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They’re still on the court when it happens for the first time.
It starts with a stray ball and the sound of a whistle. Someone yells a hushed sorry! that gets drowned under the sound of his own blood rushing through his eardrums. He blinks, the net slightly blurry as sweat slowly rolls down his forehead, down his neck, and suddenly he’s hyper aware of his surroundings. The slaps on someone’s back and the characteristic don’t mind! that echoes through the walls of the gym. The sound of sneakers hitting the floor, the squeaking of their soles as they rub against the wooden floor, as they bend their knees and jump because the ball is coming and you have to jump, jump, jump . He hesitates for a millisecond, his heart pounding inside his chest, go, go, go , but his feet remain stuck to the floor, his eyes wide because what the fuck.
When the world stops spinning, the ball bouncing one, two, three times after hitting the floor, Kiyoomi sighs, his muscles contracting as he senses The Look burning holes on his skin coming from his right. Of course, he can’t blame him. Miya “Anyone Who Can’t Hit My Tosses Just Sucks” Atsumu stares at him as if Kiyoomi has just cursed his entire lineage, as if he’s just committed a heinous crime.
It’s just the two of them now, their heartbeats loudly echoing in an empty gym. Fuck.
“What was that?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t answer him.
“Ya could’ve gotten that one,” he says. There is challenge in his voice, the same tone he uses when he tries to make their opponents fall for their traps. Kiyoomi knows better than that, of course he does, but his hands curl into fists nonetheless.
He doesn’t turn around even when he hears him taking the one, two, three steps necessary until he’s standing next to him, his breath hot and threatening on his cheek. He stands there and waits , just like he always does, expecting an apology, an explanation, anything he can get. Kiyoomi doesn’t give him the satisfaction, a smirk breaking his lips apart when he shrugs, a what? escaping his lips as if messing up the tempo wasn’t a big deal. And it wasn’t, not really, not now .
“What the hell was that, Omi?”
“I missed it,” he replies, loud and clear, smirk still hanging from his lips. “In case you haven’t noticed, that is. It happens sometimes.”
Atsumu almost growls, taking one step impossibly closer, his face close, close, so close and Kiyoomi has to force himself not to take a step back himself when he whispers: “It shouldn’t fucking happen, ya know that, We’ve been practicing this quick for a long time already. You should’ve known where the ball was going to. We had it all set up, all it took was a fucking jump , but you can’t even do something as simple as that.”
He’s mean when his tosses aren’t hit, yeah. Something about anyone who can’t hit my tosses blah blah blah , right?
Kiyoomi snorts, “Sure, what else do you want me to do? I already said it happens. We can try that one again once you get your head out of your ass. I’m going home.”
But Atsumu doesn’t let him go, hands fisting the sweaty fabric of his shirt and pulling him in his direction, flames burning behind his eyes as he spits out a ya scrub , as he frowns and scoffs and forces Kiyoomi to look at him, at the calloused fingers that bring him impossibly closer and the lingering threats hanging from his lips. Kiyoomi knows he should have gotten that one. On a normal day, he would have. Atsumu doesn’t care about any of that, though, he just wants an explanation for the reason why the ball isn’t on the other side of the net but resting at their feet. A heinous crime, apparently.
He complains, mostly. About how Kiyoomi hasn’t been in top form all day, about how he’s been moping around like a stray dog and how pitiful he looks in that very second, eyes wide and brows furrowed at the same time because what the fuck, he’s too close. He talks about the team and how Kiyoomi is a valuable player, about how they’ll be doomed if he’s not in top shape. He rolls his eyes when Kiyoomi snorts and almost glues their faces together when he decides to tell him he’s been watching him closely. He tells him he won’t mind listening if there’s anything bothering him. He tells him he’s there.
Of course.
But Kiyoomi knows better than that. What is he supposed to tell him? I’m sorry, but you’ve been touching me a lot more recently and I think I’m starting to wonder if your lips are as soft as your hair. I’m sorry, but do you think you can maybe step away from me for a second? It’s just that my heart feels like it’ll explode if you breathe so close to my cheek like that, thank you. Yeah, as if.
Instead, he smirks. “Can’t you just shut up?”
The artificial lights over the court make Atsumu’s eyes shine with unknown emotions as he frowns and lets his mouth hang open, as he blinks at him once and three thousand times after that as the cogs in his brain move at light speed. There’s golden glitter over his lashes as he blinks, the world coming to a full stop as his lips slowly quirk up into a challenging grin as if that had been his plan all along. It’s a sharp-edged smile, Kiyoomi notices way too late. Atsumu’s nose is pressed against his and his breath is hot when he whispers, tempting and challenging, “Make me.”
Oh, okay.
Suddenly, and before he can stop himself, Kiyoomi’s hands are grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him closer, closer, closer. Ah , so his lips are even softer than his hair, Kiyoomi finds out. Atsumu’s body stiffens under his touch, his arms falling limply to his sides as a muffled mix of a groan and a whimper echoes around them. There is a very audible inhale coming from him and that’s all it takes for Kiyoomi to regain his grip on the last shred of sanity he has and oh. Oh, no.
Atsumu stares blankly at him when Kiyoomi takes a step back, when he clears his throat and pretends his heart isn’t running a marathon as his blood slowly starts to boil inside his veins. He just kissed him. Out of fucking nowhere, he just kissed him. What the fuck. They’re still sweaty and gross and they’re standing on court, their bodies burning with the adrenaline of a missed spike, of a fight that didn’t really end and what the actual fuck .
“So you can shut up,” Kiyoomi tells him, his voice wrecked, his throat itchy and hands shaking by his sides. “Good to know.”
It’s only for a split second, the way Atsumu’s eyes widen, the way his hands seem to reach out to him as if he doesn’t want Kiyoomi to let go of him just yet. It’s only for a split second, but Kiyoomi doesn’t miss it. What the fuck.
“If you don’t mind,” he finds himself saying, “I’m going home now.”
The second time it happens, it’s after they win against the Red Falcons.
They’re all drinking and cheerfully singing songs Kiyoomi can’t be bothered to sing along to, his eyes glued to the small bowl of kakipi in front of him. Atsumu is glowing golden under the dim light of the bar, his voice sweet like an old love song. It’s been a month ever since Kiyoomi did the unthinkable and they didn’t talk about it. Coming to practice the next day had him chewing on the insides of his cheeks and shoving his trembling hands into his pockets because he wasn’t nervous, okay, he was just cold. Atsumu had greeted him, then, and smiled sweetly as if nothing happened.
Now, Kiyoomi stares.
Atsumu’s lips are tinted a dark pink, almost red, as he chews on it when talking to Bokuto, laughing and playfully slapping Hinata’s back with a ya played well, ya played well. Meian wraps his arms around Atsumu’s shoulders and brings him closer as he roars with the excitement of their victory. He watches as Barnes and Tomas slowly approach them, their cacophony growing louder and louder with a mix of roaring laughter and off-key singing.
“You’re staring like you want to kill someone,” it comes from beside him. Inunaki grins at him while shoving some of the kakipi into his open mouth. “We won, you know? I’d expect you to be a little happier.”
“I am,” Kiyoomi nods. “They’re just too...”
“Loud?” Inunaki offers him a knowing smile. “Yeah, but that’s not all, is it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mm,” he hums as he shoves another handful of kakipi into his mouth.
Kiyoomi snorts, suddenly unable to mask the smile that tugs at the sides of his mouth. Yeah, he’s happy, sue him. He chuckles softly when Inunaki slides the half-empty bowl in his direction with a knowing grin as if he knows everything Kiyoomi still hasn’t said and even the things he hasn’t quite figured out yet. Inunaki Shion, he makes a mental note, is a very scary person.
He points at Atsumu and chews loudly as he says, “He was complimenting you earlier. Something about how well you hit his tosses. Or something about how you were made for him. Funny guy, actually.”
There’s a hint of amusement in his voice when Kiyoomi chokes on air, when he widens his eyes and looks away if only to hide the blush spreading across his cheeks and all the way down to his neck. It’s constricting, the knot that settles inside his throat, the invisible hand that plunges inside his chest to grab at his heart. Inunaki watches it all unfold with a lazy smile on his face. He nods at him as if he’s saying I know, I’ve seen it, you’re not as subtle as you think. Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to die.
When Inunaki gets up, Atsumu yells an excited Wan-san! before strolling towards them. He talks and talks and talks, complimenting him on the balls he saved, on the ones he sent up in a perfect angle for him to work with. Suddenly, Kiyoomi can no longer hear the music, his senses drowned in Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu and the leftover salt over his lips and at the back of his tongue, his mind rushing back to the comfort and the taste of Atsumu’s lips over his, soft and salty, warm and inviting.
He shakes his head in a futile attempt to make the thoughts go away.
He gets up, eyes locked on the bottle Atsumu holds in his hands, hands curled into fists by his sides and raw hunger boiling inside his bloodstream. It’s stupid, really, but Kiyoomi can’t help himself from rolling his eyes when he brags about his three service aces and the fact that he managed to finally do that quick attack Omi-kun and I were practicing for an entire month . The quick attack that one day ended with their lips stuck together as their hearts desperately clawed at their chests, desperate for release as adrenaline filled their veins.
Atsumu notices him staring. Of course he does.
“Omi-kun!”
He smiles big and bright at him and Kiyoomi suddenly finds himself mimicking it without even realizing it, his cheeks hurting from the strain, his lips chapped and burning from the salt rubbing over the sensitive skin. And yet, he finds himself unable to stop his smile from growing when Atsumu turns towards him with a childish grin and the stupidest questions because what the fuck, he’s so cute.
Something snaps inside his head as soon as the thought lingers for more than a second.
Something climbs up his throat and settles there as if breathing isn’t a necessity anymore. Kiyoomi blinks down at Atsumu when he clings to him and rests his head on his shoulder while babbling on and on about something Hinata told him while they were by the counter earlier, about his brother’s restaurant and the recipe he’s been dying to try, about the thousands and thousands of things that run through his head all day long.
He doesn’t mean to, not this time, but he laughs before the words leave his throat, “Do you ever shut up?”
Inunaki’s eyes widen, lips pressed tightly against each other. Atsumu snorts as he looks up at him with an innocent smile hanging from his lips, with a devilish pout and the challenge burning behind his eyes. Do it, it urges him, do it, do it, do it. What are you waiting for? Kiyoomi stares at him for a second or maybe an hour, time swirling around them like the endless tick of an old clock, his heart mimicking the rhythm of the pointers as they tick and tock in an indefinite continued progression. Miya Atsumu, it seems, has the ability to make a minute seem infinite.
When Atsumu smirks, Kiyoomi shivers. It’s coming.
“What, are ya gonna make me again?”
Blame it on the alcohol flooding his system, but Kiyoomi yanks him by the collar of his jacket to meet his lips. He tastes like salt and beer and something sweet Kiyoomi can’t quite comprehend, but he thinks it’s alright. Atsumu is an unknown variable he won’t ever have the ability to fully understand and in this moment, he couldn’t care less about that. He just wants and wants and wants and he will take. Time freezes, it seems, gasps and shouts of their names reaching their ears for half a second before dissipating into nothingness. Atsumu throws his arms around his neck and pulls him closer, desperate and hungry, and Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to walk away from him.
He feels Atsumu’s hands playing with his hair and feels the vibrations of a whimper over his lips when he wraps one arm around his waist. He feels soft and pliant under his touch, fingers digging into his scalp, twisting his curls into knots and he doesn’t even care. All Kiyoomi can think about is Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu and the way he tastes so foreign yet so familiar.
They shouldn’t be doing this, Kiyoomi reasons.
But he’s only doing it to shut him up, something growls back at him.
Fair enough.
So he kisses him and lets himself be kissed, devoured even. When Atsumu finally breaks them apart, they’re both panting, their hands still glued to each other’s skin. Kiyoomi is now fully aware of the six pairs of confused eyes focused on them, a small what the fuck coming from their captain and Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu away with a forced chuckle. Did he just say ‘again’?
“What,” Meian repeats as if he hadn’t been clear enough the first few times, “the fuck.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t do anything other than shrug.
Indeed, what the fuck.
It keeps happening, it turns into a habit. Kiyoomi keeps kissing him and Atsumu keeps letting him. During practice, when he’s lashing out, Kiyoomi’s first instinct is to shut him up with a kiss and Atsumu melts against him, he always does.
No one comments on it, they just laugh it off and pretend it didn’t happen.
Kiyoomi pretends his heart isn’t climbing up his throat, pretends his cheeks aren’t burning.
This doesn’t mean anything, right? It’s just to shut him up.
The (estimated) thousandth time it happens, they’re sharing a room for an away game.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Atsumu had crawled into his arms, nestling his head in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck with a satisfied sigh, one of his arms thrown over Kiyoomi’s waist as he snuggled closer and closer until they could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. Sometime in the middle of the night, Kiyoomi’s heart stopped working for a few seconds or maybe for a few minutes, he couldn’t tell.
Now, Kiyoomi finds himself with his legs twisted around Atsumu’s, one of his hands buried in soft hair and entire body burning with all of the things he was sure he had locked away a long, long time ago. His heart is slowly climbing up his throat, his bloodstream filled with adrenaline as Atsumu slowly snuggles closer to him, as he wraps his arms around his waist and sighs happily when Kiyoomi rests his head against his. Fuck , he thinks, because at this point his vocabulary only consists of fuck, shit, shut up and Atsumu.
It’s warm and comfortable, the way Atsumu fits so perfectly in his arms, the way he breathes slowly and the way his lips feel so soft against his neck. It should have been weird, this whole sharing-a-bed-because-they-had-no-other-rooms-available thing, but it isn’t. It should have been weird, the way he can’t sleep unless he has Atsumu tightly pressed against his chest, his hair tickling the sensitive skin right under his ear, his breath sending shivers down his spine as he whispers a low nice receive in his sleep. It should have been weird, holding him so tenderly like this, just like the unprompted kissing, but it isn’t.
“Omi?” Atsumu’s voice is hoarse and cracked as he lifts up his head to stare at him. “Why aren'tcha asleep?”
Because of you, he wants to say, but of course he doesn’t. He never does.
“Too nervous to sleep?”
Kiyoomi snorts, “Of course not,” he pokes Atsumu’s cheek. “Who do you think I am?”
The sheets ruffle, the blankets thrown over the other side of the bed as Atsumu sits up, legs folded beneath his body as he tilts his head to the side and smiles, sweet and sleepy and innocent and Kiyoomi swears he’s seeing heaven. There’s only the faint light coming from the lamp on the bedside table shining down on him, his features looking almost golden as he yawns and rubs his eyes with a tired hum. What is it, Kiyoomi wants to ask him, why did you get up, why aren’t you in my arms , but Atsumu renders him speechless with a snort, a shake of his head and an amused sigh as he lets his body fall back onto the mattress. He’s lying on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling, and he’s laughing.
Kiyoomi sits up as well as he can manage, having a roughly eighty kilogram athlete sprawled out over his legs, and finds himself smiling sleepily at the scene unfolding before his eyes. Atsumu glows, his hands covering his face, his laughter echoing through the walls and forcing Kiyoomi’s heart to beat along with its rhythm. It’s a habit now, staring at Atsumu and all of his mannerisms, memorizing the way he scrunches up his nose and ugly snorts when he laughs too hard. It’s a habit Kiyoomi can’t seem to let go, a habit he’s not sure he even wants to get rid of.
“Hey, Omi?”
“Mm?”
There is a minute of silence, the sounds of the city below drowning Kiyoomi’s desperate intakes of air, drowning the erratic beat of his heart as he waits and waits and waits for the words Atsumu has been putting together. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it sure as hell isn’t a, “Do you think we work well together?”, out of all the possible things he could’ve asked him.
Oh, well.
He frowns, hands curled into fists over his lap because what the fuck.
It’s a simple question with a simple answer. They’re setter and spiker, they’re supposed to work well together. Kiyoomi clears his throat, a frown dragging his eyebrows down, down, down, and oh, he didn’t mean it like that, did he? Realization hits him in the shape of a gasp, a tight grip over his heart and the shortness of breath he couldn’t get rid of. Atsumu laughs, loud and wholeheartedly, and Kiyoomi sits there as he crawls back to his spot on the bed, dragging the blankets up to his chin and shooting him a playful look before mumbling out a soft what, no making me shut up this time?
Come here, he says. Atsumu does, slowly wrapping one of his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist and lifting up his head, eyes closed and lips slightly parted as if he’d been waiting for it for gods know how long. For a second, Kiyoomi allows himself to stare at the curve of his lashes and the shadows they cast over his cheeks; at the light pink that stains his skin beneath all of the freckles over his nose. He lets his eyes linger for far too long over his lips, soft and smooth and nothing like Kiyoomi ever thought they would feel like. Chapped and rough, he thinks now, definitely wouldn’t suit someone as lovable as him.
It’s slow, the way their lips brush against each other’s, the way Atsumu reaches upwards to tangle his fingers on messy curls. It’s familiar, the taste, the whines, the breathless whimpers when Kiyoomi breaks them apart. It’s overpowering, the way Atsumu grabs him by the collar of his shirt and tugs him down again for another and another and another kiss. Kiyoomi lets him; he always lets him, because not having him in his arms, not having his lips on his, already feels weird, unfamiliar, uncertain.
Go to sleep, he whispers against Atsumu’s red and swollen lips. We have a match tomorrow.
What if I say ‘make me’, he asks with a yawn, already snuggling closer, would ya?
Yes, Kiyoomi doesn’t dare to say out loud. I’ll do anything you want me to.
It shouldn’t have continued, but it did.
Those feelings shouldn’t have been nurtured, but they were.
What now?
They’re at Onigiri Miya when the question arises for the first time.
The outside of the shop is decorated with black and gold to announce their presence, their win, the fact that the shop’s owner is a proud brother. The inside of the shop is loud and cheerful, their arms all over each other’s shoulders as they sing and laugh and yell as Miya Osamu, calm and composed while smiling softly at his brother, leaves another tray of onigiri on the table before joining them in their out-of-tune singing.
Kiyoomi smiles when Hinata pokes him one, two, five times, a childish smile on his face as he looks up and whispers a barely audible Omi-san, you gotta teach me how to receive like that, it was super duper cool . Bokuto is snoring, Atsumu is staring at his phone while Barnes points to the screen and tries to talk to him over the cacophony that only seems to grow louder. Meian is savoring his onigiri, excitedly chatting with Osamu who, for the first time, it seems, doesn’t seem to mind the attention. Inunaki and Tomas, well, who knows where those two have wandered off to. Probably the bathroom, judging by how shameless they were beneath the tables, their hands travelling up each other’s thighs and-
Yeah, so Kiyoomi’s seen some things tonight.
It’s Osamu who brings up the question, a loud “So, anniversary’s comin’ up soon, eh?”
Atsumu lifts up his head, arched eyebrows and surprise written over his face. He reaches forward to grab another onigiri, slowly bringing it to his mouth, teeth flashing brightly under the light before sinking down on the rice. He chews fast, almost as if he doesn’t have the luxury of savoring his food. When he cocks his head to the side, Osamu snorts, shaking his head with a soft can’t believe this.
“Whose anniversary?” Atsumu asks with puffed out cheeks and a thousand question marks behind his eyes. He blinks at his brother, at Meian, at Kiyoomi, at Hinata, and back to his brother.
Meian snorts, sighing before shaking his head with a, “You don’t have to try to hide it, we’ve known about it for a while now.”
At that, Kiyoomi feels something unpleasant pool in the pit of his stomach, acid climbing up his throat as he struggles to breathe, vision blurry and head spinning. It’s like he’s free-falling without a parachute, closing his eyes and bracing for the impact before his body hits the ground. Atsumu is saying something, but Kiyoomi can’t make out the words, not when for how long has he been in a relationship, why didn’t I know this, why did he let me kiss him if he was in a relationship, I don’t understand, I- is all he can think about. The questions run through his head at lightspeed and it’s still not fast enough, not when his nails are digging into his palms, when his jaw clenches so hard he fears he might break a few teeth. Since when, and why couldn’t it have been me?
“I don’t get it,” he says.
“It’s okay, Atsumu-san!” Hinata chirps in, a big smile on his face. “We’ve seen you two kissing plenty of times already. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret, was it?”
Atsumu frowns, “The two of us?”
Before anyone can say anything, his eyes light up - in confusion, realization and shock all at once. Osamu smirks, shaking his head before getting up and excusing himself with a whisper of what a dumbass. Kiyoomi can only stare as Atsumu laughs, as he covers his face with his hands and laughs , shoulders moving up and down, voice strained and choked out as he struggles to breathe. He looks beautiful, is the only think Kiyoomi can think of, because he does, because it’s true, and ah, he’s been so stupid, hasn’t he? He stares and stares and stares and pretends his heart didn’t just stop when Atsumu looks at him through his fingers, when he breathlessly smiles at him, hair disheveled and cheeks red. He looks like everything he’s ever dreamed of, and he’s not even being dramatic about it.
“We’re not dating,” he says, calm and composed as if he hadn’t just been laughing his ass off merely seconds before, “Omi-kun and I, that is. I don’t know where ya got that from, but it’s not true.”
Hinata lets his mouth hang open with a soft huh?
“You don’t have to lie, you know,” Meian tells him, “because we’re fine with it. I mean, we’ve seen what you guys get up to when we pretend we’re not looking. It’s cool, really. If anything, you guys are playing better than ever, so keep doing whatever it is that you’re doing. We have no complaints.”
Kiyoomi is sure he’s been punched in the stomach when Meian looks over at him and winks. He winks . He stares at Atsumu as if looking for an answer, but he looks just as lost, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. The kissing, of course, they should’ve been more careful, they shouldn’t have made it so obvious because now everyone has their own assumptions and suddenly it’s so fucking hard to breathe. Atsumu looks concerned, anxious even, and Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s ever seen him looking like this, silent and speechless and with a thousand different emotions slowly spreading through his features. He looks like a lost child who’s about to start crying at any second now.
He feels guilty.
“It’s not like that,” he says, “I wasn’t, I mean, we weren’t, we’re not…”
“Sure,” Meian speaks up again, “whatever you say…”
They don’t talk about it, but Kiyoomi notices the way Atsumu avoids looking at him as if his presence alone is enough to burn him. He notices the way his smile grows melancholic as the seconds bleed into minutes that bleed into hours. He notices how startled he gets whenever someone calls Kiyoomi’s name, how hopeless he looks whenever someone inches closer to him. Bokuto wakes up, wraps one arm around his shoulders and tells him to cheer up, that it’s okay, no one’s mad, they all knew. But they don’t know anything, Kiyoomi wants to tell them, they’ve made assumptions and they’re unknowingly rubbing salt on his wounds. He’s nurtured feelings he shouldn’t have, so what? From the look on Atsumu’s face whenever their eyes accidentally meet, he knows he hates the idea of ever being with him.
The kisses are meaningless, he has to remind himself.
It’s just to shut him up, of course.
It started as a joke, but right now, as he watches Atsumu smiling down at his lap with a faint blush over his cheeks, he can’t help the tug at his heart, he can’t help the gasp that leaves his mouth. It started as a joke, as most things with him do, but this time, Kiyoomi hates to find out that he doesn’t really want it to be just a joke.
He’s really in it now, isn’t he?
“Omi-kun, can I talk to ya for a second?”
It starts like this, his unbecoming.
It starts with an almost empty Onigiri Miya and one specimen by the name of Miya Osamu nodding at him before disappearing into the backroom. It starts with Miya Atsumu looking up at him or, better yet, beyond him, with his cheeks redder than ever and fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket.
It starts with his heart in his throat and his hands curled into fists by his sides because yes, what is it, because you can talk to me about whatever you want and I’ll happily listen to you even when I’m still half-asleep and you’re clinging to me in the morning , because somewhere along the line I might have fallen for you and I don’t know how to break it to you and now I’m stuck in this endless cycle of wanting you and getting to touch you but not in the way I want to, so yes.
“Yeah, sure,” he whispers instead. “Is there something wrong? Was it about the whole misunderstanding earlier? It’s fine, really, I wasn’t bothered by it. It doesn’t mean anything, right? The jokes, the kisses, it’s just. It’s not a big deal.”
Kiyoomi rambles when he’s nervous and Atsumu knows that. Had he not known, Kiyoomi doubts he’d be smiling right now, he doubts he’d have his head tilted to the side while looking at him like that. It’s almost unfair, really, how pretty he looks in the dim lit restaurant, between the tables Osamu has yet to clean, right next to the counter Bokuto and Hinata climbed just half an hour ago.
“It’s about that,” he replies, “but also about the way I almost wished it was true.”
It takes him a second to fully comprehend the words that linger between them, the emotions Atsumu wears so proudly while looking at him with the stance of someone who knows exactly what they want. It takes him a minute to digest it, to munch on the syllables and gulp them down along with the knot settled in the middle of his throat, a product of a feeling he hadn’t been able to voice up until now. It takes him five more to actually understand it, and when he does, he gasps.
Huh , he thinks, because this is too surreal to be true.
“Huh?”
His voice comes out weird and Atsumu smiles before taking one step towards him and then another one. He feels his cheeks heating up when, suddenly, there’s no space between them, an infinity being reduced to nothing as Atsumu rests his head over his shoulder, hot breath brushing against his skin. Kiyoomi wants to reach out and touch him, wants to wrap an arm around his waist and bring him closer, closer, closer until there’s nowhere else he can run to, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at him, at the bright hair under his jaw, at the puppy-like eyes that stare up at him and at the silent question he’s asking, sweet and coy, something along the lines of weren’t you hoping for the same?
He was, he is, but it’s hard to talk when your tongue seems way too big for your mouth, Kiyoomi finds out. It’s hard to breathe when your lungs are filled with carbon dioxide you can’t bring yourself to expel because it seems that you just forgot how to do that. It’s painful and thrilling, having him wrapping his arms around his waist, having him softly nuzzling his neck and whispering his name one, two, a dozen times before his brain starts working again.
“Are you joking?”
Because that’s all this was supposed to be, right? It started off as a joke, but Kiyoomi kept kissing him and Atsumu kept letting him and somehow they’ve gotten themselves into this situation where everyone believes they’ve been dating because Atsumu has a tendency to run his mouth and Kiyoomi gets easily annoyed and he can’t help but want to kiss him more because hell, who wouldn’t want to kiss Miya Atsumu when he’s right there ?
“I wouldn’t joke ‘bout this,” he whispers against his neck. “Ya know that.”
“Okay,” Kiyoomi replies, mouth dry and hands shaking, “Just making sure. So you, uh, like me? As in, like like me? And that’s why you were letting me kiss you?”
Atsumu nods. “I thought that was just, I dunno, some sort of prank and that it would end soon enough. A one time thing. But then ya kept doing it and I didn’t have the heart to tell ya to stop because fuck, yer a good kisser and I’ve wanted it for so fucking long.”
“Okay,” he says again and then again and again because that’s the only thing his brain can come up with, overwhelmed and overpowered by the entity called Miya Atsumu who looks up at him with the brightest smile on his face, “I like kissing you. I like you. Fuck, I think I’m way too drunk to be having this conversation right now…”
He laughs, loud and beautiful just like Kiyoomi loves it. He brings his arms up, wraps them around Kiyoomi’s neck and pecks him on the lips. It can barely be called a kiss, a half-a-second brush of their lips, but Kiyoomi feels his blood boil, his knees growing weaker, his vision going blurry and oh, fuck.
“I like kissing you, too,” he whispers. “And I like you, too.”
Kiyoomi is about to dip his head down and kiss him - actually kiss him - when the backdoor opens to reveal one, seemingly very tired, Miya Osamu who looks at them as if the sight hurts his eyes. He looks like he could kill someone with his bare hands, a broom on one hand and a clean rag on the other.
“As much as I appreciate the fact that I don’t have to listen to this dumbass,” he points at Atsumu, comfortably resting his head in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, “talking ‘bout how much he likes ya and how much he wishes you’d like him back, I am also very tired and would very much like to go home and sleep as soon as possible, so if the two of ya could leave, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Don’t be an ass, ‘Samu,” Atsumu mumbles out, “Just ‘cause Rin ain’t here doesn’t mean ya get to be mean to every couple ya see.”
Couple.
“Kiyoomi-kun,” Osamu speaks up, “If ya don’t mind, could ya just turn around for a second so I can slap him in the face real quick?”
Kiyoomi snorts, shaking his head softly before replying, “I might take him home now, actually. I think the two of us need to talk and you , well, you need to rest. Thanks for the warm welcome, I’m sure everyone on the team appreciated it. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he smiles before pulling Atsumu even closer, telling himself that it’s only because his legs look like they’ll give in from under him at any second, only because of that , “I’ll take him home now.”
Osamu clicks his tongue before waving the rag at them, “Ya can keep him forever if you’d like. No refunds, though, so be careful when ya accept the offer.”
Looking down at Atsumu and his silly, sleepy grin, Kiyoomi can only mimic it before brushing a strand of his hair out of his face, heart beating fast enough to make him think he was about to have a heart attack. He almost wants to kiss him, for real this time, he thinks, but something about Osamu’s face makes him reconsider.
“Yeah,” he replies with a soft chuckle, “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
When Osamu waves them goodbye again, Kiyoomi nods at him before dragging Atsumu out.
When Atsumu snuggles up to him, Kiyoomi can only think that now he’ll get to kiss him to his heart’s content. When he smiles groggily at him with a sweet yer mine now, no take-backs, you’ve heard ‘Samu, I ain’t letting ya walk away, Kiyoomi cups his face in his hands and brings their lips together for one, two, five seconds or maybe minutes or hours, he doesn’t even know because time melts around them like the ice cream they shared only a few days ago, tickling their chins and dripping down their wrists, and they can’t bring themselves to care because ah, finally, you’re mine.
Somehow, Kiyoomi kept kissing him and, somehow, Atsumu kept letting him.
Ain’t that strange?