Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of the locker room door creaking open stirred a thrill of anticipation in Kiyoomi’s stomach.

“Looks like we’re finally alone, Omi-kun. We can do whatever we want in here, ya know.”

Atsumu’s voice floated from somewhere in the locker room, flirty and saturated with overconfidence. Kiyoomi huffed, and refused to turn around and face Atsumu. “If you try and start something in this filthy place, I’m actually going to punch you.”

“You’re too cute, Omi-kun. My heart can’t take it anymore.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. “And you’re too annoying.”

“Oh, but I think you like me that way, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu crooned, coming in from behind to wrap his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist.

Kiyoomi’s hands slipped as he tried to zip up his bag. His cheeks flared with heat, and he whirled around to give Atsumu a piece of his mind.

But before Kiyoomi could say anything, Atsumu swooped in and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. Kiyoomi stilled in surprise, lowering his hand to run his fingertips over the place where Atsumu’s lips touched him. A lump caught in his throat.

I love you so damn much, he wanted to say.

“Whore,” he said instead, but there was no bite to it.

Atsumu smirked at him again before throwing his bag over his shoulder and strolling out the locker room doors.

“See ya later, babe,” he called as the door swung shut.

Kiyoomi buried his reddened face in his hands, and groaned.

Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi were dating. Somehow.

Kiyoomi still wondered if it had all been a dream—Atsumu catching him by the sleeve of his MSBY jacket after practice, asking to speak with him privately. Kiyoomi remembered being confused by this too, as he and Atsumu barely spoke to one another outside of matches or practice. But he agreed anyway, and was completely floored when Atsumu led him outside the gym and confessed his feelings without any preamble.

“I really like ya Omi-kun. Please go out with me!” Atsumu ducked his head into a bow, his voice shaking with nerves.

Kiyoomi's brain skittered to a halt. This was the absolute last thing he expected Atsumu to say to him.

"Um—"

"I know this is sudden, and you probably don't feel the same way, but please, you gotta give me a chance. I'll make ya happy, I promise I will," Atsumu said in a rush, taking a step forward and clasping Kiyoomi's hand in both of his own.

Kiyoomi felt his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Where the hell was this coming from? And what the fuck was he supposed to say in response? He looked down at their joined hands in astonishment, and swallowed thickly.

"Okay," he croaked, still shell-shocked. Atsumu whooped, and pulled him into a hug. Kiyoomi tentatively rested his arms across Atsumu's shoulders. When Atsumu squeezed him tighter, Kiyoomi let his eyes slide shut.

This had to be some kind of delusional hallucination. Kiyoomi had finally lost his mind. He'd be lying to himself if he hadn't had vivid dreams of this exact situation happening before, so the whole ordeal was overflowing with a bizarre irony.

Especially considering Kiyoomi had been wholeheartedly obsessed with Atsumu ever since he first laid eyes on him.

It was all Motoya’s fault, of course.

Motoya had forced Kiyoomi to watch the Inarizaki match in the Interhigh semifinals of their first year. Kiyoomi had rolled his eyes and dragged his feet along the concrete of the gym as Motoya excitedly bounced on the ball of his feet, rambling about how Kiyoomi was going to freak out over the server skills of this new team, and how he hoped they would get to play against them in the finals.

Kiyoomi had severe doubts, considering what he had previously heard about Inarizaki. They were a chaotic bunch, with an aggressive playstyle and known to take unnecessary risks in matches, even on a crucial set point. Even if they were a powerhouse, it still irked Kiyoomi that they had gotten so popular with such a reckless disposition.

Kiyoomi sighed deeply, throwing a wistful glance in the direction of the court where Shiratorizawa was playing. From his spot at the top of the bleachers, he could almost make out Wakatoshi-kun’s looming figure running across the length of the court and jumping up to hit a powerful spike.

Motoya nudged Kiyoomi’s arm, tugging his gaze away from the game. “Sakusa, you’re not even paying attention! Look, one of the Miya twins is up to serve, you can’t miss this guy.” Kiyoomi groaned loudly, sliding down in his seat even as he finally fixed his eyes on the match below them.

A boy around his age with messy, mustard-yellow undercut took six steps from the end line, shoulders stiff in concentration. He whipped around, and raised his free hand in the air slowly as the crowd roared eagerly and the orchestra built into a crescendo. Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose. How obnoxious.

“Motoya, I told you before that I have no interest in watching these bumbling…”

Kiyoomi was cut off short as the boy pulled his hand into a fist, and the entire gym instantly filled with a ringing silence. Kiyoomi blinked, watching in a daze as the boy tossed the ball up in the air, and his body flew up to meet it.

Diligence. Tenacity. Precision.

The sight was mesmerizing.

“What did you say his name was?” Kiyoomi asked, mouth dry. His eyes tracked the movements of the boy as he dipped low to the floor, setting the ball into a perfect, arching curve for a spiker across the court. He must train extensively in lower body and core strength, Kiyoomi mused.

“Hm? Which one?” Motoya’s head darted around to the different players, but Kiyoomi couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“The setter. The one who served just now.”

“Oh, that’s Miya Atsumu! He apparently won the Best Server award in junior high. We might meet him in Youth camp later this year, if he gets in.”

“Miya Atsumu…” Kiyoomi repeated, mulling the words over his tongue. He kept his eyes on Atsumu even as he stepped off the court for a time out. His pulse sped up a notch as Atsumu downed his water bottle, some of the liquid running down his chin. His breath hitched.

“Sakusa, the face you’re making right now is so obvious. You like him, don’t you?” Komori grinned at him, amused, and laughed out loud at Sakusa’s vicious glare.

“Wha—What the hell are you talking about? I’m not making a face.” Sakusa pulled the mask covering his nose and mouth higher, feeling his cheeks warm in embarrassment.

“It’s fine, I won’t make fun of you for crushing on a Miya twin. They’re fairly popular, anyway. I saw some girls selling merch and shit for them at the entrance.” Komori waved his hand in the direction of the open doors leading to the main area of the gym. Kiyoomi said nothing, his mind whirring with a million thoughts as they both collected their things and made their way out of the stands.

Kiyoomi stopped at the entrance to the hallway, glancing back at the mass of people crowding the doors.

“Did you happen to see the prices of what they were selling?”

Komori just laughed harder.

Only a couple of weeks after that, Kiyoomi found himself wearing a custom Miya jersey embroidered with the number 7, clutching an Atsumu plush doll and arguing with critics online on whether or not Atsumu deserved the title of Best High School Setter for this year.

Miya Atsumu embodies the selfless dedication of an ideal setter, and his passion for the sport outweighs any of his competitors, Kiyoomi typed out on his phone, seething. If you fail to see that, I question your objective knowledge of volleyball, as well as the competence of your vision. Please consult an optometrist because I seriously believe you could classify as legally blind.

Kiyoomi angrily jabbed his index finger on the send button, feeling satisfaction settle in his gut. He looked up from his phone with a smirk, his eyes landing on Atsumu grinning down at him from a large poster above Kiyoomi's bed.

Atsumu’s face plastered every inch of the wall space in his room, setting or serving in a variety of angles and lighting.

In the past few weeks, Kiyoomi had fallen into the deep, inescapable hell of being an Atsumu fanboy. His merch collection had overtaken his entire room, expanding into his wardrobe, shelves that were previously filled with textbooks or volleyball trinkets, and his phone’s memory. Kiyoomi had spent countless hours online researching Atsumu's playstyle and his personal life at school, bordering on a stalker-like obession. He was not sure if knowing that Atsumu’s favorite food was fatty tuna and that he hated winter because his sensitive fingertips would get dry was considered creepy or not.

It probably was, if he was being honest with himself.

When Kiyoomi signed with the Black Jackals (which was a practical, logical decision he made based solely on facts, despite what Motoya said), he swore to himself that he would never try to initiate anything with Atsumu. Their relationship must remain strictly professional if Kiyoomi wanted to maintain a good atmosphere with the team, and also avoid any personal heartbreak he would feel when Atsumu inevitably rejected him.

But Atsumu had not rejected him. Atsumu had fucking confessed.

Kiyoomi had no idea what to do with this information—what to do with the fact that he was now dating Miya Atsumu. So far everything had gone by with minimal complications; Atsumu touched him more casually, but never enough to make him uncomfortable. Atsumu shot him secret smiles and winks when no one was looking, but never engaged in extensive PDA, which Sakusa appreciated. He wouldn't know how to process being emotionally vulnerable in front of people.

It was perfect. Atsumu was perfect. Kiyoomi had somehow managed not to ruin anything yet, or scare Atsumu away with just how crazy in love with him Kiyoomi actually was.

And that’s why Atsumu could never, ever find out about Kiyoomi's secret fanboy infatuation with him.

“You guys are fucking dating?! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kiyoomi stiffened in his seat at the bar, thankful that the noise of their rowdy teammates would most likely drown out most of Motoya’s words. He didn’t need the Jackals to interrogate him and Atsumu about their relationship now.

Motoya faced Kiyoomi with a wounded expression, clutching his hand over his heart like Kiyoomi had stabbed him there.

“I haven’t had a chance. It’s the middle of the season, we’ve both been busy.” It was the truth, mostly. Kiyoomi’s routine of practice, matches, daily yoga and weekly dates with Atsumu left him little free time to catch up with his cousin. This post-match celebration with the Black Jackals and EJP Raijin was the first time they had seen each other since before volleyball season had started. Kiyoomi raised his beer bottle to his lips, ignoring Motoya’s sulking.

“Well, forgive me if I’m a little offended that you didn’t mention your teenage dreams had actually come true! Especially since I was always the one that had to deal with your love sickness all the time. Holy shit, you’re dating Miya Atsumu! Did you faint when he asked you out? Did you cry?”

“Motoya, keep your voice down, goddamnit,” Kiyoomi choked out, coughing on his drink. He hastily glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening to them. It looked clear for now, but Kiyoomi couldn’t take the off-hand risk of Atsumu accidentally hearing their conversation.

“He doesn’t know I liked him in high school. He confessed to me a month ago and it’s been going really well and I want it to stay that way. So you cannot mention my crazy-ass obsession with him in high school. It’ll freak him out.” Kiyoomi glared threateningly at him, but a cheeky grin broke out on Motoya’s face.

“What do you mean in high school, Sakusa?” He teased, resting his elbow on the bar countertop. You’re trying to tell me that you still don’t have Atsumu’s posters covering your—” Kiyoomi kicked him under the table, panic rising in his throat as he spotted Atsumu making his way over to them.

“What are ya guys whisperin’ about over here? Hm?” Atsumu took the empty stool by Kiyoomi’s side, eyes flickering between them. Kiyoomi guessed that his face must have shown some sort of distress, because Atsumu placed a hand on his back comfortingly.

“I’m telling Motoya about the time you missed an entire day of school because you were so upset about the ending of The Wind Rises,” Kiyoomi replied, hoping his voice sounded unaffected.

“Omi-kun, how could ya! I told you that was our secret!”

Komori threw his head back, chickling. “Don’t let him try and scare you, Atsumu. Sakusa was just as much of a dumb teenager as you were, trust me.”

“Motoya…” Kiyoomi warned, feeling heat crawl up his neck and ears.

“Oh, really? Do tell, Motoya-kun.” Atsumu’s gleeful expression mirrored Motoya’s, and Kiyoomi was beginning to see the danger of allowing the two of them to talk to one another.

“He had a bit of a boy-crazy phase in high school. It was adorable.”

Kiyoomi would have bashed his head on the bar countertop if he had disinfecting wipes to clean the surface. He settled for burying his face in his hands. “Motoya. I am going to murder you.”

“Well, well, Omi-kun! Did ya have used ta have a crush on me when we were kids or something? That must be so embarrassing.” Atsumu’s lighthearted laugh felt like it was personally mocking the heightening mortification in Kiyoomi’s chest.

“No, of course not. I thought you were annoying. And ugly.”

“Oh, come on! Not even a tiny one?” Atsumu’s pout was almost too effective on Kiyoomi by now, and he was forced to look away to avoid jumping on Atsumu right then and there.

“Why would I? You were such a bitch to everyone at Youth Camp.” He took a swig of his beer again, needing something to do to avoid Atsumu’s gaze.

“What the hell! That’s totally uncalled for. You weren’t any better either.” Atsumu crossed his arm, raising an eyebrow at Kiyoomi. “The first thing ya ever said to me was that my receives were shit.”

Kiyoomi smiled wryly. “Heh, I remember that.” When they met for the first time, Kiyoomi had been a bit taken aback by just how bad Atsumu’s attitude could be. But he had never been dissuaded by this; rather, Kiyoomi thought the fact that they were both assholes enhanced their chemistry, as neither he nor Atsumu was one to back down from a challenge.

Motoya looked between them, a soft smile splashed across on his face. “Wow, I never thought about it before, but it’s kind poetic that the two biggest jerks I have ever met got together. You guys will drive each other crazy for the rest of your lives—and even enjoy doing it, probably. ”

Kiyoomi’s heart leapt in his chest at this thought, and his head swiveled to gauge Atsumu’s reaction. Did he agree? Or was he put off by the thought of being with Kiyoomi for life?

But Atsumu’s face was turned away from him, and in the dim lighting of the seedy bar, Kiyoomi could only speculate on what was going on in his mind.

"Look at all this food I made fer ya!" Atsumu shouted as soon as Kiyoomi had walked through the door. He heard Atsumu flitting around in the kitchen of his apartment, banging various pots and plates, probably leaving dents in the wood of his cabinets. “Aren’t I just the best boyfriend ever?” He added, just before a loud thunk sounded in the kitchen, followed by a louder “Fuck!”

Kiyoomi snorted, dumping his bag on Atsumu’s coffee table. “I think that depends on if the shit you made is actually edible.”

“Omi-kun, here I am slavin’ away fer you all day and ya can’t even bring yourself ta say thank you!” Atsumu waved a wooden spoon at him aggressively. Kiyoomi looked at the dinner Atsumu had prepared, a warmth erupting in his chest when he saw the various bowls of rice, steamed vegetables, and sautéed beef. The savory aroma from the dishes suddenly made him aware of how hungry he actually was.

Kiyoomi wrapped a hand around Atsumu’s free wrist to pull him closer. Atsumu stumbled into Kiyoomi, and he pressed a soft kiss to Atsumu’s forehead. “Thank you, Miya. It looks delicious.”

“Aw shucks, it was nothing,” Atsumu said, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his neck. Kiyoomi smiled, and walked over to grab a water glass from Atsumu’s cabinet.

“You can call me Atsumu, you know. I want you to.”

Kiyoomi really couldn’t. Atsumu was the name he wrote in his detailed rants on Twitter. Atsumu was the name stitched into Kiyoomi’s pajama tops that he would never admit to wearing. Atsumu was the name Kiyoomi fantasized about whispering many late nights, but he could never bring himself to do it in person. It seemed too intimate, something sacred that Kiyoomi would defile by uttering it with his unworthy tongue.

So yeah, Kiyoomi wasn’t ready to call him Atusmu any time soon.

“Oh, I brought over this movie from ‘Samu’s that I really want ya to watch! I’ll put it on in a second, let me just finish with this meat.” Kiyoomi nodded, and pushed off from his spot against the wall. He exited the kitchen and started toward the hallway, calling out to Atsumu as he went.

“I’m going to go wash up before we eat. Set the table while you’re at it.”

“Hey, if I cooked, the least ya could do is get our yer own plate! Yer spoiled rotten, I tell ya,” Atsumu grumbled, but he began to empty out a cabinet to get out plates, bowls, and silverware.

Kiyoomi chuckled, and tapped his knuckles against the entrance to the hallway. “Only because you let me be.” He paused before entering the bathroom door. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, Miya. If you don’t I’ll stab you with your own kitchen knife.”

“Yes, dear,” Atsumu responded.

Kiyoomi smiled to himself, turning the handle of the bathroom door. He rinsed his hands methodically, and squinted at the label of Atsumu’s hand soap. Antibacterial and hydrating moisturizer. Not bad.

“Omi-Omi! Yer phone’s buzzing like crazy over here! What’s yer passcode, I’ll see what it is,” Atsumu’s voice sounded from the living room. Kiyoomi’s eyes widened, praying that it wasn’t what he thought it was. He rushed out the door, not even caring that his palms were still wet.

Atsumu sat innocently on the couch, holding up Kiyoomi’s phone where his notifications flashed across the screen.

Shit.

“Hey, I didn’t know ya actually used yer Twitter account—” Kiyoomi lunged for the phone, knocking over Atsumu’s fake potted plant on the coffee table in the process. Atsumu yelped, letting go of the phone instantly, and Kiyoomi grabbed it with both hands, landing horizontally on the couch.

Kiyoomi’s heavy breathing slowed as he clutched his phone protectively against his chest, while Atsumu stared at him like he was a wild animal. He blinked down at his phone screen, seeing a notification that someone had responded to the thirst tweets from his Atsumu stan account on Twitter. Atsumu was right by thinking that Kiyoomi wasn’t active on his main Twitter account, but ever since his first year of high school, Kiyoomi had run a fairly popular fan account documenting Atsumu’s volleyball career (and maybe a few fan-service photoshoots here and there). Horrifying images of Atsumu finding his account flashed before his mind. Oh god, and all the pictures of Atsumu’s thighs he had saved on his camera roll…

It would have been a disaster if Atsumu had accidentally seen it.

“Don’t look at my phone without permission,” he said after a moment. Atsumu shifted on the couch nervously, and avoided Kiyoomi’s eye.

“Sorry. I didn’t know it was private.”

“It’s fine. Just… let me handle it if it starts ringing again or something.” Kiyoomi shook his head, trying to shave off some of the anxiety that had taken hold of him.

“‘Course, Omi-kun.”

They drifted into a strained silence. Kiyoomi had no idea how to excuse his weird behavior to Atsumu, so he didn’t say anything. He needed a distraction, something to turn Atsumu’s attention away from the situation, and hopefully forget it ever happened. Kiyoomi pocketed his phone, and glanced around the room for something to say.

“So, tell me about this movie again,” he settled for, eyeing the DVD on Atsumu’s coffee table.

Atsumu’s eyes brightened, and a giddy grin stretched across his lips. “Oh, it’s great! It’s about this Chinese girl living in America, and her boyfriend takes her back to meet his family for his cousin’s wedding, except he never told her that his family is, like, crazy rich! Then shenanigans ensue and shit because she’s poor and all of his family hate her.”

“It sounds awful,” Kiyoomi said, his face scrunched up in disgust. Atsumu chuckles in amusement, leaning back on the couch and bringing his arm to rest on top. If Kiyoomi scooted a couple inches to his right, Atsumu’s arm would wrap around his shoulders.

“That’s because ya have terrible taste, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi risked a glance at Atsumu’s profile, his sly smile still etched on his face. Even in the fluorescent lighting of Atsumu’s apartment, he still glowed with a vivacity that Kiyoomi had spent years trying to capture.

I could say the same thing right back at you, he thought. He didn’t know why Atsumu had suddenly developed feelings for him, but he needed to make sure he didn’t do anything to mess it up. He couldn’t risk losing something like this.

“That’s certainly one way to put it.”

Chapter Text

“‘Tsumu, ya can’t keep comin’ here whenever ya want to sulk. Yer scarin’ away my customers.”

Atsumu groaned indignantly, his head bent down and face pressed against the steel top of Onigiri Miya’s front counter. Why can’t everyone in the shop just get out and leave Atsumu to rot right here? Let him fully decompose straight into the floors of his brother’s shop where no one will ever remember him? 

Osamu let out a long-suffering sigh, and Atsumu turned his head to watch his brother take out a clean white towel and wipe down the counter. 

“I don’t even know what yer upset about. You guys are dating now, right? Shouldn’t ya be happy the months of pining over Sakusa are over now?” Osamu shoved a freshly brewed cup of tea into Atsumu's hands, and Atsumu finally lifted his face off the counter to take a long sip. He inhaled the steam rising from the cup slowly, trying to let the warmth calm his urge to break down and cry in front of a room full of strangers. 

“Ya don’t get it, ‘Samu," Atumu whined, gripping his tea tightly in both hands. "Yeah, sure, he lets me call myself his boyfriend, but there’s just something off whenever we hang out alone together. Like he’s ready to bolt out the door at any second.” Atsumu frowned as he recalled Sakusa's behavior on their most recent date last week. 

Atsumu had spent the better part of three hours furiously googling easy homemade recipes and collecting stove-top burns on his fingertips trying to cook Sakusa the perfect, most romantic dinner of all time. Despite what many people believed, Atsumu considered himself to be a decent cook. But knowing that his food would be eaten by his boyfriend had spurred some neurotic energy in Atsumu that made him more careless than usual. He’d gone on a cleaning binge that day as well, using an assortment of cleaning products that he’d never seen as necessary before. He’d even bought hand soap in a fancy dispenser, when he’d been using the bar of soap from his shower for years. 

Sakusa seemed like he enjoyed himself that night. At least he looked like he did, when his eyes weren't flitting around the room like he was planning an escape, or glazing over with a distant, distracted expression as Atsumu attempted to talk about the movie they were watching. 

“And I get the feeling that he’s keeping something from me.”

“Oh? What happened?” Osamu stopped cleaning then, throwing the towel over his shoulder and intently listening to Atsumu. 

Atsumu furrowed his brow. “Nothin’, really. He just doesn’t want me to see his phone. And he won’t let me go to his apartment." Atsumu had once walked Sakusa home all the way to his apartment complex and straight up to his front door, fully expecting an invite in, only for Sakusa to stammer a goodbye and slam the door in his face. Atsumu had written it off as Sakusa being skittish about their new relationship, but this pattern of Sakusa avoiding Atsumu stepping through his doors had continued for weeks. "Makes me wonder what he’s hiding in there that he doesn’t want me to see.”

“Yer bein’ paranoid. He’s probably just a private person, ‘Tsumu. I know that ya don’t know anything about privacy, or propriety in general, but most people like to keep some things to themselves.” 

Atsumu mulled this idea over in his mind. Sakusa was a private person. But why wouldn’t he want to share whatever he was hiding with Atsumu? They were dating, after all. Atsumu wanted nothing more than to know all the intimate details of Sakusa’s life, and be the one person who knew him better than anyone else. Did Sakusa not feel the same way?

Then a small thought at the back of Atsumu's mind gnawed its way to the tip of his tongue. His upper lip wobbled, a wave of anxiety washing over him. 

"What if—what if he’s only with me because he feels bad or somethin’?”

 Fear clawed at Atsumu's heart as he reimagined every kiss they’d shared, every touch Atsumu had initiated, as Sakusa simply indulging him out of a misplaced sense of obligation. He set his tea down, and watched the liquid swirl around in the porcelain mug with a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

Osamu hummed thoughtfully in response, and Atsumu was grateful that his twin knew him well enough to not laugh at this kind of self-doubting train of thought from Atsumu. 

“Sakusa doesn’t strike me as the type of guy that would ever do anythin’ out of pity. Even fer someone as pitiful as you.” 

Atsumu wanted to shake Sakusa by the shoulders and demand why he was holding back, and if Atsumu could ever do enough to make Sakusa feel comfortable being with him. 

“What am I gonna do, ‘Samu? At this rate he’s gonna get tired of dealin’ with my bullshit and leave me.” Atsumu slumped further into his seat at the counter, running a hand through his hair. 

“Fer fuck’s sake, ‘Tsumu, stop bein’ a little bitch and just talk ta the guy. If he hasn’t dumped ya yet, it must mean he likes ya, for some reason no sane human can fathom.”

“I can’t just talk ta him, ‘Samu!” Atsumu fisted his hands in his hair, pulling at it in exasperation. “What if he starts to think I’m like—this unstable, insecure person that needs constant attention and validation?” Osamu raised an eyebrow at him. Atsumu sighed again, his shoulders slumped in defeat. 

He closed his eyes, wondering why, when he asked Sakusa out, he had been so confident that he could make Sakusa fall for him. Even if Atsumu poured all the love in his entire body onto a silver platter for Sakusa, it’s all for nothing if Sakusa just didn’t feel the same way about him. He swallowed, wondering if he was actually suffocating Sakusa with all his attention and demands, and that’s why it seemed like Sakusa was pushing him away. Sakusa didn’t deserve a relationship like that. And of course Sakusa would never want a boyfriend who was overbearing and clingy and overthought every little interaction they had—  

A sudden smack to his head jolted Atsumu out of his thoughts, and he stumbled to catch himself from losing his balance in his seat. “Wha—ow!” He whipped around, scowling at Osamu and rubbing the back of his head where his brother had just struck him. 

“Fuck, ‘Samu, that hurt!” Osamu glared at him in response, his narrowed eyes lit with fire. 

“Get yer shit together, ‘Tsumu, or I’ll hit ya even harder! If you really want ta have a relationship with this guy, ya gotta put in the work and communicate!” Osamu raised his hand again, and Atsumu flinched in preparation for another blow, but Osamu simply gripped him on the shoulder firmly. “I get that yer scared, but I don’t think ya have anythin' ta worry about. Honest. Just get out of yer head and ask him what’s up. I promise it won’t be as bad as ya think it will be.” 

Atsumu gnawed at his bottom lip. “Ya really think so?”

“I do. And if I’m wrong, feel free ta come right back here and whine all night. I’ll cook ya up somethin’ special. I won’t even make fun of ya.” Atsumu failed to suppress a grateful smile from wrestling its way to his lips. 

“When did ya become so wise and supportive, ‘Samu? I’m a little freaked out,” he remarked, morphing his expression into a teasing smirk. Atsumu ducked his head, dodging another hit from his brother. 

“Shut yer trap, ‘Tsumu, and get outta my shop. Oh, and here’s yer bill.” A slip of paper flew into Atsumu’s face, and he blinked a few times consecutively as he took in the numbers at the bottom. 

“Wait, but—I didn’t even order anything!”  

They walked out of the restaurant hand in hand, sharing identical, smitten smiles. The night air was crisp and cool, biting at Kiyoomi’s tender nose and ears, his face bare and braving the winter wind. Kiyoomi had forgone wearing a mask for their outing, because Atsumu had told him it hides his pretty smile. Kiyoomi had told him he was an idiot. But then again, Kiyoomi was the one with his reddened skin exposed to the December chill, hoping to catch Atsumu glancing at his lips out of the corner of his eye.

Puddles of the earlier rainfall reflected the streetlamps and neon signs in rippling pools of color, illuminating their path as they walked along the concrete sidewalk. Kiyoomi’s whole body threatened to shiver even under his thick layers of a thermal coat, but the heat of Atsumu’s hand squeezing his kept him warm. 

“Ugh, ‘Samu told me that he and Sunarin are getting a dog together. A dog! How will they even have time to train one? Every time I ask to hang out they always say they're both busy.” Atsumu shoved his free hand into his pocket, frowning. 

Kiyoomi snorted. “Sounds fun. Dogs are cute.”

“Hold on, ya like dogs, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu jerked his head to give Kiyoomi an astonished look.  “I didn’t know that!” 

“My older sister owned a Pomeranian when we were younger. She was sweet, and never slobbered over me. I liked taking her out on walks.”

“Huh. I had no idea ya were a dog person. That’s kinda insanely cute, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi fought a blush from blooming on his cheeks. “Shut up, Miya.” 

They stopped at the edge of a crosswalk, watching cars drive by and splash rainwater off of the road. Atsumu huddled in closer to Kiyoomi, cursing the cold seeping through their clothing. Kiyoomi melted into him, turning to face Atsumu as Atsumu dipped his hand under Kiyoomi’s elbow and settled at the small of his back. Kiyoomi’s lips twisted into a grin when Atsumu tugged him closer, their chests flush against one another in the biting winter wind.  
  
"Kiss me, damn it," Kiyoomi murmured, his eyes already slipping closed. Atsumu dove in enthusiastically, pressing his lips to Kiyoomi's and sliding his hands to grip Kiyoomi's curls. Kiyoomi clutched onto Atsumu's shoulders, breathing in through his nose and trying to chase the taste of Atsumu’s lips on his tongue. 

Kiyoomi pulled away from him slowly, tracking the movement of Atsumu’s half-lidded eyes on his lips. 

"Let's go to yer place, Omi-kun," Atsumu whispered, softly brushing his thumb along Kiyoomi’s jawline. Kiyoomi blinked, his mind fumbling for a response. 

Despite having been dating for over a month, Kiyoomi had never taken Atsumu back to see his apartment. This was for the very good reason that Kiyoomi still possessed an overflow of Miya Atsumu fan merchandise and custom products lying about his apartment, not yet having gathered the courage to get rid of them. Even if he had miraculously secured the real thing, Kiyoomi clung to his collections as an extra blanket of security. Atsumu’s whims were as elusive as wind and he could change his mind about wanting Kiyoomi at any time, but these possessions had brought him comfort and happiness for many years. Motoya claimed he was a compulsive hoarder, and needed serious psychological help—but he was probably just teasing.

"Oh. Uh—what about yours, yeah? It's not as long a drive from here, I don't think." Kiyoomi wriggled out of Atsumu’s arms and turned back to stare at the crosswalk sign on the other side of the street. Atsumu tugged on Kiyoomi’s coat to pull him back in. 

"We stay in my apartment all the time, Omi. I'm starin' ta get sick of lookin' at my front door,'' Atsumu joked, rolling his eyes, but there was a hint of frustration in his tone that instantly triggered alarm bells in Kiyoomi’s mind.  

"We can't go to my apartment," Kiyoomi said, cringing at the mere thought of it.  

"Why not? I just wanna see what yer home is like, Omi-kun. That's it, I swear. I won't even ask ya if I could spend the night." Atsumu stepped into Kiyoomi’s space, running his hands along Kiyoomi’s side reassuringly. 

"It's not necessary for you to see where I live,” Kiyoomi insisted, plucking Atsumu’s hands off of his waist. He averted his eyes from Atsumu’s, and noticed the crosswalk light change to green. “Come on, let's just go, we can talk about it later,” he said, grabbing Atsumu’s wrist and pulling him toward the street.

"No. Stop,” Atsumu demanded, wrenching his arm out of Kiyoomi’s hold. He stood his ground a few steps away from Kiyoomi, brow furrowed in suspicion. “Omi-kun, why don't ya want me in yer apartment?” 

"It's not that I don't want you there, it's just that we don't need to go right now. Just, uh, give me a few days to get prepared. Please, Miya, it's not a big deal." It wouldn't take long to find a storage unit for his collection and move everything there, but Kiyoomi needed a few day's time. Why was Atsumu suddenly pushing this onto him? Kiyoomi bit his lip, his anxiety levels rising with every passing second.  

Atsumu held his stare, unwavering. "You can trust me, ya know. Let me in, I wanna see all of you. I wanna know everything about you. I'm not gonna judge or hurt ya, I promise." 

It was a beautiful sentiment, and almost everything that Kiyoomi wanted to hear. But he knew that he couldn’t give in, not if he wanted to keep Atsumu and everything that they had together. 

"C'mon, Omi, I'm getting ready to beg over here." Atsumu shifted on his feet slowly, chin dipped low. 

Kiyoomi swallowed a lump in his throat, desperation finally reaching a height. "Miya, you really don't have to bother with all that, don't worry about it." 

Atsumu looked off to the side, at the blurring neon lights of Osaka's nightlife. And for a second, Kiyoomi thought he would drop it. But then Atsumu steeled his gaze on Kiyoomi, pinning him in place. 

"How are we going to keep dating if ya won’t even let me get close to you?” Atsumu shook his head slightly, eyes closing for a second. “Give me a real reason, Omi. I deserve to know why." They stared at each other, eyes locked in the frigid air. Kiyoomi pursed his lips together, mind buzzing and stomach tight with dread. He suddenly regretted not wearing a mask out tonight. He didn’t know what his expression told Atsumu. 

He didn’t say anything. 

"Right, okay. I get it, that's fine," Atsumu muttered, shoulders drooped with despondency. 

“Miya—” Kiyoomi took a step forward and lifted his arm out to Atsumu, but hesitated to touch him when he was within reach. 

"I don’t even care, really! It’s fine. I gotta go now, I gotta call my brother about somethin’." Atsumu turned on his heels and started back onto the sidewalk, pushing through the crowd of passersby making their way on the damp concrete. 

“See ya on Monday, I guess,” Atsumu called out, lifting his hand up in a half-hearted wave. Kiyoomi watched his back grow farther away, still paralyzed to the spot, his heart sinking. 

A loud honk jolted him out of his thoughts, and Kiyoomi realized he was blocking a lane of the street. He quickly rushed back onto the sidewalk, but when he turned around to look for Atsumu again, he was gone.  

The pounding on Kiyoomi's door did not rouse him from sleep, but it did startle him while he shoved ice cream into his mouth and watched foreign romance movies on his laptop. 

Kiyoomi glanced at the digital clock blinking 1:45am on his screen. There was only one person who was stupid eneough to be banging on his door at this time of night. He wiped at the tear tracks staining his cheeks and got to his feet, pulling on a worn black hoodie before padding to his front door. He turned the locks and wrenched the door open, not surprised to see Atsumu scowling at him on the other side. 
 
"What the hell, Miya? Do you know what time it is?" He yelled, hoping his glare was still effective with the redness lining his eyes. 

"You! Why are ya doin' this, huh?" Atsumu jabbed his finger accusingly at Sakusa, movements jerky and aggravated. 

"Why am I…in my apartment?" Sakusa questioned, crossing his arms. 

"Don't play dumb, Omi-kun! Why are ya pushing me away, huh? Is it cause I'm just not good enough fer ya?" Atsumu crossed his arms as well, his voice growing louder and louder with each word. "Well joke's on you, because I'm a catch! Tons of my fans would kill ta be dating me, ya know!" 

Kiyoomi winced involuntarily. He was well aware. 

"Are you drunk, Miya?" he asked, taking in Atsumu’s heavy breathing and the way he seemed to sway on his feet. Atsumu barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. 

"If I was, that still wouldn’t make anything I've said less true." Atsumu’s stony expression crumpled, his bottom lip trembling and his eyes growing wide and glassy with tears. "Yer breakin' my heart Omi-kun, and I just don't know what to do anymore," he choked out.

With those words, Kiyoomi let the walls surrounding himself shatter into a million pieces. It was a knife to the chest, to see Atsumu in such turmoil because of him. Kiyoomi needed to do something about it, whatever he could, even if it meant sacrificing what he had tried so part to protect.  

"Give me one minute, alright?" He blurted out, and then shut the door in his face. 

Kiyoomi’s eyes panned the length of his apartment, terror creeping under his skin as his gaze caught on one of his Atsumu posters on the side wall, mugs with Atsumu’s trademark smirk left out in the open on his kitchen counter, and Atsumu-themed throw pillows on his window seat bench. He had approximately one minute to throw everything in his room and lock it away. Kiyoomi darted from the kitchenette to the sitting room, grabbing as much stuff into his arms as he could carry and dashing over to his room as fast as he could. Soon the pile of merch joined all the Atsumu-related products already littering about on his bed, desk, and wardrobe, but he would deal with that later. Kiyoomi heaved a deep sigh when the last Miya-twin branded mug was safely deposited on his dresser with care. He leaned back onto his wall, relieved. As long as Atsumu didn’t come into his bedroom, he’d be safe. He locked eyes with a poster from Atsumu's first year on the Jackals, smile proud and trusting.

"Why are you doing this to me, you bastard," he snarled at it. 

When Kiyoomi cracked his front door open to peek out into the hallway, Atsumu was still waiting there, hands in his pockets and forlorn expression on his face. Kiyoomi pulled the door all the way open, stepping aside to give Atsumu room to walk through. 

"Leave your shoes by the door, and take a seat in the living room. I'll get you something to drink, I guess," he instructed, moving to the kitchenette and filling up his electric kettle. Atsumu slowly made his way into the apartment, blinking around at the space like he was trying to memorize every detail. It made heat crawl up Kiyoomi’s neck, wondering why Atsumu was so interested in seeing what Kiyoomi’s home was like. It was just a room that he ate and slept in, nothing special. 

When Kiyoomi gestured for Atsumu to sit on the window seat bench, he did. Kiyoomi suddenly felt insecure that he didn’t have a lot of furniture in his apartment. He didn’t entertain much, and the stools lining the kitchenette’s island-bar fusion wouldn’t be as comfortable for Atsumu. He handed him a mug of tea, and sat down on the other side against some throw pillows. Looking at Atsumu’s stricken expression, a resolve solidified in Kiyoomi’s gut. He would give anything to smooth the worry lines on Atsumu’s face, and now he had to assemble the strength of will to do just that. Kiyoomi swallowed, steeling himself to not run away this time. 

Kiyoomi still wasn't sure if he could open up to Atsumu, but he could do this. Give him comfort, solace, and ease his pains. 

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah. Thank you, Omi-kun," Atsumu murmured, both hands wrapped around the cup. Kiyoomi had an unexpected urge to wrap him up in a warm blanket or two. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. 

"Don't mention it." 

They fell into a silence, and Kiyoomi’s eyes drifted to the view outside the window, admiring how the moon glowed brilliantly, shining on the deserted streets below. 

"So. Are we gonna talk about it?" Atsumu said after a moment. 

"What do you want to talk about?" Kiyoomi replied, tugging a pillow to his chest to hug loosely. 

"Tell me I'm not delusional, Omi-kun, 'cause ya tried very hard to keep me out of this place," he said, gesturing around the apartment. "I really care about ya and I want this relationship ta go somewhere. But if that's gonna happen, we need to be on the same page about it. What am I to you? Is this serious for you too?"

"It is."

"Then why are ya keepin' secrets from me on yer phone? Why do ya get so uncomfortable when I talk to Motoya-kun, and why don't ya want me to see yer home?"

Kiyoomi hugged the pillow tighter, lowering his eyes from Atsumu. 

"It's complicated."

"That doesn't mean that I don't want to be a part of it. Let me into yer life, Omi-kun. I'm ready ta share mine with ya." 

Kiyoomi couldn't deny him anything. Even when what Atsumu asked for was Kiyoomi himself, flawed and tainted with imperfections. He knew what he had to do to set things right between them, and earn a place at Atsumu’s side. 

He sucked in a breath, heart hammering as he realized what he was about to do. Vulnerability didn’t come easy to Kiyoomi; it was much easier to keep people at arm’s length so that they could never see him for who he really was. But Atsumu was different. If he wanted a relationship, a future, and a long-lasting love with Atsumu, he had to be willing to offer himself freely and wholly. A strange sense of calm flooded through Kiyoomi’s veins, and he finally felt that he had the courage to do this. To keep Atsumu in his life and in his heart, Kiyoomi had to be brave. 

"I've always struggled with telling people how I truly feel, and letting them get close to me. With you, it was even more difficult for me because of just how intense my feelings for you are." He looked at Atsumu now, his heartbeat a drum in his ears. "But you came into my life with an unprecedented, selfless devotion, and you deserve a love that's not shamefully hidden in the shadows." 

Atsumu tilted his head, brow furrowing. "Omi-kun, I'm kinda lost with all that. What are ya talking about?" 

He stood up, dusting his hands on his thighs and turning to face Atsumu, who was staring at him with confusion and a bit of hesitation.

"Just—come with me."  Kiyoomi jerked his head toward the hallway. 

"Um, okay," Atsumu said shakily, getting to his feet. 

They walked wordlessly down the hallway to the second door on the right, where Kiyoomi stopped abruptly and stared at the door handle, determined. 

"Yer bedroom?" Atsumu piped up, swaying on his feet warily. 

"Yes.” He turns to Atsumu, meeting his eye with a steadfast expression. “What I'm about to show you is my most intimate secret. It— it might be disturbing for you to see, and you might not want anything to do with me afterwards, which I will completely understand. But I can't hide it from you either, if I want to love you properly."

Atsumu stares at him incredulously, jaw slack, and mouth open as if he was about to ask a question. But Kiyoomi faced the door once again, and pulled it open. 

Atsumu was expecting dead bodies, hardcore bondage gear, or maybe a collection of plans to overthrow the government. 

What he saw was…his face. Everywhere. 

It was on pillows, cups, posters, and bookends. Atsumu’s likeness decorated the wall space in his old Inarizaki uniform and current MSBY uniform, posing in every which way all around the room. Atsumu spotted a candle horrifyingly labeled “Miya’s Musk”, and an assortment of Atsumu-shaped figurines lining a desk situated over in the corner of the room. What appeared to be an oil painting of Atsumu hung over the side of the bed, smiling serenely at its muse, who gaped back dumbly. At least seven products he had done sponsorships with lined a shelf against the wall.

It was...bizarre. To say the least.  

“I...I don’t know what this is, Omi,” he admitted, turning to look at Sakusa helplessly. Sakusa was hunched over in the corner of the room, pointedly not looking at Atsumu or anything else in his bedroom. A furious blush ran the length of his chest and neck straight up to his ears, painting his skin a rosy-pink. It was super cute, but even this could not stop the repeating chant of what the fuck playing through Atsumu’s thoughts.  

“What does it look like? It’s a Miya Atsumu fan merch collection.”

“In yer bedroom?” He inquired, his voice raising an octave higher. Atsumu’s face began to heat up the more he continued to stare at the room, waiting for it to vanish in a puff of smoke, or something equally impossible. “Omi-kun, why do ya have all this stuff?”

“It’s mine,” Sakusa said flatly. 

Atsumu’s brain skittered to a halt. “Huh?”

“Miya,” Sakusa began, voice low and serious. Atsumu blinked at him, startling when Sakusa took a step forward. “Atsumu. In my first year of high school I attended one of your games and...thoroughly enjoyed myself. Your playstyle was unlike anything I’d ever seen. And for years after that I’ve followed your volleyball career extensively.” He averted his gaze again, focusing on the floor beneath them. They stood on a black rug with the number 13 and golden claw marks printed on it. “You could say that I’m a bit of a fan of yours.”

It sounded like a confession he would have gotten from one of his classmates in high school. “What are ya trying to tell me, Omi-kun? What the hell does all of this mean?”

"The truth is—I'm crazy in love with you, Atsumu. I have been since I first laid eyes on you." Sakusa’s eyes bored into his, looking like fallen pieces of a starless night sky. They were blazing with earnestness and strict resolve, and Atsumu’s head spun from the intensity of his stare. “I’ve been too scared to tell you, because I thought all of this might freak you out. That you’d be disgusted by just how infatuated I am with you, and have been for years.” 

It was even more than he had dared to dream about. More than what he had convinced himself was impossible. Atsumu could hardly imagine that out of the two of them, Sakusa was the one that was overflowing with limerence, pining and yearing after a man he didn't think he was worthy of. Sakusa was always the picture of cool, calm, peace of mind—Atsumu struggled to wrap his brain around this new image of his boyfriend. 

“Ya like me? Ya actually like me?”

“We’re literally fucking dating, Atsumu,” Sakusa hissed. 

"Well, yeah but—I never knew fer sure, okay? Yer hard to read sometimes." Most times, actually. Atsumu wished he had 100 yen for every time Sakusa would exchange pleasantries and throw insults in the same breath. 

“Now you do. With an abundance of physical evidence,” Sakusa deadpanned, eyes flickering to the different Atsu-merch around the room.   

He looked around again, taking in each item with a new layer of context to define their meaning. He eyes moved from posters of him in his high school uniform to pins and buttons assembled neatly on a shelf. Something caught his eye on top of Sakusa’s wardrobe, and he moved to examine it closer. 

"Where'd ya get this?" Atsumu lifted the hoodie off the rack along with its hanger. It was a sweatshirt with his old team motto, Who Needs Memories, printed on the front, but what really captured Atsumu’s attention was the hanger with a printed picture of Atsumu’s face at the top. The whole setup made it seem as though Atsumu was wearing the hoodie. 

"It’s a limited edition Inarizaki team hoodie. When I ordered it, it came in a set of the whole team, but I only wanted yours. I think I sent the rest to a donation center.” 

“Omi-kun, I was mostly talkin' 'bout the hanger.”

“Oh. It came with the hoodie. I thought it was kind of funny.” He replied, cheeks darkening as Atsumu’s smile widened. 

There was a volleyball, a much older model, held up on a small metal stand on Sakusa’s desk. Unlike most of the products decorating Sakusa’s room, this one didn’t have any obvious marks or pictures that gave it away as fan merch. 

"What about this?" He asks, picking it up. 

"Be careful with that, I don’t want fingerprints on it.” Sakusa swiped the ball out of his hands, placing back on its pedestal delicately. “This is an old volleyball I stole from a match we played against each other in high school. I...wanted to have something that both of our hands had touched. It made me feel closer to you.” 

Atsumu’s heart clenched at Sakusa’s words. He desperately wished he knew what little Sakusa had seen in him in the first place—in old pictures all Atsumu saw was a conceited, gangly teenager with badly bleached hair. He spotted something large and plush out of the corner of his eye, face lighting up with delight when he realized what it was. 

"Is this…?" Atsumu trailed off, holding up what appeared to be a Miya Atsumu body pillow. 

"Give me that!" Sakusa shrieked, lunging forward to swipe it away from Atsumu. He quickly moved the pillow out of Sakusa’s reach, climbing onto the bed to remove any openings for Sakusa to take it back. "Motoya gave it to me as a joke. I just haven't gotten around to throwing it away yet, okay?"

"Right. You've just missed every trash day since…” Atsumu squinted at the label attached to the pillow. “2018?" 

"You're a piece of shit," Sakusa growled, snatching the corner of the pillow while Atsumu burst into laughter. 

"Sorry, Omi-Omi, I'm just kinda stoked about all this." He brushed aside a few Atsumu plush dolls and a Miya twin hand towel set before sitting crossed-legged in the middle of the bed. "I honestly thought I was comin' here just to get dumped. Instead I found out my boyfriend is a crazy stalker."

"I'm not a crazy stalker." 

"Ya kinda are, babe," Atsumu teased, tilting his head at Sakusa. "But, ya know, I think it's kinda sexy." 

"Of course you would. Your head is big enough as it is, Miya, I feel like I might be killing you by letting it get bigger with all this." Sakusa rolled his eyes. 

"Miya?!” Atsumu cried, aghast. What happened to Atsumu?" He clutched a hand dramatically against his chest, and Sakusa huffed in annoyance. "Aw, Omi-Omi, don't be shy! If ya want, ya can call me by my given name when I'm being extra good ta ya." Atsumu waggled his eyebrows for extra effect. 

Atsumu smirked as Sakusa visibly struggled to not give a sarcastic comment in response. Sakusa was fairly new to not being emotionally constipated, so Atsumu was willing to take any half-hearted insult he would inevitably spew. 

“But you’ve never been anything less than perfect to me, Atsumu,” Sakusa breathed out, and effectively short-circuited Atsumu’s brain.

Oh. That was very nice of him to say. His throat constricted and his eyes burned, and Atsumu felt equal parts humiliation and gratification seep into his skin when the tears trailed down his cheeks. He didn’t know why those words had caused such a visceral reaction from him—but he couldn't deny that hearing an affirmation straight from Sakusa's lips that Atsumu was perfect, the best, the only one, tugged at something buried deep and neglected in Atsumu's heart.

“Oh—oh no—fucking shit, I’m sorry Atsumu, please don’t cry again,” Sakusa pleaded, rushing to Atsumu's side on the bed. His hands hovered over Atsumu, who slowly took one and pressed Sakusa's palm to his cheek, chuckling softly. 

"'M alright, Omi-kun, I'm happy. Ya make me so happy," he choked through tears, nuzzling Sakusa's palm. 

"Oh," Sakusa breathed. "Well, that's good then." He beamed down at Atsumu, face flushed and sincere. Atsumu was so in love with him.

“I’m gonna kiss ya, now," Atsumu warned, rising on his knees and coming nose to nose with Sakusa. 

“Okay," Sakusa squeaked, his cheeks still dusted pink. 

“And then we’re gonna get in yer freaky fanboy bed and cuddle for hours.”

Sakusa's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his lips quirked up playfully. “Okay." 

“And yer gonna tell me all about yer big-ass high school crush on me," he said, smirking again. 

“You’re never going to let this go, huh?” Sakusa asked, throwing his arms around Atsumu's shoulders and leaning in closer.

Atsumu pulled him down onto the bed, letting them fall together on the sheets. 

“Not on yer life, babe.”

Their lips met in a kiss, and Atsumu's heart soared. 

Hours later, Kiyoomi woke up tangled with Atsumu in the sheets, Atsumu's lips tickling the hair on the back of his neck.

"Morning, love," he murmured, blinking his eyes against the light streaming in from cracks in the curtains. 

"Is that my jersey? Do ya sleep in my jersey?" Atsumu said, his hand running up Kiyoomi's chest where the name Miya was emblazoned on the front in bold letters. 

"It's not a jersey. I got it custom designed two years ago."

The arms around Kiyoomi's middle tightened. "I love ya so much, Omi-kun," Atsumu whispered in his ear. "Is that stupid of me to say? We've only been dating for like, a month."

Kiyoomi twisted around in Atsumu's grip, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips in reassurance. "It isn't stupid when I've been dreaming of you saying it for a decade."

Atsumu groaned, burning his face in Kiyoomi's neck. "Hey now, don't go stealin' all the good lines! I'm supposed ta be the romantic one here," he protests. 

Kiyoomi smiled, tilting his head to the side to give Atsumu more room to kiss his neck. "You can't tell me what to do. I'll be as fucking sappy as I please, and you're just going to have to deal with it.” 

Atsumu hummed happily, the sound causing a burst of fluttering in Kiyoomi’s stomach. “Ya don’t know how crazy ya drive me, Omi-kun. It’s intoxicating. I feel like I’m gonna explode with just how much I want to adore ya. 

Kiyoomi smiled. “I think I might have an idea of what that's like."