synopsis: you’re failing a class and ask atsumu to help you study
a/n: for the sake of this fic, lets pretend atsumu doesn’t canonically have mid grades and is somehow, annoyingly at the top of his class 😗😗
Your friends had told you it was a bad idea.
“Don’t bother, (y/n). There’s no way he’ll say yes.”
“Yeah, and he’s real foul too.”
“Mhmm. You’re wasting your time.”
“I’m sure you can find someone else to tutor you?”
It was the last statement that got you the most, because that was the thing—there was nobody else.
Your parents, despite their best attempts to help, were a lost cause. You weren’t particularly close to anyone in your class. And the one girl you were vaguely acquainted with had come down with a shockingly inconvenient case of adult chickenpox and hadn’t shown up to class for the past three days.
As for your friends, none of them could help you since they were all currently on holiday—a holiday that you couldn’t go on because you needed to stay behind and study. Not that you blamed them. They’d been planning that trip for months.
So no, you couldn’t find anyone else.
Different class. Top of the leaderboard, some say. Or close enough. An athlete, which frankly felt unfair—because how can someone be both extremely athletic and academically inclined? That goes against the laws of school archetypes. Everyone knows you’re either one or the other.
Apparently, he was one of the rare students in your year who actually understood the material, too. Like, understood understood—not just memorised the prof’s notes and regurgitated them word-for-word like a human printer with zero clue what any of it meant.
And right now, he was your best shot.
Your only shot, really—unless you counted divine intervention or a surprise academic awakening, and neither of those were looking promising.
Plus you kind of knew him. Sort of. Through mutual friends. But it was better than nothing, right?
There was just one small issue.
Because according to your friends, he was—and you quote—
You’re sprinting down the corridor, clutching a precarious stack of textbooks you gave up trying to cram into your bag. Two heads swivel at the call—same face, same build, same bored expression.
For a split second you think you’re seeing double. Then you remember.
Oh, yeah—Miya has a twin.
“Sorry,” you pant, shifting your textbooks in your arms. “The blonde one—I mean, Atsumu. Can I talk to you for a sec?”
He half-turns. Looks down at you like you’re something that’s crawled out of a drain.
One word, uttered it like it physically pained him to speak to you.
You tense. Admittedly, the longer he looks at you, the more you’re starting to feel like a bug—small and insignificant, and about two seconds from being squashed beneath his heel.
Crawling into a drain doesn’t sound half bad, actually.
Beside him, his twin winces and offers you a silent, cringing apology.
“Inabit, ‘Tsumu,” the silver-haired one says. “Don’t be late to practice.”
He’s already peeling away from the conversation as Atsumu flails for a response, reaching to hook a finger through the strap of his brother’s backpack to stop him from escaping.
“Oi, ‘Samu—don’t just leave—”
His complaints fall on deaf ears. Osamu just shrugs him off, stuffs his hands into his pockets and strolls down the hallway, disappearing into the sea of wandering students.
Well—at least you’ve got his full attention now.
You’ve yet to decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.
Peeved, Atsumu clicks his tongue and turns around to face you.
This is going great already.
You take a deep breath and remind yourself that your grades are depending on your performance. You can’t afford to be meek. Somehow, you need to convince this man to agree to your ploy, or else you can kiss your summer goodbye.
“I’m sorry for bothering you—I promise I’ll be quick. I was just wondering if you could, uh…”
The question burns on your tongue. He cocks an eyebrow at you, impatient.
Spit it out, (y/n). You can’t chicken out now.
“Do you think you could help me study?”
The words come out a little jumbled—a bit more high pitched than you’d have liked. You blame it on the nerves.
Atsumu seems to think it’s for a different reason entirely.
“Listen, I ain’t interested in—“
“I don’t wanna date you!”
The words echo down the corridor.
Heads spin around to look at you. Some outright laugh. Some rolls their eyes. You want to the floors to open up and swallow you whole.
It’s a miracle you haven’t bolted with your face buried in your hands. You want to say it’s because you’re brave, when really, it’s more likely that mortification has rooted you in place—like a bunny caught in a fox den.
The fox in question stares at you.
The word “doubt” might as well be etched onto his forehead. He’s squinting at you, clearly unconvinced, despite the fact that you’ve just humiliated yourself in front of the entire year.
“I swear I’m not tryna get in your pants,” you insist, quieter this time. “I’m failing Japanese.”
Finally—you get the words out.
“How are ya failin’ Japanese?” He jeers. “Yer Japanese ain’t cha?”
“I am,” you blurt—then scoff. “Clearly. I just can’t wrap my head around classical grammar and keigo—it’s like my brain shuts off. And the thing is, I need to get a decent grade or else they’ll hold me back this summer.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
You press your lips into a thin line. You’re trying your very best to stay polite—to hold back from throwing your head back and groaning about failing classes, missing out on holidays and spending your free period talking to a guy who would literally rather be anywhere else than in your presence—but he’s not exactly making it easy for you.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “It very much is. But I was hoping you could help me solve that problem.” Then, for good measure—and also because you’re foolishly hoping some of your kindness might rub off on him—you add with your best smile:
Atsumu doesn’t miss a beat.
He jerks his chin at you. “What’s in it for me?”
Crap. You hadn’t thought about that.
Honestly? You hadn’t even expected to get this far in the first place.
“Erm…” You wrack your brain. Not much, you suppose. “I’ll be eternally grateful? And, if word gets out that you’ve helped someone get a decent grade, maybe your reputation won’t be so…”
How to put this delicately…
“Sour?” you offer, smiling in a way you hope comes across as charming rather than desperate.
Atsumu stares you down with a look dry enough to peel paint, and says nothing.
Fair enough. That was probably the lamest response you could’ve given to Atsumu Miya. Everyone knows it: this man could not give two shits about his reputation. Kindness doesn’t exactly top his list of priorities—especially not when it comes to random girls asking him for favours.
He turns on his heel, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Yer on your own.”
“Wait!” The word bursts out before you can’t stop it. Same with the hand you fling forward to latch onto his sleeve.
He stops in his tracks, glancing down at where you’re holding him, then scowls. You let go immediately, like you’ve just touched a live wire.
“I’m sorry,” you wince. “But please. I could really use your help.”
“I’ll give you unlimited access to the school gym?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? An’ how d’you plan on pullin’ that off?”
You’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but something tells you there’s absolutely zero chance of the Atsumu doing you—or anyone, for that matter—any semblance of a favour unless there’s some kind of bribe involved.
“I’m friends with the janitor,” you admit. “I help her lock up sometimes—she likes me. I bet I can get her to lend me the spare set of keys if I asked.”
For some reason, Atsumu’s lips twitch.
“Yer friends with the janitor?”
It dawns on you that he’s trying not to laugh. Your cheeks redden.
“Do you want unlimited access to the gym, or not?” you splutter, frowning as he chuckles at your perfectly normal, perfectly wholesome friendship with the school janitor.
“Oi, watch the sass,” he chides. “Remember who’s the one tutorin’ ya.”
Your eyes light up, a grin blooming across your face. “So you’ll do it?”
He pauses, cocking his head from side to side like he’s deep in thought, though you’re almost certain he’s just pulling your leg. You’re feeling hopeful—what aspiring athlete wouldn’t kill for unlimited practice time?
Your heart soars—then plummets as he holds up a hand in front of your face.
You brace yourself. “…Go on?”
“I’ll do it. But I decide when and where we meet up, and ya can’t pester me about it. I’ve got nationals comin’ up, so I can’t afford to be playin’ tutor with an undercover fan every evenin’.”
“Not a fan,” you deadpan.
“If ya say so,” he sings, rolling his shoulders like he’s already trying to shake off the rest of the conversation.
It bothers you that he genuinely thinks you’re part of his crazy, borderline cultish fan-club. “I don’t even know what position you play!”
His reaction time is instant. “Setter,” he declares.
Suddenly, he looks like a completely different person. His posture loosens, his eyes brighten. Somehow, it makes him look younger than before.
“Only the best high school setter in Japan,” he adds, full of smug.
You knew he was good—better than good, actually. But you hadn’t realised you were practically talking to a celebrity.
“No way,” you marvel. Your praise is genuine. “That’s amazing. I had no idea.”
Atsumu squints again, only this time, it’s more amused than suspicious. “You sure yer not tryna get in my pants?”
Never mind. You should’ve kept your thoughts to yourself. Compliments were clearly a mistake.
“No!” you blurt, scandalised.
“As in—yes. I’m sure I’m not.”
The silence that follows is deafening. God—you’re so glad your friends aren’t here to witness this. Even abroad, you can hear them practically cringing their faces off.
“So… you’ll help me right?”
He nods, his expression mellowing into that unsettling brand of bored indifference again. “Uh-huh, sure. But remember—you’re workin’ around my hours. Deal?”
“Deal.” It’s better than nothing.
The two of you part ways shortly after, him down one length of the corridor—you, the other.
You immediately pull your phone out to tell your friends the good (and very much unexpected) news.
You’d say that went pretty well.
The porch light flickers on.
When he said you’d be working around his schedule, you hadn’t expected that to mean showing up at his house on a random Saturday evening.
Turns out—Atsumu’s a pretty busy guy.
So here you are, standing outside the Miya household with a tote bag full of textbooks, your hand hovering mid-air like the door might burn you to touch it.
Oh, that’s right—you’d never been to a guy’s house before. Not alone. Nor at sundown. And definitely not the house of someone who barely qualified as an acquaintance. Someone with a tongue sharp enough to cut diamond and a sneer sour enough to curdle milk.
You take a deep breath, remind yourself that your summer is depending on this, and clench and unclench your fist a few times before knocking three times.
It takes another try before you hear footsteps on the other side. Then the door creaks open, revealing—
“Oh, hey (y/n),” says his twin. Judging by his expression, he has no idea you were meant to be coming over tonight.
For some reason, that surprises you more than it probably should.
“Erm, hello,” you say with a sheepish smile. Good start, good start. Why does this somehow feel more awkward than talking to Atsumu?
“Your brother invited me over to help me study?”
A flicker of recognition crosses his face. His mouth forms a small “o” as he steps aside, suddenly looking… bashful? “Sorry, I had no idea. I woulda prepped dinner or somethin’.”
That catches you off guard.
You’re not sure what’s more shocking: how polite he is compared to his brother, or the fact that he’s already offered to cook you food despite this being your first ever interaction.
You wave your hands dismissively as you step inside. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it! I’ve already eaten. Thank you, though.”
You hadn’t really known what to expect from the Miya household—but for some reason, it makes total sense.
It’s nothing grand, but not boring either. The living room is humble, cosy. Bathed in warm light from two tall lamps rather than an obnoxiously bright ceiling bulb. It’s slightly disorganised in a way that makes their home feel lived in rather than chaotic.
You’re still glancing around when a new wave of nerves creeps up your spine—stirred by a thought you hadn’t accounted for. “Are your parents not home?”
“Nah,” Osamu replies, to which you heave a sigh of relief. That’s one bullet dodged. He then reaches out, gesturing to the tote slung over your shoulder.
“Oh—thanks,” you say, a little startled. You let him take it as you shrug off your coat.
“They work abroad,” he adds. “They’re hardly ever home.”
Something about that makes you a little sad. You’re pretty sure they’re not even eighteen yet.
He’s showing you where to put your coat and shoes when a heavy thump suddenly echoes upstairs. The staircase creaks and groans under thundering steps as Atsumu comes stomping halfway down, peeking over the banister to see what’s going on.
“Oh, yer here,” he says, by way of greeting.
Osamu frowns up at him. “Ya coulda told me she was comin’ over.”
“I did,” Atsumu argues. “You just weren’t listenin’.”
“Then ya coulda at least answered the door for her.”
Atsumu shrugs. “I knew you’d do it.”
You’re pretending to dig around in your tote bag as the twins bicker over nothing. Eventually, Osamu disappears back into the kitchen—presumably where he was before you arrived. You wonder absently if the delicious smell curling through the living room is his doing.
Atsumu’s voice draws your attention. He’s still at the top of the stairs, watching you expectantly. When you don’t move right away, he jerks his head for you to follow.
You scuttle up the steps to join him, trailing behind as he leads you down a narrow hallway that—judging by the layout—must lead to his bedroom. The walls are lined with picture frames, along with various sports awards you assume belong to both brothers.
“Wow. You’re both so talented,” you say breezily, smiling as you glance over the displays.
Atsumu nudges his door open with his foot and, to your surprise, steps aside to let you walk in first.
“Uh-huh,” he replies. For a moment, you think that’s all he’ll say—but as he shuts the door behind him, you hear him mutter a brief, almost begrudging, “Thanks.”
It’s only now—standing in his room, past 6 p.m., in the quiet hush of early evening—that it truly hits you:
You’re alone in a guy’s bedroom.
You try not to stare too much.
It’s a pretty simple room. Maybe on the smaller side. There’s a desk pushed up against the window on which lays a few textbooks; an Xbox sits in the corner underneath a small TV; a volleyball of course. But the most obvious, and cutest part of his bedroom in your opinion, is the rickety old bunk bed tucked away on the far end of the room.
“You share a room with your brother?”
You hadn’t meant it as a tease, but the smile on your lips could’ve easily made it seem otherwise.
Atsumu’s gaze remains fixed anywhere but your face as he nudges something (a magazine, you think) underneath his bed with his foot.
“Unfortunately,” he grumbles. And… what’s this? You could’ve sworn you saw the tips of his ears turn pink.
That’s when your second realisation of the night hits you:
Hang on a minute—Atsumu Miya is actually kinda…
You hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe because the school’s fluorescent lights were criminally unflattering, or maybe because his attitude had been so off-putting that it clouded your entire perception of him.
But now that you were looking at him under warm lights, almost boyish, stood there in a pair of flattering grey sweatpants and oversized t-shirt that did nothing to hide the toned arms peeking out from the sleeves, you had to admit you could see the appeal.
“You allergic to chairs, or somethin’?”
The questions snaps you back to reality.
He’s pulling out two seats when you realise what he means—you’re still stood in the middle of his room like a confused Sims character. He plops down onto his and nods to the one beside him.
“Right,” you mutter. You take the seat and shuffle the chair forward, pretending not to notice the way your thigh bumps his in the process.
He flips open a textbook, planting his elbow on the table. “So. What don’t cha understand?”
You hesitate before answering. “…Everything?”
Atsumu gives a slow exhale, like you’ve just physically taken years off his life with your incompetence. “Aight,” he mutters. “Let’s do this.”
You’re about one hour into your study session when his words just… stop registering.
“So how come ya just wrote the exact opposite of what I just said?”
You blink down at your notebook. Oh.
“Did I? Oh yeah—ugh, I’m sorry.”
Atsumu exhales sharply through his nose. You can tell he’s trying to keep from snapping again—thankful when he doesn’t. “It’s fine,” he mutters eventually. “I’m gonna be real, I’m not the most patient guy ya coulda picked as a tutor.”
You press your lips together. You’re inclined to agree. Atsumu’s a good teacher: clear instructions, smart, surprisingly attentive. But his patience is about as thin a cheap convenience store tissue.
Still, you shake your head. “No, it’s okay. I really appreciate what you’re doing. Especially with how busy you are and stuff.”
He’s quiet for a second, flipping back a page. Then, as if the thought’s just occurred to him, he goes, “How come ya asked for my help anyway? Don’tcha have any friends who could help?”
You nod, staring at the notes again. You retain none of it.
“I do. But they’re all on holiday.”
You nod again, a little more solemn this time. “I’d be there too if I wasn’t failing.”
“So yer tellin’ me… ya coulda been loungin’ somewhere sunny—drinkin’ cocktails or whatever—but instead yer sittin’ here, studyin’ keigo with me?”
“I know,” you say, letting out a pointed sigh. “Sucks to be me, right?”
He huffs a laugh through his nose. The sound makes your ears perk up—it was faint, but it definitely qualified as a laugh. You realise it’s the first time you’ve seen him in a good mood all evening.
“Watch it,” he chides. He spins the pen between his fingers before reaching over to underline something in your book. His brows furrow, completely focused again.
You’re too busy replaying the way he just told you off—with that dry tone and barely-there smile.
Uh, no. You are not allowed to get butterflies over that. You have exams to pass. Focus.
“Didja wanna take a break?” he asks suddenly without looking up.
Your mouth opens, closes. He glances at you then, one eyebrow raised like he already knows the answer. Had you really been that obvious?
“You’re not rememberin’ any of this, are ya?”
“I am,” you lie cheerfully.
“Okay… maybe not all of it. I know I’ve made some progress though.”
You don’t want him to think his tutoring efforts are going to waste, but it’s been over an hour of verb conjugations, passive structures and Atsumu being the strictest teacher you’ve probably ever had in your life. Your brain’s melting. And you can already feel the early stages of a headache settling behind your eyes.
“I think I just need to let my brain process all this,” you say, motioning vaguely to the mess of textbooks and uncapped highlighters, “and then we can start again. Is that okay?”
Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t protest. Instead, he sets his pen down and leans back into his chair, draping his arms over the backrest.
“I dunno how ya can do that,” he mutters, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. “Stop halfway through learnin’ somethin’. It’d drive me nuts.”
“Why? Do you usually just work yourself to the bone, without taking any breaks?”
“Pretty much,” he drawls. “I feel restless unless I get whatever it is I’m learnin’ down straight away.”
“That’s some serious OCD behavior,” you say jokingly.
“Eh.” Unbothered, he stretches his arms over his head with a loud yawn. You do your best not to let your eyes stray to the sliver of skin that flashes beneath his t-shirt. “I’d like to think it’s paid off,” he says, glancing not-so-subtly at the shelves on his wall.
You follow his gaze to the neat little shrine of athletic achievements there, secretly thankful for the distraction. Medals, trophies, certificates… Some photos too. Your eyes snag on one where he’s holding up a championship banner, mouth open mid-cheer, eyes scrunched in a grin.
“I can see that,” you smile. “How long’ve you been playing volleyball for?”
“Since I could hold one,” he shoots back.
“Hmm.” You nod, part acknowledgment, part awe. “That’s really cool.”
There’s a pause after your compliment that you don’t think much of, still busy admiring the various trinkets on his wall. When you glance back, you’re surprised to find him looking at you.
Not in a distracted, yeah-yeah-what-were-you-saying kinda way. But like you’d somehow managed to get his attention. His full attention. His eyes are a little hooded, lashes low. It’s a stare that feels… deliberate. Or maybe curious is a better word. Like he’s only just now realising you’re a person and not just some academic liability.
“Thanks,” he says softly, and there’s a small smile on his face. One of those lopsided ones that doesn’t look like it gets much use.
It lands like an arrow to the chest.
…What’s with this sudden vibe shift?
You blink fast, trying to clear the weird warmth spreading across your face. You remind yourself over and over that you barely know him and minutes prior he was flaming the utter crap out of you for not understanding his notes. There’s absolutely zero reason for you to be getting all goo-goo eyed with him now.
But he is kinda cute though, your brain provides unhelpfully.
You push the thought down like it’s a pop-up ad.
You don’t say anything. Neither does he. For a second, the air feels… still. Too still. Silences aren’t meant to feel this heavy.
You flounder, trying to think of something to break the tension—even if that involves Atsumu slamming his palm down on the table and telling you to get back to studying.
He does no such thing. Quite the opposite.
Your gaze, previously trained on anything but his face, flickers back to him. Unlike moments ago, where he seemed keen on devouring you with those chocolate eyes of his, now he seems uncharacteristically intent on avoiding all forms of eye contact.
“So…” he starts, pursing his lips like he’s unsure whether to let the words loose. “What do ya wanna do? After you graduate, I mean.”
The question renders you speechless. As if the self-centred flaming piece of garbage is suddenly taking an interest in you.
You feel like a fish gaping at the surface of a pond, mouth opening and closing as your brain tries to remember how to function in social settings.
Atsumu’s eyes eventually land on you again—and when he sees you buffer, he quirks an amused brow and picks up your slack.
“What do you wanna study? Business, literature, music..?”
“Huh,” you repeat, intelligently. “I didn’t expect you to ask me anything like that.”
He scoffs. “Don’t go readin’ into it. ‘M just curious.”
You glance at him. You’ve got to hand it to him—if he’s faking curiosity, he’s doing a good job. One elbow propped on the desk, cheek resting in one hand, eyes fixed on you like he’s actually waiting for a real answer.
So you shrug, a little sheepishly. “Honestly? I just want to be able to afford rent and groceries without freaking out every time my bank app sends a notification.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
“I don’t need to be crazy rich or anything. I just want a job that lets me live peacefully. Get a cat. Maybe grow a few plants. Buy the good oat milk without feeling guilty. That’s all, really.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Simple.”
“Some would say smart,” he counters.
You blink at him again. Why is he being so… un-jerky all of a sudden?
“Well, you’re set, aren’t you?” you say, steering the spotlight away. “With volleyball and everything. You’re probably gonna forget all about the struggling student you once graciously tutored in your youth.”
Atsumu scoffs, but he’s grinning again. A small part of you subconsciously wonders if you’ll ever grow used to the sight, or if it’ll knock the wind out of you every time.
“If yer lucky, I might get ya an autograph.”
You brighten instantly and slap your hands together once. “Perfect. I’ll resell it to a diehard fan and use the money toward a flat deposit.”
“Crafty,” he says, impressed. “Ya sure yer not considerin’ business or somethin’?”
“No,” you grin. “But if I do, and you’re looking for a manager…”
He leans back against his chair, arms folded smugly over his chest. “First time meetin’ me properly and yer already findin’ ways to worm your way into my life,” he drawls. “And ya still claim yer not a fan.”
Your frown is instinctive, but there’s no real heat to it. You suspect he’s not actually being serious—but that you being a closeted fan has somehow become a running gag between the two of you.
“Once again, I am most definitely not a fan.”
You roll your eyes. “Being a sports manager just makes a decent amount of money, okay? Excuse me for being business savvy.”
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the laugh that escaped him this time. Loud. Genuine. head tipped back and eyes crinkled at the corners.
Uh oh. This can’t be good. Your cheeks feel warm and your heart is doing some crazy flutter you rather not acknowledge.
It’s loud in your ears—almost drowning out the sound of Atsumu suggesting to get back to studying.
“Anyway,” he says, “let’s try this again. And this time, actually listen, yeah?”
“Uh, yeah—sure,” you say primly, hands hovering numbly over your array of notes and annotated textbooks.
It had not been your intention to be charmed by Miya Atsumu.
Your intention had been to study. To pass your exams and get a decent grade.
And yet here you are, on a random Saturday night—confused and flustered, being charmed by none other than Miya Atsumu.
