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“There’s something I have to tell you before you meet my parents,” Sakusa says on a northbound train from Osaka to Tokyo, height of summer, one stop away from the absolute worst possible moment for a surprise confession.
A year and some change has taught Atsumu a few lessons about dating Sakusa. He’s learned a greater quality of patience, has figured out how to sift for motivation in the abrupt and nonsensical. Atsumu has learned compromise. To breathe and absorb before reacting.
Atsumu has also learned that Sakusa respects none of it. “Are you about to make me wanna jump off the train?”
Sakusa ignores Atsumu’s snark. “They don’t exactly know about you, yet.”
Prepare for insanity and Sakusa will exceed expectations every time. Atsumu’s jaw hangs under weighty bemusement. “Excuse me, what?”
“My parents,” Sakusa says, crossing his right leg over his left and tugging his backpack into his lap. “I haven’t told them we’re together. Or my siblings, but I think they at least have an idea. They know I’m moving in with someone, just not any of the details. I doubt they assume you’re a roommate situation, though.”
“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says with the slow reckoning of devastated enlightenment. “Are you seriously telling me that you—you, the guy who told an entire café he doesn’t like sex, the idiot who made a calendar for his hormones, the absolute biggest pain in my ass in the history of ever—” Atsumu pauses for a moment to collect himself. “Look, I love you, but are you seriously telling me no one in your family knows about us? Do they even know I’m coming?”
“I’m allotted a guest.”
“So, no.” Atsumu wishes he couldn’t believe this shit but Sakusa’s only hit a fly ball into deep outfield with this baffling confession; it’s not out of the park.
Sakusa keeps one eye trained on the evergreen blur zooming past the train windows. “And not everyone’s in the dark, Motoya knows.”
“I’m the one who told him!” And Atsumu got untold levels of shit for letting it slip, too.
“Keep your voice down, we’re in public,” Sakusa says without a single god-given fuck for irony or past practice.
“Why?” Atsumu means it in a myriad of ways. Why not tell his parents? Why wait until now to warn Atsumu? Why the hell does Sakusa suddenly give a shit about decorum? The questions writhe in every direction and Atsumu has no idea how to prioritize them.
“This is our stop,” Sakusa says instead of offering even a single, half-hearted explanation, and then he’s halfway down the aisle to the exit before Atsumu can recover enough to grab his two bags and the garment bag Sakusa left behind in his rush to escape the conversation.
Out on the platform, Sakusa stands with his profile highlighted in thick stripes of molten gold curling around his back. He shifts his weight between his feet, still awkwardly hugging his backpack and stealing glances at the train like if he could get away with it, he’d jump right back on now that Atsumu’s off it.
Atsumu hands over Sakusa’s garment bag and jerks his head north, toward their hotel. “How about an easy ‘why’ first? How come I’m only hearing about this now?”
“Don’t coddle me.”
Well, never-fucking-mind, then. “You really don’t get to be the offended one, here.”
Sakusa’s feet remain stubbornly planted on the concrete platform. A gust of wind blows half his hair in his face but rather than push it away, he shakes the fringe out of his eyes with only moderate success.
“Omi—“
“I was worried you wouldn’t come. And if you didn’t come I wouldn’t tell them. And then, it’d just never end. I’ve never…” Sakusa trails off, staring at something over Atsumu’s right shoulder.
Atsumu turns to check, but there’s only a flickering overhead light situated above a swarm of middle school-aged kids. When Atsumu returns his attention to Sakusa, he’s biting his lip and considering the train again.
“You know, I wouldn’t have done that to you.” It sounds bitchy as hell but Atsumu feels pretty bitchy about it anyway. The presumption.
A disbelieving stare torpedoes across the platform.
Fuck. “Fine, I totally would, but I’d make it here for the party, I wouldn’t make you go alone.”
Shreds of Sakusa’s tension drop away. He’s like this, sometimes. His head spins off in wild directions and he can’t help but follow the errant thoughts no matter how ridiculous or fatalistic they get, until they explode out of him with no care for public decency or privacy. It’s one of those things Atsumu has learned to accept; proof positive he’s grown into this relationship every bit as much as Sakusa has. They’ve learned to meet in the middle. Doesn’t matter the middle is sometimes out at sea.
“C’mon. Let’s go get our room.” Atsumu takes two inquisitive steps back.
This time, Sakusa matches him.
Their hotel is the ritzy sort that stings in the wallet just enough to consider upgrading to a suite because why not at that point? Sakusa let Atsumu pay half without complaining, but he also lied his ass off about how much it cost. Knowledge Atsumu’s keeping close to the chest for something along the lines of: you ate my yogurt, asshole; yeah, well you told me that fancy hotel was only 70,000 yen. Atsumu already knows the next step of that conversation. Can trace every line of it until it’s only worth having for fun.
Sakusa checks them in because he prefers to, he’s like that, and then it’s up an elevator with far too much gold trim to what is easily the nicest hotel room Atsumu has ever had his own key to. Lush houseplants dominate the decor—one between a pair of overstuffed armchairs, tucked under a magnificent view of the city, and another on the opposite side of the bed, sprawling out into an explosion of massive leaves Atsumu could wrap his whole hand in. Gauzy curtains wrap around the sides of the bed in a fuzzy, effortless invitation for a nap.
And Atsumu’s supposed to believe three nights at this place is 70,000 yen? He’d be insulted if it wasn’t hilarious.
The call of a shower after hours on a train is too great for Sakusa so Atsumu gives into temptation and dozes on the bed, listening to the running water trying not to get wound up waiting his turn. This is one of those out-to-sea issues they need life jackets and Dramamine for. Too complex to prepare effectively, too personal to leave it be now that it’s in the open, especially with a looming social engagement that was already hitting a seven on the stress meter before any of this new nonsense came out.
Atsumu gets it, sort of. Sakusa is violently private. He thinks his business is his own unless he chooses to share it, and he hates betting on long shots. It’s easy to imagine the spiraling chaos of Sakusa trying to decide at what point their relationship meets the threshold to start telling his family, mulling over how long he has to get away with a casual aside and where the benchmark is for a serious, in-person conversation. Sakusa must have dwelled on this for months. From the moment the invitations went out right up until that moment on the train where he finally started spitting it out he mulled over the right timing and words and still can’t imagine how it goes because Sakusa and subtle have never been on friendly terms.
The water cuts off; its absence startling as slamming weights. Sakusa steps out of the bathroom, cradled by steamy clouds and sporting a rosy flush to complement the towel slung low on his waist. Hair slicked back out of his eyes, rivulets of water snaking down his neck, over his flushed chest and stomach—this is fairly obvious bait, even for Sakusa.
Is he trying to distract? Hoping for some appreciation to fend off insecurity? It doesn’t particularly matter which when the end result will always be the same. Atsumu props himself on his elbows and enjoys the production of Sakusa wandering around their hotel room mostly naked. When Sakusa heaves his bag into one of the armchairs with too much deliberation to be accidental, Atsumu lets out a teasing cat-call of a whistle.
“Shower’s free,” Sakusa says without a hint of suggestion, meeting Atsumu’s eye, acknowledging his gawking with a pleased little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Ego boost, then, and another persistent compromise. Sakusa has learned to appreciate the weight of desire from someone who doesn’t expect him to follow through; Atsumu has learned the heady satisfaction of summing up a mood with a glance along with the art of the quick, cold shower. At home this would be a game and Atsumu would likely pursue it—check the calendar, draw out the show—but instead he offers only one more appreciative whistle before shuffling off to the adjoining bathroom.
Once freshly scrubbed, Atsumu swipes at the foggy mirror with a towel and then lingers, shaving with more care than he needs and going for the world’s most thorough teeth brushing. The more his shock settles, the louder his nerves grow. Atsumu’s track record with parents isn’t stellar. He always needs a moment to work out his approach and a couple of rallies to adjust. Parents have to warm up to him—nobody likes Atsumu right out of the gate—and Atsumu wasn’t prepared for wooing tonight. That wasn’t on Sakusa’s pinpoint, color-coded agenda.
Atsumu doodles a string of angry faces downward, along the edges of the mirror where it’s still steamy. Furious little imps, all frowns no ears; bulbous circles with angle brackets pointed inward for eyes; grumpy squiggles and swoops meant to be sulking even more than he is.
Do Sakusa’s parents have any idea at all? Was that plus one he’s been allotted born of encouragement or desperation? Do they have the faintest inkling that Sakusa stamped a lease and lost three vicious, consecutive games of rock-paper-scissors over who gets which shelves and what furniture is destined for the recycling center? Or, maybe this is another one of those bombs Sakusa tends to drop in inappropriate settings because sometimes he’s not ready to talk until he has to.
Atsumu spits his worries into the sink along with his toothpaste and wipes the mirror clean, edge-to-edge. Only one way to find out.
Sakusa is fully dressed, damp hair kept out of his face with a narrow elastic headband. His crisp, charcoal suit flows in harmony with the lines of his body as he paces the tight space between the door and the far wall. Two buttons undone, no tie. Sunset lounges behind him again, this time a burnt orange blasting across the fading sky through their sixth-floor window.
“Alright, Omi-Omi, your time has come,” Atsumu says, going for his suitcase only to notice his clothes for dinner are already laid out. “Spit it out. Why don’t your parents know about us?”
“It never came up?” Sakusa’s voice is pitched like a nervous teenager but at least he’s not feigning ignorance and honestly, that’s half the battle sometimes.
“Is this why you’ve never let me meet them before? Kind of thought they just hated me.”
“Of course they don’t hate you.” Sakusa scoffs like it’s the most irrational thing anyone’s said so far in this clusterfuck of a conversation.
Atsumu mulls this over as he dresses. “I dunno, they might. Parents take a sec to warm up to me.”
“Well, that’s not the deal here.” Sakusa shoots another odd look across the hotel room. Like he still can’t believe it, he asks, “You were just… You were okay with that?”
Atsumu shrugs and loops his tie around the back of his neck—the maroon, silk one Sakusa bought him for Christmas—and watches Sakusa’s expression as he answers, “Figured I’d win ‘em over once we were moved in together. Can’t avoid my charm after we share dishes and towels.”
“Your charm is not at all difficult to evade,” Sakusa drawls with metaphorical quote marks cradling his mockery. He picks a piece of imaginary lint off his jacket sleeve for flavor.
“Then why haven’t you told them?” Atsumu loops his tie into a knot and pulls it just shy of choking before tugging it into the exact tenor of ten o’clock, three drinks, and a smolder.
“Because I’ve never brought someone home, before. It’s nothing to do with them or you, it’s just—” Tension flickers through Sakusa’s jaw. “I want you to know my family but I’m not ready for them to know everything. I don’t want to answer questions about why you and why now, and I don’t want to deal with the side-show of aunts and uncles squawking about how ‘we just thought you’d never settle down’ and thinking my life is now open season to be interrogated.”
“Then why bring me at all? You could have just explained this, we’d figure something out.”
“Because I’m not going to pretend we’re anything less than we are, either. We’re moving in together, this is serious for me. It’s time to tell them, I just… I get caught up thinking I don’t know how.”
Frustration is a usual response to Sakusa. He evokes it in people; always has a dozen avenues at hand to get Atsumu tense and combative in five words or less. Frustration with Sakusa is the resting state of the universe. And it’s that constant tension that makes these moments where Sakusa bends sublime. Atsumu feels loved; like he matters in a way he’s never mattered with anyone else. “I love you so much more than I know what to do with.”
A disbelieving laugh swallows Sakusa whole. “You have no idea.”
Like the hotel, the fortieth wedding anniversary of Sakusa Ginji and Sakusa Emi embraces a level of luxury beyond anything Atsumu has ever wanted. It’s almost offensively gaudy. Huge, crystal chandeliers, gold trim everywhere, soft music radiating from a string quartet dominating a corner of the ballroom. Every table is adorned with centerpieces featuring so many sunflowers, they might as well have packed the entire Himawari Matsuri in here. Every direction Atsumu turns, the shredded glitter of jewelry taunts maddening distractions in the corners of his vision.
Despite having only Sakusa and Komori for reference, Atsumu has always been aware of certain details about Sakusa’s family. Reality is both more than Atsumu was expecting and less than he’d prepared for. He feels out of place but not disastrously so—he’s got the fancy cufflinks, his hair is flawless. He’s charmed his way through much worse than this swanky ballroom despite what slander Sakusa likes to indulge.
Sakusa’s parents stand beneath a luxurious archway, greeting their guests. Sakusa’s mother’s hair curls into perfect ringlets, swept up along the crown of her head, more flowers dotted throughout the updo, extravagant as the jewelry wound around her neck and over her wrists. Her sleek dress ripples around her legs—jet black with gold embellishments to compliment the decorations and her jewelry. She tilts her chin toward Sakusa’s father when he leans in to whisper something in her ear, and Atsumu would never catch it if he didn’t have so much experience with Sakusa, but she smiles for just a fraction of a second and it is so whole, so genuine, that Atsumu’s resolve explodes in an instant.
Atsumu will impress these people before the night is over. Doesn’t matter what it takes. Just be polite, Ma always used to say. Just be anyone other than yourself, Osamu always tacked on. Both extremes have failed Atsumu, but perhaps the solution lies somewhere in the middle. Just be himself, sort of. Easy.
Shorter than Sakusa but only barely, and sporting hair that looks nearly as uncooperative, Sakusa’s father is dressed much like Sakusa is. Neat suit, no tie. Only one button left undone at the collar and Atsumu amuses himself imagining the day Sakusa converts to this more conservative button agenda while Sakusa pretends he’s not keeping Atsumu between him and his parents as he absolutely loses his shit.
“You doin’ okay back there?” It’s cute, really. Sakusa is so rarely flustered.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Might as well be an endearment at this point. “For the record: I’ll forgive you if you don’t tell them tonight. But I will also bring it up constantly until you do, so, you know, your choice.”
“A supportive partner would have stopped halfway through.”
Please. “A supportive partner would bore you to death.”
Sakusa takes another step, anxiety fading. “Fair enough. I think we’re past the point of no return, though. Remember, this is the crazy gene pool that spawned Motoya.”
“And you.” Atsumu snorts.
“Let’s just do this.” Sakusa nods in two shaky jerks and flexes his fingers like he’s desperate for a volleyball between his hands so he can properly hype himself up for this serve.
Atsumu expects the sort of prim greeting he remembers from his mother’s soapy television shows when he lived back home. There were always the uppity characters, the ones who spoke in perfectly crisp syllables with flawless grammar and followed every social nicety to the letter. What Atsumu gets isn’t too far off. There’s a bit of the trademark Komori sparkle dancing in Sakusa’s mother’s eyes when she smiles at them, though, and she hugs Sakusa rather than nod even if they both look a little put out over it.
It’s adorable. The tap-dancing, head-over-heels, sappy monster in Atsumu’s chest has to be ruthlessly quashed before Atsumu does something mortifying like coo over them.
Sakusa steps back and then there is a crushing pause while Sakusa opens his mouth and then snaps his teeth, glancing at Atsumu.
Help, the look demands with a chaser of: immediately.
Reading Sakusa has never taken much effort.
“My name is Miya Atsumu. It’s lovely to meet you both,” Atsumu says, hands clasped behind his back, bending into a bow more respectful than any he’s given since middle school.
When Atsumu straightens up, all eyes are on Sakusa.
Sakusa swallows. Resolve flares in the set of his shoulders. And then, like the bullet train, “Atsumu is my partner,” comes crashing out of him at warp speed.
“Oh,” his mother says, wide-eyed with a spattering of forehead wrinkles.
“Romantically,” Sakusa tacks on even though it’s entirely unnecessary and only serves to crank the awkwardness into the stratosphere.
Atsumu clenches his teeth around five snarky quips begging to be loosed. This is the hard part; Atsumu wasn’t expecting it at all. He got so worked up thinking about all the ways he might accidentally offend one or both of Sakusa’s parents, he completely missed the part where the person most likely to incite disaster was, in fact, Sakusa.
As if to prove the point, Sakusa jerks his pointer finger between them and adds, “boyfriends” like anyone in the hemisphere could possibly be unclear by this point.
Atsumu has not endured a silence so pressurized since that time Osamu accidentally said “bag of dicks” in front of their great-grandmother.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Miya-kun.” Sakusa’s mother’s gaze swivels back to Sakusa.
Atsumu has experience with this face, too. This is a scheming face; that twitch in the corner of her lips can’t get past him. Sakusa’s father remains stock-still during the exchange but offers up a greeting as well before settling into the sort of chaotic bystander energy that leaves Atsumu unsure which side of this family Komori came from.
“A moment, if you don’t mind?” Sakusa’s mother asks. Her fingers wind around Sakusa’s wrist in a vice grip and every expression in three meters—the nervous, the plotting, the ones just enjoying the show—widens.
The look Sakusa shoots Atsumu as he’s hauled away is one reminiscent of a grade-schooler caught red-handed with contraband. No hope, just clawing dread despite the end of the world only meaning a trip to the principal’s office and maybe a time-out. And then, just when Atsumu is starting to enjoy this mental image of ten-year-old Sakusa being dragged out of class by the back of his preppy polo shirt, his father clears his throat and Atsumu is immediately thrust into blind terror because that traitor just outright abandoned him and Atsumu sucks at parents.
“We already knew,” Sakusa’s father says, mercifully breaking the ice before Atsumu feels compelled to.
Apparently, the whole casually drop life-changing information in public thing is a family trait. Atsumu shouldn’t be so surprised.
“Have for a while, actually. He talks about you a lot even if he tries to be sly about it.” With fond exasperation, Sakusa’s father adds, “Emi’s going to draw this out a bit, though. Pretend we haven’t noticed, see what he has to say for himself. Neat trick if you didn’t already know it—just stare at him until he starts talking.”
Sakusa, Komori, and now this?
“Seriously nutty gene pool.” Atsumu doesn’t think to mind his company until it’s already done and out there, glittering alongside the jewelry and ballroom lights. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright. You don’t need to be so nervous.”
Atsumu can hear Sakusa in his father’s laugh. Can spot the prim mischief balanced dead center in his tone, willing to teeter into either extreme. Is it half as obvious with Atsumu when he stands between his parents? Do people look at them and see the birthplace of every quirk and crag?
Perhaps the best way out is through. Atsumu’s sure he heard that someplace. “Thanks. I just don’t have a lot of practice with this whole”—a wide gesture toward Sakusa, his father, the room at large with its string quartet and champagne and more gemstones than a Ginza jeweler—“thing.”
“Well, then, I’ll give you a jump start on that one,” Sakusa’s father says, gaze pointed squarely at his wife and son bent into a far corner near the emergency exit. “Kiyoomi is exactly like her. If you’ve figured him out, she’ll be a piece of cake.”
“I don’t know if I’d ever call him easy”—There is a joke here Atsumu is too mortified to leave uncovered—“more like he’s predictable… sort of. Sometimes, anyway.”The real truth of it was that Atsumu could always depend on Sakusa to be unabashedly Sakusa.
“Fair enough. They are more fierce than anything else. Stubborn. Loyal. They tend to dig down rather than try climbing out.”
Sakusa, in a breath.
“Must be talking about my favorite cousin.” Komori sidles up to Atsumu’s other side, startling him more than Atsumu’s comfortable admitting and throwing an elbow for emphasis. He makes a series of hand gestures Atsumu thinks must be meant to convey: all clear? “I see Auntie Emi’s got her claws out. Better settle in Tsum-Tsum, it’s gonna be a while before she lets him go.”
It hits Atsumu in an instant that Komori must have known about this whole secret partner, romantically, as in we are boyfriends nonsense. The goblin didn’t even warn him. He didn’t even hint. Atsumu scratches the corner of his eye with his middle finger but Komori’s grin only inflates as he keeps up a steady stream of chatter with Sakusa’s father talking about cruise ships and mountain retreats.
Off in their corner, Sakusa’s mother wraps an arm over his shoulder and pulls him into a hug he has to hunch halfway over to comfortably reach. She pats his back and whispers something in his ear that stops his ranting and elicits a smile—the pleased one, the happy one that seldom comes out but always means something wonderful.
Atsumu still can’t cope with how full his heart feels around this guy.
“Alright,” Sakusa’s father says, clapping a hand on Atsumu's shoulder to draw his attention, then leveraging him into something a little kinder than a frog march, deeper into the socializing crowd. “Come on, boys, let’s get you some drinks. I won’t ask too many questions but I make no promises about Emi—I’m sure both you and she will appreciate it if I liquor you up a bit, first.”
“I know you knew about this,” Atsumu hisses at Komori, utterly certain he needs no explanation.
“Oh? You mad? Well, too bad ‘cause I’m not ashamed to take sides.” Komori doesn’t bother hiding his snickers but then, lower, he adds, “Relax, you’re doing fine. You got this.”
Deep breaths. Like Sakusa, earlier, Atsumu imagines himself on the precipice of a serve. Runs through his psych-up routine and squares his shoulders. What’s he doing being so jittery?
Komori’s right. Atsumu’s got this.
After dinner, the string quartet gives way to a band embracing a clever blend of modern hits and classical flair, and Atsumu is finally given a break from an amusing, albeit exhaustive interrogation served over drinks and dessert. Atsumu and Sakusa aren’t quite dancing, just lazily swaying back and forth at the edge of the dance floor. It’s been a pretty nice night overall. Good food, good company, and Sakusa was absolutely, one-hundred percent right about this bonkers gene pool. Atsumu has never met such stuffy, snarky people in his life. Every other word slung across dinner was rife with sarcasm and double-entendre and Atsumu could have had so much fun with this if only he’d had the time to prepare.
Maybe that’s why Sakusa didn’t warn him earlier—Atsumu wouldn’t put it past him at all.
“I love this party.” It’s the third or fourth time Atsumu’s enthused over it and he still can’t quite capture the sheer magic of the evening.
“I am aware,” Sakusa says with the long-suffering sigh of someone committed to enduring. “But can you please stop saying you wooed me over thirty-six cups of tea? It wasn’t nearly that many.”
He’s so full of shit, it was definitely more. “Nope.”
“Then at least stop talking about that god-awful falafel stand like I’m constantly trying to burn the place down.”
“No deal.”
“You’re just being difficult, now,” Sakusa gripes but it’s not genuine at all—if it were, he wouldn’t slip his arms further around Atsumu’s waist or turn them a bit more to the left to watch his parents twirling around.
“Aw, Omi-Omi, you know me so well.”
Another lazy song goes by, and then Atsumu’s time is up. Sakusa’s parents part. His father joins Sakusa’s brother and a cousin Atsumu can’t remember the name of—he’s endured dozens of introductions over the past few hours—while his mother sashays over with her dress flowing in inky waves.
“Afraid I’m going to insist on a dance,” she says, but when Atsumu releases his loose grip on Sakusa expecting her to sweep him away, she reaches for Atsumu’s hand instead and then two months of adolescent dance classes take over and they are whirling around the dance floor to a trombone heavy rendition of a song Atsumu’s heard countless times but can’t place the name of. Sakusa’s mother is taller than Atsumu realized, has the same texture to her curly hair as Sakusa and her delicate fingers fit Atsumu’s hand with tentative familiarity baked into her bold grip.
“So,” Atsumu says, beating back nerves and sweaty palms. “Am I about to get another shovel talk?”
A wry smile. “Not from me, but my brother will probably get to you at some point. He’s rather protective of all the kids.”
“And you’re not?”
Sakusa’s mother hums along with the music. It’s the sort of thing Sakusa would do to buy time while he forms up something he wants to say, so Atsumu takes the advice offered earlier, and waits. It only takes a few more steps. “No, not in this way. He’s like me. I know he won’t let you get away with anything, just like I can tell you won’t try it. Not in any of the ways that matter.”
“Your husband said the same thing. That you and Kiyoomi are a lot alike.” Sakusa’s given name feels hefty on Atsumu’s tongue but the awkwardness dissolves as Atsumu guides Sakusa’s mother into a quick spin that sends her dress flaring into a fantastic wave of liquid gold spilled over a pitch-black midnight.
“In many ways. I’m happy he’s found someone to share his time with. Feels a lot like when I found someone to share mine with, forty years ago.” A keen smile to the right. “Ah, Kiyoomi’s lost his patience, I see.”
When Atsumu follows her gaze he finds Sakusa striding toward them as a lingering guitar chord fades away and a new beat starts kicking from the drums. The sour pout curling his mouth is adorable—another little moment for Atsumu to keep in his back pocket for later. Remember that time you got lonely while I was dancing with your ma?
Sakusa doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head and exchanges a tight but knowing smile with his mother, and accepts a brief kiss on the cheek when she releases Atsumu. The next song is a slower one—more appropriate for the near-automatic return of their close swaying at the edge of the dance floor.
This time, Sakusa props both forearms on Atsumu’s shoulders and puts his weight further back, on his heels. “You know, our anniversary is soon.”
“Was a while back, actually.” Atsumu considered celebrating but Sakusa has never had a taste for gooey gestures. He’s more of a savory guy. Prefers substance over sugary fluff, so they stayed in that night and Atsumu let him pick both a movie and dinner, never quite sure if Sakusa understood or cared why.
Sakusa’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re counting from the café?”
And he’s counting from the shampoo. It’s when this became serious; when Sakusa surrendered to the waves lapping around his ankles, inviting him out into the tides. Sakusa counts from the moment he knew rather than the moment they began.
Atsumu’s chest feels too full again and it’s not at all helped by his tightening arms crushing Sakusa closer. “Yours works, too.”
“You ever think about it?” Sakusa asks. “A proper anniversary?”
“Like where everyone agrees on the date and—you know—actually celebrates it? Can’t say I have.” Who needs it? They’ve always done their own thing and it’s always worked for them.
“But it’s what you do, right? You find someone you want to spend your life with and you buy rings and get the hanko out. I don’t… I wouldn’t mind. If that’s something you want.”
It does sound nice in a for other people sort of way. Atsumu has watched a hundred movies all running through this exact set of beats and came out of every one an emotional mess. The rom-com standard is a sweet one, but it’s not something Atsumu needs in his real life and on his calendar. Especially not when Sakusa almost certainly feels the same. “You just don’t want to explain our relationship to people.”
Sakusa grumbles over his less than sincere motivation being called out. “You have to admit the questions would be so much easier.”
“I suppose it could be fun being introduced as your husband, romantically.” An eyewatering sting erupts down the back of Atsumu’s neck. “Ahh! No pinching!”
“I know you’re incapable, sometimes, but I’m being serious.”
Atsumu sweeps the lead away, swaying them into a loose crescent to the left. “Far as I’m concerned we stamped papers when we signed the lease. We could buy rings but why bother when neither of us would wear them? Not like either of us give a fuck about answering questions we don’t want to, anyway, so what’s the point of any of it? I got what’s important to me.”
“I just wanted you to know it’s an option,” Sakusa says, but he sounds relieved and something tense in his forehead relaxes for the first time all night.
“That’s sweet, but don’t think it gets you out of trouble. Can’t believe you didn’t even tell your parents we’re together.” Atsumu takes a level breath to center himself and then lets loose with the most outrageous scoff he can muster. “I’m offended. My feelings are hurt.”
“Liar.” Seems the endearment goes both ways.
“Cannot believe you dragged me all the way here without even warning me—”
Sakusa’s always liked kissing when it’s on his terms. This one is a short and hidden caress hidden behind the veil of his jacket sleeves. Nothing more than a quick peck to shut Atsumu up and acknowledge the tender tone the night has taken. A whisper ghosting Atsumu’s lips. “I trust you will make me pay for it later.”
“Yep” pops in the sliver between them.
“And you’re right.” Sakusa pulls back to the bare impression of a tasteful distance. “About the café. If that’s when it started for you, that’s when it started for us. Just because I took longer to get there doesn’t mean what you felt wasn’t real. Guess I missed our anniversary, huh?”
Sakusa’s suit jacket wrinkles under Atsumu’s grip. “Say again? Not sure I heard you right.”
“That sucks because I’m not saying it again.”
“So stubborn,” Atsumu mutters, pressing in enough to touch their noses but not enough to steal another kiss. “But I’ll take it.”
“’Cause we’re endgame?” Sakusa asks, an echo of another unexpectedly emotional moment, months ago.
Atsumu just doesn’t know how to deal with this fullness in his chest. Again, always. Every minute he’s threatened with bursting; certain this is it, this is the most he can possibly pack beneath his ribs. Second place is a speck in the dirt fit to be crushed by ants. “So much more than I know what to do with.”