Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts with Hinata Shouyou, of all people. 

October is cold, and so is the stare Atsumu levels Kageyama with, the moment he sets foot into Onigiri Miya. Courtesy of Osamu, and brilliant idea of Bokuto, to have a night out together after their game with the Adlers. (Marvelous, really. Osamu is just hungry for the advertisement Atsumu’s very being warrants him, and Bokuto is just...Well. Bokuto.)  

And so, Miya Atsumu, as mature as 23-year-old adults go, sticks his tongue out at Kageyama, who awkwardly looks away. 

Hinata slaps him on the shoulder playfully, laughing with that sunshine smile intact, and Atsumu can’t help but melt from the inside out. 

“Don’t be like that, Atsumu-san!” He giggles, mischief etched into his faux innocent facade. “I’ll make sure to remind him plenty of their loss today, but thank you for your contribution.”

Atsumu throws Hinata a satisfied curve of lips, the corner of his eyes wrinkling in amusement. “Go get ‘im, then.”

Hinata claims that as his permission to bounce over to his scowling boyfriend with the biggest shit-eating grin he could muster. 

Atsumu watches their two worlds collide, dumb and dumber, practically fusing into a pile of muscles and volleyballs for brain. And still, there’s something about the way they look at each other that makes envy creep up Atsumu's spine, like poison mixing with blood. It’s a crumb of reminiscence, a glimpse of childhood and the taste of future, scorching hot on their tongues.

Atsumu sighs, turning back to the counter, the ice clinking against his glass as he takes another sip. It’s awfully uncool of him to have to put in so much effort into restraining his wince, but here he is, at twenty-three years old and he still can’t drink whiskey. Well, whatever. He’s a big boy now.

“Ya know,” Osamu says, not looking up from cleaning the counter. “Yer like, incredibly lame right now.”

Atsumu swallows down the salty remark sitting on his tongue, looking at the small crowd scattered around the shop. At the far corner, Bokuto keeps bouncing around Ushijima and Sakusa, who seem completely unphased by his antics. Atsumu wonders if they’re talking about the secrets of croquet or something equally as boring, for both half-robot-half-men are apparently very invested in the conversation. At the other end of the counter, Inunaki and Tomas are talking to Hoshiumi, and judging by the looks of it, it’s another bullying session that Hoshiumi is too dumb to walk away from. Hinata has pulled Kageyama into one of the booths, chin propped on his palm, and Kageyama is blushing furiously at whatever he’s saying.

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees. “I know.”

That makes Osamu look up. “What.”

“What.”

“I jus’ said y’look lame.”

“An’ I said I know.”

Osamu narrows their eyes at him. “What—”

It starts with Hinata Shouyou, of all people, getting down on one knee and asking the setter of Schweiden Adlers, Kageyama Tobio, to marry him. Kageyama totally cries.

Atsumu watches from the sidelines, mixed feelings of detachment and envy swelling in his chest, and he looks away. He looks away, to Sakusa.

Sakusa is already side-eyeing him, expressionless yet heated in a twisted way, and Atsumu takes a few, sweet seconds to realise some things.

Just like that, the frame freezes, the record scratches.

What.

Atsumu looks away, escaping the intensity of the moment, swallowing hard.

Osamu makes a noise, silently asking him with a questioning look, and Atsumu feels like his heart is about to come out of his ass.

<>

He doesn’t think about it, until he does.

Shouyou is getting married.

Atsumu bites at his nails, completely zoning out from watching the EJP Raijin match on the screen of his laptop.

<>

“Tsum-Tsum?”

Atsumu turns his head towards Bokuto from where he’s sitting on the bench, eyes still looking down until he manages to tear his gaze away from the flooring.

Bokuto has a frown on his face. “Are you okay?”

Atsumu tilts his head to the side, confused. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the rest of the members tensing up, turning their ear towards him. Ah.

“Just fine, Bokkun,” Atsumu reassures, flashing Bokuto one of those megawatt smiles, as it usually seems to do the job for him. Bokuto nods, shoulders relaxing, and leaves Atsumu alone.

Atsumu gets it, and he’s flattered, really. It’s true that he’s been quieter than usual, and that fact on its own should be a worrisome giveaway, but Atsumu doesn’t know how he’s feeling. If he’s fine or not. He’s just—thinking. 

Shouyou is getting married. But what does Atsumu have going for him?

Outside volleyball, his personal life has come to a dull phase. It’s with that thought that Atsumu realises—he is lonely.

His gaze wanders to Sakusa, who pins him to the bench with a hard stare, his eyes two black holes with double the gravity. Jaw clenched, he squints at Atsumu, studying him from a distance. Measured, just like everything else Sakusa does.

And, oh. Atsumu clicks his tongue, the realisation hitting him all over again. 

Atsumu being lonely isn’t as new of a thing. The way he keeps searching for Sakusa’s eyes whenever he remembers this fact, however, is an entirely different case.

And so, on another chilly afternoon on the first day of November, in the middle of practice, Atsumu comes to the conclusion that the crush he had been nursing for Sakusa Kiyoomi in high school isn’t as much of a past tense as he would like it to be.

<>

Inunaki Shion has a very trying character. Atsumu knows this, because Inunaki has secured his spot around fourth place on Atsumu's mental list of People He Would Like To Punch In The Throat. First place, of course, goes to Osamu, the all-time title defender champion, but that is besides the point. 

Inunaki needs to shut the fuck up. 

"So, movies at Atsumu's?" 

Atsumu, freshly showered with a single towel around his hips and worn out from hours of practice, has decidedly run out of patience for the day, and is no longer available for giving any fucks. 

"Wan-san, the actual fuck? Don't go 'round and make plans for me without askin'."

That coaxes a soft rumble of giggles out of his teammates. Atsumu takes his sweet, precious time to glare at all of them, one by one. 

Inunaki clicks his tongue. "You see, I normally wouldn't. But you've been quiet for like, the past three days, and I'm tired of your angsty, 2013 Hot Topic ass. Is this a gay thing?" 

"A gay thing—you mean havin' emotions?" Atsumu gapes, incredulous. "Didja receive with yer face again, Wan-san?" 

Tomas snorts, closing his locker with a loud bam. "Let’s not insult the gay community with Miya. They’ve been through enough as it is."

Atsumu goes bug eyed, the towel nearly falling from around his hips. He catches it last second, dignity saved for the time being. 

"What th’fuck? S’this an Atsumu bully squad now?" Atsumu asks indignantly. 

His teammates share a look. Atsumu can't believe this. Even Hinata Shouyou, resident good boy and all, joins in with a teasing smile thrown Atsumu's way. 

"You say that like we haven't been just that since the very beginning," Sakusa says, blunt and unforgiving as he emerges from the showers. Atsumu's gaze lingers on the mole sitting right above his collarbone a moment too long, before he remembers to open his trash mouth again. 

"Fuckin’ hell. Et tu, Omi?" 

Sakusa gives him a look, eyes twinkling, the corner of his mouth twitching—Atsumu catches the telltale signs of a suppressed smile, because he is hyperaware of Sakusa like that. 

"I'm president of the club," Sakusa says, slow and measured, voice seemingly flat. But there's not a single person in the room who misses the underlying teasing tone, because everyone has grown used to Sakusa enough to notice the slightest of changes in his mood. Perks of daily exposure to the local jerkface.

Atsumu lets out a noise akin to the mating call of a dying seagull, and Tomas pats Sakusa on the shoulder, laughing. Sakusa doesn't even flinch at the skin-on-skin contact anymore. 

"Even after everythin' I've done for ya. All of ya! The things I do fer our family's sake, and this is tha thanks I get?" Atsumu cries, putting his hand on his heart dramatically. If these motherfuckers want a show, they’ll get one. "Really. Wow. Wow. The audacity. Fuckin’ traitorous, actually. Ya wound me—"

Tomas throws a well-aimed, damp towel at his face. Atsumu shrieks. 

"Hurry it up, Miya. I'm not setting a single foot into your cave with the way it is, so you better run home to clean up."

Atsumu throws the towel right back at him. Tomas catches it. 

"Y’ain’t stepping foot into my house either way, firs' of all. Second, fuck you."

"I have to agree with him, there," Sakusa mutters. "Miya's roach flat isn't really our best option here."

At that, and Atsumu's face of utter disbelief, the entirety of MSBY Black Jackals, Professional Volleyball Team, V.League, Division 1 bursts out laughing. Atsumu would like to know when exactly his contract is due for renewal, all of a sudden.

“Roach flat,” Atsumu repeats to himself, blinking several times. “Y’know what, fuck all’a you. Omi-kun, hop off my dick. You’re all off your rockers if y’think I’ll ever set ta you ‘gain.”

Inunaki passes him with a shit-eating grin. “So, how does eight-thirty sound?”

Atsumu throws him his best murderous look. It proves to be rather ineffective, with Inunaki’s smile only widening. “I hope your nex’ breath is yer last,” Atsumu hisses.

Inunaki laughs, and promptly goes up a rank on Atsumu’s list of People He Would Like To Punch In The Throat.

<>

At eight-twenty sharp, Atsumu opens his door to be greeted with Sakusa’s neutral scowl. He’s changed into casual clothes, still unfair enough to look infuriatingly attractive. He lives only a few doors away, so Atsumu knew he wasn’t going to go all streetwear—which probably would've made things worse, honestly—but sweatpants and a simple, black long-sleeve still shouldn’t look this good. Once again, it reminds Atsumu that Sakusa is in fact a professional volleyball player, his very own teammate at that. Atsumu knows this, so he doesn’t get why he’s so speechless at the sight of fabric stretching over Sakusa’s defined chest.

Damn. Tiddies.

Atsumu shakes the thoughts away, laughing at Sakusa’s scowl as he looks around the moment he steps in.

“Last time you cleaned?” He asks, but it sounds like an accusation.

“You’re free ta come over an’ play sexy maid fer me anytime, Omi-kun. I personally think it’d fit ya really well.”

Sakusa shoots him a look and a murmured fuck off, and Atsumu fights his brain before the actual visual of Sakusa in a maid dress can trespass his thoughts.

Atsumu watches, secretly endeared, as Sakusa looks around in suspicion, like he’s ready to rate Atsumu’s cleaning skills’ range. Atsumu is confident he’d get about a solid two out of ten.

The circumstances must pass inspection, though, because Sakusa takes off his mask, his scowl softening.

The tension leaves Atsumu’s shoulders, relief breathed into a soft sigh. It’s not that Sakusa has a bad case of germaphobia, contrary to popular belief—it's more about his general distaste for the human race and the fact that he’s just way above average regarding hygiene standards. On the other hand, Atsumu thinks he’s a tad below that average line—hence one of the reasons they are constantly at each other’s throats. Figuratively, of course. Not that Atsumu would mind Sakusa’s hands around his throat in a more...literal way, either, but there are much better times to think about that than the present.

“I actually cleaned stuff, y’know,” Atsumu says, an attempt at reassurance. It’s annoying, how keen he is on pleasing Sakusa, even if the most he’ll get for his efforts is minus one frown.

Sakusa looks at him over his shoulder, the corner of his eye wrinkling with amusement. “Who’s sucking on whose dick now, Miya?”

Well. If only.

It’s entirely unfair how attractive Sakusa is when he’s talking shit, though. It’s been more than a year since they became teammates, and Sakusa has grown so comfortable, too comfortable, that he says shit like this. He’s a jerk. A too-blunt jerk, stuffed with sarcasm to the brim. Suna says their dynamic works perfectly fine, since Atsumu is a big fat jerk, and usually, Atsumu would deny and claim he’s a practical angel. He’d complain, indignant, that he didn't let Suna copy his chemistry homework for all those years to be treated like this, Sakusa is the only asshole, and who gave Suna speaking rights, anyway?

But. But. Sakusa is so—fun. He’s funny. He keeps up with Atsumu. He doesn’t speak much, nor is the life of the party, and his boundaries are still somewhat more extensive than others’, and he's still intimidating as fuck from time to time, and he still doesn’t like messy places, and he’s still a cynical asshole who seemingly knows nothing about empathy. But. Just because he's an ass, that doesn't automatically mean Atsumu has any complaints to file. He's always liked to bite off more than he could chew, and Sakusa is decidedly five times a mouthful. It works. They work. In their own dickweasel ways, they work, because

he's fun. In his own quiet, reserved way, Sakusa is fun. 

Atsumu grins, leaning on the back of the couch from behind, shooting Sakusa a provocative, flirty look. “Y'wish I was, don’tcha?”

Sakusa snorts, grabbing the remote and turning the television on. Atsumu’s smirk widens, claiming that as a win for him, and parkours his way over the back of the couch, occupying the space right next to Sakusa. The other seizes up, wary of their proximity while he switches through the channels, and Atsumu gets the message, has grown used to reading Sakusa’s body language. He scoots a little further away, giving Sakusa space, and Sakusa eases back into the cushions, settling on yesterday’s Red Falcons match.

Soon, the rest of the Bastard Clan arrives, knocking on the door and letting themselves in. Atsumu doesn’t even bother looking up, eyes fixated on the tiny Aran on the screen, only murmuring a half-hearted hello.

When Bokuto comes up behind him and puts his hands over Atsumu’s eyes, saying something about how Atsumu only has brains for volleyball—which is awfully hypocritical of him, might Atsumu add—Atsumu simply grabs Bokuto’s wrist and twists it, effectively shutting him up. Bokuto glares and pouts at the same time, rubbing his wrist after escaping Atsumu's grasp, and Atsumu smiles, sending him a flying kiss.

It starts like most things do, with Bokuto’s head in Atsumu’s lap, Atsumu’s hand in his hair, both of them making sure their so-called movie night turns into nothing but a series of philosophical debates on who would be able to pull Saitama from One Punch Man. Inunaki says Bokuto is on the bottom of the ranking, because he looks the type to ask to come on top of Saitama’s bald shining head. Bokuto says Inunaki looks the type to need Bokuto’s foot down his throat.

“It’s all about courtship, you heathens,” Hinata says, then promptly inhales a handful of popcorn. “You gotta be a gentleman about it.” Engaged prick. He doesn't get to have a say in this. 

“I don’t think Saitama would be any more interested in hoppin’ on Wan-san’s tiny dick just ‘cause he bought him a buncha ugly roses,” Atsumu supplies. He looks at Inunaki, considering him. “Well, maybe if you wore a mask or somethin’. Or just a plastic bag. Definitely a plastic bag.”

Inunaki throws a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off Atsumu’s face, falling onto Bokuto’s cheek, and Atsumu doesn’t even have to look to know Sakusa is looking at the offensive piece with a murderous glare, like he can make it disappear by frowning alone. 

“Listen,” Hinata cuts in around a mouthful of popcorn. Atsumu picks up the one that’s fallen on Bokuto’s face and feeds it to him. “None of you know how to charm anyone. Flirting, manners, gifting. You got none of the skills.”

“Excuse you,” Atsumu raises his voice, offended. “I’ll have you know, I’m an amazin’ flirt. Maybe not the best at pickin’ presents, but still.”

“Shut up, Discount Osamu,” Tomas boos him. “A ten is talking now. Your flirting skills consist of an obnoxious smirk and bragging like an ass. That’s a load of shit.”

“Fuck you,” Atsumu spits. “Like ya know anythin’ ‘bout it. An' you're a three at your best, so I’d shut up.”

"Atsumu, and this is coming from the bottom of my heart: you're a piece of shit. You're as far from being considerate as you are from heaven," Inunaki cuts in, and Atsumu would take him seriously if it wasn't for the fact that it's Inunaki and he speaks garbage at all times. "You have to know what your partner wants. And that's why you'll die a virgin."

Atsumu opens his mouth, intent in oversharing his first time just to disprove Inunaki's preposterous accusation, but Sakusa beats him to it. Not to talking about Atsumu's very no-longer-existent virginity, of course, just to opening his mouth to speak. 

“At this rate, you're gonna start betting on this," he mutters quietly. Bokuto looks up at him from Atsumu’s lap, his eyes taking on that shining excitement that means no good, like, ever.

“That’s an amazing idea!” he exclaims, but then suddenly falters. “But how?”

“How about we do it with Secret Santa? Always wanted to celebrate the capitalist-est holiday of all,” Inunaki perks up. “Like, we bet on who will give the best present, and the winner gets to fuck Saitama.”

“Or we could just treat them to dinner, instead of allowing them to have sex with fictional characters,” Sakusa suggests in vain. “Saitama is not even that attractive. Not even in a two-dimensional setting.”

“Okay, Captain Peepee Poopoo.” Atsumu flicks Sakusa’s forehead, ignoring Sakusa's glower, then goes back to playing with Bokuto’s hair. “It’s ‘bout the difficulty level, not the reward. I’d fuck Saitama just ta prove m'better than all of you.”

Sakusa scrunches his nose in disgust. Bokuto nods along to Atsumu’s words.

“Saitama’s kinda hot, though,” Inunaki protests. “Maybe I’d ask him to roleplay just so I can put a wig on him. He could totally pull off a Hatsune Miku cosplay. Tell me you see my vision.”

“Ew,” Sakusa says.

Hinata claps, bringing their attention back to him. “I like the Secret Santa idea. We could have a rating system. Like, how thoughtful the gift is, extra points for handmade ones, stuff like that.”

“That’s—not a bad idea, actually,” Tomas voices out what they’re all thinking. “Let’s do it.”

<>

Turns out, it is a bad idea. A horrible, horrible idea, especially when you’re Miya Atsumu, with the luck of a man who’s been struck by lightning twice. 

Secret Santa is all about luck, and Atsumu knows he’s going to lose as soon as he reads the letters on the crumpled paper in his hand. He’s fucked. There goes his one-night stand with Saitama, then.

How the fuck is he supposed to prove he’s a considerate gentleman when he has to buy a gift for Sakusa Kiyoomi, of all people? 

He hates it here.

The sorting goes down in the locker room, Barnes and Meian joining in the sleepover crew. No one says anything, the epitome of complete neutrality, as the rest of the team pulls out their folded piece of paper from Bokuto’s hat. Sakusa is the only one scowling, but that has to do more with the fact that his default expression is a frown.

Atsumu keeps his eyes on the floor, lest he gives away who he got with a stare that lingers for too long. 

God fucking damn it.

As soon as he’s out, the chilly weather slapping him in the face, Atsumu dials Osamu. Exhaling, he watches his breath form into a thin cloud of warmth before dissipating into the night, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he glares at no one in particular. It’s not even officially winter yet, but the weather can go and fuck herself, for all Atsumu cares. The last thing he needed today was the sight of muddy roads and scattered splotches of rainwater stretching into small pools on the pavement. 

God, he’s fucked.

Osamu picks up after the fourth ring. “What d’you want, pissant?”

“Fuck you, dickbag,” Atsumu fires back without much thought to it. “I need help.”

“The fuck is new?”

“Choke.”

“Rin can arrange that. So what d’ya want?”

“Fuckin' ew, Samu,” Atsumu grimaces, scrunching his nose. “Are ya at the shop?”

Osamu pauses. “Depends.”

“Stop bein’ a dick, oh my god,” Atsumu groans, burying his face in his hand. “I’d rather be a brain surgeon with arthritis than ask y'fer help, so ya should know it’s serious.” A car speeds by, uncaring of the dirty puddle it drives into. The splashing water easily reaches Atsumu, damping the cuffed legs of his jeans. He scowls, silently wishing a speeding ticket upon the motherfucker for their troubles, while Osamu sighs into the phone.

“Fine, get your ass here. I’ve already closed, though, so make it quick.”

Atsumu hums. “Mkay. Thanks, li’l bro.”

Osamu says nothing, just hangs up with an audible roll of eyes. Atsumu laughs to himself.

“Tsum-Tsum?”

Bokuto catches up to him quickly, his team jacket pulled up to his chin, a cute grin on his face, sports bag hanging off his shoulder. Atsumu knows better than to fall for his sweet appearance, narrowing his eyes.

“Are you going to Osamu’s?”

Atsumu makes a face. Any teammate of his and Osamu put together is a shitshow waiting to happen. Hinata is the only somewhat exception, and that’s exactly why he’s Atsumu’s favourite.

“Why ya askin’?”

“Keiji loves onigiri, but I suck at making them,” Bokuto says, frowning. Then his eyes light up again. “Thought I’d ask Samu to help me out!”

Atsumu stares at him, huffing out a warm breath that dissolves into a thin cloud. “Fine,” he settles on saying, accepting defeat. Calling Osamu was already asking for an assholery assault, so Atsumu might as well wave the metaphorical white flag. (It’s just that Bokuto, Atsumu’s self-proclaimed second best friend (because Keiji is my bestest friend, and Osamu is yours, Tsum-Tsum), is actually a bastard, contrary to popular belief. Atsumu hates him.)

They make it to the shop, just when the last worker bids Osamu a polite goodbye.

“Good night, Sami-chan.” Osamu waves, giving them a smile. “Good work today, especially for a first day.”

And then their eyes land on Atsumu, their expression immediately falling. Bastard.

"Welcome, roach.”

“Eat a hedgehog, dickwad.”

Bokuto grins. “Good evening, Osamu-kun.”

Osamu salutes to Bokuto. “Yo, Bokkun. Nice ta see you 'ere.”

“He’s sucking on Keiji-kun’s dick again,” Atsumu explains, taking one of the seats in front of the counter. Bokuto follows. “Y’know how it is.”

Osamu lifts a brow in question as they wipe down the counter. Thanks to Atsumu, Osamu is well-known behind the closed locker room doors of the Black Jackals, but they also know Bokuto’s boyfriend, Akaashi. They usually watch MSBY’s matches together, and from what Atsumu can guess, they also narrate it. It’s just twin telepathy—he can feel when Osamu talks shit about him.

“I wanna make good onigiris.” Bokuto nods in affirmation. 

“Oh, I happen ta know quite a bit ‘bout them,” Osamu grins. “I can drop by 'Sumu’s place on the weekend ‘nd show ya a few things.”

“Why my place?” Atsumu asks, furrowing his brows, but Bokuto has already agreed to the plan. 

“Movin’ on,” Osamu ignores him gracefully, finally turning to Atsumu. “What’s the whinin’ about?”

Atsumu flips them off. “Can’t ya be nice for once in yer life?”

“Nah.”

“You're adopted.” Atsumu turns to Bokuto, putting on a serious front. “Bokkun, can I trust ya t’keep this conversation between us? S‘bout who I got for Secret Santa.”

Bokuto shrugs, nonchalant. “You know I’ll tell Keiji.”

Atsumu sighs, and makes a mental note to himself to message Keiji-kun later to revoke sex if Bokuto reveals Atsumu’s Secret Santa to anyone else.

“Okay, fine.” He turns back to Osamu. “What the fuck am I s’pposed ta get for Omi-kun, of all people?”

Of course, he doesn’t get a useful answer at first. Osamu’s cheeks do that puffing out thing before they burst out laughing, and Bokuto almost falls off his chair with a Wait, what?!, apparently both of them finding great pleasure in Atsumu’s misery. 

Atsumu waits, because he’s patient like that—practically a saint, at this point, really; chin propped up on his hand. He makes eye contact with a faint stain on the wall opposite to him, eyes following its contour while both motherfuckers calm down enough just to make more fun of him. Ah, yeah. A classic.

“Okay, ‘kay,” Osamu says, choking on their laugh. “This is just too good. You,” they point a finger at Atsumu, “are fucked. Oh my god. Sakusa?”

Bokuto elbows him, still giggly. “Told you karma was coming for your ass.”

Atsumu spares him a murderous look. He has a sudden urge to kick Bokuto in the balls. 

“Poor Sakusa,” Osamu smirks. “I feel bad for that guy. Unluckiest sack of flesh on Earth ta have ya crush on him.”

“I don’ have a crush on 'im,” Atsumu protests on autopilot, his glare now permanently engraved into his features. 

“The first stage is always denial, Tsum-Tsum, you’ll get over it,” Bokuto assures him, faux comfort etched into his tone. He reaches out to pat Atsumu on the shoulder, and Atsumu kicks out the leg of his chair from under him, consequently causing him to fall on his ass. Small victories.

“Don't kid yaself, 'Sumu. Ya’ve been crushin’ on him since high school,” Osamu says as a matter of fact. “I’ve read yer diary. December the eighth, Monday. The first day of the All Japan Youth Camp. There’s a spiker I want ta kiss, but he’s a prick," they recite, almost perfectly word-for-word. Atsumu really should have eaten them in the womb.

“Ooh, spicy,” Bokuto comments, recovering. He gets up and puts his chair back in place as if nothing happened. “May I propose—down bad.”

Atsumu stares at him, blinks a few times.

"You may not," he settles on saying. Then, as dramatic as one can be, he stands up and heads for the door. Bokuto grabs him by the elbow, laughing, and pulls him back, locking him in place with an arm around Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu’s touch-starved ass does not melt. He doesn’t.

“Ah, no, Bokkun, what'dja do? Should’ve let him leave.”

“Fuckin' hell, 'Samu, eat a bag of dicks,” Atsumu grumbles. “I can’t believe I was naive enough to think ya’d help.”

“Big words for a man with a small weiner,” Osamu hums, crossing their arms.

“We have the same genetics, you degenerate,” Atsumu fires back. “Are y'gonna stop yappin' anytime soon an' actually do yer job?”

Osamu rolls their eyes. “Like I don’t always help ya.”

“Always as in those times I called ya after a sucky match ‘nd ya were busy gettin’ laid? Or when I wanted ta cook ‘nd ya almost let me set my kitchen on fire? Or when—”

“Okay, ya fuck, we get it,” Osamu cuts him off. “Are ya actually mad? With the Sakusa thing?”

“Well.” Atsumu’s hands fall to the counter, eyes following as he plays with his fingers. “M'not exactly happy ‘bout it.”

Osamu sighs, giving in. Atsumu’s eyes snap up to them, watching his twin put ingredients out on the very counter they just cleaned, the premade onigiris for tomorrow included. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, because Osamu has always been nicer about communicating through making Atsumu food, but Atsumu won’t be caught dead looking at them with anything close to affection.

“Should’ve got Adriah or somethin’,” Atsumu says half-heartedly. “Could've gotten 'im some slim-fit condoms.”

Osamu snorts, shaking their head.

“Wait, that’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll get that for him,” Bokuto mumbles.

Atsumu raises a brow. “You’re his Secret Santa?”

Eyes widening, Bokuto groans. “Shit. Yeah, I guess.”

“Y'could get Sakusa blackmail material of yaself,” Osamu suggests. Atsumu gives them a look. “Don’t give me that. I know jack shit ‘bout him. An' everyone likes collectin' blackmail fer you.”

“A'ight, the hell. Can y'actually try, at least?”

Osamu rolls their eyes, again. Atsumu can practically hear their fleeting thought of spitting in the onigiri they're currently making.

“I don’t even know what ya like ‘bout him. Like, he pro'lly fucks wild as hell. He has that vibe. Flexible, ain't he? But that’s all I got.”

“I’m telling Sunarin.”

“Go ahead.” Osamu shrugs. “He’ll agree with me. Fuckin' prick, that one, but sure as hell could show ya a good time, no?”

“Omi is a lot nicer than ya make him seem,” Atsumu defends half-heartedly.

“No, he isn’t?” Bokuto gives him a weird look. “He’s blunt as fuck. It’s funny, though.”

“No, I mean.” Atsumu runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. “Listen. He’s put a lotta effort into, y’know. Gettin’ along with us? An’ like, sure, it took fuckin' months or whatever, but he gives out high fives. Sakusa Kiyoomi, high-fiving you, Bokkun. Imagine that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?!”

“Look, I’m just sayin’, Omi-Omi isn’t a people person. But he’s also made, uh, adjustments to accommodate us, his team. Isn’t that amazin’, in a way?” Atsumu smiles, looking down at his hands. “I think Omi’s pretty cool. He can be an ass, but he’s kind in a quiet way.”

He pauses, noticing himself. Both Osamu and Bokuto are staring at him, Osamu looking extremely disgusted while Bokuto is mostly just amused.

“Wow,” Osamu says, voice flat. “Now we all know what kinda tree you'd be. Pine.”

Atsumu flushes, spluttering. “What? No. I ain't pinin' for no one. I was jus' sayin’.”

Osamu gives him a look. Atsumu glares back at them.

That is, until Osamu puts a plate of onigiri in front of both him and Bokuto.

“One minced tuna and spring onion onigiri right up.” They place it neatly on the counter, because they know exactly how to take advantage of Atsumu’s stomach, the fucker. Fastest way to a man's heart, after all.

“Ma’s coming over next week, by the way. Y'gon' hafta drag yer ass over ta mine.”

“‘Kay. Sunarin?” Atsumu asks around a mouthful, humming in delight at the taste.

“Still reluctant, but that’s just ‘cause he’s a cunt. I know a few ways ta persuade him.”

“Gross,” Bokuto comments, then bites into his first rice ball. “This is really good, Osamu! You really got all the cooking skills in the womb, huh?”

Atsumu doesn’t even react to the taunting, at this point. He loses himself in the taste of (annoyingly) good onigiri.

<>

Atsumu is a patient person. He really is. He’s lived twenty-three years of his life with an exceptional asshole of a twin. He’s been pushed to the very limit of his sanity many, many, many times before, all thanks to Osamu, and then the volleyball club of Inarizaki, led by the devil himself hiding behind a phone. Atsumu knows what good-natured but extremely annoying bullying is like, has been the victim of it countless times.

Atsumu, as of the moment, is no longer a patient person.

“Tsumu! Shion broke your cup!”

“Fuck off, Adriah, you literally kicked it out of my hands!”

These bastards. These absolute morons. The banes of his existence.

Today was supposed to go remotely quiet, with only Osamu and Bokuto leeching off him, as if teaching how to make onigiri requires Atsumu’s apartment specifically. It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s cool. Atsumu’s cool with it, he’s so cool with it. As cool as a cucumber. 

That said, he prepared for the onslaught of idiocy for the day. Just Osamu and Bokuto. It's fine, it's cool. Inner peace, inner peace, inner peace.

But then Inunaki busts his front door open, with Hinata hot on his heels, and says they came to the party, even had the audacity to tell Atsumu off for not inviting them.  

It’s fine, it’s cool. Atsumu is cool as a cucumber.

Then Bokuto texts Tomas, the little bitch he is, and Sakusa, too. Because the more the merrier, right?  

So here Atsumu is, sitting at the kitchen counter, listening to the lesser of two evils—Osamu and Bokuto are more occupied with cooking than being a pain in the ass. The other three are busy playing Mario Kart in the living room and ordering Atsumu around for snacks like he’s some kind of servant. Like they were invited here.
Sakusa isn’t here yet, and won’t stay for long—really, the only person Atsumu would have been glad to see. Of fucking course. Sakusa has to meet up with Komori today, of all days.

Atsumu’s eyebrow twitches as he stands up, reluctantly making his way over to the living room. 

“What now?” He grumbles, taking in the situation laid out before him. Hinata, sweet sweet Hinata, is sitting on the couch like a normal person, eyes glued to the screen as he works at the console like a maniac. In the middle sits Tomas, leaning left and right, in sync with the game, his tongue sticking out in concentration when he’s not insulting Inunaki. Inunaki is yelling from the other end of the couch, now empty-handed, and bumps Tomas with his shoulders as he accuses him of cheating, because no way you’re beating Shouyou right now, that’s a load of shit. There are broken shards of glass that once was Atsumu’s favourite cup on the floor, the water spilt all over his rug.

Atsumu is about to open his mouth when the doorbell rings. It’s open, Sakusa knows that, but Atsumu appreciates the way he announces his arrival regardless.

Momentarily forgetting the hurricane of chaos wreaking havoc in his living room, Atsumu makes it to the front door with a spring to his steps, greeting Sakusa with a grin.

“Omi-kun, your timing's perfect,” he purrs. 

Sakusa stops in his tracks, narrowing his eyes, wary. God, if he looked at Atsumu like that for the rest of his life, Atsumu would die a happy man.

“What.”

“Glad ya asked,” Atsumu grins, voice sickeningly sweet. “I need ya t’do The Thing.”

“The thing?”

“The Thing.”

An understanding light brightens Sakusa’s eyes as he takes off his shoes, and pulls his mask under his chin. He murmurs a soft excuse the intrusion as he steps in, wincing at another inhuman scream Tomas lets out.

“Fine. But you owe me,” Sakusa says. See? He’s so cool.

Atsumu grins. “Put it on my tab.”

With a sigh, Sakusa walks into the living room, and Atsumu braces himself for absolute entertainment.

“Adriah, Shion,” Sakusa booms, and the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. “What are you doing?”

All three couchwarmers tense up, even though Hinata wasn’t mentioned.

Inunaki is brave enough to look over his shoulder and give Sakusa a tentative smile. “Uh. Playing?”

Sakusa makes his way to the couch and puts both hands on the back, leaning on it. “Playing. Really.” He looks around the room, eyes narrowed. “Tell me, since when did playing include two degenerates pushing thirty coming over to get Miya a noise complaint? And breaking a fucking cup and not cleaning it up? What the fuck are you, five? Do you really have that much free time?”

Inunaki lets out a geh. Tomas stays silent, ducking his head.

“If you come here uninvited, at least give Miya a reason to let you stay,” Sakusa continues, tone flat. “Or go home and jerk it to your furry porn. Jesus.”

Bokuto and Osamu have come out of the kitchen to listen in to Sakusa doing The Thing. Osamu sends Atsumu a look that says huh, not bad.

“And Shouyou-kun,” Sakusa turns to the third party member. “Make sure you don’t overstay Miya’s ridiculously biased hospitality, yeah?”

Hinata nods obediently. Sakusa hums in satisfaction.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

Inunaki huffs indignantly, standing up to take a trip to Atsumu’s bathroom to get the broom and the mop. “I can’t believe this. You’re literally four years younger, Kiyoomi, why do you sound like my dad?”

The storm on Sakusa's face loosens. Dare Atsumu say, he's smiling, even. “You’re grounded, Shion.”

Inunaki flips him off. Sakusa snorts.

“God, Omi-kun,” Atsumu lets out a dreamy sigh. “That was hot. This s'why you're m'favourite.”

“Hinata is your favourite,” Sakusa points out, raising a brow.

Atsumu shrugs. “Fair. But you're a close second.”

Sakusa reaches out and flicks his forehead. Atsumu is in love with him, what the fuck. 

“So, uh, ya want anythin’? Tea or coffee?”

“Manners from you? Never thought I'd see the day,” Sakusa flashes him a sly look, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Atsumu pushes down the urge to grab him by the collar and kiss it off his face. “Fuck off. I was tryin’ to be nice.”

“Don’t strain yourself, Miya,” Sakusa says. “I got it.” He passes Atsumu, shoulders brushing. Atsumu’s face warms.

He follows Sakusa to the kitchen after giving Hinata a murderous look for smiling knowingly, trailing after him like a metaphorical lost puppy. Atsumu decidedly does not like this metaphor and swears to never put it into his inner monologue ever again as he sits down on his chair at the counter.

“Long time no see, Osamu-san,” Sakusa greets Atsumu’s twin. 

Osamu hums, leaning against the kitchen sink as he watches Bokuto work. “Yuh,” they nod. “S'up?”

Sakusa seems to debate his response for a second, opening one of Atsumu’s cupboards to take out a mug, like he lives here. Atsumu doesn’t mind the domestic picture, although he’s ashamed of how fucking deep he is. Loser. 

“I’m trying to figure out how to deal with annoying relatives,” Sakusa says finally, proceeding to make tea for himself. Jasmine, Atsumu notes, he always drinks jasmine. “Any suggestions? I’ve heard you’re quite an expert, Osamu-san.”

Osamu grins, sending Atsumu a look. “Hey, I like this one.” They point a thumb in Sakusa’s direction, saying it like it’s the first time they and Sakusa joined forces to gang up on Atsumu, the jackasses they are.

“Hilarious. I’m rollin’ on the floor, Samu. Can’t stop laughin’.”

Osamu rolls their eyes, diverting their attention back to a struggling Bokuto. The ball of rice in his hands looks nothing like an onigiri, and Bokuto starts whining, now that he’s got Osamu helping him again.

So Atsumu settles on watching Sakusa make tea, hyperfocused on his hand and long fingers like the hopeless idiot he is. Why is everything so pretty about him? Not fair. Sakusa’s personality sometimes feels like compensation for looking like that. Atsumu still can’t quite grasp the fact that the lanky, prickly guy with that mop of unruly curls from high school turned into this. Not that Atsumu, gay as he is, wasn’t already attracted to the high school edition of Sakusa Kiyoomi, but this is an upgrade from hot to what the fuck. Jesus Christ.

Atsumu comes to when Sakusa pulls him back to the present with two snaps of his fingers in front of him, brow raised. “Earth to Atsumu.”

“Huh?”

Sakusa huffs, settling his hot cup of tea on the counter. “You’re out of it.”

“Fuck off, m'not,” Atsumu shoots back out of reflex. “I have all of ya hanging off my dick, it’s exhaustin’, y’know?”

“No, I do not know.”

Atsumu sighs in exasperation, before his mind screeches to a halt. Wait a minute. Sakusa didn’t—

“Ya didn’t wash the mug,” he blurts.

Sakusa blinks once, twice. Looks down at said mug, like he’s surprised. “Ah,” he says. “I didn’t.” Then his face twists, expression turning sour. “Did you really have to point that out?”

“I promise I do the dishes properly,” Atsumu swears, going as far as putting a hand on his heart for emphasis. Sakusa still looks pained. Atsumu’s brain fizzles, trying to come up with something to reassure him. “Okay, uh. Look, I have some disinfectant wipes, I can wipe down the rim for ya, if that helps?” He stands up, pointing behind himself. “Lemme get those real quick.”

“Atsumu,” Sakusa calls, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s fine.”

Atsumu turns around, tilting his head. He hesitates. “Are ya sure?”

Sakusa looks down at his tea. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m not that much of a weirdo.”

There’s no emotion behind his voice, or so it seems at first, but Atsumu can feel something underneath. “Omi-kun,” he says slowly. “Bein’ clean doesn’t make ya a weirdo, ya know that, right?” 

Sakusa clicks his tongue. “I said it’s fine. Sit your ass down, Miya.”

Atsumu lifts his arms in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

Sakusa’s eyes soften. It’s not too obvious, but it’s there, the slight change. “I trust that even you can wash the dishes. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

Atsumu huffs out a laugh, crossing his arms. “What is that s’pposed ta mean?”

Sakusa doesn’t give him an answer other than a scoff, just brings the mug up to his lips and takes a tentative sip, careful.

Atsumu sees Osamu and Bokuto share a look from the corner of his eyes and decides to pointedly ignore it.

<>

Wednesday night finds Atsumu with Sakusa on his couch, after he’s asked him to hang out like the gay person he is. Sakusa didn’t particularly mind, if a little taken aback at first. Atsumu thinks that’s a small victory on its own.

Wednesday night finds Atsumu with Sakusa on his couch, sitting close enough to him to accidentally brush shoulders when he shifts. Sakusa is relaxed, to Atsumu’s utmost relief, sinking into the cushions and propping his elbow up on the back of the couch, the other holding his beloved jasmine tea.

“No, ya jerk, it’s just the principle of the matter, I don’t give a fuck—”

“—oh, right. Then why are you so pissed?”

“‘cause it’s such a fucking shit movie, it’s bullshit—”

“Oh my God,” Sakusa laughs. Atsumu’s brain freezes for a moment, registering how soft of a chuckle that was, faint and warm and—okay. It doesn’t matter how absolutely adorable Sakusa’s laugh is because there’s a much more pressing matter at hand, which is;

“I can’t believe you. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s a cinematic masterpiece,” Sakusa emphasises, shooting Atsumu a subtle grin.

Atsumu goes bug-eyed. “What the fuck,” he blurts out. “Gimme a sec, I need ta laugh ‘cause of just how completely wrong you are—”

Sakusa takes a sip of his tea. “I’m not, though. I’m right.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Atsumu splutters, unbelieving. “It was propaganda.”

Sakusa almost spits out his tea on Atsumu’s weary couch, choking on his drink. “Oh my God,” he coughs. “You pretentious bowl of shit, we’re talking about Minions here. Propaganda my fucking ass.”

Atsumu glares at him, clicking his tongue. “Since yer brain’s obviously havin’ a hard time acceptin’ my truth, lemme help ya. It’s basically motherfuckin’ Gru tellin’ ‘em they were created to serve him, like, these li’l yellow shits were genetically made and—wouldn’t you have a shit ton of questions ‘bout life if yer created like that? It’s fuckin’ bull because—what are ya laughin’ at, jerk?”

Sakusa has to put down his mug on the coffee table not to spill it. He gives Atsumu a look, eyes filled with amusement, crinkling up at the corners. And, oh, there’s a gorgeous smile. Oh, Atsumu curses mentally, mouth drying, he has dimples.

“You’re ridiculous, Atsu,” Sakusa says simply, tone tilted to something dangerously teasing, and Atsumu’s brain short circuits because Atsu? Atsu? He did not just—Sakusa, he—Atsu?!

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

<>

From then on, it only gets worse.

Atsumu goes to Osamu’s place to have a family dinner with his mom, Osamu and Suna. It doesn’t help, having to watch his twin be gross the entire evening. Look at us, we’re so in love! Our feelings are requited!  

Get fucked, Atsumu thinks, both of you.

The last two weeks of November pass by in a blur of practice and two matches, and Atsumu makes no progress in figuring out what the fuck to get as a present for Sakusa Kiyoomi. Because, as a friendly reminder, the thought still sits in the back of his mind, singing a mantra of how unlucky Atsumu is.

December promises no better. 

It’s their first and very last match of the month, according to their loose schedule.

On that note, Atsumu absolutely cannot stand people who suck. People who can’t play properly should just give up their position for someone else, instead of dragging the entire team down. It’s called a team sport for a reason. There’s no point in struggling alone if someone else can take over and handle things.

That said, Atsumu messes up all his hybrid serves, the one he worked his ass off for just to debut them this season. Atsumu is a tempo too fast for Hinata twice in a row, entirely throwing their plays. Atsumu can’t sync up with Meian properly, and it’s only thanks to their captain’s competence that they still make those points. Six of his block-follow digs end up going the wrong trajectory, and his teammates have to make up for his fuck-ups. 

As of the moment, Atsumu cannot stand himself.

“Don’t worry about it, Atsumu-san,” Hinata nudges him gently after the match, careful. Atsumu’s post-game glow is nowhere to be found. “Everyone has off-days.”

Atsumu grunts in acknowledgement, because he’s still not pissed enough to ignore Hinata, of all people, but that’s about it. He slams his locker shut with a tad too much force, glaring at the offending piece of metal like it's the root of all evil. He hasn’t showered or changed out of his jersey, simply pulled a hoodie over his head and put on his coat, because Atsumu just wants to leave.

He grumbles something resembling a bye as he exits their dressing room, making sure everyone is aware how uncommunicative he is at the moment.

Glaring at the floor, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, dialling Osamu. They will know what to say, Atsumu is sure. They’ll make this dreadful feeling of uselessness go away, they’ll say the words Atsumu needs to hear, they’ll comfort and motivate him to do better next time.

Atsumu looks up to make sure he took the right turn for the exit, then his blood runs cold in his veins.

There stands Ushijima Wakatoshi in all his six feet and three point nine inches glory, casual clothes, talking to Sakusa. The Jackals played Kanagawa today, which means Ushijima is here because he came to watch, and now he’s talking to Sakusa because—why, again? Because Sakusa used to have a crush on him? He definitely did. On this bulldozer of knight in shining armour with his hankies and inability to grasp social cues. Real charming, he is—and in the most suitable mental state, Yoda Atsumu isn't.

Ushijima is not even the worst part, yet. Atsumu is a big boy now, he can leave past bitterness behind—he’s fine with Ushijima, has even made conversation with him after one of their games. Because Atsumu is mature like that. 

No, Ushijima isn’t the problem here. It’s the way Sakusa is looking at him. It’s such an open expression, one Atsumu hasn’t seen many times before, even less aimed at him—but apparently, all Ushijima fucking Wakatoshi needs is exist and Sakusa will look like he thinks this bastard put the stars in the sky.

Atsumu feels something very fragile shatter inside his chest.

(As if playing like absolute ass today wasn't enough.)

“Tsumu?” Osamu asks from the other side of the line. Atsumu doesn’t respond, his hand with his phone falling away from his ear. He hangs up.

At that very moment, Atsumu realises two things;

One; he might not be the only one still maintaining high school crushes.

And two; if he doesn’t get home in five minutes, he will be really embarrassed afterwards about breaking down in public.

Newton’s first law of motion states that an object either remains at rest or continues to move at a constant velocity, unless it is acted upon by an external force.

Fourteen-year-old Miya Atsumu would laugh in twenty-three-year-old Miya Atsumu’s face for being a nerd. Fourteen-year-old Miya Atsumu is sitting at the back of the class, doodling in his textbook. Twenty-three-year-old Miya Atsumu is using physics metaphors to give his emotions a name. He is that object moving at a constant velocity, and shitty days like these are the things that hijack his trajectory into a spiral. 

He doesn't know what to do about it. It’s like solving a math problem, and fourteen-year-old Miya Atsumu is shit at finding X. Twenty-three-year-old Miya Atsumu claims he’s somewhat better, but there really isn’t much difference.

Atsumu wants to put a frame on this feeling inside his chest, to cage it into a chain of puzzle edge pieces. It’s always better to start from the outside and move inwards, but you can’t put a border to something that’s constantly growing.

Fourteen-year-old Miya Atsumu shrugs and leaves twenty-three-year-old Miya Atsumu to his vague metaphors and stuttering heartbeat.

After a dramatic door slam and numerous curse words whispered into his apartment, Atsumu is sitting cross-legged on the hideous, swirl-patterned carpet of his living room, leaning on the coffee table. He’s staring at the cheap scented candle sitting in the middle of it, dried wax running down the side in dense droplets. The silence is overwhelming.

It comes to him slowly, gradually. There’s a build-up to it, from overdone habits of running his fingers through his hair to the first shaky breath that catches in his throat. It’s similar to a railway of a frisky rollercoaster, slow on the upward curve, filled with anxious ticking of anticipation—and then it comes to a halt on the highest point, just a minuscule pause in time before it all comes crashing down with an angle nearly perpendicular to the ground. Atsumu’s control over the situation slips out his hands like steam from the spout of a teakettle, and his chest makes a whirring sound that has a disturbing relation to the teakettle metaphor.

And so, Atsumu cries. His phone rings. He puts it on silent.

It’s helplessness, then self-consciousness eating away at him that morphs into anger on a whim, and then it’s just one more push to go back to where he came from in the first place, forced into a vicious loop of unsettling indecisiveness.

And then Atsumu thinks, fuck it, as he scrambles for pen and paper that he slams on the coffee table, vision blurred but not enough to stop him from spitting words into cursive ink. Fuck everyone, he chokes on a breath, fuck this match, fuck him, fuck Sakusa Kiyoomi, and fuck Hinata Shouyou’s proposal that has absolutely nothing to do with his feelings but Atsumu still wants to pretend it does. Because that was when he realised all over again, wasn't it? 

He sits down and starts writing, “Dear Sakusa Kiyoomi, the bane of my existence,” and he curses that goddamn December 8th, like it’s the root of all evil, like it’s a pinpoint time and place in the universe that could be blamed for something as gradual as emotions. It’s with belated dread that he realises he’s only a few days away from hitting the anniversary mark of such a shitty date. Damn it, he scribbles, what a stupid fucking Monday that was. The first time I saw you up close. I never stood a fucking chance, did I?

He gets as far as two pages, writing down words that come to him like music comes to a dancer, serving as a base that helps putting it, putting himself out there on display, be it thousands of eyes pinning him down or a blank sheet of paper.

In the end, Atsumu almost crumples his paper into a ball and throws it out, having no use of it. And yet, something stops him, something irrational and sentimental, and so, Atsumu folds the two pages neatly and puts it in an envelope, scribbling Omi on it. He entertains the idea of actually sending it to him through mail, and nearly rips the paper into half.

<>

Next morning, Atsumu wakes to the sound of the electric keypad beeping and his front door slamming open with the finesse of a drunk mule. His initial reaction is a soft groan, before he buries his face into his pillow, shrinking under the blanket as much as he can. Sleeping in felt too good to be possible, especially if you have a twin spawned right out of Satan’s ass.

Osamu’s footsteps drum against the carpet a tad too loud, and Atsumu furrows his eyebrows, not awake enough to be pissed off just yet.

The first thing Osamu does as soon as they set foot in Atsumu’s bedroom is pull up the blinds, letting the sun quite literally shit in Atsumu’s face with the intensity of a well-aimed volleyball spin serve. Atsumu lets out another groan, and pulls the blanket over his head.

Osamu is having none of that. They yank the covers off Atsumu in one swift movement, so Atsumu has the pleasure of seeing their stupid face first thing in the morning. He opens his mouth to tell Osamu that, too, but his twin grabs his jaw, squishing his cheeks as they navigate a now pouting-glaring Atsumu’s head to their heart’s content.

“Jus’ how much didja cry last night? Yer eyes are all red,” they say in lieu of a good morning, jackass, letting go of Atsumu after they're done with the inspecting ordeal. “An’ what’s with that phone call from yesterday? Y'think I’ve patience to keep callin’ ya every hour ta see if you’ve grown the balls to finally pick up?”

Atsumu sticks his tongue at them. Osamu flips him off.

“Get up, asswipe. I’m makin’ breakfast.”

Atsumu watches Osamu leave his room, then falls back onto his pillow, closing his eyes. “Scrub,” he mumbles, just to have the last word to himself, even if Osamu can’t hear him. That’s how Atsumu keeps the universe in balance.

The problem with Osamu’s cooking is that it’s good enough for Atsumu to inhale it in one go without even realising. In addition, Osamu is lucky enough to have shared a residence with Atsumu for the greater part of their life and knows exactly how Atsumu likes his eggs, knows how to manipulate Atsumu into a monkey man with a stomach for brain.

“So,” Osamu starts, drying the very last plate of Atsumu’s dirty dishes. “Are y'gonna tell me what the fuck this is ‘bout?”

Atsumu, in all his just-woke-up glory, munching on the last bite of his breakfast, sighs as dramatically as professional volleyball players in a simple shirt and boxers go. (Normally, he doesn’t eat while he still hasn’t changed out of his pajamas, but the circumstances override normal. It’s not everyday you break down over being a hopeless gay for your outside hitter; not if you’re lucky, anyway.) 

“Oi, 'Sumu,” Osamu calls, trying again. Atsumu looks up to meet their eyes halfway. “Is this ‘bout Sakusa?”

Of course Osamu knows. 

Atsumu hums, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “S'bout fuckin' everythin' from yesterday, but yeah. An' Ushiwaka.”

It takes Osamu a few seconds to connect the dots. “That gorilla? Those two have a bromance on their own, right?”

Atsumu shrugs. “If lookin’ at yer bro like he shat the moon out into the sky is a 'no homo' thing, then sure.”

“Dayum,” Osamu says, for lack of better words. “He does have an ass fat enough fer that, don’t he?”

“I know ya came over ta be a sweet li’l bro and cheer me up, but this talkin’ thing ya do is pretty counterproductive.”

Osamu rolls their eyes, taking away the empty plate from Atsumu. “What d’ya want me ta say? With all due respect—which is none—ya pro'lly saw them sharin’ the same square meter an’ broke down ‘bout it. S'that your equivalent ta bein’ balls deep inside each other?”

“Ya really have a way with words, y’know that?” Atsumu quips dryly. 

Osamu ignores him. “So I’m guessin’ I’m right?” They grin. “Damn, I’m good.”

“Ya’d be better with a gag.”

“Eat shit, scrub,” Osamu fires back out of pure reflex. “Put on some pants, I don’t wanna stare at yer dick print all day.”

“We have identical dicks, Samu.”

Atsumu figures the kitchen cloth Osamu throws at his face is somewhat deserved.

<>

Atsumu ends up getting Sakusa a Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer themed mask, with an obnoxious red tuft of fur that’s supposed to sit right on the tip of his nose. Hinata suggests he buys a headband with antlers to match, and Atsumu does. They laugh their asses off about it.

(Atsumu also gets Osamu to agree to making onigiri with umeboshi the night before the Jackals’ gifting party. And maybe, maybe, he also goes out of his way to pester Suna about this one manga that is no longer available in stores, because he knows Sakusa loves dark-slash-philosophical ones. It costs him his usual ramen money and giving out an embarrassing childhood photograph to Suna.)

<>

It starts with Hinata Shouyou, of all people, and it ends with him, too.

He’s lying on Atsumu’s couch, legs thrown over the backrest, sitting upside down on it as he waits for Atsumu to fix up his hair into its usual messy-but-styled waves. 

“We’re so late,” he chirps, making Atsumu glance at his phone again. 6:11, it reads in derisive numbers, and Atsumu lets out one of those long-suffering sighs that are usually reserved for Osamu’s shit. 

“‘kay, I’m done,” he grumbles. “Fer real, this time.”

Hinata sits up, giving him a once-over, then his trademark sunshine smile and a thumbs-up. “Worth the wait, Tsumu-san, you look good.”

Atsumu sends him a flying kiss, and finally, finally, gets to the point where he’s about to leave. They’re doing the Secret Santa party at Meian’s place, and Atsumu is already getting his ass ready for the kicking it’s about to get. Hinata, of course, won’t get shit for being just as late as Atsumu. The most annoying part is, Atsumu understands.

So, he speeds it up. Grabs his car keys, steps into his shoes and pulls on his coat like his life depends on those eleven minutes that they’re already late by.

“Tsumu-san,” Hinata calls, amused. “Your present.”

“Oh, fuck,” Atsumu curses under his breath. “Can ya get it for me? S'on my desk.”

And Hinata fetches it for him. Oh, he does.

They make it to Meian’s thirty-two minutes late. Atsumu gets the surprise of his life when his captain only pulls him into the house with a warm smile and gives Atsumu no shit talk. Woah. Character development, is it?

Well. If Meian isn’t angry, then settling in won’t be too hard. Not that it ever is—as a V. League Division 1 team, the Jackals are known for wild strategies and aggressive plays. As a group of miscreants, they’re just the same, just in a different sense—in a sense that has Bokuto waking up with five airplane tickets in his inbox, or Hinata with an eyebrow slit, or anything else even remotely close to those images.

Shooting everyone a hello, fuckers, Atsumu slowly eases up, letting himself catch up with the current flow. He listens in to the conversation until he can make his first teasing comment, and from then, one can imagine what goes down. Alcohol is shoved into his hands and then swallowed down his throat.

It’s with belated amusement that Atsumu realises, everyone is already tipsy, and damn him if he won’t make a competition out of catching up with them. Hinata seems to share the sentiment, pulling Atsumu to the kitchen for a real warm-up round. 

Meian is quick to break up the start of the party, insisting on getting the gift-giving part done before they reach a certain point where it becomes impossible. Bokuto barks a laugh, something about having to watch out for Adriah, y’know how he is, and Tomas smacks him in retaliation.

And so it goes. Atsumu hops on the couch, right next to Sakusa, blessing him with an unreadable grin. Sakusa simply lifts a brow in question and takes a sip of his—whatever his drink is.

“How we doin’, Omi-kun?”

“Not drunk enough for you.” There it is. Fucking prick.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, and decides to be obnoxious about it. He’s being provoked.  

He leans into Sakusa’s space, arm behind Sakusa’s back and the guy doesn’t even flinch at the proximity, just fixes Atsumu with a look. 

“What’s it take for li’l Omi-Omi ta be nice for once? Let’s be honest, bein’ an ass won’t change th'fact that y'got the hots for me.”

Sakusa scoffs. “One look at you would do that, if I was ever subjected to such a thing.”

“Goin’ all hypothetical on me, Omi?” Atsumu grins, sly and wolfish. God, he wants to kiss Sakusa. “Don’t be shy. I don’t judge.”

“Except you do,” Sakusa snorts. “Which is ironic.”

“Ya got this flirtin’ thing kinda wrong, y’know,” Atsumu purrs, tilting his head to the side. “Shouldn’t ya be tryin’ to flatter me?”

Another eyebrow raise. “First of all, who the hell said I want to flirt with you?” Atsumu chuckles. “Second, comparing you to a trashcan is already flattery, so if I wanted to compliment you, I’d be already giving you too much.”

This bastard. Atsumu wants to punch him in the mouth. With his own mouth.

“Ya could never give me too much, if ya know what I mean.” Atsumu winks, because he’s annoying like that.

Sakusa scrunches his nose, lips curling in amusement. He is generous with his reactions tonight, and Atsumu thrives for it.

“A-tsu-mu-kun,” Inunaki calls, rolling the syllables lazily on his tongue. “You’re being actually revolting.”

Barnes finally comes into view, finding a seat on the floor next to the coffee table. He’s the last one they’ve been waiting for.

“Okay,” Meian shuts them all up. “Who wants to go first?”

“Atsumu,” Bokuto and Hinata say at the same time. 

So Atsumu goes first.

He milks the opportunity to the very last drop, dramatic as he is, coaxing all the reactions he can get out of Sakusa. He insists on Sakusa wearing the Rudolph mask and headband, and really, he didn’t know he needed flustered Sakusa looking ridiculously adorable like he is right now, until now. 

(“He’s blushin’!” Atsumu exclaims, grinning. But really, what he means is let me kiss you. “Who knew ya could be this cute, Omi?” Please, please let me kiss you. I like you. “And the antlers fit ya pretty well, I’d say. Really bring out tha colour in your eyes.” I like you so much. 

Atsumu is fucked.)

To everyone’s surprise, Sakusa wins their bet by getting Hinata a collection of limited edition volumes of Dragon Ball in Portuguese. No one can beat that. (Sakusa doesn’t seem very keen on having fictional sex with Saitama, though.)

After the gifting, all hell breaks loose. Bokuto pulls Atsumu into the kitchen to do shots with him, and Atsumu is eighty-point-four kilograms of braindead weight, because he agrees to doing them.  

Mistake one; it’s tequila. He’s always had a love-hate relationship with tequila, and tonight it seems to be stuck in the enemies arc, because it goes to his head a tad too quick, a familiar buzzing warmth spreading through his chest.

Mistake two; it’s Bokuto. The man holds his alcohol annoyingly well, like some kind of twisted superman bullshit, and Atsumu can’t stand his guts. Fuck Bokuto, honestly. Not that Atsumu is counting, but Bokuto just necked down his second shot in the span of three minutes, and from what he’s heard, it’s his seventh one of the night. And Atsumu would rather die than look like a pussy next to anyone else, even if that anyone is Bokuto, who’s seemingly immune to ethanol itself.

Atsumu loses count after mistake three. Fun night, right?

<>

Morning seeps in, gray and murky.

Atsumu wakes up in a bed that isn’t his, in a body he sure as hell hopes isn’t his own. Turning his head makes the world spin, sitting up takes herculean effort, but he makes it. Taking in his surroundings, he notes that the leg thrown over his is Hinata’s, who’s sandwiched between Inunaki and him. Both of them are blissfully unconscious, the lucky motherfuckers. Atsumu would normally join them, falling right back onto the sheets, asleep as soon as he hits the pillow—but the room is warm and the air feels stuffy, all that which takes away the comfort in cuddling up to Hinata. 

He makes his way out of the guest room with the speed of a hungover Internet Explorer.

“Speak of the devil,” is the first thing Meian says to him, sitting on the couch with a glass of water in hands. Bokuto is lying with his feet in Meian’s lap, arms behind his head. They both look fine, which pisses hungover Atsumu the fuck off, because fuck them. For real.

“Tsumu!” Bokuto grins up at him with a megawatt smile, and it takes Atsumu great effort to actually keep his eyes open. “Sleep well? You look like—”

Atsumu opens his mouth to reply, then quickly closes it. He holds up a finger, stumbling through the living room to get to the bathroom, almost tripping on his own feet.

“Atsum—”

Falling to his knees, Atsumu pushes the toilet seat up together with the cover. “Hold that thought,” he says, then promptly, the contents of his stomach proceed to make their way up his throat and into the toilet bowl. A second later, there’s a hand on his back, another pushing against his forehead, holding his head up. Atsumu appreciates it, leaning into the touch as gastric acid burns through his oesophagus.

Bokuto starts rubbing his back when Atsumu is done, letting Atsumu collect his breath, then offers the glass of water Meian got him. The world doesn’t feel as wobbly anymore.

Atsumu spits into the toilet bowl. “Gross,” he says, accepting the water and gulping down half of it right away.

“Yeah,” Bokuto laughs. “It was the tequila, wasn’t it?” He’s grinning. Atsumu doesn’t look at him, because he’s busy dying, but Bokuto’s smug bitchass grin can be heard in his voice.

“Fuck off,” Atsumu grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yer fault, anyway.”

“You never learn,” Meian chides him. “Your aim is getting better, though. Remember when you puked in the sink?”

“Not helpin’,” Atsumu says, giving Meian a delicate middle finger. “That was disgustin’. Don’t remind me.”

“Atsumu.” Oh, a new voice. “Are you done?”

Bokuto pats him on the shoulder. “Morning, Adriah! Yeah, I think he is,” he answers in Atsumu’s place.

“Then can you get out.”

Bokuto and Meian laugh. Atsumu’s lips curl upwards, too.

“Sure thing, Tiny Bladder King,” Atsumu purrs, as teasing as he can be with a stinky ass headache like his. Bokuto helps him stand up, flushing the toilet because Atsumu is incapable of taking care of such a thing.

“That’s rich coming from the Puking Guts Man.”

Atsumu stabs the heel of his palm between Tomas’s ribs. Tomas slaps his ass in retaliation.

The bathroom door closes with a slam, and they burst out laughing at the relieved sigh Tomas definitely should’ve kept inside.

The mornings after are always dull, like this.

Atsumu takes one painkiller more than the recommended dosage, and heads for the balcony. Bokuto is helping Meian in the kitchen with cleaning up, Tomas is sprawled on the couch. Hinata, Inunaki and Barnes are still asleep. Sakusa has woken up, too, and is currently drinking his coffee right next to Tomas while reading a piece of paper Atsumu is too hungover to care about.

The moment Atsumu steps outside, the cold creeps under his skin, coaxing shudders out of his pliant body. He sighs with the solemnity of Atlas himself, only his great burden is this truly mythological headache that’s going to be the death of him, instead of, like, the sky. A drunk Atsumu is loud, and a hungover Atsumu is anything but. It’s one of the few sides of him that lacks his usual spark and renders him into what most people would call average. (Maybe Atsumu relishes that. That despite the V. League Division 1-level professional volleyball player thing, despite the Olympian title, he’s still just an average guy who gets hangovers after a wild night.)

The balcony opens. Meian throws a blanket at him, then closes the door again.

Atsumu huffs, tired, and wraps himself in it, then waits for the cold to freeze his brain enough to alleviate the pain as the early birds of the city go their ways under his bored gaze.

Around eleven, Atsumu finally gathers himself enough to get ready to leave. With the present he’s got from Adriah in one hand, he salutes to the rest of the team still lounging around in Meian’s living room. He gets responses in various degrees of assholery. 

“Don’t crash,” Meian tells him in lieu of a goodbye, leaning against the doorframe. “Seriously. Don’t.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What d’ya take me for? I’m not five, y’know.”

Meian stays silent. When Atsumu looks at him, he’s smiling. Bastard. 

“Fuck off,” Atsumu laughs. “A’ight, I’m off, Daddy Shuugo.”

“Nasty,” Meian snorts, and closes the door.

Atsumu sighs—one of those long ones, that Osamu especially hates—and takes off, slowly, one stair step at a time. There’s no fucking way he’ll hurry up when his entire body is screaming at him to put himself in a horizontal line. He's tired. 

Leaving the apartment complex, the cold punches Atsumu in the guts once again, this time more welcome. Deep breath in, swallowing ice through his nose, freezing his lungs, Atsumu fishes around for his car keys in his pocket, taking it out to twirl it on his finger just to nearly drop it. Embarrassing.

“Miya!” Someone calls. Well, not someone, because Atsumu would recognise that voice from anywhere, but still. 

Stopping in his tracks, Atsumu looks over his shoulder to throw Sakusa a questioning look. He’s flushed, his breathing quicker than usual—did he skip all the steps on the staircase, or what?

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu turns around, pulling the zipper of his coat up to his chin. “What’s up?”

Sakusa meets his gaze, tugging his mask under his chin. Atsumu notes the disheveled way his hair is falling in his face, reminiscent of the teenager version of himself, only there’s no ugly team jacket this time. Sakusa is wearing an overcoat and a turtleneck underneath—yep, no neon green or yellow here. Thank God. 

Sakusa whips out a piece of paper from his pocket, an envelope, crumpled at the corners. He gives Atsumu one of those intense looks, the ones Atsumu despises because they’re always so fucking unreadable.  

Atsumu raises a brow, exhaling into the cold winter air. And then he spots three letters, Omi, in what he recognises to be his own handwriting.

Oh. He knows this letter, all too well. 

His blood freezes in his veins, way below the actual temperature. If winter air is cold, Atsumu’s body is fucking glacial, icy-hot realisation melting in his chest. His heart stops.

What. The fuck.

He says as much. “What the fuck.”

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu doesn’t faint, but it’s a close thing. “What the fuck,” he says again. “Why do ya have that?”

Sakusa tilts his head to the side, expression neutral—but Atsumu spots the small twitch in his eyebrow, which is the equivalent of confusion written all over his face. “You gave it to me?”

“No the fuck I didn’t,” Atsumu immediately says.

Sakusa’s hand falls beside his torso, clutching the letter. “It was in my present. That you gave me.”

“What?” Atsumu’s bewilderment intensifies. “No. I didn’t.”

And then his brain screeches to a halt.

Hinata. Hinata must’ve thought it was part of the present when he fetched it for Atsumu, and he put it in the gift bag.

Atsumu pales. “Oh,” he chokes. “Oh. That’s—fuck. Did you read it?”

Sakusa is still expressionless. It’s driving Atsumu insane—the lack of reactions. He feeds off reactions, and it’s especially hard when all his thoughts are going haywire, no doubt showing on his face.

“Yeah,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu dies a little bit inside. “I did.”

Fuck.

“Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool. Very cool,” Atsumu breathes, his headache intensifying. “I’m gonna—I hafta go. Bye.”

He turns on his heels, fight or flight reflexes kicking in a little late with how hungover Atsumu still is. 

Sakusa doesn’t let him run away, because of course he doesn’t. Sakusa Kiyoomi sees through everything to the very end, and if anything, rejecting Atsumu is no exception.

“Atsumu,” he calls, and when Atsumu doesn’t stop, Sakusa grabs him by the wrist, because Atsumu’s life has been reduced to a romantic tragedy with cliché things like that.

Sakusa whips him around, and Atsumu is too tired to protest.

A pause. Then;

“Which December 8th?”

Atsumu grimaces, and looks away. What a cruel question.

Deep breath in, then out. His lungs are freezing, and the tip of his ears are going to start hurting soon due to the cold. Still, he feels cold in a completely different way. 

“All-Japan Youth Camp,” Atsumu says with the elegance of a man who has nothing to lose—except he has everything to lose. Sakusa, their dynamic, their teamwork, his career, his—everything. Still, he adds, “second year.”

Sakusa gapes. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Atsumu guesses he’s managed to catch even him off guard, the Sakusa Kiyoomi, enough to make him incapable of hiding his thought process behind a nonchalant mask.

Silence, again. Ironically, Atsumu thinks this is the loudest conversation they’ve ever had.

Belatedly, the fast pace of his heartbeat catches up to him. There’s blood drumming in his ears, and his breath catches in his throat, realising that—yeah. He really just confirmed his fucking confession letter to Sakusa Kiyoomi, bane of his existence and subject of his dreams. Atsumu did that, because he’s an idiot.

Sakusa lets go of his wrist. Atsumu shoves his hands back into the pockets of his coat. “Well? Say somethin’,” he pleads, and immediately hates himself for not controlling his intonation any better. He sounds too desperate for comfort.

Sakusa meets his gaze for a second, then looks down. His shoulders are tense, fists clenched at his sides, lips pursed—everything about him screams discomfort, and it urges Atsumu on to retreat once again.

“Y'don't have ta—”

“Me too,” Sakusa blurts. “Like you, I mean. More than I should. But I do.” He sounds like a robot. Like someone reading the news. Like he’s reciting a poem in front of the whole class.

And yet, Atsumu notices the pinch in his eyebrows. The flush on his cheeks that might as well be due to the cold but a man can always hope.

Oh. Sakusa, he—oh. Oh.

“Ya what now?” 

That puts the natural scowl right back on Sakusa’s face. “There’s no fucking way I’m ever saying that again.”

Atsumu’s heart skips a beat, and then starts beating like a madman. Atsumu shows none of that on his face, a mix of hope and mirth glinting in his eyes, his lips slowly curling into a grin. Sakusa glares at him.

“Sorry, couldja rewind a bit? Not sure I catched all that.”

“Maybe I’ll write it in a letter for you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Atsumu laughs, taking a step closer. The proximity makes their height difference even more prominent, lets Atsumu appreciate Sakusa’s jawline from close. “You like me?” He asks, voice weaker than he’d like to admit. Uncertainty is not his best look.

“Unfortunately. Might as well put cereal first, I don’t think it could get much worse than this.”

“That,” Atsumu points a finger at him, “is somethin’ we’ll hafta talk ‘bout later. I’ll ignore it f’r now, ‘cause I’m nice like that.”

Sakusa cups his cheek with one very cold hand, and Atsumu freezes, tongue suddenly lame in his mouth. “Sure you are,” Sakusa murmurs. Glances at Atsumu’s mouth before his gaze finds Atsumu’s again. “Brush your teeth?”

Scrunching his nose, Atsumu makes a disgusted face. “Just what exactly do ya take me for—”

Sakusa kisses him.

Well, not exactly. He presses his lips on Atsumu’s, and that’s it. Something too fickle, too fragile flutters in Atsumu’s chest.

He smiles, putting his palm over Sakusa’s hand, swallows his butterflies then takes the initiative with a nibble on Sakusa’s lower lip. That earns him the softest of gasps, a small noise from the back of Sakusa’s throat. Atsumu’s knees feel weak, because Oh. That’s what he sounds like.

It’s not the kiss he’d want to have for their first. Atsumu’s head is pounding, his mouth feels dry, all sensations dulled by his hangover. The wind sneaks under his clothes, making him shiver; there’s a car passing them by with music loud enough that the bass resonates in their bones. They’re in front of their fucking captain’s house, no romantic fairy lights, no shooting stars, no moonlight, no nothing, just the greyness of the day surrounding them.

But Atsumu is kissing Sakusa. He’s kissing Sakusa Kiyoomi, and it’s average at best, and Atsumu loves every second of it.

He pulls away, mind coming to a halt. “Seriously? Ya put the milk first?”

Sakusa’s eyelashes flutter open, and it takes exactly 0.12 seconds for his scowl to take place. “You have to warm it up. Who eats cereal with cold milk?”

Atsumu blinks. Opens his mouth, lets out a suffering, inhuman noise. “That’s—what? Are ya okay, Omi?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Sure am. Are you going to invite me over?”

“Do you want me to?” Atsumu grins, leaning closer to Sakusa’s face, no doubt pushing his luck.

“Nevermind.”

“No, wait,” Atsumu chuckles, “I would, but I’m pretty sure I’d just annoy ya. Can’t do much when I feel like dyin’, you feel?”

“Jokes on you, you always annoy me,” Sakusa fires, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I thought I’d just help you make lunch or something.”

Atsumu’s whole face lights up. He reaches out, puts his hands on Sakusa’s hips under his coat, his grin widening. “That sounds like a stellar idea, Omi-Omi,” he purrs. 

“If you’re going to be obnoxious about it, the only thing you’ll be eating is my foot.”

Atsumu wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m sure there’s somethin’ else ya could fit in my mouth much better.”

Sakusa makes a face. “Liking you is mortifying,” he states, but the sharp edge to his voice is lost somewhere midway. Atsumu eats up that small amount of softness.

“But ya do,” he grins. “Can’t believe you do. I’d never thought the great Omi-kun would settle for li’l ol’ me.”

“That makes two of us.”

Atsumu huffs, leaning his forehead against Sakusa’s shoulder. “Zip it, you dick.”

Sakusa hums. “It’s not that bad,” he says, much quieter, almost like he doesn’t want Atsumu to hear. “You have your moments.”

Atsumu pulls away to throw him an amused look. “Wow, smooth. That yer best flirtin’?”

To his utmost delight, Sakusa gives him a small but gorgeous smile. “That, or the sticking my foot in your mouth thing.”

“Mm. A true romantic.” Atsumu pokes him in the stomach, meeting hard abdominal muscles that make the gesture pointless. “So, wanna come over?”

“Yes,” Sakusa says, void of all emotions detectable by the human ear. “But I’m driving.” He holds out his hand as to emphasise his point, expectant. Atsumu can’t find it in him to protest, considering the world is already spinning a little as it is.

He takes a few steps backwards before throwing his car keys at Sakusa, who—of course, of fucking course—catches it flawlessly. “Sure thing,” he purrs, waits for Sakusa to step beside him and takes the opportunity to shove his hand into Sakusa’s pocket. The best part is that he gets away with it.

“You really like me?” He asks again, everything catching up to him, as Sakusa pulls him towards his car. 

“How many times are you going to ask me that?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Dunno. S'new, ‘nd I wouldn't mind hearin' it some more.”

Sakusa gives him a sigh, a side-glance, and then the unexpected, too, as the cherry on top;

“I like you.” And then because he can’t say nice things without balancing it out with assholery, “Even though you’re like a bleached racoon.”

“A bleached racoon?!” Atsumu splutters, eyes going huge. “Didya just fursona assign me?”

The mischief in Sakusa’s eyes is so irrationally attractive, that Atsumu can’t even give him shit for it. 

Sakusa is on par with Atsumu’s bullshit. It’s not a new thing, but a good one nonetheless.

They reach Atsumu’s car, and Sakusa opens the door to the driver’s seat, flashing Atsumu a smirk over the roof. Atsumu flips him off in retaliation.

“Get in, loser,” Sakusa says, and takes his place behind the wheel.

“Was that a Mean Girls reference?”

The car door slams shut.

<>

Friday night finds Atsumu laying on his couch, lazing around with his feet in Suna’s lap, who’s halfway on Osamu’s lap. Atsumu’s blanket has been confiscated by none other than Bokuto, who’s reigning over his personalised armchair in the shape of a fluffy burrito. Hinata is in the kitchen, most likely looting Atsumu’s fridge, which makes it only one person still not here.

The moment Atsumu hears his front door open, he bolts from his spot on the couch, dignity be damned. Osamu takes the opportunity to call him out on being lame again, and Atsumu couldn’t care less.

There’s a happy spring to his step as he makes his way to the hallway, an involuntary grin taking place on his features. Atsumu isn’t whipped, or anything of the sort—not at all, thank you very much—but the few hours Kiyoomi’s been away was more than enough for his boyfriend battery to die. He’s in desperate need of charging.

“Hey there, sexy,” Atsumu greets him with the most obnoxious voice he could muster.

Kiyoomi meets his eyes, gaze softening a millimetre towards fond, stretching into something familiar that is just so good at squeezing Atsumu’s heart. “Shut up,” he says, and shoves the cardboard takeout with two drinks into Atsumu’s hands; Atsumu realises a beat too late it’s his favourite bubble tea—taro with brown sugar pearls—and it makes no sense how the affection in his heart doubles at the sight. It’s not a romantic gesture, but then again, Kiyoomi is everything short of a romantic. It’s sweet, though.

Kiyoomi sheds his coat, unlooping his mask from his ears and folding it neatly before he puts it in the pocket. His shoes are already off, standing in a perfectly symmetrical line, and then Kiyoomi is suddenly right in front of Atsumu, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against his lips as a greeting, grabbing his own drink on the way—and just like that, he slips past Atsumu, shoulders brushing.

Atsumu’s brain doesn’t short circuit, because he’s used to it. They’re way past the honeymoon phase, and it’s kind of like exposure therapy, dating Sakusa Kiyoomi—Atsumu is not as cringe about being head over heels for him anymore.

Discarding the cardboard tray, Atsumu follows his boyfriend to the living room, mouth closing around the straw and taking a huge sip.

“Aw, you were out to get boba? Why didn’t you say so?” Bokuto whines as soon as Kiyoomi sets foot in the living room.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi says in a way that lets everyone know he’s definitely not. He takes the space left on the couch that’s obviously the only room left remaining for Atsumu to occupy, because Kiyoomi is an asshole—and to make matters worse, his legs stretch out to guarantee there really is not a centimetre of space for Atsumu to sit. Well, other than his lap, Atsumu figures, and takes it for the invitation it probably isn’t.

Kiyoomi makes a noise when he realises what’s happening on the television screen. “Are we seriously watching Criminal Minds right no—ow, Atsu. Heavy.”

Atsumu sits on his personalised throne and gets an elbow in his ribs for it. “Fuck off.”

“At least—let me move my legs,” Kiyoomi grits through his teeth and puts his drink on the coffee table, lifting Atsumu up just enough to make sure his eighty-kilogram boyfriend doesn’t break something of his. 

“Should’ve thought about that before sittin’ in my spot, jerk,” Atsumu grins around his straw. "I ain't movin'."

Kiyoomi pinches his side. “Homicide becomes more and more tempting every day,” he mutters, adjusting Atsumu on his lap. Atsumu takes his chances and leans against the familiar, sturdy chest when Kiyoomi is done shuffling around, and is delighted to note he’s not kicked off the couch right away. 

“You're a dick,” Atsumu chuckles, and presses a kiss against Kiyoomi’s cheekbone.

“Well maybe if you sucked this di—” Atsumu puts his hand over his boyfriend’s mouth to stop him from finishing that sentence, glowing at the glare he earns. Kiyoomi’s eyes are so pretty, even when he’s giving Atsumu murderous looks. If only he wasn’t such a jerk.

“‘m not opposed to that idea,” Atsumu purrs, then promptly gets a pillow in his face from Osamu. Fair enough.

Kiyoomi scoffs, taking hold of his boba again, his other arm settling somewhere on Atsumu’s waist; and Atsumu loves it, how he can plaster himself all over him like it’s normal, because it’s normal. Kiyoomi hasn’t grown soft on him, to Atsumu’s utmost displeasure, but these little things are still telling—it means, in Kiyoomi’s own language, that you’re annoying, but I like you enough to tolerate it.  

This is what he needed. His battery recharge. 

Atsumu grins, then kisses his boyfriend again.