Work Text:
There are 42 muscles in Kiyoomi's face and he is employing each and every one of them in order to keep his expression neutral.
“I just think you’re so kind and handsome and special, Miya-san.” The girl holds out an envelope so thoroughly doused with her perfume that Kiyoomi can smell it from where he’s sitting a few feet away.
He grimaces.
It’s a beautiful day. The birds are chirping, the sky is clear, the breeze is gentle and cool, and yet another person is professing their undying love to Miya Atsumu.
Atsumu rubs at the short hairs on the back of his neck with a tight smile, “I appreciate yer interest,” He says, “Ya shouldn’t have.”
“You really shouldn’t have,” Kiyoomi grumbles under his breath, earning himself a sharp stomp on the top of his foot. He yelps, glaring petulantly at the side of Atsumu’s head and the tiny divot of a dimple that he gets when he smiles just so. Kiyoomi props his cheek against his fist with a quiet sigh.
“I poured all my feelings into that letter. Please read it well.” Her eyes are hazy like she’s sleepwalking and her words are just a tad slurred. She clumsily thrusts the envelope into Atsumu’s waiting hands with a furious blush and then turns sharply on her heel to walk away. The further she gets, the less she stumbles.
They sit in silence as Atsumu stews, staring intently down at the curly scrawl of his given name on the face of the letter. Who knows what kind of love-struck, sappy, drabble hides within? Kiyoomi can almost imagine it: I love your flaxen hair, the deep set to your eyes, that terrible habit you have of popping your fingers, the way you always finish your food, the scrunch of your nose when you laugh-
Suddenly the birdsong and the blue sky aren’t all that pleasant anymore.
“At least she was polite,” Atsumu says eventually, tucking the letter into the front pocket of his backpack, “They’re usually pushier.”
“Maybe you should start telling them to fuck off,” Kiyoomi suggests, and Atsumu gives him a flat look.
“I can’t do that.”
“Okay, so can I start telling them to fuck off?”
“ No, Omi .”
“Why not?” He complains, “I’m just trying to help.”
Atsumu sighs, “I know ya are,” He pushes up from the table and slings his backpack over his shoulder, “Come on, let's get ya fed. Yer cranky.”
“I’m not cranky.”
“Ya are.”
“I am not .”
“Ya definitely are.”
Falling in love with Miya Atsumu is practically a rite of passage, like learning to ride a bike or getting your driver's license. It’s a pretty unifying experience among the general populace: you meet him, you see him smile for the first time, and then you realize with a sinking feeling that if he asked you to help him hide a body, your hand would already be halfway en route to the nearest shovel before he ever finished his sentence.
“It’s just an illusion, Omi.” He had explained the fifth (or sixth?) time a waiter had slipped him their number along with the bill, seemingly oblivious to Kiyoomi’s presence at all, “They get over it once they realize it’s not real.”
Still, within the last three years of college, he’s watched countless people fall under Atsumu’s spell: male and female classmates alike, old ladies at the grocery store, police officers, bank tellers, street buskers, two half-vampires, three half-werewolves, a handful of half-elves at the Farmer’s Market, thirteen transfer students, and one warlock. And as the ‘one warlock’ in question, Kiyoomi can say with certainty that there’s no illusion, and there’s no getting over it, at least not for him. It’s been years since he was first dazzled by Miya Atsumu and he still hasn’t recovered.
He tries not to dwell on matters of the heart, but it’s just not fair. Kiyoomi had loved Atsumu long, long before the rest of the universe did; back in their awkward pre-pubescent days when Atsumu’s incubus blood still sat dormant and quiet in his veins, back when Atsumu used to pop the collar of his polo shirts because he thought it looked cooler and grew out his bangs to hide his acne and tried to squash down the thick drawl of his accent to fit in better with the snobby prep kids.
Then Atsumu turned 16 and everything changed.
Almost everything, at least.
“You’re not paying attention.”
Atsumu slumps further into his seat and drapes himself over their shared study space. Kiyoomi frowns when his carefully organized index cards topple over.
“Ya lost me fifteen minutes ago.” Atsumu pushes himself back up, blinking over at Kiyoomi through a cram-session-induced haze.
Unfortunately, their upcoming Magical History final will be cumulative (all of the historical high points between the Interspecies Marriage Act of 1860 and the early 2000s Brownie Union efforts in Beijing) and Atsumu knows approximately half of it. Maybe.
“You’re going to fail,” Kiyoomi tells him.
Atsumu rolls his eyes, “I’m not going to fail, I’m just going to do worse than you .”
Kiyoomi looks down at his study materials: his color-coded index cards, his massive computer file with every lecture slide, and the simple black notebook he’s labeled ‘Magical History 201’ in silver Sharpie. It’s all very neat and organized, but it still doesn't change the fact that he has spent every single class either half-asleep or secretly playing Candy Crush under the table.
“...I think I’m going to fail too.”
Atsumu scrubs his hand across his face, “We’re fucked.” He despairs and then sags into his seat with a sigh.
They were lucky enough to snag a good table in the student center: one with comfortable chairs and nearby power outlets and they’ve monopolized it for the last few hours. Still, there’s only so much cramming they can manage before it’s high time to admit defeat. Kiyoomi feels like his brain is leaking from his ears and Atsumu has long since given up and accepted the inevitable.
When he turns to stretch, Kiyoomi spots a dark-haired boy walking briskly towards their table. In his hands is a small, pink box with an extravagant white ribbon on top.
Kiyoomi sighs and fights hard not to roll his eyes.
Another one.
“Atsumu-san?” The boy comes to a stop near the head of their table. There’s something off about the way that he fidgets and shuffles his feet, something disingenuous like he’s just pretending to be meek and shy. His posture is straight, his face is confident, and his hands don’t tremble as much as the others do. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes suspiciously.
Atsumu’s head jerks back upright from where let it thunk miserably down on the table, “Huh?” He looks to the side and his eyes flicker from the boy's cheerful smile to the box in his hands, “Oh. Hey there.”
“Are you busy?” He cocks his head demurely and Kiyoomi really does roll his eyes this time.
“ Yes ,” Kiyoomi grumbles.
“Me and Omi here are just getting some studying done.” Atsumu’s expression is a well-practiced one: just the right tilt to his chin, the slight raise of his eyebrows, and the appropriate amount of eye contact to convey that his attention has been caught. Only Kiyoomi knows that, under the table and out of sight, Atsumu’s knee is bouncing anxiously and he’s eager for the interaction to be over.
He shoots a disinterested glance to the side, “Oh, Sakusa-san. I didn’t see you there.”
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.” Kiyoomi sneers back and ignores Atsumu’s disapproving look.
“Anyways-” The boy turns and offers Atsumu the box in his hands, “I made these chocolates for you, Atsumu-san! Maybe they’ll make you feel better as you work so hard.” He simpers.
“Oh, thank ya.”
“I’m Miyahara. Miyahara Hideo.” He jumps to introduce himself. He’s cute, kind of. Petite and sweet-looking if you’re into that sort of thing. He makes Kiyoomi’s hackles rise even as Miyahara takes his leave. He’s not sure what it is about this specific confession that sets his teeth on edge but he swears it doesn’t have anything to do with the nag of jealousy he feels.
He doesn’t even realize he’s been glaring silently at the box on the table between them until Atsumu delivers a single poke into the center of his forehead.
“Yer gonna melt the chocolate if ya keep lookin’ at it like that.” Atsumu chides.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the boy take a seat nearby and keep his eyes fixed on Atsumu’s turned back with a dreamy little smile on his face. Kiyoomi’s mouth twists in displeasure, “What a tool.”
Atsumu toys with the ribbon on the box, twisting it idly between his fingers, “Ya know they can’t help it, Omi.” He sighs, “There’s no point in bein’ rude if it’s not their fault.”
Kiyoomi straightens, “But-”
“No,” Atsumu interrupts him, expression grim, “It’s just part of the illusion, I know it and so do you. It’s not real, they don’t mean it. They never do.”
I do , Kiyoomi thinks desperately. But he bites his tongue, instead glaring down at the little box of chocolates and the heart-shaped tag addressed to ‘Atsumu’.
“I don’t think you should eat those,” Kiyoomi says after a thoughtful moment.
“What?” Atsumu’s eyes are wide, “Why the hell not? I’ll never know real love the least I can do is get some chocolate out of it.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at the dramatics but Atsumu doesn’t stop him as he scoots the box closer to his own side of the table.
That nagging feeling in the back of his mind persists even as they let the conversation drop and begin to pack up their things. He locks eyes with Miyahara from across the room and narrows his own.
Kiyoomi’s not sure what possesses him to, but when they finally take their leave for the evening he doesn’t toss the candy like he had planned. Instead, he slips the box into his bag, feeling the heat of a glare burning into his back as he follows Atsumu out of the building.
The next day, Kiyoomi somehow reprises the good seats in the student center. This time around, Atsumu is busy so maybe he’ll be able to get some studying done. He sets up his laptop and his flashcards and cracks open the textbook, fully ready to get down to business when a shadow looms over him.
“You need to back off,” Miyahara is leaning over him in a way that he assumes is supposed to be intimidating. Kiyoomi is nonplussed.
He raises his eyebrows, “Oh?”
The other boy crosses his arms, “I saw you take the chocolates yesterday. Those were meant for Atsumu.”
“You caught me. I have a weakness for mediocre candy. I couldn’t help myself.” Kiyoomi sighs, “Can you go now? I’m trying to study.”
Miyahara slams his palm down on the table and leans in close, “I’m not threatened by you, Sakusa.”
“No, see-” Kiyoomi cocks his head and rises to his feet, staring down his nose at the other boy, “I think you are. Because why else would you be confronting me like this?”
Miyahara sets his jaw, “I feel bad for you, you know? Daddy’s money still can’t buy the only thing you really want, huh?”
Kiyoomi glares, “What would you know about what I want?”
Miyahara smiles like he’s won, like he knows . He thoughtfully puts a finger to his chin, “It’s so sad. You’re just another admirer that won’t ever have him in the way you want to. But don’t worry Omi, I’ll take good care of him for you.”
Kiyoomi leans in closer, only then does the other boy seem to lose some of his smugness, “You can scheme and simper all you want. But no matter what you do, you’re never getting rid of me.”
Miyahara smirks, “We’ll see about that.”
To get to the bottom of the Miyahara issue, Kiyoomi needs to procure two offerings: one for the jinn and another to bribe his keeper. Unfortunately, the latter is a very elusive man but the good news is that Kiyoomi knows exactly where to find him.
The arcade on the west side of town is nothing but a dark, dingy basement with concrete walls and no windows. Kiyoomi shoves open the battered red door and squints as his eyes adjust to the dimness. He hears the faint jingling of the pinball machines and the psychedelic black and purple swirled carpet has been permanently imbued with the smell of popcorn and stale beer. He trails from room to room, past dusty skeeball machines and run-down hunting simulators and a softly whirring table-hockey game glowing a bright, eerie blue in the dark.
The place is almost deserted.
Almost.
He reaches the back room and pulls aside the thick, velvet curtain in the doorway. Inside, the walls are lined with well-kept, vintage arcade games with bright, flashing screens and tinny-sounding title screen music.
Off to the side sits a man on a stool, hunched over a game of Pac-man, expertly fiddling with the joystick between his fingers.
“I didn’t think you liked places like this, Kiyoomi,” Kenma mumbles without ever looking back at him.
“I don’t,” Kiyoomi shakes the coffee in his hand and the ice rattles enticingly, “I’m here to ask for your help.”
Kenma spins to face, blinking slowly with a calculating purse to his lips, “My help?” He asks, “Or our help?”
“It depends,” Kiyoomi shifts from one foot to the other, “Do you know anything about someone named Miyahara Hideo?”
Kenma squints, “Does he go to our school?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
Kenma chews at the inside of his cheek, then he sighs and extends his arm. Kiyoomi spots something moving up around his neck: a shifting mass around his collar. It shifts towards his right shoulder, moving under the fabric of his sweatshirt down towards Kenma’s elbow where the sleeves have been bunched up to free his hands.
A small snake pushes its dark snout out from under the elastic of Kenma’s cuffs and winds itself down towards his wrist, pausing for a moment to dig its nose gently into the meat of his palm. Its blackened scales reflect the flashing yellow lights of the game behind him.
“Get on with it,” Kenma murmurs with a gentle shake of his hand.
The snake drops from its coil around his wrist and spills over Kenma’s fingers onto the carpet like water. The room heats up ever so slightly as the air directly above it takes on a shimmering, somewhat ambiguous form until finally solidifying into a tall, sharply dressed man.
“Kuroo-san,” Kiyoomi greets, offering him the coffee cup which he immediately takes and hands over to Kenma with a frown.
“Great. More caffeine,” Kuroo clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “Exactly what he needs.”
Kenma snatches it from him with a grimace, “I’ve been good today.” He mutters around the straw between his teeth, “I deserve this.”
“Mm,” Kuroo smiles softly and brushes the hair from his forehead before turning back to Kiyoomi, “So you need my help, I hear,” He wiggles his eyebrows, “I’m honored.”
“I need information on Miyahara.”
Kuroo grins knowingly, “Why’s that?”
“Because-” Kiyoomi crosses his arms, “Because he’s taken an interest in Atsumu and I don’t trust him.”
Kuroo raises his eyebrows, “Oh?”
“There’s something off about him,” Kiyoomi rushes to explain, “And I want to know what it is.” He pulls his backpack around and digs out the chocolate from the side pocket, “Can you tell me what’s in this?” He asks, holding out the little pink box of chocolates from the other day.
“The question isn’t whether or not I can , it’s whether or not I will .” He reaches over to idly toy with a strand of Kenma’s hair.
Kiyoomi pulls his next offering from the front pocket of his jeans: a delicate-looking hairclip decorated with baby pink iridescent pearls. A treasure he had lifted from his parent's house that they will probably never notice is even missing. Kenma’s eyes glitter longingly when he sees it.
Kuroo leans over to inspect it before plucking it from Kiyoomi’s fingers, “Very nice,” He says approvingly, before turning to set it gently into Kenma’s waiting palm, “Here you go, baby.”
Kenma looks up at him through his lashes, “Thank you, Tetsurou.” He says softly, before turning back around and continuing his game.
Then Kuroo takes the little pink box from his hands, turning it this way and that. His eyebrows furrow, “This…” He holds it up, “-is just a regular box of chocolates.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Kiyoomi’s shoulders slump, disappointed, “I see.”
“But…” Kuroo holds up his hand, “You brought Kenma something sweet and something pretty, so I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Is he human?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Nope,” Kuroo smirks, “Not even a little bit.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I thought-” Kiyoomi shakes his head, “I thought he was under Atsumu’s spell.”
“Can’t be,” Kuroo shrugs, “He’s full-blooded like you. So he’s immune… also like you.”
Kiyoomi gnaws at his lip, “He very heavily implied that he was going to get rid of me if I got in between him and Atsumu.”
Kuroo’s eyes widen, “Well… that seems extreme. Maybe there’s no grand, magical explanation for his behavior. Maybe it’s just a good old-fashioned case of being a fucking asshole.”
Kiyoomi digs his toe into the dingy carpet, “Or maybe I just want a justifiable excuse to hate him that isn’t jealousy-”
“If he seems like bad news then he’s probably bad news,” Kenma interrupts, turning back around on his stool to face him, “I’d be careful if I were you, Kiyoomi.”
“Careful of what?”
“Couldn’t say,” Kenma shrugs, he glances up at Kuroo, “I just know what it’s like to love someone so widely sought after. Sometimes desire makes people do crazy things.”
“Yer not much better than me, ya know?” Atsumu tells him and casts a subtle glance at the group of freshman a few tables away who have been whispering and giggling and not so subtly throwing looks their way.
Kiyoomi picks disinterestedly at his bowl of fruit, “Just ignore them.” He says.
“I mean it. I might get a lot of confessions,” Atsumu continues, “But at least I don’t have a fan club.”
“It’s not a fan club.”
“What else do you call an organized group of people who are willing to bow to yer every whim?”
“A cult.” Kiyoomi skewers a chunk of melon and pops it into his mouth.
“At least they like ya out of their own free will,” Atsumu points out.
“They don’t like me, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi tells him seriously. When Atsumu opens his mouth to protest Kiyoomi interrupts him, “I’m rich and they think I’m pretty. But they don’t like me.”
He and Atsumu have always been two sides of the same coin. People gravitate towards Atsumu for his magic but stay for his personality, and people come to Kiyoomi for his status and leave because he’s difficult.
The reality is that Kiyoomi really isn’t much different from all of the hopeless, stumbling humans and half-humans that get caught up in Atsumu’s orbit. The distinction is that Kiyoomi’s pathetic, all-consuming infatuation is firm and resolute: it doesn’t change with time, it doesn’t ebb or flow, it doesn’t decrease with proximity and he’s sure, absolutely positive , that if Atsumu didn’t have a single drop of incubus blood in his body that Kiyoomi would still feel the same way.
“Well, I like ya.”
“I know you do,” Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at the meddling group and they collectively gasp and look away, “I attribute most of it to Stockholm Syndrome.”
“Yer a real ray of sunshine today.” Under the table, Atsumu taps at Kiyoomi’s shin with the tip of his shoe, “What’s gotten into ya?”
“Finals stress,” He lies.
Atsumu leans closer over the table, “Ya know what would make ya feel better?”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to suggest something that won't actually make me feel better?”
“A party.”
“No.”
“Omi!” He clasps his hands together, “ Please don’t make me go alone with Samu and Sunarin. Ya know they always ditch me to go fuck in the car.”
“I’ll drive you then. And pick you up.” Kiyoomi hates driving at night but he likes Atsumu.
“No, I want ya to come with me because yer my best friend and I need yer unsettling presence .”
“Thanks.”
“Please,” He juts out his bottom lip, “Please, please, please-”
Kiyoomi groans, “When is it?”
“...Tonight.”
“Tonight?!” A slice of pineapple slides off of his fork and hits the table with a splat. He frowns deeply as he cleans it up, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because if I give ya too much time to stress about it you’ll back out,” Atsumu whines, “Besides, I only got invited like two days ago.”
“Who in their right mind throws a party in the middle of finals week?”
“Sho does. It’s Thirsty Thursday, Omi. And everyone else is pretty much done. We’re the only unlucky bastards who have a test tomorrow morning.”
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi rubs at his temples, “We’re going to be so hungover for our History final.”
“We’re going to fail it anyway,” Atsumu makes a dismissive motion with his hand and then grins, “So yer coming?”
“Ugh,” Kiyoomi slumps in his chair and lets his head roll back, “I guess.” He sits up and points, “Only if you let me borrow those jeans I like.”
“The ones with the knee holes that my Ma hates?” He shrugs, “Whatever ya want. They look better on you anyways.” He gathers up the wrappers from his breakfast and slings his backpack over his shoulder, “I’ll be at yer place at four in my Sunday best.”
Kiyoomi presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and ignores the flutter in his belly, “Fine.”
Kiyoomi walks into his living room and holds out his arms, spinning in a little circle, “What do you think?”
Atsumu turns his head away from the TV and his face falls. He looks Kiyoomi up and down, stone-faced.
“What?” Kiyoomi squints, “What’s wrong?”
“Where did ya get that shirt?”
Kiyoomi looks down, pulling at the hem of his simple, ordinary black T-shirt. It shows just the tiniest hint of his stomach above the waistband of Atsumu’s jeans and he doesn’t wear it often for that very reason. But he likes it. It’s nice and soft and he looks good in dark colors.
“I’ve always had it.”
“Bullshit.”
“If you don’t like it just say so.”
“Won’t ya get cold?”
“Considering it’s summertime? No.”
“Yeah but…” Atsumu gestures outside with his hand, “Once it gets dark.”
“Again, no.” Kiyoomi crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously, then reaches up to fiddle with the little diamond studs in his ears, “Does it need a belt?” He hikes up the jeans a little more and pinches the fabric to tighten it around his waist.
“Ah!” Atsumu calls out, holding out his hand to shield his eyes, “No! No belt. Fits ya perfectly. Let’s get drunk before I have an aneurysm.”
“I feel like alcohol would exasperate an aneurysm.”
Atsumu pushes himself up from the couch and steers Kiyoomi into the kitchen by his elbow, “Yer not qualified to give medical advice.”
Kiyoomi leans his forearms against the kitchen island and watches Atsumu retrieve a frosty bottle of tequila from the freezer. He pours them two hearty shots in a pair of heart-shaped glasses.
He’s wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and the first few buttons undone. When he leans across the counter to hand him his glass, the two chain necklaces around his neck dangle back and forth and Kiyoomi can see down the smooth, tanned front of his chest. He swallows.
“You look nice,” Kiyoomi manages.
Atsumu smirks, “Just nice?”
“You look like a douchebag,” Kiyoomi corrects.
“That’s more like it,” He clinks his glass against Kiyoomi’s, “Bottoms up.”
The little house near the edge of campus that Hinata rents is close enough to justify walking when the weather is nice like it is tonight. They arrive together and slightly buzzed, just as God intended. He can hear the bass thumping from the street.
“Tsumu!” Hinata calls out from the center of the living room, then he spots Kiyoomi and his eyes go wide. He throws his hands up, “Omi!” He cheers, bounding over to them, “You came! You never come!”
“I’m a hostage.”
“He’s happy to be here,” Atsumu says as Hinata pulls them into an awkward but well-intended three-man hug.
“You smell drunk! Come with me I’ll get you drunker.”
“We pre-gamed a little,” Atsumu explains over the music, placing a hand on the small of Kiyoomi’s back as they follow him deeper into the house. He keeps it there when they stop in the kitchen, absentmindedly sliding a finger back and forth along the bare strip of skin above his jeans.
Hinata ladles a mysterious green liquid into a solo cup for Atsumu and then digs around elbow-deep in the fridge. He hands Kiyoomi a fruity-looking wine cooler with a bashful smile, “I thought you wouldn’t really like the punch bowl because, ya know, germs. So these are for you. They’re in the back if you want another.”
Kiyoomi looks down at the bottle in his hands and then back at Hinata, “That’s… thank you. I appreciate it.”
Hinata smiles elatedly, “I’m so happy you’re here, Omi.”
“Laying it on a little thick, Sho,” Atsumu mutters around the rim of his cup.
“Don’t be jealous, I know he likes you best,” Hinata teases before a shout from the direction of the front door catches his attention and he races back across the house with a whoop of excitement.
The more crowded it gets, the more Kiyoomi clings to Atsumu. But despite the chaos of the crowd and the stickiness of the floors, he finds himself having a pretty good time.
They’ve found themselves off to the side, lingering around the edges of the living room and watching the excited mess of people on the makeshift dancefloor. Someone has pushed the coffee table up against the far wall and every once in a while a song will come on that makes everybody cheer.
It’s mostly friends and friends of friends, which means that nobody has accosted Atsumu in the last two hours despite the freely flowing alcohol and the general debauchery going on around them. Even Kiyoomi is free of the usual whispers and giggles that tend to follow him around. He bites back a smile as he watches Atsumu lose a game of beer pong and finishes off the drink in his hands.
He leans over Atsumu’s shoulder, “I’m going to get another drink.”
“Do ya want me to come with ya?” He asks as Bokuto calls him in for another game.
Kiyoomi shakes his head, “I’ll be right back.”
He wanders through the haze of smoke and flashing blue and purple lights from the disco ball on the ceiling. The kitchen is blessedly empty and much cooler than the crush of body heat in the living room. He tugs his shirt away from his body where it’s started to stick and swipes his hair back from his forehead.
“Christ,” He mutters, pulling on the fridge door. He sighs when the cold air hits his face and lingers there for just a moment before crouching down to dig another bottle out from behind three half-empty cartons of almond milk.
“I keep seeing you in the most unlikely of places,” A soft voice calls from behind him.
Kiyoomi jerks up and knocks his head on the underside of the fridge. He rubs the spot with a whimper.
Kenma leans back from where he was just peeking over the fridge door, “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi grimaces, “I could say the same for you.” Kenma is dressed in a baggy pair of cargo pants and a thin grey T-shirt that drapes off of his frame. It’s not exactly party attire but with his dyed hair and the bangles on his wrists, he somehow looks effortlessly cool.
“Yeah,” He looks over his shoulder at the swirling mass of bodies dancing under the lights and the increasingly dire game of beer pong that Atsumu is losing, again, “Shouyo always invites me but I don’t usually like things like this.”
“Where’s Kuroo-san?” Kiyoomi asks.
Kenma reaches into one of the many pockets of his pants and pulls out a coiled up black snake. There’s a familiar burst of heat and a small puff of smoke and then a dark-winged butterfly emerges from Kenma’s palm, landing on the hair near his temple and beating its wings gently.
“Convenient,” Kiyoomi watches the lights flicker red, gold, and green on Kuroo’s wings, “Can he just turn into anything?”
“Not anything, but a lot of things,” Kenma shrugs, “He has his preferences though.”
The butterfly lifts off of Kenma’s hair and disappears behind his back. Kiyoomi hears a soft thump before a lithe black cat slinks around Kenma’s feet and then leaps from the floor to the counter and then onto the beer pong table nearby.
“Kuroo-san!” He hears Hinata cheer.
Kiyoomi watches Kuroo reach over and bat the ping pong ball out of Atsumu’s hand, “If you don’t like things like this then why are you here?” He asks.
“I heard a rumor and I came here to warn you just in case it’s true.”
“What kind of rumor?”
“I heard Atsumu’s… admirer is going to stop by.”
“Miyahara?” Kiyoomi’s chest clenches, “Why?”
“Because Atsumu is here. And because he probably thinks that you’re not.”
Kiyoomi clenches his jaw, “Well I am.”
“Clearly,” Kenma sniffs at the contents of the punch bowl and wrinkles his nose, “Don’t let it ruin your mood.” He advises.
When Kiyoomi gets back to Atsumu he thinks his anxiety must be written all over his face because the smirk slides off of Atsumu’s lips and he reaches for his shoulder, “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Atsumu arches a brow, unconvinced.
“I just got a little too hot,” Kiyoomi says.
“It’s because yer wearing black.”
“It’s because there’s three million people in here.”
Atsumu takes him by the wrist and leads them to a less crowded part of the room against the far wall. He leans his shoulder against it, tugging Kiyoomi towards him and setting a hand on his waist.
The contact, the alcohol, the carefree atmosphere make him brave. He reaches up and adjusts the chains on Atsumu’s neck. His fingers brush lightly against his warm, bare skin.
“Jesus,” Atsumu snatches his hand up, “Yer sweating but yer hands are like ice.”
“Uhm,” Kiyoomi stares down at their hands, “Poor circulation. Or something.”
Atsumu toys with his fingers, “A very likely explanation, Omi.”
Atsumu’s pupils are blown-out and he’s leaning close. He can smell beer and something tropical on his breath.
“Are you drunk?” Kiyoomi asks.
“A little,” Atsumu answers him with a shrug. His eyebrows pull together, “Why? Am I making ya uncomfortable-”
“Of course not,” He feels Atsumu’s thumb gently rub back and forth under the hem of his T-shirt. His pulse rushes in his ears, “Atsu, I-”
Something cold splashes all the way up his left side. Atsumu jerks his hand back and Kiyoomi gasps.
“Oops.”
None other than Miyahara is looking back at him when he turns his head, eyes wide and guileless.
“I’m sorry, Sakusa-san. I didn’t see you there.”
Kiyoomi flushes with anger, gritting his teeth as he whips around, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He demands.
Punch drips down his arm and off his fingertips, and his shirt sticks to his tacky skin. He fights back a shudder.
“It was just an accident,” He bats his eyelashes, glancing at Atsumu, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Bull fucking shit,” Kiyoomi spits, leaning into Miyahara’s space.
“Omi-” Atsumu tugs at his elbow, “It’s okay. It was an accident-”
“Yeah,” Miyahara’s lip ticks up almost imperceptibly into a smug smile, “It was an accident.”
“I should wring your neck,” Kiyoomi keeps eye contact, “You conniving little-”
“Kiyoomi that’s enough,” Atsumu pulls him back more forcefully this time, “It was an accident. We’ll go get you cleaned up-”
Kiyoomi feels a jolt of betrayal. He looks from Atsumu’s stern expression to Miyahara’s victorious one and his eyes start to sting.
“I-” He begins before a smaller hand separates Atsumu’s grip from his arm
Hinata is frowning, looking between the three of them with furrowed brows, “I’ll take him,” He says.
“But-”
“I’ll take him, Tsumu.” He repeats.
He wraps his hand around Kiyoomi’s elbow and leads him to the kitchen. He sniffles as Hinata leads him down the hallway and away from the crowd.
“I think Tobio probably has something you can borrow,” He says, guiding him through a door at the end of the hallway into a surprisingly neat, yellow-lit room that smells like air freshener.
He rummages through the dresser drawers on the far wall, “I’m guessing that’s the guy Kenma warned me about?” Hinata says.
“Yeah.”
“Alright, well,” Hinata straightens up and hands him a soft, white T-shirt, “I don’t usually kick people out of my house but I’m for sure going to ask him to leave.”
“You believe me?” Kiyoomi asks.
“I watched him dump that drink on you.” Hinata shakes his head and his earrings jingle, “What a jerk.” He opens the door again and points directly across the hall, “That's the bathroom if you want to get changed and like… have a minute to yourself. I’m going to find some stain stuff for your pants. I think I have some under the kitchen sink.”
Kiyoomi mumbles his thanks and shuts himself in the bathroom. He peels off his shirt with a grimace and rinses it out under the faucet, wringing it out and watching the water run pale green down the drain. He wets a towel and does his best to get the stickiness from his skin but he thinks he’ll smell like lime sherbert for the rest of the night. He pulls on the shirt that Hinata gave him and checks his reflection in the mirror.
Miyahara’s probably chatting up Atsumu right this second, crowding up into his space and toying with his hair. Kiyoomi rubs his eyes hard until he sees spots and then takes a deep breath.
He shouldn’t have come out tonight. Atsumu wouldn’t have even ended up third-wheeling Osamu and Suna anyway because they didn’t even show up . He should be home right now in his pajamas watching Grey’s Anatomy and eating slightly burnt popcorn.
He’s going to go back out there. He’s going to take up Hinata’s offer for stain remover. And then he’s going to go back to his apartment.
He steels his resolve and opens the door, making his way down the hallway and back towards the commotion of the living room.
“I thought I told you to back off,” Miyahara steps into his way, standing between him and the rest of the party. He cocks his head, “And you didn’t listen.”
“You’re a piece of fucking work,” Kiyoomi mutters, moving to shove past him but Miyahara sticks his arm out.
“Did you see how easy that was?” He smiles, “How easy it was to make you into the bad guy?”
Kiyoomi stays quiet.
“I mean you’re practically giving him to me,” He chuckles, incredulous, “You’re so obvious , too. It’s sad. It’s really, really, sad.” He steps forward, pushing Kiyoomi further down the dark hallway, “But he’d be happy with me. I could give him so much more.”
“You really think that, don’t you? You’ve met him, what? Twice?”
“ God-” Miyahara groans, “You and your fucking childhood friends trope superiority complex, it makes me gag. If he hasn’t fucked you by now then he never will. He’s not into you , Sakusa. But me? I see the way he looks at me.”
“I’m convinced you’re actually delusional.” Kiyoomi deadpans, “Like really. It’s concerning.”
Miyahara sighs, “It’s going to be so, so easy to get rid of you, Sakusa.”
“What the fuck did ya just say?”
Miyahara whips around, “Atsumu-” He gasps.
Atsumu is standing at the mouth of the hallway, arms crossed and expression livid. Kenma is hovering behind his shoulder with an impish grin on his face and a crow perched on his shoulder.
“I can explain,” Miyahara moves closer, “He-” His lip wobbles and he points an accusing finger at Kiyoomi, “He threatened me and-”
“Oh give me a break,” Atsumu rolls his eyes, shoving past him toward Kiyoomi, “Omi-”
“Can we go home?”
“Yeah,” Atsumu breathes, “Fuck yeah. Let’s go.” He grabs Kiyoomi’s hand and tugs him from the hallway.
“Wait,” Miyahara scrambles after them, “Stop, Atsumu, wait!” He says it so loud that the conversations in the living room peter out to listen in.
“He can’t give you what I can give you!” He stops in the middle of the room, shouting at them with his fists clenched at his sides, “He doesn’t get you like I get you! He’s nothing -”
Atsumu whips around, “Ya want to know something?” He says lowly, stepping closer, “I don’t even remember yer name. I don’t remember yer confession. Yer less than a stranger to me. Yer nobody .”
He flinches like he’s been slapped, “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Atsumu says sincerely, “I really, really do. Ya couldn’t be Omi if ya tried. Ya couldn’t compare to his worst day on your very, very best one.”
“I can!” Miyahara shouts, “I can be him. I can be better than him!” A rough, desperate sob works its way from his throat and he inches closer.
Atsumu reaches an arm out to push Kiyoomi behind him as Miyahara’s skin begins to distort and shift. His features bulge and warp. His eyebrows darken, his skin pales his face becomes a less less round and a little more angular.
When he talks his voice is eerily distorted before it deepens.
“I can be whatever you want. All the time.” He promises, “I can be your greatest fantasy and you can have it forever.”
As he approaches he grows taller: two inches, three inches, six inches, until he’s just a bit taller than Atsumu.
“Holy shit,” Kiyoomi breathes when the pieces click into place, “He’s a siren.”
“Don’t you want that?” Miyahara’s figure becomes less grotesque and more like… more like…
“Atsumu,” A near-perfect mimicry of Kiyoomi stands before them now, cocking his head demurely and fluttering his lashes, “Don’t you want me now?”
The room goes silent.
“Oh fuck,” Atsumu breathes.
The sweet, smile on Miyahara’s face drops and he glances around the room, “What?” He asks in Kiyoomi’s voice, and then looks down.
“What the hell?” He mutters, pulling at his light-washed jeans, the kind that are ripped to hell that Atsumu’s mother doesn’t like. He extends his arms out in front of him and then pats up his chest and neck up to his face and then up into his hair. He digs his fingers into the curls and then casts a horrified glance at Kiyoomi before turning very, very slowly to check his murky reflection in the window nearby.
He dissolves back into his true form with an agonized wail covering his face and shoving past Atsumu to run out the door.
“Oh good,” Hinata says after a minute with a sigh of relief, “I hate having to ask people to leave. It makes me feel so guilty! Hey, who turned off the music-!”
“Atsu,” Kiyoomi shakes his arm, “Atsumu.” He says again.
“Give me a minute.” He holds up a finger, “I think my stomach just fell out my ass.”
“Gross,” Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose and tugs harder, “Atsumu look at me.”
Atsumu turns slowly, grimacing with his shoulders by his ears, “Omi,” He begins, “I can explain-”
Kiyoomi curls his hands into the front of Atsumu’s shirt and jerks him forward, kissing him hard and slow like he’s trying to fit ten years of pining into a single momentary touch of their lips.
“I love you. I-” He glances away and giggles and then kisses Atsumu again, “You didn’t even- you didn’t even imagine me in something like… sexy? Just jeans and a T-shirt, that’s your fantasy?”
“Yer sexy all the time!” Atsumu insists with wide eyes, “I’m a simple man Omi-”
Kiyoomi kisses him again, sliding his hands up his chest and around his neck to play with the soft, stubble of his undercut. The next thing he knows he’s pressed up against the wall behind him with Atsumu’s hands up under his shirt.
“Ya drive me crazy,” He leaves a trail of kisses down Kiyoomi’s jaw and sucks hard on the skin just above his neckline before drawing back. He pinches the T-shirt between his fingers and pulls back, “Who’s shirt is this anyways?”
“Kageyama’s.”
“Okay, we’re leaving,” He grabs Kiyoomi’s hand and tugs him towards the door in a hurry, “Bye Sho! Thank fer having us.” He calls behind him and then they leave: together and slightly buzzed.
Kiyoomi exits the musty lecture hall and into the sunshine.
The birds are chirping, the sky is clear, the breeze is gentle and cool, and yet another person is professing their undying love to Miya Atsumu.
He’s leaning against the building and a short blonde girl is bowing deeply, holding out a white envelope.
“I really- I really like you Miya-san. Please accept my confession.” Kiyoomi hears as he gets closer.
Atsumu smiles and gently pushes the card back towards her, “I really appreciate it but I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh,” She straightens up, and blinks, then looks down at the card in her hands and flushes, “Oh Miya-san I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head, “I had no idea.”
“No worries,” He says, “Have a good day.”
She gives him a nervous smile and then rushes off.
“All done?” Atsumu asks when he catches sight of Kiyoomi walking his way, “How did it go?”
“I knew maybe half of the answers,” Kiyoomi sighs, “You?”
“Even less than that,” He grins boyishly.
“I told you we would fail if we went to that party.”
“Sure but,” Atsumu grabs his chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses him softly, “I just can't find it in me to regret it.”