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Parents aren’t supposed to pick a favorite kid. Even if they have one. Coaches aren’t supposed to pick favorites either, but they do.
In high school, people wouldn’t outright say who their favorite Miya was, but you could tell. They’d say, “obviously, I like both of you,” then turn around and only invite Osamu to their birthday party (or throw Atsumu a pity invite because they had to).
But it was fine. He understood. Osamu was cooler, calmer, more level-headed. He was still a stupid dickhead a lot of the time, but he was much better at matching other people’s energy than Atsumu could ever hope to be. The blonde twin made his friends by providing energy, upping morale regardless of how he felt himself, or by making himself too useful to cast aside.
As angry as he had initially been when Osamu decided to quit volleyball after high school, the thing that got him past it was that he was a little bit relieved. Truth be told, he was always sort of desperate for someone to know him outside the context of his twin. Maybe it’d be alright to be the only Miya on the court.
In terms of volleyball, sure, he was a fan favorite . People wore his jersey, asked for photos, and followed him on social media. He was popular, but Atsumu had never really valued the opinions of strangers at the same level as those who really knew him. He’d rather be his teammate’s favorite setter. But even then, Bokuto and Hinata still bore some allegiance for their high school setters. Not that he faulted them for it, he knew damn well why.
For a long time when they were really little, before Osamu knew he was allowed to have other friends, he was the first choice every time. He didn’t blame his brother for making friends and branching out. Ever. That wouldn’t be fair...
But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss being somebody’s first choice.
Maybe all the years of being content not to be the favorite made Kiyoomi’s bias that much sweeter. Or maybe it was the exclusivity of it all. He’s not just someone’s favorite.
He is Sakusa Kiyoomi’s favorite person.
Sakusa Kiyoomi: the prickly bastard of the Black Jackals himself. A man with features designed by an artist who sculpts the gods and a physique to match. A man that was gorgeous beyond reason, who could have absolutely anybody he ever wanted. A man notorious for his attitude and low tolerance for physical contact. A man who couldn’t stand to have people around him for too long. He looked at Atsumu and decided, despite knowing exactly who the blonde was, that he was allowed to be the exception to every rule he’d ever made.
Miya Atsumu was the exception. The only exception. Living the dreams of many, he was allowed to reach out and touch the soft black curls that graced the top of his head and receive, on his worst days, nothing more than a disapproving glare and a half-hearted swat. (Or on his best days, the elusive gentle smile with a look that contained all the love and fondness in the world and the sweetest words nobody would believe he even knew.) He was allowed to run his fingers along his jawline and cheekbones and lips to appreciate all the skincare he did. He could reach out and grab one of those hands any time he wanted and drag him through the streets of Osaka. And use his shoulder as a pillow on the train, inhaling his scent until it lulled him to sleep. He got to share a bed with him and wake up with their limbs tangled together and tossed over one another haphazardly.
Easy to believe, Sakusa Kiyoomi could be a tense motherfucker. Lucky for him, he’d granted his favor to the “best damn masseuse” on the whole team. Miya Atsumu was also the proud owner of the only mental map of Kiyoomi’s entire body. Privy to a number of secrets, including just how many freckles and moles decorated his pale, marblesque skin.
And, the other way around. He knew how it felt to have Kiyoomi’s gentle touch linger on his skin as he traced invisible lines up and down parts of his body. Most people knew how sharp his tongue could be, but Atsumu knew his lips were soft and that they tasted vaguely sweet. He’d been studied in quiet moments by those dark eyes that he found so entrancing.
The duality of his features was remarkable. How could his gaze be so intense and so gentle at the same time? Atsumu got to be there when he let down his guard. Nobody else knew just how damn cuddly his hitter was when he was tired. The man was touch-starved beyond reason.
Of course, their relationship wasn’t just physical. Atsumu was the only one who could get away with calling him a variety of nicknames that he would’ve hated coming from anybody else. After all, who else could get away with “Omi-omi”? And how often did Kiyoomi use nicknames for other people?
He also had a nice voice. Atsumu had appreciated the low soft spoken tone when he first met him and the way “Miya” rolled off his tongue. And later, albeit reluctantly, “Atsumu.” And then one day he was Atsu. And Tsum. And Tsumu. And if he was in the right mood, baby, sunshine, love, angel, sweet boy. Nobody else knew how Kiyoomi sang along under his breath to whatever tune was plaguing his mind while cooking dinner. Atsumu once made a note to never mention it, just in case it’d make him stop.
He took great pride in the fact that nobody heard his laugh as often as he did. The loud, embarrassing kind that makes people turn to see what’s so funny. But in their home there was no audience and Sakusa didn’t care so much because it was just Atsumu. As cute as he was when he hid his chuckle behind his mask when Hinata said something completely off-base in an interview, Atsumu preferred this. His eyes squinted closed, doubling forward until he’d contained himself enough to look at the source of his laughter with an unrestrained smile that made him look decidedly completely human for a moment. It still made his heart jump, this far into their relationship.
Atsumu had always been good at sharing- or bare minimum, he had to do it a lot, whether or not he actually wanted to. But, selfishly, he loved that he didn’t have to share his position as favorite with anybody else. And he reveled in the fact that, really, when it came down to it, it wasn’t selfish at all. Because it was already decided for him by someone else.
Sakusa picked him, and only him, as his favorite and he didn’t even feel bad about it. He never apologized. He didn’t have to, there was nobody else in contention. Atsumu hadn’t beaten someone out and nobody would ever be able to beat him out. It wasn’t a position he would just slip from one day. It wasn’t volleyball. There’s no looming threat of being usurped by the next 19 year old prodigy on the bench.
Kiyoomi had never been made to share. He wasn’t the jealous type, per se… but Atsumu loved the subtle possessiveness in his voice when he added “my” in front of a pet name. And he did catch the glare Sakusa threw at a reporter who he deemed “a bit too flirty.” He just didn’t like to share. Understandably so, mysophobia in mind. Therefore, an unexpected perk of being his favorite person is that he was willing to loan Atsumu his favorite sweatshirt (even if the blonde wasn’t feeling well.) He let Atsumu curl under the same blanket he was using despite there being another one readily available just behind him. He would take food or water when the blonde offered it, because it was Atsumu. He’d grown to be alright with his setter cooking in his- now their - kitchen, even when he wasn’t watching each move. He didn’t mind sharing with Atsumu.
It’d taken Atsumu by surprise when it came to Kiyoomi’s first competition where they were staying overnight and Meian had given him first choice of roommates and without hesitation or consideration, he’d said in that lovely voice of his: “Miya.” He couldn’t fathom why, and it showed on his face.
“Are you sure?” He asked when Kiyoomi sat down beside him, he’d looked at him with those dark eyes and sounded cautious. “Did you have someone else in mind?” He’d asked. “No.” Atsumu answered much too quickly. “Then, yes. I’m sure.” If he hadn’t been wearing a mask, maybe he would have appreciated the small, reassuring, relieved smile on Kiyoomi’s lips.
Of course Kiyoomi chose Atsumu. Of course he did. When Atsumu had told him that was one of the moments of their relationship before it was a relationship that he really valued, Kiyoomi looked at him like he’d said something stupid.
Who else would he have chosen? He’d adored Atsumu from the moment he joined MSBY because he never had to explain the aversion to touch to him. He just… knew. And when they had to touch for stretches or practice or spotting at the gym, he’d ask. If Kiyoomi asked him to sanitize his hands first, he just did it. Without question or complaint. It was exhausting, and, frankly, embarrassing sometimes, to have to explain everything. And Atsumu didn’t make him.
Atsumu had an incredible radar for other people’s insecurities and the compassion not to use it for evil. He knew it bothered Kiyoomi that he had to sanitize things, wear masks, and the fact that touch was so hard for him compared to other people. He never mentioned it. In all the ways that he was annoying, he was at least conscious of the things he said. And he didn’t let other people say shit about it either.
Kiyoomi valued people who he knew he could trust to understand and respect his boundaries. And people who understood and laughed at and participated in his dry, sarcastic brand of humor without being cruel. And people who were genuinely kind. Of course he chose Atsumu to room with. Of course he did.
Atsumu understood how everyone on the team worked. Once upon a time, he’d made fun of Kageyama for being a goody-two-shoes, but he was a people-pleaser at his roots too. He’d always hated for people to be upset with him. He had a need to prove that he was valuable and worth keeping around. His sets were easy to hit because he tailored them to every single one of his hitters. He knew what they liked and once he’d been humbled by the professional leagues, he was extremely receptive to feedback.
He knew how to motivate and praise his teammates. He would smack Bokuto around and ruffle Hinata’s hair, and for Kiyoomi it was a triumphant, competitive, fond look and shout of approval from across the court. Eventually he did indulge Atsumu in post-game high fives and poor Osamu had to hear him talk about it at least a dozen times. The setter must’ve had a heart attack the day Kiyoomi placed a comforting hand on his shoulder after a hard loss.
Kiyoomi didn’t get very many people like Atsumu. Who accepted him and understood him and loved him, even though he knew damn well he wasn’t easy to handle. Whose love was more than tolerance. Who didn’t love him out of familial obligation, but just because he could. Who took the time to let Kiyoomi warm up and let down his guard on his own terms. He was more grateful for Atsumu than he was sure he could ever express with words.
All Atsumu had ever really wanted was to be someone’s favorite. For someone to unapologetically love him more than anybody else. He was fiercely competitive, but for just once in his life, he didn’t want to have to fight for it. He wanted somebody to pick him. Without needing to rationalize the decision or consider their other options. Even though he was loud, and annoying, and cared about volleyball way too much. He wanted somebody to smile and decide that they loved him anyway.
And Kiyoomi could do that.