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When Atsumu approaches the Team A locker room, it’s with a spring to his step and a tune humming beneath his tongue. He’s played countless matches at the Ota City General Gymnasium, but tomorrow’s game will eclipse them all tenfold in terms of excitement.
He’s going to get to play volleyball on a court comprised solely of monsters; he’s finally going to set to Nicolas Romero; he’s going to stand on the same side of the net as Aran and Suna again, and rack up points against international players with his perfected hybrid serve. He’s going to—
“Miya Atsumu,” drawls a voice Atsumu’s heard once or twice or twenty times whilst watching post-match interviews. He stops abruptly in the doorway and follows the voice to a face that plagues his social media feeds and the pages of Volleyball Monthly, a face that’s frustratingly better-looking in person without the lines of an Olympic net between them spoiling the view. “The benchwarmers get prettier by the season.”
Atsumu tucks his hands into his sweatpants pockets, straightens out his shoulders, and narrows his eyes. He’s done his homework for this moment, finessed information out of Kageyama and Hinata, and spent more than a few collective hours on the CA San Juan player profile webpage.
“Oikawa Tooru,” he says slowly. “Surprised they let a scrub that couldn’t make it to nationals in here. Didn’t think the barrel was so empty they’d hafta start scrapin’ it already. Onigashira musta been busy, huh?”
Kuroo already warned him that Oikawa would be on the same team, that he’d be setting the first game in order to settle old scores against Ushijima and Kageyama. Atsumu isn’t bothered. Ordinary match rules have been suspended in order to give everyone the chance to play and minimise fan outrage. They’re playing several games too – Kuroo even suggested a role-swapped set or two to end the night.
None of that means Atsumu is obligated to play nicely. Kuroo didn’t make them sign any waivers or contracts. There’s no small print that says they have to get along.
Setters are enemies by nature.
Atsumu intends to keep them enemies by nurture too.
Nobody else has found their way to the locker room yet – it’s just Oikawa, standing beside his open door with a hand on his hip and a bright smile on his face.
“I think an Olympic medal might actually make me a little overqualified for this gathering,” he says. “Where’s yours, Atsu-chan?”
“Gettin’ designed somewhere in Paris I’d imagine, Tooru-kun.”
“Oh! Another participation medal to add to the collection? Keeping your expectations low to offset your disappointment when you don’t make the medal matches is a good idea.”
“We’re takin’ gold,” Atsumu forces through his teeth.
The laugh that pulls from Oikawa’s chest makes Atsumu’s fists curl inside their pockets. Hinata said they had similar personalities, but Atsumu hasn’t wanted to knock the smile off someone’s face so badly since he was in high school, hasn’t wanted to fight someone like this since last week’s visit to Onigiri Miya.
Kita would be disappointed in him, Osamu would call him a childish scrub, but Atsumu can’t help the fact that Oikawa’s figured out how to push more of his buttons in less than thirty seconds than five years’ worth of MSBY rosters combined.
“Geez. Can you deflate your ego an inch or two so I can fit through the door?” Suna shoves at Atsumu’s back, but Atsumu sends all of his weight to his feet in a refusal to budge. He’ll be damned if he gives any ground. “C’mon, Tsumu. I don’t want to change in the hallway. Not sure about this building’s indecent exposure laws.”
“The laws are the same everywhere,” Sakusa grumbles from even farther back. “I’m more concerned about the potential murder charges I’ll incur if that moron doesn’t stop blocking the way.”
“This isn’t high school, Tsumu!” Aran calls from farther back still. “Quit showboatin’! You said you were gonna act normal today!”
Actually, Atsumu said that he wasn’t going to embarrass himself in front of Romero – he doesn’t give a fuck about Oikawa.
“I’m not showboatin’!” he calls back. “And I am actin’ normal! This is just a little pre-game trash talk, Aran-kun!”
“We’re on the same team!”
Atsumu waves him off. “We won’t be after tomorrow! Let me have this!”
There’s a metallic clang as Oikawa closes his locker door and leans against it. Condescension widens his smile and tips his head to the left. “You really should step aside, Atsu-chan. We starters can’t afford to get caught up in any scandals.”
“Starters?” Atsumu scoffs, tilting his head to the right. His blood pressure is being taken for the ride of its life. “You mean the supportin’ act? Headliners don’t bother makin’ entrances ‘til the crowd’s all warmed up.”
“Ah! Incredible!” Oikawa gasps. “Such impressively articulated delusion!”
“S’not delusion, pretty boy.” He pushes his hands down further into his pockets. “Most of your fans are in Argentina, remember? I can count the number of people who even give a shit that you’re here on one hand.”
“Jealousy is unbecoming. Your fan sites will be able to take better pictures of you if you’re sitting still.” Oikawa’s smile turns sly. “And they are such nice pictures.”
For a split second, Atsumu wonders if he should also be worried about incurring murder charges. Or at the very least aggravated assault. It’d be worth it to knock Oikawa down a peg or two. Atsumu’s slightly taller than him, with twenty-six years of brutal sibling wrestling experience under his belt. He could take him easily. Oikawa wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Uh, why are we all standing in the hallway?” Komori asks as he joins the back of the rapidly growing queue.
“Setter dick measuring contest,” Suna returns.
“Ah.”
“Is it going to last much longer?” Goshiki yells. “I want to change out!”
“Shut up!” Atsumu calls back. He removes a hand from his pocket and cups it around his ear, raising his voice above the dissent. “How many serves have ya mastered again, scrub? Just the one last I checked.”
“One is all I need to get the job done.”
“Sounds to me like one’s all yer actually capable of. S’fine, though. I’ll pick up your settin’ slack when they hafta bring me on durin’ your games to pinch serve. We both know whose service ace count has been higher the past three years.”
Maybe only by a slim margin each season, but that makes all the difference to Atsumu. Satisfyingly enough, it also makes Oikawa’s smile twitch. “Oh? You’ve memorised my stats?” he asks. “That sounds like fan behaviour. If you wanted me to sign something, all you had to do was ask, Cutie-chan.”
Atsumu memorised everybody’s stats before walking through the gymnasium doors. It always helps to know who is worth more of his time, which players will statistically earn him more points, and who to avoid picking fights with.
He knows all of his hitters’ attack proficiency percentages, his blockers’ success rates, and his liberos’ successful reception attempts. He knows their height reaches, highest contact points, and their average spike speeds; Atsumu didn’t come here to lose. Not to Team B, and definitely not to Oikawa Tooru.
“I’ll give ya somethin’ to sign, pretty boy,” Atsumu starts. “My fuckin’ fi—”
“What’s the hold up?”
Atsumu stops. Oikawa does too, and they both straighten as the blood drains from their faces remarkably fast. The new voice is one that Atsumu learned to fear during his time in the Olympic Village, a voice that singlehandedly ended his long-standing feud with Kageyama in under ten minutes.
“Is someone stuck?”
“No!” Atsumu yells.
And maybe it is a little humiliating, the speed at which he clears the doorway and bolts across the locker room floor. But not nearly as embarrassing as when he leaps over a bench and catches his foot on the edge, or the fact that Oikawa’s the one to steady him before he collides with the wall of lockers, hand firm against his chest, face a little too close for comfort.
There’s no time to dwell; Oikawa is equally as concerned by the new arrival. He slings an arm across Atsumu’s shoulders, manoeuvres him to face the door, and pulls him close as Iwaizumi pushes his way passed the backlog of players.
The locker room suddenly feels three sizes too small with the weight of Oikawa’s hand squeezing his bicep. His skin is warm, but the soft nylon sleeve of his jacket against Atsumu’s nape sends an icy shiver rippling down his spine; when Atsumu takes a breath, his senses are flooded with the scent of Oikawa’s recent shower and the lingering memory of an earthy cologne.
“I need you to be a good boy and behave for a moment, Atsu-chan,” he says, voice low and cloying. “Play along.”
Something falters in Atsumu’s brain, like a fuse has sparked and short-circuited, like too many tabs have suddenly opened and crashed the web browser containing his thoughts, like a volleyball has just hit the back of his head and flipped the light switch inside to OFF.
Fuck no, he thinks. Definitely fucking not.
He switches the light back on and loops his own arm beneath Oikawa’s, squeezing his shoulder with equal force. “And what if I don’t?” he returns just as quietly, voice dropping to the sultry drawl he uses for threats. “You started it, Tooru-kun.”
Atsumu feels Oikawa’s hum more than he hears it. A vibration against his skin that makes him blink and reflexively tighten his grip.
“I can’t help it,” Oikawa tells him. “You’re far too entertaining. Just as easy to rile as you seem on the television.”
“Watchin’ my games? That sounds like fan behaviour.”
They both snap to attention as Iwaizumi clears the hallway and barges through the door. He stops in the doorway and looks between them, muscled arms crossed over his chest.
“It hasn’t even been five minutes,” Iwaizumi says, an edge of warning to his voice. “What are you two doing?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Oikawa sing-songs, waving Iwaizumi off with a flippant hand. He pulls Atsumu closer, flush against his side. “I’m just getting to know my new teammates like you told me to. It’s going great. Atsu-chan’s a lot of fun.”
Atsumu moves his hand to Oikawa’s hair and ruffles it out of place. It’s softer than it looks, he realises with a pinch of annoyance. He thought it would be hard with product and overcompensation, but the rest of Oikawa’s genes are just as perfect, why would his hair be any different?
Atsumu feels nauseous.
“Think I mighta made a new friend,” he says, curling his fingers in a subtle tug. If it hurts, Oikawa doesn’t offer a reaction. Atsumu resists the urge to pull harder.
“Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second,” Iwaizumi scoffs. “From either of you.”
He strides over, crossing the room just as swiftly as Atsumu had, but without almost breaking his neck at the bench hurdle. The moment he’s close enough he turns them both around so that all three of them are huddled and facing the lockers.
As Atsumu stares at the metal door in front of him, the rest of the team file in from the hallway, muted chatter and laughter filling the silence as they start to unpack and change out. He swears he can hear Suna and Aran discussing his funeral arrangements.
“So what’s really going on?” Iwaizumi inserts himself between them, grip vice-like around their arms. “Two of the world’s most competent setters aren’t arguing like stupid little children, are they?”
Atsumu stiffens with an uneasy laugh. He passes a glance over at Oikawa, but he’s busy looking at the wall, the door, the floor – anywhere that isn’t Atsumu’s direction.
Iwaizumi’s grip tightens. “Because we’re all grown-ups here, right?”
“Of course,” Oikawa says, voice light despite their precarious situation. He’s got courage in the arms of life-threatening adversity, Atsumu will give him that much. “But the last time I checked, my mother was a nice, sweet, beautiful young lady, not the terrifying offspring of a kaiju with the grip force of a gor—Ack! Don’t pinch, Iwa-chan! I’m going to be on TV tomorrow!”
Iwaizumi ignores him in favour of jostling Atsumu. “What about you, Miya? Is this going to be a problem?”
When Atsumu glances over at Oikawa this time, their eyes meet. There’s a freckle in the warm brown of Oikawa’s, an enticing softness to his lips, and a natural brightness to the set of his face that widens into a smile just as disingenuously childish as earlier.
Atsumu sends one back, the one he knows presses a charming dimple into his cheek and makes cameras flash and fans squeal. “Good setters are allies by nature,” he says. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem at all.”
“Great,” Iwaizumi says. He sends two heavy thumps into their backs and lets them go. “Then you won’t have a problem as warmup partners. Change out and get your asses on the court.”
Ota City’s court never fails to get Atsumu’s blood pumping. Even when the stands are empty, he feels a thrum of excitement reverberating through the soles of his feet and the echo of cheers thumping in his chest. It’s theirs for the whole day too, Kuroo insists, so that they can get acquainted and work up some synergy before the match.
Team B had their chance yesterday – Atsumu’s already spent hours laughing at the Serial-Killer-Smile Duo’s attempts at selfies with Bokuto, and Inunaki sent him a hilarious picture of Yoffe towering over Yaku.
It should be a great time. Atsumu should be thinking of strategies, and Romero, and winning, but he’s not, because for the second time that morning he finds himself standing opposite Oikawa with his teeth clenched and a thousand insults burning beneath his tongue.
Oikawa’s wearing his CA San Juan practice jersey, pale blue against tanned skin, fabric snug around the chest where it stretches over the compression shirt beneath. He probably orders them a size too small on purpose.
“You know how this works by now!” Iwaizumi calls across the court. “We’ll start with some pepper drills to warm up legs and shoulders before moving on to some personalised programs! Don’t go easy on each other!”
Neither of them move right away, but there’s a sudden uptake in noise as the rest of the gymnasium fills with the whacking of volleyballs against skin and the squeak of sneakers against hardwood.
Looking around, Iwaizumi’s paired everyone up with someone they’re not overly familiar with. Suna and Hakuba are talking as they toss the ball back and forth, Goshiki is struggling to get more than two words out of Sakusa, Komori and Heiwajima are already laughing as they make each other dive for low balls, and Oikawa is—
Oh, Atsumu thinks. Oikawa is looking down, eyes fixated somewhere around Atsumu’s mid-thigh, near the cut of his shorts.
And shit, Atsumu amends as his mouth starts to run a little dry, the intensity of Oikawa’s undivided attention stirs something in his gut. He’d felt it like a static shock earlier in the locker room, and he feels it again here now beneath the gymnasium lights and Oikawa’s sharp, interested gaze – a magnetic pull at his core in that smug bastard’s direction.
For an experimental moment, Atsumu lets him look. He shifts his weight onto one leg and watches Oikawa’s eyes as they unashamedly follow the movement of the riding fabric, then he shakes himself out of it, lets out a sharp whistle through his teeth and says, “Eyes are up here, old man.”
Oikawa doesn’t appear fazed at having been caught staring. He drags his attention up to Atsumu’s face, a picture of innocence. “Old man?” he asks with a tilt of his head. “Do they not teach you brats manners in Hyogo?”
“‘Course they do. I only dust ‘em off for people I respect though.”
Oikawa clicks his tongue. “You’re despicable, Atsu-chan.”
“And you’re a—”
A ball finds Atsumu between his shoulder blades, one that hits with the force of an ace, so hard he yelps and stumbles forwards a few steps. “Don’t make me come over there!” Iwaizumi warns. “The next time you piss me off I’ll have you both running penalty laps, I don’t care who you are.”
With Romero somewhere to Atsumu’s left, and Iwaizumi’s iron fists looming on the outskirts to his right, Atsumu has no choice but to bite his tongue and begrudgingly start up an amicable rhythm of set, spike, dig.
It’s an ordinary enough rally to begin with – neither of them pushes particularly hard - but Atsumu does take note of Oikawa’s form: exemplary, despite his recent long-haul flight and the early hour.
Though it’s just a warmup drill, the ball leaves Oikawa’s fingers soundlessly and feels as though it hovers above Atsumu’s head for an easy, satisfying spike. It’s the kind of set Atsumu would send on the court to Aran or Bokuto, not for a warmup that nobody’s watching.
But he’d sooner die than lose.
Atsumu takes a few steps back and jumps to meet the spike, slaps his palm hard against the leather and flicks his wrist to add an unnecessary topspin. It hurtles through the air to meet the planes of Oikawa’s forearms, and the resulting wince that pulls at his mouth makes Atsumu grin.
“Is that the best you have to offer?” Oikawa asks as the bump flies high despite its difficulty. “Miyagi’s prepubescent high schoolers felt like more of a challenge.”
Atsumu shifts to position himself for a set, throwing a glance over at Iwaizumi to check he’s still busy talking to Kuroo before he says, “Careful Tooru. Your high school memories are pretty bitter, right? Don’t want’cha to start cryin’ all over the court. Someone might slip and fall on your failure as a captain.”
Oikawa’s spike feels like a bullet against Atsumu’s arms. “That’s a little too mean for an opener, Second-Choice-chan. You’re supposed to start small and work your way up to the bigger digs.”
“Ah really?” Atsumu coos. He hits the next spike like a float serve and watches Oikawa’s eyes roll before following its shaky trajectory. “But that’s the smallest I’ve got. My next line was gonna be about that dump ya fucked durin’ the VNL finals. Y’know… the real shitty one that everyone saw comin’ a mile away.”
Atsumu’s knack for hitting where it hurts never fails, because Oikawa’s next laugh is tight, and his smile turns nasty. “I bet your cute brother isn’t as rude as you are. Perhaps the wrong twin went pro? People used to say he was the better player. It’s a shame he abandoned you.”
A decade ago, that would have caused a magnitude 10 earthquake to shake Atsumu’s chest. Now it makes him grin. “Nice try, pretty boy, but there is no wrong Miya twin.”
“Are you sure? I’m looking at one right now and there isn’t much right with him.”
“Surprised you can tell when the only part you’re tryin’ to scope is my ass.”
Oikawa’s face pinches. “You don’t leave me with much of a choice. I can’t exactly admire your personality, can I? It’s awful.”
“Got a face, don’t I?”
“Yes, and a mouth, unfortunately.”
The next time the ball finds Atsumu’s hands, he intentionally sets it short in a feint. Oikawa has no room to spike – he has to dart forwards to stop the ball from hitting the floor, and it shirks off his wrists rather than his arms to send the bump a little wild.
It should end the rally, but Atsumu’s worked with far worse and under far tenser conditions. He gets low, feeling the burn in his legs as he positions himself beneath the ball and sets overhanded again, long, this time.
“That’s annoying,” he hears Oikawa mutter as he runs to chase it.
“Gotta make sure you get your steps in, Tooru. They say fitness improves senior health.”
“How uncharacteristically thoughtful of you.”
They continue with the scathing spikes and spiteful sets; Atsumu’s arms ache, but he refuses to slow down, and neither does Oikawa. If anything, they climb to greater, pettier heights with each ball that leaves their fingers, with each stupid, hissed insult that leaves their mouths.
“You look good all hot and bothered,” Oikawa muses as he pushes it high and to the left, chest heaving with exertion. “Especially on your knees. I’d pay good money to keep seeing you that way. Maybe you’re in the wrong profession.”
Atsumu ignores both the taunt and the bruising ache in his kneecap after he used it to dispel the force of Oikawa’s latest attack. He runs to chase the set.
“Thought we were bruisin’ each other’s egos,” he says as his palm connects with the ball, voice tightening around the strength he sends to his hand. “Not strokin’ ‘em.”
Oikawa’s brow twitches as the result whacks against his skin, and his arms twist to aim it out of Atsumu’s reach. “Ooh, so lewd, Atsu-chan. You’re going to get me all hot and bothered too if you keep talking that way.”
Atsumu tries not to let his imagination run wild, tries not to picture an Oikawa whose composure has crumbled, whose perfect poise has shattered, but it doesn’t work. His mind conjures flushed skin, mussed hair, hot breaths, and open mouths. That earthy cologne, the low voice against his ear, and the warmth of slender fingers sliding beneath the hemline of his shorts.
It’s eight in the morning and Atsumu’s already wondering if he can go back to bed for a long lie down. He’s also wondering he’d still be capable of playing volleyball after removing his own brain. It’s not producing helpful enough thoughts to warrant the space it takes up between his ears. If anything, it’s actively making his life more difficult.
Extremely, life-threateningly difficult, because the next time Atsumu sets, he’s still fending off the onslaught of Errant Oikawa Thoughts. The next time Atsumu sets, the ball leaves his fingers a little too hard and a little too fast. The next time Atsumu sets, he sends the ball hurtling beyond Oikawa’s reach, and in Iwaizumi’s direction.
They both stop to watch it – a blur of blue and yellow beneath the blindingly bright gymnasium lights.
“I can’t say it was nice knowing you, Atsu-chan.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says quietly as he sends ten thousand simultaneous prayers to whichever gods are listening. “Me neither.”
At the very least, one has a quarter of his back; the ball doesn’t hit Iwaizumi directly, but it does knock the clipboard out of his hands and send it clattering to the floor in a flurry of dislodged paper.
When he spins around, Atsumu schools his expression and tries not to look like the guilty kid who’s just kicked a football through his neighbour’s window. He can’t be doing a very good job though, because Iwaizumi’s gaze locks onto his instantly and Kuroo pinches the bridge of his nose with a wince.
“I’m gonna be on TV tomorrow!” Atsumu yells, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Not if you keep this bullshit up!” Iwaizumi snaps. “Get your asses over here and set up for spiking drills before I kick them both!”
Things don’t get much better for Atsumu’s brain. After three hours of intense spiking, blocking, and digging drills, and an additional hour of serve practice that definitely ended in Atsumu’s point favour, he’s calculated that only 75% of his brain now wants Oikawa to cry. The other 25% isn’t worth considering. Not if he intends on retaining his sanity by the end of the day.
Atsumu swallows a mouthful of isotonic drink, but he barely tastes the sweetened orange flavouring – he’s far too preoccupied with glaring at Oikawa across the court.
The bastard’s got a hand on Aran’s back, talking animatedly to him about…whatever the fuck it is they’re talking about. Atsumu can’t read lips. Maybe he should learn how. Maybe he should also figure out how to telekinetically fight people with his mind.
“There’s something wrong with you,” Suna interrupts from somewhere to Atsumu’s left. “Like, fundamentally.”
Atsumu doesn’t turn to face him. He already knows what Suna’s dumb face looks like, and he’s all too familiar with the judgemental smile he’s undoubtedly wearing. Suna’s always been too perceptive for his own good.
“No there’s not,” he cuts back as Oikawa catches his eye and sends over a wink and a finger heart.
Another recalculation: 99% of Atsumu wants to suplex him through the hardwood. 1% wants to push a hand beneath his shirt and press a knee between his legs while he’s got him pinned down. A very loud 1%.
To silence it, he holds Oikawa’s gaze as he takes another swig of his drink and rearranges his hold on the bottle so that his middle finger is most prominent.
“Scratch that,” Suna says. “There’s something wrong with the both of you, and the prolonged exposure is worsening it by the minute.”
“I’d say it was a setter thing,” Komori adds, “but I know plenty of ordinary setters. Really makes me miss Iizuna.”
“I’m an ordinary setter,” Atsumu says. “An extraordinary one, actually. Best fuckin’ one around. Can Oikawa’s sets make you look like you’re actually awake, Sunarin?”
“I am awake,” Suna insists around an unconvincing yawn. “So yeah.”
Komori flicks Atsumu’s offensively articulated hand. “You’re not making a great case for yourself. If you two don’t pull the breaks on this pissing contest soon, Iwaizumi-san is gonna have a conniption and we’ll all suffer for it.”
Or suplex them both through several of the Earth’s layers. Atsumu thinks he knows which is more likely.
“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” Atsumu says with a shrug. Not anything that can be proved in a court of law or considered detrimental to the rest of the team, anyway. After the Pepper Drill Incident, they’ve both been extremely careful not to give Iwaizumi cause to blow his whistle or grab their shoulders.
Dishing out a little extra praise during spiking drills as players hit his sets isn’t a crime (he needed to be louder than Oikawa). There’s no law against insisting on minus tempo quicks with Hinata (he needed to remind Oikawa who knows the players best). And there’s no decree that says Atsumu can’t insist on overhand sets no matter the quality of free balls Kuroo sends his way (he needed to prove that his technique surpasses 98% of setters worldwide).
Iwaizumi can scowl all he likes, but their need to trump each other has pushed them both into peak condition, on top form. Atsumu hasn’t embarrassed himself in front of Romero either – he’s offered Atsumu dozens of compliments that he’ll take with him to his deathbed.
“Just be sure to let me know the when and where if you’re planning on fist fighting it out for real,” Suna says. “I wouldn’t miss recording that for the world.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a fight. I’d destroy that twig in less than twenty seconds. Could do it with my eyes closed and one arm tied behind my back too.”
What else has Osamu been training him for all these years?
“Maybe,” Komori says. “But only because your sense of shame is practically non-existent. Oikawa looks as though he’s still got a little dignity left.”
Atsumu opens his mouth to say that shame has absolutely nothing to do with his mental fortitude or the strength of his muscles, but the sharp trill of Iwaizumi’s whistle interrupts them.
“Now that we’re all warmed up, we’re going to have ourselves a little 2v2 tournament,” he announces with a borderline terrifying grin. He’s drawn up a bracket table on one of the strategy whiteboards and wheeled it over to sit near the scoreboard. Atsumu narrows his eyes at it to read his partner from afar, but— “You’ll be playing in the same pairs as pepper drills. The winning team will join Hoshiumi and Bokuto in having their tabs paid at tomorrow’s post-game dinner!”
There’s a chorus of chatter as excitement for a competition drums up and teammates find each other again, but Atsumu can’t get his brain to clear the hurdle of ‘same pairs as pepper drills.’
Iwaizumi must be joking. It’s like he wants Atsumu to turn the gymnasium into a WWE ring and take down his childhood friend with a Tombstone Piledriver.
He glances across the court again to find Oikawa pulling the skin beneath his eye and poking out his tongue.
“Or maybe he has even less dignity than you,” Komori says. “Never thought I’d see the day. Didn’t think it was possible.”
Suna pats Atsumu’s shoulder. “Good luck trying to fit your enormous egos on the same side of the net. Can’t wait until you place last. I needed some new footage of you crying. Osamu gave me a lot of free onigiri for the pictures of you after the Division 1 finals last year.”
Atsumu ignores that, because he’s chosen to eliminate last year’s Division 1 finals and the night of drinking afterwards from his mind entirely. He shirks Suna off. “I’m not gonna place last.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ya don’t believe me.”
“But I don’t. There’s a reason nobody ever wants to team up with setters and it’s because you’re all raging narcissists. Two of you together is a recipe for disaster.”
Atsumu makes a face. “Sure,” he says, voice a mocking imitation of Suna’s. “Whatever. I’m gonna win this whole fuckin’ thing by myself and laugh over my free fuckin’ cocktails.”
He’s also going to win tomorrow’s match for them so that he has double the reason to celebrate. The only pictures Suna will take of him will feature his smug smile.
“Incredible display of teamwork already,” Komori scoffs. “You’re really striving to prove us wrong.”
“A shining example of synchronisation and harmony,” Suna adds with a nod in Oikawa’s direction.
He’s arguing with Iwaizumi – or rather, he’s arguing at Iwaizumi – face pinched, arms crossed, mouth running a mile a minute. He’s probably listing a thousand and one reasons why they shouldn’t be paired together again, but Iwaizumi looks as though he isn’t listening at all. In fact, once Oikawa’s finished with his current spiel, he puts a hand at Oikawa’s back and starts to push him in Atsumu’s direction.
“We should leave,” Suna says to Komori. “Whatever they have might be contagious.”
Komori nods sagely and follows after him. “I think I’d have to transfer teams if you started unironically calling people scrubs.”
Atsumu makes another face. “What the hell does—”
“Miya,” Iwaizumi interrupts. He’s got Oikawa in tow, a threatening hand at the back of his neck and an equally as threatening smile on his face that makes Atsumu feel the need to stand to attention. “You two are on second against Sakusa and Goshiki. I have high expectations.” He looks between them. “And even higher standards.”
“Yes, Iwa-chan, we all know I’m a very good player and that this will be child’s play. I’m capable of drawing potential from whoever I play with.” Oikawa’s eye finds Atsumu’s, a mischievous glint catching the gymnasium lights. “Even the talentless ones.”
Iwaizumi sends a hollow thump into Oikawa’s back. “Great. Then you won’t have an issue with me setting a special penalty should you lose.”
“‘Course we won’t,” Atsumu says. “‘Cause that’s not gonna happen.”
The grin on Iwaizumi’s face widens. “You’d better hope not. I hear it takes a long time to clean this gymnasium.”
While the first game plays out – Suna and Hakuba vs Hinata and Hirugami – Atsumu follows Oikawa up to the backmost row of the stands to watch. It’s the only place, Oikawa insists, that neither Iwaizumi’s ultrasonic hearing nor his sixth sense for bullshit will detect them bickering.
“This is the fourth worst day of my life and it’s all your fault,” Atsumu says, purposefully knocking Oikawa’s arm as he takes his seat. He’s right, at least. Iwaizumi doesn’t turn his head a hundred and eighty degrees to glare at them after Atsumu speaks.
Oikawa nudges him back. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Atsu-chan. This is far worse for me.”
“I fuckin’ doubt it.”
“Oh? Did you fly over ten thousand miles to play doubles with a foul-mouthed baby too? You should have said something sooner. I’d have been far more sympathetic.”
“No,” Atsumu says. “But I did endure a five-hour long bus journey only to wind up gettin’ shackled to a prehistoric pretty boy. You sure you know the rules of doubles? Might have changed since the Jurassic period.”
“Wh—There’s only a year between us! Stop calling me old!”
“Fifteen minutes is a year in twin time. A year is a decade, old man.”
Atsumu keeps his gaze on the game unfolding on the court, but he still hears the petulance to Oikawa’s huff, feels the shift of his body as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his seat. Atsumu doesn’t allow himself to glance over yet – it might offset the balance of his brain percentages again. Maybe it would have been wise to keep an empty seat between them, but he can’t seem to pick his body up and move it away from Oikawa’s now that it’s here.
“What’s our game plan?” Oikawa asks after a silent minute or two. “Do we even have one? Or is strategizing beyond your tiny, villainous realm of expertise?”
Both teams are working surprisingly well together, Atsumu observes. Hirugami’s height allows for even higher sets, and Hinata jumps to meet them wherever they are. But Suna and Hakuba make it difficult for them to get many over the net successfully. It’s a tight game. One that may or may not have Atsumu wondering what sorts of heights two setters of their calibre might reach.
“The plan is: Don’t suck.” After watching Oikawa practice all morning Atsumu’s not sure the word even exists in his vocabulary. Still, he tags on a bored, “I know that might be hard for you though” for good measure.
Oikawa hums. “Sounds like a great plan.”
“Yeah, I know, I thought real ha—”
“That was a joke.”
Atsumu finally tears his attention from the game and moves it over to Oikawa. He’s pouting as he stares at the court, lips pursed, brows pulled together, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep. If there was a table tallying successful shots and jabs, it would be drawn in Atsumu’s favour, that’s for certain. And he has plenty more annoying tricks up his sleeve to extend his lead.
He shuffles closer and leans forwards, resting his elbows on his knees to peer up at Oikawa. He lowers his voice around a smile. “Omi-kun has the highest successful receive rate of both of our serves. He’s also got that gross spin on his spikes that’s hard to dig if he gets one over.” Oikawa’s brow quirks in interest, so Atsumu holds up a finger and continues, “If we aim first serve at Bowl Cut, Omi’ll hafta set.”
Oikawa levels him with a once over. A slow, contemplative drag of his eyes that makes Atsumu swallow around a sudden dryness in his mouth. “What’s he like as a setter?”
Atsumu snorts. “Dogshit. Sets safe ‘cause he wants to minimise risk of failure on both ends.” He holds up a second finger. “Easy sets mean easy attacks. Bowl Cut is a show-off and loves hittin’—”
“Line shots. I know.”
“Oh yeah. Forgot he trounced ya back in high school.” Atsumu claps his hands to an old rhythm from his memories of nationals, then chants, “Shiii-ra-to-ri-za-wa!”
Oikawa smiles, but Atsumu can see the tense line of his jaw as his teeth clench. “Was it really so difficult to tell me all of that the first time I asked?”
“I did tell ya the first time,” Atsumu returns with a grin. “I said ‘Don’t suck.’ Same thing.”
After a beat, Oikawa leans forwards too, elbows on his knees, face only a handful of inches away from Atsumu’s own. Regardless of how many nasty things they’ve said to each other throughout the day, he still feels something heating his blood and drawing his attention to the inviting curve of Oikawa’s mouth.
Despite the itch in his fists, he watches the same mouth open, listens to the quiet drawl of Oikawa’s voice as he asks, “Any further instructions, captain?” and almost chokes on how tightly the question takes hold of his gut and wrings it out.
It seizes him so suddenly he stiffens and debates pulling away, but that would give Oikawa a reason to think he’s won. It would also probably expose how red Atsumu’s ears have turned in the last ten seconds; he can feel them burning beneath the gymnasium lights, no matter how desperately he wills them to cool.
Or maybe it’s too late, he thinks as Oikawa’s smile turns sly. Maybe something on his face has already given up the game.
“Do you want to tell me how you like your sets, Atsu-chan?” Oikawa’s eyes travel, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks as his gaze drops downward. “Hard, fast, slow, or soft? You can choose two if you like. I’m flexible.”
Atsumu stares at him, reflexively tensing the parts of his body that Oikawa considers – neck, hands, chest, legs. None are qualities of a set that Atsumu would deem notable, not like ‘high’, ‘low’, or ‘how close to the net’ might have been. But if he knows anything, it’s how to play along.
“You’re supposed to be the World Star,” he says. “Figure it out yourself.”
“Ah, that was just a courtesy question.” Oikawa’s eyes meet Atsumu’s again, a deep brown made darker by their proximity. There’s something in them that wrings Atsumu’s gut even tighter, something that makes Atsumu feel as though Oikawa’s holding his attention like he’s palming a volleyball before first serve.
“Yeah?”
Oikawa hums. “I’ve figured you out already. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
Atsumu’s heard that once or twice or twenty times before. He’s not sure how to fix it. If it’s even possible. He’s pretty sure that if Suna was to take a picture of his brain now, he wouldn’t need a caption. His face would scream: Miya Atsumu, Team A’s most pathetic player. Thinks his mortal enemy is kinda really hot. May or may not have been thinking about him since the Olympics, and definitely hasn’t been watching all of his games since.
His head tilts with a question of his own. “We still talkin’ about volleyball?”
There’s a pause, one in which Oikawa’s brows lift imperceptibly. If Atsumu wasn’t sitting so close, painfully aware of each and every one of Oikawa’s movements, he might not have noticed.
“Of course,” he says, voice an audible smirk that Atsumu doesn’t believe at all. “What else would we be talking about?”
Atsumu can think of four explanations off the top of his head, all of which are inappropriate for a public venue. He looks down at his hands, massages his palm with a thumb and keeps his tone light as he says, “Dunno. Kinda sounds like you’ve got some ulterior motives.”
“Ulterior motives? Ooh. Don’t be shy now, Atsu-chan. Share your ideas with the class.”
“Sure,” he says. “C’mere.” Atsumu sits up and slings an arm over Oikawa’s shoulders. He pulls him so close their cheeks almost touch, and Oikawa moves willingly, angling his head so Atsumu can speak into his ear.
It’s something he’s done a million times before with the Jackals, huddled together on the court during intense games to strategize; he’s no stranger to touching his teammates. Only now he’s not thinking about the next point, he’s thinking about how easy it would be to press his mouth to Oikawa’s neck, to bite the delicate skin beneath his jaw and hear him hiss. It would probably be just as easy to push Oikawa back into the stand seat and kiss him. That constitutes ‘getting along,’ right?
“I’m listening,” Oikawa prompts, his own hand moving to settle at Atsumu’s lower back, fingers sliding over the fabric of his practice jersey.
The train carrying all of his thoughts leaves the station without him on it. Atsumu’s words catch uselessly in his throat, but luckily for him, he doesn’t have to humiliate himself by fumbling his way through a lie, because he’s drowned out by Iwaizumi’s whistle and the call of, “Second teams start warming up!”
It startles them apart and Atsumu sits upright, snapping his hands to his sides as though he’s only just realised that he’s been touching an open flame.
To his right, Oikawa sighs through his nose. “Guess Iwa-chan’s sixth sense is stronger than I thought,” he mutters. He gets to his feet and ruffles Atsumu’s hair beyond salvation, dodging the hand Atsumu attempts to swat him away with. Then his grip suddenly tightens and he leans down and say, “Looks like we’re going to have to find somewhere a little more private if we want to fight without getting interrupted.”
When Atsumu’s fists clench this time, he’s no longer certain of the exact reason why; his brain percentages are totally fucked. Oikawa’s words piss him off to no end, but the hand in his hair has Atsumu feeling another thing entirely. Something that’s going to make it extremely difficult to stand up in front of a room full of people if he doesn’t start thinking about sad dogs or someone’s grandparents soon.
“Fight,” Atsumu echoes through his teeth. “Sure.”
Oikawa pulls his head back and smiles down at him. “Try your best to drag your mind out of the gutter before we get on the court. I don’t think you’ll survive hitting Godzilla a second time, and not even I can win a game against two monsters by myself.”
“Only if you promise to keep your goddamn eyes on the ball.”
“I’ll do my best, Brat-chan. Maybe you can help me out by wearing your shorts a little lower?”
Reluctantly, Atsumu follows him back down the steps, nudging his way passed with a hard elbow as they make their way to the court side-lines. While the last points play out, he puts some distance between himself and Oikawa. Instead of engaging in another petty argument that’ll undoubtedly set fire to his collar, he busies himself spiking against the gymnasium wall, because if anything will help to clear his mind it’ll be volleyball.
The first game falls in Hirugami and Hinata’s favour. It’s a close match, decided by a deuce that Hinata’s tenacity puts a swift end to. Atsumu heckles Suna as he walks off the court, but his laughter dies not a minute later when he loses Rock, Paper, Scissors to Oikawa for the honour of first serve.
“Time to take the service ace lead,” Oikawa sing-songs. He bounces the ball obnoxiously loud as he approaches the serve line, so Atsumu turns to face the net and makes a point of tugging his shorts an obnoxious inch higher.
“Remember, pretty boy,” he calls over his shoulder, “aim for Bowl Cut first.”
“Wh—What’s that supposed to mean?”
Atsumu finds Goshiki’s terrified eye and smiles. “Exactly what it sounds like, kid. I’d take a few steps back if I were you.”
“More than a few,” Oikawa adds. “Your best chance will be right on the court line.”
“My best cha—” Goshiki turns to Sakusa. “Sakusa-san, they’re taunting us! He’s your teammate, aren’t you going to say anything?”
“No,” Sakusa says. “Just dig the ball.”
“Just dig the—Are you serious? That’s Oikawa Tooru!”
“Ooh! That felt good! Say it again Ushiwaka-chan Jr.!”
The moment the starting whistle blows, Atsumu makes a second point of covering the back of his head. The ball leaves Oikawa’s palm with a sickening slap, and hits the ground at Goshiki’s feet with an even nastier crack against the hardwood.
Atsumu got a glimpse of Oikawa’s serve during practice, but he was paying more attention to his own performance and the unspoken competition between them back then. Now he gets to appreciate it up close, gets to feel the rush of air as it shoots over his head, and watch through the net as Goshiki blanches and moves a whole second too late.
It’s hard for Atsumu to disguise his smile; he does like winning, and he enjoys basking in volleyball competence even more.
Oikawa scores three service ace points before Goshiki manages to get a ball high enough for Sakusa to set. It’s just as Atsumu predicted – high, safe, far from the net, and easy to hit. Atsumu can see Goshiki’s spike coming a mile away, can see exactly which direction he’s angling his body and knows where the ball will end up before he’s even hit it.
Still, Goshiki puts enough force into it that Atsumu can’t kill it entirely. He calls “One touch!” as it bounces off his fingertips, and it sails over to the back of the court where Oikawa’s already waiting with the receive.
He doesn’t need Oikawa to tell him how he likes his sets. The stats Atsumu’s memorised tell him exactly where Oikawa should be hitting, and he’s seen enough of CA San Juan’s matches to know what Oikawa’s capable of. Regardless of his preferences, Atsumu’s going to force him to maximise his potential and win.
He sends the ball high and close to the net – with only Sakusa up front to block, Oikawa should be able to slam it quickly before Goshiki can run in for block cover.
And that’s exactly what happens; Atsumu’s set makes Oikawa look as though he’s been an ace hitter his whole life. The ball hits the court floor faster than Goshiki can react to it, and the side-lines erupt with their usual mixture of cheers and jeers as they rack up another point.
“Gross,” Oikawa says with a visible shudder. He wipes his own hand against his chest as though the ball he spiked was coated with dirt. “That was creepy, Atsu-chan.”
Atsumu turns to him and grins. “Right? That’s what a good set feels like. You should try copying it when ya get back to Argentina, maybe then you’ll win the—”
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi warns after a shriek of his whistle. “Serve. Now.”
The rest of the game isn’t that easy. The moment they miss a block and end Oikawa’s serve it becomes a game of trying to successfully receive Sakusa’s, and neither of them are defence specialists.
When Atsumu does finally get a ball in the air he tastes the same bitterness of a faultless set. It’s as though Oikawa’s been setting to him for years, as though they’ve played a hundred games together rather than a quarter of one. The ball settles into Atsumu’s palm effortlessly, like it’s a conceited announcement of Look how well I know you already, and Atsumu wonders just how many MSBY games Oikawa’s studied to figure him out so thoroughly. Maybe they aren’t as different as Atsumu had thought.
It's impossible to hold back his smile this time; he scores with a block out that sends the ball flying off somewhere into the stands, and he hears Sakusa’s tongue click with annoyance as he watches the score flip over in Atsumu’s favour. He’s probably going to request a transfer out of MSBY by the time Atsumu’s through gloating.
“Not bad for a senior citizen,” Atsumu says, turning and holding out a hand for a low five.
Oikawa narrows his eyes at him first, then his palm finds Atsumu’s, warm with exertion and the sting of gameplay. “Passable for second string.”
They’re definitely going to win that free meal.
“This fucking sucks!” Atsumu picks up another ball and throws it towards the ball cart. There are dozens of them scattered around after the Everyone Vs Iwaizumi game they played to finish up the evening. The rest of the team should have leant a hand, but they all disappeared to change out the moment they finished their cool down stretches. Even Kuroo left after handing Atsumu the keys to the equipment room with a smirk.
“You,” Oikawa corrects. “You fucking suck.”
Atsumu aims the next ball at Oikawa’s stupid head, but Oikawa catches it and drops it into the cart beside him unfazed. He’s been remarkably unaffected since their loss. Almost as though he wasn’t treating the fun, good-natured game like the life-or-death competition that it was. “You’re the one that messed up the receive. How the fuck was I supposed to set somethin’ that shit?”
“‘Don’t worry, pretty boy! I can get the ball from anywhere on the court!’” It’s a terrible impression of Atsumu. Worse than Inunaki’s. “Turns out you’re just a filthy liar.”
“That wasn’t a lie,” he snaps. “I said on the court, remember? Not two cities over.”
And despite the fact that Atsumu had dived for a dissatisfying underhand set, he’d still gotten the ball high enough to constitute a decent attack. It was Oikawa who failed to gain a point with the follow up. Atsumu will die on that hill a million times over.
“What was that?” Oikawa cups a hand around his ear, an infuriating smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t hear you over the sound of that setter dump you messed up! Karma really does favour the beautiful.”
Atsumu’s face pinches at the memory. He should have known better than to try something like that against Aran. Atsumu’s an open book to Inarizaki alumni, on and off the court. “Like hell it does,” he mutters. “We still lost.”
“Ooh, you’re really taking this hard, aren’t you, Sore-Loser-chan? You can’t win them all, you know.”
He wouldn’t be so mad if Iwaizumi hadn’t actually been serious about the whole cleaning penalty thing; Suna now has over a hundred pictures of him scowling with a court mop while Oikawa holds up peace signs nearby. Atsumu’s name in Osamu’s phone has already been changed to Ota City Gym Janitor.
Atsumu scoffs. “Betcha gave that losers speech plenty of times in high school, huh? Practice makes perfect or whatever.”
He waits for the click of Oikawa’s tongue, but dredging up the past no longer seems to send a twitch through his brow. If anything, it makes him smile wider. “So mean! And so ungrateful for someone who’s just won something so priceless. People would line up for the opportunity for some—”
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare say ‘extra time with you.’”
“Bingo! Extra time with me! Aren’t you a lucky boy?”
“Like the whole day wasn’t enough,” he huffs. “I’m sick of lookin’ at your dumb face.”
They won two matches together, got to the finals against Aran and Romero and played through an excruciatingly long deuce. After they lost, Iwaizumi had them playing together on the same role swapped team too, had them working as blocking partners, and pushed them next to each other during cool down stretches.
Atsumu’s seen more of Oikawa in one day than he has his own mother in a month.
But maybe he is a liar, because even now, after everything, he’s still caught up in thinking about how Oikawa’s hand had felt at his back, how his voice had sounded when he’d leaned in close and whispered ‘I need you to be a good boy and behave for a moment.’
As his hands tighten around the volleyball between his fingers and his palms push against the leather, the last thing on Atsumu’s mind is fighting. With each loaded glance Oikawa sends his way he feels his resolve wearing thinner; with each flash of a possible near future, he feels the rope extended between them shortening.
The squeak of wheels against the court floor makes Atsumu flinch. Oikawa drives the ball cart over to meet him, stops it an inch or so away from Atsumu’s hip. “Are you?” he asks. He walks around the side of the cart and crowds so close Atsumu almost feels inclined to take a step back. Almost. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Atsumu swallows. “I am.”
“That’s too bad.”
Oikawa reaches out and takes the volleyball from his hands. There’s a slight thump as it joins the pile inside the cart, but Atsumu’s not paying attention. His focus has snagged elsewhere.
“I guess that means I’ll just have to go to the adequately sized, perfectly private, and conveniently empty equipment room all by myself. And here I was thinking I’d have someone big, strong, and average at volleyball to accompany me on my perilous journey.”
“Guess so,” Atsumu says, and his voice doesn’t quite feel like his own – it’s distant, distracted. “But ya won’t get in without the keys.”
“Ah! Of course. Silly me. Let me just…”
There’s little Atsumu can do but watch raptly as Oikawa hooks a finger into the pocket of his shorts. He tugs at the fabric, widening the gap enough to slide his hand inside and feel around. “Geez. Do you deliberately buy these a size too small? It’s impossible to— Ah! Never mind.”
Atsumu tries not to betray a reaction, tries to remain unaffected as best as he can, but it’s impossible to stop his breath from hitching when Oikawa’s fingers curl around the keys and his knuckles press into the clothed skin of his thigh.
There’s a metallic rustle as Oikawa holds them up between their faces. His voice is deliberately low and smug when he says, “Found them.”
And there’s no mistaking what Atsumu discovers in his eyes when they meet. Oikawa’s blown-out pupils are sharp with intent, with a prompt and a challenge, and Atsumu’s tired of skirting around it, of averting his own interest. They both know exactly what they want, where this is leading.
Prolonging the inevitable is a waste of time, and there’s no sixth sense, no set of iron fists, or the sharp trill of a whistle to stop them.
Atsumu snatches the keys and shoulders his way passed Oikawa towards the doors. It takes a second for Oikawa to understand, but once he does, the sound of squeaking cart wheels betrays just how quickly he’s moving to catch up.
On his way out, Atsumu picks up a rack of cones and slings a bag of training gear over his shoulder. He’s familiar with the building’s topography having played here so many times, but his preoccupied mind almost takes him straight passed it. He has to back track a few steps and his fingers fumble the keys like they belong to a man far drunker than he is.
It's a relatively small room compared to the rest of the gymnasium, packed full of equipment not just for volleyball. There are nets, hoops, carts and towering metal shelves holding duffel bags of basketballs, volleyballs, and handballs.
Atsumu looks passed it all for the light switch, but it doesn’t illuminate much when it flickers to life. It’s dingy, impractical, and rife with awkward edges, but Atsumu’s beyond caring. If he happens to give Oikawa a concussion in the next twenty minutes, then at least he won’t be sitting on the bench anymore.
He throws the cones and bags somewhere they definitely don’t belong. He watches Oikawa close the door and wheel the ball cart aside. He waits for Oikawa to meet his eye, for the tilt of his head that says they’re on the same page, and the moment it comes, he grabs the front of Oikawa’s ridiculously tight shirt and uses the handful of fabric to push him against the nearest free wall.
“Oh,” Oikawa says on an exhale as the force knocks breath from his lungs. There’s a surprised lift to both his brows and his voice that Atsumu takes pleasure in having wrought from him. “Right to it then?”
“What? You wanna stop and have a fuckin’ picnic first?”
“With you?” Oikawa scoffs. “I’d rather go on a date with Ushiwa—” He stops himself and winces. “God, no. I can’t even say that.”
“Then do us both a favour and shut the fuck up.”
“Maybe you should try shutting the fuck up first. You haven’t all day long. You’re as infuriating as you are attractive.”
The compliment shoots through him like a bolt of electricity, even if it is backhanded. Praise is praise, no matter whose loud, petty mouth it comes from.
“Like attracts like, idiot.” Atsumu tightens his hold of Oikawa’s shirt and leans in, pushing him tighter against the wall. They smile in tandem, eager breaths mixing in the inch between them. “I’ve thought about nothin’ but punchin’ you since I walked into the locker room this mornin’.”
Oikawa’s smile fades to an exaggerated pout. “That’s another lie, Atsu-chan. I know for a fact you’ve been thinking of other things.”
“Yeah? Like what? Spikin’ a ball at your head?”
Oikawa’s tongue darts out to wet dry lips, and Atsumu’s eyes follow the movement instinctively, catching on the wet shine it leaves behind. “Like whatever you’re imagining right now.”
Like kissing you? Atsumu’s mind supplies instantly. Like pulling your hair? Sucking your dick?
Saying any of those things out loud will draw a tally in Oikawa’s favour, but before Atsumu can open his mouth to lie, Oikawa pushes back against Atsumu’s restraints to lean in suddenly and shorten the distance between their faces.
So close, Atsumu can feel Oikawa’s breath dancing distractingly on his lips, can smell the day of exertion on his skin, and hear the low vibration of his voice when he says, “Something like this?”
When no answer fills the silence, Oikawa’s hand moves to push beneath the hem of Atsumu’s shirt. Deft fingers smooth over the planes of his abdomen, and Atsumu’s muscles pull taut as Oikawa traces them teasingly with the pad of his thumb.
It’s surprising that Oikawa doesn’t hiss or recoil with how hot Atsumu’s blood is running beneath his touch, with how many volts must be coursing through his veins. Instead, he manoeuvres his hand around to the small of Atsumu’s back, still hidden beneath his shirt. There’s a slight pressure, then his fingers dip below the waistband of his shorts and he uses the new leverage to pull them flush against each other. “What about this?”
Atsumu’s mouth falls open around the unexpected friction to take in a sharp breath, but he still doesn’t respond. At least not with words – he can’t give Oikawa the satisfaction of being right.
Slowly, he unfurls his fist from Oikawa’s jersey and slides it up to his neck. The drumming of a pulse flutters against Atsumu’s palm for the moments he holds it there, featherlight and erratic, then he continues on to curl his fingers in soft brown hair.
“Don’t be shy, Atsumu,” Oikawa hums. “Tell your captain.”
“You’re not my captain, asshole.”
“I will be tomorrow. Tonight, too, if you ask nicely.”
And that’s all the permission Atsumu needs, what makes the spring snap and his patience fizzle out.
Oikawa deserves neither Atsumu’s kindness nor consideration; the kiss is bruising when he pulls their mouths together, aching and impatient with a whole day’s worth of pent-up frustration to steer it.
Neither one of them is surprised by the intensity; a second hand immediately joins Oikawa’s first inside Atsumu’s shorts, dropping lower to grip his ass tightly through his underwear. Their mouths open simultaneously around gasps as their hips clash, and Atsumu takes advantage of it by tugging Oikawa’s hair to gain the right angle and push his tongue into his mouth.
For a pair that have spent over eight hours bickering through drills and games and endless competitions, they work together just fine now. Nothing unites like the common cause of getting off in a borderline hazardous storage room, Atsumu supposes. His brain can no longer do math – its only current functions are to swallow the sounds escaping Oikawa’s throat, and to push up the layers of his jersey and compression shirt.
“It’s a shame this isn’t a viable option for shutting you up on the court,” Oikawa says against Atsumu’s lips, breathless and burning. “I think the whole team would benefit from your silence.”
“That’s funny.” Atsumu’s thumb trails lightly over Oikawa’s nipple beneath his shirt and his head falls back against the wall with a shaky sigh. Atsumu moves in, places his mouth against Oikawa’s exposed neck and continues, “I was just thinkin’ the same damn thing about you.”
Oikawa laughs and Atsumu feels it beneath his tongue as he kisses his way back up to warm lips.
Teeth find him this time – Oikawa bites Atsumu’s bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough for Atsumu to find pleasant, for him to release a low moan and tighten his grip on Oikawa’s side. The sound makes Oikawa’s breath catch, and from there everything turns a little more frantic.
Oikawa pushes back and takes charge, licking into Atsumu’s mouth, sucking his tongue, and finally moving his hands from his ass to lift Atsumu’s shirt over his head.
“It’s probably a bad idea to do this here.” Oikawa says it with non-existent conviction, simultaneously throwing Atsumu’s shirt to a dusty corner of the room and dropping his gaze to Atsumu’s bare chest. It’s a thinly-veiled offer to back out, Atsumu realises, the option to cut this short just in case Atsumu’s feeling something as stupid as regret or having second thoughts.
But it’s a wasted effort. Atsumu’s always been the type to act first and think much, much later. Maybe he will regret it when Argentina and Japan meet during the VNL next year and the heat of Oikawa’s gaze makes him shiver, or maybe he won’t. Maybe this’ll be the best decision Atsumu’s lust-hazed brain has ever made.
“Don’t care,” he says now, moving his leg up between Oikawa’s and pressing against his growing erection; his sigh tastes like pliancy and lances through Atsumu’s gut with a searing heat. Definitely the right choice. “Iwaizumi would need an eighth sense to know this was happenin’.”
He probably thinks they’re still arguing on the court, trading insults instead of spit.
“Don’t underestimate him. It’s that sort of reckless, impulsive decision making that lost us that doubles ma—mmph!”
Atsumu takes his chin and kisses him quiet. “I don’t fuckin’ care,” he says again, smiling against Oikawa’s lips as he reaches down to palm him through his shorts. The gymnasium could catch fire and he’d give evacuation a second thought over stopping what he’s started here. He probably wouldn’t hear the alarms over the addicting sound of Oikawa’s soft moans anyway. “Doesn’t feel as though you do either, Tooru.”
“Oops,” Oikawa murmurs. His hand darts to the short crop of hair at the back of Atsumu’s head and tightens so sharply it’s painful. “You caught me.”
Their mouths meet again to pant through sloppy, open kisses, and Oikawa pushes with intent this time, hands flat against Atsumu’s chest, guiding him into taking steps backward until he collides with the pointed corners of a shelf. Any complaints Atsumu has about the rough treatment die before they pass his lips - Oikawa lowers his mouth to Atsumu’s neck, then lower to his chest, then lower still as he drops to his knees.
“Yes?” he looks up to ask, head tilted in a question, hand climbing Atsumu’s outer thigh and disappearing beneath the hemline of his shorts.
Atsumu doesn’t know how anyone could look at Oikawa – brown eyes, soft hair, pretty face Oikawa – on his knees and say no. “Fuck.” Atsumu’s hands grip the metal shelf behind him for support. “Yeah. Shit.”
“Good,” Oikawa says lightly. His fingers tug at Atsumu’s waistband and the corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile. “Because I’ve been thinking about this all d—”
Two loud bangs against the door startle them apart. Atsumu swears as he hits his head against a duffel bag of basket balls, and Oikawa stumbles to his feet with a yelp just as Iwaizumi kicks the door open.
“Told you he had an—”
“Eighth fuckin’ sense,” Atsumu finishes, letting out the most frustrated and disappointed sigh he’s capable of mustering.
“Here you are,” Iwaizumi snaps. He’s got his arms full with the volleyball net bag that’s almost as tall as he is. He must have taken it down himself when he went back to the court and found it almost exactly the same as he’d left it twenty minutes ago. “I was wondering where the hell you two had gone, the gym still looks like shi—Wha—Miya, where’s your shirt?”
Atsumu blinks. “My what?”
“Your shirt.”
Atsumu looks down at himself, half naked, skin wet in patches where Oikawa’s tongue had stopped to taste him. His hair is probably a mess and his lips are definitely as red as his cheeks and ears. “I, uh… lost it.”
“You lost it,” Iwaizumi repeats.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and hopes the cut and colour of his shorts are doing a good enough job of concealing his semi. “It’s, uh, warm, and this room is really dark, so…”
Iwaizumi narrows his eyes. “So?”
“So I’m helping him look for it,” Oikawa supplies. “Oh, wow! What do you know? Here it is!” He picks up Atsumu’s discarded shirt and balls it up to throw it at him. It hits Atsumu’s chest with a burst of murky dust and Atsumu just about manages to coordinate his limbs in time to catch it. “You’re so clumsy and stupid, Atsu-chan.”
Iwaizumi puts the net bag down and looks between what must be Atsumu standing there dumbly, stripped and kiss-bitten, and Oikawa who’s whistling innocuously and refusing to turn around for one Painfully Obvious reason between his legs.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and says, “Dear God. You two are impossible.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Iwa-chan. We’re cleaning up like you told us to.”
“Yeah, and because I wasn’t born yesterday, I still don’t believe you. Either of you.” His sigh is long-suffering, but maybe a little relieved too. “Just—Jesus. Just go change out and take this”—he gestures vaguely between them—“as far from me and this gymnasium as you possibly can.”
Neither of them needs to be told twice. They stumble over themselves to get to the door. Atsumu wrestles with his dust-stained shirt and Oikawa readjusts his shorts a dozen times.
“I want you both in working condition tomorrow!” Iwaizumi calls after them. “And no marks! You’re going to be on television! Don’t embarrass yourselves!”
“Sure, mom!” Oikawa calls back. “Do you want us home by ten, too?”
“If I had it my way, I wouldn’t see either of you idiots ever again. Do you know how peaceful it is working with Ushijima and Kageyama? I have never once considered filing for a restraining order against them. I wish I could say the same about you two.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Iwa-chan! You disgusting traitor!”
If Iwaizumi offers a rebuttal, they’re too far away to hear it. Atsumu’s also a little too hyperaware of Oikawa walking at his right, hair mussed, shirt crumpled, knee pads coated with dust. And maybe Oikawa has some kind of sense too, because he turns and smiles like he already knows Atsumu’s been staring.
“My place or yours?”
“Yours,” Atsumu says immediately. “I’m roomin’ with Omi. If I bring you back there he’ll kill me in my sleep.”
“Ooh, then maybe we should so I get to play more games tomorrow. Which hotel are you staying at?”
“Yours”, Atsumu says again, throwing an elbow into Oikawa’s side.
Oikawa elbows him back harder. “Boo.”
For the second time that day Atsumu approaches the Team A locker room with a spring to his step, only now, it’s driven by a different sort of excitement entirely.