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Sakusa Kiyoomi has moles sprinkled all across the gorgeous expanse of his pale skin. Miya Atsumu is very aware of that. Too aware, really.
-
Atsumu’s not sure when exactly it starts, but he thinks the first time was after practice on a hot summer day.
Sakusa is freshly showered, hair still wet and dripping little constellations across his newly-donned gray sleeveless top. When he shuffles past Atsumu, rubbing a soft towel through his curly hair, Atsumu catches a glimpse of a mole on the curve of Sakusa’s shoulder, right where the apex of his scapula must be.
Atsumu’s never seen it before—their team uniform keeps their shoulders and upper arms covered, and sometimes Sakusa even wears compression sleeves, keeping everything but his slender hands out of view. As Sakusa continues drying his hair, Atsumu can’t help but trace the flex of his muscles, firm and defined; but what really does him in, what makes his stomach clench, is the mole.
It’s dark, and stands out starkly against the pale expanse of Sakusa’s skin. It’s the slightest bit larger than the two moles above Sakusa’s brow, and even when Sakusa is long gone, speeding out of the gym before his other teammates, Atsumu spends at least five minutes in the shower spaced out and staring blankly at the tiles, thinking only of that goddamn mole and how much he wanted to touch it.
So, yeah. Atsumu has a fucking problem.
-
Of all of the people to catch onto it first, Atsumu wasn’t expecting it to be Bokuto, only two weeks later.
He says so, and Bokuto only tilts his head like a confused puppy.
“But Tsum-Tsum, you’re not very subtle about it,” Bokuto says bluntly, and Atsumu has to fight the urge to bash his head against his locker door. He settles for covering his face with his hands instead, feeling heat rising in his cheeks.
Thank god they’re the only ones left in the locker room. He doesn’t need the rest of the team piling in to shame him too.
“Did ya really have to say so?” he whines. The words are muffled, so he’s not sure if Bokuto understands.
Bokuto merely pats his shoulder, though he puts enough strength into it that if Atsumu were just a handful of kilograms lighter, he probably would’ve toppled right over.
“It’s alright, Tsum-kun!” Bokuto says, giving him his signature bright smile and a cartoonish thumbs up. “I wasn’t very subtle about Akaashi either, and look where we are now!” He waves around his left hand, and the gold band on his ring finger glints against the locker room light.
“Yeah, but you and Akaashi had feelings fer each other fer years and years,” Atsumu protests. “This ain’t the same.”
Bokuto’s smile fades, and his gold eyes go serious. “But isn’t it? Don’t you like Omi-kun?”
Well. That’s a whole other can of worms.
-
He and Sakusa have come a long way, Atsumu knows. He credits a lot of it to his own dogged persistence in the face of Sakusa’s stubborn nature. Sakusa had barely been able to tolerate him, at first. Atsumu is loud, brash, and confident—sometimes overly so. It can rub people the wrong way, even if he’s a pro athlete for one of the best Division 1 teams. Sakusa certainly hadn’t appreciated it, but Atsumu won him over eventually.
He takes his relationships with his spikers very seriously, even if he plays favorites. He and Bokuto have occasional spa days together, where he moans and groans and pretends to be suffering as he listens to Bokuto go on and on about the love of his life Akaashi Keiji. Secretly, Atsumu thinks it’s all really sweet, though he’d never say so.
With Hinata, he likes to go to clubs and arcades in the dead of night because Hinata can hold his drink surprisingly well, likes to gossip, and is competitive about literally everything. Atsumu doesn’t always remember the events of the night before when he wakes up the next afternoon, but Hinata’s there to give him the rundown of the latest information from the grapevine and laugh at him if he throws up into the toilet.
And then there’s Sakusa. It started with Atsumu dragging a reluctant Sakusa out to a team dinner after a victory, but now they eat out together at least once a week, and they watch movies and shows together, sitting together closely enough that if Atsumu just barely stretches out his arm, he could tuck a few dark, errant curls behind Sakusa’s ear. He holds himself back every time, because Atsumu’s somehow got a certain reputation in the media, and he likes Sakusa too much to mess with him like that.
In the blink of an eye, they’ve gone from merely teammates to something else that’s a whole lot harder to define. Atsumu tries to anyway.
“We’re friends, right Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks once in the middle of a match, gently poking his elbow into the other’s ribs. He’s only half-teasing though.
Sakusa exhales sharply through his nose, his eyes gazing skyward. “I guess.”
Well, that’s not a no, Atsumu thinks, and decides to take it for the win that it is.
Across the net, Komori Motoya gives him a cheeky thumbs up, and Atsumu smiles weakly back.
-
Like is inadequate of a word, Atsumu thinks later that night, when he’s alone in bed but can’t quite fall asleep.
He doesn’t just like the way Sakusa insists on deep cleaning the locker room every weekend; the way he’ll don two masks and pull on a pair of gloves, the way he has his own well-stocked basket of cleaning supplies, the way he prefers lemon and pine-scented products over anything floral.
He doesn’t just like the way Sakusa stretches and flexes his wrists; the way he lets Atsumu watch and doesn’t ever seem to mind that he has an audience.
He doesn’t just like the way Sakusa looks first thing in the morning at their dorm, his hair all mussed and dark eyes half-lidded, body still relaxed from leftover drowsiness.
It’s not just like. It’s far beyond it.
Miya Atsumu has it really fucking bad, and it’ll ruin him if he’s not careful.
-
The second time is during weight training. None of the team is wearing uniforms, opting for their own personal workout clothing in various states of rattiness and overuse.
The weight room smells like an odd mixture of lemons and rubber. It seems like Sakusa did his best to disinfect and tidy up, but there’s no way to make gym equipment smell like anything other than what it is. Atsumu is so far gone he appreciates the effort, and the odd scent, anyway.
Hinata is on FaceTime, and somehow neither Foster nor Meian have told him off for it. Perks of being a ray of sunshine and the team’s baby, Atsumu supposes.
“I bet I can lift more than you, Weak-yama!” Hinata challenges. And, because their team’s shortest member has misplaced his earbuds for the sixth time, the call is on speaker mode and the entire team can hear Kageyama Tobio’s response. And the subsequent argument.
Atsumu finishes up his rep of squats and sighs loudly. “Could ya love birds save the flirting for when the rest of us aren’t around?”
Hinata at least has the decency to look sheepish.
Kageyama says, very flatly, “No.”
Bokuto raises a brow at him.
And, because nothing seems to be going his way and the universe is laughing at him, Sakusa heads over to the front of the weight room to deadlift. He smacks his hands together a couple of times, then bends over to grasp the bar. His dark shorts rest a little low on his hips. The hem of his shirt rises, up and up, and Atsumu’s mouth goes very, very dry.
There’s another mole—on one of his lower back dimples. The right dimple, to be precise.
Fucking hell.
Sakusa lifts the bar, his upper body straightens, and his shirt falls back into place. But the damage is already done.
Atsumu wants to grab Sakusa’s hips, right then. He wants to hook his chin over Sakusa’s shoulder so he can watch his face in the weight room mirror, then slot his thumb right over the mole and press down. He wants to watch Sakusa’s stiff stoicism melt away, wants to listen to Sakusa’s breathing hitch, then quicken. More than any of that, he wants to leave a bruise that’ll stick around for weeks. A reminder.
And then Bokuto is standing in front of him, trying to take up a majority of his field of view. Atsumu keeps staring around him anyway, taking in the expanse of Sakusa’s shoulders. “I think it’s time for a water break, Tsumu.”
Atsumu’s mouth is still as dry as a desert. “Yeah,” he croaks out, finally tearing his gaze away. “Yeah, sounds good.”
He’s really, really fucking thirsty.
-
Sakusa Kiyoomi seems prickly and standoffish, but Atsumu knows better. At heart, he’s more than a bit soft touch.
Sakusa doesn’t drink when they spend their nights out partying because he wants to make sure his teammates make it home safe. He always has an extra jacket either in his athletic bag or his car in case someone else forgets theirs. He keeps a pouch full of candy and volleyball-themed stickers on his person for times when he runs into younger fans who have bright smiles and are so easily pleased.
And, more recently, he doesn’t shy away from touch.
He and Sakusa were being interviewed after a game, once. It was a win, but a hard-fought one, leaving them still sweaty and breathless even after shaking hands with the opposing team. While they usually stand shoulder to shoulder for interviews, with Sakusa nearly out of frame of the camera’s view, something in Atsumu possessed him to place a gentle hand on Sakusa’s lower back, steering him even closer.
But here’s the thing—once Atsumu realized his mistake, he could have retracted his hand. Could have just dropped it between them, or he could have turned it into a friendly pat. But he left it there, lingering right over those goddamn back dimples, and he cherished the warmth that bled through Sakusa’s jersey.
Their interviewer made some small talk about the season and the team’s progress after an upset loss of a first game. Atsumu nodded and played along, laughed and made jokes in appropriate places. Stroked a wayward thumb down Sakusa’s spine and felt the resulting shiver.
And when the interview was over and the camera cut away, Sakusa just looked at him with those endlessly dark eyes, pinned him down like one of those beautiful, unfortunate butterflies that became nothing but wall decorations, that probably struggled, fluttering their wings until the very end.
“Sorry,” Atsumu had said, equal parts flustered and remorseful. He fucked up. They were friends. Friends didn’t cross lines like that.
But Sakusa only looked at him some more, expression unreadable, then shook his head slowly. His voice was soft. “It’s… fine.”
Atsumu watched as a bead of sweat traced a path from Sakusa’s hairline down to those two godforsaken moles above his eyebrow. He swallowed thickly. “Okay,” he said.
And it was that. Fine. Everything was fine.
-
One night, he and Sakusa get bored and binge watch a show. After the final episode, they both admit to being hungry, so Atsumu gets Onigiri Miya delivered to their dorm.
They sit across from each other at their kotatsu, and it’s when Sakusa is reaching over with a pair of chopsticks to grab some pickled ginger that Atsumu sees it.
There’s a mole there, hidden in the crease between Sakusa’s ring and pinky fingers.
“You have lots of moles, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, the words spilling right out before he can think better of it.
Sakusa traces the path of his gaze and sets down his chopsticks. Then he lifts his hand, spreading his fingers apart as he regards them. “I suppose I do.”
The answer isn’t a shut-out, so it doesn’t seem to be a sensitive topic. Atsumu dares to press a little further. “Do… do ya mind them?”
Sakusa shrugs, and his navy blue robe slips a little, exposing more of his left collarbone. There’s no mole there, but Atsumu licks his bottom lip anyway. “They’ve been there since I was little. Makes no difference to me.”
And that’s a pretty crazy thing to say in the face of Atsumu’s borderline obsession with them, but okay. To each their own.
Sakusa meets his eyes, then. “You have some moles too, you know.”
Atsumu blinks. “Really?” He doesn’t think so. At least, he’s never seen any, and he looks at pictures of himself all the time, as terribly conceited as that sounds.
A slow smile tugs at the edges of Sakusa’s mouth, and Atsumu’s stomach does that odd fluttering thing that probably isn’t related to food poisoning, because Osamu would never compromise his food quality like that.
“Behind your right knee,” Sakusa says, and then Atsumu just about jumps right out of his skin when Sakusa’s cold-ass foot traces an icy path up his shin.
“ Fucking— Omi, yer foot is freezing!” he shrieks, scooting backwards. In his haste, he knocks his elbow against the edge of the table and tips over a small container of soy sauce. It drips over the edge of the wood and onto the dark fabric.
Sakusa’s nose wrinkles as he takes in the mess. “I guess we need a better kotatsu anyway,” he grumbles, shuffling around the table until they’re side by side.
And Atsumu stares, absolutely fascinated, as a muted shade of pink rises across Sakusa’s cheekbones.
“Aw, are you embarrassed about your ice-block feet, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu can’t help but tease.
“Shut up, Miya.” This time, Sakusa kicks him in the thigh.
Atsumu laughs, but then catches sight of a mole on the delicate arch of Sakusa’s foot, and he has to make half-hearted excuses to head to bed before he absolutely loses his fucking mind and makes a mess he can’t afford to.
-
Over and over, Atsumu’s self-control is tested.
Sakusa Kiyoomi has moles fucking everywhere. In the crease of his elbow, on the back of his neck, on the inside of his wrist.
Atsumu has begun devoting no small amount of time during training just watching Sakusa, trying to get a glimpse of more, and at this rate it’s actually going to end up destroying his career. So long to his dream of being on the national team.
“You should just make out with him, Tsumu-san! That’s what I did with Kageyama,” Hinata suggests pleasantly one day after Atsumu has to discreetly wipe away drool from the corner of his mouth, and oh god, if the usually-oblivious Hinata can see it, anyone can.
Sakusa’s not stupid—he definitely can.
But he doesn’t say or do anything to acknowledge it, which is its own unique form of torture. Instead, he carries on as normal. Normal for them, anyway, whatever that’s worth.
They eat together, hang out together, stretch as partners, and are generally one of the best setter-spiked duos in their division. Not once does Sakusa bring up Atsumu’s wandering eyes, the way his hand hesitates and hovers between them, halfway towards something that could change everything, but too fearful to make the leap.
“Help me work on my receives,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu can only nod helplessly and follow. He’ll never be able to say no.
-
It all almost falls apart on the world stage, in front of literally everyone. Almost.
Hinata receives a wicked spike, sending the ball Atsumu’s way. Atsumu jumps, raises his arms, sets it to—
Who else would he set it to?
Sakusa’s already in the air, his arm pulled back and body curved in a graceful arc. And there, when he’s at the apex of his jump, Atsumu sees it.
He sets the ball, but his eyes don’t follow it. They’re glued, instead, to the two moles high on Sakusa’s pale inner thigh. The crowd is suddenly roaring because a Sakusa scored—of course he did—but all Atsumu can think about is how he wants to fit the sharp point of his canines to the moles, thinks they’d line up perfectly. Wants to sink his teeth in there and listen to whatever godforsaken sound that elicits.
And then Sakusa’s in front of him, snapping his fingers in front of his nose. “Focus,” he says, his voice low.
Atsumu swallows. “Right. Sorry.”
Sorry I’m horny for you in the middle of the most important match of our lives. I think I’m also in love with you. It’s more than a little pathetic.
Sakusa regards him steadily, knowingly. His dark eyes seem to swallow up even the intensely bright light from the fixtures on the ceiling. “We have one more set, Atsumu,” he says, and that’s the first time he’s ever said Atsumu’s first name, he thinks. “Stay with me for one more.”
“Yeah, okay,” Atsumu says. Then narrows his eyes. “Like hell I’d let Tobio-kun steal this win away from me.”
Sakusa smirks. “He won’t, as long as you focus .”
And Hinata must have overheard them, because he suddenly goes off about how they’re winning as a team, and his boyfriend played in the first two sets and they won those, so technically right now Atsumu is barely winning anything at all.
“Shoyo-kun,” Atsumu says, exasperated beyond measure.
“I’m just saying, Tsumu-san! So please stop staring at Omi-san like that all the time, we really need you!”
Jesus. The kid doesn’t know how to be anything other than honest, does he?
So Atsumu buckles down and gets his head back in the game. He’ll think about the moles, and the generally pathetic state of his life, later after they win.
-
The medal ceremony is long. Atsumu enjoys the pomp and extravagance of it all because he’s worked for this moment for almost his whole life, but it’s definitely long. At least Sakusa’s right next to him through the whole thing. When they all stand on the podium, medals hanging from their necks, a blinding sea of camera flashes goes off, and everyone flinches before putting on their best smiles.
As he adjusts his stance, Atsumu’s left pinky brushes against Sakusa’s. He freezes, breath catching. Then Sakusa links their fingers together, and Atsumu feels like he’s floating. He gently strokes the tip of his finger over the mole between Sakusa’s fingers—he knows it’s there, even without looking—just to ground himself. Sakusa doesn’t stop him, only shifts closer until their arms are pressed together, a long line of aching warmth that Atsumu doesn’t think he can live without now that he’s felt it.
-
Later, much later, after the party and most of the team is drunk off their asses, there are hushed confessions for just the two of them to hear in their shared hotel room.
First, there’s “I really like you, Omi,” and then a quiet, “I like you, too.”
A question: “Can I touch you?”
An answer: “Yes.”
Atsumu reaches out and touches all the moles he’s seen before—the two above his eyebrow, the one on the arch of his foot. He strips Sakusa of his shirt and traces the moles on his chest and stomach and back, kisses every single one at least once, maybe twice. It’s a lot of kisses, and it takes a lot of time, but Atsumu has nowhere else to be, and nothing else he’d rather do.
Sakusa’s hands are exploratory in kind, stroking the back of Atsumu’s neck, stroking the short hairs there and pulling him close for kisses that start off hesitant and sweet but soon become deeper, filthier. Sakusa insists he doesn’t have any moles on his lips or anywhere in his mouth, but Atsumu rubs a curious thumb over the full curve of his lower lip, examining it closely anyway before kissing him again and again and again.
Eventually, they’re both naked. Sakusa traces his fingers across stretch marks on the sides of his ass, and Atsumu clings to his shoulders, buries his face into the curve of Sakusa’s neck. He leaves a trail of kisses there because a lack of moles won’t stop him. They make out for a long time; Atsumu sets aside his pent up desire and keeps the pace slow, their touches tender and affectionate. It’s not until Sakusa’s eyes are wide and dark, lips wet and trembling, that Atsumu finally works his way between his thighs and finds those two fucking moles, setting his teeth against them and biting down until Sakusa hisses and tugs at his hair.
He lifts his head. Their gazes meet. Atsumu has to blink several times—he almost can’t believe that he’s here, in bed with Sakusa, who has easily become one of his favorite people in the whole world.
“You make me fucking crazy, y’know,” Atsumu says.
Sakusa cards his slender fingers through Atsumu’s hair, exhaling a shaky breath. His eyes look a little wet at the corners, like he’s on the verge of being overwhelmed. “Yeah, I know.”
And then Atsumu is on him, all over him, and then in him. He kisses Sakusa softly but leaves bruises over his favorite places, even the ones that won’t ever see the light of day. In turn, Sakusa marks up the nape of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, and a little spot behind his right knee that stings pleasantly every time he shifts.
After, they shower together and tumble into the unused bed. Atsumu pulls Sakusa close, rubs his fingers over the mole on his shoulder and presses a goodnight kiss to the ones above his brow.
“I really, really like you, Omi-kun,” he can’t help but say again. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying it.
Sakusa shifts in his hold, looks up at him and smiles softly, like he won’t ever get tired of hearing it.