Archive of Our Own

I'm not alone.

With creaking necks, Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu turn to each other. Stray hairs, bitten, bruised skin—each as dishevelled and disoriented as the other.

They look at the one bed beneath them. Then each other again.

Kiyoomi's eyes grow wider. Atsumu's lips, falling open, grow wobblier. The seconds grow in weight and volume, fattening between the two.

"Don't—" Kiyoomi nearly chokes. Then, with a clear of his throat, to Atsumu's flinch and stare, keeps croaking. "Don't say it."

Atsumu opens his mouth again—eyes shining, brows contorting, cheeks filling so full with colour it'll surge, make a sure mess. Kiyoomi swings up a finger, putting the cork in it, at the expense of a throbbing headache the move brings.

"Whatever you're going to say," Kiyoomi warns, blinking hard through the sleep crusting his eyes. "Do not."

A lost cause the moment Kiyoomi voice box closes, the violation of one of the base principles when dealing with Miya Atsumu off court chiming chides in his head. Tell Atsumu to do something, watch him drag his feet, fiddle with his available aglets, hum through a made-up medley, say sure in a crack of his voice before, sorry, it just slipped his mind, what was it again, is it done already? What a crying shame, he'll lament, swearing up and down he was just about to get around to it, too.

Tell Atsumu not to do something? Watch him vibrate out of his skin trying not to commit the act on the spot.

Kiyoomi's morning breath stale and stained with alcohol scrunches his own nose, his joints weeping at every move he makes, skin sticky with dried sweat and distinct non-sweat. But none of it compares to Atsumu's stare, stubborn against Kiyoomi's dried and hardened bedrock, like his wet, warm, honey eyes will slather over every square inch for a single crack to seep into, cheeks round and close to bursting because damn him, he will never make any part of Kiyoomi's life easy. Even the pitch of his closed-mouth, kettle-pot screech reaches new heights.

Damage control—all damage, no control—when Kiyoomi tries one more time. "Miya—"

"—My ass feels wet...!"

There it is; in the echoes of Kiyoomi's own four bedroom walls, Atsumu swallows after his squawk, apples of his cheeks honeycrisp as he starts because once he does, he doesn't stop. All cries and caws as he twists and turns like a towel, wringing the indignation out of himself and distressing the duvet making him barely decent, commentating on every bite—the love behind it debatable—marking his skin, on the curves of his arms, the dips of his shoulders merging into his neck, the—okay, an admittedly obscene amount around his nipples.

He could point at any part of his own body to mount a counterpoint on what Atsumu did to him.

On second thought, no more mounting anything for him. Not after this.

As Atsumu keeps on with the affront, Kiyoomi palms at his head, curls thin with dried sweat. He doesn't have the energy or effort to spare when his every muscle feels like the torturous lovechild of raisin and beef jerky. Especially not when Atsumu bulldozes over him at a volume only reined by how parched his squeals get.

"Look at whatcha did t'me!" A blush made human, Atsumu tries crawling forward to see his own ass. "Look...!"

Kiyoomi sets his jaw into a hard line. The bed bounces every time Atsumu does. The vibrations are muddied echoes of the night before, when Atsumu's voice warbled around heavily different tones—deeper, warmer, more broken—and if the bites on Atsumu's chest were something else, the veritable band wrapping the base of his thighs, strapped over the meat of his ass, would have Kiyoomi skydive out of his apartment window.

As it stands, Kiyoomi has enough dignity left in him to host the pyre in his face.

Kiyoomi takes one look around then immediately looks up with a long, hard-pressed sigh. Stripped clothes. Torn condom packets. A roll-away bottle of lube. With his drawers ransacked and his bedsheets defaced, the faultless ceiling is the only place he can find solace in.

If a room is a reflection of the mind, something Kiyoomi's always taken stock in, it's all a jungle, vandalised and overrun by invasive species. Which, in any other circumstance, he could breezily single out Atsumu. Harder for his conviction when he was the accomplice—evidently more than willing to help.

"I'm going to brush my teeth."

That declaration is as much for himself as it is for Atsumu, making the kill-switch for his tirade.

His socked feet(—he wore socks to bed? Tread through without slippers? Headache, strike him down now—)meet the floor before Atsumu claps a firm grip around his arm.

"Omi!"

Kiyoomi whirls around as fast his body lets him, already startled by the grip Atsumu tightens above his elbow. His fingers form a looser belt, uncertainty bleeding through when Kiyoomi sees him swallow, his focus shivering.

"Yer not—" Atsumu clutches at his arm. "Mad at me. Are ya?"

Plaintive frown. A wheat field run through by a hurricane, his hair sticks up every which way, dried gel flattening sections over his thick, furrowed brows, soft brown eyes. Blooming pout. It should taste as bad as Kiyoomi's mouth does.

As soon as the thought lands home: a thud rattling Kiyoomi's chest.

"Why would I be?" Turning away, Kiyoomi swallows, schooling his heart, his bad breath. "We both did this."

That's the most honest Kiyoomi can be. But there are right and wrong things to say with Miya Atsumu, he thinks as he turns around.

With Atsumu still frowning, but not meeting his eye, he doesn't know which it was just now.

"I'll..." Kiyoomi unloads another sigh. "Make us food." He slips his arm out of Atsumu's grip, slack with surprise, as he finally gets up. "Go shower. I'll clean up."

It's instructions for himself again, as Kiyoomi presses the joint of his thumb into his brow bone, visualising the path forward—wash hands, brush teeth, clean face, clean room, make food, talk maybe, clean face further.

The mattress shifts. Kiyoomi turns around. A click of the ensuite bathroom door, and Atsumu's already gone.

"...He actually listened."

Truly new territory.

"Oh," he realises. "I offered to make food."

Completely within expectation, then.

In another life, Kiyoomi would have squinted after Atsumu, wondering how he gets to blunder into his personal bathroom, whaling on himself for willingly letting someone else use the shower before him.

In this life, Kiyoomi makes the trek to the guest bathroom.

By the time Kiyoomi brushes his teeth, makes a quick meal, and clears the trash from his bedroom floor, Atsumu steps out of the shower and into his chest.

By the time he looks up—doe-eyed, about to break into babbles again—Kiyoomi shoves a bottle of water into his chest.

"Agh—!" Atsumu backs away hissing, one hand massaging the point of contact at his sternum, his other keeping up his towel skirt. "Fuck me, that's cold—!"

The wording narrows Kiyoomi's glare. But he still hasn't showered yet. Or eaten. He doesn't have the calories to weather through Atsumu's potential reaction.

So, unheeding, he knocks the bottle further, pressing it into the back of Atsumu's hand. Keeps it pressed until, while making a small face, Atsumu starts holding the bottle properly. As he does, Kiyoomi cracks open the bottle top. Twists it off, keeps the cap pinched as he nudges the bottom of the bottle up with a knuckle. Flicks his glance to Atsumu next.

"If you run away," he says, catching Atsumu's wary look back, "I will find you."

Kiyoomi ducks past him before he can see it. He only hears Atsumu's noises of affront knocking together, all backed up behind his teeth he clacks shut once, twice.

"Who d'ya take me for?!" he demands, like there isn't a wobble and a stutter he yells around. "I ain't gonna run away!"

Of course not, Kiyoomi thinks, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Not when he suggested expecting it now.

When Kiyoomi comes out feeling more human, he follows the sound of Atsumu's violent whispers to the kitchen counter.

"I'm marked up like one o' yer test papers in English, Samu, I fuckin' swear! Omi and I musta gone at it like ani—" A pause. "The fuck you mean spare the details? I barely got the details ta spare! I—" Another. "Aw, fuck right off, my grades were not worse than yours! Yeah, scrub, I said it...! Oh, yeah?!" He slams the side of his fist onto the table, his emptied plate shuddering. "I'll call Ma right now fer the reports an' we'll see who—!"

Kiyoomi knocks at the wall. Loudly.

Atsumu spins around, fury to fluster, yelp caught in his throat. He puts a hand to the receiver, finally bothering to whisper, telling Osamu he'll call him back, a whole show of the wonders of anatomy and the resonance of jerking chair legs in the act of hanging up one phone call.

Meanwhile, Kiyoomi settles in the chair across from him. Pours Atsumu and himself a cup of tea he prepared earlier as Atsumu exercises the audacity to, with his chin nestled over his interlaced fingers, whistle nonchalantly.

"Are you a cartoon character?" Kiyoomi mutters idly. The waft of his matcha, aromatic and astringent, laves over his skin. "You act like one."

Atsumu gawks.

"You—! I—!" Scoffing, scowling, pink in the cheeks, he snatches up his teacup gingerly. "Yer so rude and fer what?!" With a pinch to the face, he gives a testy sniff. "The fuckin' nerve of ya..." Then, smacking the cup down without even a sip, ticking up Kiyoomi's brows, he gives an accusatory finger point. "After deflowerin' me last night, too!"

At least Kiyoomi keeps his mouth shut choking on tea.

"You—you're not a virgin," he says, through close-lipped splutters. "I did not de..." Watching Atsumu's juvenile pout suddenly bloom with interest, Kiyoomi swallows his last cough before frowning. "I did not do that. And stop pointing at me."

"Oh, my ass would beg ta differ!" Atsumu scoffs again. "Ya think I ever let anyone top me?! Huh?!" Does not stop with the finger pointing. He waggles it, even. "I was savin' that, y'know! For—!" He blinks. "For..." The finger-point wavers, glance dithering with it. A weight thickens in Kiyoomi's gut. "Uh..."

"Someone special?"

Kiyoomi looks down at his tea. Atsumu, audibly again, claps his mouth shut. The most deafening confirmation.

When he opens his mouth, a long sigh spills out.

"I wanted to talk about it with you anyway," continues Kiyoomi. Flatter in tone. "We can just forget about it."

Finally, quiet falls upon the flat.

The bitterness of the matcha comes through sharper as Kiyoomi takes another sip. By the time he smacks his lips lightly, astringency clinging to his tongue, he finds Atsumu once again. This time, with parting lips, chipped bronze for eyes, the most unyielding stare flaring from him.

"...Forget about it?" He barely moves echoing the words. "Is that whatcha want?" Then suddenly he does, in the rock of his shoulders, his dry, mocking laugh. "Huh?"

Kiyoomi tugs his lip to one side, Atsumu's anger too warm for his liking. "Miya—"

"Bullshit you wanna forget about it...!" Both fists on the table, the plates and cutlery clattering again. "'Cause I ain't aboutta forget about it, and I know you ain't tryna forget about it! So what's the goddamn point, then?!"

Atsumu's bellow washes over him in an old, familiar tide. But it's the sentiment that makes a splash, leaving him blinking.

"What do you—?"

"—'Cause I know yer inta me!"

In a roar of heat, Kiyoomi jerks. Tea-drops arc onto the table from his grip—the shock stills his bones, to the point he only twitches for a tissue after a two second delay.

At all this, of course Atsumu barks a jarring, triumphant laugh.

"What, ya think you been slick or somethin'?" he sneers, mining his reaction for all the jagged ore it's worth and Kiyoomi scowls because of course once Atsumu starts, it's never about stopping him. "Hell, I only got ta drinkin' with ya so I could getcha ta admit it an' we could get this whole—weirdass"—his arms snap up, juggling for the words—"push-'n'-pull show we got on the road!"

Kiyoomi stops before pulling another tissue; he looks up bewildered. "Wait, wha—?"

"—'Cause newsflash, jerkwad!" Atsumu is already on his feet, stomping about the counter, roused by his own rapids. "I'm pretty—!" he chokes, masking it with a raw laugh, running his hand through his bright, softened hair. "I'm pretty inta you, too...! Y'know...?!"

How to capture a moment?

Molten morning light. Spilt matcha. Its remnants glossy on the marble counter, aroma leaching in a slow crawl. Atsumu, biting his lip, his hands a net on his nape for him to lean back on as he pushes out one hard, nasal huff, his beseeching look saved for the ceiling. Dressed in Kiyoomi's home clothes, hair a soft flop over his forehead, softening his complexion by half a decade.

Miya Atsumu will lie to your face. Will confess the truth resolutely anywhere but, scatter it like breadcrumbs picked from his eyes, his voice, the theatre of his body and light show of his face—up to you to scour and peck at yourself.

Kiyoomi stares, pushing the brand of the vision, the smell, the sounds deep, deep into his skin. His hippocampus, starved of last night, stabs its fingers deep into the guts of the moment, baying for stains, as much as a sweet duck wants the comfort of water to linger long after it leaves the lake, to no avail.

How to capture a moment? Atsumu doesn't let him find an answer, forcing him to live the next, the next, and the next.

"I wasn't tryna get us blind drunk or nothin', I—I didn't think this is what woulda happened!" Atsumu gestures to them and the flat with both arms, a steamroller come to life. "But damn, I gotta be ass at thinkin', Omi-Omi, 'cause I didn't think you'd be such a fuckin' coward either!"

One errant step and a twig-like snap.

Veins rigid and pulsing, Kiyoomi slowly, inevitably, gets to his feet, too.

"A coward?" His scowl doesn't stop, only grows, when Atsumu meets his eye. "Me?"

"Yeah!" Atsumu, matching him tit for tat, steps up into his space, jabs a finger into his sternum. "You!"

Kiyoomi grabs his wrist, clutches it snarling. Blood a rolling boil. Thudding, thudding, thudding.

"You're full of shit."

"The fuck I am!" Atsumu's hand balls into a fist, clenches to tug Kiyoomi in. "I ain't the one tryna run away!"

"I'm not running from anything." Kiyoomi licks his lips, throat hot and rasping. Atsumu's eyes dart down to his mouth, and the blood in him surges. "You're the one who was saving himself for someone special."

"Wh— I—!" He gapes and gags on air, before slapping Kiyoomi on the shoulder with his free hand. "That's you, asshole! I...!"

Stillness again. For one, agonising breath, just the two of them blinking at one another.

At Kiyoomi's frown taking on a different, louder shade, Atsumu gulps. Glances aside, muttering through narrowed lips: "I just wanted ta be able ta remember it, at least..."

That's the thing about Atsumu, he thinks. The simplest quirks that would make a reverse psychologist sing—when he mumbles it with a wayward gaze, the truth may as well soak into them like rain.

Kiyoomi grips his wrist harder. Atsumu looks fast at it in startled blinks, sunset cheeks.

"Wh—?" He shakes his wrist, fluster warping his tone. "What the hell! Let go o' me, ya stupid, stinkin'—!"

He pulls Atsumu in closer. Catches him yelping with his chest, his free hand on his shoulder, nearly nosing his soft, free hair, zesty with his shampoo. War drum heart as he starts on his march. And on one thing, Sakusa Kiyoomi can meet, match, outdo Miya Atsumu easily.

Once he starts with something, he does not stop.

"Why did you want us to drink?"

Atsumu looks up. "Wha—?" Falters finding himself nearly nose-to-nose with Kiyoomi. "I didn't..." He breathes out and Kiyoomi smells tea and lingering toothpaste. "Uh..."

"If you knew all this time," Kiyoomi presses, "why didn't you just tell me?"

When does silence get old? When can it with Atsumu at such close-range, speaking volumes with his eyes, his every squirm, all the colours of a sunlit earth at his disposal? Kiyoomi would mock him and keep watch, stay close, all in the same breath.

But not even silence survives long under Atsumu's watch.

"Just..." he starts. Then stops. Starts then stops. "Wanted ta getcha to admit it. First."

Not a word said while meeting his eye, even as the sunlight sticks to Atsumu's lashes, matcha mingles between them.

Kiyoomi putters a snort. "And you called me a coward."

"Wh—! You...! I ain't no coward! I was tryna encourage you! Liquid courage! S'called helpin' someone out, Omi—ever heard o' that?!"

Full frontal eye contact. Flecks lit up by his pupils, even.

It's a puff of air when Kiyoomi chuckles.

"You're the worst helper."

"Huh?! Oi...! I swear ta god, yer just so goddamn—!"

Kiyoomi pulls up his hand, the wrist he still holds. Presses his lip against the skin—along the swells of Atsumu's palm, the curved nook the web of his thumb makes. Basks in his hand soap emanating from the skin, the hitch to Atsumu's breath, his fingers curled around nothing.

"What's... What're ya...?" Kiyoomi's pointer finger draws up to the heart of his palm. "You— Yer distractin'...me..." Atsumu shudders, stuttering and squeaking and Kiyoomi would laugh if his mouth weren't critically busy. "I—I had somethin' t'say...!"

"Like it was important," Kiyoomi mutters, mouthing at the little knuckle of his thumb, just barely. "Just let me deep-clean my face"—over Atsumu's fingers, his lips laid along their base, Kiyoomi's gaze bores into his—"and go out with me already."

Like a cracked whip, Atsumu snatches his hand away. Left blinking, Kiyoomi takes in his wadded up face. A blush seeps into all its creases.

"I ain't... Now you listen here!" He gets to pointing again, looking about as fierce as a frowning teddy bear. Kiyoomi imagines chomping his finger off as he waves it at him. "I ain't lookin' fer one o' yer copouts, Omi! Y'hear me?!"

"...My copouts," Kiyoomi echoes blandly. He crosses his arms, blithe as he carries on. "If you don't like me doing that, I could just not do it again."

"I ain't sayin' that!" Atsumu insists ever loudly, while Kiyoomi occupies himself with the loose collar of his borrowed sleep shirt, counting the hickeys dotting his collarbone. "It don't count if ya don't seal it with—" Suddenly, Atsumu grinds his teeth, the grumble prowling behind them, when Kiyoomi gets to three. "With a..." His eyes, scrunched and pained, flits up to Kiyoomi. "A real...kiss." A true feat, considering the thicket of a blush Atsumu hacks through. "Is what I'm sayin'."

To that, and the softest and most adorable he's ever witnessed Atsumu even attempt to be, Kiyoomi curls his nose.

"What even counts as fake kisses?" he says drily. "Those?" He points at Atsumu's neck. Then at his hand, still pointing at him. "Or those?"

Atsumu, slapping over his own neck, looks close to strangling himself.

"You know what I mean!"

"No, I don't," Kiyoomi says, just to be difficult. "And seal it with a real kiss? What are you, nine?"

"Never mind! Ya blunt, rude motherfucker! Who'd wanna kiss you anyway...?!"

With the way that Atsumu scans up and down the length of him, all his scorn landing dead-on right where Kiyoomi's watching—

"You do."

He should check Atsumu for a sunburn. Or the range of his blood pressure, with the naked insult, incredulity, and vulnerability flickering fast on his face. His jaw ticks like a jammed second hand, doomed to relive this moment for eternity. So Kiyoomi gives him a push, for the both of them, saying: "So do it."

"Why—" Spluttering, Atsumu backs away, grasshopper eyes bouncing all over the room. "Why do I oughta—?"

"We crashed at my place." Kiyoomi takes a step forward as Atsumu retreats. "I let you use my bathroom. Wear my clothes. Made you food. Tea." A smirk tapers his lip, because it's narration for his own sake again—how obvious he's been the whole time. "Gave you water."

"That...! That don't mean...I..."

"But I shouldn't be surprised," Kiyoomi continues, catching Atsumu's shoulder, stopping him from backing away further. "You're the type to ruin a perfectly good moment," he glances tellingly at Atsumu's hand, "just so you can do it over your way."

Of course, even when read like an open, split-spine book, Atsumu only squints shamelessly at him. "You got a problem with that?"

"I can respect it." Kiyoomi shrugs. "But I'm not doing your work for you."

Another step. Watching Atsumu's chocolate drops for eyes grow meltingly wider as he does. The perfect alignment of all his features, even the pores that he pitches a fit on trying to shrink and miniature scars from his escapades as a wandering baby or one too zealous an old fight with Osamu, really does grate on Kiyoomi. But at this point he registers it for the cute-aggression it is, cupping the sides of Atsumu's neck, resting his thumbs on the bone behind the cartilage of his ears. Making sure Atsumu has nowhere to run, nowhere else to look, because Kiyoomi will more than take him anyway, any way, lies and tells and truths and all.

"Here." Murmuring over Atsumu's mouth, he feels himself smile. "To make it easier for you."

Whether his own expression goes smug or fond, Kiyoomi's long past telling at this point, more caught up in Atsumu's touch dawdling over his arms. The deep swallow that bobs his throat and parts his wetted lips. His wide-eyed, lost look on the verge of discovery, aimed up at him.

"...Just ta make things crystal clear," Atsumu grits out, before finally clutching Kiyoomi's shirt. "I'm doin' this as a favour ta you."

Of course Atsumu says that looking him straight in the eye before, finally, Kiyoomi knows how bad and wonderful he tastes.

"I'm jus' sayin, Omi, if we don't remember most o' last night and we're free today, we might as well—"

"You're not getting out of vacuuming, Miya."