Chapter Text

Chapter 1: I rent a place on Cornelia Street

Miya Atsumu. Miya Atsumu. Miya Atsumu.

That name was everywhere. He was everywhere. Everyone knew him. Everyone loved him. He was the movie industry’s golden boy, their rising star, their charming playboy with a confident smirk, golden messy hair and a child-like amusement in his eyes.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was a small name written in the end credits that everyone skipped. No one stuck around for the boring parts.

Atsumu was the life of the parties, while Kiyoomi never attended them. The only reason he was ever invited was because everyone was.

But Sakusa Kiyoomi has known him since long before the parties, the rumours, the movies and the fame. Back when Atsumu was an arrogant, boastful and confident theatre student and Kiyoomi was the invisible guy (despite being one of their best designers) in the background, preferring to work behind the scenes. Back when they worked in theatre together as college students.

A lot has changed since then. Talent agencies pounced on Atsumu the second he graduated and he switched over from theatre to movie screens. Kiyoomi worked as a designer and costumer for many plays, his name slowly gaining recognition amongst industry professionals.

Kiyoomi sets up his new work area. He’d normally rather not work for movies, having felt that historical accuracy of costumes was given higher importance in theatre. But the director was a friend, and Kiyoomi knew she would value the importance of the accuracy of costumes. The director would also pay well, so Kiyoomi took the job.

His hands twitch in frustration as his assistants and his team around him giggled as they talked about the latest rumour. He’s been picking up a name a lot, Miya Atsumu.

I wonder if he remembers me, he suddenly wonders. Remembering the arrogant, self-centred guy he was in college, Kiyoomi figured he’s going to have a hard time working with him.

The movie was centred around a French noble in pre revolutionary France. The noble falls in love with a seamstress who worked for his family. When he sees the plight of the lower classes, he secretly funds their revolutions and fights with them until one day he has to fight his own brother. His brother doesn’t recognise him and kills him, only recognising him after that. His lover, the seamstress, is killed soon after.

This definitely is not the kind of movie Kiyoomi watches or is interested in. In fact, he hardly ever watches movies, watching shows or documentaries instead while hand sewing.

The energy inside the design studio is high, everyone buzzing about the cast. It was a high-end cast, with famous actor Miya Atsumu and model and actress Shimizu Kiyoko starring beside each other. It was a big deal. The crew behind the movie -including the director, producers, writers- were industry veterans, and it's why Kiyoomi took the job in the first place.

Just then, the glass doors burst open and Miya Atsumu walked in, wearing his annoyingly charming and warm smirk.

“Omi-kun! Fancy meetin’ you here!” So he does remember him, and neither has he forgotten that stupid nickname. “Dress me like one of your French nobles, Omi-kun~,” he added, winking as he posed extravagantly while leaning on a desk.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes in response. “I’m going to enjoy watching your head getting guillotined off.”

“Ooh how scary,” he responds as he walks around the studio, shaking hands and smiling.

Atsumu’s the same, but also so different. He has the same light hair and attractive features. His arrogant smirk has been replaced with a confident but warm and amused grin and he looked more aware of his surroundings. But Kiyoomi noticed something that made him pause in his tracks for a second, just like it did all those years back in high school. Those eyes. Accompanied by that warm smile, his golden eyes were radiant and beautiful and they seemed to stand out more than ever.

The excited chatter of his team distracts him from the thought process. He can see them gearing up, looking forward to the prospect of working with Atsumu. No. They’re excited to get close to him, to touch him and use the excuse of work. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at them before grabbing his notepad and measuring tape himself.

We’ve done this many times before, he reasons with himself, I’ve done this for him many times in college. This is for his comfort. It sounded like a pretty pathetic excuse even in his own head.

“Stand still please, I need to take your measurements,” he says, as indifferently he possibly can. His team slowly disperses back to whatever they were doing but he knows all their attention is still on Atsumu, on him.

“Which ones are you talking about?” Atsumu asks suggestively.

“Certainly not the one you’re thinking about. Besides,” he adds after a pause, bending over his notepad to scribble the numbers down, “I’m sure it’s small enough to be negligible.” Atsumu feigns hurt at that but stays quiet as Kiyoomi’s focus shifts back to his work.

That evening, Atsumu calls asking if he was going to come to the bar to drink with the rest of the cast and crew.

“It’s going to be crowded and disgusting,” he’d said bluntly.

“You can mope sadly in a corner if you want, Omi-kun. But you have to come, meet everyone else you’re working with. Or else I’ll drag you here myself.” Kiyoomi does not want to be dragged to a bar or anywhere by Miya Atsumu so he begrudgingly agrees.

At the bar, he slips in 30 minutes late when there’s more people and he’s less likely to get noticed. He finds himself an empty seat by the bar and orders a drink for himself, which he sips on slowly as he scrolls through his phone. He gets distracted by loud laughter and he looks up to realize Atsumu’s dancing with Shimizu Kiyoko. He’s spinning her around, holding her gently as she laughs, her long black hair flowing. He’s a good dancer, he suddenly realizes with a pang of jealousy. He remembers the time he had to teach Atsumu how to waltz for a play the theatre department was setting up in college. Atsumu would hang around his dorm, quietly watching Kiyoomi work as he memorized his own lines. Sometimes they’d banter, exchange retorts and comments, but mostly it was them working quietly in each other’s comfortable presence.

He finishes his drink and gets up to leave but he feels a hand on his back. He shivers under the sudden touch and the hand is withdrawn quickly. Atsumu slips into the seat beside him and Kiyoomi relaxes slightly.

“Sorry, won’t do that again,” he says before Kiyoomi has to say anything. Kiyoomi only nods in response, sitting back down on his seat.

“Leaving so soon?” The blond asks as he orders drinks for both of them, not waiting for an answer.

“Well there’s only so long one can watch you stepping on others’ feet.”

“Oho? Getting jealous, are we Omi-kun?”

“You wish,” he replies. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Kiyoomi’s alcohol tolerance was low after all. Maybe his sleep deprivation was muddling his brain. But Kiyoomi knew when he saw Atsumu dancing with Shimizu-san, he could only remember the time they’d danced together like that in his dorm, Kiyoomi leading Atsumu as he smiled warmly in his arms. The kind of smile that showed off his dimples and made him radiate with warmth. The one that made Kiyoomi realize beneath all the plastered smirks and faux confidence was a small boy with a big, genuine smile. The kind he’d only shown around Kiyoomi.

As their drinks arrive, they fall back into their comfortable rhythm of bantering and of Atsumu’s casual flirting and Kiyoomi’s retorts, just like back in their college days as they worked together in the auditorium.

Their banter had changed. Before it used to be Atsumu using cheesy pick up lines to shamelessly and jokingly flirt with him, like he did with everyone else in college. Kiyoomi would roll his eyes, get annoyed or ignore him after a “Leave me alone, Miya.”

Atsumu still flirted, but he’d gotten so good at it. Their conversation flowed easily and smoothly and they talked for a while. Atsumu would leave a smooth, flirtatious remark or comment and move on easily and the fact that Kiyoomi couldn’t tell if he was joking or not bothered him. Instead, he chose to respond with his own retorts, leaving a suggestive remark and fighting fire with fire just to enjoy and savour Atsumu’s reaction. Had it not been for the dim lighting and the drink in Atsumu’s hand, Kiyoomi would have thought he was even blushing.

It’s only when Kiyoomi’s phone battery dies that he realizes it had gotten pretty late. They’d been talking for hours and the size of the crowd in the bar had decreased considerably.

“I should get home,” he says as he fumbles to gather his things, a little drunk and definitely tired. Atsumu goes to grab his shoulders but decides against it at the last second and carries his things instead. “Let me drop you home, Omi-kun,” Atsumu offers and Kiyoomi only nods in response. Atsumu calls his driver over and they get into the extremely comfortable backseat.

Kiyoomi discovers one thing that night: A sleepy Kiyoomi has zero filters. None at all. None to decide what to say and not say, and certainly none on his behavior.

The long talk with Atsumu was a weird one. He doesn’t remember connecting with someone as quickly as they’d done and he certainly doesn’t remember the last time he’d had such a long but comfortable conversation. That, coupled with the memories of dancing with Atsumu, of holding him and the comfort of seats is a weird mix of things for Kiyoomi. He feels drunk. Drunk on something stronger than the drinks in the bar. He’s sleepy, he’s comfortable and the only thing he can think of doing then is to reach out and curl into Atsumu. He’s definitely surprised at first, still in shock for a second but when he doesn’t see Kiyoomi move away, he relaxes and shifts to support him better. It’s awkward in the beginning since Kiyoomi is taller than him but they shift and make it work, getting comfortable and memorizing the other’s touch.

“Didn’t know you were a small spoon, Omi-kun,” he murmurs as he settles his head on Kiyoomi’s and gently threads his fingers through his hair.

“Shut up,” he murmurs back against his collar bone. After a pause, “Where are we going?”

“I rent a place on Cornelia Street,” he says casually and Kiyoomi whispers ‘okay’ in response.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how far the house is from the bar, or whether the driver had been driving around simply to shake off any paparazzi following them or simply to let them sleep but he only wakes up later because of Atsumu lightly nudging him.

“Hey, we’re here,” he says softly.

“Mhmm okay,” he mumbles as he gathers his things and gets out of the car. Had he been more awake he would have thanked the chauffeur properly but instead he just nods his head in his direction, not entirely sure if he’d actually said a thank you or just thought it. Atsumu stumbles out of the car behind him, showing him up to the gigantic townhouse.

Despite the 4 large bedrooms and numerous couches, they end up falling asleep together in Atsumu’s master bedroom, holding each other.