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I.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is a man of habits.
He wakes up at 6 am with a lamp programmed to emulate the sunrise. He showers before and after games and always shampoos his hair twice. He walks from the dorms to practice no matter the weather, and he likes to arrive early at the gym so he can get dressed in silence. He never hits shuffle on his working out playlist because the songs are perfectly ordered to match his rhythm, with the faster songs always starting just when he’s at the most intense part.
So Kiyoomi has many habits and he’s not good at breaking them, but it’s ok because they’re good habits. Most of them, anyway.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is a man of bad habits too.
He can’t have umeboshi candy in the house because he will eat it all in one sitting. He enjoys good whiskey and his fingers itch for a glass at the end of a long day. He chews on his lips obsessively when he’s nervous and often doesn’t realize he’s doing it until he tastes blood. His first answer to any invitation is always a resounding no . He doesn’t filter his thoughts and doesn’t really care how that makes him come across. He can’t stop thinking about Miya Atsumu.
And most of these he can handle. He only buys candy once a month, gets the most expensive whiskey so he doesn’t feel tempted to overindulge, uses foul tasting chapstick and thinks twice before declining anything. Sakusa Kiyoomi is disciplined, after all. He’s always been very good at finding workarounds for the peculiarities he’d rather not deal with. So he’s not too worried about the fact that he hasn’t found a way yet to fully minimize the effects of—
“Omi-Omi! What’s taking ya so long?!”
—that. It’s admittedly a challenge to not think about someone when that someone is around you almost 24/7. And especially when that someone is Miya Atsumu, who seems to have some kind of allergy to being ignored. Kiyoomi tries to pretend he’s gone deaf, and keeps tying his shoelaces very, very slowly. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Bokuto’s aim will fail and Atsumu will get a volleyball to the head. Maybe Kiyoomi himself will get knocked out by an errant spike. He’s not picky at this point.
“C’mon Omi, it’s been years. Ya know damn well ya can’t ignore me.” Atsumu tsks, standing over Kiyoomi with his hands on his hips and a smirk that tells the world that he woke up today and chose the path of violence, as per usual.
“Call me an optimist, because I keep hoping someday you’ll catch the hint,” Kiyoomi sighs, long suffering and already exhausted by this interaction.
“I thought ya called yerself a realist, but guess not, because then you’d know this is never going to happen,” Atsumu shoots back, quirking an eyebrow just to drive home the point. He should get an award, really, because it must be some kind of talent how he knows exactly what makes his obnoxiousness even worse. The eyebrow quirking is one of those things. The fact that he looks good doing it is another.
“What can I say, you’re insufferable enough to change a man’s convictions.” Kiyoomi stands up in one fluid movement, pointedly ignoring Atsumu’s outstretched hand offering help.
“Ya flatter me, Omi-kun.” He places his hand on his chest dramatically, and Kiyoomi wonders, not for the first time, if he has what it takes to get away with murder.
“Why are you here, Miya? I’m pretty sure I heard you promise Coach one hundred serves before practice is over.” Kiyoomi massages his temples with his middle fingers, feeling the impending headache settling in. A headache that comes accompanied by a familiar internal chant of why him, why him, oh god, out of all people, why him.
“I just came to warn ya that we’re all wrapping up, so if ya want to get to the lockers before anyone else ya have to go now. Oh, and Shou-kun dumped an energy drink all over himself because he thought it was water, so he’s extra sticky and smelling like artificial tangerine,” Atsumu laughs to himself for a second before directing that sleazy grin back to Kiyoomi. “So chop chop, Omi.”
That’s why, Kiyoomi’s traitorous inner voice supplies helpfully. He isn’t sure when Atsumu picked up on his preference for the empty locker room, but not only he did, he also started to make sure Kiyoomi had at least a few minutes head start before the rest of the team came barging in. Usually he did so by not so subtly stalling practice with extra drills, but lately he started acknowledging it more openly. Who the hell gave him the right, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure. But if there was one thing Atsumu had plenty of besides volleyball talent and arrogance, it was the audacity .
Kiyoomi watches Atsumu saunter back to the group. He catches the ball Meian throws his way, nests it between his arm and his hip, and looks back to shoot a goddamn wink at Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi scoffs and does not stomp back to the locker room.
There are pros and cons to living in the official MSBY dorm room. Pros: it costs almost nothing; it’s close to work; it has a weekly professional cleaning service; it keeps him from his tendency to self isolate. Cons: he has to share a kitchen; he has to share a common room; Atsumu is there all the time.
As if practicing with him eight hours a day isn’t enough; as if hanging out with him in his free time isn’t enough; as if periodically having to travel together isn’t enough. Kiyoomi comes home and has to find Atsumu cross legged on the floor of the common room, wearing an absurd combination of flannel pants and a muscle shirt.
The Jackals’ physical therapist sits behind him, massaging his shoulders. She’s an intimidating looking girl, or at least as intimidating as a 160cm tall person can look surrounded by volleyball players. Kiyoomi thinks she doesn’t get paid nearly enough to deal with them. Atsumu looks up when Kiyoomi walks in and gets a slap on the back of his head in response.
“Aiko-chan, I’m pretty sure yer not supposed to make us worse ,” he grumbles, but doesn’t dare to look up again.
“I’m also pretty sure I’m not supposed to treat you behind Coach’s back, but here we are,” Aiko retorts. She gives one last hard squeeze to his trap muscles before nudging him out of her way with her foot, and Atsumu complies immediately. Kiyoomi is certain everyone on the team is at least a little scared of her, including himself. “Ok, that’s as much as I can do for now. If it gets any worse, don’t you dare call me without talking to Coach first. How does it feel?”
Atsumu shoots up quickly and rolls his shoulders backwards, then stretches his arms above his head. Kiyoomi tries to find somewhere, anywhere to look that’s not the rolling of his exposed muscles, bunching up and then relaxing. Atsumu grins and gives Aiko a thumbs-up. “Like nothing ever happened.”
“After you wash the gel away, you’re gonna need someone to tape you,” she says, producing a roll of blue kinesio tape from her backpack. “And before you say anything, no, it won’t be me because I’m getting the hell out of here.” She scans the room with narrowed eyes and then marches up to Kiyoomi determinedly. “You’re the only one I trust with this. I can count on you, right Sakusa-san?”
“Of course, Aiko-san,” Kiyoomi agrees, mostly because her tone didn’t leave much room for questioning. She beams in gratitude and says her quick goodbyes before leaving.
“Do you think she and Inu-san are really dating?” Atsumu asks, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“I think,” Kiyoomi starts, already turning towards the communal kitchen, “that it is none of your business. Now get to the shower because I’m not wasting my Friday night waiting to tape you.”
He doesn’t wait for Atsumu’s response. Kiyoomi makes his way to the kitchen and reaches into the cabinet, behind the nasty protein bars Hinata bought in bulk but never ate, and gets his favorite bottle of whiskey from its hiding spot. Atsumu watches from the living room with rapt attention, eyes trained on the bottle in his hands. When he looks back up to his face, Kiyoomi only gives a curt nod before disappearing into his bedroom.
Here’s the thing about bad habits: you can’t really ignore them forever. If you try to, they’ll just end up sneaking up on you at the worst possible moments. So Kiyoomi tries to wrangle his into a semblance of discipline: he promises himself that at the end of the week, he gets to indulge. He lumps in all of his vices into one night of bad decisions, a twisted opposite of going to church on Sundays to atone for your sins. He maintains his good habits all week, and rewards himself with one night of bad ones.
It’s not an ideal system, and Motoya sent him the contact number for his therapist when Kiyoomi told him about it, but it works. He deals with these little vices and sins better when he doesn’t have to fight against them every day, when he knows four or five times a month he can get it out of his system and move on. Rinse and repeat.
So on these days, he drinks more than he’s supposed to. He eats whatever sugary sweets he wants to. He opens the door for Atsumu when he knocks. But, then again, Atsumu never knocks unless it’s one of those days. If only the drinks and the food offered the same courtesy.
Kiyoomi can’t tell exactly when Atsumu joined the list of his bad habits. Ever since he joined the team, he’s always been annoingly aware of the fact that the setter was, objectively, really fucking hot. But Kiyoomi has also always been aware that Atsumu is a nuisance on his best day, and a pain in the ass most of the time. Kiyoomi can’t remember a time in the last year or so when he didn’t want to simultaneously kiss him and strangle him, choking kink aside.
But he was undeniably very attracted to him, and there was no escaping from that fact, despite his best attempts. So one night after more than a few drinks, Kiyoomi weighed his options: he could either spend the majority of his day, every single day, fighting the urge to stare at him like a fucking teenager when his shirt rode up during a serve, or he could get it over and done with before it ruined his life.
So he left his room, knocked on Atsumu’s door, and said without preamble, “Look, I think you’re hot. If you ever tell anyone I said this I’ll deny it until my dying breath. But I think you’re hot and I want to kiss you. You can just close the door and we’ll never talk about this again, but if you want to not be an ass for the next two hours and make out, I’m up for that.”
And Atsumu mumbled something like gee, Omi, ya really know how to charm a guy , but he let him in anyway and that was that.
That was almost a year ago. They had their dynamic perfected by now: every Friday night, Atsumu came over without a word. They fucked, or sometimes just made out for a while if practice had been too taxing. He left, and nothing outside the bedroom ever changed because of it. It was exactly what Kiyoomi wanted: uncomplicated, an indulgence on something that would be detrimental in bigger doses.
It was exactly what Atsumu wanted too: an easy way to blow off some steam with no strings attached. Before their arrangement, he was always complaining about how hard it was to get laid with their schedules like that. Their Fridays ended up being the perfect solution to his problem as well, and to the team’s, who were finally free from having to hear him complaining about it.
They were both professional athletes with not a lot of free time. They both had volleyball as their number one, non-negotiable priority. They both had no time or interest in a relationship. If Kiyoomi was being honest, they were both assholes in their own right. It was a win-win situation.
This is what Kiyoomi tells himself as he nurses his mostly empty glass. He reminds himself that he couldn’t wish for something better. That these indulgences are ideal. That he’s doing perfectly fine and that he’s still in control of his vices and not the other way around. It’s fine; as long as he’s in control, it’s fine. So what if Atsumu still affects him? Maybe they just haven’t spent enough nights together to get Kiyoomi’s hormones under control.
He’s so deep in thought he jumps 15cm off the bed when the knock sounds, impossibly loud in the silence. He crosses the room in two long strides, head buzzing pleasantly with alcohol and anticipation. Kiyoomi opens the door to see Atsumu leaning on the door frame, hair dripping wet from the shower and flannel pants now replaced by gym shorts. The muscle tee remains, and in the privacy of his room Kiyoomi can admit he appreciates the unimpeded view of his strong shoulders it grants him.
“Is that your attempt to look sexy?” is what Kiyoomi chooses as a greeting.
“Nah, I don’t need to attempt anything,” Atsumu answers easily. He pushes himself off the wall and strolls into the room like he owns it. Kiyoomi has never seen him walk into a room any other way, if he stops to think about it. The entire world is up for Miya Atsumu’s taking, apparently, and that includes his bedroom.
“You sound like a B movie manwhore,” Kiyoomi scoffs, but he’s already closing the door behind him and following Atsumu further inside.
Atsumu throws himself onto the bed, crossing his arms behind his head and shooting Kiyoomi one of those smirks, the one that get under Kiyoomi’s skin and makes him boil with anger. “I don’t think ya wanna go down this road, Omi-Omi, ‘cause if I’m the B movie manwhore, and I’m in yer bed… doesn’t that make ya the B movie love interest who’s hopelessly charmed by the hot guy?”
Kiyoomi puts down his glass on the dresser, walks to the bed and promptly straddles Atsumu. He lives for moments like this: Atsumu’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes, rabbiting heartbeat under Kiyoomi’s palm showing just how much he didn’t expect this turn of events. Atsumu is an almost perfect bluffer; his problem is that he’s never ready for anyone to call it. Kiyoomi makes it his mission on nights like these to show just how much he doesn’t fall for Atsumu’s carefully constructed mask.
He holds Atsumu’s chin softly, the ghost of a touch. If he strained his ears, he could probably hear his bluster dying with a whimper in the distance. “Are we done with the talking?”
Atsumu swallows hard. Then he nods. His calloused hands snake up Kiyoomi’s waist, agonizingly slow. “This okay?”
“I’ll tell you when it isn’t,” Kiyoomi answers, absently running his thumb over his smooth jawline, likely just shaved.
In the beginning, it was always fast and straight to the point, but Kiyoomi finds himself wanting to linger these days. Wanting to explore. They’re a lot more comfortable around each other now, more comfortable than Kiyoomi has ever allowed himself to be with anyone. He has the freedom to experiment as much as he wants to, let himself be experimented with. It’s new, and Kiyoomi wishes he wasn’t so addicted to it.
It helps that Atsumu knows exactly where Kiyoomi’s boundaries lie and that he never tries to cross them unannounced. On one hand, it’s terrifying if he considers for too long what it means, what it says about their relationship that Kiyoomi trusts him so completely with this. On the other hand, he tries not to worry too much about it, because it makes sex fucking amazing and because it’s his indulgence after all. It doesn’t matter that it might not be the best scenario because it never lasts longer than a night. It’s a shot of whiskey in the form of a body; it burns and then it’s gone.
“You’re in your head today,” Atsumu whispers against his skin. kissing the only part of Kiyoomi he can reach: the inside of his wrist. It sends an unwelcome shiver up his arm, down his spine.
“And if I wanted to talk about it I’d call my mother,” Kiyoomi snaps in a desperate attempt to fight the sudden tightness in his throat. Atsumu doesn’t even blink. They are made of the same stuff, down to the marrow of their bones; they don’t balk at a type of cruelty they know so intimately.
“Then fucking kiss me instead of staring all night.” Atsumu bites the spot he kissed, swallowing the softness whole.
Kiyoomi leans down until they’re nose to nose, chest to chest. He cages Atsumu between his arms, tangles his fingers in his bleached hair. He’s always surprised at how soft it feels. “I don’t think you’re really in a position to make demands right now, Atsumu.”
He watches as the use of his given name elicits a physical reaction in Atsumu: how his grip tightens at Kiyoomi’s waist; how his eyes get a hungry shine to it; how he exhales measuredly, almost painfully, trying to hold back a whimper. The power rush would be enough to get Kiyoomi drunk even without the whiskey in his bloodstream.
“I'm not making demands ,” he mumbles, not so subtly trying to take Kiyoomi’s shirt off, “If ya want to play a game of chicken, suit yerself.” He chuckles and discards Kiyoomi’s shirt, aiming it perfectly to land on the chair. He knows damn well by now that Kiyoomi would stop everything and make him pick it up if it hit the floor. Atsumu runs a finger down Kiyoomi’s chest, lazily circles his areola with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve been told I’m a stubborn brat anyway.”
The anger in the pit of his stomach boils and boils until Kiyoomi feels like he swallowed the sun whole.
“You’re insufferable , ” Kiyoomi whispers as he slips two long fingers past Atsumu’s lips, who still looks awfully smug for someone in his predicament.
Kiyoomi takes that as a personal challenge. And if even with their hips flush together and his fingers resting on Atsumu’s tongue he can still feel the burn of the kiss against his wrist, well, he indulges in the act of not overthinking it.
Miya Atsumu hungers.
There is a beast inside him, or maybe it’s just a part of himself he likes to think it’s less intrinsic to his soul than it actually is. But whatever he calls it, there it remains. There is a beast inside Atsumu, and it hungers. He’s ruled by this hunger, has always been. He wouldn’t have it any other way. The beast inside hungers, and Atsumu doesn’t stop until it devours.
He doesn’t work with the concept of restraint . He lets himself be swallowed whole by his passions, lets it be the force that drives him forward. When people asked him how he could do it, practice hour after hour, day after day, until he couldn’t feel his fingers, he always said it was because he loved it. But it was never about love, because love ends, and his hunger doesn’t. There is nothing Atsumu won’t do to sate it, even if for a moment or two.
He can count in one hand the times he questioned whether or not this black hole in the pit of his stomach was a good thing: when he ran from home when he was eleven to attend a public practice match after his mom told him not to go; when Osamu told him he wasn’t going to play volleyball after school and Atsumu wondered if it was really worth it going alone; right before he was supposed to play his first game in the starter lineup for the Jackals and he overdid it in practice and ended up benched for the next three games.
Atsumu tallies up the fourth time now, while he listens to Sakusa in the shower and knows he’s expected to be gone before the water stops running. It’s not like it’s news in any way. Atsumu knows what the deal is, has known from the first night. He told the beast it would be enough. That these scraps were better than nothing at all. He told it, I know you want it all but this is what we’re getting for now.
Because, for better or worse, Atsumu hungered for Sakusa. And it would be fine if it was the type of hunger that was satisfied with kissing, biting and fucking. That hunger was easy to sate. But because Atsumu was Atsumu and Sakusa was Sakusa, he wanted more. He wanted Sakusa to say yes when he invited him to movie nights. He wanted to take him to this new ramen place he discovered. He wanted to not have to rush to find his goddamn underwear so he would be gone by the time Sakusa came out. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t want those things, when looking at him didn’t hurt like starvation.
Alas, wanting means nothing if you don’t do something to get it, and Atsumu is all out of plans. So he fishes his underwear from underneath a pile of blankets that somehow ended up off the bed, gets dressed in record time, and slips out of the room like he was never there in the first place. Unseen, unheard. A ghost by choice.
He doesn’t expect to run into anyone at three a.m., but the MSBY dorms are a sort of parallel dimension he’s past the point of trying to find explanations for. Bokuto, Hinata and Inunaki sit huddled around the chipped coffee table, bleary eyed but staring intently at their cards. A cursory look at the pile between them shows it’s UNO.
“Should I ask?” Atsumu says quietly, minding the hour.
“Akaashi-san is in New York and we’re waiting for him to call,” Hinata mumbles, barely moving his eyes from his cards, as if even that would cost more energy than he had.
“ We ? Do you and Inu-san also have urgent business with Akaashi-san?”
“Shou-kun’s keeping me company. Inu-san just got home and joined us,” Bokuto supplies, adding a red eight on top of a yellow zero. No one mentions anything about it.
Atsumu turns to Inunaki like a shark smelling blood on water. “Oh, and what were ya doing out so late, Inu-san?”
Inunaki shoots him a death glare capable of rivaling Sakusa’s. “I don’t think you out of all people want us to start listing where we’re coming from so late.”
Atsumu turns his face away to hide the creeping blush and the guilty scowl. “‘I’m going to bed. G’night everyone.”
He hears the mumbled responses echoing in the quiet of the hall as he makes his way into his own bedroom. He doesn’t bother turning on the light as he steps into the shower, letting the almost blistering hot water wash away the day. Atsumu wonders if Sakusa is out of the shower yet, if he has his favorite fluffy white towel around his waist as he does his nighttime routine. Then Atsumu thumps his forehead against the tiles and groans in frustration at his own stupid heart. At his fucking hunger, that gets only worse with every night he needs to hold back.
As if the universe is trying to play a prank on him, he hears a measured knock on his door. What is it with this team that acts like three a.m. is the middle of the afternoon? Atsumu wraps the towel around his waist and drags himself to open it. He loves Bokuto and Hinata, he really does, but if it’s one of them trying to invite him to their weird Akaashi vigil he might just lose his shit after all.
“If it’s anyone asking me to go out I’m telling ya right now it’s not happe— oh,” he stops himself at the sight of Sakusa on his doorstep, bundled up in an overlarge sweater, water droplets racing down his temples from his hair. “Omi, did I forget anything?”
“Your clothes, apparently, but I’m pretty sure you were wearing those when you left,” he says, and Atsumu barely has the time to scoff before Sakusa barrels on, “but no, I was the one who forgot it, actually.” He holds up the roll of kinesio tape. Atsumu barely remembered that either.
“Right! Come on in.” He steps aside to let him in, weirdly aware of the fact that Sakusa hasn’t been into his room since that first time. A frantic look around shows him there’s nothing to worry about, but Sakusa has some sort of superpower and he can always find something wrong in any room he walks in. It would be annoying if it wasn’t for the fact that it could be very useful, like that time he noticed a lipstick stain on what were supposed to be new hotel sheets. “You can sit over there on the bed, I’ll get changed and be right back.”
“No need.” Sakusa waves his hand dismissively. “You’ll need to have your shirt off anyway. Get on the bed.”
Well, doesn’t that sound familiar, Atsumu thinks to himself, but chooses wisely to stay quiet. He sits on the edge of the mattress, back turned to Sakusa. A shiver makes the fine hairs on his arms stand up when he feels Sakusa using the sleeve of his sweater to dry his shoulders, but it’s nothing compared to the electric jolt that fires his nerves when Sakusa’s long fingers dig into his muscles. It’s a meticulous, adept touch, and Atsumu can’t help but lean into it.
It’s not only stupid, it’s embarrasing . Sakusa was balls deep inside Atsumu half an hour ago, there is no logical reason for him to be getting this affected by what can barely be considered a massage. His physical therapist touches him more. Hell, Bokuto touches him more. And yet.
“Ya didn’t have to come here now. Could’ve waited until mornin’,” Atsumu says in a not so discreet attempt to fill the silence, to work around the strange feeling in his gut.
“If I had waited until morning you would blame your inevitable pain on this and not acknowledge the fact that you need at least two days benched to really recover,” Sakusa retorts matter-of-factly. Atsumu wants to bury himself in his blankets, anything to escape the knowing gaze he can feel on the back of his neck. “Stop fidgeting,” Sakusa berates with a firm squeeze to his nape. The jolt it sends down his spine makes him wish he wasn’t basically naked. Or that Sakusa was too.
“Thank you, Omi,” he mumbles, half-asleep already after the unintentionally soothing touches.
“You’re welcome, Miya,” Sakusa answers, and Atsumu can hear him walking out. He counts his steps, notices it when they stop, like Sakusa is considering saying something before he leaves.
He doesn’t.
It’s 3:24 am and Atsumu listens as Sakusa closes the door behind him.
II.
“You sound like a virgin,” is the verdict Aran’s pixelated image settles on.
It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s wearing a bright pink showercap and sipping iced coffee through a Mickey Mouse shaped straw, but Atsumu is in no position to disagree. He only frowns at his phone screen, a gesture made particularly harder by the clay face mask drying on his face.
“Don’t give me that face, I just had to spend the last fifteen minutes listening to you giving a very detailed explanation about how he taped your shoulder . Do you know how my little cousin told me about her first kiss?” Aran brings the phone closer to his face, giving Atsumu a zoomed in view of his almost non existent pores. “She said, and I quote, ‘He kissed me. It was nice.’ She’s thirteen , Atsumu!”
“I know , okay?! I know how I sound but ya weren’t there.”
“Thank god for that,” Aran mumbles under his breath.
“Rude! Yer stressing me out on self-care night.”
“No, you’re stressing me out. You’re a grown man, Atsumu. Why do you even like him anyway? I’m sorry, but he sounds like a jerk.”
Atsumu wonders often about this himself. The thing is, Sakusa is a jerk. And not in a charming, endearing way like Atsumu. Just an outright asshole with no brain to mouth filter (or at least no desire to use it) and a resting bitch face capable of making babies cry.
“Hey,” Aran snaps his fingers to get Atsumu’s attention, “Earth to Miya Atsumu. You’re grinning like an idiot.”
“ Am not! I just,” he sighs, touching his cheek to check if the clay mask is fully dry, “It’s not like I’m in love with him or anythin’. I just don’t like feelin’ like a dirty mistress and would it kill the guy to kiss me goodnight before kickin’ me out on my ass?”
“I always thought that if one of us would end up as a dirty mistress it would be you anyway,” Aran says as he shakes his iced coffee, making the ice inside rattle. “I need to go, time to rinse off my hair. When I see you next Sunday I hope you have your shit together.”
“Bye Aran-kun! Thank you for your absolutely valuable and helpful advice.” Atsumu makes sure to show him his best shit eating grin, and he can see Aran rolling his eyes before he hangs up.
Atsumu and Aran set up Self-Care Sunday two years ago as a way to catch up and, well, do self-care. As much as he wished he could credit his surprisingly soft hair and glowing skin to genetics, he owed it much more to a dedicated routine. He keeps an assorted supply of face masks and hair products in his small bathroom, and he often daydreams about raiding Sakusa’s stash.
Atsumu tries to turn on his faucet to wash off the product and finds that it’s broken yet again. For such a bigshot team, the MSBY dorms had really shitty plumbing. I am going to deal with this minor frustration like an adult , he thinks. Then he takes a deep breath and screams at the top of his lungs, “SHOOOOUYOOOU!”
An important lesson from adulthood: dealing with things often means procuring someone who knows how to deal with them better. Hinata had become surprisingly handy while living by himself in Brazil, and the dorm dwellers take full advantage of that.
Heavy, hurried footsteps come rushing towards his room and Atsumu has barely any time to react when the door flies open. The silhouette standing on his doorstep is way too tall to be the beloved handyman of the house.
“Are you out of your fucking mind? You better be dying to be screaming like that,” Sakusa is seething , teeth gritted so hard a vein on his neck pops out. “Hinata isn’t even here, he’s visiting Kag— is that a dead sea minerals face mask?” The sudden change in his tone is enough to give Atsumu a whiplash.
“Uh, yeah? I was about to take it off but my faucet went to shit again,” Atsumu says, before something else clicks in. “Wait, how do ya know what face mask I’m wearing? Yer such a fucking snob, Omi-kun!”
He swears he doesn’t want to laugh, he really doesn’t, but Sakusa has that adorable furrow of frustration between his eyebrows and it’s hilarious to Atsumu for some reason because who in the world can identify a face mask from a distance with a single look? Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi, apparently.
“Whatever. Enjoy your broken sink, Miya.” He stomps back to the door and turns around at the last second, brow furrow still present and still endearingly adorable. “Your skin isn’t oily.”
“What?”
Sakusa shoots him that look that says he’s frustrated for having to explain something he thinks is so obvious. Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest and shoots a look of his own back, one that says that as much as Sakusa forgets about it, people aren’t listening to his thoughts and don’t know what the hell he means unless he voices it. Atsumu’s look seems to win.
“Your skin isn’t oily, it’s normal. Dead sea minerals are good for oily skin.”
“Oh,” Atsumu replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. Should he pay him for a dermatology consultation?
Sakusa nods once, seemingly pleased with his communication efforts. “Hinata comes back at seven. His room is unlocked, you could probably use his bathroom.”
And out he goes again, leaving Atsumu wondering just what the hell goes on inside that pretty head of his.
Atsumu does not, in fact, get his shit together. It could be said he does the exact opposite: gets his shit even more scattered, if you will.
He woke up Monday morning with a renewed sense of purpose. Aran was right; he sounded pathetic, the whole thing was beneath him. He was Miya fucking Atsumu, goddamn it. He went after what he wanted. So if he wanted to eat ramen with Sakusa, he would invite Sakusa to get some fucking ramen and be done with it. It wasn’t a marriage proposal, for fuck’s sake.
Atsumu had a plan now. Sure, a very straightforward and simple plan, but a plan nonetheless. Whether Sakusa said yes or no was out of his control, but all Atsumu cared about was that the situation couldn’t go on like this. He arrived at the gym whistling, confident with his choice.
And found that Sakusa was nowhere to be seen. Meian said he had urgent business with his family and offered no extra explanation.
Atsumu’s mood only steadily declined from there.
By Thursday he knows he’s probably emanating bad vibes, and even Hinata and Bokuto mostly steer clear from him. He doesn’t have it in him to be mad at them, not when his chat history with Sakusa looked like this:
Atsumu: u ok? kinda dropped off the face of the earth lol
Atsumu: Meian-san told me u went to see family? hope its nothing bad
Atsumu: look just lemme know if ur alive bc if u arent i have to start practicing that new attack w bokkun
Sakusa: Alive. Busy.
And then, a full day later:
Sakusa: You couldn’t pull off that attack without me even if you wanted to.
Those were from Wednesday.
Atsumu spikes the ball like it has personally wronged him and the serve lands outside the line. Coach Foster tsks but makes no other comment, jotting something down on his clipboard. Hinata offers him an apologetic smile as he jogs to the ball cart on the other side of the net to take his turn. He sees from the corner of his eye Coach and Aiko whispering to each other, sneaking furtive glances at him. Atsumu notices all of this from behind a curtain of annoyance, a generalized anger at the world and everyone in it.
“Miya-san!” Aiko calls, already making her way towards him. Atsumu can tell everyone in the gym is trying to listen in. Busybodies . “I think you should take the afternoon off and head home. You’re overexerting your shoulder and we can’t afford to have you benched in the next game.”
Unclenching his jaw to get the words out takes surprising effort. “No, thank you, Aiko-chan. I’m fine.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, eyebrows raised in clear discontent. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”
His teammates have given up the pretense of doing something else, now actively following the exchange like a tennis match.
“I said I’m fine .” Atsumu doesn’t mean to snap. He does anyway. It’s been years, he should know better by now, but he doesn’t know how to bite without venom.
Inunaki steps forward, palms up like he’s placating a wild animal. “Miya, c’mon—”
“And here I was thinking we didn’t allow teenagers into the team. Shame we’re not close to some drywall for you to punch, Miya. I think that would give this whole scene the finishing touch.”
No one dares to breathe. The words slide down like ice cubes down Atsumu’s spine. He turns around slowly towards the voice to find Sakusa standing there, looking out of place in his leather jacket and black jeans. Wait, a leather fucking jacket? Oh my God— no, focus, Atsumu. A mask covers the lower half of his face, making the bags under his eyes stand out so much more. Atsumu wants to corner him and ask where the hell he was, what happened, if he’s okay. Atsumu wants to throttle him for speaking to him like that.
“Look who decided to finally show up. Yer only four days late to practice. Care to explain why?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Well, I think it is my business when—”
“That’s it! I don’t have time for this,” Coach Foster interrupts, shouldering his way past Aiko and Inunaki. “Both of you, go home. And don’t show your faces here until your attitudes are back to what is expected of professional athletes.”
Sakusa mutters something unintelligible from behind his mask and makes his way back to where he came from, knuckles white from gripping the strap of his bag with way too much force. Bokuto looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Hinata pats his arm reassuringly. If Atsumu’s anger wasn’t an all consuming, living thing, he would be embarrassed. Of course, there would always be time for that later.
For now, he’s too focused on glaring at his own feet as he walks briskly back to the dorm, his anger burning and burning in a crescendo he knows too well. By the time he yanks the front door open he’s ready to set things on fire. He zeroes in on his target: Sakusa, gripping the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Even turned away from the door, Atsumu can feel his anger radiating off him.
But where Atsumu’s rage is hot, Sakusa’s is cold. Atsumu burns, Sakusa freezes. It’s terrifying to watch. When he turns around towards the opening door, it’s like Atsumu is looking at a marble statue, face a perfect mask of barely contained distaste. It would almost be enough to stop Atsumu in his tracks if his anger wasn’t mixed with frustration and a generous dose of worry . It churns inside his gut and the words come up his throat tasting like bile.
“Who the fuck d’you think you are? Droppin’ off the face of the earth and then comin’ back to scold me? Like I’m a goddamn kid and not someone who—” Atsumu’s mind scrambles to keep up with his mouth, desperately trying to come up with an appropriate end to that sentence, “—someone who you should at least respect .”
Sakusa doesn’t show any sign of being affected by his words aside from a wicked curl of his lips and a tilt of his head, predator eyeing prey. “Oh, do tell me about respect , Miya. Should I respect you like you respected Aiko-san? Or maybe like you respected Bokuto and Hinata, your friends ? Or like you respect your own body, by pushing it to the limit knowing full well it will have consequences?”
Here’s the thing about Atsumu’s anger: it acts first, thinks later. It follows a very simple instinct, to go for the jugular. Atsumu serves to ace, he spikes to score. He punches to bruise, he fights to win. He doesn’t know how to do things any other way. Atsumu shoots to kill. The words are past his teeth before he has a chance to bite them back. “I thought we both had it very clear that what I do with my body outside of yer bedroom is none of yer fuckin’ business.”
A part of him craves to see a reaction, any reaction on Sakusa’s face. Any indication that he’s hurt by this reminder of the boundaries of their relationship. Or better yet, an indication that he’s unhappy with those boundaries too.
Atsumu gets none of this. Instead, he gets bodily shoved against the wall, Sakusa’s forearm pressing him against the wall. The leather of his jacket is rough against Atsumu’s skin, his breath warm against his face. Suddenly, the 5cm Sakusa has on him seem like a lot more. He hates how anger is no longer the only reason for the heat pooling on his stomach.
“If you want me to stay out of your shit, then stay out of mine,” he says, every syllable enunciated perfectly even through his clenched teeth. This close, Atsumu can see his raw lips, as if he’s been chewing on them for days.
Here’s the thing about Atsumu’s lust: much like his anger, it relies on instinct.
He’s kissing Sakusa before he has the time to register how exactly he went from incredibly angry to incredibly horny, before Sakusa has the time to process the change too. It seems to matter very little to either of them; Sakusa kisses him back like he’s trying to bruise him, like their kissing is just another step of their fighting to him.
Atsumu doesn’t complain, and he’s reminded of what sparked this anger in the first place: that pesky, unrelenting worry. But now Sakusa’s here, warm and touching Atsumu like it means something , and the only thing Atsumu is worried about is getting to the bedroom as fast as they can without separating even a millimeter.
“If you fuck up your shoulder and get benched before a fucking Adlers match it is my business because it affects my game,” Sakusa snarls, emphasizing his point with a bite to his neck that has Atsumu almost yelping.
Shoulder? Ah, right. Atsumu’s shoulder is injured. Right now he barely even remembers he has shoulders when all of his nerve endings seem to be concentrated on the throbbing bite mark.
“Bed,” Sakusa orders, and Atsumu is quick to comply. The sound of Sakusa’s belt unbuckling is enough to make his cock twitch, and he has the distant sense that he should be embarrassed about this, but he really, really isn’t.
Sakusa straddles Atsumu easily, one hand pinning both of his wrists above his head. With the other he tilts Atsumu’s chin up, demanding his full attention. As if he didn’t have it already. As if he didn’t always have it.
For a couple of seconds, only their labored breaths fill the room, the air thick with anticipation.
“You know I don’t really hate you, right?”
“I— yeah.” Atsumu didn’t, actually, but he’s not about to get into it now of all times.
“Good. Because I’m about to fuck you like I do.”
Atsumu’s brain dissolves into mush and he spends the next hour with a very limited vocabulary of fuck, please, God, and Omi.
Kiyoomi is not a religious man. Sure, he follows the traditions he’s expected to, but doesn’t really go beyond that.
Maybe that’s the problem. Because whoever is up there running things clearly has some vendetta against him. Either that, or Kiyoomi has to start accepting that he has the shittiest luck in the world.
He’s a meticulous person, from his hygiene to his training and everything else in between. Before he started this whole thing with Atsumu, he built careful defenses, safeguards, and mechanisms. He devised plans and backup plans and backup plans to his backup plans to avoid things from getting out of his control.
And then he had to watch as Atsumu sauntered past all of it. Kiyoomi had expected sleazy grins and cannonballs to his gates. He’d prepared for it. Instead, Atsumu knocked on the doors with a soft smile and Kiyoomi let him in. Like he didn’t know better.
The alcohol usually helped. It kept things skin deep, his mind narrowed down to the basest of impulses. There was no hesitancy, no ambiguity between the sheets. A kiss outside of a bedroom could mean a variety of things, while a kiss inside of it meant just that: a kiss. The bare bones of human connection. Kiyoomi was already taking a risk by allowing himself this; any further could ruin him. Or worse: could ruin everything he’d worked for.
That Sunday, he’d walked back to his room with the image of Atsumu looking so domestic, so soft, burned into his eyelids. He’d shown too much. He’d almost got caught. He was already preparing himself for a long, long week and how he would avoid letting Atsumu in by the end of it when his phone rang.
“Kiyoomi,” his brother had said as a greeting, sounding more like their father than last time, and he had known his week was about to get much worse.
He wasn’t proud of his reaction in the gym, but at that point he was being held together by a very, very thin thread of control. There is Miya Atsumu , he thought, being a stubborn ass and forcing me to be the one who cares about him. And then the thread snapped.
What I do with my body outside of yer bedroom is none of yer fuckin’ business, Atsumu had said, and Kiyoomi hated him for it. Hated himself for forgetting it in the first place, hated Atsumu for taunting him with the promise of something more and then reminding exactly what happened when Kiyoomi loosened the leash on himself.
He almost fucked the whole thing up. Again.
Hours after Atsumu leaves his bedroom, Kiyoomi still can’t sleep. He tosses and turns, showers twice, considers taking one of his emergency sleeping pills, then decides he’s had enough of things that make him lose control for a while. He finally settles for a more homemade solution and makes his way in the dark to the kitchen for some tea.
The process itself is calming, something soothing about going through the motions of a familiar task. Kiyoomi doesn’t even bother to turn the light on, having lived here for so long his hands know exactly where to reach for the teabags, the electric kettle, the honey. He ends up spending more time clutching the warm mug between his hands than actually drinking anything, eyes closed.
Soft steps make his eyes open, more out of instinct than actual desire to see who it is. Hinata is known for late night snacking, and he isn’t sure if Inunaki ever sleeps. If it’s either of them, they’d see Kiyoomi with closed eyes and know not to bother him.
“Ah, sorry, Omi-kun. Didn’t think I’d run into anyone. I can come back later.”
God with a vendetta or shit luck?
“It’s fine. I don’t own the kitchen.”
Kiyoomi can’t see in the darkness, so he listens as Atsumu fixes himself some tea too. The whistling of the kettle, the scraping of a chair against the linoleum floor. Then:
“I went to visit my family.” Kiyoomi’s voice sounds alien even to himself. He doesn’t know what compels him to say it. Maybe it’s because it’s four a.m. and his brain is working overtime. Maybe it’s because, in the pitch black kitchen, he can pretend he’s alone. Or maybe it’s those goddamn texts, Atsumu’s worry seeping through the screen. Kiyoomi feels like he owes an explanation.
“Oh,” Atsumu says, in that way that means he’s giving himself time to come up with the rest. “Did anything bad happen?”
What an accidentally loaded question. “No one died, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That wasn’t what I was asking.”
Not accidental, then.
“Stop biting yer lip, it looks like shit already.”
“What?” There is no way Atsumu can see what he’s doing. Kiyoomi raises his hand to his lip, feels it come back sticky with blood.
“I asked ya a hard question. You’d chew right through your lip before answering it. Ya don’t have to, don’t worry.”
“My brother is moving to be the head of the European office of my family’s business,” Kiyoomi says, maybe just to prove Atsumu wrong. “Someone needs to take up his place in Tokyo.”
He waits for Atsumu’s response and doesn’t get any. Atsumu simply listens, allows him to pretend he’s talking to himself for a while longer. Kiyoomi’s throat is suddenly tight with gratitude for this small mercy.
“I thought my father knew where I stood with this. Apparently, he was under the impression that getting older would ‘make me see reason’ and he wanted to know whether I had ‘come to my senses’ already.” Kiyoomi doesn’t even try to keep the contempt from his voice, but he sounds bitter even to his own ears. He was taught to be respectful to his elders, to be polite and careful with his words about them. But there is no space for pretending around Atsumu. He never felt the need to. “I had to explain to him, then to my grandfather, then to my brother how I was not changing my mind about my career. Then to all of them together.”
And then do it all again and again, for four days. Not to mention his mother’s pained glances, as if she was watching a rebellious toddler destroying a house of cards she spent so long putting together. It was probably an accurate assessment of the situation, so Kiyoomi didn’t blame her too much. He knew how the rumors spread like wildfire: the youngest Sakusa son turning his back on the family legacy in pursuit of a whim.
Kiyoomi was running out of ways to explain it wasn’t a whim. More importantly, he was running out of patience to do so. He’s always expected to explain himself to everyone, from how he talks to the way stands. He doesn’t heed the requests, of course, but the barrage of whys chips him away, piece by piece. At 23, Sakusa Kiyoomi is already exhausted.
He tests a few words in his head, how to say this enormous thing out loud and not feel like it’s ripping him from inside out. “I was caught by surprise, I think. My parents left me to do as I pleased for most of my life. I wasn’t expecting that when they came asking, it would be for me to justify myself to them too.”
Just when the silence starts to turn from a comfort into a physical weight on his shoulders, Atsumu’s voice rings soft in the darkness.
“I’ve never seen ya explain yerself to anyone. Yer one of the most blunt assholes I’ve ever met, and ya don’t change for anyone. I don’t think ya should start doing it now, not even if it’s your folks.” Fabric rustling, the distinct sound of ceramic clicking against wood. A long sigh. “You are who you are and ya ain’t sorry for it, Omi, it’s one of the things I—” he stops himself short, stays silent for a while. Kiyoomi wants to pull the rest of that sentence out of him with his fingers. “It’s one of the things that make you, you.”
He questions that alleged bluntness now. He can’t help it, not when all he wants to do is to reach across the table and find Atsumu’s hand, make sure he’s real and not some exhaustion induced dream. Kiyoomi wants so much it hurts, and yet he sits on his hands to stop them from moving.
“You’re smarter than you look.”
“Is that a compliment or a jab?” He can hear the smile on Atsumu’s voice, teasing and bright.
Kiyoomi huffs amusedly. “Goodnight, Miya.”
He leaves before the sun has the chance to come up and force him to see all the little pieces of himself he left scattered on the rickety kitchen table. Before he can see what Atsumu does with them.
Kiyoomi is aware that not all things can be controlled.
He can’t control the result of a match, for example. But he can control how much he practices before it, how much he prepares for it, so he knows he did his best no matter the results. He can’t control what his vices are, but he can control when he gives in to them. It’s calming, knowing he holds his future in his hands. Whatever happens, Kiyoomi knows he played his part in it. Having a say in the process is enough. The results are just that: results.
He tries to remind himself of this, over and over again. That he’s doing all he can in regards to the Atsumu situation. And it was working: the whole point of the contingency measures was to not let his stupid attraction to a teammate ruin his career. It’s been a year since he last missed a ball because he was staring at the way Atsumu’s biceps bulged when he flexed his arms to set. Sexual frustration: solved. Career: saved.
And yet.
It’s a bright afternoon in Osaka, the birds sing outside the gym, the air is crisp and fresh from the changing seasons, and Kiyoomi fumbles a receive because Atsumu did a little snort at the end of his laugh and he never heard that before.
It’s unacceptable. He doesn’t even hear Barnes telling him to pay no mind over the sirens blaring inside his skull. Where did things go wrong? What part of his plan had a hole? Maybe it all came down to how badly he assessed the initial threat. He’d been prepared for a meteor and ended up setting up camp right in the path of a supernova. Maybe he had no one to blame but himself for his things being on fire.
As much as it pained him to admit it, it wasn’t Atsumu’s fault. Atsumu didn’t do half measures. You don’t ask a fire to only half burn. They’re alike in that matter. It was one of the things that drew Kiyoomi to him in the first place, great thighs aside; how he never apologized for the space he occupied in the world. He walked through life staking claim to what he wanted, like nothing was beyond his ambition. Kiyoomi had been stupid to think he would be exempt from that.
It’s fine , Kiyoomi tells himself. All he needs is to reassess the situation and come up with a new plan. That’s very much within his skillset. He deals with facts . Kiyoomi just needs to analyze those facts and make a new plan.
Fact 1: He’s starting to want more than sex with Atsumu.
Fact 2: Giving in to that can only end in disaster.
Fact 3: Indulging in casual romanticism isn’t an option.
Here are the two plans he comes up with:
Option 1: Cut off all contact with Atsumu outside of work and occasional hang outs in groups.
Option 2: Keep having sex with him and ruin himself completely.
Apparently, Kiyoomi’s inability to leave things unfinished is a chronic condition, even when it comes to ruining himself.
Eventually, Atsumu will get bored of him. Eventually, their schedules won’t be as hectic and he’ll start choosing his partners based on things other than geographical proximity. Then Kiyoomi will start the process of piecing himself back together. Until then, he stays.
Kiyoomi had never been great at breaking habits anyway, bad or otherwise.
That night, Atsumu sees him picking up the hidden bottle, waits a respectful half hour before knocking. Kiyoomi lets him in, like he always does, and as he kisses Atsumu he hopes he doesn’t notice the suspicious lack of alcohol in his breath.
The bottle sits on the dresser unopened, the lesser of two evils abandoned in favor of diving even deeper into the greater one.
With the Adlers match less than 24 hours away, Hinata ricochets off the walls of the dorm like an orange bounce ball powered exclusively by excitement and repressed homosexual feelings. Kiyoomi is exhausted just from watching him. It doesn’t help that Bokuto is in a similar state of excitement, asking again and again for their opinion on which suit is the best.
He paces up and down the hallway wearing an old Fukurodani jersey that definitely did not accompany the growth of his chest and navy blue dress pants, a combination Kiyoomi hopes dearly to be temporary and not his actual planned outfit. He looks at himself in the mirror, tries to check out his own ass and ends up looking like a massive dog chasing its own tail.
“Tsum-tsum, you’re my friend right? And you’d never lie to me?”
Atsumu’s head sticks out from his bedroom. “Right, Bokkun. What’s the problem?”
“Be honest: how does my ass look in these?”
Hinata chokes on his strawberry milk.
“Hm.” Atsumu squints appraisingly, makes a show of caressing his chin in deep thought. “I think ya look positively juicy. Akaashi-san will love it.”
Bokuto grins and offers two thumbs up in response, which is the highest gratitude in Bokuto language. “I’m just so happy to see him. What about you, Shou-kun?”
“What? I’m happy to see Akaashi-san too, I guess,” he says, barely lifting his gaze from his phone, fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard.
Atsumu rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, Bokuto huffing a poorly disguised laugh next to him. “Not Akaashi-san, Shou-kun. Are ya excited to see Tobio-kun? I think it’s been more than a month.”
“One month and 13 days,” Hinata corrects without thinking, and then immediately turns redder than the National Team jersey. “I’m not excited to see him, I’m excited to beat him! And so should you guys be!”
Atsumu opens his mouth like he’s about to call bulshit, but Bokuto is faster. “Sure we are! And we will beat them this time!” He pumps his fist into the air, and the Fukurodani jersey finally gives out, the seams under his arm ripping. “Oh man. Oh no. Kaashi is gonna be so mad, he told me his jersey would be too small for me…”
Hinata pats him on the back, smiling in sympathy. “Don’t worry! I know how to sew. I think I have the stuff in my bedroom, c’mon.”
Atsumu comes to sit next to Kiyoomi on the couch, sparing a glance at the nature documentary on the TV and quickly deciding he’s not interested in the mating habits of emperor penguins. “D’ya think they’re going to finally get over themselves and confess?”
“The penguins? They’re on their second chick, I think they know,” Kiyoomi answers, because he takes immense satisfaction in Atsumu's frustrated little groan.
“Y’know I’m not talking about the goddamn penguins, Omi. Shou-kun and Tobio-kun! It’s been years , I don’t know what the hold up is.” He throws himself back against the seat, arms crossed over his chest in his best attempt to hide a tantrum.
“I don’t know why you’re so invested in other people’s relationships, Miya. It’s not healthy, you know.”
“It’s just,” Atsumu wiggles around until he’s looking at Kiyoomi, head propped on his hand, “it’s obvious they like each other. They’re a little dense, not blind. They should stop being so damn stupid and get it over with.”
“It’s not that simple,” Kiyoomi says, trying as hard as he can to keep his voice from betraying his defensiveness. Of course Atsumu would say this, reckless as he is. Of course he’d put himself out there without considering the risks. He’d give all he had, and if he got rejected, he’d just start again. Kiyoomi wonders distantly if Atsumu even considers the possibility of being rejected at all.
Of course Atsumu would have said something already if he was interested in him, is the unwelcome conclusion Kiyoomi’s brain arrives at.
Atsumu looks like he wants to argue, but Inunaki calls to say the bus is waiting downstairs and that Coach Foster said he would leave without them if they tested his patience. Bokuto gets in first, beating Kiyoomi to his favorite seat, the second to last one on the left. He stands uncertain on the aisle, considering his other options.
“Bokkun, d’ya have anything special planned with Akaashi-san?” Atsumu asks, turning around on his seat to look back at his teammate.
“So much! Wait, let me sit next to you so I can show you the list.” Bokuto lumbers out of his spot and plops down next to Atsumu, unlocking his phone to show a seemingly unending list of date ideas.
And just like magic, Kiyoomi’s seat is empty. Atsumu makes a little saluting motion at him, teasing smile on his lips.
Kiyoomi hates him, wants to march down the aisle and kiss him until he’s out of breath, hates him more for making him feel like this. He fishes his phone from his pocket and opens his text chain with Motoya since screaming into a pillow isn’t an option in a crowded bus.
Me: Talk me out of killing Miya.
Motoya: depends, maybe he deserves it
Motoya: what did he do? made you confront your crippling fear of vulnerability?
Motoya: lol
Me: …
Motoya: sorry :P
Motoya: what did he do fr? did he break up w/ you?
Me: We’re not dating. There’s nothing to break up.
Motoya: ok were not having this conversation until you stop bulshitting
Motoya: denial isnt just a river in congo yk
Me: The Nile isnt’t a river in Congo at all, it’s in Egypt
Motoya: whatever call me when you stop trying to drown yourself in it xox
Motoya: (btw wasnt that super poetic?)
Kiyoomi considers hitting his head against the window until he knocks himself out for the rest of the trip.
He decides not to do that, ends up listening to Bokuto’s detailed account of all the things he plans to do with Akaashi and Atsumu’s occasional commentary on restaurant choices. His lilting accent lulls him to sleep eventually.
III.
They win the Adlers match, but barely. They were at the fourth set, one measly point ahead, and Atsumu was painfully aware of the fact that they wouldn’t make it if they had to play a fifth. If they didn’t end it there, it would be an almost guaranteed loss.
Atsumu set the ball, a perfectly calculated overhead toss to reach Bokuto behind him, and then his fucking shoulder decided to act up. He winced, catching the ball at the wrong angle, the wrong height. Atsumu knew, like someone watching a car accident in motion, that the ball wouldn’t make it. Bokuto was already mid jump, and no one saw the botched trajectory of the set.
At least that’s what he’d thought. Sakusa came sprinting forward all the way from the back of the court, long legs carrying him easily. He bumped shoulders with Bokuto when he jumped, bodily shoving him to the side, but the team’s worry was short lived: Sakusa spiked the ball and scored the winning point. Bokuto, having skidded across the court on his ass, cheered from his spot while a nurse fretted around him.
Atsumu tried to celebrate, he really did, but it rang hollow. He almost cost them an important match because of his sheer stubbornness. Aiko would never let him live this down, and Sakusa— oh, fuck, Sakusa had probably a whole speech planned with at least five variations of I told you so and two expertly placed death glares. And Atsumu would have to sit down and listen, because he was in the wrong and there was no denying it. Fuck. He hated being in the wrong.
The mood in the locker room definitely doesn't match Atsumu’s. He feels like a gray cloud in a perfect summer sky, trying his best to keep from ruining everyone else’s day. At least he’s not the only one not matching the vibe; if he’s a gray cloud, Sakusa is a brewing storm. He’s never one to really participate in the joking around after a match, so his moodiness goes mostly unnoticed by the rest.
“Sakusa-san, that spike was so cool! How did you know it wouldn’t reach Bokuto-kun?” Hinata asks, accidentally slapping himself on the face with the compression sleeve he was trying to get out of.
Sakusa shoots a meaningful glance towards Atsumu before answering. “Miya and I have been working together lately on a new attack. I can tell when his set isn’t at its best. He winced, and I saw it.”
Bokuto closes the locker’s door to peer at Atsumu. “Is it your shoulder?” He asks, in what Atsumu is sure was meant to be a whisper. It is not a whisper by any approximation.
“Your shoulder?” Meian’s deep baritone voice calls from the shower area. It echoes against the walls, and Atsumu has the uncanny feeling that God himself is scolding him. “What’s going on with your shoulder and why don’t I know about it?”
“There’s nothing going’ on with my shoulder, Meian-san, don’t worry about it,” he assures brightly, but Meian doesn’t look convinced at all.
“I’m not letting this go, Miya. You, me and Aiko-san are having a talk when we get back,” he warns, crossing his arms over his chest. Atsumu feels the blood draining from his face.
“Is Aiko-san’s presence really necessary? I’m sure she’s really busy,” Atsumu tries to argue, but Meian shoots him a look that says it’s non-negotiable. Well, now he’s well and truly fucked. Meian is a softie at heart, but Aiko seems to be completely immune to his charms. Inunaki snickers from somewhere behind them, unsympathetic to his predicament.
“Guys, Kageyama is inviting us for a drink at his apartment. He says Akaashi-san can come too, Bokuto-kun,” Hinata interrupts, not looking up from his phone’s screen. Atsumu could kiss him right now, grateful for any excuse to leave his impending interrogation and subsequent death sentence.
He knows he fucked up, probably knows better than any of them. The last thing he needs is more people reminding him of just how much.
“Great! I’m taking a ride with Omi, text him the address, see you there!” Atsumu grabs his duffel with one hand, Sakusa’s wrist with the other, and bolts out the door before anyone can protest it. They reach the parking lot before Sakusa finally yanks free from his grasp, like Atsumu’s fingers burn through him.
“What was that?” Sakusa asks, expression a terrifying mix of annoyed and unamused.
“I just needed to get out of there. Sorry for touchin’ ya without askin’ first, I was desperate and I just—” Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, huffing in annoyance. He won, they won, why the hell does this night just seem to be getting worse and worse?
“It’s not the touching I’m mad about, Miya. I told you you needed to take care of your shoulder, Aiko-san told you, and you ignored us both. You can’t run away from the consequences of your actions forever.” Sakusa’s voice has an edge to it, an impatience that can’t mean anything good. “You almost cost us the game, like I told you it would happen. What if I wasn’t there to save your ass?’
“I know, okay? I know. Ya have every right to be pissed at me, but I can’t do this right now. Please, Omi. Not now.” Atsumu hates how helpless he sounds, how his voice breaks at the end of the sentence, but if he has to listen to Sakusa giving voice to his own worst thoughts he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it.
Sakusa studies him for two heartbeats that seem to go on forever. A car pulls up on the curb, probably their Lyft driver. Sakusa grips Atsumu’s wrist, a gentler, more deliberate version of Atsumu’s move earlier. He leads them to the sleek sedan and only lets go once they’re safely tucked inside, talks of the ruined set forgotten.
Kageyama’s apartment turns out to be surprisingly nice. The furniture was clearly chosen by an architect, all minimalist angles and neutral colors, but the place is far from being barren. Little bits of personal touches are scattered here and there, from pictures with friends and family to a postcard with Christ the Redeemer attached to the fridge. But the highlight is the view: floor to ceiling windows look out to Tokyo’s skyline. At night, it looks like the apartment is floating above a sea of blinking lights.
“Welcome, Miya-san, Sakusa-san,” Kageyama greets them at the door, handing them a glass each of an unidentified drink. Hinata adds a little umbrella to Sakusa’s, ‘ for scoring the winning point ’. The liquid smells faintly like gasoline and pineapples. Perfect, it’s exactly what Atsumu is in the mood for. He accepts it without question.
“Nice place, Tobio-kun. If I’m being honest I half expected ya to live in the gym and just power off when there weren’t any games.”
Kageyama either doesn’t get the joke or he’s just too distracted by Hinata already commandeering his attention, asking about where they should order food from and if they had the necessary supplies to make more of Hoshiumi's special drink. If he means the barely drinkable thing in Atsumu’s hands, he sincerely hopes they don’t.
Hoshiumi, Ushijima, Bokuto, Akaashi and Inunaki are all already there, occupying every available seat. Bokuto’s perched on his boyfriend’s lap like a giant golden retriever unaware of his size, but Akaashi seems completely at ease. He has one arm wrapped loosely around his waist and a small, content smile on his face.
Atsumu thinks they’re disgusting to watch. Atsumu is so jealous of them it makes him nauseous. Would Sakusa ever sit on his lap? God, that would be hilarious. His heart still clenches at the thought.
As nice as Kageyama’s apartment is, it’s way too small for nine volleyball players. They’re all more or less on top of each other, except for Sakusa, who claimed an armchair and avoided having to share his personal space.
“Congratulations on your win, Sakusa-kun. That was a very impressive spike,” Ushijima says from his spot squished between Hoshiumi and Inunaki. He looks even taller and broader in contrast with the other two.
Sakusa almost preens under the compliment, and Atsumu has to fight an eye-roll with every ounce of self-control he has. “Thank you, Wakatoshi-kun, I appreciate it. Your serves are getting better and better, I’ll have to practice more if I don’t want to get left behind.”
Atsumu wants to bite through the glass on his hands. Why does Sakusa never call him by his first name? At least not outside the bedroom. Oh no, Atsumu’s brain warns him, you do not want to get into this right now . Yeah, that’s probably for the better.
He tries to participate in Hoshiumi and Inunaki’s conversation, half-heartedly adding comments every now and then. Bokuto and Akaashi excuse themselves before the food arrives, saying they have a dinner reservation soon. Atsumu watches as they walk out the door hand in hand, as Bokuto seems to think it’s not enough and pulls Akaashi into his side, laughing like they’re sharing a silent joke they’re the only ones privy to.
The remaining players eat quickly and keep the conversation flowing until 2 a.m., a kind of easy small talk that’s only possible between people who have a lot to catch up on. Atsumu can’t help keeping tabs on Sakusa and Ushijima’s conversation, happening in parallel to the rest of the group’s more often than not. When the Adlers’ spiker finally leaves, carrying a very drunk Hoshiumi under his arm with the help of Inunaki, Sakusa sighs deeply and settles further back into the armchair as if deciding he’s done with conversation for the night.
From his spot in the living room, Atsumu can see Hinata and Kageyama in the kitchen. Hinata offered to help clean up before they left, and Atsumu thinks they’re on their way to setting a new world record of the slowest dishwashers to ever live. They’re dragging it out as much as they can, Atsumu can see it even through the slight haziness of alcohol clogging his brain. There is no way a fork needs to be scrubbed that much.
There’s a sort of familiarity in their movements that makes Atsumu’s chest tight. It’s something about the way they exist around each other, like they know exactly the other moves and instinctively sync up. Hinata makes an expansive gesture with his hands and Kageyama sidesteps it easily, without even taking his eyes off from the sink. Kageyama reaches his hand out for a dish rag that Hinata’s already offering to him. Atsumu has the eerie sensation that if one sneezed in one city, the other would get the urge to say bless you from miles away.
“It’s like they’re in sync, right?’ Sakusa prompts, playing with the yet to be identified drink. He tilts the glass until it almost spills, then straightens it back up only to do it again and again. To the edge, then back. Almost spilling, safe again. Sometime along the night, he tucked the tiny umbrella behind his ear.
Atsumu thinks he looks like a tropical dream, although the exact choice of words can probably be credited to the gasoline-pineapple mix in his veins. The point still stands: he looks good, relaxed.
“Yeah. It’s nice, isn’t it?” Atsumu sighs, eyes following Sakusa’s movements. There’s a hypnotic quality to them, or maybe that’s just Sakusa’s effect in general.
“I suppose.” Sakusa takes another tentative sip and is only marginally successful at not wincing at the taste.
“Dontcha ever wonder if you’ll have something like that?” Atsumu’s mouth says before his brain signs off on it. Oh, if only Sakusa had hearing problems.
“Have what? An ambiguous and homoerotic relationship with my best friend? No, thank you, I’m no longer 15.” He huffs in annoyance, making the wayward curl resting on his forehead fly back into its place.
“Not that, ya jerk. I mean like…” Atsumu scrambles for a word. How do you define this perfect understanding? How do you define two people moving like they’re one? More importantly, how do you define that when you’re plastered ?
“If you say soulmate, I’ll jump off the window,” Sakusa deadpans.
“I wasn’t going to say soulmate,” Atsumu grumbles, but the word was definitely being considered. “More like someone who understands ya without ya having to explain yerself. Someone who likes even the parts ya don’t. And vice versa.”
Sakusa takes so long to answer Atsumu starts to lose hope that he ever will. Maybe it was a step too far. Maybe that night in the dorm’s kitchen was a fluke, the result of exhaustion and lack of other options. Just as Atsumu is about to tell him to forget about it, Sakusa sets his glass down and turns towards the kitchen, watching Hinata and Kageyama too.
“I don’t think it’s likely that I’ll have that in my future, no. I don’t think it’s meant for people like me.” His words come out clipped, his voice tight. “What about you?”
Atsumu doesn’t have an easy answer to that. Would he like that? Yes, so much it makes him scared sometimes of the size of that want. Does he honestly think he’ll ever get it? That’s a whole different question. He’s aware of his qualities, physical or otherwise. He knows people admire him, even want to be friends and sometimes more. Atsumu’s first layer is a fucking delight. Charming, even.
It gets trickier when people get past that.
He knows his mom loves him, his brother loves him, his childhood friends love him. But sometimes, when Atsumu’s still awake late at night, he thinks they love him because they learned how to look past the things that make him unlovable. They love him because they have no other choice. Not everyone has the patience to look past the arrogance, the pride, the stubbornness.
“I don’t think I will either,” is the answer he settles on. “I can be difficult to handle, I’ve been told.”
Sakusa chuckles, a humorless sound ripped from his throat. “Oh? Miya Atsumu doesn’t think he’s absolutely irresistible?”
“I am irresistible, not everyone has good taste,” Atsumu shoots back, banter rising up to shield the vulnerability. It doesn’t last long. “But… y’know how I am, Omi. I think the amount of people who learned how to love me despite my more… unsavory quirks has reached its limit.”
Sakusa’s charcoal eyes pin him to the spot, making the fine hairs on his arm stand. Were they always this black? Atsumu feels like he’s being sucked into them. “Unsavory quirks?”
“Playing dumb isn’t a good look on ya, for yer information. I know I’m arrogant, and petty, and stubborn. I don’t pretend I’m not. If it weren’t for those things, I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am,” Atsumu laughs, an even bleaker sound than Sakusa’s. “But I’m not dumb, either. I know that makes me… hard to love, I guess.” He can’t look Sakusa in the eye, can’t look at the two people falling in love in the kitchen, can’t look at his own shaking hands. He shuts his eyes instead. “It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t change it, because it would mean giving up volleyball and everything I worked for.”
It’s more truth than he’s ever offered to anyone, but it’s not all of it. He leaves out how he thought, for a hopeful, delusional second, that Sakusa would be the one to prove him wrong. To show him there was at least one more person that would look at the ugly part of his soul and choose to stay for the good one anyway. Atsumu really fucking hated being proven wrong.
“I don’t think your soulmate or whatever it is should love you despite these things, Miya. I think they should love you because of them. Especially since they’re what helped you get to where you are. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.” Sakusa doesn’t look at him when he says that, and Atsumu is glad, because he’s having trouble swallowing past the lump in his throat. The silence hangs heavy around them, swirling with words that Atsumu never meant to say out loud.
“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting, guys. I think I’m going to crash here after all,” Hinata says sheepishly, a light flush coloring his cheeks. Kageyama looms behind him, looking tired but undeniably happy. Atsumu doesn’t remember ever seeing him smile this softly. Didn’t think he knew how to, to be honest.
“Nah, don’t stress about it, Shou-kun. Thank you for the drinks, Tobio-kun. They were terrible.” Atsumu makes his way to the door, Sakusa’s steps sounding close behind.
The ride to the hotel is silent, and Atsumu barely notices the time passing. He’s tired, emotionally and physically, and the alcohol is weighing his limbs. He doesn’t even register the walk to his room’s door. Sakusa’s is right next to his, and they both pause before getting in. Atsumu can’t find his goddamn keycard, and Sakusa seems to be having a staring match with the doorknob for some reason.
“For what it’s worth,” Sakusa says, eyes still trained on the door, “I don’t think you’re hard to love.”
“Oh,” is all Atsumu manages to get out. The carpeted hallway muffles their voices, making everything sound muted, like they’re sharing a secret.
“Goodnight, Atsumu.” Sakusa steps inside and closes the door behind him with a resounding click .
“G’night, Omi,” Atsumus whispers to the empty corridors and ugly carpets.
Atsumu , he thinks to himself before falling asleep, he called me Atsumu.
The next week when Self-Care Sunday comes around, Atsumu has rehearsed a thousand times how he’s going to update Aran on his life. So far, he plans on going with We won the Adlers game, I scored 3 service aces, and remember how I said I wasn’t in love with Sakusa? I was definitely lying and now it’s worse than ever and also I think I might die alone!
But when the call connects, Aran’s face only occupies half of the screen. The other half shows one that Atsumu knows like his own, probably because it looks almost exactly like his own.
“‘Samu?! The hell are ya doing here?”
Aran takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the impending argument. “Atsumu, I think we need to talk.”
“Traitor! Traitor! Is this how Julius Caesar felt?!” Atsumu puts a hand to his chest in outrage, waving his phone around. “I’m hanging up, ya can’t keep me here!”
“Stop bein’ a little shit and dontcha dare hang up or I’m comin’ over and I’m bringin’ ma,” Osamu threatens, and Atsumu has known him for too long to doubt him.
“Aran-kun, care to explain what the hell is going on?” Atsumu has a feeling he won’t like the answer. He feels like a metaphorical bear about to walk into a metaphorical bear trap willingly. Like only an idiot bear would.
“Look, I’m sorry to bring out the big guns, but I was beginning to get really worried about you and the whole Sakusa thing, ok?” Aran pleads, looking like a kicked puppy. Shit, Atsumu can’t say no when he looks this earnest.
“Ya staged an intervention?! With my brother ?!” Atsumu entertains again the possibility of hanging up. It would take Osamu at least two hours to get to Osaka, right? Plenty of time for him to hop on a plane and flee the country.
“Self-Care Sunday also means taking care of your mental health,” Aran lectures, and both Atsumu and Osamu roll their eyes at that, making Aran scoff indignantly. “You two are terrible. Your brother and I just want to see you happy, you know that. If I hang up, promise you’ll stay and talk to him?”
Atsumu huffs, injecting his words with as much contrariness as he can. “Fine. Whatever.” Aran leaves the call, leaving the twins alone. Osamu tilts his head, unwilling to be the first one to talk. “What d’ya want, Samu? To scold me for hooking up with a teammate?”
Osamu doesn’t even blink as he says, “No, fer hookin’ up with someone yer in love with and not tellin’ him.”
“ Excuse me?! ” Atsumu wheezes, face burning in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “You don’t know what the hell yer talking about.”
“I know enough. What I don’t know is why ya keep doin’ this t’yerself. That’s not like ya, Tsumu.” Osamu softens his tone, says his nickname with the weight only familiarity can carry. “What’s really goin’ on?”
Atsumu’s anger fizzles out, escapes him in one last defeated sigh. Has Osamu’s accent always been that much stronger than his? Atsumu forgets about the distance sometimes, and as much as he wants to keep the arguing going, he’s also just a guy who misses his brother. Misses telling him things. “I… there’s nothing really to explain, I guess. We sleep together sometimes.”
“Are ya really in love with him? Aran says you are.” Osamu doesn’t sound judgemental, only curious. Worried, maybe. Aran has known them for over a decade; if he has a hunch about Atsumu, chances are he’s usually right.
And Atsumu can tell his brother a thousand inconsequential lies, sometimes for fun and sometimes for his benefit, but never about what really matters. “Yeah,” he says simply. There’s not much else to it anyway.
Osamu nods, processing the information for a while. “Will ya tell him?”
“I can’t, Samu. Ya don’t get it, it’s not that simple.” Atsumu lies on his side, offering his twin a prime view of his face smushed against the pillow. On the other side of the screen, Osamu follows his example. Like this, he can almost pretend they’re kids again, camping out in the living room together because the fan in their room broke and it’s way too fucking warm to sleep there. Except they’re in two separate cities and Osamu isn’t witnessing Atsumu’s life from up close anymore. “He’s not… he doesn’t want anything more.”
“But ya do,” Osamu prods, as if Atsumu needs any reminder of his situation.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.
“Of fucking course it matters, Tsumu. What’s the plan here? Yer gonna hook up with him and crawl back to yer room with yer heart broken every night? How long will that last?” Osamu’s features twist into a frustrated scowl that Atsumu knows like his own, has seen in the mirror too. “Yer not a volleyball martyr when ya ruin yer body and yer not a romantic martyr when ya break yer own heart. Yeah, I know about the damn shoulder too.”
Every word peels back a layer of Atsumu’s skin, leaving him raw and exposed. Osamu has always done this; he cuts out the rotten tissue Atsumu doesn’t even have the courage to look at. Maybe it’s a twin thing, but he thinks it’s just an Osamu thing. Here’s the ugly part, he seems to say, now what are you going to do with it?
“It’s not a martyr thing, Samu. He always made it clear it’s just sex, I’m the one who complicated shit and I won’t make it his problem when it’s mine.” Atsumu could never, especially not after that night in the kitchen. He couldn’t picture not having his family supporting his career, cheering for him. The fact that Sakusa had to do it alone, and on top of that had to keep proving to his parents he deserved to be here? Atsumu couldn’t imagine it. “If I told him how I felt he’d just have to shoot me down and then we wouldn’t be able to play together anymore. Things are working out fine now.”
“So yer really just plannin’ to stay like this until what? He gets tired of ya? Settlin’ fer crumbs? That’s not like you at all and y’know it.” Osamu sits up again, hair sticking every which way. “Ya don’t need me to tell you this, but this needs to end or yer the one that’s gonna come out worse fer the wear.”
Rationally, Atsumu knows this. Since confessing his feelings isn’t an option, there’s not much he can do. Rationally, Osamu makes perfect sense. But the way his stomach drops at the thought of breaking things off with Sakusa isn’t about rationality at all. Atsumu will settle for crumbs because starving is much, much worse.
“I’ll figure something out,” he says unconvincingly, mostly for the sake of the argument. They both know he doesn’t plan on doing anything about it.
Osamu looks at him like he knows exactly how that will go. When he speaks again, his voice is all worry, no bite. “I’m not there anymore, Tsumu. Ya need to take care of yerself.”
“Yer gonna take care of me anyway,” Atsumu whispers, adding a smile to try for lightheartedness. The tears welling up in his eyes probably make it hard to sell, though.
“Don’t run yerself ragged, okay?” Osamu asks. “Ya never settled fer anythin’. Now’s not the time to start.”
“I know.” It’s too much, he can’t shoulder his brother’s worry alongside his own. “I need to go. Bye, Samu.”
Osamu’s troubled frown is still present as he says, “Bye, Tsumu.”
The screen goes black and Atsumu is left staring at his own reflection.
If someone had told past Atsumu that he’d be putting himself through this, he would’ve scoffed and told them to fuck off. Osamu has every right to be worried, but he doesn’t know what it’s like. How was he supposed to explain it? He’s the first person I’ve ever met that’s like me. He’s not sorry for who he is. He doesn’t expect me to be, either. I don’t need to pretend to be someone I’m not around him. Even that isn’t enough to cover it. Atsumu isn’t ready to give that up.
So, yes, he’ll stick around for as long as Sakusa wants him to, and then he’ll worry about picking up the pieces later.
Atsumu pads down the hallway, finds himself at Sakusa's door. They don’t usually meet up like that on Sundays, but Atsumu is verging on desperate. And after the Adlers near fiasco, the hotel hallway conversation, the call with Osamu… Well, Atsumu has pretty much reached the end of his sanity. Common sense has vacated the premises, and in its place there’s only the need for Sakusa’s teeth on his skin.
His fist is poised to knock when the door opens, and Sakusa runs straight into him. They flail for a few seconds in a tangle of long limbs and curse words until Sakusa finally grabs Atsumu’s shoulders and pulls them apart.
“What are you doing here, Miya?” Sakusa asks, yanking his hands back to himself. He’s in his inside clothes, a well loved cable knit sweater and cotton pants that hug his thighs just a little bit too tight. One of his hands is behind his back, clearly trying to cover something up.
“Whatcha got there, Omi?” Atsumu tries to peer around him, but it's useless. Sakusa twists his body to match his craning neck. “Where were ya headed?”
“I asked you first. What are you doing in my room?” Sakusa´s other hand comes to rest on his waist, one dark eyebrow raised in question. They let the quiet linger for a while, neither willing to be the first one to break.
Atsumu could play this game for hours, he really could, if it weren’t for the fact that Sakusa’s cotton pants shrunk in their last wash, turning even tighter than he remembers and Atsumu just wants to get to the part where they’re off on the strategically placed chair. “I was coming to see ya, actually. I’ll tell ya why if you show me what’s behind your back.”
Sakusa narrows his eyes, but his curiosity prevails. He extends his hand to show what he was holding: a light green lotion tube, with a label that reads aloe vera face cream, for normal skin types. He won’t meet Atsumu’s eyes when he mumbles, “Your turn. Why are you here?”
I’m fucking exhausted and I wanted to see you. I sleep better when my clothes smell like your shampoo.
“Well, y’know, we never had time to get together last Friday. And it was my set that got ya the winning point, so I think I deserve a reward.” Flirting comes easy to Atsumu, the words rehearsed and performed a hundred times by now. He knows his part and they made it this far because he plays it damn well.
“You cannot be serious. Your set almost cost us the game, Miya—”
Atsumu knew this was the reaction he would get. He smirks as he walks into the bedroom, crowding in on Sakusa and forcing him to step back until he hits the wall. “D’ya wanna be difficult, or will ya let me suck you off until you cry?”
Sakusa shuts his mouth with so much force Atsumu can hear his teeth clicking. He doesn’t usually take the lead like this, more than happy to be the one on the receiving end of this voice tone, but every now and then he likes to switch it up. Likes to see Sakusa’s usual confidence in the bedroom evaporate and leave this in its place: flushed cheeks, hungry eyes.
“So?” Atsumu taunts, standing as close as he can without touching.
Sakusa swallows hard. “I’ll let you suck me off.” He enunciates every word, as if he’s really granting Atsumu a favor. That’s the thrill switching with Sakusa: he doesn’t go down without a fight.
“Very considerate of ya, Omi-kun. Will ya let me do other things too?” Atsumu doesn’t break eye contact as he takes Sakusa’s sweater off, then his own shirt. The lotion bottle hits the floor with a dull thud.
“Yes,” Sakusa breathes out, one strained syllable that sends sparks down Atsumu’s spine.
“What kinds of things?” He skims his fingers over the hem of his pants, careful to brush against skin as little as possible, just enough to keep the goosebumps coming.
“Anything.” Sakusa’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, his eyes trained on Atsumu’s movements. A muscle along his v line twitches, and Atsumu brushes his thumb over it. His bluish veins stand out against his pale skin, leading down and begging the eyes to follow. Atsumu can’t get enough of the contrast between their skins, like gold and silver.
“Dangerous thing to say, Kiyoomi .” He makes sure to say his name slowly, carefully, turning it over in his tongue and tasting its edges. Strange how four extra letters make it sound so much sweeter. Atsumu stills his hands, gives Sakusa a chance to back out. To change his mind.
Sakusa doesn’t take it. He tilts his chin up almost defiantly, eyes simmering like hot coals. “I trust you.”
Atsumu nearly loses his footing, feels suddenly like he missed a step going down the stairs. Don’t read into it , he tries to tell himself, he means he trusts you in here, with his body. But his heart took that morsel and ran with it, a starved beast clutching leftovers to its chest. It still means something anyway, more than he thought he would get even if it’s still less than what he wanted.
Maybe Sakusa only trusts him in bed. It doesn’t matter. Atsumu will do everything he can to prove he deserves it.
Within these four walls, Atsumu can enjoy the pretense they set up. He can kiss Sakusa’s slender wrists like he wants to, interlace their fingers like he wants to, scrape his teeth on the inside of his thigh like he wants to, and it never means anything other than sex. Tonight, Atsumu takes full advantage of that.
He can’t seem to get enough of Sakusa’s soft moans, of the way he throws his head back, baring his throat for Atsumu to bite and bruise. He drags it out for as long as he can, bringing them both over to the edge and pulling back at the last minute. Every time Sakusa is close, he stops. And then starts it all over again.
If he has to leave as soon as it ends, he’ll make it last.
“Please, Atsumu, fuck—” Sakusa keeps their foreheads touching, hands behind his neck in a completely unnecessary iron grip; Atsumu wouldn’t leave at gunpoint. “I need , please,” he’s almost sobbing, voice ragged with desperation and stripped of all its usual haughtiness.
Atsumu doesn’t hold back this time, doesn’t have it in him to say no when Sakusa says please like that. He fucks him like he wants to ruin him for anyone else, wants Sakusa to be saying his name every time he even so much as touches himself. Atsumu wants to leave an impression the way Sakusa left one on him, in whatever way he can.
“Tell me, Kiyoomi, what do you want?” Atsumu buries his fingers into Sakusa’s silky curls, yanking his head to the side to whisper the words in his ear.
“I want you—”
His words get cut off by his abrupt release, and Atsumu gets to pretend that the sentence was meant to end there.
Starving beasts settle for crumbs.
They take a while to catch their breaths, sweat cooling on their skins. Atsumu knows Sakusa hates the sensation, the stickiness of it. In about five minutes, he’ll grunt and ask Atsumu to get off him. He’ll go into the bathroom, lock the door, and come back to an empty bedroom. Atsumu can’t bear to get told to leave this time, not when they’re still chest to chest, legs tangled together between the sheets.
So he takes a deep breath and makes the first move. Stops the afterglow before it settles. Atsumu gets up, puts his clothes back on and makes his way to the door. Sakusa doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. With his curls splayed over the pillow and the white sheets covering his waist, he looks like something belonging in a museum, or a church. Wholly untouchable, slightly sacred.
Atsumu’s foot kicks something and he bends down to pick it up before it rolls under the desk. It’s the face cream from before, the thing Sakusa was hiding. Atsumu almost forgot all about it. “Hey, Omi, where do I put this?”
Sakusa still won’t look at him, now studying the point where the floor meets the wall as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Take it. I was on my way to give it to you.” He sits up on the bed, back turned to Atsumu. “Saved me the trouble.”
“Oh,” Atsumu stares at the cream with a renewed sense of wonder. For normal skin types.
“See you at practice,” Sakusa says evenly, making a visible effort to sound as if his throat isn’t scraped raw (which Atsumu knows for a fact it is, because it’s partially his fault).
“Okay, yeah. See ya tomorrow, Omi-kun.”
Atsumu stares at the bottle on his night stand until he goes cross-eyed. You’re breaking your own heart, he tells himself, nothing’s changed, Atsumu repeats over and over again, trying to drown the sound of his blood rushing in his veins. But the scent of Sakusa’s hair lingers on his skin, and he drifts into the best sleep he’s had in a month.
IV.
Kiyoomi has to come to accept a very harsh reality: he can’t succeed at anything he puts his mind to. He managed volleyball, college, cooking, chess, but casual sex with Atsumu is the thing that breaks his streak. Fucking great. If he could switch, he’d give up chess. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work, so Kiyoomi is stuck with a useless hidden talent and a problem of homeric proportions in the shape of a man.
It’s not like he didn’t try, and it’s not like his track record indicated in any way that he would fail at this. Still, there he is, barely able to look Atsumu in the eye during practice after the face cream fiasco.
Kiyoomi had a whole cover up planned; he’d mention how he found it lying around in his cabinet and didn’t use it and why waste good product . He even knew the tone of voice he would use, the look in his eyes he would wear, everything to make it look like it wasn’t a gift he’d specifically went out of his way to get. But after getting his brains fucked out and leaving all sense and logic somewhere between his discarded clothes, his plan went to shit.
He would be hearing Atsumu’s hesitant oh in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
At least he left without being asked to, because in the state Kiyoomi had been in, he was one step away from doing something irreversibly stupid. Like asking him to stay.
But he didn’t ask, and Atsumu didn’t linger any longer than he had to. His pants weren’t even zipped when he left. More than ever, Kiyoomi needs to get his shit under control.
“... As always, please refrain from announcing new relationships via semi-nude Instagram stories with bunny ears filters. I can’t believe I even have to say this but now that the precedent has been established, I don’t trust some of you not to follow,” Coach Foster is saying, conducting the weekly team meeting with his usual air of overall exhaustion at their antics. “And before you ask, Bokuto-san, yes, you can post one with Akaashi-san as long as you are both appropriately clothed.”
“It was an accident! Kageyama didn’t know how Insta stories worked!” Hinata bemoans, face red with embarrassment. Next to him, Atsumu and Bokuto laugh and high five behind his back. “I just wanted to show him I’d make a cuter bunny than him.”
“We know, Hinata-kun. We know.” Inunaki pats his head in solidarity, barely able to keep the amusement from his voice.
While Kiyoomi and Atsumu were otherwise occupied on Sunday night, apparently so was Hinata. He’d stayed in Tokyo for an extra day and nearly broke the internet when he posted a picture of him and Kageyama cuddled together in bed, bare chested, looking intently at their own faces with a filter that applied bunny ears and heart shaped noses. That was how the Jackals, the Adlers, all of their friends and millions of other people around the world found out the freak duo had turned into a freak couple.
Their PR team deserved a raise.
“Lastly, we have one more announcement to make,” Coach says, and steps aside to let Aiko stand at the head of the table.
She clears her throat and fixes the lanyard around her neck, more fidgety than Kiyoomi’s ever seen her. “As per HR regulations, I’m required to inform everyone that Inunaki-san and I are engaged.”
All hell breaks loose in the meeting room. Chairs get thrown back when players stand up, someone spits out their water, and Atsumu yells I knew it! amidst all the chaos. Inunaki doesn’t even deign to stand up. He sits back against the chair, relaxed, smiling mischievously as all eyes turn to him expecting a confirmation. Without saying a word, he pulls the chain around his neck from under his shirt, showing a ring glinting at its end.
“How could you hide this from us?!’ Bokuto demands, but he sounds more sad than shocked.
“How long?!” Hinata asks, checking Aiko’s hand for a matching ring.
“You owe me a beer, Barnes-san,” is Atsumu’s contribution to the conversation.
“Okay, okay, settle down everyone. We’ll answer questions on Saturday,” Inunaki shoots Aiko a glance, waiting for confirmation. When she nods, he continues, “at Aiko and mine’s place.”
“You’re moving out of the dorm?” Bokuto turns to him, almost pouting. Inunaki throws his arm over his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
“We’ll still see each other all the time, dummy.”
“But not at 3 a. m. UNO…”
“You should not be awake at 3 a. m. ever,” Meian chastises, but it goes unheard as Inunaki promises Bokuto to visit once a month for late night card games. Coach all but shoos them away with his clipboard, looking at least five years older than when the meeting started.
Practice goes on with a hint of playfulness after that, a lightness in the air that Kiyoomi can’t help but lean into. It feels less like their jobs and more like enjoying a sport they all love among friends. It’s too easy to forget that volleyball is fun when they’re inside a gym ten hours a day.
During the break, Bokuto goes on and on about how amazing the engagement is, how crazy it is that no one knew, when will the wedding be, etc, etc ad eternum. Kiyoomi is reaching the end of his patience with this subject very quickly.
“Weren’t you nervous that if she turned you down you’d still have to work together?” Meian asks, toweling the back of his neck. Kiyoomi raises his head, finally interested in the conversation.
Inunaki shrugs noncommittally. “I was nervous she might turn me down, period . Work was the last thing on my mind,” he says with a laugh, and then mumbles, “Sorry, captain. There’s always more work. There’s only one of her.” He juts his chin to indicate Aiko on the far side of the court where she’s taping Atsumu’s shoulder, focused on her job. He says something and she flicks his ear in response. Kiyoomi snorts; he probably earned it.
“High risks, though,” Barnes adds, more pondering to himself than anything else.
“And high rewards.” Inunaki winks, blowing a kiss to Aiko. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t try to hide the fond smile lighting up her face. Inunaki laughs, shaking his head. “Plus, we’re freaking volleyball players. Sometimes we win, but even if we don’t, it’s the game that makes it worth it.”
Mutters of assent sound around them, Bokuto pumps his fist into the air in celebration. Kiyoomi is frozen on the bench, fingers wrapped tightly around his water bottle. On the other side of the gym, Aiko has resorted to hitting Atsumu with the roll of tape at something he said, and he laughs that full laugh of his that has Kiyoomi’s stomach twist itself into knots that would make a sailor jealous.
“Omi-san, are you coming?” Hinata lags behind the group to check on him, ever considerate. At Kiyoomi’s silence, he steps closer and lowers his voice, concern coloring his features. “Are you okay? Can I help?”
Kiyoomi takes a gulp of water that would be enough to drown a smaller man. “I just need a minute.”
Understatement of the fucking year.
Kiyoomi spends the next week staring at himself in the mirror in contemplation for so long he’s well on his way to becoming Snow White’s Evil Queen. He has so many debates inside his head that he develops a second, almost fully independent inner voice that exists solely to antagonize him. It sounds suspiciously like his cousin.
When he wakes up clear headed and full of determination, he decides to not say anything. Just because it worked for Inunaki and Aiko, doesn’t mean it will work for them.
He sees Atsumu first thing in the morning in the kitchen, watches as he accidentally misses the mug, pours coffee onto the counter and lets out a string of curses layered so thickly with his accent it’s barely comprehensible. Kiyoomi almost tells him right there.
They have a perfect run in practice that day. They’re in sync, an unstoppable force barely needing communication. Their bodies know how to work together, they know each other’s tells and preferences. Kiyoomi can’t risk this. He won’t tell.
Atsumu calls for a group stretching session and signals for Kiyoomi to hurry up and enjoy the empty locker room and Kiyoomi has to stop himself from dragging him along.
It’s exhausting beyond belief, this back and forth within himself. Kiyoomi experiences more feelings in a week than he did his entire life up until that point, and he’s not too thrilled about this new development. Is this what getting older is like? God, he’ll ask to be sedated by the time he’s fifty if it keeps increasing like that.
Ultimately, the choice is made for him. The team’s doctor, a silver haired french man that Kiyoomi still hasn’t learned the name of, comes to talk to them at Thursday's morning briefing. “Due to privacy issues, the new protocol is to request STD tests through us,” he says, setting a pile of papers on the center of the table. “Just fill in one of these forms and leave them in my office anytime.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at the high school worthy comments and snickers around the table, but it’s not so funny anymore when he sees Atsumu discreetly taking one on his way out. Kiyoomi’s train of thought screeches to a halt, cartoonish braking sound effects and all.
So he’s sleeping with other people. It’s fine. Objectively, it’s fine. They never talked about exclusivity, and just because Kiyoomi was Atsumu’s closest option didn’t mean he was his only one. They only met on Fridays, who knew what he got up to on the other days? Kiyoomi sure as fuck didn’t.
He’s grateful, in a morbid sort of way. At least he didn't have to go through the excruciating ordeal of telling Atsumu about his feelings and being shot down. It doesn’t change anything in the end; Kiyoomi will keep up the Friday meet ups, pretend he doesn’t know Atsumu is seeing other people, and get extra vigilant with condom use. This was the plan all along, he’d made peace with it before. What changed?
His expectations, for one. Because for a few minutes there, Kiyoomi really believed he owed it to himself to at least try. Inunaki was right. When they played, they never knew whether or not they would win, but they played it anyway. Because even if they lost, playing made it worth it. For a few minutes, Kiyoomi was ready to risk everything for Atsumu.
He hoped that whatever friendship they’d built up until that point was strong enough to last a rejection if it came to that. And if it wasn’t a rejection at all… Kiyoomi couldn’t even contemplate the possibility seriously, it would be like staring directly at the sun. It’s bright to the point of overwhelming him.
It matters little now. He isn’t getting an answer, because he isn’t asking a question anymore.
Hope is a bitch, and Kiyoomi is getting tired of falling for its scams. He should’ve known better by now. He does know better, but never when it comes to Atsumu. Kiyoomi would be able to appreciate the poetic irony of it all if it wasn’t for the fact that it was ruining his life. It was no surprise that Atsumu would be the one to make him break every rule he set for himself, to be the one to show him that his self-discipline isn’t that all encompassing.
All he needs is to go back to that point where he was at the beginning of it all: detached, casual, uncomplicated. It’s time for Kiyoomi to recycle some old methods.
For the first 3 a. m. UNO night without Inunaki, Kiyoomi gets summoned. He’s still awake for some reason, deep down a rabbit hole of shelf organization videos on TikTok, when he hears hushed voices outside his door.
“You ask him!” Bokuto pleads, and Kiyoomi can practically see his big puppy eyes.
“Why me? It’s your game night!” Hinata whisper-shouts back.
“It’s our game night, what do you mean—”
“What are ya dorks whispering about?” Atsumu’s voice joins in, loud and clear.
“ Shhhhh!”
Kiyoomi knows that if he doesn’t intervene, this can go on forever. He once watched as the three of them discussed for 15 minutes about whose job it was to call the restaurant and say they forgot to send soy sauce. He was in no mood to repeat the experience.
“I can hear you, you know,” Kiyoomi calls from his bed. The voices go quiet. “It’s open, come in already.”
The door creaks open slowly, letting the brightness of the hallway spill into the dark bedroom. Three figures stand silhouetted against the light, peering in like some kind of three-headed creature straight from his worst nightmares.
“Omi-san, are you awake?” Hinata whispers into the darkness.
Kiyoomi grumbles and sits up, turning on the lamp on his bedside table. “I hope so, otherwise this is a very boring dream. What do you need?”
Hinata jabs an elbow into Bokuto’s ribs, making him yelp in surprise. “Okay, okay! Sakusa-kun, we’re playing UNO and watching old games. Do you wanna join?”
Kiyoomi almost declines, has the word on the tip of his tongue, but Atsumu’s eyes are staring curiously at him, waiting for an answer. He sighs, frustrated at his own helplessness that doesn’t show any signs of decreasing. “It’s not like I have anything better to do, so why not?”
The common room is lit only by the reading lamp next to the couch, casting everything in a warm hue. The TV hums softly, volume turned almost all the way down. The quality of the footage is so low Kiyoomi can barely recognize what teams are playing, let alone the players themselves.
Hinata taps a finger against one of the pixelated figures, the one about to serve. “That’s Kageyama,” he says wistfully, following his movements with his nose almost touching the screen. “It’s one of his junior high matches. Miwa-san let me borrow it, but he doesn’t know I have them,” he shoots them a conspiratorial wink, effectively making everyone in the room his unwitting accomplice. Kiyoomi sincerely hopes Kageyama never asks about it because Bokuto doesn’t hold up well under interrogation.
“Is that Oikawa? And Iwaizumi?” Bokuto points at two other barely discernible figures on the screen wearing the same uniform as Kageyama.
“Yup! They were teammates for a while. I don’t think Oikawa would like that I have this either.” Hinata chuckles, entirely unafraid of the prospect. Kiyoomi wonders if he lost his sense of self-preservation along the way or if he’d never had one in the first place. Considering the stories he hears about him and Kageyama in high school, the latter seems to be more likely.
They huddle around the coffee table, Hinata and Kiyoomi on one side and Atsumu and Bokuto on the other. Atsumu eyes the deck for a second and decides to do a fancy shuffling motion, which quite literally blows up in his face. One of the cards flies towards his face, the corner going straight for his eyeball.
“Shit, shit, shit, I’m blind !” He yells, hand reflexively raising to cover the injured eye.
“Tsum-Tsum! Do you need ice?!” Bokuto frets around him, arms flailing in panic. Hinata darts from his seat so fast it ruffles Kiyoomi’s hair, already in the kitchen before Atsumu has the chance to accept or deny the offer.
“I’m getting ice!” Hinata’s voice sounds high and frantic, followed immediately by the distinctive sound of an ice tray hitting the floor. “In a bit! I’m getting ice in a bit!”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and crawls over to Atsumu’s side, who watches him warily with his remaining eye. Bokuto sits back on his haunches, nervously twisting the hem of his shirt into his hands. “Bokuto, please tell Hinata we don’t need ice because I can hear him and I think he’s trying to wash the ice cubes that fell,” Kiyoomi says evenly as he settles himself in front of a pouting Atsumu. He sees Bokuto nodding and standing up to deliver the message from the corner of his vision. Atsumu still doesn’t uncover his eye, and Kiyoomi raises his eyebrow at him.
“Hurts,” Atsumu mumbles as an explanation. The faucet in the kitchen stops running, hopefully signaling that Hinata got the message and stopped trying to wash ice cubes.
“You are such a baby,” Kiyoomi groans, but he keeps his touch light as he wraps his hand around Atsumu’s hand. He tugs it softly, pulling it away from his face. “Let me see before those two call an ambulance.”
Atsumu doesn’t fight it, lets their arms fall easily together onto his lap. Kiyoomi snatches his hand away before the touch has a chance to crawl up his arm like poison ivy. If he thought sex was hard, this is so much worse; this touching for touching’s sake that makes his skin erupt in goosebumps and his heart bubble up to his throat.
As expected, Atsumu’s theatrical reaction was mostly unwarranted. His eye is red and irritated, and there’s a small nick right under the tail of his eyebrow, blood only starting to well up.
“Is it bad?” Hinata asks in a hushed whisper from behind him. He sounds so genuine Kiyoomi barely has the urge to roll his eyes at the way they’re all acting as if Atsumu was shot and not just nicked by a UNO card.
“It’s fine, I’ll just clean it up and give him some eyedrops. Miya will live to see another day,” Kiyoomi declares, mostly for Bokuto and Hinata’s sake.
“But will he see it with both eyes?” Bokuto prods.
“Yes, Bokuto. Both eyes.”
He grins and pulls Hinata into a side hug, then claps Atsumu’s back. “Nice! Maybe we should call off UNO for today.”
“Nah,” Atsumu waves his free hand, “We’ll be right back. Wait for us!’
Hinata nods, still tucked under Bokuto’s arm. “We should think of another game for next week though, UNO is getting too dangerous.”
Kiyoomi finally allows himself that eyeroll as he listens to the two discussing indoor mini golf as an option. Why it ranks lower than a children’s card game in the list of dangerous pastimes is beyond his comprehension.
“C’mon, Miya. Let’s clean up that cut.”
“‘S fine, Omi. I can do it.” Atsumu raises his hand back to his eye, lips still twisted into a pout that Kiyoomi definitely doesn’t find a little adorable.
“And make me have to endure your whining all night? Not a chance.” Kiyoomi nudges him with his foot, forcing him to get up to avoid being kicked into the couch. “Plus, if anything happens I’m the one who will have to explain it to Bokuto and Hinata and I’m not taking any chances with that.”
Atsumu laughs quietly, caving in and following Kiyoomi into his room. He can feel the tension radiating off both of them, the displaced familiarity of the scene wrapping itself around them tight enough to suffocate. Here they are, walking into Kiyoomi’s dark bedroom late at night, as they’ve done every week for months. It elicits an almost pavlovian response, at least in Kiyoomi. Atsumu mostly just looks uneasy, and still sulking about the eye.
Kiyoomi turns on every light in the room, banishing the shadows and their whispered promises of intimacy. He opens the door to the ensuite, holds it open as Atsumu walks inside.
“What a gentleman, Omi-omi,” he snickers, looking around as if he’s in a reconnaissance mission of Kiyoomi’s bathroom.
“Only because you’ve apparently been mortally wounded. War heroes can only imagine the kind of pain you're in. UNO will send you a medal any day now,” Kiyoomi drones as he opens his cabinets in search of his first aid kit. Behind his back, Atsumu slides open the shower doors. “Sit on the toilet, stop poking your head inside my shower.”
“I knew the bedside manner wouldn’t last. Yer a terrible nurse,” he grumbles, but Kiyoomi turns around to find him already seated as he asked.
“Tilt your head up and to the side— no, not like this, idiot. Miya, the other side, why would I want to see the one that isn’t hurt— oh, for fuck’s sake.” Kiyoomi grabs his face in his hands and positions it like he wants, tilted to the side and up to get the best light. Another unwelcome pinprick of familiarity, made more intense by Atsumu’s throat bobbing as he swallows hard.
Kiyoomi dunks a washcloth in a mix of lukewarm water and mild soap, squishes it in his fist to drain out the excess. He still has his other hand cupping Atsumu’s cheek, his palm tingling with warmth. If he snatches it back it’ll only seem suspicious, if he keeps it there he might implode. Kiyoomi settles for the latter option, Atsumu’s soft skin like silk against his calluses.
“Isn’t it better to use rubbing alcohol or something?” Atsumu asks, keeping impressively still despite his fidgeting earlier.
“It can harm the tissue and it stings more.” Kiyoomi doesn’t meet his eyes as he wipes the single drop of blood that made its way down his face. He follows the red line up, leaving a glistening trail of water in its place. He dabs the cloth against the cut itself and Atsumu winces.
“Thought ya said the alcohol is the one that stings,” he hisses through gritted teeth. Kiyoomi can feel his clenched jaw under his fingers, muscles twitching with the force of it.
“I said it stings more , not that the soap doesn’t sting at all. And,” Kiyoomi adds, “I thought you liked a little bit of pain.”
Atsumu barks out a surprised laugh, his muscles uncoiling in a reflex. Kiyoomi bites back his smile as he rips open the Band-Aid and places it neatly over the cut.
“Done. Now that you’re out of mortal peril I can tell you that you overreacted insanely and you wouldn’t survive a day in a post-apocalyptic world.” Kiyoomi tries to stand up slowly, without making it seem like he’s trying to put as much distance between them as he can. Which he is, but the point is not letting it show.
“I just don’t like blood, okay? Is that a crime ?” Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest, but his scowl is severely undermined by the pink Hello Kitty Band-Aid on his face. Kiyoomi should probably tell him about that. Then again, he’ll see it soon enough for himself.
“It’s not a crime. It is ammunition for me to make fun of you, though. And leverage.” Kiyoomi deepens his voice, attempting to mimic a radio show host. “Hotshot athlete Miya Atsumu faints after a papercut. Fans worldwide are disappointed.”
“Yer not funny, Omi,” Atsumu says, but he’s doing a shit job of hiding his laugh. Kiyoomi hopes he’s better than that, or he’s more fucked than he thought.
Back in the living room, Bokuto holds a roll of duct tape like it’s the most important task in the world. He cuts off pieces and hands them to Hinata, who’s concentrated on wrapping the edges of every single UNO card with tape. They are, surprisingly, very far along already. Kiyoomi hadn’t noticed how long they were in the bathroom.
“We’re making them safer,” Hinata offers at Atsumu’s questioning look.
Atsumu gasps dramatically, squeezing between the two and successfully grafting himself into their line of production. Bokuto cuts another piece of tape and hands it to Atsumu, who hands it to Hinata. “You’re my heroes,” he says, spreading his arms over their shoulders and pulling them both close for a fond hair ruffle.
“Okay, cards are safe and ready to go. Omi-san, can you shuffle?” Hinata offers the deck with brand new silver edges, wearing his best pleading eyes and pleading grin.
Kiyoomi snatches the deck from his hands with a huff. “Fine, but I told you that look only works on Kageyama.”
He shuffles easily and hands out the cards, seven for each and a starter one in the center of the table. The game goes on mostly in silence, the occasional car outside and the familiar sounds of a volleyball match coming from the TV the only sounds. Of course, the subdued atmosphere never lasts where the MSBY players are concerned. Hinata’s groan when Bokuto hits him with a +4 could rival a grizzly bear’s.
“Y’know, if ya add another +4 that means Omi has to draw eight and ya escape the punishment,” Atsumu supplies, curling his lips into a smirk.
“That’s total and complete bullshit ,” Kiyoomi whisper-shouts, smacking his hands on the table for emphasis.
“It’s not! That’s how we play back home.” Atsumu shrugs, but his smirk doesn’t leave his face. Kyoomi might just start using his cards as ninja stars, anything to wipe that smug look off his face and the warmth off his own cheeks.
“Do not test me, I will call your brother for confirmation.” Nevermind that it’s 4 a. m. and Kiyoomi spoke to Osamu maybe twice in his life.
Atsumu narrows his eyes, gauging him warily. “You wouldn’t.”
“Test me, Miya.”
Atsumu holds his stare for three or four heartbeats, Kiyoomi’s blood rushing in his veins. It’s uncanny how easily they fall into this pattern of prodding at each other’s limits, be it on court, in bed, or during UNO, apparently. Hinata clears his throat loudly.
“I just googled it and you can’t.” He waves his phone in their faces, screen showing a tweet from the official UNO page. “Sorry, Atsumu-san.”
Atsumu snaps his head to look at Hinata, mouth hanging open. “Sho-kun, how could you?!” He falls back onto Bokuto, draping his arm over his forehead like an Old Hollywood diva. “Bokkun, yer the only one I can trust.”
Kiyoomi snorts and watches as Atsumu draws four cards from the deck as loudly as humanly possible, Bokuto patting his head in a show of support through it. Kiyoomi can’t help but being a little transfixed by their casual intimacy, how neither of them think twice before touching or getting into each other’s space. Will he ever get to do that? Will he always need some kind of pretense to feel Atsumu’s skin on his?
God. He’s so fucking tired of it.
Kiyoomi wins. Bokuto and Hinata mumble their congratulations, already half-asleep by the time the game is over. Atsumu nudges his leg with his knee, probably the most congratulatory gesture he can manage after finishing the game with 16 cards in his hand. “Congratulations on winning, even if ya cheated.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, nudging him back. “I didn’t cheat. You talked big and couldn’t back it up as always , Miya.”
Atsumu waits for the sound of doors closing down the hallway before speaking, voice laced with mischief. “Funny, ‘cause I remember something I said last week that I backed up just fine. Do you remember that too, Omi? Pretty sure ya were there.”
Kiyoomi stands up fast enough to make his vision go black, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He needs to get out of Atsumu’s range of influence before he does something absolutely stupid again. “Shut up,” he grumbles out, and Atsumu’s laugh follows him into his room.
Being in love with Miya Atsumu is exhausting, but what is he supposed to do? If he could stop it he would’ve done it by now. It can’t stay this bad forever, Kiyoomi reasons. At one point touching him won’t make his breath seize in his chest like he’s just ran a marathon. Hearing him laugh at something Kiyoomi said won’t make his heart stutter and come back slightly out of rhythm. Maybe at one point loving him won’t make him go to bed with this bone deep weariness from holding himself back all day long.
Kiyoomi just has to hold on until then.
V.
Atsumu’s skin looks gorgeous and he’s endlessly pissed about it. The aloe vera lotion worked wonders, much better than anything he’d ever bought for himself. His method of choosing skincare products mostly resembled a kid given a limitless credit card and free rein in a candy store. Sakusa was probably a lot more meticulous than that, even when shopping for others.
Atsumu loves being watched, but he’s still not completely sure on how he feels about being seen . Turns out being under a spotlight and under a microscope are two entirely different things. He has to constantly fight the urge to ask, do you like what you see? Do you even realize you’re seeing something no one else does?
His hand goes up to the Hello Kitty Band-Aid on his brow. That had been an interesting revelation when he finally looked at himself in the mirror. Every time Atsumu thinks he’s close to cracking the code that is Sakusa Kiyoomi, something happens and wrenches him right back to where he started. He’s no closer to understanding him than he was a year ago.
Or, more accurately, he understands Sakusa better than ever. Understands how he operates, his thought process, the things he likes and dislikes. What Atsumu doesn’t get yet is Sakusa in relation to him. Usually, he’d just say fuck it and take the plunge, find out for himself. But it wasn’t just his career at stake here; it was Sakusa’s . He couldn’t risk something that wasn’t his to ruin.
And, more selfishly but still just as relevant to his decision making: he won’t risk this tentative thing he has with Sakusa and end up with nothing at all.
So he resigns himself to stroking his own impossibly soft cheek and burning holes with his eyes into the lotion bottle that’s become a permanent fixture on his nightstand. If regular people spent this much time overthinking the motivation behind gifts, the invasion of Troy would never have happened.
The sound of something that was clearly meant to be a knock interrupts his sulking session. Whoever is on the other side of the door knocked once and then dragged their fist down the wood very slowly, producing a noise worthy of a horror movie. Atsumu really hopes that’s not the case because he’s decidedly not in the mood to get murdered, especially not with only one win between the Jackals and the top of the ranking.
He waits for the visitor to announce who they are, but only a slight groaning comes. The odds of a horror movie situation increase too much for comfort. Atsumu is eyeing the window and assessing his chances of jumping out of it and surviving when he hears the groaning again, this time vaguely familiar.
“Miya, open the door.” The knock-and-drag sounds one more time, more insistent.
In the list of things Atsumu expected to find when he opened the door, the view that greets him would be ranked close to the bottom, right between “Ushijima in a tutu and pointe shoes” and “Kageyama in one knee, ready to propose.”
Sakusa is in a loose fitting t-shirt, the collar stretched enough that his collarbones are peeking out of it. His curls are a mess, unstyled and sticking out in every direction. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, a nice contrast to his skin. Oh, and no less important, he’s absolutely fucking wasted.
Atsumu has seen Sakusa in various states of inebriation, from tipsy to buzzing. This is something else entirely. He can’t even stand up on his own, slumping against the doorframe like he might fall at any second without the support.
“Hey, Omi, how are ya doing?” Atsumu asks neutrally, reaching out a hand to steady Sakusa as he stumbles forward.
“It’s Friday,” Sakusa says, slurring the two words into one. If his perfect pronunciation is gone, that means he’s worse than Atsumu thought.
“Righ, right. I usually go to yer room, though.” Sakusa balances himself by putting his hands on Atsumu’s shoulders, casting him in the role previously occupied by the doorframe. Atsumu keeps his grip on his hips, holding him in place.
“Wanted to switch things up,” he explains, fingers toying absently with the hair on Atsumu’s nape. It would be enough to distract him if it weren’t for the whiskey in his breath.
“That’s great, Omi.” Atsumu has to swallow back a laugh as Sakusa buries his face on the crook of his neck and stays there, mouthing against his skin. The smell wafting off him is strong enough to almost get Atsumu drunk on the fumes alone. “Any explanation on why ya smell like the home of Johnny Walker himself?”
“Whiskey,” is Sakusa’s full answer. He decides quickly to move on from the subject by saying, “Kiss me.”
Atsumu can’t help it. The whispered words make him shiver, his body wants to respond like it always has: with blissful compliance. But things with Sakusa haven’t been only about sex for a long time, and now he’s much more preoccupied with making sure a person he cares about is safe and not on the verge of passing out from alcohol poisoning. Or falling on their face.
“Here’s an idea: how about ya get into the shower and I’ll meet ya there? How does that sound?” Atsumu pushes back Sakusa the tiniest bit, only enough to look at his face as he speaks and make sure he’s understanding what he’s saying.
Sakusa narrows his eyes, considering the offer. “Will you kiss me there?”
Atsumu prays that he’s drunk enough to not notice the corner of his lips twitching up. Who knew Sakusa was such a clingy drunk? “If that’s what ya want, Omi-omi.” With an arm wrapped around his waist, Atsumu leads him to the bathroom, kicking the door open with his foot. “Will ya be fine for a minute? I just need to do something first, then I’ll join ya.”
Sakusa leans back against the sink, studies the space around him. Then nods, seemingly pleased with whatever conclusion he arrived at. “Hurry.”
Atsumu closes the door behind him and hears as the shower starts running. Well, that was certainly not in his plans for the night. While a part of him is worried about Sakusa’s wellbeing, the other can’t help being charmed by it. It’s something about how his hair looks pretty in its messiness, probably the closest Atsumu has ever seen to his bedhead; something about the worn t-shirt and the flushed cheeks. It’s endearing , this version of Sakusa with his walls down.
And a third part of him, tiny yet very present, relishes the opportunity to care for him. To touch him and brush his curls back and put his hand on his waist without feeling like it needs to have a justification. For now, Atsumu will get him to shower, drink some water and hopefully put him to bed, and tomorrow they will both pretend it never happened. Atsumu’s getting morbidly good at this.
“Omi, everything ok?” Steam escapes the bathroom in thick clouds as he opens the door to check on Sakusa. Sure, he’s seen him naked hundreds of times, but context is key and Atsumu doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable.
For a delirious fraction of a second, Atsumu thinks Sakusa managed to escape, even in his drunken stupor. He doesn’t immediately see his dark head of curls upon entering, and that obviously has to mean he’s not there since there isn’t any room to hide in there. And then he looks down.
Sakusa is sitting on the tiled floor, hair plastered against his forehead and knees drawn up to his chest. He has his eyes closed, content to let the warm water fall on him. Atsumu didn’t have to worry about barging in on him naked, since he’s still fully clothed.
“Omi! The hell are ya doing?! Get out of there!” Atsumu reaches inside the stall for the knob, but Sakusa’s hand shoots up and grabs him before he can turn it off.
“You said you’d join me,” he says, looking up through his wet lashes and frowning like a petulant child. The whole thing is made harder by the fact that Atsumu desperately wants to join him, clothes and all. But someone needs to be the level-headed one in this situation, and it clearly won’t be the one pouting on the shower floor.
“I’m still in clothes,” Atsumu points out tentatively. The sleeve of his hoodie is already drenched, still held under the spray of the shower by Sakusa’s grip on his wrist.
“So?” Sakusa tugs lightly on his arm, having resorted to trying to physically pull Atsumu into the cramped stall. If he weren’t so drunk, he might’ve succeeded. “C’mon, Miya. Don’t kill my buzz.” He pauses and mouths the words silently again. “Wait, that doesn’t sound right. What’s the saying? Nevermind, come in already.”
Atsumu makes an effort to choke back his laughter. He has a good amount of experience dealing with drunks, and he knows that if Sakusa decides to not cooperate, things can go south very fast. He needs to focus: shower, water, bed. Maybe he can use this to his advantage. Atsumu lived most of his life with a brother; he knows how to negotiate.
“Let’s make a deal: I’ll come in, but when we get out ya need to promise me yer going to drink water and go to sleep when I ask. Okay?”
Sakusa gives one last sharp tug to Atsumu’s sleeve, finally getting him to stumble forward and into the shower. It doesn’t escape him the fact that Sakusa didn’t technically agree to anything, but he seems to cheer up considerably when Atsumu joins him, so he decides to see it as a promising development.
His clothes stick to his skin almost immediately, the heat and the water speeding up the process. Atsumu slides down the wall, mimics Sakusa’s position on the floor: knees up against his chest, back flush against the cool tiles. They’re almost mirror images of each other like that.
Sakusa throws his head back to rest it against the wall, eyes closed. His hands grip his knees, long white fingers that Atsumu knows exactly how they feel. He’d always thought there was something ruthless about Sakusa’s beauty; the sharp line of his jaw, the merciless cut of his cheekbones. But now, with the steam making his curls even more pronounced and the water pooling in the hollow of his throat, he doesn‘t look ruthless at all. Only a boy who’s barely a man, a little lonely, a little tired. Like Atsumu.
“I know we never talked about this, but you can sleep with other people if you want to. I’m not stopping you, you know.” Sakusa still has his eyes closed and head back, barely moving except for his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Atsumu follows a drop of water down the slope of his nose, watches as it drips down to his cupid’s bow. He has really nice lips, Atsumu has always thought that. He’s so focused on the shape of his mouth it takes him a while to process what Sakusa’s saying.
“What?”
“I saw you taking the STD testing form. We always use condoms, so it can’t be because of me.” Sakusa stares at Atsumu through the curtain of water, a look that seems to reach into his soul. Atsumu can see how it would feel disconcerting to other people. To him, it’s almost grounding. “So I’m telling you you don’t need to hide this kind of thing. You can sleep with other people.”
The shower stall suddenly seems too cramped, his clothes too tight against his skin. Is that what he thought when he saw Atsumu taking the form? He doesn’t know what’s worse: letting Sakusa believe he’s sleeping around, or telling him that the only reason why he wanted to get tested in the first place was to suggest they start doing blowjobs without a condom on.
One look at Sakusa’s face tells him the former is definitely the worse. Sakusa is, by all normal standards, pretty skilled at hiding what he’s feeling. Atsumu, however, has been paying attention to him above normal standards for almost a year. It helps that Sakusa is drunk, his efforts of concealing emotions heavily impaired. He can read the tension in his shoulders, the pinch in the corner of his mouth, the furrow between his eyebrows.
“I don’t want to sleep with other people, Omi,” Atsumu says, his ankle pressing against Sakusa’s. It’s the most forthcoming he’s ever been about their non-relationship, but chances are Sakusa won’t remember this conversation in about twelve hours anyway.
“Why?” His voice rings low and gravelly, as if the words hurt on their way up his throat.
“Because I don’t like other people.” He’s inching closer and closer to dangerous territory. The water droplets on Sakusa’s eyelashes glitter like the fireflies that used to live in his backyard back home. There aren’t fireflies in the city, and Atsumu hadn’t realized how much he missed them until then.
Sakusa snorts. Not the amused snort he does when he thinks something’s funny and doesn’t want to show it, but the dry sound he makes when he’s hurt and is trying to hide it. The wrongness of it makes something revolt inside Atsumu’s gut. “You barely like me and that’s never stopped us before.”
Atsumu remembers studying physics in high school. Or rather, he remembers Osamu studying and reading the textbook out loud, confident it would help him memorize it better. Black holes have an immensely strong gravitational field, his brother recited in a monotonous drone, nothing can escape its pull. He looks into Sakusa’s dark eyes, almost black, and he thinks he finally gets it. He gets the pull. Atsumu can’t look away, and he feels the truth being slowly yanked out of him.
“That’s not true, and I don’t know what I’ve ever said to make you think that,” he whispers, the relentless sound of the water against the tiles almost drowning his words out. Sakusa’s knee is between Atsumu’s, not touching but close enough for him to feel the other man’s warmth through their drenched clothes.
“You’re not my friend, Miya.” Sakusa tries to retreat into himself, but he’s a 195cm tall man inside a stall with another dude almost as tall as he is; there’s nowhere to run to. The alcohol does nothing to dull the bite in his words, but Atsumu is past the point of being scared of it. Inside this bathroom, the outside world might as well not exist. Tomorrow might as well not exist.
“No, you’re not my friend.” The words come out in a rush, but Atsumu has no plans to stop them this time. “I never know what ya want outside the bedroom, Omi. I text ya, ya don’t answer. I ask ya to hang out, it’s always no. Ya give me some fucking face mask perfect for me, and then don’t even wanna see my face after I’m done sucking yer dick.”
“ God , there’s no way you’re that fucking dense—” Sakusa leans forward as if he plans to stand up, ends up accomplishing nothing except lodging his leg further between Atsumu’s. He lowers his head, takes an impossibly deep breath that seems to steal the air right out of Atsumu’s own lungs, the fight bleeding out of him in waves. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I never meant to make you feel… unappreciated.”
If Sakusa is apologizing to him, he’s way drunker than Atsumu’s previous estimation, which was pretty high to begin with. “I know what our deal is,” he tries to keep the contempt from coloring his words, but he can tell as soon as it’s out that he failed miserably. “I’m not asking for a love declaration here. Just for ya to not kick me out as soon as yer fucking cock goes soft.”
Sakusa thumps his head back against the wall, and Atsumu wants to get out before they both say something they’ll regret, but he can’t stop staring at the little pool of water on the hollow of his throat. “If I don’t tell you to leave as soon as we’re done, I’m scared I won’t tell you to leave at all .” His voice is frayed around the edges, a hint of desperation Atsumu never heard before. It twists his usually elegant accent into something raw, unpolished.
The vapor is clogging his brain, softening the edges of his rationality. There’s something important there, something life-changing about to happen, but he sees everything through a sheet of water, a driver in the rain with no wind-wipers. Atsumu is too close to driving off a cliff in his blindness, and he won’t risk it. He won’t risk Sakusa. “Why did ya get so drunk tonight, Kiyoomi? Why come here?”
Sakusa opens one eye, peeks through the curtain of dripping hair against his face. His whole body goes limp, supported only by Atsumu’s legs and the wall behind him. No one should look this good drunk out of their minds and wet like a kitten abandoned in a storm, and yet there he is, driving Atsumu half mad with the urge to just touch him, to drink the drops of water streaming down his neck. “Fuck. I knew you were cruel, but not that much.” He looks straight at him when he says, “You must know I’m in love with you, Atsumu.”
Atsumu’s entire world screeches to a halt, then comes back into motion in slow increments. The tiles are still cold against his back. His clothes are stuck to his skin like an extra layer, wet and heavy. Sakusa’s eyelashes are dark like ink, fanned against his cheeks. Sakusa is in love with him. They’re both in the shower, fully clothed. Sakusa is drunk.
Atsumu is not, though. It’s his responsibility to take care of him, blabbering nonsense or not. It’s his job to ignore the way his heart is beating hard enough his ribcage to bruise. He wouldn’t have liked anyone to hold the shit he says while drunk against him; he’s decent enough to offer the same kindness to Sakusa, who has closed his eyes again as if he’d never said anything.
“Yer drunk, Omi. We’ll talk about this tomorrow if ya want to.”
Sakusa doesn’t answer, makes no noise to acknowledge he heard him at all.
Atsumu finally turns off the water and gets out of the shower. He changes into dry clothes and gets the fluffiest, whitest towel he owns, setting it on his nightstand. Then he takes the second fluffiest and sets it on his bed, readies it for Sakusa to sit on. Atsumu pops back into the bathroom and finds that Sakusa still hasn’t moved, except for pulling his legs back against his chest. He doesn’t move when the door creaks open, seemingly having dozed off.
“Water and bed, remember?” Atsumu reminds him as he helps him up.
I knew you were cruel, but not that much.
You must know I’m in love with you, Atsumu.
Sakusa nods, his mind clearly elsewhere. He lets Atsumu lead him to the bed, takes the water glass from his hands and drinks it obediently. Water drips from him in a steady rhythm, Atsumu’s own personal rainfall. If he could paint, that’s what he’d choose to paint: Sakusa on his bed, a study in dark hair and water droplets.
“Arms up,” he directs, and Sakusa complies. Atsumu peels off his soaked t-shirt, revealing an expanse of marble skin and corded muscles. He knows his body like he knows the layout of his childhood’s home, like he knows the lines of a volleyball court. There’s the pink scar from when he ran into the net’s pole, there’s the three moles that look like a constellation, there’s the spot where Atsumu left his first hickey.
I’m in love with you.
Atsumu kneels in front of him, pulls down his sweatpants in one swift movement. Sakusa lifts his hips to help without him needing to ask. There’s a line dividing his thighs down the middle, a paler swath of skin on his upper thighs where they don’t get exposed to the sun. His socks go next, joining the other clothes in a pile. Sakusa’s left in his boxers, awake but barely. He sways easily with Atsumu’s guidance, trusting and tired.
Atsumu.
I knew you were cruel.
Atsumu runs the better towel down Sakusa’s arms, up his thighs, down his torso, pats his chest softly with it. He towels his hair as carefully as he can, almost reverent in his movements. He cards his fingers through his curls slowly, working out the worst of the tangles without pulling too hard. Sakusa leans against his hand, reminds Atsumu of a cat being petted under the sunlight. Clingy drunk indeed.
When he’s mostly dry, Atsumu pulls back the covers and Sakusa crawls underneath. He buries his face into Atsumu’s pillow and pulls the blanket up to his nose, lying on his side and curling into himself. There’s no hint of the tension in his shoulders or the furrow between his brows anymore. Even the smell of whiskey is gone, replaced by the usual clean scent of his skin.
“If ya need anything, give me a shout, okay?” Atsumu touches Sakusa’s temple lightly, balancing a spare blanket on his hip. “I’m gonna be right next door.”
Sakusa’s fingers wrap around his wrist again, much gentler this time. Only his black eyes are visible over the blanket, and his voice rings steady as he says, “Don’t go.” He brushes his thumb in a slow circle over the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. “Stay.”
You must know I’m in love with you, Atsumu.
Atsumu pulls the covers back again and Sakusa scoots over to make space for him.
The first thing Kiyoomi notices when he wakes up is that he’s naked. Not completely, he has his underwear on, but that’s about it. No clothes, and definitely no pajamas.
The next thing he notices is that he’s not in his room. It’s not his bed, not his pillow, not his egyptian cotton sheets against his skin.
Which brings him to another important thing: he’s undeniably pressed flush against Atsumu. He recognizes the smell of his aftershave immediately, he was just not expecting to wake up to it. Kiyoomi should probably get up and leave before Atsumu wakes up, but with his head against his chest, he can hear Atsumu’s steady heartbeat like a metronome. And the bed is so warm, the mattress so soft… maybe he can spare a few more minutes. It’s Saturday, after all.
A drop of water runs down the nape of his neck, as if his hair is wet.
Oh, fuck.
Images from last night come back in a rush, the memories flooding his brain like a dam broke inside his head. The whiskey. The shower. Atsumu. Their legs pressed against each other in the cramped space of the stall. A soft towel, fingers brushing his hair. Don’t go. Stay. And, even more undeniably damning: You must know I’m in love with you .
Atsumu stirs under him, and Kiyoomi tries to take the opportunity to get up. He’s halfway up when an arm winds around his waist and pulls him back, tucking his body into Atsumu’s. He’s nearly 2 meters tall, how in the world did he end up as the little spoon ? But he doesn’t have it in him to be mad, not really. Not when he spent so long indulging in fantasies that either started or ended exactly like this. Sometimes they were just this: lazy mornings, five more minutes in bed.
But Atsumu won’t stay asleep forever, and he’ll probably wake up wanting answers. Kiyoomi has the rare chance to claim plausible deniability on this, say he was so drunk he barely remembers anything. It won’t be outlandish by any means, considering his state the night before.
Still, it wouldn’t be the truth, because he does remember everything. He especially remembers Atsumu saying I don’t like other people , as if it meant he liked Kiyoomi . It sends a flutter of hope down to his stomach, fragile but present. The cat is out of the bag anyway. The cat is so far away from the bag, it might as well be on another continent.
Besides, Kiyoomi is tired of lying. Especially to Atsumu. Maybe he needs to rip the bandage off, and whatever happens, happens. He did all he could; it’s time to face the consequences.
Kiyoomi carefully lifts Atsumu’s arm and sits up, reveling in the chance to stare for a bit without being caught. People call Atsumu hot and handsome all the time, and it’s no wonder: he’s tall and strong, smirks and flirty looks for days. But when Kiyoomi watches him, it’s never those words that come to mind. Kiyoomi has always thought Atsumu is pretty . There’s a softness to the curl of his lips, to the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles. It’s almost delicate, in a way. Sometimes he looks as if he’s made of glass and spun gold, before they come together in a mess of teeth and tongue and it reminds Kiyoomi that he’s all flesh.
“Morning, Omi,” Atsumu whispers, stretching his arms over his head. His bedhead is atrocious, but Kiyoomi can’t stop focusing on the fact that he gets to see the bedhead in the first place. Fucking finally. “How’s your head? Ya were pretty wasted last night.”
Kiyoomi has to swallow past the lump of gratitude, of sheer fondness, in his throat. Here is Atsumu, offering him a way out. Here is Atsumu saying, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.
Atsumu has never asked Kiyoomi to explain himself to him. Kiyoomi wants to do it more than anything, wants to offer him the truth because if anyone deserves it, it’s him.
“I was, and I’m sorry for the trouble.” He takes a deep breath, lets the fresh morning air undo every lock he created to keep his feelings inside. One deep breath to break this nasty habit he created of keeping Atsumu out. It’s not as if it was any effective in the first place. “Miya, I—“ he stops himself right at the start. If he’s doing this, it needs to be done right. “Atsumu.” That’s better. ”I said some things last night that I wish—“
“It’s fine, Omi-omi!” Atsumu’s false cheer interrupts him, his smile a mask of his usual grin. “We don’t have to talk about it, I know ya were drunk—“
“Atsumu—“
“—and I know we say shit we don’t mean when we’re that plastered, I won’t hold it against ya—“
“Wait, hold on—“
“—so we can just move on already—“
“Holy fuck, Miya, shut up for one fucking second in your life!” Kiyoomi surges forward, covering Atsumu’s mouth with his palm. His hazel eyes go comically wide, eyebrows shot up to his hairline in surprise. “What I was trying to say is that I wish I hadn’t said those things while drunk. You’ve been nothing but nice to me, or at least as nice as you can be,” —Atsumu’s protest is muffled against his palm— “and I’ve been lying to you. I owed you the truth, and I’m sorry I said it while drunk. You deserved better.”
How can something feel so freeing and so emptying at the same time? The words are out in the open, and Kiyoomi feels simultaneously as if a huge weight was removed from his chest and as if something very important was ripped out of him, leaving him hollow. Maybe he’s still a little drunk, because he swears he can see the words floating in the air between them. Waiting.
Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi’s hand off his face slowly. He studies him carefully, and Kiyoomi lets him, stays perfectly still under Atsumu’s searching gaze. This is the moment he had been dreading and hoping for. He might come out on the other side of it with something wonderful, or he might not make it at all.
“What ya said last night. You meant it, then? About being… in love with me and stuff?” Atsumu cocks his head to one side, his knee pressed against Kiyoomi’s on the bed. It takes immense focus for Kiyoomi not to reach out and smooth his hair down.
“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it now, even if the simple admission sends a shot of adrenaline through his veins.
“You’re in love with me?” His tone betrays nothing. Kiyoomi doesn’t think they’re breathing.
“And stuff,” he confirms.
Atsumu shifts to kneel in front of him, leaving almost no space between them. He runs his hands up Kiyoomi’s arms, tucks a curl behind his ear, cups his face between his hands as if he’s handling something precious.
“For how long?” He asks quietly, refusing to break eye contact. Kiyoomi holds his stare, not backing down either.
“A while,” is the answer he can give for now.
Atsumu nods gravely, scoots even closer. Their noses are barely a centimeter apart, Kiyoomi can feel his breath against his lips, every cell in their bodies charged with electricity. “You are such a fucker.”
“ Excuse me?”
Of all the responses he expected to get, this was definitely not one of them. His mind careens wildly from emotion to emotion, from worried to hopeful to confused and looping back again to worried in a split second. But Atsumu has a look in his eyes that Kiyoomi knows too well; it’s the same look he has when he’s about to serve and he somehow knows it’s going to be an ace.
“I’ve been in love with ya for fucking ages, Omi. I mean ages. And you’re telling me I’ve been moping around like an idiot for nothing?” He laughs, bright and clear, and it might be the most beautiful sound Kiyoomi’s ever heard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks in a whisper, as if any disturbance could shatter this moment they’re in, this bubble where Kiyoomi’s most self indulgent fantasies are a reality, where being in love is not a burden he carries; it’s an experience they share.
Atsumu traces the contours of his face with his fingers, over his eyebrows, the shape of his cheeks, the moles on his forehead, like he’s trying to memorize Kiyoomi by touch alone. “The risk was too much,” he mumbles, brushing his thumb across Kiyoomi’s lower lip.
Kiyoomi chuckles, sensories on overdrive. For one impossible moment, it seems as if there’s no part of him Atsumu isn’t touching, and he’s never felt this safe before. “The risk? What risk is the great Miya Atsumu unwilling to take?”
“I wasn’t willing to risk you,” Atsumu answers easily, fingers now exploring the hair at his nape, as if he didn’t just take Kiyoomi’s soul and branded his name across it with that one sentence.
Kiyoomi snakes his hands under Atsumu’s thighs and hoists him up to his lap, making him yelp in surprise. He’s wearing one of those dumb shirts they used to sell at High School Nationals, and his bedhead gives no sign of settling down. The morning sun filters in through the gauzy curtains, drenching everything in golden light and making Atsumu’s hair even brighter. His tanned skin glows, despite them being well into Fall already. Summer clung to him like a king’s cape.
Kiyoomi could get used to this. Wants to get used to this.
“What are ya thinking?” Atsumu mumbles against his neck as he kisses a spot just under his ear that makes him shiver every time.
“That I don’t think we were ever as casual as we thought we were,” Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s lips curling into a smile, his teeth scraping lightly against his skin.
“I was never casual about ya, Omi.”
“If I knew you’d turn into such a sap after confessing, I’d have said something sooner,” Kiyoomi says, his hands finding their way around Atsumu’s waist on their own. “It’s very amusing.”
Atsumu makes a noise of half-hearted protest and shoves him back lightly, no actual force behind the movement. The grin won’t leave his face, his eyes open and honest as if he’s one second away from breaking into a delighted laugh. Is this what he’s like when he’s not hiding from Kiyoomi? God, he never stood a chance against this.
“Ya love it, jerk.” He takes Kiyoomi’s face into his hands again and plants quick pecks all over his face, making exaggerated kissing sounds to make it even more obnoxiously adorable.
Kiyoomi chases his mouth when he plants one on the corner of his lips, captures his bottom lip between his teeth expertly. He’s immensely, embarrassingly, impossibly happy about the things that changed in their relationship, but he’s just as grateful for the things that didn’t. A moan escapes Atsumu’s throat, his hands flying to the back of Kiyoomi’s head to grip his hair like a lifeline.
Kiyoomi braces an arm around him and lays Atsumu down against the mattress, still warm from their sleep. Straddling him, Kiyoomi basks in the juxtaposition of familiarity and newness of the scene. Atsumu’s wide, hungry eyes and rapid heartbeat, his breath getting quicker as he waits eagerly for the next move; all things Kiyoomi knows by heart now.
“You look so pretty like that, Atsumu.” The freedom to say exactly what he means; that’s a novelty he’ll never get tired of. “Fuck, you’re always pretty. You used to drive me insane during practice, did you know that? I couldn’t focus around you.”
Atsumu shifts impatiently under him, desperate for any kind of friction. Kiyoomi thanks his training for the strong thighs that allow him to hover just above him, denying any sort of contact. Still, he won’t be able to keep this up for too long; every nerve ending in his body is drawn to Atsumu, his soul so full it feels like it’ll burst through his skin.
“Me too, Omi, fuck, I know ,” Atsumu whines, brushing his fingers up and down Kiyoomi’s spine. “Couldn’t even think around ya, just wanted to tell ya everything that was on my mind.”
“Tell me, then. You can tell me now,” Kiyoomi whispers against his ear as he runs one finger down his chest slowly enough to be torturing. His voice comes out raw, bare of any pretense. He’s always been powerless when it comes to Atsumu; it feels liberating, almost, to admit it out loud and know it won’t come back to bite him. At least not in a bad way, because he does hope for some biting to be involved.
“Say it again. That you’re in love with me.” Atsumu fixes his eyes on Kiyoomi’s, determined. It’s a challenge, baring his teeth and his heart at the same time. Do you really want this?
Kiyoomi really fucking does.
“I’m in love with you,” Kiyoomi says as he finally allows their bodies to touch, earning a drawn-out whimper from Atsumu. “I’m in love with you, Atsumu. I’m in love with you.” He punctuates each sentence with a precise movement; a kiss to his chest, a pull of his boxers down, a kiss to his navel.
He watches as Atsumu unravels with every repetition, so he says it again and again. A litany of truths he had to hold back, one for each time he wanted to say it and didn’t. Atsumu says it back every time. Says it against his skin, around the fingers in his mouth, through a choked back cry when Kiyoomi brings them over the edge.
Kiyoomi falls onto Atsumu, limp and boneless and obscenely happy . How could he ever have called this a bad habit when it’s the best fucking thing that has ever happened to him? He’d be lucky if mornings like this happen often enough to be called a habit. Or maybe he just won’t let this one end, won’t move at all. He’d be perfectly content to stay in this moment for the rest of his life, chest to chest, warm sheets wrapped around them, Atsumu’s soft hair tickling his cheek.
Kiyoomi interlaces their fingers together and brings Atsumu’s hand to his lips, plants a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Atsumu huffs out a content laugh through his nose, eyes heavy-lidded with the afterglow.
“Oi, that tickles. What’d ya do that for?” He asks, nuzzling the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck.
“Just because.” The luxury of the statement brings a smile to his lips, private and gentle. Just because he can. Because he’s allowed to. Because Atsumu lets him, wants him to. He squeezes Atsumu’s thigh, wrapped around his waist and holding him in place in a viselike grip. “Let go, I need to shower.”
Atsumu unwraps his legs while letting out a continuous whine that lasts for at least 30 seconds, in case his pout wasn’t indication enough that he was unhappy with this. Kiyoomi chuckles to himself quietly, padding to the bathroom and dodging the discarded clothes on the way.
The door opens with a squeak, and Kiyoomi pauses in the doorframe before going in. Turns around to see Atsumu on the bed watching him like a hawk. It feels like a big step, but it really isn’t; Kiyoomi has been tired of leaving Atsumu behind for a long time.
“Join me?” He asks, holding the door open.
Atsumu smiles. “Thought ya’d never ask.”
Atsumu and Kiyoomi are men of habits.
They share a cup of tea in the kitchen before going to sleep. They walk to practice together everyday, and leave a bit earlier to watch the sunrise on the way if the weather is nice. Atsumu is always the one who cooks and Kiyoomi is always the one who does the dishes. They shower together after sex, and Atsumu knows just how Kiyoomi likes his hair washed. Kiyoomi never buys skincare items for himself without getting something for Atsumu too.
They fall into a routine with each other easily, like two people who had never known anything else. Atsumu had once called it soulmates , and Kiyoomi had laughed. He’ll never admit to it, but he can see what he meant now; the perfect understanding, moving like you’re one.
It’s not all picture perfect, because they have a few bad habits too.
They end practice a few minutes early so they can have the locker room to themselves. They skip dinner to eat junk food late at night. They never sleep when they share a hotel room, enjoying the fact they’re not the ones who’ll have to wash the sheets later. They get embarrassingly cranky if they’re apart for too long.
There’s something about love that feels like eating your favorite food; you go to bed full and wake up wanting it all over again. The warmth, the joy it brings never wears off. There’s a particular type of hunger that’s only sated by it.
Kiyoomi and Atsumu make a habit out of each other, and they indulge in it shamelessly.
Neither of them plan on breaking it any soon.