redamancy: the local sanctuary - taromi (2024)

The ball slams into the floor with a resounding smack.

Atsumu hates this guy. He really does.

The decisive way it bounces off-court marks the point where he starts escaping the tunnel vision he adopts under the stress on his muscles. Playing beach tripled the groundwork for both parties, but there’s an inexplicable thrill to trying something so foreign yet inherently familiar. Hinata and Sakusa absolutely wiped the floor with their asses today due to the obvious advantage of Hinata’s experience, but Atsumu can’t say he hated every second of it. Volleyball will always drag him down to the burning coals of his love for it, win or lose.

“f*ck off,” he sneers, tilting his head toward Sakusa to stare daggers into his very existence. “Would it kill ya to let us have one last rally?”

Sakusa smiles at him from the other side of the net like the smug little sh*t he is. He’s all kinds of ethereal, drenched in sweat. “Having trouble keeping up, Miya?”

Atsumu’s mouth twitches in annoyance, before he sees Bokuto sink to the floor in his periphery, along with an obnoxious noise from the deepest caves of his chest.

Hinata bounces over to Sakusa. “Ending practice with a service ace is just harsh, Omi-san,” he says cheerily, enthusiastically returning the low five Sakusa offers. And then he flashes Atsumu a smile, too wide to be innocent. “Better luck next time, Atsumu-san!”

Hinata is officially no longer his favourite.

“Sorry, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto says to the floor. “I should’ve gotten that one,” he continues, his voice dangerously toeing the line of a sob. “My bumps sucked so much today.”

“They did,” Atsumu agrees, rolling his eyes at the heartbroken sound Bokuto makes. Dramatic ass. It’s not like Atsumu didn’t enjoy it anyway. They’ll definitely have to work with Hinata to convince Foster into letting them play beach again. “S’alright, Bokkun. Even with yer sh*tty bumps, you hit my sets. That’s good enough for me.”

It isn’t, not really. There’s a balance to this, one that they could definitely work on more when Bokuto isn’t whining about every single mistake he made. But right now, Bokuto simply whines some more, just as Foster blows his whistle and tells them to pack it up and gather around.

Hinata ducks under the net and crouches down in front of Bokuto, patting his head in sympathy. Sakusa walks up to the net as well, probably to rub it in Atsumu’s face. Jerk. “You could’ve been nicer about that,” he says without an ounce of sympathy, and it’s probably one of the wildest sentences Atsumu has ever heard, considering it’s coming from Sakusa. Not just a jackass, but a hypocrite, too? Crazy world they live in, huh.

Atsumu flips him off, unable to hide the half-smile in the corner of his mouth. “You were the one bullyin’ him, asshole.”

Sakusa takes one look at Bokuto, then shrugs. He knows exactly what he’s been doing, and he doesn’t trouble himself with trying to hide it. What an asshole. “You know how many service aces I got today? If you bothered to count, that is.” He looks back to Atsumu, his eyes crinkling in amusem*nt with his stupid muted smile.

Atsumu knows. Sakusa got six, all in the span of a simple two-on-two set. Four out of those were because Bokuto was very much off his receive game today. Sakusa is a bully.

“I can’t stand ya,” Atsumu says, and he knows it doesn’t sound convincing at all with how he’s still smiling. He steps over to Hinata and helps him pull Bokuto up from his pity puddle, letting out an exasperated sigh when the little crybaby immediately clings to him, begging for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto says, repeating Atsumu’s name until he has no choice but to slap his hand over the guy’s mouth to shut him up.

“S’fine, Bokkun.”

“But you lost against Omi-Omi because of me,” Bokuto says against his palm.

Hinata coughs into his fist at that, covering up for his laugh. To Atsumu’s great misfortune, Sakusa shoots him a knowing look over his shoulder just as he begins making his way over to Foster, and f*cking hell, the motherf*cker is so lucky he’s wearing his compression shorts or Atsumu may not be as forgiving as he is now.

Still, he grits his teeth. “I didn’t lose sh*t. You did,” he mutters, and instantly regrets it when the Whining Bokuto Express roars its engines once again, and they nearly stumble and fall over as Bokuto throws his arms around Atsumu’s neck with the most offensive pout ever made in existence.

“Miya!” Foster yells. “Get over here, I said!”

Atsumu generously keeps his opinion to himself about the fact that Bokuto is the one dragging him down, so there’s absolutely no way it’s his fault. Hinata is still snickering (again, not so innocently) to himself as he helps Atsumu get their resident crybaby on track, and Atsumu would slap him for laughing at his expense if he had the balls to touch the sun. Which he doesn’t. Even if Hinata wouldn’t burn him, everyone else would.

He drags his feet after his teammates once Bokuto realizes it’s been twenty-four years since he left the womb and he definitely doesn’t need his hand held to walk. Atsumu throws him a look without any of the bite in it, and pulls his shirt up to wipe his face sweat-free, sucking in a deep breath through his nose to ease his lungs.

He bets Coach is going to scold them again for going overboard.

As if on cue, Foster catches his eyes, mouth pulled into a stern line. “This was supposed to be a drill to wind down. What did I tell you four about getting carried away?”

Called it. Atsumu would appreciate if Foster stopped picking him as his stare-down victim every time, though.

Thankfully, Foster seems to be in a merciful mood today, so he moves on swiftly. “We’ll be focusing on defensive plays next time.” His eyes flicker to Bokuto for a moment, and Bokuto visibly shrinks in shame. “Receives, first passes, and low balls. Tomorrow is your day-off, so I expect you all to rest.” He pointedly looks back at Atsumu. And Atsumu’s mom didn’t raise no bitch, but she did raise a man with just enough self-preservation skills to hold out this long, so Atsumu keeps his mouth shut. “That’s all for today. Stretch and cool down now, alright?”

A polite chorus of yes, Coach bounces off the walls, and Atsumu dives for his water bottle as soon as the horde disperses. Sweet, sweet water. The love of his life.

“Miya,” Foster says, and Atsumu lowers the bottle on autopilot, turning around to face the man. “Ease up on that shoulder. I won’t let you pair up with Sakusa anymore if you pull it right after recovery.”

Atsumu scrunches his nose, but dutifully mutters his assent. As much as Foster loves to hide behind his professionalism and technical terms, he’s a total mother hen. Atsumu’s fine.

“Ya hear that, Omi?” Atsumu glances at Sakusa, who’s been lingering close to his side, flashing him a grin. “You’re a bad influence.”

Sakusa snorts. “I don’t have patience for people who can’t take care of themselves.”

Atsumu’s grin widens. “And yet ya love me. What does that say ‘bout me then, huh?”

“That you reached the bare minimum. You want a congratulations card for that?”

“Wouldja write me one?”

“Fat chance.”

Atsumu laughs, giddy with the sweet, buzzing exhaustion in his muscles. Volleyball makes being out of breath a novelty.

He looks at Sakusa properly, lamenting his options of which feature he should be obsessed about today, and settles on his nose. Since when the f*ck were noses that attractive?

“You so would,” Atsumu muses, and then grabs onto Sakusa’s wrist to pull him towards a vacant spot on the court to do their stretches. “C’mon, Omi-Omi, lemme help ya bend over.”

Sakusa kicks him in the knees, and then catches Atsumu by the back of his shirt when he inevitably stumbles. “Try saying that again and I’ll use the Geneva Convention as a to-do list.”

Atsumu sticks his tongue out at him as he brings his right arm across his chest, stretching his shoulder. “Mad that you’re into it, huh?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes, and then bends over – without Atsumu’s help, tragically – and slowly wraps his arms around his legs. Flexible freak. “Shut your whor* mouth, Miya,” he says, with all the enthusiasm of an unpaid intern taking coffee orders.

“Sheesh, we’re harsh today,” Atsumu giggles, watching intently as a drop of sweat makes its way down Sakusa’s nape. “Didn’t know I was signin’ up for Onion-Omi today. Omion.”

Sakusa tips his head to the side, frowning. “What the f*ck is an Omion?”

Hook, line, sinker. Atsumu’s been working on this one for a while. “Oh, you know. The more layers I get ta see of you, the more I cry.”

Sakusa blinks up at him, deadpanning. He turns his head back to the floor, holds his position for seven more seconds, and then straightens up. “How much time did it take you to think of that one?”

Atsumu shrugs, grinning. “Five business days,” he admits shamelessly. Sakusa’s amused huff is worth the effort, and Atsumu watches him shake his head in mock exasperation as he sinks to the floor, and throws his leg at Atsumu, expectant.

With a smile, Atsumu catches his foot before getting a better grip on his calf, pushing back. Sakusa is looking at the ceiling, face twisted into his cute, natural scowl. “Does that mean you’d cry if you saw me naked?”

Atsumu feels his cheeks puff out before he bursts into a disbelieving laugh. The worst part is that there’s not a hint of innuendo in Sakusa’s voice, no heat wrapping around his words, no nothing. He’s just asking, because it’s the first thought that came to his mind, and he has always made it a point to speak it. Seriously, Sakusa is something else. Too-blunt idiot.

Still, Atsumu is not about to let the opportunity go to waste. “Depends on where your junior’s goin’. In my mouth? Call that a sob story.”

Evidently, Sakusa kicks him away hard enough that Atsumu lands on his ass. Inunaki screeches something at the top of his lungs and throws a well-aimed towel at Atsumu, and Atsumu can’t help the way laughter bubbles up his throat, nearly choking on his saliva.

Today’s a good day.

Today becomes an ever better day once the whole team has settled around the izakaya table, already on the third round of shochu. Atsumu is pleasantly buzzed, just shy of reaching tipsy, and he’s sure his cheeks have gained some additional colour by now. The izakaya is unsuspecting and just the ideal distance from the gymnasium – the whole team was eager to take advantage of their day-off tomorrow, hungry for some destressing and mindless conversation.

Their drinking game is temporarily forgotten as the conversation gets away from them. Atsumu is busy arguing with Bokuto about how much of a chance he’d have fighting a snapping turtle—those things can chomp and leap, Bokkun, they’d bite yer hand right off—with Sakusa’s thigh pressed warmly against his, who’s caught between listening to their absurd debate and Hinata oversharing yet again, describing some new kink of his with crude hand gestures. Atsumu elbows him every once in a while to check in with him, and Sakusa just hums in affirmation, leaning more and more of his weight against Atsumu’s side.

No one bats an eye, and Atsumu smiles to himself. This is Sakusa at his clingiest by his standards, and he’s only ever like this when he’s tired but doesn’t want to go home just yet. It’s an honour and an adventure in and of itself, to be able to stand as a pillar for Sakusa when Atsumu has never been that type of person for anyone – he’s always been too fickle, too volatile, too impulsive. He still is, somewhere deep down, but his edges have mellowed out with adulthood. With Sakusa, of all people.

The first time he realized the seasons were changing—not the weather or volleyball kind, but the one where Atsumu’s own elliptical orbit changed to accommodate a new gravitational pull—he was as cathartic about it as he would be about stepping in sh*t. His barks grew a bite to them, and he dealt with the shift, the realization the only way he knew how to: tearing his claws into it, chewing on his own stomach, defensive to a fault.

Sakusa picked up on it fairly early on, and met Atsumu head-on. If there was one thing Atsumu learned along the journey, it was that Sakusa brings out the extremes in him; the best and the worst, and he certainly does not back down.

That’s where Hinata and Bokuto came in. Atsumu doesn’t like giving credit to other people when cultivating his and Sakusa’s relationship was very much in their hands, rather than two idiots’ with sunshine up their asses and personalities loud enough to lose hearing over – but not even Atsumu can deny that had it not been for Hinata’s tendency to glue people together, or Bokuto’s stellar penchant for distraction and changing the subject to some asinine bullsh*t, Atsumu might have lost the war.

Still, when the tides were waded through, Atsumu relinquished his claws. He picked a different battle, although from the same platter, just better. Calmer. Gentler.

And yet again, Sakusa met him head-on. The difference now is the lack of sharp edges. Sakusa still has pointy thorns, and he’s still prickly and abrasive, while Atsumu still tends to bite off more than he can chew and forgets to be a decent human being every once in a while, but it’s…different. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s still inherently them, separate individuals with their own harsh opinions, but they’re also a lot more tolerable when they’re together, if only because they turn those harsh opinions against each other and come out unscathed anyway.

Their present to their past is what bickering is to a heated argument. Nuanced synonyms.

Their present, as of now, is Hinata deciding to spare Sakusa from the last few details of his Kageyama-related trysts; it’s horrifying, really, how nasty Hinata can be sometimes. Strictly under the influence, but still frequent enough to leave his friends with nightmares to gag at.

“Back to Never Have I Ever!” Hinata exclaims, just as he necks down the last of his drink. “Meian-san, you’re way too tense—don’t look at me like that! You should loosen up, Captain. Your cup is way too empty,” he cheekily says, and then gets away with it, because Hinata is Hinata.

Sakusa visibly shrinks in his seat. Atsumu laughs at him.

“Not slowing down, Shou-kun?” He joins in, more of an autopilot reaction than anything.

“Anything to get Wan-san wasted,” Hinata throws back, giggling when Inunaki gapes indignantly.

Sakusa slides down even further. “And here I thought I graduated high school,” he mutters low enough for only Atsumu to catch.

Atsumu elbows him, smiling. He must be getting close to reaching his limit. “Don’t be like that, Omi. Here’s your chance to getta know me better!”

Sakusa throws him a murderous glance. “I’ve seen pictures of your morning sh*ts. I’d like to know you less, if possible.”

Atsumu’s smile widens as his gaze drifts to Sakusa’s nose—today’s obsession—and takes in the gentle curve of it, the way his nostrils flare with an irritated puff of breath when Hinata nudges the conversation in his desired direction, already begging his teammates to refill their drinks for their game. Atsumu stares (or maybe ogles – who’s to say, really), and he lets his mind roll down a familiar road. He wants to boop that nose. Kiss it. Eat it, even. Sakusa probably wouldn’t let him do that, though. He’ll have to settle for an eyeful for now.

“Alright, I got one,” Hinata declares, knocking on the table to grab everyone’s attention. “Never have I ever...slept with a teammate,” he says. Atsumu wonders if there’s an off button for the dirty thoughts that make it past Hinata’s mouth when he’s tipsy. How bizarre, that the guy made of fairy dust and My Little Pony merch has a foul mouth with his inhibitions lowered. For the first time in his life, Atsumu feels a slight twinge of respect for Kageyama. How bizarre indeed.

But a game’s a game, so Atsumu does his best not to wonder why Hinata is like this. He reaches for his glass, and shoots Sakusa his natural sh*t-eating grin just as his beloved teammate complies, readying himself for a shot as his default scowl makes another guest appearance. They clink their glasses, tap the table with the bottom of their cups once, and then neck it down at the same time.

Atsumu doesn’t even have to look to know that the rest of the team is gaping at them. But Atsumu does look, because if there’s one thing he’s a whor* for, it’s attention.

Meian and Barnes seem a little pale under the light. The vacancy in Tomas’s eyes suggests that he has ascended to an entirely different plane of existence. Inunaki looks sick, mouth shaping around words he’s too mortified to speak. Hinata seems to recover from the bewilderment quickly, and a lot more calmly than Atsumu would’ve guessed. He even seems delighted, if Atsumu looks hard enough.

And then there’s Bokuto, who slams his hand on the table, somewhere between outraged and thrilled about this new revelation. “You f*cked?!” He screeches, no filter whatsoever, and his eyes keep swapping between the two culprits. Atsumu is kind of proud of him for connecting the dots so fast.

“It was a one-time thing,” Sakusa says flatly at the same time as Atsumu cheerily supplies, “Yeah, twice.”

Inunaki drops his head to the table and bangs it against the surface a few times. Tomas sends a longing look towards the exit. Bokuto might catch a few flies with how much his gaping intensifies.

Sakusa rewards Atsumu’s loose tongue with a hydraulic press around his left thigh with his gremlin hands, digging his fingers in until it hurts. Atsumu starts whining immediately, a string of “ow, ow, not the leg, Omi, please,” escaping him, until Sakusa eventually eases up and pulls back.

Meian catches the waiter, desperately clutching at the edge of the table as he pleads. “Another bottle, please. Please.”

Atsumu gets home a little later than he hoped he would. His gym bag hits the floor with a heavy thunk as he stumbles to kick off his shoes, exhaustion seeping into the desolate red of his muscles. The ten-minute walk to his apartment did help him sober up a little, but it also helped him realize how long it’s been since he left the soft embrace of his bed.

They need to put Hinata on a goddamn leash the next time they go out drinking with the team. Seriously. They have to stop falling for his puppy eyes. Atsumu can’t deal with enabling him every time.

As if on cue, his phone pings with a notification, and Atsumu huffs as he peels off his jacket, leaving his bag and shoes right where they are. He’ll get them in the morning.

The distance from the genkan to the kitchen seems a lot longer than usual, his calves crying in disdain. It’s been a good day, but also a long one. He moves methodically, quickly downs a glass of water and sits down at the kitchen counter, the series of movements etched into his bone marrow. His phone finds his hand, more automatic than anything, and he squints at Bokuto’s message to their groupchat.

bokkun
> keiji syas ud be good manga progatonsits
> tsumu adn omi

shou-kun
> akaashi-san ur mind !!! :o
> icb omi-san and tsumu-san r doing the friends w benefits trope forreals

If there’s one thing Atsumu is a whor* for, it’s attention. Consequently, if there’s one person Atsumu loves to f*ck with to get attention from, it’s Sakusa. He types out his response, and bursts into a quiet laugh when his and Sakusa’s messages go off at the same time.

what friends <

omi <3
> what benefits

Propping his elbow on the counter, Atsumu pushes his palm against his mouth to cover the dopey grin his lips slip into. He taps Sakusa’s icon and hits call without an ounce of hesitation.

Sakusa picks up on the first ring.

“Hi,” Atsumu says, his grin audible.

Sakusa sighs. “Miya. What do you want?”

Atsumu doesn’t fall for the faux exasperation in his voice. “Shut up. I miss you. Kinda.”

A beat passes. He can tell Sakusa is rolling his eyes. “Aren’t I lucky,” comes the dry reply, gentler than Sakusa’s usual bite. Heh, he’s growing soft on Atsumu.

Atsumu stares at a leftover crumb on his counter, fiddling with his fingers as he lets the all too familiar feeling wash over him. He’s tired but he’s infatuated. If he wasn’t already sitting down, it might’ve swept him off his feet. “Can’t you just say it back like a normal person?”

Sakusa won’t, probably. “I saw you—” he pauses, as if checking the time, “—fifteen minutes ago. What is there to miss?”

“I hate you so much.”

Sakusa snorts. “Sure,” he says knowingly. Atsumu wants to see his face, wants to take in the playful smirk that’s most likely gracing his mouth. He wants—he wants.

Oh, he really does miss him. Isn’t that just ridiculous?

His lack of immediate response must soften the ominous blackhole Sakusa has for a heart, because he speaks again before Atsumu could. “You can—” he cuts himself off, and Atsumu’s smile begins to make a comeback. He knows exactly where this is going; Sakusa will offer a truce. A hidden confession. “Ugh. You can come over tomorrow, if you want.”

Atsumu wants. “So you miss me too, after all,” he teases. “You just can’t resist, can ya?”

“f*ck you,” Sakusa immediately backtracks. “I’m moving out. Don’t come anywhere near this place.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu chuckles. “And where wouldja go?”

Sakusa considers this. “The nearest police station. I believe it’s time I got you a restraining order.”

Atsumu just keeps grinning like an idiot. He can see right through Sakusa, and the knowledge is electrifying. “Mhm. Anyway, you wanna cook or should I get takeout?”

“You should die,” Sakusa grumbles under his breath, but his microphone picks up on it anyway. “I don’t feel like spending half a day in the kitchen.”

Atsumu shakes his head fondly. “When do ya ever?” If Sakusa was in front of him right now, sitting with him under the serene flicker of his kitchen lights, Atsumu is sure he’d flip him off. “How about I cook, then? That sound like a fair compromise?”

Sakusa stays silent for a few seconds. And then he huffs, which is already half an answer, but Atsumu likes being annoying a little bit too much for his own good.

“Yes or no, Omi.”

“The f*ck is the point of you coming over if you spend half a day in my kitchen instead of…” he trails off, purposefully gatekeeping the satisfaction of letting Atsumu hear him say the words.

And oh, oh, that’s almost too good. Sakusa definitely misses him too, and Atsumu’s grin might as well be tattooed on his face at this point. It’s not coming off anytime soon. “Instead of what? Finish your sentences, Omi-Omi.”

“Kill yourself,” Sakusa says tonelessly, then hangs up.

Atsumu calls him right back and moves his ass to the living room, falling onto the couch with zero grace. Sakusa picks up on the last ring. Atsumu frowns at his ceiling.

“Can you let me piss in peace?”

Atsumu’s frown dissipates. “Do it in my mouth next time, an’ I might just.”

“Jesus f*cking Christ,” Sakusa says, voice stretching with how tired he is. “Shut the f*ck up, for the love of god. I’m getting you a gag. The raunchy kind.”

Atsumu laughs, shifting to his side as he gets more comfortable. He places his phone next to his head, putting Sakusa on speaker and nuzzling into the couch pillow, fighting the weight on his eyelids. “Ya like hearin’ me talk,” he mumbles, letting more of his Kansai-ben slip into the syllables, too tired to enunciate.

Sakusa doesn’t deny it. “Don’t fall asleep on the couch,” he says, softer.

Atsumu smiles, eyes falling shut. “How wouldja know m’on the couch?”

“Seriously, Miya,” Sakusa sighs. “Get up. Change. Brush your teeth.” It’s rare to hear him speak in such a tender tone, even if there’s a commanding edge to it. “And get your sh*t from the door. Your bag’s going to stink.”

“Mother hen,” Atsumu whispers. “Mind yer own business.”

“I am.”

Atsumu cracks one eye open at that, peering blearily at his phone. His lips twitch with a smile at the implication of Sakusa’s words. He must be in a generous mood tonight, or maybe it’s the remaining alcohol in his system; either way, it warms Atsumu from the inside out.

“Careful,” he mumbles. “Or I’ll start thinkin’ ya like me or somethin’.”

Sakusa huffs out the distant relative of a laugh. “Oh no. We sure wouldn’t want that.”

Atsumu’s heart churns. He may or may not be in love. Jury’s still out.

“Mm. Sure wouldn’t,” he echoes.

The line goes quiet for a while, safe for the sounds of water running and soft footsteps from Sakusa’s end. Atsumu teeters on the edge of slumber, ears filled with cotton. He floats between a dreamscape and the reality of listening to Sakusa do his skincare routine, and absently wonders why he’s not there. He could’ve invited himself over, and Sakusa most likely would’ve let him.

He drifts off bit by bit until the distinct click of a light switch rings through the line. Sakusa must be done in his bathroom.

“Miya,” Sakusa calls out, and his voice sounds like mahogany and whiskey, mussed with exhaustion. “Come on. At least take off your jeans.”

“Take ‘em off yerself,” Atsumu mumbles, pushing his face into the pillow petulantly.

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu whines. Using his given name as bribery is so not fair. He pushes himself up from the couch, grumbling something shapeless as he grabs his phone and waddles his way to the bathroom. He listens to Sakusa get into bed, the soft squeak of his mattress and the ruffle of his blanket, and tries to estimate how much more motivated he’d be to do his bedtime routine if he could slip into bed right next to him.

Brushing his teeth takes herculean effort, and he has to support himself with a hand on the counter lest he wants to bust his skull open by headbutting the mirror a little too hard. He doesn’t bother to floss, and he leaves his clothes in a trail to his bedroom, too close to passing out to care.

“Omi?” He asks quietly just as he falls into bed, shuffling until his blanket cooperates. “Ya still with me?”

Sakusa murmurs the equivalent of a tired keysmash, and Atsumu lets out an amused breath, burrowing into the warmth of his bed. “G’night, Omi,” he whispers.

“...Night, Atsu.”

The line goes silent again. Neither of them hangs up.

Atsumu spends the entirety of his day off at Sakusa's place. Not that that's weird, but Atsumu likes to remind himself how special he has to be for Sakusa to actually let him; he shows up empty-handed safe for their takeout lunch and a few grocery bags he knows Sakusa probably needs, he has the spare key to Sakusa's door, and he doesn't have to worry about bringing a toothbrush.

Sakusa basically beams—by his standards, that is—when Atsumu tells him he brought yakitori from that one place he likes, and even if he technically doesn't thank him out loud, the way his resting bitch face eases into something more forgiving, more intimate is enough.

It’s terrifying how easy it is to coexist with Sakusa. They spend the day in the most unproductive way possible; Atsumu thrashes Sakusa’s ass in all the Mario Kart maps except for the ones with Rainbow Road, and Sakusa claims the game is rigged when Atsumu gets one too many green shells in a row and knocks him over with every single one of them. Feeling this content has never been so simple for Atsumu before, and he makes sure to annoy the f*ck out of Sakusa for how stupid that sounds in revenge.

They watch a recording of a match from last season, Raijin versus Kanagawa, and half of it is just Sakusa bitching about Komori and Atsumu bitching about Suna (but also Kanagawa’s outside hitter, because god forbid Atsumu ever missed a chance to drag his Inarizaki teammates through the mud). There’s space between them, insurmountable and magnetic, and Atsumu falls into the abyss between Sakusa’s shoulder and his every time either of them makes an unnecessarily snide comment on a mediocre play. Sakusa shifts every once in a while, and his hand rests on Atsumu’s knees after it magically ends up thrown over his lap. The warmth of his touch sears a brand onto the deepest layers of Atsumu’s skin, even through the sweatpants he borrowed, and Sakusa’s nonchalance about the whole thing is the exact reason Atsumu believes in miracles.

Somehow, somehow—again, because miracles might exist, after all—Atsumu manages to convince Sakusa to watch not one, not two, but three Pixar movies after they had their fill of talking sh*t. Atsumu doesn’t even like them that much. He just wants to revel in the way Sakusa cringes at each cliché line.

Sakusa’s payback is putting on a thriller that has no business being as scary as it is, and Atsumu barely stands his ground. His pride doesn’t let him find refugee in Sakusa’s shoulder, but did the jackass really have to pull the blackout curtains for this? Setting the mood my ass, Atsumu thinks to himself twice per minute after every jumpscare. He’s positive Sakusa just wanted to be a dipsh*t and see him squirm a bit more.

But even with the excruciatingly long minutes of suspense, it all goes by way too fast. Atsumu has always been greedy. He wants—

He wants.

But he also needs…a nap. Kind of. By the time the credits start rolling, Atsumu is dozing off despite his attempts against sleep, but something about being so close to Sakusa with one of his fluffiest blankets over him keeps him shackled.

This is where it gets crazy. Sakusa might be a lot more open to touch when it comes to him, but he’s rarely the one to initiate—and yet, he guides Atsumu’s head to rest on his shoulder, arm thrown over the backrest to accommodate him. Atsumu stirs slightly, and he pushes closer, tries pushing Sakusa’s limits only to find none, so he pushes some more.

“Play with m’hair,” he mumbles, sneaking his arm around Sakusa’s waist. “I washed t’day.”

Atsumu could cry at how easily Sakusa complies if he was a bit more alert. Alas, he only has the mind to register the fingers carding through the frizzled nest on top of his head, scratching his scalp every once in a while. It’s frustratingly tender, how simply Sakusa can just twirl the stray strands around his index finger, like it’s natural, like it’s commonplace, like he isn’t shattering Atsumu’s entire reality and building a new one from the ashes with the most elementary touches. Atsumu is in heaven.

He may or may not stay the night.

Objectively speaking, Atsumu is not bad at volleyball. As a matter of fact, he's actually really good at it. World-class level, so to speak. He wrestles with Kageyama Tobio every season for the #1 setter rank and comes out on top half the time. He gets contract offers in his inbox quite frequently, which means he has the liberty to turn down professional volleyball teams from abroad. He’s good, and Atsumu is very much aware of this. Even on his worst days, he could outplay half the division.

With that said, Atsumu keeps missing his mark today.

Having off days isn’t uncommon in the realm of professional athletes. Rationally, there’s no way to always be at one hundred percent, because irregularity is human nature and Atsumu has yet to ascend his flesh and blood.

But Atsumu having off days is as uncommon as it gets. He knows, because he keeps track. He takes care of himself, does his best to wrestle his circadian rhythm, and sticks to his dietary plans. For a person so impulsive, he’s pretty consistent with one thing; chasing perfection.

And yet. And yet. Today, his warm-up laps take more energy out of him than they should, his serves don’t press into his palm quite right, and his sets are a nudge toward careless. Which is not Atsumu’s thing. Atsumu’s thing is sh*tting on anyone who’s slightly behind when they shouldn’t be. Atsumu’s thing is saying ugly things to people who can’t hit his sets. Atsumu’s thing is nitpicking at the slightest hint of imperfection, of stains in their should-be routine.

Atsumu’s thing is dialling it up to eleven when it comes to himself.

It takes about a minute into their first drill for him to figure it out. He stays quiet, doesn’t ask for a break, and he knows the lack of blabbering will get suspicious in no time, but he can’t find it in himself to say anything. The knowledge of imperfection is a thorn in his side, the pesky kind that he could pick and poke at aimlessly just to drive it further in, until it stabs through a tiny artery and he starts bleeding with it. Until it’s a mess.

Disheartening is too mild of a word for it. It always is. Volleyball is supposed to be his lifelong companion until his bones crack with age; it’s supposed to be what he knows and loves and is good at. And if there’s one thing about Atsumu and being good at his passion, his literal job, it’s that they go hand-in-hand. Fingertips blazing, never straying too far apart, clasped tight until Atsumu busts a lung on his way and destroys all his joints.

Frustrated is also too mild of a word. Enraged might suffice. Or fuming. Everything related to fire and smoke, mostly. So Atsumu seethes with fury, which makes his plays even more careless – sloppy, not good enough, too eager to make up for the previous ones. Consequently, the heat rises, burns through his stamina, and makes him not only play like sh*t but feel like it, too.

The season is just around the corner. They have a friendly match with the Adlers in ten days. He really, really needs to get his sh*t together.

By the one-hour mark, he’s tired. He feels used and weary for all the wrong reasons, and it’s grimly similar to betrayal. The short circuit in his joints is every bit treacherous and the reflexive, malfunctional twitch of his fingers when he touches the ball is a rare display of disobedience. He should’ve gotten over it by now, should’ve overcome whatever fatigued distance slipped between the ball and his hands, but he’s irritated, fired up and too stubborn to go about it any other way. Despite the whole exercise aspect of the sport, there are heavy bundles of inertia pulling him back, holding him down, and f*cking hell, Atsumu might actually go insane. He’s losing his mind.

When they start playing practice matches and he doesn’t feel any better about himself, Atsumu may or may not get a little too close to considering surrender. He’s ran through all rounds of mental gymnastics; he thought about the embarrassment, the punch his ego would take if he didn’t get his sh*t together; he thought about how annoying Osamu would be if Atsumu was to retell this ouroboros of helplessness, how his twin would make fun of him and make it that much worse. He thought about Foster’s disappointed face, about everyone else pitying him and being all too nice, about the sympathy infuriating him. He thought about Sakusa seeing him give up, seeing him become fallible and capable of making mistakes.

His teammates have long caught on by now, and the reassuring smiles and claps on his back make Atsumu want to unbraid his own DNA from the inside.

It all comes crashing down when his traitor body officially waves the white flag at him. He can’t get under the ball in time, so Atsumu does the unimaginable: he bump sets. To Sakusa, no less. Oh boy.

He could pinpoint the exact millisecond in time when the air freezes. Sakusa doesn't even bother to jump, just sends the ball over the net with a simple pass.

No one moves to get it. The silence is deafening.

Atsumu hangs his head in shame, hands on his hips as he fights to catch his breath. God f*cking damn it. This is so not him. Atsumu and shame shouldn't be in the same sentence.

Well. He doubts that point is going to count. Not that it matters – Foster is going to send him home early regardless. This is it. This is all he’s got today.

Sakusa is the first one to speak. "The f*ck was that?"

Atsumu winces at the blade in his voice, but gathers the courage to lift his head and look at him.

Sakusa is glaring. Great.

Foster sighs. "Miya, take a—"

"You've been giving me sh*t sets all practice," Sakusa says bluntly. Ruthlessly.

Atsumu tenses, and then glares right back at him. His ego never learned how to go down without a fight. "f*ck ya mean sh*t sets?"

Sakusa takes a step closer, and Atsumu distantly notes Meian reaching out to hold him back before it could get out of hand, but really, when has anyone been able to keep Sakusa and Atsumu in line?

"I mean that you know exactly where to set for me, but you've been playing like you magically forgot how to touch the f*cking ball," Sakusa hisses, full of venom, his upper lip curling in dismay with the bitter and incurable taste of it. He’s exaggerating. They both know that. No set that comes out of Atsumu’s hands is anywhere near sh*tty.

But he’s been missing his marks today, and that’s exactly what Sakusa means here, too. Atsumu’s been lacking that additional something that distinguishes a good setter from the nation’s best.

He grits his teeth. "But you hit 'em anyway, asshole."

Sakusa takes another step, and then two, three more, until he's all up in Atsumu's personal space, staring down at him. If Atsumu was a little weaker, he might’ve lost all sense of bodily placement with those eyes pinned onto him, beckoning him to a place where nothing exists beyond them.

"Give me one more lousy toss, Miya. One. See if I care. I'm not letting you drag me down."

Something poisonous coils in Atsumu’s chest. His jaw clenches, and it takes every last particle of his self-control not to strangle Sakusa right then and there. He holds his eyes, denies himself the chance to get lost in the familiar gravity in them, and waits for Sakusa to break first.

Sakusa doesn't, because of course he doesn't. He’s a goddamn stone wall. Atsumu looks away, hands balled into fists.

Surprisingly enough, Foster doesn't bench him. He doesn't call him off the court, not yet, because Atsumu might have been in one of his sh*ttiest funks to count and begrudgingly starting to accept it, but oh. Oh. Sakusa brings out the absolute worst in him sometimes, and he finally starts to feel a twinge of that biting urge to do his worst.

Fighting a battle against himself is one thing. Fighting to prove himself to the biggest asshole alive out of pure spite is another.

Foster tells the opposing side to re-serve.

Barnes leaps and sends it over to Atsumu’s team, thunderous and final. Bokuto digs it, a bit far from the net but nothing Atsumu couldn't handle if he was on top of his game – which he isn't, he really, really isn't, but what the f*ck is I'm not letting you drag me down? Who the f*ck does Sakusa think he is?

Deep down—or maybe not that deep, just buried under Atsumu's astronomical pride—he knows what Sakusa is doing. He's done this before, for f*ck's sake; he's a manipulative piece of sh*t when he wants to be, and Atsumu hates that he's too f*cking irritated to refuse dancing to the rhythm Sakusa dictates. There are muscles he built. Skills he honed. Medals he won with said muscles and skills. There is nurtured strength in him.

He’s got everything he needs.

The thing about all that is that it should've been here this whole time. He should’ve been more angry, should’ve focused all that pent-up vexation on the right thing. He hates it when he's not in the right, hates losing, and absolutely despises the shame of standing up after he's been forced to his knees.

Atsumu doesn't need the little devil that's been having a field day all practice on his shoulder. He doesn't need the demons singing in his ears when he misses his marks. He doesn't need the reminder that he’s better than this, doesn't need to reminisce about the routine of the day before and how it seemed so much easier; doesn't need any kind of flashback to the days he spent constructing himself. He shouldn’t care.

That's already yesterday. The first half of practice is in past tense. All that matters, all that should’ve mattered since the very beginning is the steps he has yet to take, the byproduct of his efforts up till now, because who needs the memories, and even more pressingly, who needs them unchallenged?

His shoes screech against the floor. He watches the ball fall and spin right into the basket of his hands, and lets out an irritated noise from the back of his throat as he sends it flying, a tad bit above Sakusa's preference. He wants a proper set? Then jump, motherf*cker.

Sakusa flies, and Atsumu watches him, watches his spine bend and the way he brings his hand down like a whip, the power with which he interrupts the parabolic arc of the ball's trajectory and forges a new path. Atsumu watches Inunaki get under it and miss anyway because the absolutely revolting spin Sakusa puts on it makes the ball ricochet off his arms in the entirely wrong direction.

Sakusa lands, and then huffs – not amused, but not dissatisfied, either. His eyes shift to Atsumu, trapping him in place. With finality, with no room left for rebuttal, he demands, "One more."

So one more Atsumu gives him. And then one to Bokuto, when he realizes Atsumu is trying to kick himself back into gear. His own irritation carries him through the rest of practice, festering and bubbling and accumulating, because once Sakusa understands that his jabs are only fuel to the fire, he gets meaner with it. He gets mouthy and absolutely insufferable, ignites Atsumu’s blood at every instance.

Atsumu daydreams about committing homicide every time Sakusa raises a questioning brow as if to ask that all you got? and god f*cking damn it, Atsumu cannot stand this man. He eats away at his own stamina at a faster rate than usual, running on pure spite and a competitive streak that comes from living nearly two decades with an asshole he shares the same face with. He eventually gains back his higher ground, discards plays that don’t work and f*cks with his hitters to make them sweat, to make them suffer in solidarity. For once in his life, he stays quiet, but the vile satisfaction of drawing out exasperated grumbles from his teammates at every risk he takes is there.

He makes sure to stretch Sakusa’s vertical reach as far as possible while he’s at it.

Foster’s ear-shattering whistle cuts through the white noise. Atsumu doesn’t remember the last time he was this riled up about volleyball, but he certainly feels the strain of it once his tunnel vision expands. He’s drenched in sweat, sore all over his legs, and still staring daggers at the general direction of Sakusa’s existence.

Bokuto nudges him towards the bench with a gentle push on his lower back, and Atsumu is too spent to do anything about it. Meian generously passes him a towel and his water bottle, and Atsumu mumbles something close to a thanks, Cap between his ragged breaths. He drops onto the bench unceremoniously and downs the remaining contents of his bottle, grasping at some sort of composure to no avail. His lungs are burning, and he can taste a hint of blood in his mouth. Eugh.

With his heart beating in his ears, he doesn’t catch the first half of Foster’s short summarizing speech, and he doesn’t bother to try for the second half of it, either. He closes his eyes, chest heaving, mind blissfully blank for a little while.

Well. He certainly got out of whatever grave he dug for himself. Still, he doesn’t feel any less furious. Mocked. Boiling. The grip he has around his bottle could kill a man.

Sakusa can’t keep getting away with being such a f*cking jerk.

The edge of his vision blurs red when the object of his murderous intent sits down right next to him, legs knocking against each other. Atsumu’s hand twitches with ire, a vengeful urge creeping between the tight embrace of his tendons to choke Sakusa out and make him apologize for being the worst f*cking human being to ever walk the planet.

It’s eerily familiar; Atsumu has felt this very specific urge over a thousand times before. This is exactly how he felt when Osamu egged him on – when the f*cker always carried himself with an air of superiority (very much unjustified, by the way), when Osamu refused to get jealous over Atsumu’s milestones and made Atsumu feel that much more challenged. His twin always got on his nerves, and managed to be the most frustrating backbone to Atsumu’s skeleton. He’s always been the pillar that fed into the competitiveness that gets Atsumu’s blood pumping; the draining force that pushed him until he realized bending wasn’t an option, that settling for less than his best was never even close to being on the table. And yes, Osamu was, is, and will always be a total nightmare and an energy vampire, but he’s also the reason Atsumu had to improve himself to stay neck and neck, the reason he had to stock up on everything – stamina, power, skill. Strength.

The parallel makes his lips curl into a twisted frown, nasty and barely contained. Just because the driving force behind their timeless contest made Atsumu stronger and sturdier and better, it doesn’t mean he didn’t get irritated out of his f*cking mind every damn time.

Just as he is now. Furious. Mocked. Boiling.

Sakusa doesn’t say a word. He drinks and he towels off the sweat from his forehead, but he stays quiet.

He’s a prick. An asshole. A bully.

But he also brought Atsumu out of his funk. He didn’t pull Atsumu up by himself, he didn’t offer a helping hand (far from it, actually), but he asked—hell, ordered Atsumu to do it on his own. To get his sh*t together. Stand up. Do better.

Atsumu’s chest squeezes in an entirely different way. It’s not as unwelcome as he’d like it to be.

“Thanks,” he mutters, peeved. Mocked. Simmering, now.

He catches the corner of Sakusa’s mouth curving upwards, subtle and tiny as it always is, but there nonetheless. A hand presses down on Atsumu’s shoulder, squeezes in acknowledgement, and then disappears as fast as it came. Sakusa stands up, not looking at him.

“Help me stretch,” he says, then starts walking towards their usual spot on the court.

Atsumu follows.

“—so he’s out of town for a few days,” Bokuto continues, hastily shoving deodorant under one arm then the other. Everyone else has already left the dressing room except for them, so he doesn’t bother to control his volume. “And you know what that means!”

Hinata leaps over Bokuto’s back, arms snaking around his neck and thighs encapsulating his sides as he lets out a cheer that echoes around the room. “Slumber party!!!”

Atsumu can’t help but smile. They’re infectious; loud and energetic even after hours of gruelling exercise, and they drag Atsumu’s mood with their flow. Bokuto always gets lonely when he can’t see his boyfriend for more than twenty-four hours; he’s not used to the quiet, and there aren’t many outlets for all the rambling he does when he’s by himself.

So they always have sleepovers when Akaashi is away for more than a day. Never mind that they’re over twenty and (allegedly) professional adults. Never mind that Atsumu is way too easily excitable about this too, because if they go to Bokuto’s, that means Sakusa gets the bed; and there’s only one person he’d allow to sleep next to him.

“A’ight,” Atsumu relents, rifling through the disorderly abyss he calls a gym bag in search of his jacket. “I’ll drop by Samu’s though, so I’ll be a little late.” He means to say more, something about blackmailing his brother into making dinner for the four of them – but Sakusa chooses that exact moment to emerge from the showers in all his single-towel glory, so Atsumu resigns himself to tracking all the moles on the broad expanse of unblemished skin instead, noting the water droplets that make rivers out of Sakusa’s collarbones.

There’s a slight chance Atsumu salivates at the sight, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Omi-Omi!” Bokuto beams at him, rolling back and forth on his heels. “Keiji’s not home!”

Sakusa takes one look at the three of them, piercing as ever, then turns to his locker without so much as an eyebrow raise. “When?” He asks simply, knowing exactly what Bokuto is insinuating.

“Today, tomorrow, anytime you’re free. If I have to sleep alone for even a day, I might just die,” Bokuto nods solemnly, but lights right back up like some godawful Christmas tree when Hinata immediately reassures him with a “that won’t happen, Bokuto-san!”

“Fine. I’ll be there by seven,” Sakusa says flatly, not a hint of happiness in his tone, but Atsumu knows for a fact it’s there, hidden somewhere in the tiny twitch of his lips.

That sets both Hinata and Bokuto into motion, and Atsumu laughs at the latter when the idiot nearly cracks his skull open, hopping on one foot as his pants hang around his left ankle. Atsumu sits down, fishing his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through his notifications idly while he listens to Hinata and Bokuto chatter away about the newest episode of some mindless reality show.

It’s kind of amazing that Sakusa is ready to go before the other two. He’s a machine, in nearly every sense of the word – whether it’s about volleyball or changing clothes, Sakusa just gets the job done. It’s what he does best, after all.

They wait for Hinata and Bokuto to finish up. Sakusa picks at Atsumu’s hair, and Atsumu only partially believes his excuse of there was something in there, but decides to play nice and just smile up at Sakusa, not calling him out on his bullsh*t.

“Why did you suck so much today?” Sakusa asks, hushed but merciless all the same. He’s lucky Atsumu is no longer mad at him. Although Atsumu himself is very much aware that he usually holds grudges for eternity, he can’t find it himself to do it now.

He shrugs. “Dunno. I got lost in my head ‘bout it. I was pissed.”

“And then I pissed you off some more,” Sakusa states, quirking a brow.

“Yeah, but it’s different,” Atsumu admits. “Wantin’ ta beat your ass is a lot better than wantin’ to beat my own.”

Before Sakusa can comment on that, Hinata finally slams his locker shut and slings his duffel bag over his shoulder. They take that for the cue it is and follow their teammates out of the gymnasium, walking at a tired, comfortable pace.

It’s chilly outside. Autumn is already sneaking into the last bits of summer evenings, and Atsumu mourns the sliver of energy it takes to shiver when the heat from the inside breaks free from the confines of his skin. He wrestles with the zipper of his jacket, fumbling and yanking at it until Sakusa takes notice and bats his hand away to do it himself. Atsumu’s eyes drift to the horizon, the sun kissing the ground below, and he follows the breath he lets out until the mist is swept away by a cold breeze.

Onigiri Miya is in the opposite direction of his apartment, so he won’t be able to accompany Sakusa for the few blocks he usually does. He looks back at Sakusa when his fingers slip away from Atsumu’s zipper, and reaches a hand out to cinch around his waist, squeezing once in a silent thanks.

“I’ll see you at Bokkun’s,” he says, internally cringing at how lovesick he sounds.

“You will,” Sakusa replies. Atsumu doesn’t know if he means to make it sound like a threat, but even if he does, it holds no weight – Sakusa’s presence is not the antidote to fun. Especially to him. Especially when Sakusa looks at him like that; mildly affectionate under his carefully crafted barriers, promising something untouchable.

“See you, Omi-san!” Hinata calls out from behind, and Atsumu takes that as his cue to cut their goodbye short. He shares one last look with Sakusa, mouth ticking up into a smile, and steps away with a wave.

Sakusa nods as he pulls his mask up, shoving his hands inside his pockets, and turns around to leave.

“Sooo,” Hinata drawls once Sakusa is out of earshot, pulling Atsumu along, trapping him between Bokuto and himself. “What’s that all about, Atsumu-san? Spill.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. Both Bokuto and Hinata know exactly what it’s about, given that they’ve been enjoying the show from the front row. Still, Hinata likes grilling him and putting his nose in their business a little bit too much, and Bokuto is genuinely delighted at every small step they take from whatever they are towards something more…tangible. Something with labels.

We share the same soul, Atsumu wants to say, because that’s what it is, isn’t it? But saying something like that out loud sounds absolutely mortifying. It’s bad enough that Atsumu even thought it. So he settles on his best lie instead; “We’re friends.”

“Very good friends,” Bokuto teases, wrapping his arm around Atsumu’s shoulder to get up in his face. “Historians might even call you roommates.”

Atsumu laughs, shoving him out of his personal space. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“I never thought you’d be the type of person to wait,” Hinata muses. “I always pegged you as someone who chases after everything no matter what.”

Atsumu smiles. He used to think so, too. “Not everythin’, apparently. But if ya told me a year ago it’d be like this, I woulda laughed my ass off.”

“The power of love, huh? Even Tsumu-san can learn patience,” Hinata says cheekily, earning himself the patented Miya Elbow Special between his ribs.

Bokuto hums. “We really are the gayest team in the division.”

Well. Atsumu can’t argue with that one, so he doesn’t.

Once he parts ways with Bokuto and Hinata, he shoots Osamu a quick text asking him not to close the kitchen just yet, because Atsumu is planning on exploiting his love for cooking yet again, quadrupled this time. Osamu replies with a simple eat sh*t and die, which is as good of an affirmative response as any.

It’s not a long walk. He entertains the idea of calling Sakusa for the minutes it’d take both of them to get to their destination, but ultimately decides against it. Being so blatant about whatever this thing between them is would give Sakusa too much of a power trip, and Atsumu is not one to lose so easily, so he walks with the cool breeze in comfortable silence instead.

Osamu is as lovely as ever when he gets there.

“Hey, pissant,” he says without looking up from wiping down the counter in lieu of a greeting. “We don’ serve roaches.” Despite his charming personality, there is a plate of negitoro onigiri waiting for Atsumu, alongside two plastic bags that Atsumu assumes contain their dinner.

Something twists in Atsumu’s ribcage at the gesture, but he dismisses it.

“That’s crazy,” he tosses back, his accent immediately surfacing with full force like some Pavlovian response to Osamu’s voice. “Considerin’ yer ass basically lives 'ere. Anyone in their right mind woulda called pest control by now.”

Osamu throws his kitchen cloth at him. “Door’s right there.” Then he does a double take, narrowing his eyes at Atsumu. “Ya look like sh*t.”

Atsumu doesn’t think he does. There shouldn’t be anything to give him away, and it’s disturbing how Osamu can still pick him apart, see right through him without the eyebags.

“Ever look in a mirror?” He barks, plopping down onto one of the stools. He mutters a quick thanks for the meal under his breath before digging right in. Even if he’s not particularly hungry just yet, Osamu’s food is always worth lying to his nutritionist.

“I’m serious,” Osamu says, abandoning his task to turn all that attention onto Atsumu. “Jus’ spit it out. M’not yer f*ckin’ keeper.”

Atsumu glares at him over a mouthful, chewing extra slow to drag it out and get on his brother’s nerves. He makes a show of swallowing and wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Practice was garbage. Stop fussin’ ‘bout it.”

Osamu raises a condescending brow. “Ya think I’ve a choice? I hafta ask every f*ckin’ time so ya don’t go f*ck all and lose yer mind ‘bout it.”

“I ain’t losin’ jack sh*t,” Atsumu protests indignantly. “Omi-kun got me outta it. M’just tired as f*ck.”

His brother seems to take that at face value for once, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothing out. Atsumu would be happy about not being interrogated over his below-average performance, but he knows better than to expect a reprieve and absolutely hates his brother for it.

“Sakusa, huh,” Osamu says slowly, the corner of his mouth curling up. Atsumu pointedly takes another bite of his negitoro to ignore him. “Are ya ever gonna put a ring on it?”

There it is. Straight to the point and being an asshole about it, as always.

“I mean,” Osamu goes on, because he’s a sh*thead like that. “How many people can effectively pull ya back from the sh*tty mind games ya play on yer off days?”

Osamu knows exactly how many. Two. Him and Sakusa.

Atsumu isn’t going to tell him that, though. “Lay off, scrub. M’workin’ on it.”

“Ya have been for months,” Osamu points out. “S’gettin’ painful ta watch.”

“How’s Sunarin, then?” Atsumu fires back, changing tactics. “Ya grown the balls yet?”

Osamu’s expression immediately falls. “Shut the f*ck up.”

“Don’t be an idiot ‘bout this, Samu,” Atsumu says, pressing on. “Yer both f*ckin’ insufferable, ya might as well do it t’gether. He’s waitin’ on ya.”

“Take yer own advice, dipsh*t,” Osamu deflects, but lets out a sigh, shoulders falling. “I dunno ‘bout Rin anymore,” he adds, a bit less fiery. “Shizuoka’s a long drive, ‘Sumu.”

That makes Atsumu frown. “f*ck ya mean ya don’t know? I jus’ told ya not ta be an idiot ‘bout this.”

“Easy fer ya t’say,” Osamu hisses. “Ya see Sakusa every damn day. It’s a f*ckin’ wonder he still tolerates ya.”

“So f*ckin’ what?” Atsumu throws his hands in the air, bewildered. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, don’t it? Once ya open in Tokyo, ya’ll be closer anyway. Ya can f*ck off and see ‘im every other day if ya two put in the effort.”

“And what, leave ya here by yerself? Ya won’t last a single day alive.”

Atsumu purses his lips. The twist in his ribcage makes a reappearance. “Since when was that not a motivator fer ya?”

Osamu opens his mouth, then closes it. He sits on that for a few seconds, gaze heavy on Atsumu’s face, but Atsumu refuses to look away from the counter, taking another bite with none of the enthusiasm from before.

“‘Sumu,” Osamu eventually says, slow and deliberate. “I ain’t movin’ ta Tokyo. Ya know that. I’ll only be away fer two weeks ta oversee the openin’.”

Atsumu shrugs. This conversation is getting out of his hands now. If it was any other time, he might’ve been able to brush it off and move on from it, but the thought of Osamu not being within arm’s reach, of him pursuing his own life without Atsumu in it is shattering.

Oh. That’s what the twist in his ribcage is about. He missed Osamu.

That would explain why he’s suddenly so emotional over this. It’s been a week since he last saw his brother, and sure, that might be longer than they usually go without each other, but it’s still not reason enough for Atsumu to feel so clingy out of nowhere. It shouldn’t be.

“Maybe ya should,” he pushes out, ignoring the tight squeeze of his chest. “Do yer own thing an’ sh*t.”

Osamu knows him a bit too well to let that slide, though. “Yer a real piece of work, ya know that?” He asks, irritated. “Ya know why I got this location only after ya signed yer contract? ‘Cause yer extra annoyin’ ta make plans with unless it’s easy. Shizuoka could be on the other side’a the damn planet and I’d still see Rin more than I’d see ya from Tokyo.”

Atsumu keeps staring at the counter, hanging his head. He hates that Osamu is right, and he hates that both of them know that Atsumu knows. Seeing his twin has always been simple, erring on the side of turning Atsumu straight-up codependent; and without a shred of shame, he always let Osamu put in the effort.

He pushes his plate away and sprawls out on the smooth surface, crossing his arms. He props his chin on his forearm as he keeps staring at the counter, refusing to meet Osamu’s eyes.

Osamu sighs again. “Listen, scrub. Just cuz ya make my life miserable doesn’t mean I want ya outta it. Ain’t nothin’ in Tokyo fer me, either.”

“I know,” Atsumu mumbles petulantly. His chest still feels too tight. “M’sorry.”

If he had the willpower to look up at Osamu, he’s pretty sure he’d see him gape.

“What didja just say?” Osamu asks, horrified. When Atsumu doesn’t answer him, he adds, “What is with ya t'day?”

“I dunno, alright?!” Atsumu says vehemently, turning his head away. “S’been a f*ckin’ rollercoaster all day, and then Omi pissed me off at practice ta snap me out of it the same damn way ya used ta, so it’s weird seein’ and talkin’ ta ya right now, and—I don’t know, okay?!”

Osamu stays silent. Atsumu burrows his face further into his arms, mouth pulled into a thin line. He listens for the footsteps that echo around the empty shop as Osamu walks out from behind the counter with yet another put-on sigh.

He sits down next to Atsumu. Atsumu peeks at him, and holds his eyes when they meet halfway.

“Yer real annoyin’,” Osamu says half-heartedly. “If ya miss me, jus’ say that. No need ta get all pissy ‘bout it.”

“I didn’ miss ya,” Atsumu lies in a moment of peak maturity.

“Yeah, right,” Osamu huffs, rolling his eyes. “Ya wanna hug it out or somethin’?”

“f*ck no,” Atsumu says, because he’s not feeling that low. Even if it’s a bullsh*t response, saying otherwise would be mortifying.

Osamu snorts, seeing right through him. He indulges Atsumu with a hand on his back, rubbing firm circles along his spine. It’s a good compromise on Atsumu’s end; he gets to keep his pride intact but also a dose of Osamu’s touch. This must be the curse of sharing a bed until their teen years.

“Eat yer food,” Osamu says after a while, gently kicking at Atsumu’s ankle. “Stay as long as ya want, but I gotta clean up ‘round here.”

Atsumu does as told, soaking up the thinly-veiled affection behind Osamu’s tone. He might stay a bit longer than planned.

Atsumu would like to know what the f*ck he’s looking at.

So, he asks. “What the f*ck am I lookin’ at?”

His mood has only improved tenfold since the end of practice. Osamu wasn’t exactly nice, but he was nicer than his usual, and Atsumu is still milking that high for all it's worth. When he eventually left, Osamu demanded he visits tomorrow as well, which was definitely a bonus.

He didn’t bother with the detour home, knowing that Hinata also skipped on packing his sleepover bag, and that Bokuto has more than enough spare toiletries for the both of them. Even if he didn’t, Sakusa would probably take care of it. In either case, Atsumu arrives at Bokuto’s place only forty minutes later than anticipated, and Hinata is the one opening the door for him, waving and beaming at Atsumu with his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder before he scurries away with a sheepish smile to the kitchen for some sense of privacy. Atsumu catches the first half of a sentence, Hinata whisper-screaming something along the lines of what do you mean he’s engaged?! and takes a mental note to ask about the gossip later.

This is where things roll in an entirely unforeseen direction.

It’s not that Sakusa doesn’t touch people. The thing is, he’s just extremely selective about it. It takes time to squeeze into the cracks in his cold exterior and actually reach something soft and beating in there, but once someone does, it’s set in stone.

Atsumu knows that the three of them—their monster generation—made it past that point. It makes the most sense; the four youngest Jackals, the freaks who are the same level of nearly batsh*t insane about volleyball are bound to get along. Sure, Atsumu likes to think he won the race for Sakusa’s trust and permission to touch, but he couldn’t be mad about it even if he didn’t. (He did. Not the point, though.) Seeing Sakusa grow comfortable not only with him but Hinata and Bokuto as well is a novel thing – there’s nothing fragile about it, contrary to popular belief. Once Sakusa adjusts his routine, he adjusts it. It doesn’t change, because routine is not supposed to, not on a daily basis—but when it’s adjusted, it’s adjusted for the better.

The ebb and flow of his willingness to let Hinata hitch a piggyback ride are still very much prominent, but the fact that there are days when Sakusa wouldn’t even bat an eyelash as Hinata tackles him says a lot. Sakusa still asks him if he showered every time and watches Hinata wash his hands before subjecting himself to a hug, because Sakusa is a very particular man. He is also very particular about patting Hinata’s head when it comes down to it.

All in all, Sakusa isn’t necessarily distant. He might be aloof and incredibly prickly, as Atsumu loves to remind him, but just because he’s an asshole does not mean he’s not human. He can do more than just endure people. He can like them. He can grow comfortable with them. Being friends with three people who are extremely tactile by nature comes with a sacrifice that doesn’t even look like a sacrifice, because apparently, once Sakusa’s walls are down and in shambles, he doesn’t seem to mind it anymore.

He’s still prickly. He’s still a jerk. He’s still a bully. (Atsumu thinks the bullying only got worse as time went on, actually.) And Sakusa is still ever so allergic to vulnerability, but he’s also comfortable with trying, sometimes.

Apparently, right now is one of those times. Atsumu would still like to know what the f*ck he’s looking at.

Because there’s absolutely no way Sakusa and Bokuto are cuddling.

Even with the knowledge that Sakusa is more than capable of communicating through physical touch, this is overkill. It crosses a line that Atsumu believed to be unerasable. Sakusa doesn’t initiate touch with anyone unless the occasion really calls for it, as far as Atsumu is concerned; he doesn’t go over the line of polite and normal and simple. Atsumu has known himself to be the only exception to that rule – with him, Sakusa could go as far as seek it. Chase it.

So imagine Atsumu’s surprise, seeing them like this. They’re sprawled over Bokuto’s huge couch, with Bokuto’s head resting on Sakusa’s chest and his arm lazily thrown across Sakusa’s stomach.

He can’t believe Bokuto took Sakusa’s cuddle virginity. What the f*ck. Has he no shame?

Apparently not, because Bokuto laughs. Sakusa glances at him, raising a brow.

There’s no way Atsumu could mistake the look in Bokuto’s eyes for anything but mischief. “Omi-Omi is very good at snuggles. Who knew?”

Atsumu wouldn’t call that snuggles, to be honest. Technically, Bokuto is the only one snuggling. Sakusa is just simply letting him play koala.

(The lack of reciprocation on Sakusa’s end doesn’t make him feel any less miserable about the lack of his arms around him.)

“Since when were you a cuddler?” He questions Sakusa, still hanging onto the plastic bags for their dinner. He’s starting to reconsider sharing with either of these f*ckers.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sakusa throws back at him, sounding disinterested. He doesn’t fool Atsumu—he can see the way Sakusa’s eyes are hooded in the way they always are when he’s winning and he knows it. He’s aggravating, and it’s on purpose.

Because you have yet to cuddle the f*ck out of me, Atsumu wants to say. In all the months he spent wiggling his way into Sakusa’s space and demanding to stay there, he never got to do this one thing. It's always been hand-holding at best when they shared a bed, but never actual, real cuddles. It should’ve been marked off his list a long time ago. They had sex, for f*ck’s sake.

As if to make things worse, Bokuto shuffles a little bit, pressing closer. He sounds strangely smug when he says, “He made me shower again. And change.”

“Ahuh. Cool,” Atsumu says dumbly. He stares for a few more seconds, and then turns on his heels to deposit his cargo in the kitchen. Those two can starve for all he cares.

He still catches the tails of Bokuto and Sakusa making fun of him.

“You think he’s jealous?” Bokuto wonders, sounding way too pleased for Atsumu’s liking.

Sakusa hums, amused. “I think he’d be jealous of a mosquito bite if it was the right person.” If it was me, he doesn’t say, but Atsumu knows he means anyway. Jackass.

There’s definitely something to say about the way Sakusa and Bokuto get along. There’s nothing about them that should fit in the same picture—Bokuto is bright where Sakusa is broody, and Sakusa is evil where Bokuto is naive. They’re definitely rivals to an extent, too, with how they both placed in the top five aces back in high school. Thing is, there’s more admiration to that than competition. Sakusa acknowledges Bokuto’s strengths, and Bokuto responds in kind. Bokuto shouts in awe when Sakusa pulls off some spectacular move on the court, and Sakusa either gives him an appreciative smile or a look that says your turn, ‘normal’ ace. It isn’t the contentious, fighting tooth-and-nail kind of relationship. It’s a subdued one, where they still push each other to improve, do more, be better, but it’s not a command. It’s a challenge, a gentle nudge towards stardom.

As happy as Atsumu is about Sakusa opening his cold little heart to more than one person, he still despises them. Especially when they join forces against him.

Thankfully, Hinata is already in the middle of wrapping up his phone call when Atsumu gets there, discarding their takeout on the table and collapsing onto a chair. He drags his hands down his face, watching Hinata through the space between his fingers. He’s too mentally exhausted to clap back at Sakusa for the bullsh*t he’s pulling.

Maybe Hinata will take pity on him and help.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Hinata murmurs into his microphone, smiling. “Yeah, yeah. Love you.”

Atsumu wonders what it’s like to just say that so freely instead of driving each other crazy for no reason other than declaring war, but he doesn’t think this is the time to dwell on it, so he doesn’t. Hinata’s eyes are already on him by the time he’s done fantasizing about Sakusa’s lips wrapping around those words.

“Tsumu-san,” he grins from ear to ear. “Why the long face?”

“Not you too, Shou-kun,” Atsumu whines. “I need you to be on my side.”

“I’m always on your side,” Hinata says, like the pretty little liar that he is. He gets to moving around Bokuto’s kitchen as if it was his own, and retrieves four plates, setting the table. Atsumu would get up to help if he was a nice person. He isn’t. “Bokuto-san just misses Akaashi-san. He needed the cuddles.”

Atsumu grumbles, but deems that as a good enough excuse for whatever the f*ck is going on in the living room. His focus shifts back to Hinata. “So what was that ‘bout someone gettin’ engaged?” He asks, yearning to change the subject.

Hinata’s face lights up, leaning closer in a secretive manner. “Ushiwaka-san,” he whispers conspiratorially.

Atsumu goes bug-eyed, jaw dropping. It’s the perfect distraction for his Sakusa-contaminated thoughts. “Yer kidding! That cow’s gettin’ married?!” He exclaims, slapping the table in the absence of a better way to express himself.

Hinata grins, full of glee. “He proposed after three months, Tsumu-san. Three months.”

Atsumu loses it. “What?! How is this behaviour not criminalized yet?” He laughs, teetering on the edge of hysterics, running his hands through his hair in disbelief. “Are you fer real? That’s so f*ckin’ absurd!” Ushijima must’ve gone mad, or maybe he was never that sane to begin with. Is this his new way of taking out his opponents? Making them lose their sh*t by being ridiculous?

“Can you imagine?” Hinata cackles. “I can’t stop seeing him with a rose between his teeth, like—“ he pulls out a chopstick from one of the kitchen drawers and sticks it in his mouth, “—This is my formal request for you to pursue marriage with me. Please sign here. In addition, moo,” Hinata imitates Ushijima’s robot voice, expression stoic before he loses it and doubles over with laughter.

Hinata is half Ushijima’s size, coddled in the cutest hoodie Atsumu’s ever seen, with his hair standing in all the gravity-defying directions. He’s the sweetest thing alive even when he’s mimicking and making fun of Ushijima, and Atsumu doesn’t remember the last time he snorted this loud. The moo especially gets him. One day, he’s going to lose a lung like this, choking on his spit because Hinata’s impression is downright horrendous and it makes it that much better – he’s Atsumu’s favourite for a reason. He’s never short on gossip, and his delivery is always on point.

It’s not even that funny, if he’s honest. And yet, seeing Hinata laugh his ass off sets Atsumu off too, and he has to bury his face in his hands to muffle the embarrassingly loud chortle that gets past his throat.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bokuto pops up in the middle of their slow descent to insanity, probably drawn to the racket they’re causing. “What’s this about?”

Hinata tells him the same thing he told Atsumu between gasping breaths, and Bokuto’s reaction is a perfect reflection of their own as he cackles, immediately joining for the ride of ridiculing Ushijima for his absolute lack of tact, stumbling over to the table to take a seat. Sakusa is a bit late behind him, stopping in his tracks when Hinata drops the bomb for him too, but he’s quick to move to sit down next to Atsumu, something that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by Atsumu.

He might be bad at holding grudges when it comes to Sakusa and his annoying tendency to refuse apologizing out loud, but Atsumu is not going to let him off the hook that easy. He’s not that weak.

“This is the same person Omi-san had a crush on back in high school,” Hinata heaves, wiping at his eyes. The reminder sends Bokuto and Atsumu into another round of laughter, revelling in the rare chance to poke fun at Sakusa.

Sakusa shrugs. “He’s a very efficient man,” he says, adding fuel to the fire. His lips tip into a tiny smile when Bokuto falls out of his chair at that, and he knocks his and Atsumu’s knees together when Atsumu laughs a little bit too loud at his questionable past love interest.

Just to take his revenge, Atsumu pulls his leg out of reach, his amusem*nt dwindling down to a soft chuckle. He can feel Sakusa’s eyes land on him at the gesture, and he definitely doesn’t have to look to know what kind of tiny frown furrows his eyebrows. That’s for cuddling the wrong guy, Atsumu tries to communicate through the innocent smile he flashes him.

Sakusa’s mouth twitches before he grabs hold of Atsumu’s leg and pulls it over his own under the table, his hand settling with the tips of his fingers just shy of dipping into the inner portion of Atsumu’s thigh. The action feels like an ultimatum, like the dot at the end of a sentence, so Atsumu settles for the temporary truce it is.

Bokuto finally lunges for the plastic boxes, letting out a moan that should be reserved for Akaashi’s ears only when he sees his favourite inside. Atsumu reinstalls his selective hearing at the sight of Bokuto drooling—if he didn’t, he’d never hear the end of the who’s the better twin debate, and he’s not particularly feeling up to ripping Bokuto’s head off.

“Did you wash your hands?” Sakusa asks when Atsumu reaches out for his share, batting his hand away.

Atsumu groans, but dutifully pulls his leg away and stands up, Hinata following suit when Sakusa turns his glare onto him.

Bokuto calls out after him in the most irritatingly joyful tone possible. “Omi-Omi helped me wash mine, by the way.”

Now, Atsumu knows that’s factually incorrect because if anyone in Sakusa’s close vicinity couldn’t wash their hands by themselves, he would not only leave them for dead, but he’d proactively seek their untimely demise. But logical reasoning aside, Bokuto is being a bit too much of a sh*thead today, so he’s starting to contemplate, in no specific order: the repercussions of strangling a teammate. Sakusa’s willingness to lend him enough cleaning supplies to cover up the crime scene. A vacation. The next time his contract is due for renewal.

“You think you’re so funny, don’tcha,” Atsumu settles on saying, not finding him funny in the slightest. Hinata pulls him to the bathroom before Atsumu could do something stupid like sucker punch Bokuto in the balls.

“They’re just teasing you, Atsu-san,” Hinata tries to reassure him, turning on the sink and soaking his hands in soap, washing thoroughly in the Sakusa-approved way.

“I’m aware,” Atsumu grumbles, hip-checking Hinata out of the way before he’s done. Hinata doesn’t seem to mind; he just giggles and bumps their shoulders, wiggling back into Atsumu’s space to rinse.

“Wanna get back at them?”

Atsumu finds Hinata’s eyes in the mirror, his indulgent grin staring back at Atsumu’s reflection. “Like you hafta ask,” Atsumu smirks, all teeth and ill intent. “This is why I like you so much, Shou-kun.”

Hinata steps away to dry his hands, smile still intact. Atsumu keeps washing just a little bit more, lest Sakusa sniffs him out and catches him lacking.

“Told you I’m always on your side,” Hinata singsongs, acting as if agreeing with Atsumu wasn’t the worst nightmare of every single one of his friends. (Maybe Atsumu just needs new friends.) “I always got your back, Tsumu-san.”

Atsumu huffs. “Ya couldn’t even tell me and Samu apart back in high school.”

Hinata falters, then shrugs. “Okay, fair, but I don’t think anyone could.”

Atsumu frowns in confusion, turning off the sink. “Excuse me?” He waves a hand at his face. “The hair?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hinata grimaces. “That hair definitely needs to be excused.”

Atsumu drops his hand and stares at Hinata blankly, unmoving. Hinata squeaks at whatever expression he sees on his face, immediately apologising and scurrying away while he still has the chance. Atsumu sighs and towels off, checking himself out in the mirror one last time before he follows Hinata.

“You got the hots for him over a hankie?” Bokuto laughs around a mouthful, already two bites into his onigiri. Atsumu can’t tell if the face Sakusa makes is because of the question or because of Bokuto’s questionable table manners.

“Oh, I like where this is goin’,” Atsumu catches on quick, having heard this story way too many times. When he sits down at the table, Sakusa spreads his legs just a tad bit, nudging against Atsumu’s own, and Atsumu is not strong enough to refuse the silent request, throwing his leg right back where it belongs. “Wanna share with the class, Omi?”

Sakusa gingerly takes a bite of his umeboshi, shooting him a look. “No.”

Atsumu’s grin widens, deciding to take it upon himself to tell the story instead. “Ya know what really did it for ‘im?” He turns to the other side of the table, propping his chin on his palm. “Ushiwaka folded his hankie with the damp side in. That’s all it took.”

Hinata and Bokuto snort simultaneously, sharing a look. Sakusa’s glare intensifies.

“Wakatoshi-kun was the first person I met in high school with actual hygiene standards,” he mutters, the tips of his ears turning pink. “He intrigued me.”

Atsumu grins. He’s always liked teasing Sakusa about his high school crush, mostly because he knows they’re both keenly aware of the difference between Ushijima and Atsumu. If they talked about it—this thing, this whole will-they-won’t-they situation, their impending doom—Sakusa would say he downgraded. Atsumu would say he just learned to live a little.

“Wakatoshi-kun, huh?” he draws out the syllables as far as they stretch, relishing the irritated twitch of Sakusa’s eyebrow.

“Yes, Miya,” Sakusa shoots back.

Atsumu’s face drops into a deadpan. The audacity of this man. He moves to pull his leg away, but Sakusa’s hand darts down to keep it in place, his glare melting into something more mischievous, more knowing. There’s only a tiny difference between Sakusa’s multitude of near-indistinguishable expressions, and Atsumu detests his ability to tell them apart.

He decides looking away from Sakusa’s stupid, ocean-deep eyes is his best shot at not giving him this win. Hinata is whispering something into Bokuto’s ear when his attention lands on them, both of them immediately leaning away and sitting ramrod straight in their seats, the perfect picture of getting caught red-handed.

Atsumu tries his best to ignore them. He also tries his best to ignore the hand that stays on his thigh for the rest of their meal.

They don’t bother with the dishes—or, well. To be more precise, Hinata has to push Sakusa away from the menacing eye contest he has with the plates in the sink before his clean freak streak gets the better of him, because Bokuto is already off to set up the living room for the K-drama marathon he and Hinata secretly agreed on.

Neither Atsumu nor Sakusa is a diehard fan of the genre, but saying no to Hinata is a challenge impossible, and Bokuto’s puppy eyes are quite effective when he wants them to be, too. Besides, Atsumu doesn’t mind watching anything as long as Hinata tackles him to the couch and makes Sakusa’s eyes narrow at him like that.

Hinata is surprisingly good at making revenge taste sweet; Atsumu has a feeling it has something to do with keeping count of his and Kageyama’s neverending contest over the thousand mark. Hinata is an expert, which is probably why he makes sure Atsumu sits at the end of the couch so he’s the only one with the privilege of invading Atsumu’s personal space. Atsumu is more than happy to oblige.

Once they settle down, Sakusa sits down on Hinata’s other side, leaving a bit of room between them. His eyes are fixed on the television screen as if unbothered, but he’s not wearing his mask, so there’s nowhere to hide the downward twist of his lips.

Hinata leans in to whisper in Atsumu’s ear, upping the ante. “I think you’re gonna like that character,” he points at the blond guy in the thumbnail of the first episode, the screen frozen as it loads.

“Yeah?” Atsumu glances at him, curious. “Why?”

“He’s mean and broody. Just your type,” Hinata says cheekily, careful not to let the other two overhear him.

“Oh, ya little—” Atsumu sneers, pulling Hinata into a headlock and rubbing his knuckles harshly against the top of his head until Hinata’s arms are flailing around in an attempt to make him stop. “As if that ain’t yours too,” Atsumu hisses with no bite, letting him go.

Hinata freezes, some kind of realization dawning on him. He looks up at Atsumu, eyes full of the universe. “Oh my god, Tsumu-san,” he whisper-shouts, practically vibrating with glee. “We both have a sun-and-moon relationship!”

Atsumu snorts, shaking his head. As nice as that sounds, he doesn’t exactly have a…sunny personality, so to speak. “Nah, Shou-kun. That’s just you.” He sinks into Bokuto’s couch, manspreading in the way he knows Sakusa finds—quote unquote—shameless and perturbingly obnoxious.

Hinata pouts at him. “The sun doesn’t always have to be nice, y’know,” he mumbles, following Atsumu’s lead and settling back against the couch, letting his head fall on Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu throws his arm over the backrest to accommodate him. “You can get sunburnt for a reason.”

“Huh,” Atsumu says, looking away from him. He pauses for a moment, playing it over in his head. “That’s kinda cheesy, ain’t it?”

“Maybe,” Hinata whispers through his smile. “But you make Omi-san shine a lot brighter, too. He’s definitely your moon.”

Pride swells in his chest at that. It’s strange feeling so victorious off the court, but his heart expands with it; whether Hinata is right or not doesn’t even matter. Knowing that he and Sakusa look like they’re the perfect match made in hell from the outside too is already enough. They don’t need to talk about it—hell, Atsumu doesn’t give a flying f*ck about how long they’re going to play cat and mouse. As long as Sakusa’s heart is off limits for everyone else, Atsumu is content.

He chances a glance at the man in question. He looks more like a grumpy cat than the moon, if Atsumu is being honest—elegant and graceful, yet willing to tear into the nearest person with his claws. Atsumu has long come to terms with the fact that Sakusa looks ethereal no matter what, but the way he’s pouting right now—his bottom lip jutting out and his cheeks puffy, making those tiny frown lines show up around his mouth—is entirely unfair.

Atsumu is a weak, weak man with a selfish appetite. Sakusa’s elbow on the backrest is as good an opening as any.

Perhaps it’s time for a real truce. They’ve dragged this out for long enough.

Atsumu goes about it from a strategic viewpoint; he waits for the first episode to start playing in the background, attention drawn completely elsewhere, and then waits some more until both Hinata and Bokuto are knee-deep in watching the screen, excitedly discussing one of the side characters they apparently both adore. The minutes seem to walk by with great leisure, and Atsumu chews on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from getting antsy. He’s never been a particularly patient guy. Still, he waits until it’s not too suspicious for him to shift around, and then finally, he reaches over to tap Sakusa’s elbow. Atsumu doesn’t turn to look even when he feels Sakusa’s questioning gaze on him, just slides his fingers up to his forearm and pulls it behind the couch. He brushes down against the sleeve of Sakusa’s sweater until he finds his hand and covers it with his own, lacing their fingers together.

With a quick glance, he confirms that the wrinkles on Sakusa’s forehead vanish, tension leaving his shoulders. His frown smoothes out into a small, pleased smile.

Hinata takes immediate notice of the shift in Sakusa’s demeanour. “Omi-san,” he says slowly, suspiciously. “Why are you smiling. Her dad just died. You’re paying attention, right? This is supposed to be her tragic backstory.”

Atsumu has to stifle his laugh by biting down on his tongue. Sakusa tries to cover up for his moment of weakness, shrugging. “I have daddy issues.”

Atsumu nearly chokes on his breath at that, whipping his head around to press his giggle into his palm, helpless against it in the face of Sakusa’s thorough lack of filter. His chest shakes with mirth, dislodging Hinata’s head from his shoulder.

Hinata blurts out a disbelieving laugh, too. “You’re insane,” he says plainly but drops it, waiting for Atsumu to settle before leaning back against him.

Atsumu meets Sakusa’s eyes, lips tightly pressed together to keep the rest of his delight trapped in his chest. Sakusa gives a minute shake of his head, pretending to be annoyed. Atsumu squeezes his hand.

Sakusa squeezes back.

They collectively agree it’s time to head to bed when Bokuto starts yawning thrice per minute. Atsumu calls dibs on the shower before Hinata because he’s mastered the art of getting out of responsibilities such as helping them make the bed, though he does feel a tiny bit bad about it when Hinata bumps into him at the door, looking like he’s halfway to dozing off, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. Atsumu takes a mental note of volunteering to make breakfast tomorrow in exchange for Hinata’s troubles, and knots the towel around his waist as he exits the bathroom.

The couch is already pulled out and set with Bokuto on top and lightly snoring into his pillow, most likely having passed out the moment he hit the sheets. Atsumu smiles to himself and shuffles to the bedroom, careful not to wake him.

It’s a spacious room, and it faintly smells like Sakusa’s favourite brand of disinfectant. The bed is huge and softer than Atsumu’s own, and it’s right between disorderly chaos and neatly kept as a reflection of its usual occupants. Atsumu feels a little guilty every time they sleep here, but somehow always arrives at the conclusion that it’s not his fault Sakusa always gets the bed. If he didn’t, he’d just go home at asscrack o’clock in the night instead of staying over because of a few millions of bacterial cells on the couch. Like some psychopath. Atsumu only knows this because Sakusa has done it before, until Bokuto offered a compromise and he eventually accepted it.

Aforementioned psychopath is currently rifling through his bag, until he finds what he’s looking for and tosses some clothes onto Atsumu’s side of the bed. Atsumu stops in his tracks at the gesture, faltering in his steps.

“Omi?”

Sakusa stands up. “I brought you some clothes to sleep in,” he says, as if it wasn’t obvious. He makes it sound like it’s already the end of the conversation, his intonation final.

Atsumu is not nice enough to let him get away with it, though. He can feel his trademark smirk creep up on his face, slow and disarming enough, judging by the way Sakusa presses his lips together into a thin line, already knowing what’s to come.

“Didja now?”

“Shut the f*ck up.”

Atsumu hums and walks over to him, not dropping his grin or his gaze. Sakusa narrows his eyes at him when Atsumu gets all up in his space, leering up at him across the few inches he has over Atsumu. His shoulders are tense and he’s tilting his chin up, giving Atsumu the perfect view of his jawline, sharper with how hard he’s clenching it.

He’s beautiful, always is—but Atsumu is a man on a mission.

“A li’l presumptuous of you, isn’t it? Givin’ me your clothes?”

“They’re not mine,” Sakusa says dryly, keeping up his façade of disinterest. His eyes do wander though, to Atsumu’s utmost delight, trailing down his naked chest before Sakusa finds his gaze again.

“Really?” Atsumu’s grin widens. The shirt might be one of the many he has over at Sakusa’s place, but that’s all Sakusa has. “I don’t remember buyin’ those pants, though,” he drawls, eyes flickering over Sakusa’s face to catch the slightest hint of emotion.

He’s hardly disappointed. Sakusa’s mouth twists with fake revulsion, and his nose twitches in the way it always does when he has nothing else to defend himself. Atsumu gloats, reaching out just for the sake of it; his hand slides down the soft material of Sakusa’s shirt from his shoulder to his elbow, fingertips slow-dancing on his way down, patting Sakusa’s arm in a belittling manner. Sakusa’s nostrils flare, and Atsumu happily logs the tell as irritation in his mental notepad.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Atsumu says, tongue wrapped in silk, “I’d think ya were bein’ a little possessive here, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa lets out a long, frustrated breath.

“Aw, was that a dreamy sigh?”

Sakusa’s gaze nearly pierces him right through the chest. “You know it wasn’t.”

Cute, Atsumu thinks.

Sakusa’s eyes widen a fraction, then he’s shoving Atsumu away from him by his face, retreating. Atsumu laughs. Did he say that out loud?

He decides to take mercy on him for now, considering he still plans on validating his cuddle coupons. It doesn’t matter that he’s never got those coupons in the first place, either; Atsumu knows how to cheat the system. He gives back Sakusa his precious personal space and makes quick work of putting on the clothes he was so generously given, figuring it’s nothing Sakusa hasn’t seen yet. Sakusa is too damn stubborn to check him out anyway, sadly – he gets under the covers instead and starts a staring contest with the ceiling, waiting for Atsumu so he can turn off the light.

Atsumu makes a point of neatly folding his clothes to appease him, placing them on the dresser before he turns around and flashes Sakusa a smile.

“So, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s eyes drift to him slowly, mouth curling in instinctual distaste. “What do you want?”

“I think you know.”

Sakusa quirks a brow. He looks Atsumu up and down, and he’s surely caught Atsumu’s drift, if the glint of intrigue in his eyes is any indication. “I do not.”

Atsumu puts his hands on his hips, foot tapping against the floor in impatience. “I showered.”

“Okay,” Sakusa says, sounding nowhere near as happy about that as he should be.

Atsumu goes on. “I changed into clean clothes. And I brushed my teeth.”

“Congratulations.”

Oh, Sakusa is being difficult on purpose, Atsumu’s sure. “I even—hold your applause—flossed!” Atsumu says.

Finally—finally—he catches the hint of a smile. About damn time.

“Consider it held,” Sakusa says. And then, because he’s a sh*thead; “Why are you telling me this?”

Atsumu squints at him. “Ya know why.”

Sakusa shifts and puts his arms under his head, giving Atsumu a nice show of his triceps as his smile grows ever so prominent. He’s definitely enjoying how the tables have turned. “I don’t think so,” he hums. “Enlighten me.”

Atsumu huffs. “Omi.”

“Miya.”

“You really gonna make me say it?”

Sakusa’s lips stretch a millimetre further. “You’re getting there.”

He’s infuriating. Atsumu doesn’t even know why he bothers with the guy anymore. He needs to get his head checked sometime. “Can I…” he trails off, making a vague gesture in the general direction of Sakusa’s existence, “cuddle you.”

Sakusa’s eyes are hooded in that same way again, and Atsumu hates how good triumph looks on him. He stays silent.

“Oh my f*ckin’ god,” Atsumu groans. “May I cuddle ya? Pretty please?”

Sakusa’s smile widens even further, large enough for a flash of teeth. “Manners from you, Miya?” He muses, sounding way too pleased with himself. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Despite being a massive dirtbag, Sakusa isn’t evil enough to further delay the inevitable. He lifts the covers in a silent invitation, and Atsumu blows out an irritated breath, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed to kick off the slippers he stole. He stares at his feet, pouting, mourning another shred of his dignity taken by none other than the asshole extraordinaire himself.

Even if they have yet to put a name on it, Atsumu knows it’s a head over heels and ass over teakettle kind of thing. Sakusa knows that, too. The same way he probably knows how much it annoys Atsumu that he’s still Miya in front of a crowd, that he has to earn his name even behind closed doors when the nearest person within earshot is Hinata or Bokuto. The same way he probably knows Atsumu is this close (and his fingers are touching) to making a joke about Sakusa taking his family name if he likes it so much. Sakusa is the biggest jerk Atsumu has ever met, the only one besides Osamu who’s on par with his bullsh*t, and Atsumu hates Sakusa for it as much as he hates him for making Atsumu become straight-up obsessed with him. Because Sakusa teases him by not saying his given name, even though Atsumu is well-aware that the guy is perfectly capable of breathing Atsumu’s name into the softest lullabies, bells chiming as he so rarely strips Atsumu bare and down to his very core, to an utterance of Atsu.

So Atsumu stalls a bit, even if it’s for a few seconds. His ego can’t keep taking these hits.

Sakusa doesn’t seem willing to entertain his waiting game, though, because Atsumu hears him shuffle, and the light turns off right before there’s a strong arm around his waist, hauling him into bed with Sakusa’s chest firmly pressed against his back. Atsumu is not proud of the squeak that leaves him at the suddenness, but Sakusa seems to like it enough to completely wrap Atsumu in his arms, finding multiple points of possible contact and exploiting all of them.

Atsumu isn’t strong enough to resist. He can’t help melting into it, tangling their legs together and pressing back against Sakusa, falling into place as if they were the most cliché, overdone trope of puzzle pieces made to be slotted together. Sakusa’s arm around his middle is secure and his smile buried in Atsumu’s shoulder is categorically infuriating, and yet—

And yet. Atsumu has no reason to pull away, as good as kicking Sakusa in the nuts sounds.

“f*ck you,” he says, for lack of a better alternative.

“You have,” Sakusa replies without thinking.

Atsumu makes a choked-off sound, jaw dropping. There’s no way Sakusa just said that. He twists in Sakusa’s hold, damaged ego all but forgotten as he tries to catch a glimpse of his face in the dark. “Oh my god, Omi. Omi. Didja just say something inappropriate?”

The irony is probably not lost on Sakusa, which is exactly why he pushes Atsumu’s head back down. “Go to sleep.”

Atsumu laughs, delighted beyond belief. “I’m such a good influence.”

Sakusa tweaks him lightly on the hip before his arm loops back around Atsumu’s waist. “Shut up. Sleep.”

Atsumu’s grin isn’t quite ready to turn in for the night, but he lets it go anyway, content with this much. “Fine. G’night, Omi.”

Sakusa makes a quiet, affirmative sound against his shoulder. “Night, Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s cheeks start hurting with how hard he’s smiling; he’s thankful for the protective blanket the darkness throws over him, letting him latch onto the remaining shreds of his dignity. And Atsumu wants—he wants, so he does. He grabs Sakusa’s hand, pulls it further up until he’s cradling the entirety of Atsumu’s middle and intertwines their fingers again in a last ditch effort to get closer.

Sakusa lets him get away with it, and then also lets their breaths eventually even out to the same rhythm.

Tokyo is six and a half hours from Osaka, and Atsumu spends the majority of the bus ride fantasizing about handing Kageyama his own ass on a platter tomorrow. He’s excited for their friendly match; it’s definitely going to be a massive pain, but the winner will take the taste of victory with them through the actual season, and Atsumu is determined to take that morale boost for his own team. Even with a training camp ahead of them, Atsumu wants to see where they stand, and more importantly, he wants to see themselves stand high.

Both teams are promising candidates for the golden trophy, given their monstrous lineups. The Jackals are going in hot as defending champions, and god, Atsumu loves and lives for the way it gets his blood pumping.

The same goes for the rest of his team. Everyone is a bit antsy and a whole lot stoked, caught in the pre-game high spirits, jovially talking through dinner and offering reassurances that have no place at all, honestly. They’re here to win, they’re strong, and they all know it.

After dinner, Atsumu takes a long, long while in the bathroom. Shower time is his reflection time, where he gets to obsess over every little thing he’ll do on the court before even setting foot there. It’s a sort of ritual – drowning in his jitters, breathing in the steamy air as he lets burning hot water wash over him for a little longer than recommended, until he could cosplay a lobster without renting a costume. Like this, he gets a moment to pause. To bask in it. To make sure the memories only linger as long as he allows them, because once tomorrow comes, the construction site will be left behind. All Atsumu will need is the byproduct.

Eventually, he knows he has to step out of the shower. He towels off quickly, humming a tune Hinata has been singing all day. It’s getting too cold not to blow dry his hair, so he makes quick work of that, too.

He’s rooming with Sakusa, which came as a surprise to absolutely no one. It’s not a newfound development. Sakusa is a difficult roommate, generally speaking—he’s incredibly authoritarian about hygiene standards, he loses his sh*t if he doesn’t get the shower first, and he complains about every f*cking thing unless someone shoves their foot down his throat. Atsumu, on the other hand, likes to think he’s a good roommate, even if his personality compensates for it.

It’s a two-birds-with-one-stone kind of situation for the rest of their team, as Inunaki so eloquently put it.

A shiver dances along his spine when Atsumu finally gets out of the bathroom, the stark contrast in temperature biting goosebumps into his skin. He darts for his bag and slips on the first hoodie he finds, oblivious to Sakusa’s eyes on him until they practically bore into him on a physical level.

“What?” Atsumu asks him, self-consciously running his hand through his hair while also preening under the scrutiny.

Sakusa is already lying in bed with a book in his lap, the blanket pooling around his waist. His eyes flicker to Atsumu’s hair, no doubt a total mess since he hadn’t bothered to style it for the night, then down to Atsumu’s chest, before he finds Atsumu’s gaze again. He looks irritated, and Atsumu tries to rack his brain for anything he could’ve done to piss him off this time, but comes up empty-handed.

“Take that off,” Sakusa says, sounding especially crabby.

“Huh?” Atsumu blinks in confusion, taking a look at himself. He pinches the front of his hoodie, tilting his head back at Sakusa. “This? Why?”

Sakusa’s eye twitches in annoyance. He doesn’t give Atsumu an answer right away, just goes back to his book, pretending to read. Atsumu doubts he makes it past a single sentence. “Just take it off,” Sakusa repeats.

Now, Atsumu could probably make a whole Excel sheet on the different tells Sakusa has, divided into columns based on intensity and how easy it is to pick up on them, how often they give him away, and what they mean. Because of this completely normal (if a bit extensive) knowledge on Sakusa’s mannerisms and idiosyncrasies, he catches on fairly quickly.

This isn’t Sakusa telling him to take the hoodie off because it’s going to be a warm night. This is Sakusa trying to keep his mouth shut about finding Atsumu attractive.

And Atsumu is too much of a little sh*t to grant him any relief.

“Why should I?” He asks. Sakusa glances at him, his frown deepening at the mischief in Atsumu’s tone.

“Because.”

Atsumu saunters over to his bed, tucking his hands behind his back as he bends at the waist, towering over Sakusa. “Because?”

Sakusa looks up at him, his glare fatal, his stupid book forgotten in the face of Atsumu’s imploring gaze. He presses his lips together into a thin line, barely hanging onto his cold exterior. “You look…”

“Irresistible?” Atsumu guesses, grinning. “Breathtaking? Incredibly attractive? Good enough ta eat? Give me a hint or I’ll keep goin’.”

Sakusa snarls and fists a hand into Atsumu’s top, yanking him down onto the bed. His back hits the mattress with a bounce, and the air leaves his lungs in a breathless laugh, his legs thrown over Sakusa’s middle in a slightly awkward angle. He grabs onto Sakusa’s wrist with both hands, grinning up at him when Sakusa’s irritated expression comes into view above him.

“Soft,” Sakusa seethes, stretching the cotton with his iron clasp, trying to shake Atsumu’s smile off his face. “Too soft.”

Atsumu’s grin stretches far enough to meet his eyes. “And that’s my problem because why, exactly?”

Sakusa narrows his eyes at him. “I’ll make it yours.”

“Oh?” Atsumu raises a brow, intrigued. He very deliberately lets his eyes wander to Sakusa’s lips, then back to the expanding galaxies he calls his eyes. “Don’ hold back on my account, Kiyoomi. By all means.”

He knows it’s a dirty trick, to pull the Kiyoomi card with their faces so close, but Atsumu figures it’s pretty much the same thing with his own name, so Sakusa deserves a taste of his own medicine. He sees the tipping point on Sakusa’s face, the moment he’s hurled over the edge, eyes wrath-soaked and mouth curling between frustration and want. Atsumu pushes him over the cliff with a well-timed hand on Sakusa’s nape, his thumb swiping under his jaw, and Sakusa finally crumbles under the weight of his own desire, crashing into Atsumu.

They collide with Atsumu’s elated smile and Sakusa’s vicious lack of willpower between them. Sakusa finally lets go of Atsumu’s top and switches to tangling his fingers into Atsumu’s hair, slipping up his recently trimmed undercut until he finds a suitable grip at the back of his head. He pins Atsumu to the bed with nothing but his chest, and Atsumu lets out a soft sigh against him, because the terrible truth is, Sakusa is too good at kissing for someone so antisocial. The first time they made out, he was pleasantly surprised. The second time, he grew a little irritated, because where the f*ck did Sakusa learn to do that with his tongue, anyway? College? Why wasn’t Atsumu invited?

This time, Atsumu can tell Sakusa really is pissed at him by the way his mouth works against his. The hard cover of his book presses uncomfortably into Atsumu’s side, and Atsumu barely has enough presence of mind to throw it far, far away before he’s pulling Sakusa onto him, cradling his jaw gently yet firmly. He allows the radiating heat from Sakusa’s body to seep into him, to cut through his skin and make a nest in Atsumu’s lungs, cracking under the rhythm of Sakusa’s insistent mouth.

He may have overdone it with the hoodie, after all; it’s too hot in the confines of the cotton, suddenly. Or that could be the leftover steam of his shower spilling into the room. Or Atsumu being set on f*cking fire. He can’t tell.

He blinks his eyes open when Sakusa momentarily pulls away, staring down at him with violent intent. “You’re obnoxious,” Sakusa hisses, then kisses the complaint into Atsumu’s mouth. Atsumu’s hand slips into his curls, pushing them back from his forehead. “Repulsive.” Another kiss. “Infuriating.” Another. “Awful.” He nips at Atsumu’s bottom lip. “Detestable.” A hint of tongue. “Nauseating.”

Atsumu laughs into the nonexistent space between them. “Can ya say somethin’ nice ‘bout me for once?” He murmurs against Sakusa’s lips, slowing things down into a heady, chaste tempo.

Sakusa yanks at his hair, tilting Atsumu’s head back to press yet another devastating kiss onto his mouth, not having it. And then he pulls away, a little breathless, pupils a little dilated, his curls a lovely mess from the bit of tugging Atsumu belatedly realizes he dealt them. “Nothing comes to mind,” Sakusa says flatly, and lets go of Atsumu’s hair. “Now get out.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles up Atsumu’s throat when Sakusa really pulls away, settling back on his elbow to watch Atsumu expectantly. “Seriously? You gon’ kick me out?”

“We need to go to sleep at a reasonable time for tomorrow,” Sakusa replies. “And the bed’s too small for two people. Chop chop, Miya.”

He’s right. There’s no way the bed would comfortably fit both of them, and Atsumu isn’t necessarily looking to wake up on the floor next morning. Curse of hotel rooms, really. Even still, does Sakusa have to be such a tease? Atsumu knows exactly what Sakusa is doing, and Sakusa knows that Atsumu knows, and there is only so much pressure that can build before something snaps, the thread they’ve been weaving perpetually pulling tighter.

“Ya prick,” Atsumu grunts, and hauls Sakusa back for one last kiss by his shirt, quick and vengeful. Even if the conductor's baton keeps switching between their hands and the orchestra plays along to a different rhythm every time they switch, Atsumu and Sakusa are still the ones dancing, and they both have their own steps. Atsumu can’t exactly let Sakusa forget that it takes two to tango.

This time when they part, Atsumu makes a show of running his tongue over the upper row of his teeth, as if chasing the taste of Sakusa. “That’s one for the road,” he says cheekily.

Sakusa shoves him off the bed.

Last push of the fourth set. They’re a point away from going into the thirties.

“I’m gonna strangle your boyfriend, Shou-kun,” Atsumu says, then drains his water. He means it. The scoreboard spells a high probability of a full five-set match, and Atsumu is not particularly happy about it.

Hinata laughs. He smells like deodorant and exertion. “You wouldn’t be the first one to try, Tsumu-san.”

Atsumu doesn’t doubt that, but he also doesn’t bother answering. He’s too busy crawling out of his tunnel vision, trying to listen to Foster telling them through technical terms to suck it up and win. With the brief reprieve of a timeout, he’s becoming increasingly aware of how much his thighs are going to ache from too many low passes. The adrenaline is going to win over that particular concern until the final whistle blows, but while they’re not bound by the net and the neat white lines on the floor, Atsumu gets lost in the tacky feeling of his jersey sticking to his chest and Hinata’s cold, damp kneepad pressed against his leg.

They’re playing well. He knows this. The sets are in their favour for now, and Atsumu wants it to stay that way. He wants to win, now, already, just a little more—

The bench bends a few centimetres as Sakusa sits down next to him. The creases on his forehead is something Atsumu is intimately familiar with.

“Hey, Omi.” Atsumu leans in, bumping their shoulders. “How many strikes?”

Sakusa is rosy-cheeked and out of breath. Sweat clings to his forehead, his hair, and his neck, trickling down in sluggish rivulets, marking his pale flesh with salt. He’s blooming with a familiar shade of reverent, passionate, as if the air wasn’t stuffy and the heat excruciating; despite their uneasy prospects for the current set, his composure stands tall.

He throws a glance at Atsumu, and his frown lines disappear. The shift feels monumental, caught in the roar of the crowd on the bleachers; Atsumu starts feeling a little bit less desperate for two points over the Adlers, and fleetingly yearns, because toothpaste wasn’t enough to wash away the taste of Sakusa from last night.

“Two,” Sakusa says, and his voice, along with the stadium lights, coax Atsumu back to the present.

The strikes—that’s Sakusa’s own, individual game. Every match, he counts how many of his serve receives miss the target zone, and he always gets more into the game once he reaches two. It’s admirable, really; Sakusa knows he can make mistakes, but he also has a system for himself to pick up the slack.

Not that he ever slacks, per se. He just reserves some of his strength until the clock strikes, until he decides to step it up and go in with all guns blazing.

Atsumu feels his shoulders ease up. If Sakusa is on strike two, then they might not need that fifth set, after all.

They do. They lose the fourth with Kageyama in serving position. Atsumu pleads with Hinata to break up with the guy.

Ushijima’s first serve in the last set ricochets off Sakusa’s arms, the ball meeting the floor with a derisive bounce.

Atsumu could pinpoint the exact time slot for the realization; the interval within which the team freezes, dreadful anticipation lurking behind their backs. They all know about Sakusa’s little strike game—Inunaki even joins him, sometimes, just to put a bit of competitive fire into the equation.

Meian’s mouth quirks into a weird shape, and that’s all it takes for the gears in Atsumu’s head to start turning.

Strike three. And from Ushijima, no less. It’s a dangerous line; Sakusa rarely hits this mark. Either because of rotations, or because Sakusa is a digging machine, but it’s hard to push past this one border – consequently, it’s not something they’re highly qualified to deal with. Sakusa is not the type to get reckless with his plays, but Atsumu can’t say it’s off the table. Or maybe Sakusa will sink further into the zone, into that deep-level concentration that shuts out his usual qualms about touch and sweat and the corresponding displeasures of volleyball. It’s hard to tell which end of the stick they’re getting here.

Atsumu is going to have to take a shot in the dark. If it backfires, he might admit it’s a bit of a heedless idea, but for now he’ll go with calling it thinking on his feet.

He glances at the other side of the court, just in time to catch the shift in Ushijima’s expression. Atsumu doubts the small, content smile in the corner of his mouth is a trick of the lights, and it seals the deal for him.

Well then. Should he add the last few finishing touches?

He looks over at Sakusa, and puts on the most innocent smile in his repertoire, which just so happens to be Sakusa’s least favourite. “Don’t worry, Omi-kun, you’ll get the next one!” He calls out, voice dripping with honey. He doesn’t wait for Sakusa’s reaction, turning back toward the net.

There are very few things Sakusa hates more than people not giving it to him straight. He has this twisted way of looking at things; as if encouragement is just a superficial way of saying condescending.

So Atsumu is raising him a challenge, and Sakusa had better f*cking accept it.

The whistle blows. Split stepping, Hinata gets a clean dig under Ushijima’s serve, sending the ball into a beautiful arc, giving more than plenty of time for Atsumu to get comfortable.

He doesn’t have to look to know that Sakusa is looking at the ball like it belongs to him. Atsumu has picked up on the shift right away; there’s a different type of air around him, heavy and imperative, as Sakusa adjusts his stance and begins his run-up. The blockers seem to be drawn to him, too, feeling the weight of Sakusa’s will magnetise their own, tilting gravity just an inch in his favour. Like they know Sakusa is going in for the kill, because he’s burning with it – he’s setting the court on fire, and the Adlers don’t run from ignition.

Atsumu can’t help the sh*t-eating grin that splits through his face when he sets to Tomas.

Tomas, who slams the ball with scary accuracy right into the corner of zone five, free to be with a clear view. Tomas, who lands with a happy smile and pumps his fist into the air, ecstatic.

The high five Atsumu gives him echoes.

And then Atsumu finally looks at Sakusa, who’s already staring back at him. Glowering. His hands are curled into fists, his scowl drawing lines under his high cheekbones, lips pursed into a stern, resentful line.

There you are, Atsumu thinks, grinning. Egging him on. Come on out, you nasty beast. I know you’re in there.

Sakusa only drops his gaze because he gets his hands on the ball, and then he’s walking to the back row, spinning it in his hands until the strikes blur. Atsumu dutifully takes his position and turns his back to Sakusa, catching Kageyama’s eyes through the net. He’s still smiling, and he loves the way it makes Kageyama’s eyebrow twitch in displeased confusion; Atsumu’s joy never means any good to anyone, like, ever, and he thrives on unsettling someone like Kageyama.

Oh, well. The Adlers did this to themselves, mostly. Atsumu just knows how to take care of his hitters.

He doesn’t glance over his shoulder, not even when the whistle blows again. He knows that the more he pretends he’s not helplessly drawn to eyeing Sakusa, the more Sakusa will seek it. The more irked he’ll become. The more powerful Atsumu’s eyes will grow.

On a normal day, Hinata demands the ball. Bokuto needs it. But Sakusa? He just gets the job done.

Unless.

Sakusa is positively riled up now. He got three strikes on his serve receives, he listened to Atsumu’s thinly-veiled goading, and then he didn’t get the ball when he so obviously wanted it. Atsumu licks his lips.

They’re in for a treat.

(Sakusa gets two service aces in a row, and then another after a quick, decisive rally. No one gets a hand on the third one.)

Atsumu’s last set is more of a peace offering than anything. It seems fitting to give it to Sakusa, who nails their match point right on the line. Atsumu feels the rush before the resounding bam hits his ears.

Every once in a while, the last point of a game sucks the breath out of him. He sees everything in three-sixty, hears everything at decibels that should pierce his eardrums right through. Every once in a while, the last point of a match slows the world down to a standstill, and Atsumu’s brain conks out. Just for a moment, just for a minuscule point in time, it stops. Just for a moment, Atsumu hesitates to celebrate.

Sakusa deserved that point. He’s been on a roll ever since he hit strike three, and he absolutely dominated the pace since then. He didn’t get louder, boisterous, or smug. He refused to enter the spotlight as Hinata usually does, but he was on f*cking fire regardless. Atsumu likes him better this way anyway; quiet but deadly, truly fitting the serial killer shtick he’s got going on.

Every once in a while is happening right now. Sakusa lands, shoes squeaking. He’s beautiful. He’s a beast. Atsumu can’t tell if he falls in love all over again with volleyball, or with Sakusa.

The moment stretches, and Atsumu is staring at him, seeing him – the happy, satisfied smile that rests on Sakusa’s lips is bewitching. Atsumu can’t hear anything besides his own heartbeat, drumming away to a primitive rhythm, spelling devotion on the walls of his chest. Just for a moment, he hesitates to celebrate, because he wants to kiss that stupid, delighted smile with every single cell of his very being, down to his core, stripped bare and longing and choking on it. He wants to lick the taste of victory from Sakusa’s mouth.

Then Sakusa turns to him right after, as if it’s second nature, with that blinding little smile, and the world welcomes Atsumu right back in. He drifts towards him, meeting his eyes unflinchingly, and he lifts his hand in a series of telegraphed movements, tired and aching and just beginning to ride the high.

Sakusa’s widening smile is more than Atsumu usually gets; it’s a heady combination of joy and pride and far too many other things to name. Their palms meet with a victorious slap, and then Sakusa goes above and beyond by pulling Atsumu in, slinging his arm around his neck.

“You’re a sh*thead, you know that?” Sakusa murmurs against his ear. “A manipulative little pest.”

Atsumu is keenly aware of all the cameras on them, so he constricts himself to wrapping one arm around Sakusa’s waist and laughing brightly, leaving sweat-clad fabric clinging to Sakusa’s skin in his wake.

Yeah, he is. And yet.

Their annual pre-season intensive training camp rolls around the corner, right before the calendar could slip into mid-September. Five days and four nights in Sapporo, all expenses paid—the joys of training in a heated gymnasium with the bitter chill of the snow-capped mountains nearby. The organizers pulled out all the stops this time; the sharehouse they’re staying at is a recently renewed ryokan inn turned Airbnb with more than enough privacy to keep them sane, with the inclusion of an outdoor onsen, which is Atsumu's second favourite thing after having the room farthest from Barnes's incessant snoring.

Sapporo is a bustling commercial hub with a breathtaking night view from Mount Moiwa, full of flowers and greenery. It exudes a certain charm that fuses tradition with modernity; the heart of the city beats within its entertainment districts, rows of izakayas, sleek co*cktail bars, and pulsating nightclubs, but its allure extends far beyond the urban landscape. They’re just in time to catch the beginning of fall leaves season, and Atsumu wishes they had more free time to truly appreciate it.

On their second day, he’s positive that Foster is out for blood. Training camps have always been like that; Foster’s sad*stic streak hitting an all-time high, constantly reiterating the fact that this isn’t a vacation. The imminence of the season pulls their hunger to the surface, multifaceted and relentless, but Atsumu can barely stand by the time they’re done at the end of the day, much less go out exploring.

Day three promises no better. The cycle repeats itself: training, lunch, more training, onsen, and an ungodly amount of time spent listening to Meian regale his days in the volleyball scheme before the Jackals and consequently, Inunaki muffling his cries of boredom into the nearest available surface.

Today, that surface just so happens to be Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Make him stop,” Inunaki moans, sprawling out on the tatami floor when Atsumu proves to be an inefficient outlet for his misery. Atsumu leans back on his hands, used to Inunaki’s inability to stay put. “I swear to god, if I have to listen to how he met his wife one more time, I’m leaving. I don’t care if it’s cold as balls out there. I can’t take this.”

“Tell me ‘bout it,” Atsumu says, laced with all the sarcasm he could muster, then chugs down half of his sports drink. He’s fresh out of the shower, and he’s starting to reconsider saying yes to this whole collective team-bonding movie night debacle. Not to mention Meian’s homesick bullsh*t. He’d much rather just retreat for the night and sleep like the dead until his alarm blares in the morning. “Like, we get it. You miss your wife and kids, but guess what? I miss not havin’ ta hear ‘bout it.”

Inunaki huffs out a tired laugh, checking Meian quickly to make sure he hasn’t heard them. “For real. On a scale from one to ten, how much do you think we could get away with first-degree murder?”

Atsumu considers it. “Can’t we jus’ cut out his tongue?”

“Hm. That’s fair,” Inunaki agrees. “Good thinking.”

They both look up when Sakusa, as the last missing teammate, finally steps into the common area and scans the room, pulling his mask up. He looks murderous. A storm in a windless land. Before anyone could ask why Sakusa looks like his grandmother just died and he’s plotting revenge against the government, he settles on Atsumu and skids over to him. To Atsumu’s mild surprise, Sakusa wrenches his legs apart and sits down between them, leaning back against Atsumu’s chest, crossing his arms. If he wasn’t wearing his mask, Atsumu bets he’d see him pouting.

Ah. So he’s in a mood, but Atsumu still gets a pass. He’ll take it.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Inunaki says, gathering himself from the floor. “This is worse, by the way,” he points a finger at Atsumu, “—this whole slow-mo mating ritual sh*t you two do. Worse than Captain’s engagement story.”

Atsumu grins, unbothered. “Your loss, Wan-san.”

Inunaki just makes a face at him, and then finds himself somewhere else to be. Not that Atsumu pays much attention to him; once Inunaki is done being the low-budget Disney antagonist with a distaste for all things love, Atsumu is already focusing back on Sakusa.

“You look grumpy,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

Sakusa’s brows furrow. “Adriah didn’t clean the shower after himself. f*cking imbecile.”

Well. That explains the mask, too. Sharing a space with so many grown men, grown athletes can put quite a strain on Sakusa’s tolerance. Their last training camp wasn’t much better, except Sakusa didn’t have Atsumu this close back then.

“Want me to wipe it down for you next time?” Atsumu asks softly.

“Don’t f*cking baby me,” comes the biting reply.

“Feisty,” Atsumu huffs. Good thing he always has a solution for Sakusa’s moodswings at the ready. He can nip this in the bud. “Hey, Omi. I have a theory for ya.”

Sakusa exhales slowly, already done with Atsumu’s antics. “What.”

Atsumu’s lips quirk into a tentative smile, leaning closer to Sakusa’s ear. “I’ve been watching you for a while, and I need you to confirm somethin’ for me.”

“f*cking what, Miya?”

There it is. At least Sakusa is irritated because of him now, and not the meager cleaning habits of his teammates. Even if it’s just for a moment, it’s enough.

“You’re impossibly fast an’ strong,” Atsumu says quietly, conspiratorially. “Your skin is pale white and ice-cold. Ya don’t go out in the sunlight.”

Sakusa tilts his head back on Atsumu’s shoulder, looking to the ceiling for help. “Oh my f*cking god.” He hates when Atsumu makes a Twilight reference, even more so when he’s the Edward Cullen in question, and that’s exactly why Atsumu loves doing this.

Atsumu goes on, putting on a show. He gasps fakely, overdone and obnoxious, then; “How old are you?”

Sakusa lets out a long-suffering, weary sigh, meeting Atsumu’s eyes with a glare. Atsumu grins down at him, waiting expectantly.

“...Seventeen,” he eventually mutters, pained.

Atsumu thrives on it. “How long have ya been seventeen?” He follows up immediately, elated that Sakusa is playing along.

“A while,” Sakusa grumbles.

Atsumu presses a kiss on his mask, right against his high cheekbone, rewarding him for his efforts. “I know what you are.”

Sakusa sighs again, but leans back more against Atsumu, easing into it bit by bit. Charging his battery, perhaps. “Whitney Chewston,” he whispers.

Atsumu’s brows furrow in confusion. “Who?”

“hom*ophobic dog,” Sakusa clarifies.

A disbelieving laugh escapes Atsumu. He’ll never understand the weird, concave pattern of Sakusa’s knowledge on memes. He can’t wait for the day Sakusa allows him a peek at his Twitter feed. There’s an ongoing myth about what he’s hiding on there; witchcraft, cute puppy videos, summoning rituals, explosive coup d’états with cyber-mercenaries, a full database on an unknown SCP, an Ushijima fan account—it’s anyone’s guess, really.

God, Atsumu wants to know all about it, and then some. He wants to know the funny and the less funny details of Sakusa, anything that contributes even a little bit to his person. He's so into him it’s embarrassing. But judging by the way Sakusa hasn’t sprayed him with disinfectant the moment he stepped into Atsumu’s one-metre radius, he’s not faring much better, so Atsumu can’t really say he minds.

“Omi.”

“Shut up. Movie’s starting.” As if on cue, someone kills the lights as the television flickers to life at the press of the remote.

Atsumu hums, undeterred. “Omi, I’m cold.”

“That’s rough.”

What a jerk. “Gimme your sweater,” Atsumu murmurs, glancing at the TV screen, the title sequence already playing.

“Why the f*ck would I give you my sweater?” Sakusa asks blandly.

“‘Cause I’m cold,” Atsumu points out. “An’ Wan-san ruined the only one I brought. You were there. It’s still in the wash.”

Sakusa sends him a look, disgruntled and eyes hooded just so, as if to ask Atsumu for a list of reasons on why he should give a f*ck. “Tough luck.”

“Omiii,” Atsumu whines quietly, letting his head fall into the creak between Sakusa’s shoulder and neck.

Sakusa grunts, mildly inconvenienced, but he sits up anyway to let Atsumu slip out from behind him. “I have a spare one in my bag. Be quick about it.”

Atsumu beams, triumphant—the fact that Sakusa didn’t even call him out on his lack of foresight doesn’t escape him. As time goes on, he’s letting Atsumu get away with more and more, and it’s a glorious development at worst and nothing short of exhilarating at best.

And he is—quick about it, that is. Atsumu disappears into Sakusa’s assigned room in a flurry of steps, rummaging through his neatly organized bag without an ounce of shame until he finds his target. It’s a grey sweater, wool and cashmere, soft and sleek; one of his favourites. It might look stupid on Atsumu, given that he has all the elegance of a pregnant donkey, but the day he refuses a generous offer to steal Sakusa’s belongings is the day they discover an entirely new level of brain damage.

He sneaks back into the common area, now warm and toasty for a multitude of reasons, finding his spot vacant and ready for him.

“Scoot back,” he whispers to Sakusa once he settles behind him, leaning against the foot of the couch.

Sakusa does a quick survey around the room before he moves, probably checking if anyone is paying any attention to this rare occurrence of extensive PDA, but he listens. Atsumu takes his chances and wraps his arms around his waist, tucking his chin into the crook of Sakusa’s neck, blowing his curls out of his eyes. The smile on his face is an afterthought. Smitten, carelessly so.

“Hey, Omi.”

Sakusa shrugs his shoulder to dislodge Atsumu’s head from its resting spot. “Shut up. Watch.”

“You don’t even like this one,” Atsumu challenges, raising a brow.

“Of course I don’t,” Sakusa says easily. “It’s a f*cking rom-com. There’s nothing to like.”

“Y’know, for someone so love-averse, you sure don’t mind gettin’ your eighty kilos of apex predator all up in my business.”

Sakusa exhales through his nose, slightly irked at the call-out. “I’ll go, then.”

“Naw,” Atsumu smiles, nosing at his jaw. Sakusa can’t really hide the way he shivers with the entirety of his back pressed against Atsumu. “I’m your Hotel California, Omi. Check out at any time, but ya can never actually leave.”

“You’re revolting,” Sakusa says. “And delusional.”

“I think the words you’re lookin’ for are ‘clever’ and ‘charming’.”

“I don’t suppose you used any real, legitimate sources to come to that conclusion? Cross-referenced some academic journals?”

Atsumu huffs, squeezing around Sakusa’s sides with his thighs in a half-hearted threat. “Smartass.”

Sakusa’s eyes are crinkling with a hidden smile. His mask slips down his nose just a tad bit. “Atsumu,” he says pointedly, as if that was insult enough.

Atsumu scrunches his nose. “I was gonna ask you to come on a walk with me, by the way,” he says feebly, nonchalantly. “On our last day ‘ere. But now I’m havin’ second thoughts.”

Sakusa doesn’t buy it, of course. “Where?”

“Odori Park?” It seems like a waste not to go there for the one time they’re in the city.

“Too crowded,” Sakusa mumbles.

Atsumu smiles knowingly, tightening his hold. “You can say no.”

“f*ck off,” Sakusa grunts. It’s the closest thing to childish Atsumu has ever heard him. “But we go late. With less people.”

“Sure, Omi,” Atsumu chuckles. It’s going to be cold as all hell at night, but Atsumu is willing to make that sacrifice. “I’ll freeze my dick off fer you any day.”

“Don’t waste your only redeeming quality,” Sakusa says plainly, without the bark or the bite, etched with something much more tender than affection. It simmers, slowly boiling gasoline, marring Atsumu’s fingertips with an itch to reach out more. He can’t get much closer than this, and yet, Atsumu doesn’t think he’ll be satiated until he finds home under Sakusa’s ribcage.

If that isn’t the pinnacle of romance, Atsumu doesn’t know what is.

The next day, Sakusa reaches his breaking point. Atsumu is kind of amazed he held out this long, honestly.

The harsh slam of the bathroom door meeting the wall reverberates in the entirety of the Airbnb, and Atsumu is on his feet in the next second. Years of living with Osamu installed a certain kind of knee-jerk instinct for his operating system, a bass boosted fight-or-flight reflex to such noises around a shared space, so it’s not really something he has to think about. He’s on autopilot.

Evidently, Tomas’s shower habits don’t get better in the span of one day, and Sakusa’s patience has always been paper-thin to begin with, so it’s really no wonder that something eventually gives. Atsumu is able to decipher all of this from the way he finds Sakusa marching toward Tomas’s bedroom, because every bit of Sakusa looks outraged, wound tight and looking ready to strike, mask pulled beneath his chin as if to bite and chew the next person he encounters alive. He looks like he’s preparing to deal his finishing blow, his ultimate attack in the battle of bathroom etiquettes.

Atsumu is in front of him before he could think twice, holding Sakusa back from assassinating one of their starting players, trying and failing to catch his eyes; Sakusa is looking ahead, eyes crazed with tidal fury, an ocean ready to wipe out the land.

“Hey now—”

“I’m going to kill him,” Sakusa spits. “Right now. I’ll make a functioning go-kart out of his f*cking bone cartilage, an—”

“Omi, jus’—”

“—then I’ll rearrange his f*cking face in alphabetical order, this absolute heathen, I’m going to bury him alive and I’ll piss on his f*cking grave, and then I’ll burn his godforsaken grave down and piss on it again, this f*cking animal, he—”

“Ahuh, okay, but how ‘bout we—”

“—is not going to keep getting away with this, I swear to god, I’m going to wring his neck and hand in my formal request for a national holiday for the day this motherf*cker dies, and he’d better f*cking hope he kicks the bucket before I get his ass because I know exactly where to stab to make sure it’s long and painful—”

“Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa’s mouth snaps shut, an inch away from disaster. He finally looks at Atsumu, recognition blooming in his eyes, and then slipping into something venomous. Atsumu has an approximately five-second window here before Sakusa goes off again, so he will have to tread real carefully unless he wants the ticking time bomb that Sakusa is to explode in their faces. That would be way too difficult to clean up. He’s not sure their insurance covers human detonations.

“Okay,” Atsumu swallows, hands finding a better hold at Sakusa’s sides, swiping his thumb over the jut of his hipbone. “As much as I’d love ta see you make it onto a true crime podcast, murdering a teammate is off the table, Omi.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t his strongest opening line. Atsumu tries again. “A’ight, what do we do when we feel like killin’ someone?”

“Make good on the promise,” Sakusa grits out, eyes drifting back to Tomas’s room.

Atsumu opens his mouth, but Bokuto and Tomas—what a f*cking godsent, honestly—choose that exact moment to shove Atsumu’s words back behind his teeth, opening Tomas’s door.

“What’s happening?” Bokuto asks innocently. Bless his heart and his inability to read the room.

Sakusa isn’t here to f*ck around, however—at the sight of Tomas, he immediately lunges, and it’s only because of two decades of roughhousing with his twin that Atsumu is able to get an arm around him, wincing as he tries to hold him back.

“Adriah,” Sakusa booms, voice like gravestones and charcoal. He’d make a good serial killer. He’s already got motive.

“Code red!” Atsumu shouts, grimacing when Sakusa tries struggling free of his hold. His socked feet don’t offer much leverage on the floor, and Sakusa is making sure to take advantage of that, inching closer to a now terrified-looking Tomas. “Adriah, if you value yer life, f*ckin’ run. Bokkun, help me out, for the love of god, he’s—”

It takes Bokuto and Atsumu’s joint effort to rein in Sakusa and back him up against the corridor wall, because his strength seems to grow exponentially when it comes to the sheer power of his will, even in the face of Bokuto’s monster biceps. It’s a sh*tshow, really. It might take a minute or two, embarrassing as that is, before Sakusa is momentarily immobilised between Bokuto locking his arms behind his back and Atsumu with a hand on his jaw and his forearm pressed against his chest, trying to stay in his line of vision so Sakusa can stop committing manslaughter with his eyes.

The rest of the team is naturally drawn to the commotion, and Inunaki’s encouraging exclamations definitely don’t help, but Atsumu is too busy taming the feral beast Sakusa has become to truly kick their libero’s ass. He sends a quick, grateful prayer to the heavens when Barnes arrives at the scene and shoves Tomas back behind his door, cutting his frantic apologies short.

Meian lands a nice smack against the back of Inunaki’s head when the motherf*cker boos. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Sakusa bites out, poisonous, shaking his head to lose the hold Atsumu has on his face. “It’s your last chance to hope the tryouts next year aren’t a bunch of f*ck-ups because you’ll need a replacement for the dead man walking that Adriah is, alright, because you can bet your mother’s fat buttcheeks that I’ll—“

“Hygiene crisis,” Atsumu grits out, cutting Sakusa off before he could make it worse. He doesn’t ease up on his death grip around Sakusa’s jaw, even when he readjusts his glare to Atsumu. “Adriah hasn’t learned a single f*ckin’ thing, and now we’re here.”

Meian nods in understanding. If he’s shaken by Sakusa’s unusual lack of class, he’s hiding it well. Perhaps fatherhood does come with a few perks, after all. “Alright. Can you handle Sakusa?”

“He’s not my f*ckin’ pet,” Atsumu grumbles, a little irked that they’re talking about him as if he wasn’t right there. Well, not that Sakusa is really there, to be fair—he’s somewhere far, far away, where murder is legal and The Purge isn’t just an anthology media franchise.

“Yes or no, Miya.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever, just—someone get Adriah, for f*ck’s sake, before he starts cryin’.”

“I’ll make him cry alright,” Sakusa growls. “Let me get my hands on that fatherless waste of flesh, he needs to face his demise like a man, I swear to f*ckin—”

“Okay, that’s enough out of ya,” Atsumu hisses, sealing his palm over Sakusa’s mouth, and consequently also sealing his own fate. If Sakusa doesn’t magically calm down in the next three seconds or so, Atsumu is as good as dead meat for that. He hopes Sakusa will give him a head start, at least.

“Great, thank you,” Meian says in his captain voice, as if the chances of Atsumu saying no was non-zero. “Everyone else, get moving. Show’s over,” a pause, and then a scolding finger in Inunaki’s face, “—and if I see you instigating anything between these two, I’ll tell Coach you asked for extra conditioning.”

Well. That’s that, then. Hinata salutes, not even bothering to volunteer out loud for tending to Tomas’s bruised sense of safety, and Bokuto lets go of Sakusa too with a sympathetic pat on his arm. The corridor empties out, leaving only Atsumu and Sakusa and Atsumu’s hand on Sakusa’s mouth. He’s a bit terrified to take it away. He’s not sure Sakusa wouldn’t bite it off at the first chance he gets, and Atsumu very much needs his left hand in the foreseeable future if he doesn’t want to end up unemployed.

When Sakusa pointedly looks down at it, and then back to Atsumu, his glare deepening, Atsumu decides to take the risk anyway. It’s better to stay alive than to be dead with both his hands attached.

“A’ight,” Atsumu says slowly, placatingly. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’mma check that shower for you, and I’ll wipe it down squeaky clean fer your high-maintenance bitchass, and you’re gonna sit tight and then thank me. Sound good so far?”

Sakusa jabs his finger into Atsumu’s chest, accusatory look and all that jazz, still seething. “Adriah can’t hide behind you forever.”

“Sure, but you can’t murder everyone on sight just ‘cause they’re a li’l lazy with their cleaning, either. This is me proposin’ a compromise. Accept it.”

Sakusa presses his lips together, keeping his mouth shut, but he’s clearly not protesting, which is good enough for Atsumu.

“Wonderful.” Atsumu nods in approval. “Now, d’you wanna watch and make sure my work is up to your standards, or wouldja prefer to keep fumin’ in your room until I’m done?”

“I can do it myself,” Sakusa grumbles, and steps out from the makeshift cage of Atsumu and the wall, going the extra mile to make sure their shoulders bump while he’s at it, because Sakusa is a sh*thead like that. Atsumu sighs, trailing after him to Sakusa’s bedroom.

“I wouldn’t be so sure ‘bout that,” he says, leaning against the doorway. “Remember when you lost your sh*t and set out for a massacre? Y’know, the thing that happened, like, not even five minutes ago?”

Sakusa swiftly gathers his travel-sized cleaning products, a starter-pack Atsumu is intimately familiar with, and stands up without looking at him. What a baby. He passes Atsumu without so much as a word, and Atsumu can’t help rolling his eyes, following him to the crime scene.

Oh, okay. Sakusa may not have been overreacting that much. There’s a sh*t ton of hair in the shower stall, enough that it’s toeing the line of Atsumu’s threshold, too, and the air is stuffy with steam and Tomas’s body wash. It’s not a bad smell per se, but he has a feeling Sakusa wouldn’t agree. It’s probably a bit too overbearing for his usual tolerance.

“Whew, okay,” Atsumu murmurs under his breath. “You might not be all that crazy, Omi. I see what ya meant.”

Sakusa finally acknowledges his existence with a vicious glare, before he dumps his cargo on the counter, turning his back to Atsumu.

Atsumu is having none of that, though. He corners Sakusa, turning him around with a hand on his waist, and it takes only one look at Sakusa’s expression for his heart to soften and ache with the desire to help him. The feeling is as alien as it is impregnable—it should be scary, probably, how easy he’s become for someone who looks like they belong in a Tim Burton production, and yet.

And yet it isn’t.

Sakusa makes him feel like he has to relearn himself, sometimes. Like he’s been reading the alphabet backwards all this time, like Atsumu is more than just a big fat jerk.

(He isn’t. Sakusa is just the unlikely exception that proves the rule.)

“C’mon,” Atsumu says softly. “Get outta here. This falls within your top five worst nightmares, Omi. I’ll take care of this, promise.”

Sakusa averts his eyes, clutching his cleaning gloves in his hands. “Stop acting nice. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Mhm. Your deflection tactics sure could use some work,” Atsumu says. “We can switch up the bathroom arrangements, alright? I’m sharing the second one with Bokkun, but ya seen his shower before. You know he’s house-trained, with Keiji-kun an’ all.”

Sakusa’s mouth curls into a pout in defeat, giving Atsumu a small nod. “I want to go home,” he mumbles under his breath, stealing another glance at the shower stall. His face morphs with misery and discomfort, and he’s probably unaware of what that does to Atsumu’s heart, but like, come on. Seriously? How can he go from the whole savage predator theme to a kicked puppy under the span of a few minutes? He’s unreal.

“I know,” Atsumu coos, feeling hopeless. (Maybe he is.) Sakusa going without the comfort of his own apartment, his own bed, his own shower and his own everything for more than 48 hours is a tremendous feat in and of itself. He’s reaching his limits. “But you’re gonna have to hold on a bit longer, which is why I’m here ta help you, ‘kay? So gimme that,” he says, reaching for the gloves clasped tight between Sakusa’s fingers.

Sakusa pulls his hand out of reach, opening his mouth to protest. For what, Atsumu doesn’t know. To keep up the pretense of being invulnerable, maybe. Or to declare his independence. Frankly, Atsumu doesn’t really care, because he’s not having this tug of war with Sakusa right now—which is why he simply leans in, tilting his head back just a tiny bit to bridge their small height gap, and stuffs Sakusa’s complaints back into his mouth with his own.

Sakusa tenses, breath hitching, and Atsumu grabs the opportunity by its neck and snatches the cleaning gloves from Sakusa’s hand, lingering for a few seconds to get reacquainted with Sakusa’s lips. He tries to stay on his feet, pulling away before he could be pushed over the precipice and trick himself into getting too distracted, and flashes Sakusa a small, secretive smile. For once, it’s not mean or provocative. For once, it’s a little closer to being nothing but genuine.

“Go, now,” Atsumu ushers him, mouth dipping into a grin. “Before I get sidetracked and we end up dirtying this sh*thole even more.”

Sakusa eyes his lips, blatant and longing, before he nods his assent, strangely compliant. “Thank you,” he murmurs, uncharacteristically quiet, words crafted out of nights spent holding hands and confessions hidden under brutal jabs. Atsumu is a heap of clay under his gaze, ready to be put on Sakusa’s potter’s wheel and pinched, molded, and coiled until he takes shape. Sakusa angles his head with a gentle hand under his jaw, pressing his lips against the corner of Atsumu’s mouth, and then he’s stepping away and pulling his mask up to his nose.

And, well. That’s one crisis averted, at least. For now.

Atsumu sighs, and gets to work.

“You know,” Hinata begins, taking a huge bite out of an apple that he pulled out from goodness knows where. He’s sitting on the countertop, watching Atsumu improvise in the kitchen. “I never took Omi-san for an exhibitonist.”

The knife in Atsumu’s hand stops mid-air, right before he could make another cut on the onion. “What?” He asks, genuinely perplexed. There’s never any telling what might come out of Hinata’s mouth next. Atsumu has a nagging feeling he likes keeping everyone on their toes on purpose.

Hinata grins slyly around his bite, chewing loudly. “I saw you two eating face. After the shower incident.”

Atsumu blinks, then snorts. “That was not ‘eating face’. You’re a bit too late with the innocent virgin act. Just sayin’.” He goes back to chopping the onions, trying to remember Osamu’s tips on technique. “That was more of a consolation prize than anythin’, you little voyeur.”

“Consolation prize, huh?” Hinata laughs. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Atsumu shakes his head. “Har-har. Buzz off, Shou-kun. S’not an open relationship.”

“Last time I heard, it wasn’t a relationship at all,” Hinata singsongs, swinging his legs. “You’re friends, no?”

“Is this the fight ya wanna pick, Shouyou?” Atsumu shoots back, waving the knife in his hands in a half-assed threat. “Right here, right now? Are you sure?”

“You have too many tells when you bluff, Tsumu-san,” Hinata grins. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Atsumu gives him a pointed look, his brows tempting the stratosphere with their altitude.

“Okay, you wouldn’t hurt me,” Hinata amends, and Atsumu nods, deeming that satisfactory. “But seriously. When’s it gonna happen? We could finally go on triple dates with Bokuto-san. Or would that be a—er, quadruple date? Considering it’s all four of us.”

“I think that’s still just a triple,” Atsumu hums. “But if ya think I’ll voluntarily agree to spendin’ time with Tobio-kun, you’re dead wrong.”

Hinata nods, unphased. “Okay, but counterpoint; we all get to stare at Akaashi-san for a few hours.”

Atsumu stops mid-chop, considering this. Akaashi is a very gorgeous man. All four of them are aware of this. Bokuto is exceptionally aware of this. Bokuto is a good guy. He sends pictures of Akaashi to their groupchat quite often. Atsumu usually stares at those pictures for an inappropriately long amount of time.

“I’ll—” Atsumu starts, shooting a quick glance at Hinata. Hinata smiles back at him knowingly. “—think about it. Maybe.”

As if picking up on the conversation with his sixth, Akaashi-attuned sense, Bokuto bounces into the kitchen, freshly-showered. As always, he’s ever so oblivious to Atsumu’s personal space, sneaking up behind him to peek over his shoulder. “Oh, Tsum-Tsum! What are you making?”

Atsumu swallows down a sarcastic hello to you too, humming. “Oyakodon. Hopefully.”

Bokuto nods vehemently. “Good choice. Can I help?”

“You know how to?” Atsumu asks, unable to keep the reprehension out of his voice. It’s always a surprise when Bokuto acts a bit more his age, although Atsumu always feels a bit guilty about underestimating him. The guy’s usual antics make it easy to forget the fact that he went to college, and he survived. Not to mention, Bokuto bagged Akaashi. He’s a genius on his own level.

“‘Course I do!” Bokuto laughs, and slides beside Atsumu to wash his hands. “Keiji loves oyakodon.”

Atsumu shares a look with Hinata, counting to three in his head.

On three, Bokuto grabs onto the sink to steady himself, suddenly crestfallen. “I miss Keiji,” he says, sounding like a malfunctioning tea kettle. “Ohmigosh, I’m gonna die. I miss him so much.”

Hinata muffles his giggle into his apple. Atsumu wouldn’t mind that within normal circ*mstances, except right now is not normal circ*mstances. Right now is the quiet before the storm, so to speak, a hair’s breadth away from Bokuto’s daily Akaashi-induced breakdown. Right now, Hinata laughing into that damn apple means that comforting Bokuto is up to Atsumu. This little minx.

He sighs, elbowing Bokuto. “Why don’t you call him while we’re at it, then?”

Bokuto perks up. “Oh! Great idea, Tsum-Tsum!” He exclaims, fumbling to get his phone. He sets it on the counter against the wall, doing what Atsumu has dubbed the Wiggly Akaashi Dance while he gets his hands on the remaining ingredients after starting a video call.

Second crisis of the day, also averted. Atsumu’s on f*cking fire today.

Akaashi answers on the third ring, and his tired eyes behind his glasses and the fond, indulgent smile he wears drowns out any malicious thoughts Atsumu might’ve had in the next few hours. What a f*cking sight. Atsumu isn’t quite sure this is legal.

They flit around the kitchen with Hinata as their loyal audience while Akaashi’s on call, stationing themselves with an ease that could only come from too much time spent coexisting together, on and off court. Atsumu is pleasantly surprised by how well Bokuto knows his way around cooking. He’s even more pleasantly surprised to find that yelling at Atsumu while he handles the frying pan is strictly an Osamu thing.

By the time they’re done making four, equal servings (perhaps with a little more meat in just one bowl, but that’s between Atsumu and god now), Akaashi is unfortunately bidding them farewell. A shame, really. Atsumu might need to print out some pictures to get his fill of staring at his pretty face.

“Shou-kun, can you get Omi? I know for a fact that he ain’t had dinner yet. Bet he fell asleep, too.”

“Aw, you know him so well, Tsumu-san,” Hinata says cheekily. “You really are such good friends.”

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” Atsumu warns lightheartedly, shooing Hinata away. Hinata grins but obediently heads off to his scavenger hunt, leaving the two of them to set the table.

“You think the others are still at the onsen?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Barnes and Captain definitely are. Wan-san might be dying in a ditch somewhere. I haven’t seen Adriah since trainin’, though. He’s pro’lly still hidin’ from Omi.”

“Poor guy,” Bokuto hums, taking a seat at the table. “You’d think he’d learn from last year. He’s got guts!”

Atsumu snorts and puts down the two bowls in his hand, setting the one with the slightly more meat in front of the empty seat beside him. “Nah, I doubt it’s ‘bout guts. He’s just an idiot.”

Bokuto’s mouth houses a knowing smile, and Atsumu fights the urge to make him eat his chopsticks vertically. Not you too, Bokkun. “Good thing we have you here. What are friends for, if not to hold you back from getting into jail?”

There it is. Atsumu sighs, and looks down at his chopsticks. He’s certain Bokuto’s mouth could barely fit a quarter of it, if he got the right angle. It’s very tempting.

“You’re hilarious,” Atsumu says, not finding him hilarious at all. Should he start recording? He’s pretty sure Bokuto could go viral by choking on cutlery. He’ll have to ask their PR manager.

Bokuto opens his mouth, still wearing that stupid, thousand-watt smile, but he forgets about it when he glances behind Atsumu’s back. “Aw, the man of the hour!”

Hinata skips to the table, not unlike a very enthusiastic volleyball, and takes his appointed seat beside Bokuto, visibly salivating at the prospect of food. Atsumu wonders if Bokuto and Hinata are powered by the f*cking sun, or if they have a secret stash of jelly beans hidden somewhere to stay in a constant state of a sugar high, or something equally shady. They spent eight hours in the gym today. A murder almost happened. How in the everloving f*ck are they still so lively?

Atsumu doesn’t get to ponder the possibilities of an energetic alien invasion, however, because Sakusa collapses onto the chair beside him with little to no grace, clearly still caught in the illusion of sleep. His curls are frizzled and standing in some pretty non-elegant directions, and there’s a red pillow-shaped spot on his cheek. He puts his elbows on the table, forgoing all his manners, and buries his face in his hands.

Now this, Atsumu can relate to.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he purrs, nudging Sakusa with his shoulder.

“Mmrrgh,” Sakusa Kiyoomi, twenty-three-year-old outside hitter of the MSBY Black Jackals, V. League champion and college graduate, replies eloquently.

Atsumu reaches out to rub his back comfortingly, smiling fondly. He decidedly ignores the googly eyes Bokuto and Hinata are most likely sending his way. “Eat up, Omi. It’s made with a secret special ingredient.”

Sakusa peeks down at his bowl between his fingers, spine bending to push back against Atsumu’s hand, silently asking for more. “Love?” He asks dryly, voice raspy with the leftovers of his dreamscape.

Atsumu laughs. Seems like Sakusa got him all figured out. It’s a two-way street, after all. “How’d ya guess?”

“You always say that when you make something,” Sakusa mumbles, finally taking his elbows off the table to get to it.

“Tsumu malewife era?” Bokuto whispers to Hinata. For the record, Bokuto physically cannot whisper. Atsumu is certain that Bokuto has enough self-awareness to know this. Atsumu is also certain that his chopsticks might snap under Bokuto’s bite force, but that doesn’t make the idea any less appealing.

Yes, he’s still on that.

“f*ckin’ die, Bokkun,” he hisses, taking his hand away from Sakusa’s back. Sakusa visibly shrinks at the loss.

“Oh my god, they’re starting to sound like each other, too. Bokuto-san, it’s happening,” Hinata whispers back to Bokuto. For the record, Hinata can definitely whisper at a normal volume. Atsumu is certain that Hinata didn’t just mysteriously forget how to. Atsumu is also certain that Hinata’s mouth doesn’t open as wide as Bokuto’s, so his chances against Atsumu’s chopsticks are even lower.

He decides gauging Sakusa’s reaction to the meal is a much more preferable pastime than fantasizing about deforming his friends’ jaws, so Atsumu does just that. Sakusa makes a quiet, appreciative sound at the back of his throat after a mouthful.

“Atsu,” Sakusa calls out, blinking at Atsumu slowly. God, he’s too damn adorable like this. Atsumu is simultaneously in heaven and hell. And now he’s Atsu, too? Sakusa really is out to get him. “Can you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu sighs, already knowing where this is going, holding his hand out for Sakusa’s bowl expectantly. “I’ll eat your mitsuba, baby.”

He doesn’t realize his slip-up until it’s way past his mouth. Until it’s too late. Sakusa doesn’t seem to catch on, because he’s always a little slow right after waking up from a nap. Unfortunately, Sakusa’s ‘five more minutes’ sort of sleep-dazed state is probably all the luck Atsumu is going to get here. It’s an honest mistake, really—he meant to say that in a teasing way, as in the you, Kiyoomi, you and your picky eating habits, you big baby way, and not in the transparent, lovesick way, as in the you’re the cutest thing right now and I’m madly in love with you way. Oh god. Atsumu never wanted a brain-to-mouth filter so bad throughout the entirety of his short, miserable life until this particular moment.

Because Hinata and Bokuto don’t miss it. And they’re never going to let Atsumu live this down.

Maybe Atsumu should do a test run of the vertical-chopstick variety on himself first. If the heavens don’t spare him and take him out right now, he’ll have to take matters into his own hands.

It takes an immense amount of effort to shovel the garnish from Sakusa’s bowl into his own instead of using his utensils for something so morbid, but Atsumu manages. It’s a performance worthy of a golden medal, honestly. Hinata and Bokuto should be grateful for the amount of self-control he has. If he was a little weaker, he would’ve already bitten Sakusa’s head off for making a fool out of him without even meaning to.

At least when he means to, Atsumu has a valid excuse for his alarming lack of composure. Right now, he’s barely hanging on by a thread and he can’t even point fingers at anyone but the damn mirror. Maybe Suna was onto something when he said Atsumu is the joke that writes itself.

“Aw, Atsu, are you okay? You’re looking a bit too hot over there, baby,” Hinata says, and promptly loses his number one spot on Atsumu’s list of favourites once again.

He gives Sakusa his meal back and opens his mouth to ask Hinata whether he’d like his headstone written in block or cursive, but snaps it shut without so much as getting past a single word when Sakusa’s knuckles brush against his forehead, checking his temperature. He’s wearing his average concerned expression, which consists of his default expression and a brow raised in what Atsumu likes to think is concern, and Jesus Christ on a f*cking stick, he’s—

“Omi,” Atsumu whines, crumbling. “Omi, you’re killin’ me here.”

Sakusa frowns, taking his hand away. He gives Atsumu a weirded out look, and then glances at Hinata and Bokuto. Whatever he sees on their faces, Atsumu can’t tell, because he’s busy trying to crawl out of the ninth circle of hell. But then, to his utmost horror, understanding blooms in Sakusa’s eyes, and he loses the infuriating, sleepy pout in favour of a sly little smile.

“What’s wrong, Atsu?” He croons, sounding much more alert now. God f*cking damn it. And to think Atsumu was so optimistic about getting a few more minutes of sleep-soft Sakusa.

Sakusa looks back at the two miscreants on the other side of the table. “What’d he do?”

“Don’t,” Atsumu hisses, aiming all his venom at the twin sh*t-eating grins on his friends’ faces. “Not a f*ckin’ word, I swear.”

Bokuto lifts his arms in surrender, trying and failing to repress his smile. “We didn’t say anything.”

“Good,” Atsumu says lowly. “Keep it that way.”

Sakusa huffs beside him, turning the spotlight onto Hinata. “Shouyou.” And oh, f*cking really? Using Hinata’s given name as emotional blackmail? Sakusa is a damn dirty player. Hinata must be having a f*cking blast right about now. If he rats Atsumu out, Atsumu is definitely going to play Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson at his funeral. He will not give Hinata the chance to have a say in his meticulously curated playlist, and he is not taking constructive criticism on it, either.

Hinata smiles, amused, but he respects the death glare Atsumu is giving him. “Sorry, Omi-san. You snooze, you lose,” he says, then stuffs his mouth full to get out of the interrogation zone. That seems to be his ongoing theme for today. Using food as an escape mechanism.

Sakusa seems disappointed at his missed chance to make fun of Atsumu, especially after bringing out the big guns, but he graciously lets it go. He sends Atsumu one last sneaky, inquisitive look, but he eventually goes back to focusing on his dinner, chewing slowly.

With that, Hinata decides to stop being the bane of Atsumu’s existence and swiftly changes the subject to start blabbering about his newest findings on the matter of hydroponic systems or something equally out-of-nowhere kind of nonsense—god knows Atsumu doesn’t have a long enough attention span to listen to him. At least Bokuto and Sakusa seem to know what he’s talking about. Atsumu is off the hook for now.

The rest of their dinner goes by like that; Hinata going off about agriculture, of all things, and Sakusa explaining the intricacies of nutrient film technique with a type of patience that’s reserved for Hinata and Hinata only – Atsumu doesn’t have the patience himself to pay attention. He gets lost somewhere around the third sentence when Sakusa refers to whatever he’s talking about as NFT, and Atsumu’s mind wanders off to worthless, glorified PNGs that only serve to consume a f*ck-ton of electricity and to trick dipsh*t crypto-nerds into buying them.

Yeah, Atsumu is officially done for today.

He finishes his meal first, because Atsumu is an efficient eater and also not a f*cking maniac who can talk for hours about some stupid plants, so he decides to check in with Osamu while tuning out the beginnings of Bokuto somehow turning the conversation from hydroponics to his boyfriend on a completely unrelated note. Atsumu is delighted to find that Osamu finally got his sh*t together and will spend the next weekend at Shizuoka, and he makes sure to tell his brother to wear a plastic bag to cover up his face when he meets Suna, lest the guy falls out of love with Osamu at the atrocious sight of him. Osamu sends back a sophisticated selfie starring his middle finger, and then leaves Atsumu on read.

Atsumu puts his phone down with a satisfied smile. That’s another crisis averted; he almost had a conversation with Osamu without pissing him off. He’s going three for three. Heh.

Sakusa finishes second because, again, Sakusa is the kind of person who just gets the job done in all aspects of life, and he sneaks his hand around Atsumu’s thigh, squeezing once in a silent thank you for the meal. Atsumu smiles and snatches his hand into his, swiping his thumb over Sakusa’s knuckles. In turn, Sakusa’s head finds his shoulder, and Atsumu resists the urge to press a kiss on top of his head in order not to let Hinata and Bokuto go back to being little sh*ts.

“Good?” He asks quietly, taking a peek at Sakusa’s face. His eyes are falling shut.

“Mhm,” Sakusa confirms.

“You should go back to bed,” Atsumu murmurs. “We’ll clean up here. Get your beauty sleep.”

“I don’t need beauty sleep, motherf*cker.”

“You don’t,” Atsumu agrees easily. “But if ya don’t get your eight hours, you’ll be unbearable tomorrow.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” Sakusa mumbles, nuzzling Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu is convinced he’s doing all this just for the gap moe. “You’ll deal with it anyway.”

Atsumu bites down on his smile, looking up at the ceiling. Thankfully, Bokuto and Hinata seem to be in a much more forgiving mood with their stomachs full, because Atsumu only has to tolerate a small amount of prolonged eye contact with a grinning Bokuto before the two take it upon themselves to do the dishes together, leaving Atsumu and Sakusa to their bubble.

“I will,” Atsumu says. “But I think I deserve a break after today. I prevented a second-degree murder, y’know. In case ya forgot.”

“You just postponed the inevitable,” Sakusa corrects him. “I haven’t seen that son of a bitch since practice.”

“He’s scared of you,” Atsumu points out, finally giving in to the stupid urge to place a kiss on Sakusa’s head. “You’re a madman, y’know that?” He murmurs against Sakusa’s hair. It smells like something citrusy.

“He’d better be,” Sakusa grumbles. “I have plenty of ways of making his death look like an accident.”

Atsumu snorts, pulling away. “Easy, tiger. How ‘bout you think of a few ways of torturing the poor guy without actually killing him? You’d make my job a whole lot easier.”

“I don’t remember Adriah asking you to play knight in shining armour.”

“Maybe I’m playing knight for you, Omi.”

“And why, pray tell, the f*ck would I need you to do that?”

“Because,” Atsumu drawls, “you’d never survive in jail. And you wouldn’t get ta hold my hand like this, which would suck.”

“I wouldn’t get to, huh.” Sakusa tilts his head to look up at him, hiding a tiny smile. “That’d be a real shame.”

Atsumu nods solemnly, trying his best to keep a poker face and his voice level. “I know. You might lose your mind. And we can’t have that.”

Sakusa sighs. “We sure can’t,” he says, feigning exasperation. He sits back upright, letting go of Atsumu’s hand as he gets to his feet. The crane of his neck must’ve gotten uncomfortable. “It’ll be a while before I fall back asleep,” he announces. “So if you want to…” he says, leaving a deliberate pause and making a vague hand gesture in the direction of the bedrooms to get his message across.

Atsumu grins. “Aw, is this a booty call?”

Sakusa’s face falls into a deadpan. “Be f*cking serious, Miya. I’d never stoop that low.”

Atsumu’s grin only widens as he gets up from his chair, stepping into Sakusa’s space. “Are you sure? ‘Cuz the way I recall, the second time we—”

Sakusa shoves him off before he could get too far with that sentence, turning on his heels to leave a cackling Atsumu in the kitchen without a shred of hesitation.

Atsumu stumbles after him, tossing a quick g’night, scrubs to Hinata and Bokuto, and then goes on his way to cuddle the f*ck out of Sakusa while he can, because yeah. That’s a thing now. Suck on that, losers who aren’t Atsumu.

Atsumu spends their last day in Sapporo caught in a perpetual state of euphoria after their morning practice. He and Sakusa managed to pull off an insane quick back there. You two genuinely scare me sometimes, Inunaki said. Was that a fluke? Foster asked. I’m so glad I’m on the same team as you, Tomas mumbled when he got to step beside Atsumu with Sakusa out of murder range.

Sakusa didn’t say anything, so neither did Atsumu. They didn’t have to, not when Bokuto slapped both of them on their backs with a boisterous laugh, and exclaimed, let’s play some volleyball.

So they did.

Last day or not, however, it’s not over yet—there are things to pack, invitations from their teammates to turn down, and a walk with Sakusa to go on. Atsumu manages to fit most of his belongings back in his bag, even if it ends up looking like a pregnant camel; and then he waits. He waits, and he gets a bit too excited, so he gets ready in the bathroom, and then waits some more in the lounge, surfing through his notifications.

That’s how Hinata finds him, planting his hands beside Atsumu’s head on the couch and effectively scaring the sh*t out of him with his ambush. “Tsumu-san!” He beams down at him. “We’re leaving in two minutes.”

Atsumu tries to cover up his yelp with a cough, tilting his head back to look at Hinata. “Okay? Have fun.”

Hinata’s smile melts into confusion. “Wait, what? You’re not coming? It’s our last day!”

Atsumu reaches up to pat Hinata’s cheek, the same way his Ma used to do to him. “I got other plans this time, Shou-kun.”

“But—no fair! I need my dance floor partner!” Hinata whines, utterly dejected. When all Atsumu gives him is a slightly apologetic smile, he squishes Atsumu’s cheeks, pouting down at him with his brows furrowed. It’s cute, Atsumu will give him that—it would probably work any other day except this one. “Tsumuuu,” Hinata cries. “You can’t ditch me! Who’s gonna dance with me if not you? Wan-san?”

Atsumu lets out a hearty laugh. “I’d sure hope not,” he says, muffled by how hard Hinata’s squeezing his face. “You’ll be fine, Shouyou. I got a thing with Omi.”

Hinata lets go of his face, still pouting like there’s no tomorrow. He tries to glare at Atsumu, heavy on the trying part, because Hinata will never ever manage to look mean or intimidating in any shape or form. He’s just physically unable to. “So you’re abandoning me for a date.”

Atsumu pokes his tongue between his teeth, giving him a mildly guilty grin. “Maybe. But I promise ta make it up t’you, alright?”

“Fine,” Hinata says, still looking a little disappointed, but not mad, at least. “In the name of love, I’ll forgive you. But you have to tell me everything after!”

Atsumu hums. “Sure. In exchange fer the blackmail videos you gonna take of Wan-san.”

Hinata nods, a devilish smile drawn to his face. “You got yourself a deal!”

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” Atsumu grins back at him. “Tell Bokkun I’m sorry for the late notice too. Forgot ta tell you.”

Hinata gives him a two-finger salute and scurries away with a hurried goodbye when their teammates call out for him from the front door. Atsumu sinks back into the couch.

And then he waits some more.

It’s not a new concept; Atsumu spends an outrageous amount of his time waiting for Sakusa. He always takes forever showering, he dallies when it comes to ordering food because of all the background checks and nutrient calculations he does, and he has ritualistic routines that he has to see through to the very end, pinned to at least three specific time slots in his daily schedule. Atsumu calls it having a stick up his ass to Sakusa’s face, but in the privacy of his own head, he sees it as admirable scrupulousness. Sakusa is nothing if not meticulous, and for someone like Atsumu—someone who’s been living like he’s been running from fire, impulsive and burning through it—it’s almost like a sedative. Milestones between the hours, water lilies he can sit on instead of marching through the waves.

After so many months in Sakusa’s close proximity, Atsumu can’t say he minds. He’s growing soft. Malleable. He can’t say he minds that, either.

It’s after another half hour that Sakusa finally emerges from the bathroom, wearing a turtleneck like the nerd he is, and Atsumu wordlessly lifts his legs to make space for him on the couch. Sakusa takes him up on the offer, hands curling around Atsumu’s shins when he puts them back down.

“You look nice,” Atsumu says, looking away from his phone. “Shower okay?”

Sakusa hums. “Bokuto’s civilized. It was fine.” He pats Atsumu’s leg. “You want to go now?”

Atsumu checks the time on his phone. “I thought ya’d wanna wait a bit more.”

“It’s a weekday,” Sakusa points out. “And we’re not in peak tourist season here. We should be fine.”

Atsumu zeroes in on him, watching him carefully. Under Sakusa’s many layers, something Atsumu has learnt to navigate through, he seems…restless. Excited? Or maybe just curious—he does like going on walks, that old soul of his. Whichever it is, Atsumu will take it.

He sits up, conjuring up a smile without even meaning to. “Eager beaver,” he teases, throat thick with fondness. “C’mon, then.”

The park is huge, and it’s beautiful. They’re still a bit too early to witness the peak of fall leaves season, but the lilac trees have already soured, and the sight itself mingled with the subtle fragrance of the flowers that line the edges of the path is still romantic enough for Atsumu.

Sakusa is silent beside him, taking it all in while keeping an eye on the people. There really aren’t many; the park stretches long, so the few that find solace in the night are scattered wide enough for Sakusa’s shoulders to drop in relief. Atsumu waits for that signal, and then picks up Sakusa’s hand, curling his fingers between the gaps, tucking their intertwined hands into his pocket.

They walk in silence for a long time, soaking it in—the atmosphere, the sight, the company. It’s nothing short of idyll, really. Atsumu didn’t think that word could apply to anything outside movies, but Sakusa’s hand is warm in his pocket, the silence gentle in all the right ways, and his bones feel pleasantly hollow, even after such a long day.

Atsumu could bring up the quick attack from this morning. He could bring up the times he and Osamu made war out of red and yellow leaves. Or that old dog at his grandparents’ farm that always loved chewing on the rusty foliage, and how they always had to give chase to get the poisonous maple leaves out of her mouth. Or the fact that the first time he and Sakusa met, the seasons have been the same—nature donned in the bruises of time while they were brimming with childish hunger for the same sport, caged in the neat lines of the court with ten other people, kids, not knowing when to quit and growing ferocious at the promise of a worthy opponent. Atsumu could talk about everything and nothing, the strings of fate or the memories he swore he forgot about. Anything, really. And yet, the cold breeze and the gentle creaks of autumn’s joints seal all the words to the roof of his mouth.

For once, talking feels useless. Atsumu is used to taking the blame for ruining peace, but it’d feel out of place here and now. So he keeps his mouth shut, basking in it, and thinks about ugly neon jerseys, the smell of Salonpas in a heat-filled gymnasium, and two moles in a perfectly horizontal line. He thinks about standing on a podium, fidgeting with the silver around his neck and glancing at the gold every so often, watching one lanky, gloomy kid bow his head for the medal. He thinks about sucking it up, leaving the memories behind, and then standing at the top two years later, hoping the same lanky, gloomy kid is watching him back. He thinks about an angry, resentful promise made to his brother; about walking alone, struggling not to get lost amidst the real world, and finding his place in the only spot he could’ve ever imagined himself to be: right next to the net, arms ready and waiting for the ball. He thinks about three years of keeping an eye on the collegiate tournaments, three years of waiting for the tryouts that welcome a new teammate, no longer lanky or that gloomy or a kid at all. He thinks about arguments turning into banter, about flinches turning into high fives, about dismissive grunts turning into breathy sighs in the darkness of his bedroom, about the untouchable becoming attainable.

Atsumu thinks, and he keeps quiet, smiling to himself. There’s no sense of urgency. It’s weird that it compels Atsumu to take a leap now, of all times.

It’s here, he muses to himself. The tipping point, the climax, the edge of the cliff. It’s here, and it has the slowest build-up Atsumu has ever experienced.

“This is nice,” he says after a while, a bit raspy from disuse.

Sakusa hums in affirmation, but he’s still caught in the webs of the night, drawn to a separate world.

Atsumu squeezes his hand once, just for the hell of it. Just to bring him back a little. “Hey, Omi.”

Sakusa glances at him, reentering the present, eyes narrowed in distaste. “What.”

“Why are ya mad?” Atsumu laughs, shaking his head. “I didn’t even say anythin’ yet.”

“You have a very specific tone and manner of speech when you want something.”

Atsumu huffs, eyes drifting to the side. The elm trees look especially glum, bathing in the night and their blushing leaves. “Fine, ya got me.”

Sakusa squeezes his hand. Warmth bursts in Atsumu’s lungs. “Just spill it already.”

Atsumu stops in his tracks, tugging Sakusa into a pause with him. He chews on the inside of his cheeks, heart skipping a few beats. Is he nervous? He doesn’t know. “Omi,” he says, finding his eyes halfway.

Sakusa’s eyebrows raise slightly, sensing the shift. “Atsu,” he parrots.

Funnily enough, it’s reassuring in some crooked, Sakusa kind of way. Atsumu forgets why he’s hesitating in the first place. This is Sakusa, standing in front of him, still holding his hand even if it twists his wrist at a slightly awkward angle, as if his freaky mobility was a blessing in disguise just so he could accommodate Atsumu. This is Sakusa, facing him head-on and meeting him in the middle, mask pulled over his nose yet expression open in a way it rarely is. This is Sakusa—this is Kiyoomi, who’s been letting Atsumu get away with way more than he should’ve, who’s been dancing the same circles as he has, who’s been through the same nonsense Atsumu has because it was with Atsumu.

Atsumu grins, the outlandish feeling of tension melting away from his shoulders.

“Wanna make today our anniversary?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen in surprise, looking genuinely taken off guard for once. He stares at Atsumu, blinking a few times in quick succession. When Atsumu doesn’t magically disappear from his line of vision, but reaches out to tug his mask under his chin instead, Kiyoomi lets out a quiet breath, soft, soft, softening, until there’s that cute little smile, the subtle and muted one, amplified by the gentle curve of his eyes.

“You’re serious,” he says. It’s not a question.

“I am,” Atsumu answers anyway.

Kiyoomi’s smile widens, lighting up his whole face. His eyes are hooded in that same way again. The triumphant one. He pulls their hands out of Atsumu’s pocket, and yanks Atsumu closer by that steady hold. “About damn time,” he says, and then adds, much more quietly, barely above the chill of the breeze, “But yes. Today sounds good.”

Atsumu chuckles, shimmying one step closer into his space. “Want me to kiss you now, or d’you wanna go back an’ brush our teeth?”

Kiyoomi tilts his head down, gazing at him, then gently presses his forehead against Atsumu’s, burning holes into Atsumu’s soul. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never kiss you either way,” he says confidently, then kisses him.

It’s chaste. Unhurried, for once. It’s barely more than soft pressure against Atsumu’s mouth, and it’s the best thing Atsumu has ever tasted, because for all the fire it’s lacking, it’s tame with a promise of more, of a long-term agreement, of having plenty of time on their hands to make up for it.

“Sure ya wouldn’t,” Atsumu mumbles when they pull away for a moment, and grazes his lips against Kiyoomi’s in a silent plea for a repeat performance.

Kiyoomi indulges him, because if Atsumu is the one who wants and wants, then Kiyoomi is the one who just gets the job done. It’s the same amount of tender as the first one, woefully short and fleeting, leaving Atsumu a little breathless when Kiyoomi lets go.

“Exactly,” Kiyoomi smirks. “I’m not some hussy, after all.”

A startled laugh tears its way out of Atsumu, and he shakes his head fondly, wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist. He sneaks in a kiss against his cheek. “That’s rich comin’ from someone who booty called me not so long ag—”

“For the last time, that was not a booty call,” Kiyoomi hisses, pushing his face away, pretending to struggle in Atsumu’s hold. Atsumu just keeps laughing. “You’re so f*ckin—”

“Irresistible, I know,” Atsumu cuts in, squeezing him in his arms. “I gathered that from your track record, don’ worry.”

“—aggravating,” Kiyoomi corrects him, making a meager attempt at strangling him. “Why the f*ck did it have to be you,” he grumbles to himself, slipping out of Atsumu’s arms. He turns on his heels and shoves his hands into his pockets, petulant and childish and so, so ethereal even as he’s glaring at the world like it wronged him for even daring to put him on the same planet as Atsumu.

Atsumu grins as he sidesteps in front of him, leering up at his disdainful expression. “Easy there, hotshot. How ‘bout some kiss an’ make up?”

Kiyoomi sighs, letting Atsumu’s hands find their place on his hips again without a word. “I’m not kissing you in public.”

Atsumu quirks a brow. “Ya seemed fine with it ten seconds ago.”

“I had a momentary lapse of judgement.”

“You prick,” Atsumu snorts, still grinning. “Fine. You’re right, we shoulda done this back at the rental. Can’t exactly get ya out of these clothes with my balls ‘bout to drop from hypothermia.”

Kiyoomi stares at him. “Charming.”

Atsumu rakes his eyes down Kiyoomi’s covered chest, biting down on his lower lip. He ignores the dry sarcasm thrown at him, mind already elsewhere. “f*ck, we have single rooms. The hell are we still doin’ here?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who wanted to come out here.”

Atsumu shakes his head, grabbing Kiyoomi’s hand on a whim, and starts pulling him back the way they came from. “I didn’ account fer the stick up your ass. I say we relocate so we can continue this in the unexciting privacy of your bedroom, a’ight?”

Kiyoomi lets out a long exhale, but falls into step beside him anyway. “You’re desperate,” he notes flatly.

“You’re my boyfriend,” Atsumu bites back, loving the way it rolls off his tongue. It fits eerily well.

Kiyoomi makes a small, strangled noise at the back of his throat. When Atsumu glances at him, he’s staring at the ground, eyes wide with wonder. “Huh,” he says quietly, almost too low for Atsumu to catch. “I guess I am.”

Atsumu feels just as awed, but he hides it with a giggle and a firmer grip around Kiyoomi’s hand. Safe to say, he doesn’t lose his grin for the entirety of their way back.

Slamming Kiyoomi against the front door the moment it closes is the easy part. Undressing while not pulling away from his lips is the difficult one. Kiyoomi is addictive, and Atsumu is probably going to die on this hill, this whole ass mountain of making out with him until he suffocates and drops dead.

Kiyoomi manages to shrug his own coat off with his alien liquid bones and somehow hangs it up without even looking, his mouth working against Atsumu’s, not as tender anymore but no less savouring it. His chronically cold hands slide over Atsumu’s shoulders as Atsumu wrestles with his sleeves behind his back, and helps him out of the offending piece of clothing. Atsumu groans against his lips in relief when it finally comes off.

“Don’t throw it on the floor,” Kiyoomi mumbles, and kisses the chance for rebuttal out of Atsumu’s mental reach. He hangs Atsumu’s coat besides his own in the smoothest f*cking series of movements Atsumu has ever seen, and it’s horrifying how it gets him hot that much more.

In revenge for making Atsumu fall incandescently in love with him for the stupidest of things, he pins Kiyoomi back against the door, his mouth coaxing Kiyoomi’s open as his hands cinch around his waist, rough and insistent with starvation. Kiyoomi’s arms wind around Atsumu’s neck in turn, letting out a content breath that Atsumu catches with his tongue. Atsumu’s hand wanders down to Kiyoomi’s leg and hitches it up to his hip, then kisses him deeper for letting Atsumu do it in the first place, pressing and pushing and wedging closer, until scientists must be questioning whether the electron clouds around atoms truly repel each other because Atsumu is fairly sure they’ve become a nuclear fission reaction. Getting rid of their coats suddenly doesn’t feel anywhere near close to enough, because there’s phlogiston in Atsumu’s veins, igniting with the encouraging noises Kiyoomi lets out against his lips, smouldering in the lack of oxygen in his lungs.

That is, until;

“Holy f*cking sh*tballs, man!” Inunaki screeches, and then throws the closest thing within reach at the back of Atsumu’s head, which just so happens to be the TV remote.

Atsumu’s balance slips, his nose digging into Kiyoomi’s cheek before he pulls away, disgruntled. He shoots a caustic glare over his shoulder, just as one of Kiyoomi’s hands sinks into his hair, rubbing his scalp at the point of impact soothingly.

Their whole team is lounging in the living room, all eyes on them and some mouths gaping. Hinata is looking at them with his chin propped in his palm, wearing a dopey grin, while Bokuto is cackling in delight, nearly falling off the couch.

Atsumu blinks, puzzled. “You’re back early.”

Meian buries his face in his palms. Barnes gets up and leaves.

Inunaki seems to be the only one capable of communication, maybe out of the overwhelming sense of mortification that shadows his face. “It’s f*cking cold out there, and we’re all tired as sh*t! What the f*ck are you doing?”

“The f*ck does it look like, ya co*ckblockin’ wanker?” Atsumu bristles. He lets go of Kiyoomi’s leg, and it drops to the floor with a heavy thunk that basically drags the awkward crickets sound effect with it.

“I told them we should stay out longer!” Hinata supplies cheerily, eyes disappearing with his smile.

Meian’s head snaps up, mouth parting in shock at Hinata. “You knew this was going to happen?”

Hinata shrugs, waving a hand at Atsumu and Kiyoomi as if that’s supposed to explain anything.

“I’m officially not doing this,” Kiyoomi states, gently pushing Atsumu away to step out of his shoes. He gives Atsumu a pointed look. “Shoes off. Come on.”

“You’re not gonna screw at our f*cking training camp, are you?!” Inunaki shrieks immediately, the light slowly draining out of his eyes.

“Apparently not. Your face’s one helluva boner-killer, Wan-san,” Atsumu hisses, toeing his shoes off. Kiyoomi takes hold of his wrist and starts leading him toward his bedroom. “Still gonna kiss the everliving sh*t out of him, though.”

Kiyoomi’s grip tightens around him for a second, before he effectively hauls Atsumu over the common area. He catches Inunaki say something along the lines of somehow that’s worse, but Atsumu has cancelled his seven-day free subscription to giving a sh*t at this point. The night was going so well, too. They could’ve made love, or something equally cringeworthy, if it wasn’t for the dick-parching prospect of their teammates being a wall away.

Before he could explore the possibilities of traumatizing the entirety of the MSBY Black Jackals out of pure, horny spite, Atsumu is unceremoniously shoved through the doorway to Kiyoomi’s room, hastily pulling his hoodie off by the back of his collar.

“Seriously,” he grumbles as he tosses the piece of clothing onto Kiyoomi’s bag. “I can’t f*ckin’ believe them. Of all the times this bunch goes out to get drunk, this is the one where they decide to be responsible an’ sh*t? What are the f*ckin’ chances of th—”

Kiyoomi kisses the rest of his sentence back into his mouth, his hands sliding under Atsumu’s shirt with intimate ease, summoning goosebumps in his wake. “Stop whining and get with the program,” he mutters, guiding Atsumu backwards until the back of his knees knock against the bed. He pushes Atsumu until he falls, bouncing lightly on the mattress.

“What exactly is the program here?” Atsumu asks, watching Kiyoomi get rid of his sweater as well, placing one knee on the far end of the bed.

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu, pausing. “You’re too loud when we f*ck,” he points out bluntly.

That sets fire to Atsumu’s face, but he swallows down the indignant warble that tries to escape him. It’s not his fault he can’t keep it down when he gets his dick wet. If anyone should be having fingers pointed at them, it’s Kiyoomi. “Ya have a few ways of shuttin’ me up.”

Kiyoomi smiles, undeniably smug, as he finally gets moving and crawls over Atsumu. “As happy as I am about that,” he drawls, leaning down to press his lips against Atsumu’s cheek, “I don’t think I could look any of them in the eyes for a whole year if we had sex right now.”

Atsumu pouts, wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi’s shoulders, his leg over his hip, pulling him down until Kiyoomi is forced to lay all his weight onto him, bracketing Atsumu’s head with his forearms. “So yer idea of the program is blue balls.”

“For now,” Kiyoomi murmurs, and finally kisses him again, less heated or eager with the ruination of their unwritten plans.

If it’s only for now, it should be fine. That’s what Atsumu tells himself as they make out, and it’s what he keeps on telling himself when Kiyoomi’s mouth starts burning against his, when the blood from his brain takes a different route and goes a little too south, when the warmth of Kiyoomi exhaling through his nose gets a bit too much because he does it like he can’t stand to pull away. It’s what Atsumu tries to remember when Kiyoomi kisses the brain capacity out of him, scraping for a distant sense of composure, and it’s what he completely forgets when Kiyoomi shifts on top of him and unintentionally grinds down just so, and f*ck, his hard-on situation seems to be just as bad as Atsumu’s.

Time cracks apart. Atsumu gets lost in the resolute rhythm Kiyoomi sets, helpless against it. It’s not fair, never will be, how good of a kisser Kiyoomi is, how hot and bothered it gets Atsumu, how much he yearns to throw this celibate agreement out the window to get his hands where he really wants them. It’s not fair, but he finds justice in the way Kiyoomi is equal amounts of affected, letting out these maddening, tiny whines when Atsumu does something just right. It’s not fair, but at least if they go down, they go down together.

“Atsu,” Kiyoomi sighs into his ear when one of Atsumu's hands starts travelling below his lower back. He leaves a trail of kisses down Atsumu’s neck, supporting himself with only one arm while his other hand rucks up Atsumu’s shirt, gliding over his side in a sweet caress. That, and the breathless way Kiyoomi speaks into the microscopic space between them both send a pleasant bout of tingles down to Atsumu’s f*cking toes, and okay, yeah, that’s going to be a problem.

He’s quite proud of how long it took to reach his temporary limit. Atsumu is pretty sure he deserves some key to the city for enduring this torture.

“Stop sayin’ my name like that,” he groans, fisting Kiyoomi’s hair. “Christ, Kiyoomi. I’m dyin’ over here.”

Kiyoomi pulls back, smiling at Atsumu’s expense like the total sh*thead he is, lips red and swollen. He looks debauched. Holy f*cking sh*t. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to f*ck Kiyoomi this bad, which is saying something.

“Shut up,” Atsumu hisses, tearing his eyes away from the sight. But f*ck, what a sight it is.

“I didn’t say anything,” Kiyoomi murmurs, blinking at him from under his lashes. Atsumu can’t believe his boyfriend (his boyfriend!!!) spawned right out of Satan’s ass. Yep, definitely hell on Earth.

“You have bedroom eyes!” Atsumu accuses, pointing a condemnatory finger at his face.

Kiyoomi bats his hand away, his stupid mouth dipping into a smirk. Atsumu swiftly decides he hates this motherf*cker. “We’re in my bedroom,” Kiyoomi says lightly, acting like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

Atsumu throws his head back in frustration—all kinds of frustration, just to be clear—and he looks to the ceiling for help, ready to get on his knees to plead with some deity to take out the demon on top of him. “M’gonna need three very, very cold showers.”

Kiyoomi cups his face, his thumb sliding over Atsumu’s cheek, his co*cky expression turning contemplative for a second. “I could lend a hand,” he offers.

Atsumu squints at him in suspicion. “Are we talkin’ the my-dick-fallin’-off and you’re-a-goddamn-menace kinda hand, or…?”

Kiyoomi pushes up on his elbows to finally get his mighty eighty kilograms off Atsumu, leaning forward to leave a soft, lingering kiss against Atsumu’s forehead. “Why don’t you find out,” he says, not bothering to make it sound like a question, gathering himself from the bed.

Well, well, well. If it isn’t Atsumu’s favourite version of Kiyoomi. The one that’s too worked up to give a sh*t anymore.

Atsumu grins, and follows him.

It’s been three days since they got back to Osaka, two of which Atsumu has spent strictly in Kiyoomi’s company. He’s still on cloud nine—Kiyoomi’s been dealing with an awfully clingy version of him, god bless his patience, and Atsumu hasn’t felt the slightest bit of guilty about it. He’s been shamelessly in love for a while now. He’s not about to stop now, when things have finally fallen into place.

Which brings him to their current standing. Locker room, post-morning practice, his darling teammates looking varying degrees of disgusted, mortified, and in the middle of questioning the point of their existence. All eyes on Atsumu, some of them silently pleading with him to stop talking, some of them nodding along with an indulgent smile—namely Bokuto and Hinata, who’ve heard Atsumu blabbering on about the same damn thing quite a few times now—and some of them gagging, clawing at the nearest surface in search of relief. (Atsumu takes a mental note to make sure Inunaki receives one of his serves with his face the next time the opportunity arises.)

Atsumu puts his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out in an obnoxious manner, grinning when their libero starts banging his head against his locker. “—and, well, shoutout to Shou-kun and Bokkun. And Samu, I guess, but not really.” He glances at Kiyoomi, who’s sitting on the bench, watching Atsumu speak with fake disinterest. “And Komori-kun, probably,” Atsumu goes on, winking at him. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “But yeah, in conclusion, we’re dating now!”

The silence is relieved once Atsumu is done with his monologue, and everyone and their mother can bet their asses Atsumu is eating it up. They all probably saw right through his measly lie of hey, I’d like to clarify and clear some things up, y’all got a minute? and honestly, Atsumu really couldn’t care less. He’s dating his boyfriend. Sakusa Kiyoomi. Yeah, that guy.

Atsumu is willing to shout that from the rooftops, noise complaints be damned.

“Well that’s a minute we’re never gonna get back,” Barnes says to his right, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. “Congrats, I guess,” he says with good-natured exasperation, and then he walks out in true Barnes fashion with a low see you later, fleeing the scene before Atsumu could get started again.

“As long as this doesn’t mess with the team’s performance,” Meian says slowly, looking constipated. “We’re happy for you, really. But for the love of all that’s holy and dear, keep it professional, for all of our sakes.”

Inunaki looks up at that, somehow resurrecting at the chance of giving them sh*t. “Hard detto on that one. That includes no sucking face in my hundred-metre radius, no getting it on in the locker room, no f*cking at training camps—”

“Technically, we didn’t,” Atsumu cuts in, grinning. “But if ya’d like to kno—”

“Miya.”

Atsumu’s mouth snaps shut, and he narrows his eyes at Kiyoomi. He glowers back at Atsumu with a small blush sitting on the tips of his ears, daring him to finish his sentence.

Atsumu doesn’t. But Atsumu has also been waiting for this opportunity for months now, and he’s not about to let it go to waste when he finally gets to make this one joke. “Dude, if ya like my family name so much, why don’tcha take it for yourself, huh?”

Inunaki wilts into himself with a pretty convincing impression of a dying whale’s scream, until he’s crouched on the floor and burying his face in his hands. Hinata bursts out laughing.

Tomas clears his throat. Oh, he’s bold today. Speaking up when Kiyoomi’s willingness for bloodshed skyrockets? Maybe he really does have more guts than he lets on. “Did you just call Sakusa dude and propose to him in the same sentence?” He asks, bewildered.

Atsumu blinks, the colour draining from his face. “What? No!”

“I call Keiji ‘bro’ all the time, too,” Bokuto supplies helpfully.

Atsumu bites down on a laugh, trying to escape the blank look Kiyoomi is giving him. Yes, he’s one of those who can’t stand to be called some fraternity type of pet name when he’s literally dating the person—although he loves to pretend he hates the cute ones, too, so Atsumu doesn’t really have much wiggle room here.

But if Atsumu’s accumulated experience with Kiyoomi and pet names suggests anything, it’s that he’s a dead man walking now.

“We’re leaving,” Inunaki announces to no one in particular. He pushes Tomas out the door, and Meian’s scolding glare is all it takes for Hinata and Bokuto to get moving, too.

The slam of the locker room door feels like a deadly verdict.

“Slip of the tongue?” Atsumu offers with a somewhat sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Dude,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly, then stands up, not taking his eyes off Atsumu.

Atsumu takes a step back. “Wait, Omi, no—Omi, Kiyoomi, listen—hear me out!”

Kiyoomi halts in his step, raising a brow, giving him a chance to redeem himself.

Atsumu leaps at the opportunity, holding out a placating hand in defense. “...I love you?”

Kiyoomi’s left eye twitches in annoyance. He looks down at Atsumu’s stretched-out arm, and then back at his face. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Atsumu grins, letting his hand fall and circle Kiyoomi’s wrist, and then he pulls him in, because Kiyoomi’s murderous glare is nothing compared to the shy roses blooming on his cheeks. “No, you’re not,” Atsumu says, self-assured. “T’was an honest mistake! Wouldja prefer I call ya…my snuggle muffin? Honey buns? Love nugget? Pumpkin beefcake?”

“Shut the f*ck up,” Kiyoomi hisses, now furiously blushing.

Atsumu grabs him by his jaw, and smacks an obnoxious kiss onto his forehead. “You can be real cute sometimes, y’know that?”

“I f*cking hate you.” Kiyoomi tries to glare at him, but his pout kind of ruins the whole serial killer vibe. “You drove everyone away with your peaco*ck-parading bullsh*t,” he mumbles, eyes darting around the empty locker room.

“Not everyone,” Atsumu hums, swiping his thumb over the red on Kiyoomi’s cheeks.

Kiyoomi meets his eyes, unwavering and gravitational. He sighs. Shakes his head. “Let’s go home,” he says.

He doesn’t say which of their apartments he means. It doesn’t matter.

Atsumu smiles, and lets go of Kiyoomi’s face in exchange for his hand.