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Atsumu was love.
And it was curious, because he didn't even know that he was.
What he knew was the heat filling his chest when his mother made a glass of warm milk with cinnamon after a bad day at school. The pressure of her lips on his forehead when he went to sleep remained for a long time, "Good night, my love" resonating in his head like a lullaby, lulling him to sleep.
He knew the taste of fatty tuna with boiled rice and the seaweed carefully wrapped around it. He knew the mild spice that exploded in each one of his taste buds, the dull burning in the pit of his stomach, yearning for more.
Atsumu saw the love that his brother inserted in each of his recipes, saw the care and affection which he prepared each dish so delicately, so concentrated and inspired that an unconscious smile appeared on Osamu's face every time someone praised his food.
Atsumu witnessed love the countless times Osamu woke up earlier than he, only to prepare his favorite dish in a silent apology after some fight in which he knew he was wrong. The repentance and forgiveness placed in each cut of the tuna, in each arrangement, in every detail.
He felt, literally, the love thrown at his face all the times that Osamu or Aran included him in their games or called him in the intervals between classes. Often Osamu would be catching his face with a ball well shooted, or else Aran would be pulling him by the arm to sit on the bench with the others. Atsumu did not know how to describe it at the time, he could not understand what his fast pulse was, or the growing heat in his core. He had no idea how to explain the comfort he felt every time Osamu or Aran laughed at some of his crude jokes.
And yet, Atsumu was loved.
He remembered how Meian took care of him on the first anxiety attack he had away from Osamu. He felt the strong embrace, the calm and steady thud of his captain's heart. He felt hands in his hair, almost a mess, a little hard, but relaxing. He heard Shugo's controlled voice telling him to be strong, repeating over and over again that it was going to pass, that everything was going to be okay and that nothing bad would happen.
Atsumu inhaled the fabric softener scent of his clothes, mixed with some aftershave. His arms were tight around his back, tears were wetting the older man's shoulder as his choking sobs escaped his throat in the anxiousness of his first game as an official setter.
The blond knew that he must be strong, that he had no reason for despair or fear. He knew it was going to be okay, and he believed it was going to be okay when Meian walked away. His eyes were warm looking at him with brotherly affection, just as a father looks after his own son.
And Atsumu grew up surrounded by love. From Aran and Osamu, who had followed his journey long before deciding that he wanted to play volleyball; from Kita, who cared about him not only as a captain, but as a friend; from Suna, who was possibly the closest friend he ever had, who genuinely looked at him as an equal, the defying flame always present in the other's green eyes; from all MSBY, who welcomed him as a real family after he moved out, where he found himself living alone for the first time and surprisingly not lacking anything.
And it was so much love. Something that would come and go and Atsumu just absorbed it, just like a sponge. Atsumu grew up on a firm and solid basis. On an almost unshakable love. Endless. It was so much love that he could only give back, share.
Even without knowing what love was, Atsumu loved.
He loved with all of his might. He loved with 120% of everything he had to offer. Everything and a little more.
He loved volleyball. The sensation of the ball in his hand before each set, the intoxicating shock that went down his whole body when he heard the thud against the floor of the court. The effervescent passion that emanated from him at every celebration, at every point, at every voracious and deadly serve.
He loved his partners. He took care of everyone's well-being, even indirectly. He listened to every change in Bokuto's mood, mentally going over his list of weaknesses (courtesy of Akaashi) before each game. He watched over Inunaki, worrying if the Libero drank too much last night, always being the one who left a glass of water and ibuprofen on his dresser for when the blond woke up with a strong hangover. Atsumu analyzed Hinata’s every misstep, being the first to notice the high fever and the discomfort that the redhead showed on one of the training days.
Atsumu saw the explicit love in Bokuto's eyes as he guided the redhead to the parking lot, promising to return as soon as he made sure that his "pupil" was safe and sound under the covers. The knowing look of concern he and Bokuto exchanged before the car door closed was enough for the blond to sigh in relief, his shoulders relaxing as he returned to the court.
Atsumu expressed his love on Saturday’s afternoons, when he could just relax at his apartment, enjoy the free and lazy day he would have without training, but chose to cross Osaka to meet Adriah weekly. It was hours and hours spent reviewing Japanese with the american, the English he developed in the short time he trained with an Australian team serving to guide Tomas and help him to better fit in with the team.
There was love in every smile of thanks that Adriah gave to him at the end of the “classes”, in each sigh of relief after answering some journalist in an almost fluent Japanese, in each jar of curry that he handed to Atsumu, saying it was a courtesy by afternoons that he stole. The blond always denied it, but ended up taking it anyways. It was good, but no way it was better than his brother's.
Please, don't tell him that. Osamu would be unbearable.
There was platonic love. Meaning false and illusory plans and hopes that were nothing more than a blind faith based on the almost: the almost impossible, the almost smell of wet earth and freshly strained coffee.
Love he felt in secret ㅡ although Atsumu was almost sure that Kita knew ㅡ, fueled by the almost, by the constant uncertainty of “What if…”, by nights of daydreaming about a future, well , quite platonic.
There was romantic love. In the growing flame that consumed his whole being, in the overwhelming passion he felt when he set his eyes on an intriguing frown, a face covered by a mask, hiding the different feelings and expressions that Atsumu knew were there.
In the telltale wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, in the softness at the end of his eyelids in the face of a really dull joke, in the accusing lift of a thick, dark eyebrow, in the amusement and happiness radiating from every pore not covered by the soft, disposable fabric.
And Atsumu could only consider himself the luckiest man in the world.
Because love, for him, were black and eclipsed orbs overflowing with tenderness, trust, affection and something more that no one has yet been able to describe.
It is in the anxious beating of the rhythmic mismatch of the heart only at the sound of laughter, so rare and difficult to surface, yet so precious and harmoniously out of tune.
It is to be pleasantly drunk from the intoxicating smell of lavender with a citrusy touch at the end that Atsumu was conditioned to associate with home.
Atsumu concluded that love has many features, and his was pleasantly presented in the shape of 1.92m in height, packed with a thorny layer of sarcasm and irony, that was easily overcome with a little patience, softness and touch.
Many touches.
The kind words of support, followed by the characteristic "Omi-kun" and received with a gentle look and a mocking grimace, dark curls framing a pale and immaculate face, is what has come to mean love for Atsumu. What he saw every morning when he woke up, which he constantly searched for, whether in his shared apartment or in the middle of the court.
Loving was frantic, tiring, and just as pleasurable. And Atsumu loved it.
There was also the melancholy love, that was a bit bitter and harsh, rancid. The love that people said that hurted, burned. That putrid and fetid love that Atsumu felt for a long time, which came from confused, lonely memories, from days he spent alone when Osamu missed school; from lonely afternoons that he shared only with himself; from agonizing mornings in the face of an uncertain future, guilt and ignorance of not understanding how fast love can come, and how fast it can go away.
It was the love that hurt. A love that came from lack of love, be it self-love or to another. It was pain that was born from the desire to be perfect, from the lack of understanding that the human being is flawed, from the lack of care and contempt with himself.
Because love thrives where it is good, safe. In well-maintained spaces, clean and clear places like the translucent waters of the Caribbean. And Atsumu had always loved so much, always given himself so much without ever expecting anything in return, that sometimes the idea of love was lost. The concept of something that should be good becomes a blurry mess, a double-edged sword that wounded and hurted.
But Atsumu was not to blame for having loved. He was not to blame for other people not seeing love the same way as he did, with the same purity and genuine sincerity. They didn’t understand that love is giving and receiving, it’s an equivalent exchange, a balance, a sentimental alchemy
If one side weighs too much, then it wasn’t love anymore.
And Atsumu was determined to show, to anyone who wanted to see, that real love doesn't hurt. It can be bitter or sweet; it can be kind of sticky at times, and sometimes love can just be hidden. And it was instinctive, this urge, this need to show that he could help them to bloom; he knew that he could show how love can heal, strengthen and guide you.
Because Atsumu was love.
He was spontaneous, genuine. A growing fire that stoked everyone in the same room. The welcoming touch of firm, warm, abrasive fingers. Assurance.
He saw and lived through naked and raw love. All the facets he could have, all the scenarios, all the blazing fire that burned and consumed from the inside out. And he knew that to live was to love.
And Atsumu loved life. He lived with passion, with sincerity. He felt, and cried, and was moved by it. He was alive, no one could blame him for that, for wanting to live, for wanting to enjoy every moment, every passion, every second of something of which the only certainty was the end.
He was not stupid, quite the opposite. For him, there was the certainty of death, of an unexpected end, who could know? As fast as it came, love could go away, life could end and the constant waves of a rough sea could break on the rocky slope of the heart.
And in stark contrast, there was also life and its uncertainty of loving more each day. There was a chance to try again, to fall in love, to fall, to grate. The certainty of an uncertain dawn in a fleeting life, a fire that crackled in the blind love of perhaps.
Atsumu was love. He would love, he loved, and he loves always. In abundance, in exaggeration, with joy.
Because life said "Do love!"
And Atsumu, even though he didn't know how, loved.