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Sakusa Kiyoomi should have been the easiest person to be in a secret relationship with. He’s next-level private, the type to lock down all of his social media accounts and only post cryptic, blurry selfies or pictures of his plants once every six months. Kiyoomi doesn’t even show his face in public, for Christ’s sake — it should have been simple, then, to keep their situation on the down-low.
Or so Atsumu thought.
It wasn’t a problem in the first few months. He and Kiyoomi kind of fell together, in a way. One post-loss angry hook-up turned into every other weekend spent in Atsumu’s apartment, barely making it to the bedroom before they were shedding their clothes and collapsing into each other. Sex with Kiyoomi was great, but what Atsumu really liked was the aftermath — lazy showers together, sinking into the couch and watching game footage, a new K-drama, or YouTube videos until it got too late for Kiyoomi to reasonably stay. Atsumu pushed his sleep schedule to its limits, finding every excuse to keep Kiyoomi in his presence, just a little longer.
Eventually, Kiyoomi started sleeping over, and then they were spending time together with their clothes actually on, picking up take-out and just settling into each other’s arms, enjoying the other’s company.
Their transition to dating was organic — one day, Atsumu asked, “Yer my boyfriend, huh?” and Kiyoomi said, “Yeah, it seems like it.”
They decided not to go public, at least not yet. Atsumu had particularly feral fan-girls and Kiyoomi didn’t want to deal with the rest of team making it weird, so they maintained a cool friendship in front of the prying eyes of others, but when it was them alone, Kiyoomi transformed into the sweetest, softest puppy-dog of a human being.
It was a revelation of Biblical proportions — life-altering, really. Kiyoomi let Atsumu play with his curls as he laid in his lap; he puckered his lips up at Atsumu and demanded, in a voice far too soft to belong to him, ‘kiss.’
The team didn’t suspect a thing, so Atsumu didn’t foresee it being an issue — but that was then, in the confines of practice, a safe-zone where Kiyoomi had his head entirely on straight. Now, in the midst of the warm, cozy izakaya, after an exhausting game against the Red Falcons, Kiyoomi does not have his head on anywhere near straight. He’s in another dimension entirely, three drinks in and flushed from his forehead to his chest.
Atsumu should’ve stopped him, but he was pretty distracted by the shots that Meian kept passing him and he didn’t think he had to worry too much about Kiyoomi’s tolerance. He doesn’t drink often, sure, but he’s over six feet tall. He’s a professional athlete! Three drinks should not do him in.
But they did. They very much did.
Kiyoomi sways next to him now, warm thighs burning a hole in Atsumu’s shorts as Kiyoomi presses far too close to be considered appropriate for a teammate or friend. He’s sitting ramrod straight, trying not to show his clear panic in his eyes as Kiyoomi’s hand plays with his under the table. Inunaki is definitely staring at him — he knows. He totally knows. Hinata does too, judging by the way he keeps smiling at Atsumu. It has nothing to do with the stupid jokes that Atsumu simply cannot hold back when he’s drunk, no — he has to be onto them. Kiyoomi is going to kill Atsumu for allowing this.
No one says anything, though, so Atsumu tries to breathe. It’s hard when the entire building seems to empty of oxygen the moment Kiyoomi threads their fingers together and lolls his head over onto Atsumu’s shoulder.
“Atsu,” he murmurs, lips barely moving. “My Atsu.”
There are certain aspects of Kiyoomi that Atsumu will simply never be able to process, like the way he can make the perfect doe eyes, his long lashes and blown-out pupils giving the striking impression of an innocent deer. Atsumu has never been able to say no to Kiyoomi, not once, and he’s sure that even when they’re eighty-five years old, it will be the same. All he has to do is blink, call him ‘Atsu’ or any other nickname he has for him (which is so many — they’re like ammo, piercing Atsumu right through his poor, weak heart) and he has Atsumu twisted around his finger.
It’s not an issue when they’re alone, but right now…
Atsumu nudges him. “Up, Omi, no fallin’ asleep at the bar.”
“I’m not sleeping,” Kiyoomi says and Atsumu holds back a laugh at how sincere he sounds, slow and precise like he’s explaining the plot of a drama that has, like, six different sub-stories going on. “I’m not tired. I just wanted to be close to you.”
Atsumu checks around to see if anybody heard that, but it would be impossible with how Hinata is currently chanting Bokuto’s name while he chugs a pitcher of beer. Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi, as inconspicuous as he can, like the way a casual teammate-slash-friend would do, and says, “That’s alright. Yer holdin’ my hand, right? That’s close.”
“Not enough,” Kiyoomi decides, and plops his head down once more. Jesus Lord, Atsumu is only a man and this is some cosmic level of punishment he’s receiving. He makes a mental note to absolutely get Kiyoomi to this level of drunkenness again, but only when they’re safely within the confines of one of their apartments, and not in front of the world’s nosiest volleyball team.
Atsumu is all about attention. Something about being a twin makes him demand it from everyone around him, like he didn’t get enough growing up (Osamu tells him to shut the fuck up and see a therapist about it, the bastard). It fuels him, most of the time — on the court, he’s driven by people looking at him but he does like his privacy, at least in increments. When it comes to Kiyoomi, well, he kind of likes having their moments to themselves, but if given permission, he would tell everyone in the world how much Kiyoomi means to him.
Also, he can’t deny that it would be fucking hilarious to see his teammates’ reaction to the fact that they’re dating — they probably wouldn’t believe it. Atsumu doesn’t always believe it, and he’s one half of the relationship.
“Omi.” Atsumu shrugs his shoulders ever so gently, just a barely-there movement, and Kiyoomi raises his head to glare at him as if Atsumu chucked him across the room.
“Rude,” he grumbles. He takes a quick sip of his drink — who refilled that? Who’s doing this to him?! Then down he goes again, perfectly nestled into Atsumu with his lips dangerously close to his neck.
“Wow, he’s really wasted,” notes Tomas from across the table. He’s red-cheeked and laughing, ten-times drunker than the both of them combined, and thank God for that. Had he been in a better state of mind, he would latch onto the fact that Atsumu is barely keeping his sanity. “Didn’t think Sakusa would be a clingy drunk.”
“I’m not,” Kiyoomi insists, lifting his head to shoot Tomas a defiant glower. He’s so grumpy when he’s drunk, like a big, angry teddy-bear. Well, he’s like that most of the time, but he’s learned to keep it under control in most settings and be ‘cordial’ with people. “It’s only because — ”
“— Ha!” Atsumu barks out a loud guffaw, startling Kiyoomi enough that he jumps in his seat, and effectively silencing him. “Ya sure are drunk, Omi. Yer very funny.”
Kiyoomi knits his brows at him. “I’m not.”
“Here, drink this.”
Atsumu practically forces the cup of water down his throat and flashes Tomas his cheekiest smile. Tomas eyes him for a moment longer, but then turns back to Inunaki, who is attempting to challenge Hinata to a tequila-drinking competition. Atsumu makes a mental note to leave before that gets going — Meian may be the captain, but Atsumu turns into the mom-friend when his teammates get stupid, and he just knows he’ll be coerced into cleaning up puke. He can’t do that, not when he has Kiyoomi to focus on.
Kiyoomi, who is currently wiping water away from his lips and giving Atsumu a piercing gaze.
“Didn’t want water,” he complains.
“Well, ya needed it.” Atsumu shakes his head. Drunk Kiyoomi is something that he is wholly unequipped to handle — it’s like a split personality. Sober Kiyoomi is dignified, quiet, speaks only in blunt truths. Atsumu has always found it endearing, even when Kiyoomi tells him, with utmost seriousness, ‘that hairstyle is nowhere near working for you today’ or ‘brush your teeth before you breathe near me.’ It’s his love language and Atsumu never minds it. It’s what he and the team are used to, after all.
This version of Kiyoomi — well, it’s disarming. Kiyoomi doesn’t lay his head back on Atsumu’s shoulder, but he keeps his full attention on him, tapping his finger nails, squeezing his hand, murmuring variations of his name that only he can hear.
“Atsu, ‘Tsumu, love.” He seems to be singing them along to a song in his head, probably one they hear eighteen times a day on Tik Tok. God, Kiyoomi loves Tik Tok. Once, in an interview, the team was asked to do as many viral dances as they knew from the app and Kiyoomi knew all of them.
That was probably when Atsumu fell in love, honestly. That, and many, many other small moments in time — like right now, as Kiyoomi’s fingers dance up Atsumu’s arm, disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt.
Atsumu adores him, but fuck, he’s going to burst into flames, or disintegrate right on the spot, Marvel style.
“Hey, Omi,” he says, just a breath so that nobody hears. “Ya know where we are, right? Ya see the rest of our team?”
“Yes.”
“So, ya know, maybe ya shouldn’t hang on me like this.”
“But I like you,” Kiyoomi whines, and it’s just above a whisper but Atsumu swears it sounds like a blow horn. Meian glances in their direction, but his eyes are glazed over and he wears a goofy smile on his face as Bokuto explains the logistics of one of their new plays using only dramatic sound effects.
“I like ya too, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu mutters.
“Your Omi.”
“Yes,” Atsumu agrees. My Omi, indeed. There’s something so debilitating about this side of his boyfriend — a little helpless and completely precious. Oftentimes, Atsumu calls Kiyoomi ‘baby.’ It’s usually in the bedroom, little more than a gasp when he’s half out of his mind, but sometimes it’s tender, in moments where they lie together and just exist. He’ll brush Kiyoomi’s hair out of his eyes and watch as they flutter closed, content, sleepy, sweet. Kiyoomi is hard-edged in public, but when they’re together, he really can be a big baby — Atsumu’s baby.
It’s coming out of him now, the pouts, the small declarations of his care. Kiyoomi is only this vulnerable when his inhibitions are lowered, whether it be due to the afterglow of sex, the safety of being in Atsumu’s arms, or apparently, several shots of high-end liquor.
Atsumu aches to wrap him up in a hug, kiss the two moles on his forehead, tell him he loves him dearly, his sweet Omi, but there are many things wrong with that scenario — one, PDA. What kind of person would Atsumu be if he subjected his teammates to that? They would kick him off the Jackals (just him — Kiyoomi would get to stay because despite the fact that it took three weeks for him to even acknowledge any of them outside of the court, he’s everyone’s favorite). Two, there’s the whole secret aspect of the relationship — the part that was supposed to be easy!
When Kiyoomi is like this, Atsumu wants to scream their relationship from the rooftops — ‘Hey, everyone in the vicinity of this bar. Look how fuckin’ cute my boyfriend is. Don’t ya just wanna pinch his cheeks? Well, ya can’t because he’s mine.’
“What are you thinking about?” Kiyoomi slurs.
“Hah? Nothin’, uh, the weather,” Atsumu stammers out. Months have passed and yet he’s still not entirely used to Kiyoomi, and the fact that he reads his mind better than Osamu does sometimes. Atsumu tries to keep cool in all situations, but if he’s being honest with himself, he sucks at it, and that’s double true when Kiyoomi is around. He loses any swagger he may have had and turns into a bumbling mess.
Kiyoomi knows this, even in his drunken haze, and he gives Atsumu a dry look. “That’s not true. You never think about the weather. It’s freezing outside and you didn’t even wear a coat.”
“It woulda ruined my look!” He was cold the entire way to the izakaya, but did he complain? Never. He would suffer for fashion and sex appeal, and obviously it worked, since Kiyoomi can’t keep his hands off of him.
Even now, Kiyoomi squeezes his thigh and Atsumu prays to the heavens that nobody hears the mortifying squeak he lets out.
Kiyoomi definitely heard it if his smirk is any indication, and like the drunken, demure demon that he is, he flashes his eyes at Atsumu and simpers, “You always look good, Atsu. You’re beautiful.”
Ah, abort mission, abort mission!
Atsumu scans the table and finds that, blessedly, everyone is too distracted by Bokuto regaling them with a tale of the one time he and Hinata entered Hinata’s wiener dog in a race and he got first place (because of course even Hinata’s tiny dog would be athletically-inclined). Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief, and then, as subtly as he can, turns to Kiyoomi. “Yer gonna blow our cover, Omi.”
“Maybe I don’t care,” he replies, petulant as ever.
“It was yer idea in the first place!”
Technically, it was a joint decision, but Kiyoomi knows Atsumu airs his business out to everyone on a daily basis. The choice to keep it hidden was, like, ninety-eight percent Kiyoomi.
He seems to have forgotten that, though. It’s completely gone with the rest of his brain cells, drowned in the vodka cranberry, or whatever drink he threw back three of.
Kiyoomi sighs, like Atsumu is heavily inconveniencing him. From across the table, Barnes throws a glimpse at them and smiles a toothy, intoxicated smile. Atsumu can’t decipher it — Barnes always smiles, but this one seems to mean something.
Or Atsumu is crazy. Kiyoomi has driven him to the point of insanity. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
“I think,” Kiyoomi slurs, not even trying to be quiet, “That everybody already knows.”
“What are you talking about?” Inunaki asks suddenly, pulled away from watching Tomas try to balance a shot glass on his face. “What do we know?”
“Jesus, ya got bat hearin’ or somethin’?” Atsumu snaps.
“Bats do have very good hearing,” Kiyoomi confirms, his little encyclopedia. Atsumu turns to smile at him, against his will, because he’s just — how the fuck is somebody that cute? When he turns back to Inunaki to lie his ass off, he finds the entirety of his team now watching him, all wearing matching grins.
It’s horrifying.
“No, you two just aren’t as subtle as you think you are,” Meian says, snorting. Hinata catches on, nodding.
“We’ve been noticing your flirting for weeks,” adds Barnes. “It’s completely obvious.”
“Omi-san, do you have a crush on Atsumu?” Hinata teases, waggling his eyebrows in a ridiculously exaggerated way.
“Don’t answer that, Omi,” Atsumu blurts.
“Yes.”
“Ah, damn it.”
“Aha!” Inunaki cries. “I knew it! The other day after practice, I saw Atsumu ruffle his hair, and,” he continues, like he’s a detective who finally cracked a baffling case, “Sakusa was laying his head on Atsumu’s shoulder earlier. He barely comes near me without spraying me down with sanitizer first.”
“That’s because I saw you sneeze without covering your mouth once,” Kiyoomi grouses, filter eliminated, decimated to the point that it may never come back. “Atsumu sneezes into a tissue, every time.”
“Well, ‘course I do,” Atsumu mumbles, embarrassed but figuring it won’t help his case if he freezes up and acts as if he’s forgotten human speech. “Don’t wanna risk spreadin’ any germs to ya.”
“That’s why I love you so much.”
Oh. Uh oh. That was — not something Kiyoomi should’ve said out loud. An implosion is imminent, any minute now and the entire restaurant will be brought down with the force of —
“Love?!”
It’s Bokuto who catches up first, and coincidentally, it’s Bokuto whose voice can be magnified enough to be heard across the entirety of Osaka. “Omi-kun, did you say love?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi confirms proudly. He’s going to die later, when he realizes that he did this. He’s probably going to leave the Jackals and flee the country, and Atsumu will have to follow him but he’s not good at learning languages, would’ve failed English if Osamu didn’t take his tests for him, and —
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi declares, “is the love of my life.”
“Oh my God,” Atsumu whimpers. “Omi, yer killin’ me.”
“Baby,” he corrects. “I’m your baby.”
“Is somebody recording this?” Inunaki demands. “Somebody better be recording this.”
“I’ll break all of yer phones,” Atsumu threatens. “I’ll throw ‘em in the river. I’ll throw you in the river.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Hinata stops them all. “So, you two are actually together and didn’t tell us?!”
“Yeah, well, someone here didn’t want to,” Atsumu sighs. “Remember that, Omi?”
“It was a dumb idea,” Kiyoomi decides. Well. That’s settled then.
“Are you sure he’s not just drunk and making up stories?” asks Tomas. “I mean, no offense, but Atsumu, you don’t seem like Sakusa’s type.”
“I like blondes,” Kiyoomi says. “Well, I like one blonde. My blonde. My Atsu.”
“I think he might have alcohol poisoning,” Meian says, frowning.
“Is it that hard to believe?!” Atsumu protests. Sure, it’s far-fetched but they’re questioning Kiyoomi’s taste, not his, and Atsumu is a catch, so what the fuck?
“No, it’s just — he’s about to fall over, ‘Tsumu,” Bokuto frets, and ah, so he is. Kiyoomi is swaying, eyes closed, about to knock right into Atsumu’s side. He gets an arm around his waist, steadying him, and Kiyoomi presses against it, content now that Atsumu is holding him.
“Wanna go home,” he mumbles.
“Okay, Omi-Omi, I’ll bring ya home,” Atsumu promises. He glares at his team in warning. “The rest of ya — not a word about this tomorrow.”
“Our lips are sealed,” Hinata swears.
“Pft. Mine aren’t.” Inunaki cackles. “I’m telling this story at your wedding.”
“Let us know when we can put it on Twitter,” Tomas quips.
“Not until we’ve talked to our PR team,” Barnes says, always the responsible one.
“You all give me a headache,” bemoans Meian.
“Alright, anyway,” Atsumu interrupts, a vein in his forehead threatening to bulge out. The MSBY Black Jackals are going to send him into goddamn cardiac arrest — if Kiyoomi doesn’t do it first. As it stands, Kiyoomi is digging his fingers into Atsumu’s shirt, wrinkling it and playing absent-mindedly with a button and the thought of his teammates latching onto that piece of ammo is enough to make Atsumu push him up and away from the table and lead him out the door. The jeers that follow them echo through the entire izakaya.
When the cool winter air hits them, Kiyoomi shivers, and like it’s instinct, Atsumu wraps his arm around his shoulders.
“Omi, what am I gonna do with ya?” he sighs, mostly to himself.
“Love me,” Kiyoomi supplies.
Atsumu laughs, a full-bodied, belly-laugh because God, he really does love Kiyoomi, and he’s known from the moment he first fell asleep on Atsumu’s chest, worn-out and exhausted and entirely vulnerable a few weeks after they started going out officially. Atsumu has loved a lot, but never had anything been as simple as falling in love with Kiyoomi. It was a puzzle piece falling into a place, something as instinctive as breathing. All of the cheesy songs that his ma used to play in the kitchen on Sunday mornings made sense when Atsumu found Kiyoomi — loving him is easy; loving him is fun.
Kiyoomi is an odd little thing — he’s an insane presence on the court, a powerhouse, a stoic, imposing man, but with Atsumu, he’s just Omi.
“I do love ya, my sweet Omi.” He ruffles his curls and Kiyoomi pouts, shaking them back into place. “I don’t get ya, but I sure love ya.”
Kiyoomi hums. “I just thought everyone should know. How happy you make me. I didn’t think — well, it’s you, so I didn’t realize that I would care for you so much.”
“‘Well it’s me.’” Atsumu snorts. “Romantic.”
“You’re aware of who you were in high school.”
“That I am,” he chuckles. “And so are you, and yet here we are — workin’ out pretty damn well, in my opinion.”
“Atsu,” he says, very serious, like he may confess a deep and dark secret, or say something he would never dare say sober — maybe he’ll tell Atsumu how much he secretly fell for him the moment they locked eyes across the net at their first training camp, or how he pined from him afar for years, or that he fantasizes about spending the rest of his life with him — “I think I might be sick.”
“Oh. Okay, okay. Let’s go home.”
-x-
Through a truly monumental effort on Atsumu’s part, Kiyoomi does not throw up in the streets. He may forget everything else he’s said tonight, but Kiyoomi would remember that for the rest of his life and use it as an excuse to never touch alcohol, or even go out in public, ever again. He has to give some credit to Hinata, who always chooses an izakaya within walking distance of their shared complex because he plans to blackout on Thursday nights and stumble home.
Atsumu tucks Kiyoomi into his bed and force-feeds him water and an ibuprofen. Kiyoomi grumbles about it and makes grabby-hands at Atsumu, swatting away his attempts at care and repeatedly asking for cuddles.
“If I don’t do all these preventative measures, yer gonna feel like shit in the mornin’, now drink more of this.”
“I’ll drink it if you lay down with me.”
“No, ya won’t.” Atsumu knows how Kiyoomi operates — he haggles to get what he wants, like some sort of character in an RPG, and nearly never holds up his end of the bargain. Once Atsumu lays down on that bed, the water will be long-forgotten and Kiyoomi will wake up with a massive hangover and cottonmouth, blaming Atsumu for it.
“I’ll cuddle ya right after, Omi, just drink yer water.”
Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him, and it’s really just — it’s unreal, how cute somebody of Kiyoomi’s size and stature can be. He’s a whole-ass man and yet Atsumu is melting like he’s a Poodle puppy, the ones that fit in your hand.
“Come on, baby,” he tries. “For me.”
That does it. A flush creeps into Kiyoomi’s cheeks, and he takes the cup, draining it hurriedly. Atsumu takes it and refills it, sitting it on the nightstand, before crawling under the covers with Kiyoomi. He wastes no time in wrapping his arms around him, and Kiyoomi snuggles up against his chest, burying his head in Atsumu’s neck.
“Love you,” he mumbles.
“I know, and so does the whole team,” Atsumu teases, kissing his head.
“Are you mad?” Kiyoomi asks, voice small. He gets like this, too, sometimes — unsure, careful, and Atsumu will not stand for it. He huffs and lifts Kiyoomi softly by his curls, bringing them eye-to-eye.
“Why would I be mad? I’ll tell the world I love ya, Omi, I don’t care. I was worried you’d regret it, is all, since ya wanted to be so secretive.”
Kiyoomi stares at him, purposeful, eyes a little watery and glazed. “I thought you didn’t wanna tell anyone.”
“Me?” Atsumu barks out a laugh. “I tell everyone I know everythin’ — all of Instagram knows what I eat for breakfast every mornin’. ‘Course I wanna show off my boyfriend.” He kisses him, right smack in the middle of his forehead. Kiyoomi crinkles his eyebrows at the sensation, but softens. “I love ya very much, baby. My sweet baby boy.”
“I like it when you call me that.”
“That’s why I do it.” He kisses his moles, his cheek, each of his eyelids. “We can make it official tomorrow — if ya wake up and remember any of this.”
“I will,” Kiyoomi promises. “Tomorrow. We’ll tell everyone.”
“Can’t wait to post all the cute pictures I have of ya.”
Kiyoomi smiles. It brightens the dark room like the moon in the sky. He presses a kiss to Kiyoomi’s lips, and he settles, closing his eyes and clutching tighter to Atsumu’s back. It doesn’t take longer than a minute for his breathing to even out.
There’s going to be a lot of damage control in the morning — a precious secret has been revealed tonight, but Atsumu has never minded the thought of showing off this Kiyoomi to the world, the Kiyoomi that is all his.