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“Where is he?”
It was the first question Kiyoomi asks the moment he enters the Itachiyama mansion, already halfway up to the second floor.
He hears the way Motoya sighs at the foot of the stairs. Kiyoomi doesn’t even have to look back at him to know that his cousin had an extremely frustrated expression on his face, exhausted from babysitting that Inarizaki brat for almost an entire week.
“In his room,” Motoya calls up at him.
He’s not even bothered by the tone his cousin uses— understands the situation well enough to not even warn him about properly greeting the head of the family.
Motoya earned more than decent money for all the jobs he was doing for Itachiyama and for Kiyoomi, but he truly wasn’t being paid enough for all of Atsumu Miya’s shit.
A sudden crash can be heard from one of the closed rooms— most likely the one that Atsumu has claimed to be his own now.
It was closely followed by a loud thud, most likely the wooden baseball bat Atsumu made him buy — or bought with his credit card and proceeded to text a picture of it to Kiyoomi with the caption thank you for your gift :) i love it <3 — and has recently grown very fond of.
He doesn’t even ask Motoya what it was about this time. He’s known Atsumu well enough to know that it doesn’t really matter.
By the time the sun sets, Atsumu would have gotten whatever he was throwing a fit for— may it be because the youngest son of the Inarizaki main family always managed to find a way to get what he wanted, or because the head of the Itachiyama family had fallen into the dangerous habit of giving into him every single time.
When he opens the room, it’s to the sight of Atsumu swinging his baseball bat towards the 65-inch flat screen tv that was just purchased last month.
Neither of them flinch at the impact.
Atsumu lets out a child-like sound of frustration, it really had no business twisting Kiyoomi’s chest like it did.
Inarizaki’s golden boy was breathing heavily, eyebrows furrowed, and both hands gripped tightly around the bat’s handle.
A huge satin pajama top was hanging off one shoulder, too big on him that the dark shorts he was wearing underneath could be barely seen.
The room was in complete and utter chaos— designer clothes thrown across the room, broken glass and broken vases scattered all over the floor, jewelry thrown haphazardly over the sofa and table, the bed and pillows ripped open by force.
The only seemingly untouched space of the room was the part of the floor where Atsumu's bare feet were stepping on.
As Kiyoomi was examining the room, already taking note of everything he needed to replace, he almost missed the way Atsumu finally noticed him.
If he didn’t know any better, he would have been hit by the baseball bat Atsumu violently threw right at him with a grunt.
But Sakusa Kiyoomi did know better— slowly learned to understand how Atsumu Miya’s mind worked— learned how to handle him.
And so he calmly catches the bat as it was a breath away from his face.
He raises a brow at Atsumu. It really was a mystery how someone like Atsumu could have grown under the roof of someone like Kita Shinsuke.
When Atsumu does nothing but cross his arms over his chest and glare at him, Kiyoomi gently tosses the bat to the bed, knowing perfectly well that Atsumu would throw another hissy fit if Kiyoomi manages to get even the slightest scratch on it.
“You’ve made a mess, pet.”
Atsumu’s brows furrow even further— shoulders tensed and lips curled downwards, looking more like a snarling wolf than the golden fox he was known for.
“What are you doing here?” Atsumu demands.
“Are you hurt?” Kiyoomi ignores his questions, looks him up and down to check for blood, scratches, or bruises, “How long have you’ve been at this?”
“I asked you a question!” Atsumu brattily stomps his foot, but lets out a surprised “ow!” then turns his foot to look at the bottom of it.
“ Shit. Fuck. That stings— Motherfucker—” Atsumu curses up a storm, leaning down to take a better look at it.
Kiyoomi clicks his tongue at the sight of blood beginning to trickle down the bottom of Atsumu’s foot.
Without preamble, Kiyoomi closes the distance between them, ignoring the crunch of broken glass under his shoe-covered feet.
He leaned down when Atsumu was close enough and wrapped one arm around his shoulders and hooked another arm under his knees.
And just like that, he lifts Atsumu up to take both of them out of the catastrophe that was the younger's room.
Kiyoomi doesn’t bother closing the door.
Instead, he walks up to the top of the stairs and looks down at Motoya who was still there, watching them with an inquisitive look.
“You shouldn’t let your men see you with Miya too much,” Motoya had told him once, a few months into Atsumu’s stay in the Itachiyama mansion. “People will start talking.”
“They’re already talking,” Kiyoomi had answered simply then.
“They’ll start asking questions,” Motoya had said.
They’ll start having doubts, he didn’t say, but they both heard it anyway.
“When my men have questions for me,” Kiyoomi answers, always so simple but firm, “they can always ask it to my face.”
Doubtful whispers were never good for a family.
Sakusa Kiyoomi remembers how his father had once told him that no head of the family can both be a good leader and a good man.
Kiyoomi has made his choice long before it was due.
“You can have a few days off,” Kiyoomi says, just loud enough to reach his cousin, “Let Koutarou handle the work with Seijoh.”
“You’re gonna let Bo handle Oikawa?” Motoya gives him the look.
“Oikawa’s fond of him.”
“Oikawa’s fondness is not a good thing,” Motoya gives him the second degree of the look.
Kiyoomi sighs, “Iwaizumi would be most likely with him, so Oikawa shouldn’t be too fond.”
Motoya raised an eyebrow and looked like he was about to say something more, but Kiyoomi cut him off, feeling the younger wriggling in his arms, ever impatient. “Thank you for taking care of Atsumu. Excuse us.”
Atsumu was complaining about his foot all the way to Kiyoomi’s room, where the Itachiyama boss carefully lays the younger on his own bed.
“You said you’d be back early.” Atsumu glares at him.
Atsumu Miya’s golden eyes had always been intimidating, but it was softened by the way he was spread out on Kiyoomi’s bed, only supported by his elbows, leg stretched out so his bleeding foot was hanging off of the bed.
“I’m sorry, pet.”
There was a time when apologies from Sakusa Kiyoomi, albeit extremely rare, was closely followed by death— may it be a knife to the throat or a bullet to the head.
But with Atsumu, apologies came easy— came often. “Kamomedai and Shiratorizawa were causing trouble with each other again. I had no other choice but to mediate.”
Atsumu’s eyes narrowed, “you made me wait a week for fucking Ushijima.”
“ Shiratorizawa and Kamomedai,” Kiyoomi corrects him, but there was no way of winning that conversation, and so Kiyoomi gets his medical kit and proceeds to kneel down in front of the foot of his bed, immediately beginning to clean Atsumu’s cut for him.
They were quiet for a while, until Atsumu hisses when Kiyoomi sprays disinfectant over the wound.
Atsumu tries to pull his feet away, but Kiyoomi’s seemingly loose grip on his leg was firm and strong.
“You missed me,” Kiyoomi says after a few moments. It wasn’t a question. “Was that why you were making a mess again?”
Atsumu huffs, looking away when Kiyoomi peers up at him. A slight smirk curled up at the corner of Kiyoomi’s lips.
Silence hung over the room for a few seconds, before Kiyoomi breaks it, voice low and deep, “I missed you too, pet. If I could, I’d bring you anywhere with me.”
“Then bring me,” Atsumu says exasperatedly, but his eyes have already softened, shoulders sagging in defeat.
Kiyoomi almost believes him— would have believed him had he done this a few years ago.
Atsumu Miya was never defeated.
“I’m tired of being cooped up in this place,” he pouts, “I wanna see Osamu. Rin too. I wanna go with you— you’re always away. If Motoya and I have to spend another week together, we’d be pulling each other’s hairs out.”
“I know,” Kiyoomi breathes out, just about to finish wrapping a bandage around the younger’s foot. “You know why I can’t let you do that yet.”
Atsumu grunts, “Osamu can’t even come here because everyone’s still watching him. I want him. He barely even calls me because of all this shitfest.”
The shitfest that Atsumu himself instigated. But there was no reason for pointing it out, they were both already well aware of it.
“I’ll get him here the first chance I get.” Kiyoomi runs a hand over the bandage once, before patting Atsumu’s ankle. “There. I keep telling you to not get hurt.”
“You keep telling me you’d give me anything I want.”
Kiyoomi looks up at him again at that statement, only to have Atsumu finally meet his eyes.
The younger always looked at him a certain way— like a challenge.
“I did,” Kiyoomi says, “I would . Anything you want that wouldn’t put you in harm’s way— any more harm than usual.”
Atsumu tilts his head in a manner that would appear innocent to anyone else, “anything that would make me happy?”
Kiyoomi presses a kiss over the bandage on Atsumu’s foot, and whispers, “anything.”
Almost immediately, Atsumu’s eyelids go heavy— golden eyes watching Kiyoomi’s every move.
Kiyoomi gets up, bracing himself on the mattress with both hands, as he leans down to press a kiss against Atsumu’s bare knee, “anything you ask for.”
Atsumu smiles— like an invitation, always so clever, always so deliberate.
“If I asked you to kill Ushijima Wakatoshi for me, would you?”
Kiyoomi pauses.
At that exact moment, he finally understands what this was all truly about.
“It’d start a war,” he answers simply, voice devoid of emotion, “not just with Shiratorizawa , but among the other families.”
“Seijoh would take our side.” Atsumu replies instantly, “ Nekoma too, probably.”
“Nekoma doesn’t take sides— especially now that Kuroo has Tsukishima with him. And Seijoh— Oikawa would take any excuse to wage a war against Ushijima.”
“Which is why I always liked him... but I didn’t ask about the consequences,” Atsumu smiles just a tad wider, a bit lopsided now, “I asked whether you’d do it for me if I asked you to.”
They stare into each other’s eyes— for seconds, for minutes, for years.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was a powerful and dangerous man. A demon in his own right.
And yet—
he leans down to press a kiss against Atsumu’s leg, dark eyes never looking away from golden ones.
Then he hooks two fingers under the younger’s shorts and lifts it up to press a kiss against his thigh— once. twice. thrice.
On the fourth time, his mouth lingers over Atsumu’s skin, always too warm.
Without any warning, he gives it a harsh bite. “Anything.”
Atsumu doesn’t even make a sound.
He lifts up Atsumu’s top next, to just under his ribs, then kisses his stomach.
He trails kisses up Atsumu’s body, always between tender and intense— his chest, his collarbones, his neck, his jaw — until he was all the way up, caging Atsumu’s head with his arms.
Atsumu truly smiles at him this time— slow at the start, then cuts sharply at the edges. “Would d’ya really, Omi?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. He was plenty of horrendous things, but he wasn’t a liar.
Atsumu cups his cheeks, then leans up to lick at Kiyoomi’s mouth. Terribly beautiful.
Beautifully terrible.
Kiyoomi smiles when Atsumu cackles at his own actions.
Kiyoomi would put a bullet through anyone’s head, Atsumu needs just ask.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but from the way Atsumu was looking at him— he already knew.
When Atsumu presses their lips together, he kisses him for real this time— sweeter than anyone would think was possible for either of them.
They kiss with all the intensity they were both born with— all lips and tongue and teeth— tasting like gunpowder and smoke.
Who needs memories.
Memento Mori.
They kiss like they always do— like power was to be won— and with something else neither of them have yet to put a name to.
And suddenly, Kiyoomi was Eve in the garden of Eden, and Atsumu was a snake— moving fluidly under him, never breaking gaze as he whispered sweet nothings against his skin.
At once, Kiyoomi finally understands why someone would trade heaven for a single taste.
Osamu had once jokingly called his brother Helen of Troy, as he too, much like his other half, had a penchant for misplaced humor.
Kiyoomi thought the sons of the Inarizaki family were both ridiculous as Atsumu threw his head back and laughed then, loud and bright— always uncaring and unapologetic.
Now, Kiyoomi thinks, if Helen of Troy was anything like the golden boy laying underneath him, he understands why they’d set forth wars for her.
Atsumu Miya was a liar, far more intelligent than most people gave him credit for— every bit as dangerous as an Inarizaki son was capable of being.
There was no safety in his arms.
Memento Mori.
“I missed you,” Atsumu whispers the confession against his skin— handing Kiyoomi the apple.
The snake was right in front of him, in plain sight and in bright colors.
It could sink its fangs under Kiyoomi’s skin in a heartbeat, and he’d have no one to blame but himself.
Kiyoomi took a bite anyway.