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Atsumu’s arm is asleep.
Atsumu’s arm is asleep, and it’s not a big deal — it’s really not. They’ve had a long, exhausting day of travel, and poor Omi had his whole airport shitsplosion thing going on, and he’s not even counting the drama of missing their original flight and having to scramble to get on the next one while his maybe-now-boyfriend glared daggers into the back of his head. They more than earned the overpriced and underwhelming takeout they’d scarfed down before setting a new record for the least sexy shower they’d ever shared and collapsing into bed.
But now, Atsumu is awake. He’s awake and Kiyoomi is still passed out on his arm, curled up and into himself like a little pill bug. Atsumu fights the urge to yank his arm back, even as the pins and needles get pinnier and needlier by the second.
The real trouble with Atsumu is that if he’s awake, that means he’s thinking. And if he’s thinking, he’s getting himself in trouble.
Slowly and carefully, like he’s diffusing a bomb, he feels around on Kiyoomi’s bedside table with his free arm. The awkward, backwards motion of it makes his tricep seize up, and his sharp inhale nearly disturbs the uppermost layer of curls on the crown of Kiyoomi’s head. Atsumu counts the slow, painful seconds until the cramp recedes a little before resuming his quest. He has got to reread those texts from Komori. Plus, maybe Osamu has quit ignoring him in favor of actually being helpful for once in his miserable life.
Atsumu hasn’t let himself process much of their conversation back in the airport lounge, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. That was a confession, right? That was definitely a confession, even if Kiyoomi hadn’t actually gotten around to doing the confessing part just yet. That doesn’t bother Atsumu at all, actually; if he knows that the feelings he’s been shoving down for months are returned he doesn’t mind taking it the rest of the way. And Kiyoomi hadn’t freaked out when Atsumu admitted to having feelings of the romantic variety, which had to be a good sign.
He'd spent every interaction they’d had since that very first night looking for signs that Kiyoomi might want more from him than just a reliably good hookup. The trouble is, when you’re looking for signs, everything looks like a sign. More than once Atsumu had found himself jabbing a finger at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, reminding himself that Kiyoomi doesn’t care.
(Kiyoomi had actually walked in on him doing it, just once, and it had been beyond mortifying. Atsumu had tried to play it off as some sort of fucked up, pre-sex pep talk, but he still gets shivers thinking about the awkwardness of the whole interaction.)
But now, now he’s starting to think that mirror-Atsumu might’ve been full of shit. Take that, Mirror ‘Tsumu, what do you know about true love anyway?
Finally, he grabs ahold of his phone and nearly drops it on his face for the trouble. No new texts from Osamu, the fuckin’ ingrate, but he does have a new text from Komori that just says, “good luck and godspeed”.
He’s not exactly sure what to make of that, but it seems encouraging enough. He heart-reacts to the message and tries to determine if there’s a polite way to ask Komori for any tips on getting his cousin to actually talk about his feelings instead of just talking circles around them.
In the end, he decides that the straightforward approach is always best.
Hey. He types one-handed, which feels like more of an achievement than it rightfully should. Any tips on getting Omi to actually talk about his feelings ?? pls advise
He watches the Komori (YOUTH CAMP) is typing… notification appear and disappear for several long moments, biting at the dead skin on his bottom lip. He’d have to try and find a little time to do a lip scrub later for maximum kissability going into their big talk.
Nope!, followed by a string of crying-laughing emojis is the only reward he gets for his patience. Well, so much for that plan.
***
Atsumu hasn’t always been a hopeless romantic, but he’s taking to it surprisingly well for someone with such a naturally combative disposition.
When Sakusa Kiyoomi clambered back into his life on those long legs of his, Atsumu had been more excited to make tactical use of his bendy wrists and wicked spikes than anything else. The Sakusa he knew from youth camp had simmered down a little into a more put-together, handsome package than he remembered, sure, but that was beside the point. And even if it wasn’t, which it totally was, teammates are off-limits.
Off-limits, he’d remind himself, when they pulled off a particularly tricky play and the proud flush on Kiyoomi’s face made Atsumu’s heart pound harder than running line drills ever had.
Off-limits, he’d remind himself, when Kiyoomi let out an inelegant snort after Atsumu cracked a stupid joke about Meian’s receeding hairline.
Off-limits, he’d remind himself, when he was rewarded with a rare and fleeting smile after a few too many at their local izakaya.
Well, he’d really only gotten through off-lim- when he felt Kiyoomi’s lips on his cheek, warm and a little damp.
It was like a switch had flipped, and all of a sudden Atsumu cared about stupid shit he’d never even considered caring about before. He hadn’t even tried to sleep that night, too keyed up to do anything besides blow up Osamu’s phone and research flower meanings on the internet. He hadn’t even contemplated the possibility that he had a whisper of a chance, much less that sea-urchin-Sakusa would make the first move. A little thrill went through Atsumu at the thought that something he’d done had caused that stony façade to crack, and he resolved then and there to make it happen as much as possible.
He didn’t let it break his heart that Kiyoomi only seemed interested in the physical side of things. Physical was great! He could do physical ‘til the sun came up, and probably a little after if he’d carbo-loaded the day before.
He didn’t let it break his heart, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting.
He had to have some kind of outlet for his pain though, or else he’d explode all over the place, which meant Bad News for Osamu. He’d submit himself to the humiliation of talking to his brother about his feelings a thousand times over before he’d allow said feelings to overflow during practice and affect his performance on the court.
So, after a day that had been filled with a truly unbearable amount of yearning, pining, and general foultemperedness, Atsumu found himself trudging to Onigiri Miya. With a groan just on the wrong side of overdramatic, Atsumu hoisted himself up on a stool and thonked his head on the counter.
“Yer scrubbin’ the grease stain off my nice clean countertop whenever you’re done wallowin’, dipshit,” Osamu called from the kitchen. Atsumu wondered what it said about him that his brother didn’t even have to look to recognize the sound of his skull meeting a hard surface. Probably nothing good.
“Hey,” Osamu said, voice closer now. He nudged the cowlick right on the back of Atsumu’s head with a knuckle. It wasn’t a bald spot, okay? It’s just where his hair parted naturally. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m bein’ stupid,” Atsumu mumbled into the counter. He could feel a little bit of drool threatening to come out of his mouth, and he sucked it back in. “I’m bein’ stupid, and I know I’m bein’ stupid, but I don’t know how to stop. And it’s pissing me off.”
“No wonder you’re such a shit all the time, if bein’ stupid is what pisses you off,” Osamu said, flicking him in the not-bald-spot. “And don’t get yer nasty spit on the counter, I just cleaned that like five seconds before you walked in.”
“Can you not? I’m tryin’ to be serious here.”
“You’re bein’ seriously annoying, is what you’re doing.”
“C’mon, ‘Samu,” Atsumu pulled his hands under his chin to cover the spot where the drool may or may not have landed. “Cut me a break. This is a terrible day.”
“Okay, fine. I give up. Why is this a terrible day,” Osamu said, voice lilting in the special, condescending way he saved up just for Atsumu.
“If yer gonna be a bitch about it, I’m not gonna tell you.”
“Make up your mind, ‘Tsumu. Do ya want to talk about it or do ya not want to talk about it? Because all this pouting and sighing is scarin’ off my customers.”
“There’s nobody here,” Atsumu protested, sitting up and gesturing to the empty restaurant around them.
“Exactly,” Osamu replied, deadpan. “They can sense yer negative energy from outside. Spit it out, before all my good ingredients spoil.”
“Fine! Fine,” Atsumu ran a hand through his hair, bracing himself mentally for what he was about to admit. “Did you know I have feelings for Sakusa?”
Osamu didn’t respond, just gave him the look that usually means he’s said something unbearably dumb.
“Don’t look at me like that, ya scrub, it’s a genuine question.”
“I can’t control what my face does when you say somethin’ like that. I gave up tryin’ twenty years ago, it’s too late now,” Osamu sighed, a heavy and well-practiced sound that conveyed every ounce of his weariness. “Yes, dumbass, I know you have feelings for Sakusa. I know, Ma knows, Rin knows, shit, the whole world probably knows. Not like you’ve ever been shy with your affections. You talk about him all the damn time.”
“Sure. Fine. Whatever. So I talk about him a lot, everybody knows, whatever. But I don’t think he does. And for a while I was fine with that because, well not to be too crass about it but I was too busy enjoyin’ the benefits part of friends-with-benefits–“
“Gross.”
“Shut up. You can’t say shit to me about bein’ gross with my hookups when you and Sunarin are clingin’ to each other like fucking limpets all the time. I nearly had to bleach my eyeballs last time I was at your place.”
“If you show up uninvited like that, you deserve what you see,” Osamu shrugged.
Atsumu rolled his eyes so hard it hurt a little. He hoped he didn’t strain something – could you strain your optic nerve just from rolling your eyes? Sakusa might know, and Atsumu made a mental note to ask him later before mentally slapping himself on the wrist about it. He knew he shouldn’t be looking for excuses to talk to Sakusa about stuff, but it would be a hard habit to break.
“Look, the point is, I’m startin’ to realize that maybe I want more from him than just sex. And I’ve tried to nudge us in that direction, to see if he’s interested, but I just can’t tell. I’m drivin’ myself crazy looking for a sign and it’s making me double-crazy because I feel like I should put that effort into just bein’ happy with what I have of him, but I can’t. I guess I’m just too, I don’t know, selfish or something.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you are pretty selfish,” Osamu said, considering. Atsumu reached over the counter to slap him on the arm, but he dodged it with ease. “But why can’t you just talk to him about it? Say, ‘Hey, Sakusa. I like ya for more than just yer dick, and I think you might feel the same way. What do you say we give this a shot?’ and see what happens.”
Atsumu flushed in spite of himself. “I can’t just come out and say that to him, he’ll sprint out of the room. And he’s fast, too. I’d never see him again.”
“Well, say it differently then. You can’t do subtle, it’s not in yer wheelhouse. And it’s not right to just sneak it up on him, not if you want a real relationship. Or you could do nothing, and keep hurtin’ your own feelings until one of you meets someone else and ya break it off, and you’ll have to just be friends forever. Except, are you even friends, outside of this?”
“We’re… somethin’. I don’t know if friends is the right word, but it could be, I guess,” Atsumu groaned and laid his head back on the counter. “This sucks. This sucks so much. Nothing in the world has ever sucked this much. I don’t want him to meet someone else, I want him to meet me.”
“He has met you, ‘Tsumu. I think that might be the problem,” Osamu said, gently sliding a plate with one single onigiri on it in his direction. Atsumu took it without hesitation. Comfort food was comfort food, after all. “I’ll admit, yer options aren’t great. But either you take charge and tell him you want more than what you have goin’ now or you say nothing and hope he goes first, which he may or may not do. If yer askin’ my advice, I say tell him. It might be easier to wait, but it’ll add this layer of tension to every time you two hang out now that’s gonna be real hard to untangle yerself from when the rubber hits the road.”
“I hate when you act like you’re the keeper of all relationship knowledge just because you and Sunarin have been together since high school,” Atsumu grumbled around a mouthful of fatty tuna.
“Yeah, well, If I’d have grown the balls to ask Rin out earlier it woulda saved me a lot of time, energy, and angst. There’s gotta be a way you can talk things through with him without spookin’ him or getting yourself too hurt, you just gotta find it.”
“I just need somethin’ to go on, ‘Samu. If he’d just give me a clue about what he’s feelin’ in all of this, I could take it from there, I know I could. I just need one clue, that’s all.”
“Well,” Osamu said, smacking a hand on the counter. “Here’s hopin’ you get yer clue sooner rather than later.”
***
The thing is, if he thinks about it, the clues have been there all along. Atsumu has nothing else to do but think, so he stares at Kiyoomi’s ceiling and tallies up every scrap of genuine care and affection the man currently deflating his bicep has ever shown him.
It kinda reminds him of one of those paintings that’s just a bunch of dots if you stand too close, but if you step back and look at it from further away, it’s a whole picture. He’s been so caught up in trying to appreciate the dots — he’s grateful that there are dots at all, he’s a huge fan of dots — that he’s totally missed the picture.
Sorry, dots, but Atsumu is never lookin’ at you again.
Beside him, Kiyoomi shifts. Atsumu watches his breathing grow less even as he curls tighter into himself. It’s cute, and for once Atsumu is gonna just let himself enjoy the cuteness without berating himself for reading too much into it.
Except, if there’s one thing Atsumu is good at –– besides volleyball and being the more handsome twin, of course –– it’s ruining a moment.
“Hey, Omi,” he says, in a voice that could be considered a whisper only by the barest technicality. “D’ya want me to let you pretend to keep sleepin’?”
“Yes,” comes the reply, mostly muffled by the meat of Atsumu’s arm.
“Don’t bite me, it’s just a question.”
Kiyoomi flops over to face him, and Atsumu very bravely doesn’t wince at the feeling of all the blood returning to his arm. “I wasn’t going to bite you,” Kiyoomi frowns.
“You might,” Atsumu teases, flexing his arm to try and work the blood back into his fingers. The TV static feeling is unbearable, but Kiyoomi either hasn’t noticed Atsumu’s discomfort or he doesn’t care. It’s a coin flip, really, and either way it doesn’t put the feeling back in Atsumu’s arm, so he’s not gonna dwell on it. “Yer kind of a biter, Omi-Omi. Or did you forget about what happened on your birthday last year?”
“Shut up. Of course not, that was an accident,” Kiyoomi closes his eyes tightly and rolls to lay on his stomach. “I’m going back to sleep.”
Atsumu lets him pretend for a while, then sits up. They’d gotten back around dinner time the night before, and slept ‘til early afternoon, so it wasn’t out of the question for Kiyoomi to still be a little tired. But still, he wouldn’t be Miya Atsumu if he knew how to leave well enough alone.
“Y’know, Omi-omi, there’s no law that says we gotta talk our shit out as soon as we’re upright and mobile. We’ve got a couple days off, I’m not on any kind of timeline. You don’t gotta pretend to sleep just to avoid the conversation,” Atsumu says as casually as he can manage, which is hardly at all. He turns to look at Kiyoomi, who steals his pillow and buries himself under it.
“I’ll go ahead and scratch acting off the list of post-retirement careers. This isn’t very convincing,” Atsumu continues when it’s clear Kiyoomi isn’t going to respond.
“Not everything needs to be commented on, Atsumu,” is what Atsumu thinks Kiyoomi says into the mattress. In his defense, it’s a little hard to hear with Kiyoomi’s face planted squarely into his fitted sheet and his head covered by two pillows.
“I’m just givin’ ya the option. We can talk about the weather, or what to have for lunch, or how stupid Sunarin’s haircut looks, whatever you want.”
“Have you ever realized,” Kiyoomi says, pulling his head out if its little ostrich hole and turning to look at Atsumu. “that you are very preoccupied with how bad other people’s hair looks for someone who only learned how to style that bundle of straw on your head two years ago? You went a lot longer looking a lot worse than Suna does right now.”
“So you agree, the haircut is bad,” Atsumu gasps.
“You brushed right past the part where I insulted your hair, I see.”
“Yeah, I’m repressin’ it. Oooooh, I’m so tellin’ him you said that. I’m tellin’ him you said his hair looks stupid and ugly, and the only way he can salvage it is to bleach it blond.”
“Good, tell him that. He already knows what a liar you are; he’d never believe you even if I did say that.”
Something clenches in Atsumu’s chest. “Hey, now. I’ve never lied about anything important,” he mutters. He knows it’s just their usual patter, that Kiyoomi probably doesn’t mean anything by it. And yet. His sensitive heart has always been a traitor.
Kiyoomi’s eyes widen, and something like fear darts across his face.
“I know that, I know… I… Fuck.” He draws his legs in and pushes himself up on his arms, so he ends up sitting on his haunches with hands braced on his knees. He looks small, cowed and vulnerable, and Atsumu hates it. “I’m not good at this.”
“No one’s askin’ ya to be good at anything,” Atsumu scoots closer so he can cradle Kiyoomi’s jaw. Kiyoomi leans into the touch, and Atsumu strokes a sharp cheekbone with his thumb in a way he hopes is comforting. “Sorry, my head’s still all weird from the flyin’ and the sleepin’, I’m sure yours is too. All I meant to say is, we don’t have to talk right now if you don’t wanna. We can just hang out, or I can go home and give ya a little space. Whatever you want.”
“You don’t have to… you can stay. If you want to stay,” Kiyoomi mumbles. Atsumu can feel the skin against his hand heating up at the admission.
“I’m glad ya said that, ‘cause all the good snacks are here,” Atsumu says, attention snapping back to the fact that this is not something they do. Gods, he’d like for it to be, but this kind of tenderness feels eggshell-fragile, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by pushing too far too fast. He pats Kiyoomi’s face a couple of times before retracting his hand. Kiyoomi stares at him like he’s just unhinged his jaw and eaten an entire antelope, which isn’t unusual for them but it does make Atsumu’s skin itch. “Hey, d’ya want to finish that nature documentary we started the other night?”
“Not particularly, but I’m not sure what else we would do. If we’re not talking,” Kiyoomi shifts so he’s no longer sitting on his knees. He’s staring so hard at the duvet it looks like he’s trying to burn a hole in it with his mind. Hell, maybe he is. It’d definitely keep this conversation from happening.
“If you want to talk, we can talk. I don’t mind talkin’. It just seems like you don’t want to. And I did promise ya plenty of time to think about stuff, so…” Atsumu trails off. He likes to think he knows Kiyoomi pretty well, that he’s tuned into his frequency, but he can’t trust himself to get an accurate read on the situation.
“I don’t know what I want,” Kiyoomi says, then his head snaps up so that Atsumu can see the fresh panic blooming on his face. “I mean, I do. I just… I want to be sure that I’m saying it right.”
“Okay,” Atsumu changes tactics. “Can I tell ya what I’m thinkin’?”
Kiyoomi nods, and Atsumu presses on.
“So, I’m thinkin’ that maybe we’ve been going about this backwards. Not wrong, necessarily, because you can put a gun to my head but I’m not gonna regret a single second of the time we’ve spent together. I mean it. Not just the sexy stuff either, I mean the little moments in the locker room or that one time I got sick and ya brought me that awful soup that you swore up, down, and sideways would fix me. It didn’t, by the way, but I ate every last bit of it because you made it and it made me happy to make you happy.” Atsumu stops to take a breath, not allowing himself to take in the expression on Kiyoomi’s face just yet. He had to get it all out first. Now that he's started talking, he can’t stop ‘til the well runs dry.
“And I’m thinkin’ that we both know the score here, but I’ve spent so long lookin’ for signs that you might want more than what we’ve got goin’ on that I want to be sure that we’re on the same page. And I’m afraid–” He can’t keep the tremble out of his voice, no matter how hard he tries. “I’m afraid that I’m askin’ too much from you, or that I’ll be too much for you. That’s the last thing I want, Kiyoomi. If you don’t want… If us being in a relationship, as boyfriends or whatever, isn’t something you want or are ready for, then I don’t want to make you feel like you’ve gotta agree to it just to keep me around.”
“You’re not – it’s not too much,” Kiyoomi says, quiet but firm. “What you’re asking for. It’s not too much. If anything, it’s not enough.”
Atsumu laughs, shakes his head, and tries very hard to not let that hurt his feelings. “That’s pretty harsh to say to someone spilling his guts in front of ya, but I can’t say I don’t admire yer honesty.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Kiyoomi flops backwards on the bed, extending his legs out and grinding the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “I don’t mean that you’re not enough. You’re not the problem here. It’s just like I said, I’m not brave. Not like you are. Even though I know… what you said, in the airport. And what you’re saying now. I just can’t make the words come out.”
“Shit, Omi, I’m not brave either. Ask Osamu, he’ll tell ya about all the times I’ve knocked on his door to cry my eyes out over this. I’ve been shitting my pants over here,” Atsumu grins. “Sorry, that’s probably insensitive. Too soon to joke about shittin’ yer pants, probably.”
Kiyoomi lowers his hands to glare at Atsumu. “Never would be too soon.”
“See?” Atsumu smiles wider. “I’m learnin’. The point is, I’m just as scared shitless – don’t throw pillows at me while I’m confessing my feelings to you, that’s rude! – as you are. It’s okay to be scared, Omi-omi, especially if we can be scared together. Neither of us is easy to get along with, but we’ve done okay so far. Better than okay, I’d like to think. And you don’t have to say the actual words, if that’s the part that’s tripping you up. As long as you’re thinkin’ them, I can say them enough for both of us, ‘til you’re ready.”
“So, when you said ‘it might be worse than that’, you meant?” Kiyoomi prompts, momentarily stopping his pillow-throwing campaign and propping up on his elbows.
“I meant that I’m probably in love with you,” Atsumu’s smile turns softer. He rests a warm hand on Kiyoomi’s knee, because it feels wrong to talk about this without touching him even a little. Kiyoomi’s eyes go wide and starry with something not too far from wonder. “I just thought you might not want to hear it.”
“I want to hear it,” Kiyoomi says, blunt and matter-of-fact in the way that Atsumu loves. He pauses, and Atsumu can almost hear the click and whir of gears turning in his head. He nods, just once, and leans forward to haul Atsumu closer.
Atsumu lands on top of him with an undignified little grunt. He opens his mouth to complain about it, but he finds that it’s currently occupied with more important things. Kiyoomi’s lips press into his, warm and firm and insistent. His mouth opens, in either a sigh or a moan that hasn’t been realized yet, and Atsumu is nothing if not an opportunist. He leans up on one arm to get a better angle and lets his other arm rest lightly across Kiyoomi’s waist. Kiyoomi twists, not breaking the kiss, and maneuvers them until they’re laying side by side, facing each other.
“It’s the same for me,” Kiyoomi whispers into his mouth. “Just the same. Also, your morning breath is terrible.”
Atsumu rears back and gives his shoulder a hearty shove. “Fuck off, like yours is any better.”
Kiyoomi uses the momentum of the shove to roll himself off the bed and to his feet, ankle joints cracking in a way that Atsumu would never, ever get used to. Gods help him, he wanted to be disgusted by those ankle sounds for the rest of his life.
“What’s the matter, Omi-Omi? Not feelin’ too hot?” Atsumu props up on his elbows and lets his head loll to one side, grinning lazily. “Gonna set up camp in the bathroom, now that you’ve officially got yerself a boyfriend to take care of you?”
Kiyoomi’s face colors, and Atsumu can’t even begin to speculate whether it’s in response to his airport humiliation or the tactical deployment of ‘boyfriend’.
“Shut up. I’m just peeing,” Kiyoomi mutters, and turns on his heel to stalk out of the room in a way that would be overdramatic on anyone else.
“Damn, without me?” Atsumu calls behind him, and the only response he gets is the slam of the bathroom door.
Atsumu drops himself back down on the bed, allowing himself a moment to really revel in the giddy surge of emotion welling up inside of him. He’s an Olympian and he has a hot boyfriend who likes him, maybe even loves him. It doesn’t matter that the actual words haven’t made it past Kiyoomi’s lips, Atsumu can still taste them anyway — and the fact that they mostly taste like morning breath only makes it that much more real.
Osamu may have gotten a little head start, but Atsumu is definitely gonna win their happiness competition. Sunarin is pretty firm about not wanting to get married until retirement – according to ‘Samu, he doesn’t want to confuse things by putting ‘Miya’ on the back of his jersey – so Atsumu’s got the advantage on that one, at least. ‘Miya K.” is gonna look great on the back of a bright red jersey, if he does say so himself. And oh, does he say so.
A hard piece of plastic hitting the side of his head startles him out of that little daydream. He looks up just in time to see a tube of his preferred brand of toothpaste flying towards him, but not just in time to dodge. It bounces off his forehead lands on the bed next to his toothbrush. Damn Kiyoomi’s impeccable aim. The bastard never misses.
“Go brush your teeth. I’m not finished with you yet,” Kiyoomi orders, and his tone makes Atsumu shiver just a little.
“You’d better not be, if yer talkin’ to me like that,” Atsumu gripes, but he grabs his toothbrush and scrambles to his feet. Kiyoomi smacks his ass as they pass each other in the doorway, light but purposeful. “If the next words out of yer mouth are any variation of ‘good game’, I’m not puttin’ out. I swear.”
Kiyoomi smirks, and kisses him instead — mouth closed this time, but no worse for it.
“Brush your teeth,” he whispers, all minty-fresh and irresistible. “And I’ll show you a good game.”
It’s a bad line. Atsumu knows it’s a bad line, a terrible line even. If it were anyone else saying it, he’d probably pantomime throwing up until he actually starts to gag a little bit. But it’s not anyone else, it’s Kiyoomi. It’s Kiyoomi, and he’s happy, and he’s comfortable enough around Atsumu to be silly instead of self-conscious, and Atsumu loves him so, so much.
Maybe not today, maybe not for a while, but one day? Atsumu is gonna marry the shit out of him.
(Hopefully not literally.)