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Just some pretty nice fics, SakuAtsu but i luv them
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Published:
2021-01-05
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3,858
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1/1
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wishin yer nightmares away

Summary:

Miya Atsumu is a lot of things: he’s an idiot, he’s incessant, he’s incapable of picking himself back up when he’s having a bad day.

But he’s not the type to be upset by Kiyoomi being Kiyoomi.

Is he?

Notes:

hey yall, foxkillskat here to make yer bad days just a little bit better with some sweet (and sour) sakuatsu

whenever ya get too far in yer head, just remember someone out there is wishin yer nightmares away (even if its only me)

sweet dreams and enjoy the mess!!!

Work Text:

 

Miya Atsumu is having a bad day.

 

He’s slumped on the grimy hotel carpet, back to the baseboard of his unmade bed, still wearing his sweaty uniform.  For fifteen minutes, Kiyoomi could understand it.  Perhaps even thirty.  But no — it’s been three fucking hours.  Kiyoomi is beginning to feel like he needs a shower.  Another one.  At the very least he’ll have to sanitize the entire room again or he won’t be able to sleep.  Not with this foul air contaminating his precious sheets.

 

“Will you stop moping and take a shower already?”  Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose beneath his mask; he’s not removing it until the stench is gone. 

 

Atsumu stares into the void, muttering to himself and ignoring Kiyoomi entirely.  Still.

 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve sucked,” Kiyoomi tries, and it’s true, though this game was arguably one of Atsumu’s worsts.  They still managed to win, even with half of his serves going out and nearly all his sets wavering a bit too high or low.  Everyone else went out to celebrate, but Atsumu hadn’t moved a centimeter, not even when Hinata tried to tempt him with all the fatty tuna he could eat.  Unnerving, to say the least.

 

Well, Kiyoomi didn’t sign up to be the company to Atsumu’s misery.  He leaves the comfort of his bed to grab his travel can of disinfectant and sprays a half second of sharp-scented mist at Atsumu’s lifeless form.

 

“What the fuck!”  Atsumu coughs, back from his mental vacation.  “What did ya do that fer, ya asshole?”

 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.  “If you’re not going to shower, I’ll keep spraying.”

 

Atsumu glares at him and Kiyoomi raises the canister again, finger on the trigger.

 

“Geez, I’m goin’.”  Atsumu pulls himself up by his bedding, dirty floor hands groping all over it, defiling it.

 

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose.  Contaminating his nice, clean sheets like that is a sin he can’t even imagine.  Of course, he would never use hotel bedding to begin with — he brings his own.

 

“Yer a real prick, ya know that?” Atsumu huffs as he passes.  “You ain’t got no compassion fer someone goin’ through it.”

 

“Going through it?”  Kiyoomi sneers.  “You played a shit game, so what?  It’s not the end of the world.  Stop pitying yourself.”

 

Atsumu doesn’t even try to argue.  He gives Kiyoomi the heaviest of exhales and seals himself in the bathroom with a slam of the door.

 

“What the hell,” Kiyoomi grumbles.

 

Atsumu getting down over a game is nothing new; he’s a total perfectionist, always too hard on himself even when he does play well.  But Kiyoomi has never seen him like this, like some moody teenager.  Come to think of it, he should have realized Atsumu was out of sorts before the game even started.  Since when is he quiet for an entire three-hour drive?  Never. 

 

Room clear and mind full, Kiyoomi tugs on a pair of gloves and sets out to deep clean them both.  He starts with his own bed, giving it a quick freshening spray while he tries to recall exactly when Atsumu’s bad mood began.

 

At practice the previous night he was annoying as usual, mouthing off and trying to goad Kiyoomi into staying late with him.  Kiyoomi refused, of course.  Overexerting yourself when you have a game scheduled the next day is poor planning, something only an idiot would do.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have said those exact words.  But idiot or not, Atsumu’s not the type to be upset by Kiyoomi being Kiyoomi.

 

Kiyoomi angles the spray at Atsumu’s spot on the floor, coating it until it’s damp.  He doesn’t stop there; he sprays a path from the bed all the way to the bathroom door, where the humid shower air has begun to seep out.  There’s none of the usual off-key singing to be heard, and Kiyoomi bites the inside of his lip.

 

Practice couldn’t be when it started anyways.  Like always, Atsumu messaged him later that night to share some stupid cat memes.  Kiyoomi hadn’t responded, of course, but when did he ever?  Atsumu literally sends him thirty memes a day and any time he acknowledges it, thirty jumps to forty, then fifty.  But incessant or not, Atsumu’s not the type to be upset by Kiyoomi being Kiyoomi.

 

Kiyoomi takes a wipe to the side of the bed frame, going over the streaks left behind by Atsumu’s sweaty hair once, twice, then a third time for good measure.

 

Come to think of it, Kiyoomi’s phone has been oddly silent all day.  He frowns, pulls off his gloves, and fishes it from the pocket of his sweats.  The last message he received from Atsumu was a simple, “good night.”  Not out of the ordinary, except the timestamp reads three in the morning.  Kiyoomi squints, double checking it.  One mystery explained.  Like a child, Atsumu needs a perfectly regimented sleep schedule or his performance goes to shit.

 

Kiyoomi sprays one last spritz of disinfectant at the bedding Atsumu tainted with his floor-hands before he tears off his mask and climbs into his own bed to stare at his phone.  The memes stopped at their usual time, nothing but the definitive line break of a new day between the last and the good night message.

 

Why was Atsumu up so late?  Kiyoomi scrolls back through all the memes, searching for any sort of clue.  Nearly every night that final message comes through, lighting up Kiyoomi’s screen in his dark bedroom like a beacon, but it has never arrived after eleven — not that Kiyoomi is keeping track.  He only knows because, on occasion, he’ll read an extra chapter, clean the kitchen cabinets one more time, organize and reorganize his shoe rack until it hits to fire one back.  Only if he was planning to stay up anyway, of course.

 

The bathroom door opens wide and out comes Atsumu cloaked in nothing but a cloud of steam and a towel.  He’s done the bare minimum of drying off in order to not drip all over the floor and incur Kiyoomi’s wrath; that much is apparent by his still-wet hair and the water droplets dotting his shoulders and back.  Kiyoomi glowers at them as Atsumu drags his feet across the room, daring them to do anything but dry.  A single one rolls down his arm as he unzips his suitcase, leaping off his elbow the moment he throws it open.

 

“Fuck!” Atsumu yells out of nowhere and Kiyoomi jumps, phone flinging out of his hands onto the dirty floor.  It’s contaminated now, infected with germs from people like Atsumu who can’t be bothered to properly dry themselves.  Kiyoomi will probably have to burn it.

 

Atsumu doesn’t even notice; he’s too busy digging through his things with utter abandon.  A strangled sound escapes him, closer to a dying animal than any human, and his movements go frenzied.

 

“Huh?” is all Kiyoomi can get out as Atsumu lifts up his suitcase and dumps it on his bed.  A mess of clothes and shoes and personal items scatter across the bedding, all coated in a mysterious, goopy substance.

 

Kiyoomi gapes in horror.  How many times has he told Atsumu to pack his ridiculously large tub of hair gel in a separate bag?  At least three.  But repeating it now won’t change the fact that all of Atsumu’s clothes, all of Atsumu’s things, all of Atsumu’s bed is covered in it.

 

“Fuck me.”  Atsumu sinks to his knees and shoves his face into the only clean-ish corner of the bed.

 

He really is having a bad day.  Arguably his worst.

 

Kiyoomi doesn’t deliberate.  For the second time that night, he leaves his comfort behind to clean up the mess that is Atsumu.  Phone abandoned, Kiyoomi heads to his own suitcase and digs out an extra set of sleep clothes.  He used to only pack a second, but somewhere along the line he added a third, each stored safely in their own bag in case of situations such as this.

 

“Miya.”  His attempt is met with a muffled sniffle.

 

Great.  What the hell is Kiyoomi supposed to do now?  Comforting people is impossible enough without them getting all wet and snotty.  Atsumu is such a crybaby; he’s definitely the type to full on blubber.  The thought alone disgusts Kiyoomi, churns his insides and makes him queasy.  He can’t stand it.

 

Solely out of necessity, he breaks his number one rule for a split second, tapping as lightly as possible on Atsumu’s shoulder.

 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi tries, and the name feels thick in his mouth, viscous as it coats his throat. 

 

It does the trick, though.  Atsumu peels his face off the bed and fixes Kiyoomi in his red-rimmed eyes.

 

“Here.”  Kiyoomi pushes the bag of clothes at him.  “Get dressed.  You’re going to get sick if you stay in that wet towel.”

 

Atsumu blinks, confused, or maybe disturbed — Kiyoomi’s not entirely sure, but his eyes are definitely watering more than before.

 

“Go on,” Kiyoomi prompts, biting back the insult on his tongue.

 

Atsumu doesn’t say anything, but he accepts the offering and trudges back to the bathroom.

 

The moment he’s gone, Kiyoomi glares at the mess on the bed like that will make it disappear.  The sheets, the pillowcases, the comforter: the entire thing is goopy and gross.  But Kiyoomi doesn’t have mind powers, so he pulls on some gloves and tackles it the old-fashioned way.  All of Atsumu’s clothes go in a pile for laundry service and all of Atsumu’s things get sealed tight in a plastic bag.  Once the bed is clear of the suitcase mess, Kiyoomi strips the pillows and folds everything up in the sheets, depositing the bundle in the far corner of the room for cleaning service to deal with.  He’s tossing his gloves in the bin and coating his hands in a generous amount of sanitizer when Atsumu emerges.

 

The bottle of hand sanitizer slips to the floor, joining Kiyoomi’s phone in exile, but he barely even notices.  Atsumu’s dried his hair properly now and, without the horrid gel and excessive styling, it’s downright fluffy.  Kiyoomi’s clothes fit him well, too, even though the sleeves of the soft, blue sweatshirt cover his hands and the grey shorts sit snug on his hips.  The word cute comes to mind and Kiyoomi nearly slaps himself to get rid of it. 

 

“You didn’t have to clean.”  Atsumu slumps down into the desk chair, shorts riding up.  “I woulda done it.”

 

Kiyoomi climbs back into his bed and looks at anything but Atsumu’s thighs.  “Since when do you ever clean?”

 

Atsumu tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling.  “I clean every time before you come over.”

 

Kiyoomi holds back his comment about that being a total of two times: once when he gave Atsumu a ride home after their last game and the other when Kiyoomi went out of his way to deliver the phone Atsumu left behind on the locker room bench.  Neither were planned, but both times Atsumu insisted he come in for tea and both times his place was in decent shape — far better than his locker ever is.  Come to think of it, how had he known to clean?

 

Kiyoomi swallows.  It’s far too late to be overanalyzing things.

 

“Aren’t you going to call for fresh bedding?” he asks instead.

 

“Nah.  It’s late and I’m not up to socialisin’.”  Atsumu sighs and brushes his fluffy fringe off his forehead with a sleeve-covered hand.  “I’m just gonna sleep in this chair fer the night.”

 

He can’t be serious.  Kiyoomi squints at his head in that unnatural position.  “You’re going to hurt your neck.”

 

“Stop naggin’ me,” Atsumu gripes as he shifts in the chair, the neckline of Kiyoomi’s sweatshirt pulling low to flash a collarbone.  “It’s fine.”

 

No, it’s not.  It’s not fine at all. 

 

“You can sleep in my bed,” Kiyoomi offers before he can stop himself.  Curse that stupid, oversized sweatshirt.

 

Slowly, Atsumu slides his attention from the ceiling to Kiyoomi, eyebrows all scrunched and lips parted.

 

“Don’t make that face at me,” Kiyoomi flames, cheeks hot.

 

Atsumu keeps opening and closing his mouth like he’s trying to speak, but no words come out. 

 

“Come on.”  Kiyoomi shifts until he’s on the far edge of the bed.  “I’m only doing this because I don’t want to deal with your incessant whining about how your neck hurts all the way home tomorrow.”

 

He’s only doing this because he has to.  Solely out of necessity.

 

“You’re annoying enough when you’re not in pain,” he adds, still trying to convince someone.  “Stop being an idiot and come to bed.”

 

Atsumu shakes his head and rises from the chair.  “Okay.”

 

“Stay on your side and don’t touch me.” Kiyoomi rolls to face away from Atsumu as he climbs in, mattress shifting beneath the added weight.

 

“Okay,” comes Atsumu’s voice again, apparently all he can say.

 

Okay.  Is this okay?  Kiyoomi isn’t sure, but it’s too late to change his mind.  Atsumu is moving around between his clean sheets, body heat permeating through all of Kiyoomi’s protective layers, sending his pulse pounding in his ear where it’s pressed to the pillow.

 

Sleeve pulled over a finger, Kiyoomi flicks off the lamp on the bedside table.  The room goes dark, but his heartbeat doesn’t quiet.

 

“I’m so tired,” Atsumu announces instead of sleeping.

 

“What do you expect when you don’t go to bed until three in the morning?” Kiyoomi calls him out.

 

“Huh?  I woke up at three.”

 

Kiyoomi turns over to find him close, close enough he can see every detail of Atsumu’s face in the minuscule light sneaking its way through the blackout curtains.  His eyes are open, pupils consuming his irises to render them as dark as Kiyoomi’s, as heavy as his drooping eyelids.

 

“Then why did you message me good night?”  Kiyoomi stares straight into them.

 

“I wanted to see if you were awake,” Atsumu admits, the corners of his mouth pulling down.  “That’s the only time ya message me back.”

 

Kiyoomi bites the inside of his lip like the pain will rid him of guilt, kill the apology in his throat. 

 

“Sorry,” Atsumu says for him, “if I woke ya up or somethin’.  I know yer not big on messagin’.”

 

Kiyoomi releases his bite and breathes out slowly.  “Why did you want to talk?”

 

“It’s stupid.”  Atsumu won’t look at him now.  “Forget about it.”

 

“I already think you’re stupid so just tell me,” Kiyoomi snaps. 

 

Atsumu’s frown deepens and the apology is back, clawing at Kiyoomi’s throat.  Why is he so incapable of saying anything nice?  Curse his stupid, sharp mouth.

 

“I had a nightmare, okay?” Atsumu interrupts his self-reproach.  “A bad one.”

 

Kiyoomi’s brows come together.  All of this because of a nightmare?

 

“What was it about?”  He wants to know.

 

Atsumu’s eyes flash to him, and even in the dark they’re incredibly open, incredibly vulnerable, incredibly scared.

 

“Tell me.”  Kiyoomi has to know.

 

Atsumu shifts so both his hands lie between them, sweatshirt bunching at his wrists.

 

“My fingers stopped working.”  He examines them as they twitch, shake, tremble; his mind creating its own truth.

 

“I couldn’t set.  I made us lose the game” —he sucks in a breath— “and then I got kicked off the team and then ‘Samu laughed at me and you told me that I sucked and that ya hated me.”

 

He’s blinking hard and fast now, the shudder creeping up his arms.

 

“We won, though,” Kiyoomi argues.  “And you wouldn’t get kicked off the team even if we didn’t.”

 

It’s not working.  Atsumu is still staring at his quivering fingertips, eyes welling up.  Kiyoomi has to do something; he has to break his rule.  Solely out of necessity.

 

“Your fingers are not going to stop working.”  Kiyoomi wraps his hands around them, blocking them from Atsumu’s view.  “And even if they did, I wouldn’t hate you.”

 

“Ya said I sucked,” he sniffs.

 

“So?”  Kiyoomi slides his fingers between Atsumu’s to quiet their shaking.  “That doesn’t mean I hate you.”

 

Atsumu lowers his eyes like he doesn’t believe it, like he has proof to the contrary.

 

“Is this because I called you an idiot?” Kiyoomi lets slip.  “Or because I didn’t message you back?”

 

“What?  No.”  Atsumu shakes his head.  “Yer always like that.”

 

He says it so easily, without any hidden meaning to the words.  He says it like there’s no possible way he could ever be upset by Kiyoomi being Kiyoomi, like Kiyoomi is crazy for even thinking such a thing, like he might even be fond of him the way he is.  Kiyoomi is overanalyzing again. 

 

But he has to know.

 

“Then was there something more to it?” he pries.  “Did I do something else in your nightmare?”

 

“I’m not tellin’ you.”  Atsumu’s fingers go stiff.  “It’ll make it weird.”

 

As if this isn’t already weird.  The two of them sharing a bed, Atsumu wearing his clothes, Kiyoomi holding his hands.  They’re a little past that now.

 

“Tell me.”  Kiyoomi can’t give this up.  “Please, Atsumu.”

 

At the sound of his name, his eyes soften and Kiyoomi knows he’s won.  He could get used to the discomfort for this.

 

“We were dating, okay?”  Atsumu makes a weak attempt to pull his hands free, but Kiyoomi clamps down.  “And after you said ya hated me, you left me fer Ushijima.”

 

“What?”  Kiyoomi can’t help it; he starts to laugh.  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

 

“Us dating?”  The hurt rolls off Atsumu.

 

“No, you idiot.”  Kiyoomi reins himself back in.  “Wakatoshi-kun is not my type at all.”

 

“But yer always lookin’ at him and talkin’ to him after games and” —Atsumu pauses and collects himself— “ya said he was flawless.”

 

“When did I say that?”  Kiyoomi racks his brain.  It does seem like something he would say; he certainly admires Wakatoshi enough — who wouldn’t?

 

“At practice last night when Shouyou-kun said he could beat him at arm wrestlin’.”

 

“Ah, well, of course.  Hinata would get his ass handed to him by Wakatoshi-kun.”  Kiyoomi snorts.  “But that doesn’t mean I want to date him.”

 

“Oh,” is all Atsumu says.

 

Kiyoomi raises a brow.  “Did that bother you?”

 

The face Atsumu makes is answer enough.

 

“You’re so sensitive.”  Kiyoomi shakes his head and squeezes Atsumu’s hands, still in his.  This might be the longest he’s touched anyone in years and it’s not entirely awful.  He could get used to the discomfort for this.

 

“Do you always dream about us dating?” he finds himself asking against his better judgement, breaking every rule.

 

“No,” Atsumu says definitively.

 

Disappointment rises in Kiyoomi’s throat, threatening to choke him, and he struggles to swallow it back down.

 

“Sometimes we’re married.”

 

Kiyoomi blinks and it’s gone.  “Huh?”

 

“Don’t make me say it again, geez,” Atsumu cries.  “And don’t laugh at me.  I don’t think I can take it.”

 

Kiyoomi hasn’t even thought to laugh.  He’s far too busy trying and failing to suppress his stupid smile.

 

“It’s not funny!” Atsumu insists.  “Stop makin’ that face.”

 

“This is my normal face,” Kiyoomi lies horribly, lips twitching.

 

“No, yer laughin’ at me.  You think it’s weird.”

 

“It’s cute,” Kiyoomi blurts out.

 

“Huh?”  Atsumu squints.  “Omi-kun, do you like me?”

 

Kiyoomi has to say it, he has to say it nicely, he has to say it exactly like he thought it that one time Atsumu added “sweet dreams” to the end of his usual good night message.  He thought so long on that one it grew too late reply.

 

Not this time.  Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. 

 

“Omiiiiiii,” Atsumu whines, incessant, and Kiyoomi loses all the right words. 

 

“Would I be lying in bed with you, letting you wear my clothes if I didn’t fucking like you?”

 

Curse it all.

 

“I mean, like like, like ya wanna date me,” Atsumu clarifies like Kiyoomi is that dense.

 

Kiyoomi blinks slowly, giving up.  “You are an idiot.”

 

“There ya go again.”  Atsumu frowns, still not understanding.  “Just ‘cause I like you the way ya are doesn’t mean ya gotta push it—”

 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi interrupts, that name in his mouth again, better every time.  “My answer still stands.  I’m holding your hands, am I not?”

 

“Oh.”  Atsumu’s eyes grow wide.  “Oh!”  He lets out a small laugh as a smile spreads across his face.  “You do like me!”

 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.  “Yes, now stop that.”

 

“Stop what?  Smiling?”

 

“Yes.”  Kiyoomi tries to look away; it’s hard when Atsumu is right in his face.

 

“Why?”  Atsumu shifts closer until he’s all Kiyoomi can see.

 

“It’s too cute,” Kiyoomi huffs.  “You’re too fucking cute.”

 

Atsumu somehow manages to smile even bigger and Kiyoomi is struck through.  Now is the perfect time for a much-needed slap to the face; if only his hands weren’t a little preoccupied.

 

“I’m never gonna stop now.”  Atsumu wags his brows, absolutely giddy.  “I’m gonna smile like this up ‘til the day I die.”

 

“Not if I kill you first.”  Kiyoomi makes his most threatening expression.

 

Atsumu just laughs, entirely unbothered by Kiyoomi being Kiyoomi.  Enjoying it, even. 

 

“Then I’ll be lyin’ in my grave makin’ this exact face” —his fingers are wiggling around in Kiyoomi’s hands— “so good fuckin’ luck!”

 

“You’re incessant,” Kiyoomi spouts as he releases them.  “Go to sleep, you idiot.  You clearly need it.”

 

Atsumu keeps on smiling and Kiyoomi has to roll the other way so he can’t see it.  When did he get so damn soft?  Better yet: when did Atsumu get so damn cute?  Curse him and his fluffy hair and his stupid smile and his good night messages.  Curse him for his inability to take care of himself, for being such a fucking mess Kiyoomi can’t resist the urge to clean him up.  Curse him for—

 

“Omi-kun?”  The bed shifts and Atsumu’s voice is right in his ear. 

 

Curse him for being so close.  Too close.  Kiyoomi tenses for the impending touch.

 

“Thank you.”  Atsumu’s happy sigh ghosts the back of his neck, but he keeps his hands to himself.  “I take back what I said ‘bout ya not havin’ compassion.”

 

Kiyoomi takes back all his curses.

 

“Ya might even have too much,” Atsumu adds, and Kiyoomi can feel that smile.

 

He especially takes back the one about Atsumu being too close.

 

“Shut up.”  Kiyoomi reaches around and grabs Atsumu’s arm, tugging it to his chest and pulling him closer and closer. 

 

They come together at every point, pressing into each other until they’ve filled all the spaces between.  Atsumu’s warmth spreads through him like wildfire, but it isn’t burning, isn’t hurting.  It’s cleansing like a hot shower, it’s soothing like freshly laundered sheets, and it leaves Kiyoomi content and sleepy.  He could get used to the comfort of this; he could break every rule over and over and over, out of necessity or not, if it would always lead him back here, wrapped up in Atsumu.

 

“Good night,” Atsumu says, like always.  “Sweet dreams.”

 

“Good night.”  Kiyoomi holds tight to that arm like a wish.  “No nightmares, alright?”

 

Atsumu exhales into his neck.  “Not anymore.”