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Atsumu rolled into the rink. The crowd went wild — hoots and hollers echoed, bouncing off the walls and cement flooring. He could hear his name scattered to the left, among the fans decked out in maroon and black. He shielded his eyes from the lights with his left hand and waved blindly with his right, signature grin rivaling the blaring fluorescent bulbs above.
It was here — the final game of the season. All the weeks of training, the chastising from Kita, and the violent games that ended in countless bruises and more than a couple of broken bones led them all up to this exact moment.
And Atsumu was going to walk out with gold in hand.
Osamu clicked his tongue somewhere to the right of him.
“Yer ugly is showin’.” His face was neutral as he waved to the crowd, skating in sync with the rest of their team to the starting line.
“Shaddap.” Atsumu hissed before sliding his crowd-pleasing face back into place like a mask.
He could feel Kita staring a hole in the back of his head as they all lined up, skates screeching lightly to a halt. The referee nodded along and gave them some instructions Atsumu deigned not to listen to; this wasn’t his first derby and it sure as hell wouldn’t be his last.
Then, their rival team entered the ring.
The crowd roared to life once more, though this time it was deafening. Atsumu scrunched his nose in disdain. It was obviously loud because he was closer to the right side adorned in fugly yellow and offensive neon green — not because Itachiyama was favored.
One by one, the opposing team rolled in. The first few waved and cheered in response to the crowds, just like his own, arrogant and prideful. But as the line continued, the cheer on the players’ faces became dulled and lazy.
The last player slid across the floor like he didn’t want to be there at all. He was tall, dark, and handsome, unlike Atsumu (well, the dark part. Atsumu was a ray of fuckin sunshine). He had dark hair that curled sleek and soft beneath his loud helmet and fuzzy eyebrows, tamed and trimmed to perfection. Two moles were stacked above the left brow, alluring and curious. He was scowling hard; every line in his body screamed unapproachable. The crowd grew louder as he came into view which made his frown ripen exponentially. His offense wasn’t as much in the harsh line of his lips as much as it was in the flare of his nostrils, the scrunch in the bridge of his nose, the dead gaze of his eyes. It was indiscernible to the crowd, without a doubt.
But Atsumu, being a dick himself, could smell an asshole from a mile away.
He already hated him.
Good thing he would win and never have to see him again — after enjoying his scowl from the rink floor of course. The thought revved his competitive streak even higher. He grinned wickedly across the rink, directly at the man.
The mysteriously grumpy man’s dark eyes shot from the corner he was glaring a hole in directly to Atsumu’s gold. The deep black swirled to life, embers sparking into a lingering flame. Atsumu stared back, unflinching. He squinted his eyes in a challenge. Osamu elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“Ow!” He swiveled to glare at his twin.
“Face.” Osamu chastised. Kita stood behind him, giving Atsumu his usual, blank stare.
Astumu could decipher those that look blind. It said ‘Do not act stupid and get sent to the box.’ Atsumu grinded his teeth. He had a bad habit of being a bit too forceful with his attacks, especially if the victim was an eyesore.
“Whatever.” He huffed. Osamu raised a brow, unconvinced with the snark.
When Atsumu looked back he was disappointed to see the depressing man, Number 10, wasn’t looking back. Instead, he was talking to a mousy-looking team member, Number 13, who seemed to be doing his best to rally Number 10 and the rest of his teammates.
Both teams tightened their gear and lined up to face each other and listen to the ref's spiel. Atsumu thanked his luck as he stood directly across from Number 10. The man was zoned out, his dark gaze heightened by the shadow of his helmet. The dull eyes bored into a spot above Atsumu's shoulder, giving Atsumu an opening to appraise him with confidence. He eyed his broad shoulders and trim waist with interest. He was fit. His skin looked kept, his lips looked smooth, and his long nose made his already long face seem more sharp, cunning.
The mysterious man snapped into awareness with impressive subtlety. His eyes fixed right onto Atsumu. His eyebrow rose ever so slightly, betraying his seemingly unperturbed façade. Atsumu eyed the twin moles there, disappearing into the lid of his helmet.
They stared each other down, unflinching. Number 10's eyes sparked, accepting Atsumu’s wordless challenge. Neither looked away. Neither blinked. Instead, they sized each other up with a keen dart of their eyes. He sure was a stubborn one, Number 10. He was interesting and fine as hell.
Atsumu loved playing with his food.
The ref blew their whistle and everyone took their positions. Neither of them moved until their teammates shooed them along ー Osamu knocked one of Atsumu's feet right from under him while Number 13 called Number 10 into motion.
Atsumu couldn't keep his eyes off of him. The whistle blew and blew and blew, skates scraped against the concrete and bodies slammed to the floor on padded joints but nothing mattered other than taking a jam and looking back at Number 10 with smug cheer as the scoreboard reflected their victory. It didn't happen as often as he would have liked ー their teams were pretty neck and neck, each score followed up by the same if not more — but when it did happen, Atsumu reveled in it.
It was just too easy. Number 10 looked like he was livid with him. In fact, he seemed to gain speed each lap Atsumu snatched from under Itachiyama’s nose. After the first 27 points, Atsumu couldn't even recall Number 10's face looking anything other than angry and defiant. Competitive rage was in every line of Number 10’s face until he finally, finally succeeded in crossing the lap line. Then, every crease turned on its head, shifting upward into a sneer of victory. He looked across the rink and stared straight into Atsumu's frustrated face, lidding his eyes and pouting his lips in a show of mock sympathy. Atsumu ground his teeth as Number 10 turned sharply to slide smoothly back and away to the starting line.
That look did many things at once. Firstly, Atsumu was fuckin' pissed; he felt his whole body burn with it. But there was arousal underneath that fire, burning just as hot and flushing every inch the rage didn't flow to. He could tell if he wanted to bash or kiss that smug look right off of Number 10's face but he did know that he wanted to do either of those way more than he wanted to win this stupid tournament.
Osamu gave him a warning shove with a sharp shoulder and an even sharper look that said Don't you fuckin' dare.
And oh, did Atsumu dare.
After that, Atsumu paid absolutely no mind to anything other than fucking Number 10 over. It didn't matter if he was the jammer or not. It didn't matter if Number 10 was a threat to Inarizaki’s jammer's path. It didn't matter that they were 57 points down and losing. It didn’t matter if him screwing the hot, frazzled man over was an illegal move or not. What did matter was that Atsumu had successfully knocked Number 10 to the ground 3 times — that he had relished the sparks that shot up from where they touched, the way his mouth curled and nose pinched in anger, and the way he looked inside Atsumu's shadow, defeated and beneath him.
The fourth time got him in the penalty box, a chastising from Osamu, and an intimidating stare from Kita. He grinned with mirth from the bench, hands behind him and legs spread as if he was watching his favorite show from the comfort of his home, unbothered, unaffected. His hooded gaze watched Number 10 lap sadistically, grin sharp and taunting him from his safety.
When he got back in it was a free for all between them. Though, Number 10 was smarter about it. His rebuttal was the light press of a skate to Atsumu's wheel or the sharp cut of a turn that was punctuated with a sideways glance and a huff of a chuckle. And when they did have a reason to slam each other over, it was brute and aggressive. Atsumu got another penalty (he didn't mean to pull his hair, it was just soft looking and he grabbed it before he thought better) and the team sat him out a second time to cool down.
He picked at his nails and shook his leg anxiously as he watched the spider of a man flit about the court and kick his whole team's ass in absolutely no time. Atsumu had gotten them caught up in the short time he was on the court. Anger and lust did that to him in equal measure, add both and he was on his A-game. But they were falling behind once more, and fast.
Number 10 didn't waste a single lap to flaunt his success and finesse, either. It just made Atsumu boil even more. By the time he got back onto the rink, he couldn't see straight. Everything was a blur except Number 10. Atsumu knew there was absolutely, literally no reason he should be this obstinate, no reason why this stranger of a man should light a fire under his ass this intensely, no reason why an extremely tall glass of black, bitter, cold-brew coffee should invigorate him this easily.
But he was and Atsumu was absolutely powerless against it.
He didn't make it on the court very long before he just about full-on tackled the man to the floor. There were shouts, and laughter, and hands, and whistles sounding off, but it was all background noise and dull compared to the feeling of his hand around one of Number 10's wrists and the vision of his pale, bloody face staring darkly back up at him.
Atsumu's whole world shattered as a devious grin slid onto Number 10's face like a slimy slug. His slender, hooked nose was red and swollen, slammed to the concrete before they scuffled into the position they were currently in. Blood poured down it in a thick wave. The man licked the blood away from his upper lip. Atsumu was memorized, eyes in a trance as they tracked each movement. He looked back into the man’s dark eyes, slitted with coy amusement. And then, he laughed incredulously, porcelain teeth glazed in red.
Atsumu felt his pants tighten in tandem with his fist. He lunged at Number 10 again, this time face-forward, but was pulled off the man before he could get a taste of him.
They both sat out the rest of the game, Atsumu in the back, completely out of Inarizaki’s reserves, while Number 10 was tended to by a nurse down the hall. They didn't see each other again; neither were included in the line-up nor the award ceremony declaring Itachiyama the victor of the season.
Atsumu didn't expect to see him again and if he did he was sure as hell not expecting him to approach him. They were all heading out when a tap on his shoulder roused him from his depressive slump. Atsumu thanked his luck once more as he turned to see him: Number 10, butterfly stitch on his lip and the beginnings of a nasty bruise against both his sharp jaw and nose.
Atsumu stood a little dumbfounded. "Ah ー"
The man didn't entertain the idea of speaking whatsoever. Instead, he shoved a wad of paper into Atsumu's occupied hand. Atsumu opened his fist without thinking, dropping all his equipment to spill onto the floor. Number 10 turned on his heel and left without so much as a second glance. Atsumu looked between the wad of paper and the man's retreat. He opened the paper with shaky hands.
You owe me.
Sakusa Kiyoomi
(123) 456-7890