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Miya Atsumu still didn’t know what to make of Sakusa Kiyoomi.
It was his second-year, his second time being invited to the All-Japan Youth training camp, and probably his twentieth time successfully getting a glare from Sakusa across the net.
But who’s counting? (Definitely not Atsumu.)
If looks could kill, Atsumu would probably be somewhere between dead and comatose, happily suffering the fate that he created for himself – thankfully, Sakusa didn’t look like he had the heart to murder him outright. Not yet.
On one hand, Atsumu was happy to see the fellow second-year at the training camp, a familiar face to practice with and not-so-subtly compete against. Sakusa was talented and powerful, embodying the exact type of skills and dedication that Atsumu loved on the court. He made Atsumu secretly proud to be his temporary setter.
On the other hand, Sakusa has always been a bit of a shit.
Atsumu knew this from the first time they had competed against each other, facing off as fresh-faced first-years on either side of the national training camp court. Atsumu had barely known what to expect when standing among Japan’s best and brightest players – all he knew was that he felt a hunger, relentlessly clawing at his insides, telling him to get better, improve, earn his spot time and time again amongst his newfound teammates. He promised to never let himself get overtaken if he had anything to say about it.
And then, there was Sakusa. Sakusa, who was always seemingly unfazed, who worked just as hard as anyone else on the court without letting any of the other players in too closely.
They had never played against each other before, still new to their teams and awaiting their first national competition as high schoolers. Atsumu thought he was pretty talented, but he knew better than to underestimate the players around him – if they were here, standing on the same court, then they were worthy adversaries in every way.
Still, he wasn’t prepared for Sakusa’s brand of monstrosity.
Atsumu felt his mouth drop open in shock the first time he saw Sakusa’s wicked spike in action. The ball seemed to almost echo in the palm of Sakusa’s hand, twisting and spinning in midair, and Atsumu felt his own fingers twitch in treacherous excitement.
He wanted to be the one to set to Sakusa and help him make those spikes. He wanted to keep pace with Sakusa, to push him and badger him into being better. He watched as Sakusa delivered point after point and almost forgot that they’d have to go back to their hometowns in a matter of days. Atsumu didn’t really care – he was too busy thinking about how they could be an absolutely devastating team.
Sakusa, in the meantime, barely batted an eye in his direction.
And Atsumu tried to get his attention. God, he really tried. He tried his version of being a decent human, which manifested itself in the form of following Sakusa during their down time (and Osamu had told him, in the past, that this could be misconstrued as “overbearing” or “too friendly” or “frankly fuckin’ terrifying, Tsumu, cut that shit out” or whatever, but what does Osamu know anyway?).
Anyway, that failed.
Atsumu resorted to plan B. He now tried everything to get Sakusa to look at him.
Somehow, that didn’t work either.
Sakusa took all of Atsumu’s antics in stride, no matter how annoying or purposefully intolerable Atsumu made himself. He seemed completely immune to Atsumu’s teasing, to his courtside comments, to the puns and nicknames that Atsumu threw out without a care, almost begging for a response.
Sakusa was just impervious to Atsumu. Atsumu didn’t know what to do.
Atsumu hated not being able to read him, but towards the end of camp, he hated not being able to infuriate him.
He didn’t know why he cared so much. They’d probably never play together, anyway.
(On the last day of their first camp, Atsumu came up to Sakusa, charming smile turned up to a thousand, jittering with nerves and excitement. He held out his hand for a goodbye, almost as a peace treaty for the shitstorm of the last few days, as if that’s something that normal fifteen-year-olds do. As if a handshake would break all of Sakusa’s boundaries. As if a handshake would get Sakusa to really see him.
Sakusa blinked at him and walked away.
Atsumu didn’t let himself get dejected. There’s always next year.)
And he was right. There is always next year – or, at this point, this year – because second-year Atsumu is an even bigger force to be reckoned with than first-year Atsumu, and somehow, second-year Omi-kun is much more open to showing emotion than first-year Sakusa ever was.
At this point, Atsumu doesn’t even care that most of that emotion is openly negative, or that a staggering majority of it is directed at him. He’s over the fucking moon.
(Coming up with Sakusa’s new nickname is, so far, the highlight of Atsumu’s training camp experience. He should’ve taken a dozen photos of Sakusa’s incredulous face when he first heard Omi-kun yelled at him from across the court. Atsumu would’ve gotten them framed.)
He takes pride with every narrowing of Sakusa’s eyes across the court, every warning glare when Atsumu would almost get too close, every subdued scoff at one of Atsumu’s jokes that the rest of the team just groaned at.
He’s learning, after all, how to push Sakusa’s buttons without teetering over the edge. He’s learning to be in Sakusa’s line of sight without entirely taking over. He lives for this chasm, this purgatory of his own design, always toeing the line between too much and not enough.
It’s a far cry from last year, when Atsumu didn’t know Sakusa well enough to scratch at his surface instead of shutting him down entirely.
Now, they’re almost reluctant friends. First-year Atsumu would be proud.
But somewhere along the way, Atsumu forgot just why he was so desperate for Sakusa’s friendship in the first place.
He forgot that it wasn’t just him who’s in love with volleyball, who treats every moment with the ball with reverence. Whenever they make eye contact across the court – and Atsumu isn’t being a pain in the ass – he sees the same fierce determination reflected in Sakusa’s eyes.
He knows, theoretically, how powerful Sakusa’s hands are. He knows, just by browsing the latest Volleyball Monthly, that Sakusa’s hands are made for volleyball.
That still doesn’t prepare him for experiencing them firsthand.
Sakusa spikes a ball directly into Atsumu’s waiting forearms. It isn’t the first time, not by a long shot, and Atsumu figures that it wouldn’t be the last.
The force of the hit sends echoes of pain down to his fingertips, but Atsumu barely notices. He’s mesmerized by the way that Sakusa’s hands curve in midair, by the almost-inhuman bend in his wrists, by the ghost of a smirk on his face as he makes direct eye contact with Atsumu.
They’re on opposite sides of the net, competitors in that moment. But as Atsumu makes fleeting contact with the ball that Sakusa viciously spiked, it almost feels like he’s touching Sakusa’s palm to his own. It almost feels like they’re on the precipice of holding hands.
What the fuck?
Atsumu flounders for just a moment, right before using all ten fingers to set up a spike that Sakusa struggles to receive. Sakusa shakes his head in disbelief, right before sending his twenty-first glare across the net. Atsumu takes it as a win.
If really good setters can bewitch their spikers, then Atsumu wouldn’t rest until Sakusa’s fully under his spell.
Atsumu is the best, after all.
He pushes the thought of hands – Sakusa’s hands, Sakusa’s hands around the ball, Sakusa’s hands in his – directly out of his mind.
(On the last day of their second training camp, Atsumu comes up to both Sakusa and Komori, priding himself on the way Komori visibly brightens at his approach, even as Sakusa narrows his eyes in his direction.
He knew he was likable. Komori did always have good taste.
Atsumu reaches out his hand to wave goodbye, knowing Sakusa’s boundaries better now than last year, knowing not to push too hard.
He sees his Sakusa’s eyebrow twitch up in amusement, his eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly under his mask. He removes his hand from his coat pocket, and Atsumu feels his breath catch.
Sakusa waves.
See you around, Miya.
Sakusa punctuates it by flipping him off. Atsumu watches him leave, mesmerized.
He swears it feels like heaven.)
______________________________________________________________________________
Somewhere between second and third year, Atsumu realizes he may have a slight twinge of feelings for Sakusa.
The thought of it mortifies him to his very core.
So Atsumu does what he does best: avoid. Avoid Sakusa like his life depends on it. Because it does. At least until his… feelings are taken care of.
Unfortunately, Sakusa is still wearing that awful yellow-green jacket, so Atsumu couldn’t help it – he couldn’t stop himself from going up to Sakusa during their last Nationals and telling him that he looks like a walking highlighter. But that barely counts.
(If Atsumu had turned around while walking away, he would’ve seen Sakusa staring back at him, a hint of awe and fondness flashing across his face for the briefest moment.
Sakusa shook his head and went back to his team, just as Atsumu finally got the courage for one last look.)
______________________________________________________________________________
Atsumu never really believed in divine punishment. He’s starting to rethink that. He's definitely being targeted.
Atsumu becomes a pro volleyball player. He competes in the V. League circuit for years. He’s probably some kind of Internet heartthrob by this point – okay, he definitely is, but he just knows that, he definitely doesn’t check update and gossip accounts about himself – but, either way, he’s never lacking for attention.
Knowing all that, how the fuck does he still have pinpricks of feelings for his fleeting high school crush?
Better yet, how did said fleeting high school crush end up on the same team as him?
There’s no shortage of competitive teams in Japan. Sakusa never even liked Osaka. Why is he here?
It’s all just to torture Atsumu. He knows this. This is revenge for all that Omi-kun shit he pulled in high school.
Jokes on you. You thought Omi-kun was bad? I’m gonna call ya Omi-Omi now. I’m upgrading. Atsumu thinks to himself, even as he immediately comes up to welcome Sakusa to the team.
Sakusa smirks and wordlessly extends a gloved hand for a handshake. Atsumu’s brain starts to shut down.
He realizes, rather belatedly, that he’s going to be setting to those hands, at least for a season, probably for several. He realizes that he and Sakusa are going to be terrifying to compete against.
First-year Atsumu is elated, partying somewhere over the whimsical twists of fucking fate. Present-day Atsumu is on the verge of having sensory overload from touching Sakusa once.
______________________________________________________________________________
Atsumu doesn’t know how it keeps happening, but during every team-bonding outing that they have, he always ends up sitting directly next to Sakusa.
It doesn’t matter if he was originally walking with Bokuto, or talking excitedly with Hinata, or fielding a call from Osamu and trailing behind the rest of the team to talk to (read: fondly yell at) him in private. He always, without fail, finds himself sliding into the open seat next to Sakusa.
Honestly, he never minds it. He learned to subdue his feelings, and Sakusa quickly became a person he could easily trust. Some might call them best friends, but Atsumu learned long ago not to push his luck – they are teammates, dormitory neighbors, and, apparently, designated bar buddies. That’s enough for him.
Regardless, Sakusa is a surprisingly comforting presence in the high-energy celebration nights, a steadfast force of silence in an otherwise intolerably loud environment. Atsumu loves people, and he loves talking – it isn’t an MSBY night out if Atsumu doesn’t manage, at least once, to tell a story from his high school days and feel the entire team’s eyes on his from across every corner of the table.
But he also loves being able to sit back in his seat, relax for just a moment, and look to his left to find Sakusa staring back at him. Impassivity is always weaved across his face, belied only by the slight twinkle in his eye whenever he makes eye contact with Atsumu.
Atsumu lives for those moments.
Tonight, Atsumu is already feeling plenty cheerful, so he decides to take the burden off of his older teammates and play the part of a responsible adult.
He’s never done it before, so it’s worth a shot.
He nurses his water while his teammates get progressively and hilariously more intoxicated. Hinata becomes the life of the table, making friends with an increasingly amused bartender while Meian apologizes profusely for him. Bokuto turns a lovely shade of red, affectionately clinging on to anyone within hugging distance.
He takes a peek at Sakusa. He almost wishes he didn’t.
Sakusa looks absolutely ethereal in faded lighting, his sharp features softened by the glow from the lights thrown sparsely around the walls. He’s unmasked, ungloved, unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him, and Atsumu can’t help but smile when Sakusa’s eyes finally find his.
He really is beautiful.
“Like what ya see, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu says instead with a laugh, expecting a half-hearted scoff, an eye-roll, maybe a Don’t be stupid, Miya if Sakusa was feeling daring.
He wasn’t expecting silence. He definitely wasn’t expecting a faint blush, of all things, to form on Sakusa’s cheeks.
He’s about to pry, since a silent Sakusa can never be a good thing, but Bokuto chooses that moment to ambush Atsumu from behind with a bear hug and sob about how much he loves him.
Atsumu loves Bokuto. He really does. But his timing could use some work.
By the time Atsumu turns back to Sakusa, he’s sitting against his chair with perfect posture, determination on his face like he’s preparing for battle.
The two of them may be close, but Atsumu still has some self-preservation skills intact, and he knows better than to challenge someone when they look like that.
To Atsumu’s surprise, he feels sharp knuckles knocking against his under the table, brushing against him too frequently to be accidental, yet too casually to be intentional.
He steals a glance at Sakusa every time it happens, but for once, Sakusa is looking anywhere but him.
More people join their already-cramped table, old volleyball friends of Inunaki’s that were staying in the city, and Sakusa visibly bristles. Atsumu remembers, rather belatedly, that Sakusa doesn’t love crowds. He’s about to ask Sakusa if he can help, maybe grab a mask from their stored bags, but Sakusa beats him to it. Atsumu hears the noise of Sakusa’s wrist snapping into place before he feels them, the cool, slender fingers wrapping around his own, holding his hand almost desperately.
Atsumu barely knows what to do with himself. If someone had told him that morning that he’d be holding hands with Sakusa Kiyoomi in a crowded bar, he would’ve lost his mind.
“Hey, Omi-kun,” he starts, since he’s not a complete asshole and he knows distress when he sees it, “are ya alright? Do ya need anything?”
“Shut up.”
“Omi-kun—”
“Shut up,” Sakusa says, a note of finality in his tone before slightly loosening the grip he had on Atsumu’s hand, unclenching the nails that had been digging into Atsumu’s skin.
He doesn’t let go. Atsumu notices, with every fiber of his being, that he very much doesn’t let go.
“Just needed to grab something for a bit of grounding,” Sakusa says, staring down at the table as Atsumu stares at him.
“That’s okay. I get it.”
Atsumu never noticed how soft Sakusa’s hands were before. Have they ever even high-fived?
Sakusa looks up at Atsumu now and narrows his eyes at the look of genuine shock that must be visible on Atsumu’s face. Atsumu tries to school his expression, playing at nonchalance.
Sakusa squints at him harder, so Atsumu doubts he was successful.
“The table is gross underneath. You’re… not as gross.”
“Right. Yes.”
Atsumu doesn’t want to stop holding his hand.
“Is… this okay?” Sakusa asks tentatively, and Atsumu doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sakusa being tentative in his life, “I can let go. If you want.”
“No!”
Atsumu really doesn’t want to stop holding his hand.
“Um. It’s fine. Really,” Atsumu amends, eloquent as always, while Sakusa looks just a bit constipated. “It’s fine with me if it’s fine with you.”
“It’s fine with me.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Great.”
“Yeah, great.”
Atsumu feels like he could throw up a little, but he’d need to run to the bathroom for that, and he doesn’t think Sakusa would like that very much, and he definitely wouldn’t like the throw-up aspect of it all, so Atsumu sits at the table and smiles like normal and drinks his water dutifully all while holding Sakusa’s hand.
Sakusa looks completely unfazed.
Atsumu is completely fucked.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Kiyoomi didn’t know what else he can possibly do. Atsumu must be dense.
He spent the better part of the evening clutching on to Atsumu like a lifeline. He dug his nails into the back of Atsumu’s hand. He grabbed on to his wrist to drag him out of the bar and let his fingers linger on the underside of Atsumu’s palm. He nearly caressed his hand in public, in front of their teammates, for fuck’s sake.
How has Atsumu still not picked up on his confession?
Kiyoomi should’ve known that liking Atsumu was a mistake. But he couldn’t help himself.
He’s tried to resist Atsumu since their teenage years. Atsumu was boisterous, loud, and cocky – he was everything Kiyoomi thought he hated.
But slowly, Atsumu became more patient with his boundaries, more thoughtful about his actions, more committed to his one-man mission to win over Kiyoomi as a friend. Kiyoomi got close, closer to others, closer to Atsumu, before he fell hard.
Somehow, against his will, he got caught up in the Atsumu laying just beneath the surface: the Atsumu whose force, when directed at him with full intensity, was strong enough to bend and break him and all of his convictions.
He was never a fan of wild, untamed people. With Atsumu, he can’t look away.
He’d follow Atsumu anywhere.
… Which helps explain why Kiyoomi is currently standing right outside the door to Atsumu’s room, despite his own being down the hall.
“Ya okay, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks, unlocking the door with one hand while looking back at Kiyoomi in slight confusion. Kiyoomi stands silently, waiting for Atsumu to connect the dots.
“… Omi?”
Kiyoomi sighs, looks Atsumu dead in the eye, and grabs his hand.
Atsumu’s eyes widen dramatically. Kiyoomi wishes he could take a picture.
“Do you get it now?” Kiyoomi asks, waving their conjoined hands in front of Atsumu’s face.
Atsumu stares back, understanding absolutely nothing.
“Omi, what?”
“Miya. I’m trying to tell you that I like you.”
Kiyoomi didn’t think Atsumu could get more red. He was wrong.
“Omi. What.”
“Do you need me to repeat myself?”
“Um.”
“I like you. I’ve liked you for a while.”
“Um.”
“Is that a good ‘um’ or a bad ‘um?’”
“You—you like me?”
“Yes. I thought I made it obvious.”
“Omi, how the fuck did ya make it obvious?”
Kiyoomi stares down at their hands pointedly. Atsumu sputters incoherently.
“That doesn’t count!”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, deciding not to comment on the fact that he can count the number of times he’s let anyone hold his hands and that Atsumu knows this.
“Okay. What about this.”
And Kiyoomi takes a step closer, trailing his hand up Atsumu’s arm under it rests delicately against his still-red cheek. He brings his other hand to cup Atsumu’s face and tilts his head slightly upwards, looking at him directly as Atsumu’s breath stutters in its wake.
“Omi,” Atsumu breathes out, and Kiyoomi realizes that they’re both dense, that Atsumu sounds as desperate as Kiyoomi feels, that both of them have waited years for this moment, backdropped against a dimly lit hallway.
They lean in together – Atsumu with his hands wrapped in Kiyoomi’s hair, Kiyoomi with his hands wrapped behind Atsumu’s neck, losing track of the years spent pining in the hours spent in each other’s arms. The feeling of kissing softly against Atsumu’s door makes way for frenzied kisses in his room, daring kisses in his bed, languid kisses in the aftermath.
Somehow, together in the pale light of early morning between Atsumu's sheets, they make it home.