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“At...su...mu.” The words slur from plush, pink lips; slow and languorous, as if savoring the syllables on his tongue could rid the aftertaste of tequila in his mouth. “At...su...mu.”
“Omi-kun,” Atsumu sighs, pushing Kiyoomi into a seated position in the back of the cab. “C’mon, yer heavy.”
“Hmm, Atsu...mu,” the words persist, before a burst of laughter comes bubbling out. The tip of his tongue swipes the bottom of his lip. “Miya. Hm. No. Tsumu. Atsu?”
"Here, I've got some hand sanitizer." Atsumu pulls the small bottle from his jacket pocket and squirts a little dollop into Kiyoomi's hand, helping him spread the liquid across his palms.
"Why do you have sanitizer, Atsumu?" He drags his eyes up to Atsumu, a look of wonder on his face.
Atsumu flushes. "Because I know you'll need it," he replies with a shrug.
Kiyoomi stares in silence. And then, "You're amazing, Atsu."
He feels himself redden even more at the new nickname. “I’ve never seen ya this drunk before,” Atsumu laughs awkwardly, and there’s just the slightest bit of tension in his throat as he says the words. “Lots of tequila shots, Omi.”
“I hate tequila,” Kiyoomi murmurs, head falling to the side until he’s resting his cheek against Atsumu’s jacket-covered shoulder.
Atsumu almost cackles. “Really,” he replies dryly, “‘cuz it looked like ya were takin’ it like water from the way ya were sloshin’ ‘em back.”
Kiyoomi grunts, pulling Atsumu’s arm against his body and hugging it close to his chest. And Kiyoomi may not realize it because he’s far too drunk to notice, but Atsumu is internally dying on the inside. Very rarely did Kiyoomi ever leave the apartment more than necessary or indulge in “team bonding nights,” and even more rare were the brief moments of physical interaction between Kiyoomi and literally anybody.
And here he was, in the back of the cab with his best friend and longtime crush, arm held hostage against said best friend and crush’s body.
Atsumu could die a happy man if said man were not drunk as a skunk.
“Let’s get ya inside, Omi,” he mutters when the cab pulls up to their apartment complex. Kiyoomi nearly tumbles out of the car and Atsumu has to hold him up, standing in front of him to keep his balance.
“You’re stayin, right?” Kiyoomi slurs, words flowing together so quickly and softly that at first listen, Atsumu could swear it was gibberish. Sakusa Kiyoomi did not just invite Atsumu to stay the night, did he?
It’s not unheard of; Atsumu has crashed on Kiyoomi’s couch once or twice after a late night in when he was too tired to walk back to his place. But Kiyoomi was openly inviting him to stay the night.
“Let’s just get ya inside first.”
Kiyoomi huffs and stomps his foot on the sidewalk, arms folded across his chest. He’s pouting and Atsumu desperately wants to squish his cheeks and kiss that pout away.
“Say you’re staying,” Kiyoomi grunts.
Atsumu wishes he could record him right now, if not for proof of Kiyoomi’s desperate invitation, but to burn this memory into his brain (as if he wasn’t currently storing every twitch of Kiyoomi’s facial features as it changes from frustrated to pleading).
“Yeah, I’ll stay.”
Kiyoomi drops his arms to his side, tantrum forgotten, as he turns his head and heads towards the doors with an arrogant air around him, as if he’d won this round.
Atsumu likes to think it was he who won.
“Ya gotta brush yer teeth, too, Omi,” Atsumu sighs for the nth time this evening. “Yer gonna regret it and either be pissed at yerself for not cleanin’ up the night before, or me fer lettin’ ya do what ya want.”
Kiyoomi’s brows furrow before he stomps back to the bathroom, robe swishing around his legs and footsteps purposefully heavy at being bossed around. Still, beneath the grumbles, Atsumu swears he hears him, “I could never be mad at you.”
Atsumu bustles around the kitchen, ignoring the heat in his cheeks, grabbing a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinets. He can hear the quiet hum of Kiyoomi’s electric toothbrush as he walks past, placing the necessary items on the side table. When he turns around, Kiyoomi is leaning tiredly against the doorframe.
“Drink the water and the painkillers, Omi-kun,” Atsumu orders. Kiyoomi frowns but walks over. He sits at the edge of the bed, hands out for Atsumu to place the items in his hand. The blonde can’t help but roll his eyes as he uncaps the bottle and places two pills in his hand, followed by the glass of water.
Kiyoomi takes the necessary precautions to avoid the inevitable hangover, glancing up at Atsumu the entire time.
Atsumu, meanwhile, stares only at his hands, focused on his duty as best friend. On top of never having dealt with a very drunk Kiyoomi before, Atsumu has never experienced a clingy Kiyoomi before. He had always seemed very independent, adamant about doing this on his own, in his own way. Yet tonight, he needs Atsumu every step of the way, even now, as his hands reach out.
“Uh, Omi?”
“Clothes,” Kiyoomi pouts. Atsumu’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets as his heart races at the implications of Kiyoomi’s requests.
“What?” he nearly screeches.
“Need clothes.”
Atsumu balks, stuttering over his words as he tries to navigates Kiyoomi’s very neat and organized closet (yet Atsumu struggles in the five seconds it takes to go through Kiyoomi’s underwear drawer for a fresh pair of boxers). “Uh, I can’t help ya change, Omi. I’ll be in the livin’ room!” he practically screams as he throws the boxers and a clean shirt at Kiyoomi before running out of the room.
The speed at which he escapes forces the door to slam shut behind him, and the sudden silence that envelops him forces Atsumu to sit with his thoughts as he settles onto Kiyoomi’s couch. The entire room smells like Kiyoomi -- his sandalwood body wash escaping from the bathroom post-shower, the citrusy scent of cleaning supplies from a recent wipedown in the kitchen, lavender and patchouli from the incense they bought together at the farmer’s market last weekend.
Atsumu couldn’t place a date or time or even a moment when he realized he fell in love with Kiyoomi. It had happened naturally, through long conversations and late nights dating back to their late teens, during city explorations as they tried every restaurant in Osaka and Tokyo and Sendai and all the places in between. It happened between dirty jokes and sarcastic laughter and competitions over who could get the most service aces (Kiyoomi) or who could make the best donburi (Atsumu).
And then he woke up and went to practice, and the moment he walked into the gym, the first person he sought a greeting from was Kiyoomi. And that's when he realized he couldn’t live without him, platonic or otherwise.
The squeak of the door pulls Atsumu through his thoughts, and Kiyoomi walks to the living room, arms folded across his chest as they often were when he was frustrated with Atsumu. He slumps his body beside Atsumu on the sofa, eyes forward and pout on his lips.
“What’d I do, Omi?”
Kiyoomi is silent for a few moments. Then, “You left me.”
Atsumu squawks. “I didn’t leave ya! I’m right here.”
He huffs an exhale. “You left me in the room. You said you’d stay.”
“Omi,” Atsumu sighs, and the sadness in his voice is enough for Kiyoomi to soften his features and turn to face his setter. “I’m right here. I’m stayin’.”
Kiyoomi stares at him, eyes unwavering and intense, and Atsumu does his best to hold his gaze right back despite only feeling the absolute need to combust with softness and emotion. Kiyoomi then nods an affirmative, turning back to face forward.
“Blanket.” Atsumu snorts, grabbing the throw blanket he often uses whenever he stays over. He opens it up and throws it over Kiyoomi’s lap, who looks down at the fabric disappointed. Kiyoomi glances at Atsumu’s lap, bare save for his hands folded neatly in front of him. “You too.”
“Me too?”
“Blanket for you too,” Kiyoomi grumbles. Atsumu turns to grab another blanket from Kiyoomi’s basket of throws, but a hand reaches out and grabs his wrist. Atsumu turns, glancing at Kiyoomi’s hand around his, then meets his gaze. “This blanket.”
Atsumu’s lips form an “O,” with understanding, expanding the relatively small blanket (considering they were tall and broad volleyball players) so that it lay across both Kiyoomi and Atsumu. The former hums in satisfaction before closing the gap between them and pulling the blanket closer around them, snuggling up against Atsumu’s chest.
He’s certain the spiker can not just hear his rapid heartbeat, but he can feel it too. But Kiyoomi seems ignorant to it and taps Atsumu’s leg before pointing to the television.
Robotically (because if Atsumu dares to even think about anything, he might just die) Atsumu grabs the remote for the television and puts on some action movie. The volume is low, but the only sound he attends to is the soft breaths escaping from Kiyoomi’s mouth. He thinks the man is asleep, and is ready to lay him down on the couch more comfortably, when Kiyoomi murmurs quietly against his neck.
“I like you, Atsu,” voice soft and fragile. “I think I might even love you.”
Kiyoomi’s neck is tight and aching as he sits up from his -- couch? His head throbs, but he supposes it isn’t as bad as it could be, considering how much he doesn't remember from the night before. He groans as he sits up on the sofa, limbs stretching as he tries to relieve the tension in his body.
He swings his legs around and tries to get up, immediately tripping over a lump on the floor and falling on top of it. A loud and tired groan escapes from the bundle of fabric on the ground, and when Kiyoomi sits up, a tuft of blonde hair pokes out. Kiyoomi reaches for it, pulling the blanket down to see a grumpy setter.
"Omi, get the hell off me," he seethes, trying his best to push the spiker off of him.
Kiyoomi tumbles off of Atsumu, plopping on the floor beside him as Atsumu sits up. They sit next to each other, arm to arm, backs against the couch. "How are ya feelin' Omi?"
"Dehydrated," he replies honestly. "You?"
Atsumu snorts. "I'm not the one who basically chugged a bottle of tequila," Atsumu laughs, ignoring the burning in his arm from where his skin touches Kiyoomi's.
"You didn't drink last night?" Kiyoomi asks, shock evident in his voice.
"Someone had to take care of ya," Atsumu shrugs.
He hums in response, eyes falling to his hands where they rest on his lap. "Why aren't I in my bed?"
Atsumu rolls his eyes and stands up, stretching his arms over his head. "Yer stubborn when yer drunk," Atsumu deadpans. "Ya got mad at me for leavin' ya in yer room by yerself. Begged me to stay." He smirks, hoping to get a rise out of Kiyoomi, who only turns his head away, tips of his ears pink.
"Very funny, Miya," he mumbles, eyeing the empty glass of water on the coffee table, as if staring at it will suddenly fill itself up. "I can take care of myself, you know."
"Actually, no, ya can't," Atsumu laughs, walking away from Kiyoomi, his voice distant. "I beg ta differ after last night."
Kiyoomi grabs the empty glass and follows Atsumu into his kitchen, blanket draped around his body as he settles along the breakfast counter. He watches as Atsumu takes the glass from Kiyoomi's hand and refills it, returning it to its rightful owner. Kiyoomi gulps down the water, grateful for the thoughtful action.
His head clears a little, memories of the night before flashing back into his mind behind the pain and exhaustion. EJP had been in town, and Motoya had riled him up after their loss. "Because your team sucks, you gotta do what I say," Motoya had stated, "and drink for every time you think Atsumu's hot."
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. "And how would you keep track of that? You can't tell when I'm thinking about him."
"You're literally staring at Atsumu's back like he's your next meal, Kiyo. Get a grip and ask him out already. Otherwise, you won't be able to walk out of this bar."
It seemed that his cousin knows him a lot more than he realized -- though he supposes it comes with the territory of having grown up like brothers and having absolutely zero secrets between them, including his pathetic school boy crush on one Miya Atsumu.
He certainly has no idea how he left that bar, except at the delicate setter hands of Miya.
"You really didn't have to," Kiyoomi persists, watching as Atsumu makes himself at home in his own kitchen, opening and shutting the pantry and cabinets, rummaging for pans and utensils and ingredients. The small of miso floods the room, pervading his senses over the subtle scent of Atsumu's strawberry shampoo that coats the blanket currently wrapped around Kiyoomi. He doesn't realize he's pulling it closer to his nose, trying to keep the scent of Atsumu in his personal bubble.
"I wanted to," Atsumu answers, so quietly over the sound of the stove fan.
"You did?"
"You wanted me to, too." Atsumu turns to look at Kiyoomi, gaze open and vulnerable as he searches Kiyoomi's face for the same amount of openness and vulnerability, seeking something.
Kiyoomi tilts his head. "I did something last night." His heart hammers in his chest and he silently curses Motoya for leaving him drunk and alone with Atsumu, which wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so belligerently wasted to the point of losing track of his own thoughts and actions.
"Ya didn't," Atsumu says, turning back to face the stove. Still, Kiyoomi doesn't miss the small smile on Atsumu's lips.
"I either did something, or I said something, and you aren't telling me what it is," Kiyoomi states, anxiety at an all time high. Yet somehow he knows, that when it comes to being alone with Atsumu, he had been safe and comfortable. So anything he did or said couldn't have been awful or damaging, especially toward their friendship. Unless...
"Miya," he warns, as Atsumu continues to cook as if he were in his own home.
"Kiyoomi," Atsumu replies teasingly, and his given name on those lips sends his heart on overdrive.
Kiyoomi exhales shakily, trying to gather his bearings. "I drank myself silly with Motoya and Suna," Kiyoomi tries to recall, head in his hands as he tries to pull those drunken memories to the front, but it's as fruitless as trying to remember a dream after waking up. "You helped me into the cab."
"I did," Atsumu says before humming some random song.
"I asked you to stay with me?" he asks, unsure, while Atsumu hums an affirmative. "You made me brush my teeth. Thank you."
"You were gonna hate yerself if ya didn't," Atsumu recalls.
Kiyoomi lifts his head with furrowed brows, but his mind goes blank the moment he leaves the bathroom. "You said I got mad at you for leaving me in my room?"
"Ya threw a whole tantrum. Kept askin' me to stay," Atsumu says softly, body tensing from where he stands.
It sounds silly out loud and sober, but he completely understands where Drunk Kiyoomi was coming from. I always want you to stay. The thought was meant to stay a thought, but his lips move before he gives them permission and the confession is out in the open. He watches as Atsumu stills under the early morning light, the back of his neck pink as he slowly turns around to face Kiyoomi, eyes curious and careful, open and vulnerable.
"Kiyoomi."
"Stay." Stay here. Stay with me. Stay forever. Stay mine. It all goes without saying. So instead, "Say you're staying."
"Yeah. I'll always stay for ya, Omi."