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“I love you,” Sakusa says for the first time he can remember in his life, staring at this person before him that he now can call his boyfriend.
“I love you,” he says, as he grudgingly breaks into something that almost resembles a laugh, one reserved for certain people, or maybe one certain Ushijima Wakatoshi.
“I love you,” he whispers into the phone after hours of giddy laughter and the euphoria of being so, so in love.
“I love you,” he says, as he holds back tears in the rain, watching him walk away. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. This is so pathetic, so cliche, oh my fucking god , Sakusa thinks to himself, but I love you, I love you, I love you , and a part of him wants to believe the same words will be echoed back to him if he wishes it hard enough.
“Miya Onigiri,” Atsumu tries his best to sound as cheerful as he can, even though right now he just really wants to shove his foot down Osamu’s throat.
I’m your brother, not free labour. He hopes the glare got the message across.
Fucking get the phone, Tsumu , came the reply via another look.
My ass , Atsumu thinks, but instead he says, “How can I help you this gorgeous night?”
Osamu raises an eyebrow, which translates to “The fuck you think you’re doing, being all chummy with the customers now” , but Atsumu decides that if Osamu can act high and mighty just because he runs a business, he too can be smug about being charming.
The stranger on the other end hesitates, but only barely.
“Umeboshi onigiri,” they say. “Two of them.”
There is a certain hoarseness to their voice, like they have either spent the day crying or hogging the mic at the karaoke. Atsumu lets himself believe it’s the latter, he is an optimist after all.
“You have excellent taste,” Atsumu singsongs, and Osamu flashes him another dirty look. Stop flirting with my customers, it says.
Atsumu only laughs. He scribbles an address down and says, “Got it, we’ll have it delivered to you within 30 minutes or so, thank you for ordering from Miya Onigiri.”
“Thanks, I love-” the stranger replies, his voice hitching right as he finishes his sentence, “-you.”
Silence hangs in the air, and Atsumu inhales slowly. “Oh?” he says.
“Fuck,” the stranger whispers, and promptly hangs up the phone.
With the phone still in hand, time stills as Atsumu tries to comprehend what just happened until Osamu interrupts him. “Flirted so much you fried your brains or some shit?” Osamu yells from the other end of the counter.
“...who was that?” Atsumu turns to get a hold on Osamu, who looks at him like he’s finally lost it.
“I wasn’t the one who talked on the phone, genius?” he says incredulously. “What do they want? I have a damn job to do, asshole.”
“I’ll help you deliver it, the order,” Atsumu says, his face burning.
Osamu squints at him. “Do you have a fever? Do you need a thermometer?”
I love you, I love you, I love you .
The words ring in Atsumu’s head, and it haunts him all the way to his destination.
I love you, I love you, I love you .
When was the last time Atsumu had anyone saying those three words to him, anyway? He thinks about it as he shuttles through the streets. Probably yesterday? There was no lack of screaming fans who jumped at every chance to profess their undying love for him.
But yet.
I love you, I love you, I love you .
When was the last time he had ever had anyone saying those words to him so gently, like it was the easiest thing in the world?
I love you, I love you, I love you .
When had he ever had anyone telling him that in a way so tender, like Atsumu was the best thing on earth? It was probably an accident, he knows, who would simply murmur I love you in a way like that, in a voice so gentle it could coax flowers to bloom in the winter.
I love you, I love you, I love you .
Fuck, Atsumu is here waxing poetic over someone who simply said I love you by accident, an accident that carries no weight to it. He was simply a wrong recipient for a message, so why is his stomach churning at the thought of the same gentle “I love you” being told to someone else?
I love you, I love you, I love you .
Is it food poisoning? Atsumu frowns as he goes through a mental list of the things he’s done in the past month to piss Osamu off, wondering if he might have spiked his food for petty revenge.
I love you .
This is a good time to bury his head in his hands, or his knees, or the ground, something. But trying to do that while soaring across the city on a motorcycle means imminent death. No, Miya Atsumu is too young to die. He’s a man on a mission to deliver the world’s best onigiri to someone who just told him they loved him. Atsumu goes faster, echoes of “ I love you ” on loop.
Sakusa Kiyoomi finds comfort in very little things. Among them, lists.
And so to cope, he goes through a mental list of everything that sounds objectively evil that he’s done in the past year, or maybe the past 20 years of his life, but he still doesn’t find anything glaringly bad enough that warrants him a curse like this.
He curses god, himself, his ineffable cravings for onigiri as a source of comfort food after being dumped by his now ex-boyfriend, and his now ex-boyfriend, in that particular order, then slumps into the hem of his sofa.
I love you , he can hear himself say in his head, and he can hear the guy from the onigiri shop inhale, then exhale, very slowly.
I love you , he hears himself say again, but there’s a face attached to who he’s talking to this time. He hears the light of his life inhale, then exhale, very slowly.
Then, in the same excruciatingly slow tempo, Sakusa hears Ushijima say, “Kiyoomi, we need to talk.”
Of course they do. Talking is all they have ever done, it’s what makes the difference. It’s how the rest of the universe would have to put a knife to Sakusa’s throat to get him to engage in any form of unnecessary banter, and all Ushijima had to do was to call him.
Phone calls, phone calls. The root of all bad habits, the root of all I love yous, the root of all evils.
“I’m sorry,” Ushijima says, and it hurts more because he's looking straight at Sakusa, with that same straight forwardness of what he fell for. “I’m so sorry Kiyoomi, but I don’t think this,” he gestures between the two of them, “-is working, is going to work.”
“I love you.”
“I’m sorry,” Ushijima repeats, but the words don’t sink in, they simply can’t.
“I love you,” Sakusa says again.
“I’m sorry. I did too,” And just like that, Ushijima walks away.
Sakusa lets him, but when he’s too far to hear, he lets himself say it once more.
“I love you.”
His doorbell rings, and Sakusa looks up in confusion for a moment, then only realising who it could possibly be at this hour. After grabbing the cash he’s set out neatly, he opens the door to stare into a pair of brown eyes.
“Here’s your order, sweetheart,” the delivery guy says, his eyes gleaming.
Sakusa’s brows furrow. “Here’s the money. Please stop going around calling people sweetheart.”
The other guy laughs and Sakusa notes the crinkles in his eyes when he does that. “You’re the one who said you loved me, and now you can’t handle a few pet names?”
Sakusa blinks twice at him, before saying, “Sorry about that.”
He reaches his hand out for the other guy to hand him the plastic bag, but instead his hand springs for Sakusa’s in what appears to be an attempt at a handshake. Had it not been for his amazing reflexes, Sakusa didn’t want to imagine how much germs he’d be risking himself to right now.
Noting the flinch, the brimming self confidence that verged on arrogance falters.
“Not a touchy kind of guy huh, sorry about that,” he says. “I’m Atsumu. Miya Atsumu. Nice to meet you.” But he keeps the plastic bag of onigiri in his grip.
“Give me my onigiri,” Sakusa snaps. “It’s been a terrible day, I just got dumped, just said I love you to someone who wouldn’t say it back, then said I love you to someone who I don’t know, then was nearly attacked by outside germs via unsolicited social contact, and now I’m getting onigiri I paid for withhelded?”
Give me a break , Sakusa thinks, putting his head in his hands, slowly dragging the heels of his palms down his face. Givemeabreakgivemeabreakgivemeabre-
“Oh,” Atsumu says, sounding almost apologetic. “Here, I’m sorry. I will leave now even though I am devastated that I haven’t even gotten your name from you.”
Smiling ruefully, he hands the onigiri in the plastic bag over, and Sakusa grudgingly accepts it. They continue to look at each other until Sakusa decides this already ridiculous situation is getting out of hand.
“Bye,” he says stiffly and promptly closes the door, but he doesn’t miss the mutter from Atsumu.
“Aw hell,” he chuckles. “I totally would have said I love you back if you’d given me the chance.”
There is a phone number in the plastic bag and a name written next to it. Sakusa throws it away.
He eats the Onigiri, and finds a small packet of umeboshi that he was sure he didn’t order, and a note.
No one orders umeboshi onigiri ever, but in case you like them here’s some more. Consider it a thanks for saying you love me in such a heart wrenching way, even if you weren’t really saying it to me :p
Sakusa snorts, then throws the note away.
***
(Later on, 3am Sakusa would curse himself for throwing it away. but after fishing it out with pinchers and gloves, he sends a text to the phone number before he can regret it.
Then he throws the note away again and sanitises the room. Hygiene, something like that.)
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” the text reads, and it takes all of Atsumu’s self control to not screech, because it is 3am after all, and screeching loudly at 3am may give neighbours the wrong idea.
So he texts him back with the word that captures things most accurately and concisely.
“What?”
“My name. Consider it a thanks for the pickled peaches.”
“Holy shit? You’re up at 3a.m. just to text me this?”
“I am going back to bed now.”
“Hey, do you suppose I can take you on a date someday?” Atsumu presses send, and he curses himself when the realisation of how insensitive a question like that is in the wake of a breakup. “Like, not a date date, I’d like to get to know you, is all.”
The follow up text he sends does nothing to make the first sound better, but he only realises when he’s pressed send. Oh well , he thinks. Worst case scenario the most beautiful person I’ve seen in life will never talk to me again, it’s not the end of the world.
Atsumu proceeds to think it’s the end of the world until the reply comes in half an hour. It is an anticipated rejection, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “No.”
“Okay.” It’s a start, Atsumu thinks. He texted me back! And a challenge he’ll enjoy. Maybe. Probably. He is an optimist, after all.
Sakusa Kiyoomi gives Atsumu the most unimpressed look he can muster, but the jubilant glint in Atsumu’s eyes tells him that he isn’t buying Sakusa’s indifferent bullshit.
So fine, Atsumu may not have been the crappiest person to have around, and making a point to deliver all of Sakusa’s onigiri deliveries did give them chances to hang out, but it gets harder trying to tell himself none of this means anything of significance after Sakusa willingly puts up with it for a year. And another. Then more.
So here he is, dragged to Miya Onigiri by one Miya Atsumu where said Miya insists that he has come up with a new incredible recipe curated specifically for his most beloved “Omi-kun”. After years of terrible nicknames and being the lab rat for less terrible new recipes, Sakusa now knows it is much lesser effort to go along than to argue for ages only to lose.
He somehow takes comfort in all of this.
“You washed your hands before making this, didn’t you?” He asks for good measure, but he’s already reaching towards the plate Atsumu holds out.
“Well yeah, Samu would kill me if I tried to poison his customers,” Atsumu laughs.
Sakusa flashes what he hopes is a withering glare at Atsumu. “I will haunt you for the rest of your life if you poison me, Miya.”
“Ooh, sounds like a declaration of love to me, Omi-omi,” Atsumu teases. “Is it?”
“No,” Sakusa says, and bites down on Atsumu’s newest invention.
The onigiri, while a pretty ridiculous combination of tomato and tuna, manages to go past the bar of being edible. One might even call it delicious, not that he’d admit it to Atsumu in a million years.
“I love you,” Atsumu says, just like that.
Sakusa chokes. He downs the rest of the bite with a glass of water before he replies. Sakusa Kiyoomi does not talk with his mouth full. He’s cultured, well mannered. He’s not the likes of Miya Atsumu.
“No you don’t,” Sakusa says. “It’s been years. I must be pretty damn perfect if it’s the only thing you have to hold over me over the years.”
“Yes I do.”
“No you don’t.” Sakusa takes another bite of Atsumu’s delicious ridiculous creation.
“Sakusa.”
“Mmm.”
“Omi.”
“Thanks for the food, can I leave now?”
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says. “Look at me.”
His tone is authoritative, and Sakusa briefly conjures another mental pros and cons list of who would win in a fist fight if he really does walk out Miya Onigiri this instant. Sakusa decides he does not like his odds, so he looks into Atsumu’s eyes.
“What do you want,” he says, although he suspects he knows the answer to that question.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
Three words associated with so many different things and people over the years now calls dangerously to umeboshi onigiri; to ridiculous recipes; to a series of far too imaginative swears and terrible food analogies that he uses to describe everything; to a metaphorical frail umbrella in the midst of a metaphorical hailstorm that surprisingly manages to shield him; and maybe, Miya Atsumu.
Okay, he’s starting to wax poetic about Atsumu. This must be a sign of decay for the brilliance once known as Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Atsumu doesn’t say anything, so he repeats himself. “What do you want?”
“Do you really believe that?” Atsumu asks, his fingers drumming on the table. “That it’s always been a joke, always been a tease, and there’s nothing to it.”
Sakusa’s chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. “Maybe. What else could it be. What do you want, Miya?”
“I love you.”
“Stop.”
“I love you.”
“Stop that.”
“I love you.” Atsumu breaks into a smile. “And I’m going to keep saying it till you believe me. I love you.”
“Atsumu, oh my go-”
“I love you. I love you. I love you. I lov-”
Heat rises to Sakusa’s cheeks. He clicks his tongue in what feels like exasperation. “What the fuck, why?”
Atsumu looks taken aback, like he’s never even bothered to sit down and consider this. His face scrunches as he speaks.
“Because you’re so weirdly paranoid about all these dust and germs you can’t see and you’re not at all scared of things that we should all be rather afraid of? Like the ineffability of the universe? Because you’re so cool? Because you’re such a fragile piece of shit inside and you try to act all tough and strong? And you fuck that up so badly so everyone just thinks you’re a too blunt asshole who thinks too highly of yourself? And it pisses everyone off because you really are that cool and no one can find fault with you?”
“Is this a joke,” Sakusa scowls. “If you’re going to trash talk me you could find other more straightforward ways, Miya, or is basic human interaction incomprehensible to you?”
“I’m not fucking around with you, Omi-omi. I just love you.”
Oh, fuck it , Sakusa thinks.
“Fucking do something about it then,” Sakusa snaps. “Take me on a date, hell, invite me on a date, something. Don’t just sit there and parrot that information to me, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“I’ve been trying to do that for ages,” Atsumu gawks. “You could maybe say it back?”
In spite of himself, Sakusa smiles, though it disappears as fast as it appears.
“I already have,” he says.
“So say it again. Let me know this is real and not something I’ve been delusionally chasing for the past 5 years.”
Sakusa thinks of umeboshi onigiri. Of sunsets that dye Atsumu’s hair golden. Of the smell of disinfectant when he brings Sakusa places. Of takeaway coffee even when Sakusa didn’t ask. Of a lavender scented omamori even though Sakusa doesn’t recall ever telling him about his most recent overdramatic concern. Of deliveries of porridge even though it’s not what he ordered, accompanied by unsolicited lectures of how “you’re a grown adult, Omi-omi, don’t you know how to take care of yourself with a fever?”.
Sakusa thinks of these and many other things. Sakusa thinks of Atsumu.
“I love you,” Sakusa says, and his voice doesn’t waver the way it did the first time.