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“Only reason I threw this stupid party,” Atsumu paused, gritting his teeth. His hand shot out, forcefully batting a floating pink balloon into the carpet. It bounced back up silently to dangle in midair, unfazed by his frustration. “Was so that I could see yer snobby ass, Omi.”
Kiyoomi wished he would look at him. “I hate parties.”
The sound that Atsumu made in response to that was an aborted, painful-sounding sort of laugh. “Yeah, I know. Just goes to show ya I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’ with you.”
Feeling in over his head, Kiyoomi searched for something to say. “Well. I appreciate the gesture, I guess.”
Atsumu snorted. “Sure ya do.”
“No really, Miya, it’s… sweet, of you. To do all this.”
“S’okay, Omi. Ya don’t have to try and make me feel better.”
Grimaces didn’t look good on Kiyoomi’s face, so he tried to suppress the one that he could feel creeping across his features. Atsumu tried so hard, he always had, whether it was at volleyball or getting Kiyoomi to like him. The problem was that Kiyoomi wasn’t, for lack of a better term, emotionally available.
Well, emotionally unavailable was an understatement. More dramatically, but also more accurately, Kiyoomi lived behind seven foot tall steel walls, and he wasn’t interested in lowering those walls for anyone. Anyone, including mouthy blond setters with perseverance problems. Besides, even if he were interested, he didn’t think it was possible for those walls to be breached.
Around two weeks into Kiyoomi’s budding career within MSBY, Atsumu had cornered him after practice and, face as serious as a heart attack, said, “Sakusa. Omi. Been wantin’ to set for ya since middle school, and been wantin’ to take ya on a date almost as long. I know you think I’m an ass and all, but I promise that’s just because I like ya. Will ya get dinner with me?”
Kiyoomi had blanched, completely caught off guard, and said stiffly, “I don’t date.”
Atsumu’s face had fallen, but he still replied staunchly, “Why not?”
“Because I don’t like people. I’m not the dating type.”
“Never know till ya try!”
“I don’t want to try.”
“I’ll convince ya.”
That had given Kiyoomi pause. He couldn’t understand why on Earth Atsumu cared so much, and he hadn’t really believed that he would do any such thing.
But Atsumu stayed true to his word. Or at least, he tried to. Frequently complimenting Kiyoomi’s spikes, and when that didn’t earn him anything besides curt nods, teasing him and egging him to do better. Bringing him sports drinks, or a water refill completely unprompted. Carrying hand sanitizer and constantly offering it to everyone in the vicinity, shooting Kiyoomi furtive little looks all the while as if to say, ‘do you see? I’m doing this for you.’ Most recently, inviting Kiyoomi to every stupid movie marathon or sushi outing or karaoke night that he, Hinata, and Bokuto planned. And worst of all, throwing parties, not big ragers, just gatherings of their friends and the promise of Osamu’s catering, ‘umeboshi onigiri, Omi-Omi, you love that shit!’
It had been vaguely annoying at first, and then, horrifyingly, Kiyoomi actually got to know Atsumu over the months since he’d joined the Jackals. With getting to know someone came empathy for them. One day he just looked at Atsumu’s hopeful face, right after he’d said “Omi, we’re getting ramen later, d’ya wanna come maybe?” and he’d felt a stab of guilt for turning him down, instead of the usual bland irritation.
Now, every time he said no, didn’t show up, politely declined, it was like something miserable and rotten was eating away at him inside. Atsumu just didn’t give up . It was endlessly perplexing to Kiyoomi. He hardly even believed Atsumu when he’d said he wanted to take him on a date, yet here he was, almost half a year later, giving no signs of letting up. It was almost pitiful, but it felt wrong to think about proud, bossy Atsumu like that. He just wished he’d find someone new to channel all of his energy toward, someone who was receptive to it, someone more deserving.
(He knew he’d feel, in a twisted way, abandoned if Atsumu did find someone new. He did his best to smother that feeling. It crept up his throat from time to time anyway.)
Atsumu had texted Kiyoomi the invite to this particular party, which he’d thrown under the guise of celebrating Osamu’s new Tokyo location. He’d also asked him about it at practice. And sent Hinata to knock at his door the day before, with a sunny face asking, “Are you coming to Atsumu’s party, Sakusa-san?”
Something had to give. So Kiyoomi had shown up, to his own chagrin. Admittedly, he came at midnight, right when the party sounded like it was winding down (they lived in the same apartment building, almost all the team did). But he showed up nonetheless.
Which brought him to this present moment, standing awkwardly in Atsumu’s kitchen, unsure of how to react to his teammate’s candidness.
“Miya.” He didn’t know what made him speak. They’d been silent for a few minutes, in the wake of Atsumu’s last bitter words.
“Yeah?”
Kiyoomi hated the hope in Atsumu’s tone. Was he stupid, or something? Was this whole thing some fucked-up form of self-harm? Or was that too presumptuous. Was he just really, really bored? Maybe he’d had unresolved feelings for a childhood friend who resembled Kiyoomi.
“Why do you want me to like you so much?”
Atsumu didn’t even falter. “Yer all prickly, and that makes ya interesting. Yer wicked smart, and funny, although I didn’t know about that last one ‘till more recently. Yer also just really pretty, Omi.” He looked at him, not blushing at all, just a steady gaze. Kiyoomi wondered what was wired so differently about Atsumu that made him able to want things, at peace with his own desires, and so confident. “Why d’ya ask?”
“I don’t understand you.”
He shrugged. “So? That’s the fun part about bein’ a human, isn’t it? Ya get to know people. Sometimes ya find they’re really great. Or they suck. Maybe I suck. But the problem with you, Omi, is ya don’t even let yerself get to know anyone. I’ve done alright gettin’ to know ya without yer permission, but it sure would be better if ya let me in just a little. That’s all I’ve ever been askin’.”
Kiyoomi blinked. He made it sound so simple, so easy. If only it truly were so clear-cut and uncomplicated. Atsumu must’ve sensed that something he’d said had resonated, because he continued, “Just one date, Omi. I’ve spent all this time tryin’ to reel ya in. Yer here in my kitchen, talkin’ to me right now. What’s so different about doin’ that in a restaurant? Doesn’t even hafta be a fancy one.”
The problem was that restaurants, or any official setting, with a label like ‘date’, implied certain commitments. Commitments like, I like you. You like me. I’ll see you again. I’ll treat you a certain way. Kiyoomi voiced as much.
“Nah, not really. Nothing’s gotta change. S’just dinner.” Atsumu’s smile was easy, lopsided, warm. Kiyoomi felt caught, like a bug in a spiderweb. He watched the pink balloon hanging above the carpet, stayed quiet, felt Atsumu’s eyes on him.
“Just one dinner, Omi. Give me a chance. Please,” Atsumu’s voice was soft, like Kiyoomi was a deer he was afraid of spooking. Kiyoomi didn’t think that was too far off. He took a deep breath.
(‘Only reason I threw this stupid party…’)
“Alright.”