feels like it’s on fire, like his blood is boiling and freezing at the same time because he’s drowning in everything that is so inherently Kiyoomi he’s not sure he even remembers who he was before he met him. He’s jealous alright. Unconsciously or maybe way too consciously, he wraps his finger around the string and tugs on it once and then twice, hard, just because he can. He doesn’t look down to the string because he doesn’t need to. He knows it’s burning a bright red, he knows it’s wavering softly on the afternoon breeze, he knows all there is to know about it – and it’s still not enough, is it? It never was. Kiyoomi doesn’t care about soulmates, he’s made that very clear. Kiyoomi doesn’t want a soulmate, he thinks it’s constricting. Kiyoomi doesn’t want him, apparently, and the thought makes acid flood his senses, makes it so that the strange silhouette pulls him down by his feet until he can no longer breathe.

The rumors never mentioned this desire, this endless cycle of yearning and longing for someone who might not even want to be around you. You might be tied to each other and that might not even mean anything. Atsumu flinches at the mere thought of it. He wants to be around, he thinks, otherwise he would’ve left, would’ve rejected this already. The rumors never mentioned this sludgy feeling at the pit of his stomach, that prickling feeling climbing up his throat, they never mentioned this jealousy that rips his arteries open with every breath he takes. The rumors never mentioned how horrible it was to fall for someone who didn’t see the string that tied you together.

He wants to scream.

But he laughs.

“Yer free to do whatever ya want, Omi.”

The words leave a bitter aftertaste at the back of his tongue, something so fitting for such a dark and twisted feeling. Kiyoomi widens his eyes and Atsumu can’t help but tug on their string once again. And then another time. And another. He tugs on it because he can, because he’s been wanting him to notice that it only happens when he’s around, that they’re fated to end up together in every way possible because there is no other path, but he never does. He thought Kiyoomi was observant, the kind of person who would notice even the slightest details, the ones no one even bothers to pay attention to, but maybe he was wrong about that. Maybe Fate was wrong when it tied them together like this, Atsumu has come to think more often than not, because being around him stings, makes him feel like he’s walking on thin ice, like he’ll fall underwater and never come up again because it’s impossible to resist this hunger that crawls inside his bloodstream, infecting every single one of his cells like a retrovirus and making it so he has no means to run away from it.

“Just make sure to introduce us sometime.”

Kiyoomi snickers as he shakes his head. “As if I’d ever introduce you to a potential love interest, you absolute weirdo.”

“How come I’m always the one saying words of encouragement and yer always dragging me?” Atsumu pouts, forcing himself to chuckle. It comes out choked and weird and if Kiyoomi noticed it, he doesn’t say anything. “I’d like ya to show me some love from time to time, ya know?”

“I will do that when you’re worthy of my love, Miya,” his tone is playful as he says it and it makes Atsumu’s heart skip a beat or maybe ten, he’s not really sure. “Come on. I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible so I can go home and read my book.”

Oh.

So it wasn’t a date.

The rushing waves inside his head all of a sudden come to a halt. It no longer feels like he’s burning up, it no longer feels like he’s freezing to death. His hands shake and, for once, he’s grateful that Kiyoomi can’t see the string linking them together because man, this is embarrassing. He doesn’t unwrap it from around his finger, he doesn’t look anywhere else but at the man sat in front of him, talking about something Atsumu was supposed to be paying attention to but, frankly, he doesn’t care. He does pay attention to him, though – he pays attention to the way his mouth moves graciously, the way he wets his lips every minute or so because yeah, it’s gotten colder. He pays attention to how he gesticulates when he’s trying to explain something difficult and the way his wrists move in directions he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to move in. He pays attention to the way one of his curls jumps out from behind his ear and gets in front of his eyes and Kiyoomi doesn’t bat an eye to it, flipping it out of his face with a swift movement, never stopping his monologue.

Atsumu has come to know lots of things about Sakusa Kiyoomi ever since they first met, but his favorite so far is the way his eyes gleam with excitement when he talks about something he likes. He can sit and talk for days about that one poetry book no one seems to care about because he’s just that smart. He likes big, difficult words and weird, ancient poems. He likes old books and he enjoys having black coffee as he reads, no sugar.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is the kind of person to always carry an umbrella and hand sanitizer – you never know when you’ll need those. Atsumu had teased him asking if he ever thought about carrying condoms because, well, you never know. He still remembers the way he scrunched up his nose in disgust before elbowing him on his sides, shaking his head and telling him off with a you’re annoying. He still hasn’t gotten an answer to that, though.

“This is important,” he sighs, snapping his fingers in front of Atsumu’s face. “Why can’t you ever pay attention?”

“Sorry,” Atsumu grins. “I was too busy admiring yer beautiful face, Omi.”

The sky burns a bright orange at the top, a striking red in the middle as it blends slowly into dark, foggy purple by the horizon and for a second Atsumu thinks he might be seeing things as he watches Kiyoomi’s cheeks flushing a nice, cute shade of pink because there’s no way. He watches him adverting his gaze somewhere else, staring down at their books and then down at his hands, not daring to look up for even a second. Atsumu watches as he stretches out his fingers and anxiously stares at his pinkie as if he’s waiting for it to move. It doesn’t – he has the string wrapped around his finger still, but he doesn’t tug on it. He doesn’t know why, but seeing Kiyoomi’s disappointed expression makes him want to pull it.

So he does, so softly he’s not even sure he did.

But Kiyoomi smiles fondly at his hands before looking up at Atsumu with that soft, coy smile on his face, dark curls cascading down his face, cheeks flushed pink in the most beautiful landscape Atsumu has ever seen in his life. Fate might be a bitch, sure, but he’ll definitely cut it some slack for pairing him with the most handsome man on Earth and letting him be the one he shows this kind of face to. It’s funny how differently he presents himself when they’re all alone with each other – in class, Kiyoomi wears dark clothes and a facemask because there are too many people and diseases to spread, you should wear one yourself, Miya. When they meet up for their study sessions (or, how Atsumu likes to call it, their secret dates), Kiyoomi wears loose clothes and no mask. When they’re alone, Kiyoomi laughs openly and blushes a lot more than Atsumu thought he would. He never would’ve taken him for the blushy, giddy type.

He looks innocent, even.

“I’ll see you next week, Miya.”

As Kiyoomi leaves, Atsumu watches him blend with the dusk’s purple haze slowly, slowly, until he completely fades away. He watches their string stretch in a path towards him, dancing through the breeze, through the leaves that fall unceremoniously and without a care in the world. It wavers and wavers and he feels his own pinkie twitching when he dares to look away. His heart races for a second before his brain screams at him for being irrational, for wanting too much when being around him should’ve been enough.

But it isn’t.

They say the world stops spinning when you fall in love. It does feel like that now, as he watches the clouds slowly blending into one another in an explosion of lilac and peach like the harmony of an old love song, like that first sip of warm tea in the evening, comforting and soothing, in a way that screams at him that he’s found what he was looking for. Not that he hadn’t noticed that already, but it’s different now.

“Samu,” he whispers softly as they’re both lying in bed at night. The lights are out and he can hear the wind whistling outside. “I’m in love with Omi.”

Atsumu listens to the ruffle of the sheets across the room as his brother slowly turns around to face him. Their room is pitch dark, the only light being provided by the full moon right outside their window, but he can still see the way he’s smiling softly at him. He nods and Atsumu does the same.

“Yeah,” he answers. “It’s common knowledge by now.”

Osamu shifts in bed again until he sits up. “Are ya telling him?”

“I dunno,” Atsumu whispers as he gets up as well. “He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d like to get a confession from me.”

“Yer linked,” Osamu snickers. “You’ll end up together anyway.”

Not necessarily, Atsumu wants to say. They’ve seen enough couples living happily ever after without ever being linked. They’ve seen enough couples burning up in flames when they shared the same thread. Fate is a cruel mistress, Atsumu thinks again and again. He doesn’t want to, but he thinks about Kiyoomi showing that smile to someone else and it makes him feel sick. It makes him want to throw up and punch someone. It makes him want to crawl under a rock and cry his eyes out because that smile is supposed to be his, isn’t it? Fate said so.

“My pinkie moved on its own a few times today,” Osamu whispers. “I think my soulmate bumped into the string somehow. Is that what ya keep doing to poor Omi-kun? I feel bad for him, ya know? This shit’s weird.”

Atsumu laughs, throwing his head back and all, because of course Samu would say that.

“How does it feel like?” he asks.

“Like my body’s rebelling or something,” he shrugs as he chuckles himself. “Should give the poor guy a break. I almost tore my finger off, it was driving me nuts.”

“Omi thinks it’s a tic,” Atsumu tells him. “He always frowns and it’s the cutest thing in the world. And then he looks up at me as if I’m at fault and I can’t really blame him for that, can I? But today! Today he didn’t frown at me, he just smiled and he looked so pretty, Samu, ya wouldn’t believe it.”

“He’d look like the kind of guy who’d think that, yeah,” he chuckles. “Are ya still tugging on the string only when he’s around?”

Atsumu nods.

“Maybe that’s why he was smiling,” Osamu sighs. “Maybe he knows already.”

“Doubt it. Omi can be very oblivious sometimes.”

“Kinda hard to ignore the fact that yer pinkie twitches when there’s only this one person ‘round, don’t ya think?” Osamu chuckles. “He can be very oblivious, sure, but he’s not dumb. In fact, he’s way smarter than this idiot brother of mine.”

“Oi!” Atsumu complains, throwing his pillow at him.

“Yer gonna give me a bruise one of these days,” he sighs dramatically as he throws the pillow back at him. “My point is. The both of ya should have a talk. Does he know about the string or did ya freak out and didn’t tell him?”

He did freak out, yes, but it wasn’t that simple. There are a lot of things to consider when communicating with Sakusa Kiyoomi, and one of them is that he can flaunt very cold eyes when he wants to. He can make you feel embarrassed for ever speaking anything with a single glance and he can make you want to implode on the spot.

So yeah, he did freak out a bit. Or maybe a lot (but he wasn’t telling his brother that).

“Omi is skeptical about these things,” Atsumu replies with a sigh, letting his body fall back onto his bed as he stares at the ceiling. Even if I told him, he wouldn’t believe me. “Did ya ever want to follow yer string? Just to see where it leads to?”

“I already knows where it leads to,” his brother replies, his voice devoid of emotion. “It’s not like I want to rush and meet them or anything. I know they’ll always be here, literally wrapped around my finger, so what’s the rush?”

Atsumu lets out a chuckle, nodding slowly. “Yer right,” he says. “Just don’t let it fall of again, will ya?”

“Yer the one who has a problem with yer soulmate and I’m the one being called out?” he clicks his tongue in annoyance. “When are ya meeting up with him again?”

“Next week.”

Osamu nods. “Then ya have a week to make up yer mind.”

“About what?”

“About telling him yer connected,” he sighs. “He thinks it’s a tic, doesn’t he? Ya keep tugging on your string in hopes he realizes it but he’s oblivious so it’s obvious nothing will happen. Ya should tell him instead of running away.”

“Says the guy who’s running away from his own string for years.”

“I haven’t met them yet,” Osamu reasons with a chuckle. “The two of you met. I sit here and I listen to ya babbling about how great Omi is, I love him, why can’t he be less oblivious and that kind of thing and yer telling me ya can’t tell him? Coward.”

He wasn’t – not when it came to daily stuff. When they were kids, Atsumu was never afraid of the dark, while Osamu sometimes needed to sleep with the lights on. Atsumu was never afraid of the sea and delved into it, sometimes so deep Osamu panicked and cried until his head popped back up again. Atsumu was never scared of bugs or ghosts or anything besides not knowing the person on the other side of his string.

How funnily the universe works. He was never afraid of the sea and now he was being consumed whole, being pulled downwards by ghostly, cold hands who never grew tired of tugging at his feet, of dragging him underwater, so deep he couldn’t come up for oxygen. How funnily the universe works, making it so that he is now being cradled by wild waves, being carried to the deepest parts of this ocean of raw desire, the parts where the sun can’t peek through, can’t shine on. How funny it is that Osamu is the one who’s pushing him in even further when he used to be the one who asked him not to go. How funny it is that he wills the waves to swallow him whole as he watches his string move along with the breeze.

They say you just know when you meet your soulmate. They say you hear silver bells and they say you smell your soulmate’s favorite thing. None of those are true. Atsumu didn’t hear silver bells and never smelled anything other than fancy shampoo and cologne. He wouldn’t have known if it wasn’t for the string – but oh, he yearned for him. He longed for their study sessions, for that smug smirk, for that click of his tongue right after he murmured a low shut up, Miya, for that absolutely adorable frown when his pinkie twitched, for whatever it was that Kiyoomi would offer. He’d take it all, drowning in everything he never knew he needed before.

“I’ll tell him,” he whispers as Osamu shuffles in his bed. “I’ll tell him when we meet up.”

“Good,” he replies. “I’m tired of dealing with that lovesickness of yours.”

The first thing his brain registers is that it’s warm, just like the salty ocean breeze when it hits his face, just like that first ray of sunshine after a long, cold winter. It smells like old books and freshly brewed coffee and home even though Atsumu is one hundred percent sure that's not what Kiyoomi’s dorm room was supposed to smell like because well. But it does and he loves it. It welcomes him with open arms even if Kiyoomi himself is staring at him with a frown – always a frown with him. He stares at him with his face set in a serious line above his mask, eyes looking tired and droopy.

He doesn’t comment on it, walking inside with a soft bow. Another thing Atsumu has come to know about Sakusa Kiyoomi is that he’s clean. If clean was a person, it would be him. He has to take off his shoes and drench his hands in sanitizer before he walks in and takes off his shoes, leaving them by the door.

“Did ya pull an all-nighter, Omi?” he asks, turning around to face him. “Ya don’t look so good. Are ya sick?”

Kiyoomi shrugs before thumping down on his chair. There are papers all around his desk, open books and a steaming mug. His hair is messy as if he’d just woken up and Atsumu would be lying if he said the sight didn’t make his heart flip around like a fucking pancake. He’s too pretty, he thinks as he stands weirdly by the door. He doesn’t know if he has the right to barge in and sit anywhere he likes, so he just stands there and waits for Kiyoomi to give him the word. But he doesn’t – he just stares at him, his eyes completely unreadable, frown nowhere to be seen. Atsumu feels that familiar tugging at his feet, his knees wobbling under his weight and fuck, his heart is about to burst under the pressure from those long, slender, invisible fingers thrashing around inside his ribcage.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks in a whisper.

“I’ve been researching,” Kiyoomi answers as he straightens his back.

“Okay?”

He chuckles before his hands slide up, up, up until his fingers pull his mask down and Atsumu swears he’s drowning in everything Kiyoomi around him because he’s fucking smiling and his cheeks are pink and he’s never seen him look so adorable before. His heart is pounding hard and fast and it’s all he can hear, his eardrums one step away from bursting, for sure, but Kiyoomi is still staring at him with that look on his face that tells him he knows. Atsumu dares to look down at their string, boiling red staring back at him in mockery. Kiyoomi can’t see it, he’s sure of it, but he knows.

“What do you think about the Red String of Fate, Miya?”

Atsumu gulps. “It’s a rumor, right?”

“It’s supposed to be, alright,” he nods. “But you’ve been awfully suspicious recently, always asking about soulmates and the string and I realized my tic isn’t really a tic, is it? It only happens when you’re around.”

“I piss you off,” he shrugs. “That’s just yer body responding to stress. Ya said so yerself.”

Osamu was right, Atsumu thinks. He really is a pathetic coward.

“That would’ve been my first thought too,” he chuckles. “But then this guy I know came up to me one day asking if I knew you’ve been tugging on our string and I was very confused. I thought he was hallucinating, but he told me he saw us studying the other day and you were seemingly way too focused on pulling it and making my finger move for whatever reason. When I confronted him about it, he showed it to me. Not the string, I can’t see that, but he tugged on it. It felt really weird seeing it happen.”

Atsumu gulps once again.

The world is spinning way too fast beneath his feet and he’s not sure he can see anything other than Kiyoomi and the turbulent waves that run in his direction, ready to gobble him up and drown him in his own foolish desire. He blinks at him once and then twice and probably a few more times because he doesn’t know what to say. Yeah, we’re soulmates. I’m sorry for not telling you? Or maybe something along the lines of I’m sorry you ended up with me. I can look it up how to cut the string and tie you with somebody else if you’d like? Whatever it is, it makes his whole body shiver in discomfort. He doesn’t want to say any of that. He wanted to tell him first, wanted to show him in a way only he could.

It didn’t work, huh.

“I looked it up later on,” Kiyoomi proceeds. “I remember you asked me about soulmates when you invited me out for drinks that one time. You were pretty interested on my opinion on it even though we didn’t really know each other back then. So I made my research and I’ve encountered some pretty interesting stuff. Did you know people can manipulate the string? They can cut it and tie it around as they wish.”

Atsumu nods, his throat dry, his voice unable to come out.

“You can see it, can’t you? The string.”

“Yeah.”

Kiyoomi hums before getting up. Atsumu takes one step back.

He smiles. “Did you ever think about cutting it and tying it to somebody else?”

Atsumu almost scoffs at him, but he remains silent. His brain is a mess of words he can’t quite understand because this isn’t supposed to be happening right now. His hands are shaking and he has to gulp down the persistent, prickly knot stuck in his windpipe so he can try to breathe, but it doesn’t work, it never works. He breathes in but the oxygen doesn’t dare to drop down to his lungs, flowing right back out and he’s suffocating in yearning or despair or literally anything else, he doesn’t really know or even care anymore because this isn’t what I had planned.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Not even once?”

He shakes his head and Kiyoomi nods, his cheeks flushed a nice shade of pink.

“Pull on it.”

“What?”

“Pull on it,” he repeats. “Pull me. Otherwise I won’t believe you.”

Atsumu opens his mouth and then closes it. What, is the one thing running around his head. His hands are shaking and his blood feels like lava as it runs around his body, warming him up in the worst way possible. The rumors never mentioned anything about a snarky, skeptical soulmate who would rip out every single ounce of rationality he had in his body.

“Didn’t yer friend tell you…”

“Pull on it.”

He does.

Kiyoomi has to take a few steps forward to avoid falling down on his knees. He chuckles and shakes his head, his eyes sparkling with raw excitement and something Atsumu doesn’t quite understand because his brain is just that overwhelmed. He feels sweat crawling down his back in an agonizingly slow pace because it’s too hot and Kiyoomi is too close and he wasn’t at all prepared for this because they were supposed to work on that project. Kiyoomi wasn’t supposed to know about the string, was he? Kiyoomi was supposed to be oblivious and believe his pinkie moved because of a tic.

But wasn’t that what he wanted, that Kiyoomi finally realized what the twitching meant? Wasn’t that what he cried to his brother about every single night, about how Kiyoomi was way too skeptical, way too oblivious, and that he couldn’t wait for the day he finally realized they were linked by Fate?

Sure.

But he wasn’t ready for it.

“Where is it?” he asks in a soft tone, looking down at their hands.

“Where’s what?”

Kiyoomi snorts, looking up at him with an arched eyebrow. “The string?”

Oh. Right.

Atsumu isn’t sure how to explain it to him, isn’t sure his words will come out at all. Surely he’d wake up in a minute and sigh in relief because there’s no way this isn’t a dream. There are birds chirping and he can hear people chatting right outside Kiyoomi’s room. A light breeze creeps through the window and Atsumu can’t help but shudder when he feels Kiyoomi’s hand brushing his because surely this is a dream, there’s no way this is actually happening, no way, no way, no way at all.

“Show me,” he demands.

With the sunlight kissing his face, Atsumu watches Kiyoomi’s every detail. He watches the curls and the shadows they cast on his forehead and the way his moles are symmetrically spread out on his skin, a perfect colon right on top of his eyebrow. He watches the curves and edges of his face, his button nose and the cupid’s bow of his lips that seem so appetizing all of a sudden, the way the bags under his eyes are suddenly a bit darker than the last time he saw him, the way he’s no longer frowning, but looking down at their hands expectantly as if he’s about to see a miracle. He looks ethereal, almost golden, and Atsumu feels the grip in his heart going away.

He allows himself to touch his hand, softly at first, waiting for Kiyoomi to slap him away. He doesn’t. He flinches, closes his eyes and frowns for a few seconds, but he doesn’t turn away. Atsumu waits for him to open his eyes again, waits for him to say that it’s okay. When he does look back at him, his eyes look darker and they sparkle with something Atsumu doesn’t quite recognize.

The fact that he’s allowing Atsumu to touch him, so directly and seemingly without a single care in the world makes him feel like his heart is about to burst on its own. He takes a deep breath before wrapping his fingers around Kiyoomi’s palm, feeling his warmth in a way he never thought he’d be allowed to. His hand is sweaty and Atsumu isn’t sure if he’s the one drenching his hand or the other way around and, frankly, he doesn’t care because there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. Kiyoomi, though, thinks differently – his nose scrunches up and he bites his bottom lip, breathing in and out in an uneven rhythm and Atsumu considers letting him go.

But he can’t.

Kiyoomi holds his hand down, grips at his fingers and gulps before nodding at him with furrowed brows. He’s pushing himself to do this, Atsumu notes, and he feels something snapping inside of him when realization dawns upon him. He’s allowing me to touch him and he doesn’t want me to let go. He knows about the string. He knows it tethers between us, wavering beautifully along with the breeze. He knows I’m the one he was supposed to look for all along. It’s too much for his poor heart to take in at once.

“Your hand is sweating,” Kiyoomi points out as if Atsumu hadn’t noticed already. “Gross.”

“’m nervous,” he mumbles out.

Slowly, he guides Kiyoomi’s hand towards the string. They’re both shaking, not really knowing who’s the one who compels the other to repeat the same motion, but the tension is palpable in the air. It’s nervousness and giddiness and everything Atsumu has always dreaded all at once, but it’s also warmth and newfound comfort even if it’s sweaty and a little bit gross because he figures there’s no other way. The string twitches on its own when Kiyoomi’s hand approaches it and yes, it does burn when the linked pinkies touch, Atsumu finds out. He shivers unconsciously and Kiyoomi looks up at him with a huge question mark painted on his face. He can only shrug back as he places his hand around the string, careful enough that he doesn’t push it down but firm enough that it doesn’t flow around his fingers along with the wind.

“I feel so stupid,” he laughs as Atsumu closes his fingers around something he can’t even see.

He wants to laugh along with him because, sure, it must be a pretty weird sight if one can’t see the string tethering around them, if one can’t see how bright it glows, how beautifully it wavers when Kiyoomi moves his wrist softly, stretching it out. His cheeks are flushed pink and he’s looking down at his closed hand with a soft expression on his face, his bottom lip carefully resting against his teeth.

Kiyoomi tugs on it. Hard.

Atsumu doesn’t even have time to brace himself, to think about anything before his feet move against his will and he’s wobbling forward like a newborn puppy who’s eager to learn how to walk. He looks stupid as he takes tumbling, experimental steps towards Kiyoomi without any sense of direction because it really does feel like he’s being pulled, like he has no strength to avoid it. It truly is comparable to a celestial pull, the axis around the sun. He’d be pulled anywhere if Kiyoomi desired to drag him along and he wouldn’t even mind.

He keeps tugging on it, again and again and again and suddenly their chests are glued to one another and Atsumu suddenly forgets how to breathe because oh, heavens, they’re way too close now. He can smell his cologne and the distinct smell of old books and coffee and his heart swells up with euphoria before he remembers that this is way too close and tries to back away a few steps only to have Kiyoomi pull him forward again. And again. And again. He frowns, looking up at him with confusion smeared across his features.

“I thought ya didn’t like touching, Omi,” he huffs, the dizziness spreading all across his body. He’s not seeing straight, he’s not even sure he’s standing anymore, his legs feeling numb and unreachable. He’s sure he’s about to pass out.

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi replies in monotone. “I saw you cleaning your hands before you came in.”

Atsumu feels the way his fingers gently trace the string around his pinkie before they slowly slide up, up, up, until they reach his wrist and now he’s absolutely sure he’s been thrown underwater because he can no longer hear or speak, he can no longer think about anything other than the fact that Kiyoomi is touching him so softly, so gently, and the fact that if Kiyoomi dips his head down just a tiny bit he’ll be able to kiss him. He doesn’t, though, of course he doesn’t. Atsumu watches the way his fingers trace patterns he can’t quite recognize on the sensitive skin of his wrist, his brain hazy and disconnected from reality because surely, this is all a dream, except it isn’t and he’s not sure how to act. Kiyoomi traces patterns around his wrist and up his arm until he’s definitely a lot closer than before, their eyes meeting for half a second before he finally takes a step back and Atsumu is finally able to remember how to breathe again.

But Kiyoomi doesn’t let go of the string, pulling Atsumu’s arm up until he holds it gently around his hands, his thumbs softly caressing his skin. He gasps when Kiyoomi presses at his palm and he almost faints when he dips his head down, so slowly it feels agonizing. Atsumu wants to break away because he’ll regret this, he’ll regret this, he’ll regret this, but Kiyoomi’s grip is too tight so he stands there and watches as Kiyoomi slowly nudges his wrist with his nose, letting him touch his cheek with his palm, his fingers intertwining with the black curls he’d been longing for ever since they first met. They really are soft, he notes.

“What’cha doing?” Atsumu manages to choke out, his voice sounding strangled and weird.

When Kiyoomi doesn’t look up at him, Atsumu thinks he’s one step away from spontaneous combustion. His blood is boiling hotter than lava, his head is drenched in thoughts of Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi and he’s not even sure he knows his own name anymore. None of the rumors ever mentioned this kind of feeling, this grip on his heart, on his lungs. None of the rumors ever said he’d die a million times before managing to choke out that yes, the universe thought we were a perfect match and I love you. None of the rumors ever said he’d wish for death because the waiting, the longing was too painful.

“Do I still have a grip on the string?” Kiyoomi asks as his lips get closer and closer to Atsumu’s skin. “Or did I let it fall down?”

“It’s wrapped around yer wrist,” Atsumu replies in a choked voice.

Kiyoomi smiles before yanking his wrist closer to him and once again Atsumu has no choice but to wobble forward in an embarrassing move he’s sure Kiyoomi will forever remind him of. He gulps as a shiver runs down his spine again, as his lungs start screaming at him because he’s not even sure he’s breathing anymore. The string is burning as if it’s mocking him, as if it’s snickering and saying isn’t that what you wanted all along? and he can’t help but let himself be swept away by the crashing, relentless waves that throw him around like a puppet.

He lets Kiyoomi hold him, lets him have the string wrapped tightly around him, lets him have his way with him because he has no strength left. His knees wobble and he’s sure they’ll give in under his weight soon. Kiyoomi caresses the skin on his wrist again before dipping his head down, down, down and yep, Atsumu is sure he’s dead and this is the afterlife, he’s in heaven because there’s no fucking way this is actually happening. The first thing his brain registers is that his lips are soft and warm. The second thing it registers is that he’s probably enjoying this a lot more than he probably should. The third thing it registers is that he’s about to pass out.

“So it really is true, then,” he says with a smirk, his cheek still glued to Atsumu’s wrist. “You’re the asshole the universe picked out for me. I guess I got lucky since you’ve got such a pretty face.”

“I thought,” Atsumu huffs, his whole body one step away from bursting into flames because Kiyoomi is nuzzling his palm, that bastard. “I thought I wasn’t yer type. Ya said so yerself.”

Kiyoomi shrugs before planting one last, soft, kiss on the inside of his wrist. He takes a step back and turns away from him, standing still for a whole minute or maybe five or, fuck, maybe an hour. Atsumu has lost it already, he doesn’t remember how to count or how to breathe or even how to blink, something that was once so instinctive because his head is filled to the brim with Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi and everything that makes up who he is, everything he’s learned to associate with him for the past few months. He shivers when the string tugs at his pinkie, when he watches Kiyoomi playing with the string around his wrist even if he’s unable to see it. And when Kiyoomi turns around to look at him again, he feels his breath hitch in his throat because fuck, what a man.

When he shrugs, Atsumu thinks he’s about to burst – into tears, into flames, who cares.

And when he opens his mouth, his tongue poking out slightly as if it’s making fun of him, Atsumu feels his knees turning to jelly. When he takes a deep breath and his eyes sparkle in a mischievous manner, he’s sure he died again.

“I lied,” is all he says before sitting down by his desk and sighing, their string dancing along with his every movement, tugging at Atsumu’s pinkie softly. He squeezes a fair amount of sanitizer on his hands and, as he rubs them, he smirks. “What were we supposed to study today again?”

That fucking bastard.

Here’s what he knows:

One. Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t like most people – and that includes him sometimes. He’s the kind of person who wouldn’t mind living alone for the rest of his live, who would much rather stay in with a nice cup of coffee and an old book. But sometimes he calls first and asks him out on a date, “just because”. Sometimes he brings him a cookie or a muffin because “I thought about you”. Sometimes he’d tug on their string even if he couldn’t see it because he already knows where it’s at.

Two. Sakusa Kiyoomi isn’t touchy – except when he is. When Atsumu took him out for drinks for the first time, he saw that part of him no one else was allowed to, that part of him he’s not even sure he knew about. But when they share a bed, Atsumu feels him curling up against him under the blankets, intertwining their fingers when he thinks he’s already fallen asleep. When Atsumu wakes up in the morning, Kiyoomi is snoring softly as he lies on top of his chest, his curls pointing at every direction, his mouth hanging open and eyelids twitching as if he’s following something around in his dreams. When Atsumu finds him after class, he allows him to hold his hand, “because you’re annoying”, but he knows better than that, he sees the way his cheeks blush and he adverts his gaze somewhere else. He feels his uneasiness travelling through their string.

Three. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a mystery he wants to spend the rest of his life solving. He’s snarky but sweet, harsh and soft at the same time. He enjoys black coffee, no sugar, but he likes sweet cocktails and those chocolate chip cookies Osamu baked that one time. He doesn’t like to come over to his dorm room now, “what would your brother think?”, and Atsumu isn’t even sure when was the last time he actually saw his brother.

Four. Sakusa Kiyoomi is all his.

When Fate decided to weave their string, that thread that forever bound them to one another, Atsumu likes to think, among all probabilities and the thousands it could’ve chosen, it chose him. It chose him because he’s the only one who could’ve handled the thunderstorm that is Sakusa Kiyoomi, the only one who would ever be allowed to hold him in his arms and the only one who wouldn’t be scared to be held tight by such a scary, unstable phenomena. It chose him because their souls were always supposed to take the same path, to meet up at some point, and conquer it as if that was always their sole purpose for existing - and maybe it was.

“You’re squirming too much,” Kiyoomi pokes him in the stomach, lying on top of his arm, staring at him with squinting, tired eyes. “I can’t sleep.”

“Mn,” Atsumu replies, allowing himself to nuzzle him for a few seconds. “I was just thinking.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply.

“About how I’m in love with ya,” he goes on. “Have been ever since you first walked inside that nasty classroom. Not even because of the string, yer just that breathtaking, ya know? And I’m the one who gets to have ya.”

He doesn’t have to look at him to know what kind of face he’s making. Kiyoomi doesn’t have to talk for him to know what he wants to say. He chuckles as he presses their bodies closer and closer under the blankets, his chin resting softly on top of Kiyoomi’s head, his arms softly wrapping around him, their string wrapping around the both of them in a comforting nest. Kiyoomi doesn’t have to say anything, but he does anyway. “Gross.”

Atsumu laughs wholeheartedly because “Yeah, yeah…” he says. “But ya still love me.”

Yeah, is what seems to travel through their string. Because Fate said so.