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Atsumu inhales deeply, the familiar weight of the ball in his hands as he stares ahead. A heartbeat passes, then another, and he throws the ball up, body instinctively moving forward to chase after it. He leaps into the air, throwing himself up and focusing.
Up . There .
The sound of the ball hitting his palm cracks through the empty gym. It spins through the air and flies past the white line etched on the gym floor on the other side. Atsumu stands listlessly, watching as the ball bounces, then rolls to a halt against the gym wall beside the other growing pile of red, green and white. His hand stings, but not in the familiar, satisfying way it usually does after practice.
His hands feel sore and tender in a way that they hadn't been since high school. When he'd sneak into the gym at weekends alone and slam balls down one after the other till his hands were red and tender, his wrists and knees aching and almost swollen.
He'd practice for hours, slamming balls down again and again until his palms were too painful to hit another ball. He'd then sit for a while, cooling pads pressed on his hands or cans of drink he'd buy from the vending machine resting against the joints. He'd roll out his wrists, prod at his palms until he wouldn't wince anymore, and then serve again. And again. And again.
It was worth it – the anti-inflammatory cream he'd slather on his wrists hidden away in the bathroom stalls after practice, the sneers from his upperclassmen when his serve surpassed theirs even as a first year, the way he'd swear at Osamu to mind his own business whenever he'd pry if Atsumu came home later than usual after his secret practices. The dramatic silence he'd earned to be allowed to cut off their orchestra when he served, that while he'd preen and grin smugly at the other team when he'd slam down an ace, he'd be cheering internally at another perfect line.
But since joining the professional leagues, surrounded by players who could keep up with him, who could hit his sets so perfectly, like every one of them was a work of art, Atsumu had been content.
He wasn't the only monster on his team – Bokkun would beg for the ball one last time, and Atsumu was always more than willing to set for him each time he asked. Shoyo threw himself into every ball, the hunger in his eyes clear and lurking near the surface. Kiyoomi would skulk around the edges of the court even after practice ended, his eyes sharp and calculating as Atsumu would push himself a bit longer, eventually sliding onto the other side of the court to receive Astumu's serves, expression bland but focused, and Atsumu would grin at him, something warm sitting low in his stomach under Kiyoomi's attention.
And the creature that had clawed at Atsumu's bones in high school, that had whispered cruel things into his ear – if he wasn't the favoured twin on the court or off, then he was just a worse version of someone else. That if he couldn't land a serve, then the cruel mutters from his upperclassmen about his awful attitude mattered. That if he'd been good enough to beat Karasuno, then Kita and Aran would have got their national title, that Osamu would have wanted to keep playing volleyball with him – had been satisfied by the presence of other monsters, by the desperate clawing of points from Tobio-kun and Ushijima-san's hands. Shoyo and Bokuto's warm hands on his back, Meian and Barnes fond grins, nods of approval from Coach. The thrill of winning against the Adlers and the tiny smile at the edge of Kiyoomi's mouth that verged, impossibly, on fond.
But then.
Hands found their way under not one, but two, of his serves against Raijin. That last point, Komori's body underneath it, Suna's calculating gaze as he read Atsumu like a book, shutting down Shoyo and taking the final point for the final set.
The morning after, Coach had run through the game, pointing out areas to improve next time. Atsumu had sat, hands clenched into fists in his pockets, waiting for the blow. But Coach said nothing about his serves. Nobody had said anything.
Nothing. No disappointed looks from Coach or Meian. Nothing about how he'd missed, about how his serve went over, had gone up and back over, and then had lifted from Atsumu's hands into Sunarin's waiting block and down back on the Jackals' side of the court.
The game had been almost three weeks ago. Thinking about it still left a bitter taste in Atsumu's mouth, chest aching. The rest of the team seemed to have bounced back. Meian and the rest of the veterans had seemed unbothered, and while Bokkun and Shoyo had been dejected for a couple of days, they had bounced back with a vengeance, shouting about rivals and rematches.
But for Atsumu, it was like an arrow had been lodged into his chest, and nobody had done what needed to be done. To say, oh, atsumu, this is what happens when you don't work hard enough, and rip it out, painful but necessary. Instead, Atsumu had left it to fester, that feeling that Atsumu had only ever managed to beat back down with the repetitive motion of step, jump, serve.
Atsumu's hands felt numb, and that old feeling he'd been battling against settled back into Astumu's chest, leaving it hollow and aching.
He clenched his fists, digging his nails into the painful flesh of his palms. It was almost grounding, the sting of overexertion. It was tangible, real. It made more sense to Atsumu than the more than hollowness, the painful squeeze of his heart whenever the ball left his hands wrong.
Atsumu exhaled hard and spun on his heel back towards the basket full of volleyballs. The blond baulked when he caught sight of Kiyoomi beside the basket. The spiker stood with his arms crossed, his jacket zipped up to his chin, the usual mask covering his expression.
"Omi-omi," Atsumu forced something more cheerful into his voice. "I'm surprised to see ya here so late. Forget somethin'?"
Kiyoomi didn't say anything, his gaze tracking as Atsumu approached him. Atsumu tried his best to act casual despite the odd tension he felt under the setter's blank stare. "Seriously, Omi-omi. I thought you'd be all tucked up in bed by now."
Kiyoomi's eyebrow twitched at that, and Atsumu internally cheered. He stopped right beside Kiyoomi, arching a brow at the spiker as he reached into the basket, fingers running over the stitching on the ball before he lifted it up.
"Practice ended almost an hour ago, Miya." Kiyoomi's voice was slightly muffled under the mask, but the disapproval dripping from his tone was unmistakable.
"Which is why I'm surprised yer not getting yer beauty sleep, Omi-omi." Atsumu rolled his eyes, balancing the ball in one hand and smirking up at the spiker. He ignored the sick lurch of his stomach at Kiyoomi's word. An hour? An exaggeration, surely.
His eyes darted to the clock at the back of the room, which read 9:58 pm. Shit.
"Miya." Kiyoomi's tone was no longer disapproving but something else that Atsumu had trouble placing. "Coach will bench you if you overwork yourself. You should clean up."
Atsumu looked at the ball and hesitated. His hands stung. His knees complained. But his chest still felt empty. His fingers dug in, the leather warm against the pads of his fingers. He traced the lines of the stitching with his gaze, feeling his heart thud loudly in his chest.
Kiyoomi's finger suddenly brushed gently against Atsumu's wrist. The unexpected contact had Atsumu freezing, gaze snapping to the pale hand that hovered above Atsumu's hand, long fingers curled away from where he'd barely touched the inside of Atsumu's wrist. They twitched, and before Atsumu could think, could imagine what Kiyoomi's hand would feel like pressed against Atsumu's pulse, touching him, Kiyoomi had a hand on the ball and was pushing it out of the setter's hand, falling back into the basket with a quiet thud.
"Clean up. I'll wait for you."
Atsumu made a noise of confusion, gaze snapping up to Kiyoomi, but he'd already turned away and was striding towards the exit, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His curls were still damp, the back of his neck slightly flushed, and Atsumu watched him till he opened the door and disappeared towards the front exit.
It took another moment for Atsumu to gather himself, straightening his back and groaning loudly. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, counting back from ten in his head before dropping them, staring forlornly at the balls scattered across the other side of the gym.
"Fuck."
🏐🏐🏐
By the time Atsumu had cleaned up the gym, returned to the changing room and thrown on sweatpants, his old Inarizaki hoodie and jacket, the bright digits on his phone told him he'd taken well over half an hour to get sorted. He grimaced, running a hand through his hair, which was still damp from the shower. He'd debated whether or not to shower, considering Omi's offer to wait, but he figured that the spiker would be pissed off if he showed up drenched in sweat.
Although Atsumu mused, it was entirely possible that Omi cut his losses and headed back to his apartment. He rounded the corner to the front entrance, and Kiyoomi was still there, waiting. He leaned against the wall, head bowed, looking down at his phone. Surprisingly, he'd tucked the mask underneath his chin, giving Atsumu the rare chance to see Kiyoomi's expression unguarded.
He seemed calm and, to Atsumu's surprise, not annoyed in the slightest. The dimmer light cast shadows across his face, making his jawline look even sharper. His brows were furrowed slightly in concentration, but the rest of his face was mild as he typed quickly, oblivious to Atsumu watching him.
He was gorgeous – not that it was news to Atsumu. He'd been harbouring what he'd described to Osamu as a purely physical crush on Kiyoomi since the curly-haired spiker had signed on to the Jackals. It had been a few years since Atsumu had seen the spiker properly. Thanks to the more intensive training as a professional athlete, the other had grown even taller and more muscle packed onto his lithe frame. With long limbs and dark features, Sakusa Kiyoomi was exactly Atsumu's type.
Unfortunately, that physical crush and admiration for Sakusa Kiyoomi quickly devolved into real affection. It had hit Atsumu full force when Kiyoomi slammed down another service ace in their game against the Adlers, smirking directly at Atsumu when he'd realised, oh, i really want to kiss him.
Luckily, compartmentalisation had always been a strong suit for him.
He watched Kiyoomi for another second before yawning loudly, bringing the curly-haired man's attention to him. Kiyoomi glanced up at him as he approached. His dark gaze flickered over Atsumu, unreadable, before he shoved his phone into his pocket, straightening up.
"Let's go."
"I'm surprised ya hung around, Omi." Atsumu watched from the corner of his eye as the other pulled his mask back up as they stepped out. The other man didn't bother saying anything, instead picking up his pace. Atsumu followed obediently, humming under his breath.
"Don't ya usually take the subway, Omi-omi?" He asked, and Kiyoomi stopped in his tracks, staring at Atsumu with an unmistakable look of disgust. Atsumu couldn't help the grin that stretched across his face, which Kiyoomi seemed to ignore.
"No, Miya," Kiyoomi says, exasperation seeping into his tone, "I walk."
Atsumu stopped in his tracks. "Omi-kun, tell me that's a joke."
"Why would I joke about that?" The spiker didn't bother to wait, and Atsumu watched his figure for a few seconds before chasing after him.
"You walk back from practice? Every day?"
"I live nearby, Miya. It's barely fifteen minutes, unlike the rest of you at your building." Kiyoomi's face was hidden, but Atsumu knew that Kiyoomi's brow would be furrowed, his usual glare probably softened into a pout without anyone to direct it at.
"I'm still kinda disappointed ya didn't decide to live with us, y'know Omi-Omi."
Kiyoomi's exhale was closer to a hiss. "I've seen how you and the rest of the team live. I have no desire to live with people who have no inclination to actually tidy up after themselves. Or take care of themselves."
Fuck. Atsumu laughed, but it felt oddly loud and sharp to his own ears. "That's unfair, Omi-Omi. Bokkun has been much better at cleaning up the kitchen after ya tore into him last time."
Silence greeted him, and Atsumu risked a glance at the man beside him and was met with a dark gaze trained on him. Kiyoomi's gaze was assessing, and somehow, Atsumu felt even more vulnerable under it than he had under Kiyoomi's fingers at the gym. He froze, and the two of them stopped walking.
"You're incredibly transparent, Miya." Kiyoomi's voice was low and flat. His face was illuminated by the fluorescent streetlights, casting long shadows over his face, still hidden under his mask. His eyes met Atsumu’s, before flickering down to Atsumu’s hands almost imperceptibly.
Something felt like it was clawing in the depths of Atsumu's chest at those words, and his hands seemed to burn. He curled them into fists and resisted the urge to shove them in his pocket out of sight.
"I'm not sure I'm catchin' ya drift Omi-Omi. Y'know, it's unbearable when ya act like ya know better than everyone else." Atsumu's words are clipped, edged with a kind of cruelty that feels oddly familiar on his tongue.
For a second, he's back in the Inarizaki gym, Osamu yelling at him to stop, a hand wrapped tightly around Atsumu's wrist, and Kita's unwavering gaze burning into his skin, the three of them watching his fingers drip red.
As soon as the moment passes and Atsumu registers what he's said, he wishes he could rip the words back. He stands there, unspeaking, feeling the rage that had boiled over for a second fade back into a low burn that seemed to spread everywhere, sinking bone deep. It lingered in his chest, his knees, his fucking wrists down to the tips of his fingers.
Kiyoomi stands there unmoving, the air between them silent and tense. Atsumu opens his mouth and then closes it again, his breath hissing out between his teeth. They watch each other before Kiyoomi sighs loudly and takes a step forward.
Atsumu watches as the spiker takes a few more steps before Kiyoomi speaks.
"Are you coming or not, Miya?" Kiyoomi's voice isn't angry, only quietly exasperated, and the tension drains from Atsumu's body. He says nothing but starts walking again, quietly falling into step beside the spiker as Kiyoomi leads the way.
The silence lingers until they reach Kiyoomi's building. Atsumu sucks at his teeth, deciding what to say to try and downplay the events of tonight, staring at the facade of the building before Kiyoomi stops him in his tracks.
"Come upstairs." Atsumu startles briefly, dragging his eyes away from the concrete to see Kiyoomi watching him. His face is bare, a finger curled around the mask to tug it below his lips. While Kiyoomi's voice was steady, there was a slight furrow between Kiyoomi's brow, his eyes averted from Atsumu's.
Atsumu chuckles, the sound catching in his throat. "Seriously, Omi-omi?"
"You'll get sick walking home like this, and I'm not risking catching anything off you at this point in the season."
The taller man doesn't wait, turning and beginning to walk up the steps of the building. Atsumu sucks at his teeth, tossing up his options.
"Miya. Now." Kiyoomi's voice cuts through Atsumu's thoughts for the second time that night.
"Jeez, Omi-Omi. 'M coming, no need to worry about me turnin' down yer hospitality." Atsumu hesitates only momentarily before clicking his tongue and following Kiyoomi up the stairs.
🏐🏐🏐
Sitting cross-legged in Kiyoomi's living room, half tucked under the kotatsu, Atsumu glances around, drinking in the space around him. He still couldn't completely wrap his head around the fact he was sitting in Sakusa Kiyoomi's apartment. Since he'd joined the team, he hadn't allowed anyone on the team over, despite the combined efforts of Bokkun's pouting and Shoyo's attempts at bribery with a housewarming gift.
Atsumu shuffled further under the kotatsu. He'd been surprised when Kiyoomi arrived that he'd seemed unconcerned about the fact he was visiting for the first time. He'd simply pulled out a pair of guest slippers that looked brand new. Atsumu had slid them on without complaint. Kiyoomi had led him through the apartment to the longue, pointedly glared at Atsumu, and warned him to stay in the lounge once he'd sat. The spiker had then turned and disappeared somewhere else into the apartment, the faint sound of the shower starting further into the apartment after a few minutes.
Kiyoomi's apartment was different to what Atsumu had expected. It was still impeccably clean, everything tucked away in straight lines and nothing out of place, which was unsurprising. But instead of minimal or bare, it was full of small sentimental touches that Atsumu hadn't fully expected.
There was a photo of his Itachiyama teammates, one of Kiyoomi, surrounded by two equally attractive men and a woman Atsumu guessed to be his siblings that the spiker had mentioned in passing. There was one of the Jackals, too; after their victory over the Adlers last season, everyone pressed together and smiled wide.
The small succulent Shoyo had given him sat on Kiyoomi's shelf beside the television, much bigger than what Shoyo had brought into practice. Beside the plant was a photo framed and half tucked out of sight.
Atusmu had leaned in slightly to inspect it. A photo of Kiyoomi and Motoya was framed and tucked into the nearest bookcase, of them in their respective pro jerseys. Motoya's grin was wide, and a peace sign was thrown up as he leaned into Kiyoomi, shoulders pressed together. Kiyoomi was maskless, a small smile on his lips that had Atsumu averting his gaze, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.
He pulled out his phone to distract himself and immediately regretted it. He had several texts from Osamu, and he sighed as he swiped to reply.
samu: oi asshole
samu: quit ignoring me
samu: and sunarin cause now he's bitchin to me
samu: come round tonight and i'll let u have the leftovers
samu: i can see ya leaving me on read tsumu
samu: seriously what's crawled up ur ass lately
Atsumu sucked at his teeth, decisively tapping and swiping away the messages. He couldn't see Osamu like this. His stupid twin sense would pin him down as soon as Atsumu opened his mouth and would do something stupid like threaten to tell Coach he was overworking himself. Or scarier, Meian.
Which, Atumsu told himself, wasn't even right. Sure, he was staying a bit later. But something like serving was easy enough to practice alone and let him get into the rhythm of things without interruption. It was easier, too, without the heavy gazes of the rest of the team, in case he fucked it up again. He needed to sort his shit out before the next game anyway.
Atsumu sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders back and wincing slightly. His limbs felt heavy, and his hands pulsed with a dull ache even tucked under the warm kotatsu. Atsumu frowned down at his hands, gently flexing them, nearly missing as Kiyoomi stepped back into the room.
He looked incredibly soft. His curls were still damp, hanging down and hiding his eyes more than usual. He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt that swallowed even Kiyoomi's larger frame, the collar stretched slightly to dip below the collarbones. Atsumu's eyes latched onto a mole that sat just below Kiyoomi's collarbone before forcing his eyes back up.
"Ya look a bit drowned there, Omi-omi." Atsumu teased, grinning as Kiyoomi rolled his eyes at him.
"I could still kick you out."
"After ya dragged me in here? Such a cruel host Omi-omi, 'specially after ya already expressed such concern for my well-being." The joke escapes Atsumu's lips before he can think better of it, falling slightly flat between them.
"Come here, idiot." The response is unexpected, and Atsumu blinks in surprise, gaze finally falling to Kiyoomi's hands. They're full of medical supplies and a first aid kit. The spiker settles beside Atsumu, leaving a gap between them as he drops everything on the table.
Atsumu chuckles, but the sound catches in his throat.
But it seems Kiyoomi's through with putting up with Atsumu's evasion because he leans over and wraps a hand around Atsumu's forearm and pulls the blond forward onto his knees till Atsumu's face is practically hovering over Kiyoomi's own. The spiker doesn't look up, instead lifting Atusmu's hand closer to his face.
Atsumu's never been this close to Kiyoomi's bare face before. His lashes are unfairly long and dark, and his skin looks incredibly soft and pale, unmarked by the usual scars of teenage years or too much sun. Atsumu swallows loudly before leaning back to sit back on his heels. His knees brush against Kiyoomi's, but the curly-haired man seems unbothered by the contact.
His fingers are warm and firm around Atsumu's wrist. His fingers are calloused, but the pads of his fingers are still softer than Atsumu's own, long and curled almost delicately around Atsumu's wrist despite his firm hold.
Atsumu wonders if Kiyoomi can feel his pulse hammering under them.
"Your thumb is swollen," Kiyoomi says, pulling Atsumu's wrist further up to inspect it closely. His breath is warm against the setter's hands, and Atsumu twitches at the sensation.
"'S fine, Omi-omi." Atsumu tries to pull his hand free, and Kiyoomi's grip tightens for a second before he lets go, eyes following as Atsumu pulls it in protectively towards his chest. "It's just the usual soreness after practice."
"After a usual practice?" Kiyoomi's voice is flat, and Atsumu inhales sharply at the words.
"Omi-omi." Atsumu's words are sharp, but Kiyoomi seems to ignore him, instead turning to the medical supplies on the table. Atsumu watches as the curly-haired man picks up the tape.
"Wait here." Kiyoomi stands and steps away, leaving Atsumu alone again.
He stares at his hand. Kiyoomi is right. It's not much, but his joint is still slightly red, and Atsumu gently trails his fingers over the puffy skin. It can't be more than a strained tendon, he guesses, gently prodding at it.
It's the kind of thing he used to push through in high school. He'd trail after Osamu and Suna, hands hidden away in his jacket until they reached a store or vending machine, where a cold drink would be pressed into the joint. He'd secretly down painkillers and anti-inflammatories when Sunarin and Osamu would be laughing together over something stupid on Sunarin's phone.
It had been fine then, and it was fine now. Atsumu was just making sure he was perfect for the games ahead, and if it meant pushing himself to the limit, it was fine. He had learnt exactly where that line of too much was. He was distracted from his thoughts by the sounds of Kiyoomi's footsteps. He looked up, and the spiker settled himself in front of Atsumu again. In addition to the tape, a small pair of scissors was in one hand, while an ice pack was in another. He held out the ice pack to Atsumu, who slowly raised his uninjured hand to take it.
"Once the swelling has gone down, I'll wrap it for you." Kiyoomi's words had Atsumu letting out a snort of laughter.
"I said it was fine, Omi-omi."
"If it was fine, you'd have refused the ice pack in the first place." Kiyoomi snapped back. "Besides, I'm not letting you run yourself into the ground and cost us the game."
Kiyoomi's words had Atsumu's spine stiffening in an instant.
"Again, you mean." The venom in his tone this time was intentional.
Kiyoomi looked genuinely lost. "What do you mean again , Miya?"
"Quit fuckin' coddlin' me, Sakusa." Atsumu hissed. "Against Raijin, my serves were useless. Yer cousin caught me, and Sunarin read me liking a fuckin' book, and we lost ."
Kiyoomi's expression transformed from confusion into anger.
"Are you serious ?"
"Why the fuck wouldn't I be? I-"
"Atsumu, you took four aces against Rajin. Motoya got lucky on that last one, and you've been playing with Suna-san since you were a first year, you idiot ." Kiyoomi snarls at him. "He's probably one of the only people in the league who have a chance of figuring you out."
Atsumu laughed. "Glad to know that you think my game hasn't improved much since high school, Omi-omi."
"You know that's not what I meant, Miya." Kiyoomi's tone was laced with bitterness but quiet. Atsumu's gaze dropped to his hands, his fingers digging into the icepack.
Fuck. I shoulda just gone home. Atsumu berated himself internally. Or told Omi to mind his business at the gym.
Idiot.
Kiyoomi cleared his throat, and Atsumu lifted his head to scowl at his host. Kiyoomi's face had been wiped clean from his earlier anger, back to his usual bland expression. "Give me your hand."
Atsumu raised a brow at Kiyoomi and sat silently, unmoving.
The flicker of annoyance that sparked in Kiyoomi's eye after the silence stretched had Atsumu feeling smug, and he tried to stop the smirk from spreading across his face.
He'd always found amusement in riling the spiker up, which was surprisingly easy despite Kiyoomi's initial stoic appearance. In the end, Kiyoomi has the same edge of competitiveness as every other volleyball monster. He'd turn around and smirk at Atsumu whenever a serve would slam down untouched on the other side of the net, glare at Atsumu if Atsumu dumped a set rather than send it arching up into Kiyoomi's hand.
It kept Kiyoomi's eyes on Atsumu, and he burned under his gaze.
Kiyoomi's eyes were on him now, too. Atsumu let the smirk creep across his face, and Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. Suddenly, a hand shot out, wrapping itself around the top of Atsumu's forearm.
Atsumu yelped as he was tugged forward, unconsciously hunching over himself to protect his wrist. Deja vu washed over him as he sat again on his knees, Kiyoomi inspecting his hand. The dark-haired man was precise in his movements, fingers firm but gentle as they manipulated Atsumu's hand and began wrapping the thumb joint in tape. The sensation of Kiyoomi's fingertips against Atsumu's hand was odd, as though he wasn't touching it.
Atsumu swallowed. "You're awfully handsy tonight, Sa-ku-sa." Atsumu let the syllables of the spiker's name stretch out, wiggling his fingers underneath the other's hands. The other man paused in his movements before gripping Atsumu's hand more firmly to stop the movement. He bends his head down, damp curls obscuring his face from Atsumu, wrapping more tape around the thumb even tighter.
"Do you know why," Kiyoomi's voice is stilted and almost reluctant. "I chose the Jackals?"
Atsumu pauses for a second at the question. He looks at the curly-haired man, expression still hidden.
"No." His reply is soft.
A pause.
"I got other offers. Including the Adlers, and Wakatoshi-kun asked me to join him in Tokyo." Kiyoomi maneuvers Atsumu's hand to the side, carefully cutting the tape. "It would have made sense with most of my family there." Atsumu watches as Kiyoomi finishes with the tape, fingers carefully running over the area.
Kiyoomi lifts his head, his gaze dark and steady. "I wanted to play with you, Atsumu."
Atsumu blinks at him. "Huh?"
Kiyoomi's mouth twists slightly. "After Tokyo. The training camps, especially in our third year. You were a brat. You were obnoxious and demanding. But," Kiyoomi's gaze drops to Atsumu's hand. "You worked harder than anyone else to be perfect. And I want to play with a perfect team as long as I can."
Atsumu feels his jaw drop open at the words. He gapes at Kiyoomi, who keeps his eyes intently away from Atsuumu's, a pink flush crawling up his cheeks.
Perfect . It's surreal, coming from Kiyoomi's mouth.
I wanted to play with you.
Atsumu.
Kiyoomi's hands are still on Atsumu's, tightening infinitesimally.
"Omi-omi, do ya want my head to get any bigger? Ya really…" The words trail off as Kiyoomi lifts his head.
Atsumu hadn't realised he'd leant in further, their knees pressed firmly together.
Their noses nearly brush, and Atsumu can feel Kiyoomi's breath against his lips.
"You lost a single point, Atsumu. But we didn't lose because of you." Kiyoomi's voice is steady despite the flush of his cheeks. His pupils are blown wide as the two hover in front of each other. “The team lost. But we’ll win together next time.”
The weight in Atsumu's chest lifted slightly at the words, the pain lessening.
"Kiyoomi." Atsumu breathed out the word. Kiyoomi's eyes slid shut as he bit out the next words.
"So take care of yourself, you idiot ."
Atsumu couldn't help himself and laughed, head falling onto Kiyoomi's shoulders. The spiker didn't move as Atsumu laughed and laughed until he grew quieter, his shoulders still shaking for a few seconds longer.
Atsumu blinked hard, forcing back the tears pooling in his eyes, pressing his forehead further into Kiyoomi's shoulder. "Ya make such a pretty nurse, though, Omi-omi."
"Shut up, Miya." The words were low, tinged with something close to fondness.
"You called me Atsumu before, Omi-omi!" Atsumu whined. Kiyoomi still hasn't moved away, and Atsumu decides to risk it, shuffling his head closer to Kiyoomi's neck. The spiker inhales sharply but doesn't flinch back.
"A mistake I'll be careful not to repeat," Kiyoomi said without inflection.
"Omiiii." This time, it's muffled into Kiyoomi's neck. Atsumu lifts his head slightly from Kiyoomi's neck, but a sudden pressure pushes against the nape of his neck, finger sliding into his hairline.
Atsumu shuddered unintentionally under the touch, melting back into Kiyoomi's shoulder. The other's fingers skim through his hair lightly before pressing warmth more firmly down into his neck. Atusmu feels weightless under Kiyoomi's touch.
"If you get more service aces than me against the Falcons, I'll consider it."
"Mmm, temptin' Omi-omi. Considerin' ya kept count the other day." Kiyoomi's fingers slide further into Atsumu's hair, digging into his scalp gently.
"You better make sure you're on the court then, Miya."
Atsumu tenses at that. He slowly lifts his head, and Kiyoomi's hand falls from Atsumu's head. The blond looks down at his bandaged hand, and guilt pools low in his stomach.
"I'll practice-"
"You'll rest, you idiot. Or I'll set your brother on you. Or Sunarin"
"'Samu? Sunarin?" Atsumu squawks, head snapping up to glare at his teammate, who looked entirely unbothered. "How do ya have their numbers?"
"Motoya gave me them." The short explanation still didn't connect the dots in Atsumu's head, but the thought disappeared at Kiyoomi's expression. The flush on his cheeks had deepened, spreading to the tips of his ears. He didn't meet Atsumu's gaze as he pulled his knees back, gracefully pushing himself to his feet. Atsumu silently mourned the loss of Kiyoomi's warm body against his.
"I'll get the futon out for you. You can sleep here tonight so I can check your hand tomorrow morning."
Atsumu grins up at Kiyoomi, all teeth. "Ya just too kind, nurse."
"Shut up. Wait here, don't touch the tape, and rest, Atsumu." Kiyoomi huffs out, levelling Atsumu with one final glare, rendered less effective by the deepening shade of red on his cheeks and stomps from the room.
Atsumu slouches down, grin lingering even as he lifts his hand up to his eyes to inspect the wrapping. It's incredibly neat, the blond having to squint even to see where the tape ends, the blue stark against his tanned hands. The sight of the injury unsettles him but in a different way.
The bitterness lingering in his chest from thinking about his ( their loss, kiyoomi's voice admonishes him ) is muted now, hidden underneath something warmer. It lingers where Kiyoomi had touched him, the warmth settling into his bones. Exhaustion crashes into Atsumu as he settles down further, sliding back under the kotatsu and letting his eyes slide shut. At the same time, he waits for Kiyoomi, listening to the faint noises further into the apartment.
Rest, Atsumu.
Atsumu bites his tongue, heat crawling up his neck as he thinks about Kiyoomi's unnoticed slip, his pupils blown wide as he stares at Atsumu, inches away from each other's lips. He covers his eyes with his forearm, willing the blush to disappear. He opens an eye blearily only as Kiyoomi comes back into the room. The futon is piled high, and the spiker wastes no time rolling it out. Atsumu shuffles over so he can watch.
"'Yoomi," Atsumu's words are heavy on his tongue. "'M grateful for ya."
Kiyoomi pauses. "Pardon?"
"Ya heard me. 'M grateful for yer meddling." Kiyoomi huffs quietly at that, a smile pulling at the side of his mouth as Atsumu watches, lids sleep-heavy. He sits back, inspecting the futon before turning back to his teammate.
"You're welcome, Miya. Now sleep."
"M'kay Omi-omi. But first," Atsumu drags his legs out from the kotatsu, crawling over to where Kiyoomi is knelt by the side of the futon. His cheeks aren't flushed pink anymore; his gaze is still soft as he watches the setter.
"'Sorry about biting yer head off earlier."
Kiyoomi's smile creeps further onto his face. "You've always been a brat, Miya."
Atsumu rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly, Kiyoomi's lips are pressed against his cheek, brushing close to the corner of Atsumu's mouth for a second. They're soft, the sensation fleeting before Kiyoomi pulls back.
"Rest, Miya. I'll see you in the morning."
Atsumu can't formulate a single thought before Kiyoomi's on his feet and gone. Atsumu lifts his good hand and presses it against his chest, balling the shirt underneath his fist as he inhales deeply.
Goodnight, Kiyoomi.