Drop your Mask (Atsumu X reader)

8- Masks

"Tsumu! Here!" You call for him once he appears at your place under the tree, waving happily for him.

He trudges forward, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t even know when he allowed you to call him by this name that only his brother uses, and those close to him. Does he consider you one of them? Maybe you are friends now, but your friendship only started; he's not sure if he's comfortable enough to let you use it. He closes his eyes, lets the name rushes through his body. He's quiet and attentive, the way he is before a good game. Well, that's enough of an incentive to let you call him whatever you want. There's nothing more he likes than the tranquility that washes over him before a good game, and if that's exactly what you make him feel, then he'd allow you to do anything. Still, he doesn't stop himself from commenting.

"You know, I never exactly gave you permission to call me that."

You let your lips curve, your smile beautifully infectious but your eyes cunning. "What, do I need your permission to call you anything?"

He scowls, plopping down on the grass beside you. "A lovely nice woman would be considerate of others."

"A lovely nice woman might care," your smirk gets bigger. Then, it shifts and turns into something lovelier, more profound. "What do you prefer I call you?"

"I like Tsumu," he says once he realizes how softly you are looking at him, his heart feeling strangely tight inside his chest, "was just teasing you."

You give him a mock glare. "Here I am about to condone my actions! You're a little sneaky, aren't ya?"

He shrugs casually, but he's smirking too. "Why do you think I have no friends? Nobody can understand my willful consideration."

You laugh. The sound of it is free and full at the same time, and Atsumu feels like he won a competition he didn't know he was a part of. You show him your bento box, which's twice as big as usual, and open it to reveal traditional japenese food stacked over one another. There's rice, miso soup, dried pickles, side salad, curry, and a main dish of ground peef with sesame seeds. It looks absolutely delicious, and the smell attacks his nose all at once.

You offer, "I bought you food with me. Mom was only happy enough to make a dozen thing when I told her about you."

He chokes on his spit, and he coughs, once and twice, before he regains his balance. He looks at you with pink cheeks, eyes wide. "You talk to your mother about me?"

You shrug, "why wouldn't I? She's the most loveliest woman in the whole wide world and you're getting there. Why wouldn't I talk to her about you?"

His mouth hangs open, and the pink in his cheeks goes darker, turning into a soft red. He ducks his face so you wouldn't see, but you do, and you smirk, thinking how cute he looks, which contrasts with his massive form. He mumbles with eyes on the ground. "You know, sometimes you feel so out of reach."

Surprised, you ask. "Out of reach?"

He draws a circle with his fingers on the ground, still looking down and away. His cheeks are sharp and drawn, and his face is mature and sleek, like a new glittering car, but you still wish to poke him on his lovely cheeks. You do no such a thing. "You know, you talk so easily. You're funny and unjudgemental and free, like you're trying too hard. I don't know if it's real or just a mask you're holding onto to cover who you really are."

You're rendered speechless. Never in your whole life had someone accused you of something like this. Although it's true and tredging onto familiar territories, you feel angry, like he exposed something you didn't know you were hiding.

You raise a brow. "Is that what you think about me? That my demanour is fake?"

He looks at you with strict eyes, braver than usual, his blush gone. "Isn't it? I saw the way you glared at that guy."

You huff, "he was an asshole. You don't know him like I do. What was I supposed to do? Take it with a grain of salt and smile at him when he looks at me like I disgust him?"

"That's not what I mean," he sighs. "Of course you shouldn't sit back and let him eat you whole, but the look itself, I felt like it held your true emotions rather than something you put on to be... passable around people. I don't know you all that well, but you smirk a lot, and that comes from me, but it feels like a replacement for your real emotions."

You look at him heatedly, having absolutely not expected to be lectured by Atsumu Miya, who you'd once thought of as an airhead, a guy who didn't notice anything even if it struck him in the face. But you were wrong. Here he is telling you that you're nothing but a facade, an illusion you cradle with pleasant smiles and laughter when you hold so many darker things inside. But of course, you didn't think he'd notice, not him, not everyone, for you are too good at playing games. You should have known a game like this won't stand strong in front of Atsumu; he was a master at playing.

You go quiet. You present the food to him once again. "Would you like to eat now?"

He accepts, knowing you weren't ready to talk about anything. "Sure. Thank your mom for me when you get home."

You eat together. The whole place is quiet. The tree is softly moving by the breeze, and a few birds fly around you, releasing music from their peaks. The situation should be amiable because of the silence, but all you feel is tense awkwardness.

"I wanted to tell you something before I ruined it with my big mouth," he says, taking another bite of the food and hoping stuffing his face would make him shut up, "I'm sorry about Suna and Samu, I didn’t think they'd be so outrightly rude. I'm disappointed in them."

You let out a small smirk, catching on to the soft pink in his cheeks, and the actual disappointment flaring in his face. "Why should you apologize for them? Why should you apologize at all? I didn't think they were rude."

He gives you a flat look. "They didn't shake your hand. They didn't introduce themselves, and Samu was talking like shit. He was supposed to be the well-mannered twin."

"I'm as surprised of your empathy myself, Tsumu. Always thought Osamu is the one with more tact, seeing as he has more friends, but you took me aback. You have as much of what it takes to be as friendly as him. So it doesn't matter to me."

"It doesn't matter to you?"

"That he doesn't like me, that he's rude," you nudge your shoulder with his, smiling, "I have the better twin, haven't I?"

He smiles back, "thank you for saying that."

"I'm not just saying it, I believe in it."

His eyes widen. Maybe it's silly, but his heart floods with warmth. He has been the lesser twin all of his life. Of course, he doesn't believe it, and neither does he think Osamu knows or cares about it, but with his personality and his uncanny ability to repel friends - and people - he had always been the lesser twin. The twin incapable of anything a normal, social person can. He doesn’t care. He really doesn't. But when he heard you say that you believed - wholeheartedly - that he is the better twin, even after what he said, it makes him strangely... happy, like a wieght he doesn't know has been resting on his shoulders disappear, and when he gives you a smile, a  wide one, he believes that if you had a twin too, you'd be his favourite.

With all of your masks and hidden personalities.