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The garter on Atsumu’s shorts must be loose. They swing low on his hips, exposing the black band of his briefs, taut against rippling muscle. Light rests on the glimmer of his abs, clenching as he laughs.
Sakusa knows he doesn’t mean to flex. It’s just Atsumu. That’s just the way he’s built: mile after mile of workout proof.
He and Bokuto are engaged in humorous conversation alongside Hinata, who is already changed and ready to go. Bokuto is paused, t-shirt dangling from his forearms as Atsumu cracks another joke, the punchline prompting Bokuto to get dressed and get out while he only barely tries to suppress a laugh. He shoves Atsumu, still half-dressed, playfully, and gathers his things in his hands. It’s late, Bokuto says, giggling. Hinata and I are going on ahead. Get dressed or you’ll get left alone here, Tsum-tsum. Bye, Omi-omi!
Atsumu chucks a last laugh at the door, smiling wide and tongue sticking out from between his teeth. He does that too often, Sakusa thinks. Atsumu catches his gaze just as he was planning to look away, and his eyes shine. The unspoken Omi-kun~ is like static in the air. It crackles with the approach of something Sakusa knows is tailored opposite to his tastes.
Atsumu raises his hands. He does that stupid fucking roar pose.
In an attempt to subdue the irritation that is at the moment coursing through him, Sakusa purses his lips. He looks Atsumu square in the eye and gives him a stern glare. It’s not enough. The annoyance is electric, and Atsumu is not dropping it. He waggles his eyebrows.
Sakusa drops his bag after a while; marches over to Atsumu, laces their fingers and pins them onto his sides—onto the lockers—with a bang. He doesn’t say anything.
Atsumu laughs, of course. He gets it, and gets that look often enough to know that Sakusa is pissed. The sound of his mirth echoes—whole and bubbly—against the walls and all the metal in the room.
“‘I piss ya off,’” Atsumu recites, grinning. He runs his tongue over his teeth because he probably thinks it’s sexy. It makes Sakusa’s blood boil. “I piss ya off, but what’cha gonna do about it, hm?”
A pause.
What am I gonna do? What am I going to fucking do?
“What’cha gonna do about it, Omi-k— mmfh!”
(Sakusa thinks, if Atsumu doesn’t put his tongue back in where it belongs well then he’s gonna have to do it himself.)
His—! Atsumu realizes belatedly. His thoughts are as muffled as his mouth, moving against the wetness of Sakusa’s tongue. So harsh.
He is at a loss. Sakusa is strong. His flexible wrists allow him to get as in-Atsumu’s-face as possible without letting him go. It prods at something within Atsumu, though he laments that he can’t even move his hands to cup Sakusa’s face.
He tries to say Omi, but between the two of them, that’s cut off too.
Noisy, Sakusa thinks, when a whimper works its way past Atsumu’s throat and maybe he would’ve enjoyed this more if he were quiet , but Sakusa is lying to himself if he says he doesn’t like the sound of that.
He squeezes Atsumu’s hands before he can think better of it—a stupid question. The stupidest question: Is this okay?
Because he gives a shit, suddenly. He wants it to be. But he’d be sooner raked across coals all the way to hell instead of saying it.
Atsumu battles against his tongue head-to-head because of fucking course he can. He’s not about to back down from anything, even if he’s practically limp against the lockers and being held up by Sakusa’s knee between his thighs.
His mouth is so warm.
Sakusa tries to breathe for a second—stares at him all toussled up and his pupils blown wide, chest absolutely fucking heaving.
Disgusting.
Sakusa knows he looks the same.
Atsumu squeezes his hands.
And Sakusa sees Atsumu’s tongue about to peek out from his mouth again, like he’s about to say something, like tease him despite his current situation.
The mere sight of it annoys Sakusa. He decides he is just going to have to put it back before it’s even let loose.
When he’s done with him, he pulls away by a hair’s breadth; lets their breath mingle against his better judgement. His mouth is so close to Atsumu’s mouth. Their chests heave. Their fingers are still intertwined and Sakusa squeezes and Atsumu squeezes back.
Atsumu’s lips are swollen red. Sakusa lays his own on them chastely—mumbles a single word against their softness.
“Miya.”
Sakusa takes a moment to study him again. Toned chest; muscular arms that have gone suspiciously limp. His thighs—thick. Barely holding him up. His own thigh, between Atsumu’s legs, doing all the work.
He smirks. Atsumu tenses.
And then Sakusa, because he is a little shit also, lets go, and turns away to gather all his things.
When there’s a metallic thud just as the room’s door closes, he assumes it’s Atsumu: spineless against the lockers, appropriately tongue-tied.
Later, he will debate with himself just how effective that course of action will prove to be in the long run.