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At first it had been simply because why the fuck not.
It began with a pat on the back during training camp when they were sixteen, cheeks red and chests moving heavily as they tried to catch their breaths after a match. Sweaty hands slapping sweaty shirts and foreign arms wrapping around one’s shoulder. Congratulatory words that felt choked and weird and not at all genuine. Sighs as tired bodies hit the floor, the sound of sneakers hitting the floor as they moved swiftly from one side of the court to the other, as they let their legs give up from under their weights and crash onto the ground.
It began with a scowl after a bad set and a failed attempt at spiking. Don’t mind , they said, but the meaning of those words never reached their eyes, burning with all shades of disrelish as they faked their smiles and proceeded to play a game they could never win. It began, of course, with the knowledge that there wasn't anything in the world they hated more than each other, with the urge to squash the other like a bug, nothing but a mere inconvenience.
During an entire week, they competed over the stupidest things. Who could spike better, who could jump the highest, who ran faster, who could receive more spikes, whose toss was the most accurate. They almost growled at each other when they bumped into each other in the cafeteria, when they happened to be placed in the same team. There was no synchronization because their minds couldn't accept the fact that they had to work with that guy .
They parted ways.
They played against each other in real competitions. Victorious smirks and snarky comments whenever one of them scored a point, I thought you were better than that, Miya. That toss was terrible. Squinted eyes and maliciously sweet smiles as they turned the game around again and again, See ya next year. Again and again, they were thorns poking each other’s sides as they muttered under their breaths and riled each other up on court. Smirks when a point was scored, frowns when it wasn’t.
And then there were the scrunched up noses and scowl written on their faces as their eyes met once again at the MSBY Black Jackals tryouts. What are you doing here?, a visible trace of despair or disgust flashing through his eyes as Sakusa Kiyoomi, insufferable bastard, smirked at him. Trying out? What else would I be doing at a team’s tryout, Miya? Setting for him had always been easy, the thrill of his steps coming from behind, the thrill of the gasp before a jump, the sound of his hand hitting the ball and the swift movement of his wrist, bending in a direction Atsumu was sure it wasn’t supposed to move in. Sakusa Kiyoomi, officially recognized as the MSBY Black Jackals newest outside hitter and a permanent thorn on Atsumu’s side now.
Not that they hated each other.
Their relationship was rocky, built over a plethora of challenges that didn’t really mean anything. Whoever said age made people mature, wiser and calmer was a big, big liar because competing over who could lift more weights during individual training was Atsumu’s idea (and they found out that it was Bokuto and also that he could probably kill them with a snap of his fingers if he wanted to). You guys work so well as a team , people praised and praised and both of them had to resist the temptation to roll their eyes dramatically because no way, not this guy.
Somewhere along the way, the rest of the team started to feed their competitiveness because it was the one thing they could do to make the tension outside the court bloom into the thousands of sets and spikes perfectly aligned to score the points only they could score. So it started with who makes the best cookies (it was Sakusa), who can read this book the fastest (Sakusa again because Atsumu fell asleep in the middle of it), who can run the fastest during drills (Atsumu got that one).
And then.
Who can stomach alcohol better.
It had started off as a team bonding thing. They knew each other in high school, they played against each other’s teams and now they were playing on the same side of the court. At first they were just joking around, asking for more rounds and shots and whatever else they thought would go down well with the ridiculous pink drink Bokuto had ordered and before they knew it, it had turned into a competition again. Which one of you has the highest alcohol tolerance? , it had been a harmless question. They looked at each other, eyes dark and hazy because of the alcohol flooding their veins, and yet.
It’s me.
What are you talking about? Don’t underestimate me, Miya.
Look at Omi-kun being all brave. Come on. I’ll even go easy on ya.
In your dreams.
It was supposed to be a team bonding thing and it ended with hazy memories as to how they’d gotten home, as to why the hell Atsumu couldn’t feel his legs and especially as to why was there a disheveled Omi-kun lying over his legs, his hands ridiculously close to Atsumu’s thighs as he choked in a scream he couldn’t bring himself to voice. His back hurt and his head was spinning because Sakusa Kiyoomi was lying on top of him .
He looked cute when he slept, was the first thing Atsumu noticed. His hair was a mess of curls over Atsumu’s thighs, his lashes dark and long and lips slightly opened as he breathed in and out so, so slowly. His nose scrunched up as he dreamed, a soft whimper escaping his lips as his hands clutched the cloth of Atsumu’s shirt, bringing his face closer and closer to his stomach and ah. His own hands were shaking, Atsumu noticed as he slowly allowed his fingers to drown in the mess of dark curls and the softness of Sakusa’s face. He didn’t wake up, but the frantic pace of Atsumu’s heart didn’t slow down.
Oh, shit , he thought, because what else was he supposed to think?
Being stuck in each other’s orbit, the line between the fights and playful bickering had slowly started to fade. Their mouths weren’t shaped like angry shouts but like smirks and the heh Sakusa was so used to directing at him now. There weren’t heavy blows, but soft ones to get them on their feet again, to give the best they could, to maneuver and spike a ball with everything they had within them. And it worked.
They started to spend more time with each other than with the rest of their team, with the rest of their friends, and maybe it’s because no one wants to be around ya , Osamu had said once. Atsumu was slowly coming to figure out what the mess inside his chest and the hot, tingling feeling climbing up his spine meant. Slowly, sure, but steadily they started to gravitate towards each other and touching had become a part of their relationship.
A pat on the back after scoring a point. Arms over one’s shoulders as they walked towards who knows where, as they talked about whatever topics they were obsessing over at the moment. Hands meeting hands in a high-five after a set point, after a good play, after the game was over and they could go back to their hotel rooms and fall flat on their beds. The shared rooms and sometimes beds, the soft whispers in the middle of the night and how Atsumu had become the only person who could touch him this freely. A brush of his thumb against his chin, ya had a grain of rice stuck there , a wave of his hands to brush a strand of hair out of his face, needing a haircut, aren’t we?, the shaky, slow movements of someone taping someone else’s hands, ya need to be more careful, Omi.
It was exhilarating, being the only one seeing a part of Sakusa Kiyoomi, Omi-kun, Kiyoomi that no one else knew about. The way he started smiling more and more and even laughing openly whenever Atsumu muttered under his breath and whenever he told one of his bad jokes. The way he actively looked for Atsumu before practice to ask him to tape his fingers, just in case, he’d say, and because you’re very good with your hands . It shouldn’t have made him feel hot all over, cheeks red and heart stuck in his throat as he giggled a choked giggle and shook his head, don’t ya know how to do something’ as simple as that, Omi? , and the snort that came from him as he answered, I prefer when you do it for me.
At first every accidental touch came with a lingering glare, furrowed brows and lips shut tight in a straight line. There was something bubbling under a dark green sheet, something Atsumu couldn’t really understand until it started bubbling inside his own eyes, inside his veins and making his stomach churn over the realization that oh, no. Eventually, everything was a reason for them to grab each other’s wrists and poke each other’s stomachs and sides. Atsumu liked to touch the sensitive spot on Kiyoomi’s neck when he wasn’t looking and run away as soon as he shivered.
Sometimes Kiyoomi managed to catch him and wrap one of his arms around his neck, bringing their faces closer and closer, closer than ever , and giving his forehead a light flick before letting his body fall limp to the ground, heart in his throat and head brimming with oh, shit. oh, no. shit, shit, shit. fuck, no. fuck , yes. fuck, fuck, fuck and its derivatives. Sometimes Atsumu managed to outrun him and, smiling cockily at him from the other side of the court, he’d wave getting old, Omi?
It started to get confusing after some time. A year went by and there were no more accidental touches but conscious ones, Kiyoomi actively searching for Atsumu’s hands after a game and their fingers intertwining for a split second after a high-five. Atsumu wrapping one arm around his shoulders and walking with him without ever letting go as they talked about nothing in particular. The fond glances and shared laughter made his heart lose control of its own beats, crawling up his throat and choking him to near-death as Kiyoomi shook his head and left him alone in silence after they were done changing.
They didn’t talk about it.
Atsumu didn’t want to talk about it.
Kiyoomi didn’t show any signs of even knowing there was something to talk about.
Atsumu wanted to cry.
He picked up Kiyoomi’s shadow from the corner of his eyes, he hopped excitedly around him and threw his arms around his neck looking for any signs of disgust on his features. It was there once, when they were sixteen and immature and looking for a way to escape the two-on-two matches because there’s no way I’m working with this guy , when they were older and Atsumu spotted him in line, when he asked why here? , and Kiyoomi just shrugged because there was no why. Now all that stared back at him were dark eyes and an arched eyebrow as Kiyoomi asked, is everything alright?
Damn him and his stupid face and stupid voice.
Being around Kiyoomi was comfortable, comfortable enough for him to start speaking whatever came to mind and that was his first mistake. Because there’s something about Sakusa Kiyoomi, outside hitter for MSBY Black Jackals, ridiculously handsome man who smells like literal heaven, that makes Atsumu lose the ability to think coherent thoughts and babble on and on about how his hands looked nice, how his freaky wrists could come in handy in something other than volleyball. And Kiyoomi, the bastard he was, grinned brightly as he cocked his head to the side, pouting a bit as he asked but what does that mean?
Flirting shamelessly was something Atsumu knew how to do, don’t get him wrong, but Sakusa Kiyoomi made it an impossible task. I think I pulled a muscle, Omi. Won’t ya help me out with a massage? , he’d ask. My thighs are burning, here, feel them , he’d say as he rolled up his shorts and reached out to grab the man’s hands. Kiyoomi wouldn’t say anything, staring at him with a blank expression, eyes hazy and dull. Why are you like this? , Kiyoomi would sometimes ask with a chuckle, What happened to the pain in the ass, competitive bastard Atsumu I knew?
Atsumu would only laugh as he whispered that I can still be a pain in yer ass, Omi.
It never got further than that, Atsumu hiding his shaking hands as Kiyoomi sometimes got too close for his heart to handle, as Kiyoomi called his name in a voice Atsumu wasn’t used to and his knees suddenly gave up under his weight. And sometimes they fought. There were bad days, where Kiyoomi couldn’t jump as high as he wanted to because his muscles were exhausted from overtraining, where Atsumu’s tosses would go in a completely different direction, falling right on top of someone’s head as he apologized and tried to somehow slow down the frenetic rhythm of his heart, the boiling inside his veins as Kiyoomi shot him a disappointed look. We all have bad days , he said once. We can’t keep sulking in the corner or it’ll bring the rest of the team down with us. You’re supposed to be the one who sets up an attack. If you’re this out of your game, don’t even bother coming to practice.
Atsumu lost and, for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like losing was a bad thing.
He wanted to talk to him about things. Things that were getting out of hand, things he had no control over because his heart decided to carve an image of Sakusa Kiyoomi over his ribcage, beating hard and fast like the echo of his laughter. Things that he couldn’t really understand because it had never felt like this before, the ache for someone’s touch and the scorching, lingering feeling once it was gone. It was oh, so painful, but Atsumu couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t get enough of him and he’d drink him up if Kiyoomi allowed him to, he’d sink his teeth in his flesh and claim him as a prized possession no one else was allowed to touch.
When had he become like this?
Perhaps when Kiyoomi first looked at him after the tryouts. Nice toss , he said with a genuine smile before getting ready to hit the second one. Or maybe after that, when they started to compete over things like they did when they were teens. Maybe it happened after he woke up with Kiyoomi over his lap, sleeping peacefully as he held onto him like he’d do with a huge stuffed animal. Or maybe it had always been there, brewing in the pit of his stomach, waiting for him to get on his knees and lower his head to the overpowering wave that would soon consume him, throwing his body around like a mindless puppet as he gasps for air and screams his name because ah, is this what love is?
So the next step was, obviously, a confession.
Or it was supposed to be one, but Atsumu lost again.
Is this okay?, Kiyoomi had asked him because, surely, it shouldn’t have been. Considering everything they’ve been doing up until now, considering the fights and the bickering, the loud slaps and the tears they spill when no one’s around, the pointless competitions and everything else they can’t escape from, it shouldn’t have been.
But it was, it is .
Kiyoomi touched him like he’d touch a relic, as if he was scared Atsumu would break. Their foreheads touched in an empty locker room as their teammates giggled and turned off the lights, as they took the first step outside and started their walks home without even noticing that two of them were gone, hidden in the shadows they casted over the gym, hidden in a bubble only they could see, hidden in each other’s arms as Kiyoomi took one last look at his eyes and softly whispered that I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Atsumu couldn’t answer.
It’s more than okay , he wanted to say. It’s more than enough.
He cried when Kiyoomi kissed him, clutching at his shirt and bringing him impossibly closer because who would’ve guessed that Kiyoomi tasted like home , like the first ray of sunshine after a recurring thunderstorm, like the chocolate cake they had earlier to celebrate someone’s birthday. Kiyoomi cradled him in his arms, one of his hands holding him by his waist, the other one cupping his face and Atsumu slowly begins his unfolding, letting Kiyoomi strip him out of every little thing he puts up around his heart, letting him see him . And Kiyoomi smiled proudly at him as he said that you’re beautiful .
What brings him back to reality are the soft whimpers coming from the sleeping body beside him, from furrowed brows and long, curled lashes that cast a shadow over prominent cheekbones. It’s the humming in his sleep and the arms he throws over his own head, curls spreading over their sheets like vines as he rolls his head to one side and then to the other. Atsumu is mesmerized by the fairness in the porcelain of his skin and the moles and freckles that create paths for his fingertips to travel on, for his lips to follow all the way up to the twin spots on his forehead, all the way down to the ones right by his ear and the ones on his neck.
Kiyoomi looks undeniably adorable as he sleeps, frown gone and a lovely pout on his lips.
Atsumu reaches for his face, fingertips slowly tracing one of the thousands of constellations he has on his cheeks, softly poking him and giggling when he frowns once and then twice, scrunching up his nose in a way only he can do. He does it once and then twice and then a hundred times after that until Kiyoomi sighs in his sleep, until his eyelids are fluttering open and a yawn breaks through, until heavy, half-lidded and dark eyes stare up at him with a thousand question marks swirling around.
“What time is it?” He asks, his voice hoarse and choked as he stretches.
Atsumu hums, looking away from him to stare at the clock by their bedside table. The sun is rising slowly to its spot in the sky, the clouds turning into pastel-colored cotton candy as the light shines upon them. If Atsumu’s opinion counts for anything, Kiyoomi looks the best in the morning light, with disheveled hair and puffy eyes, right after he wakes up with a smile as he whispers a sweet good morning, love.
“It’s 5:47.”
“Okay,” he mumbles. “I’m going back to sleep.”
Kiyoomi isn’t really a morning person, it's something Atsumu found out after they threw their rivalry aside to nurture something sweeter inside their hearts. He whines before getting up, covering his head with the blankets and saying the world could end for all he cared, he just wanted those five more minutes. Kiyoomi is a cuddler, it’s also something he found out after the first few nights they spent at each other’s places. For someone who generally doesn’t like touching or being touched, Kiyoomi is quite fond of public displays of affection, grabbing Atsumu’s hands at every chance he gets.
“Wait, no.” Atsumu stops him with a hand over his chest. “I missed you.”
Kiyoomi hums before shaking his head. “‘m right here…”
“Yeah,” he giggles softly, crawling a bit closer to him. “But can we just stay like this for some time? Just a bit longer. I want to look at ya and not feel like a creep for watching ya sleep, ya know?”
A hearty laugh escapes Kiyoomi’s throat, echoing loudly between the four walls of their bedroom. He nods coyly as he opens his arms and whispers a low c’mere , letting Atsumu lie down over his chest, legs intertwining as he presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, as he grabs him and pulls him into a tight hug until he’s wheezing and complaining that Omi, I can’t breathe, come on, lemme go.
Their alarms aren’t set for another hour or so.
Atsumu nuzzles him, humming softly when Kiyoomi starts to play with his hair, pressing chaste kisses to his forehead and pulling his chin up with a finger, looking straight into his eyes before dipping down and kissing him properly. Good morning , Kiyoomi whispers against his cheek, one of his hands softly resting on Atsumu’s waist, the other one busy caressing his nape. Mornin’, Atsumu replies with a goofy smile breaking his lips apart. What’s gotten into ya all of a sudden?
A light chuckle escapes his throat when Kiyoomi buries his face on the crook of his neck and kisses the sensitive skin right under his ear. You, he whispers, you and your stupid voice and stupid face.
“I don’t want to wake up.” Kiyoomi whines as he nibbles on his neck.
“Yer already awake, Omi.”
“No,” he says. “I’m still dreaming.”
Ah.
“I want to stay like this for the entire day.”
Atsumu chuckles. “We can’t. We have practice.”
Kiyoomi pouts.
Because this is another thing Atsumu has learned about Sakusa Kiyoomi, outside hitter for the MSBY Black Jackals, blunt and competitive bastard who made his life a living hell for the entirety of his high school years, best boyfriend in the world: he’s whiny and clingy and always manages to get what he wants because he knows exactly how to make Atsumu’s heart hop around his chest, kissing him until he’s breathless, touching his neck and pulling him as close as humanly possible, looking at him as if he’s the world’s most precious treasure.
And maybe he is, is what he thinks when Kiyoomi looks up at him in the morning with sparkling eyes and a happy smile on his face. I love you , Atsumu whispers with his lips on Kiyoomi’s chest, so very much .
When Kiyoomi laughs and whispers a sweet but daring I love you more , Atsumu can’t help but laugh along with him because, apparently, they were still the overly competitive sixteen-year-olds who couldn’t stand to watch the other one-upping them. Except for the fact that now they kiss and hold each other tightly under the blankets. Except for the fact that now they walk around their apartment naked sometimes.
They still have their rivalry, they still compete to see who bakes the best cookies and who jumps higher. They still run around the court and force the rest of the team to play along with them. They still don’t know who has the highest alcohol tolerance because Meian told him Kiyoomi gets really jealous when he’s drunk and Atsumu just stops functioning, so it’s better if they just forget about that one.
They still tease each other when they don’t manage to score a service ace or when a play doesn’t work out that well. They still bicker and sometimes they fight but now it’s easier to deal with the bad days, to kiss the tears away, to hold his hand and whisper I’m proud of you, you’re amazing, we can do this, let’s try it one more time.
“‘Tsumu,” Kiyoomi calls him.
“Hm?”
It takes him a few seconds to reply. “I win.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Atsumu laughs, propping himself up on his elbows, chin resting on Kiyoomi’s chest as they stare into each other’s eyes. “I didn’t even know we were competing over something. Unfair, Omi.”
“No,” he yawns. “I win because I have you.”
It shouldn’t have made his heart race, not after all this time, but it did.
It always did.