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Sakusa Kiyoomi’s favorite season is winter.
Miya Atsumu’s, on the contrary, is summer.
Being complete opposites, this is no rare occurrence. Atsumu delights in the late sunsets of the hot season, the feeling of scorching heat when he steps into the familiar sand; He shines in the summer, with beautifully tanned skin and freshly-bloomed freckles painting themselves on his face. It’s to no one’s surprise that Kiyoomi instead bathes in the pleasure of early sunrises with cold winds; his routine by no means disturbed this time of the year, the high temperatures not posing a threat to his self-care exercises and shower routine. The only valid argument Atsumu has declared against Kiyoomi and his preference is: It’s not volleyball season. Unfortunately, it’s a true, veritable, and valid reason.
Except Kiyoomi is favored by whatever omniscient deity is up there, clearly, because Atsumu is freezing to death and they’re playing against Club Atlético San Juan tomorrow.
They just arrived at the airport in Buenos Aires. This is their first time in Argentina, for Kiyoomi and for Atsumu and the entirety of the MSBY Black Jackals. Foster calls it a bonding experience. Kiyoomi came prepared, of course– dressed for the season. Winter. In August! If he had any wet dreams, this is what they’d consist of.
Next to the calm yet elated Kiyoomi stands Atsumu. In a t-shirt and sweatpants. At 9 degrees celsius.
“Should’ve done your research, Miya.” Kiyoomi says, the smirk almost present on his lips, before going ahead to talk with Meian.
Shouyou, God bless him, offers Atsumu his scarf with an apologetic smile.
Atsumu declines miserably.
—
Kiyoomi didn’t believe in karma until one day, he and Atsumu got locked inside the gym’s supply closet all night after purposefully spiking a volleyball at Atsumu’s head. He came out of that room tired from the lack of sleep, filthy from the lack of cleaning (there was not a single disinfectant product in sight) and annoyed out of his damned mind by Atsumu, who thought that it was a marvelous time to get to know each other despite the appalling circumstances of the situation.
The universe, Kiyoomi learned, is not to be tested.
He wonders how the fuck he forgot about that very important lesson while finishing the check-in at the hotel counter, with a happy-go-lucky Atsumu trailing close behind. He sighs before swiping the key to the room.
“Well Omi-Omi, if this ain’t just wonderful! Ya get to be my roommate for a whole night!” Atsumu exclaims, already making Kiyoomi’s eye twitch by plopping himself on the couch and putting his dirty, bare feet on the table before him. He ignores him, prioritizing his sanity.
“I’m going to shower. Can I trust you with dinner or will you burn the establishment down?” Kiyoomi takes in Atsumu’s shocked face and turns around, ignoring the teasing comments he receives after a second of hesitation from the cocky bastard. The other times they’ve been roommates, Kiyoomi always opted to order take-out, refusing to accept Atsumu’s endless offers to make a meal for both of them. You probably don’t wash your hands before cooking, so no, he’d say.
“Am I yer house husband now, Omi-Omi~? I wouldn’t mind, ya know!”
Kiyoomi groans in frustration, making sure Atsumu hears, but he’s glad he can’t see his flushed face.
Fifteen minutes and a skincare routine later, he comes out of the shower and surprisingly, it doesn’t smell like fire. Kiyoomi makes his way to the kitchen and sees Atsumu seated on top of the island counter, eating– no, scratch that– devouring his ramen like it’s his last meal. When he notices Kiyoomi, he wordlessly nods in the direction of the microwave.
After grabbing his dinner, he jumps a bit to take a seat at the island counter. Gulping down that konbini ramen next to Atsumu in complete silence with only the sound of slurping noodles present in the room was much more enjoyable than Kiyoomi would ever admit. Their eyes meet, and it forms an unresolved tension that wouldn’t leave the space.
Shockingly, Kiyoomi doesn’t lecture Atsumu on the importance of personal space or whine about the lack of it; a surprising factor, taking into account they’d be sharing a bed. Actually, it’s the complete opposite. His pale face is now blushing a peach color and he’s avoiding eye contact like the plague.
Atsumu’s mind wanders– far. Very far. He stops himself before he makes up ridiculous assumptions.
He’ll come around eventually, he’s probably just embarrassed, Atsumu thinks.
Kiyoomi was indeed embarrassed. He has only slept in the same bed with his mother and Komori, and both of them made sure to point out Kiyoomi’s… cuddling tendencies, to give it a name. He made Komori swear on their Grandpa that he wouldn’t ever mention it again– but if he ever hugged Atsumu like a teddy bear while asleep, Kiyoomi wouldn’t hear the end of it. And Atsumu would make sure to embarrass him in front of the whole team. That, and the mere thought of Cuddling Miya Atsumu sent butterflies flying in his poor stomach.
He’s got a crush. He knows. And so what.
Weakness is not an option. He’s going to make sure he doesn’t give in and he’s not going to cuddle Miya Atsumu, for goodness’ sake.
—
So. What is he supposed to do if Miya Atsumu cuddles him?
Kiyoomi lays stiff as a rock as the setter presses back against Kiyoomi’s side. He’s aware, this isn’t exactly cuddling, but it sure felt like it. Atsumu is a cuddler? The chance of it didn’t even cross his mind but it is now, his brain speeding at least a hundred kilometers per hour. Maybe he should wake him up. Kind of like, “Hey Miya, stop pressing your ass against me or I might just die,”— maybe not that, but what if Atsumu was grossed out by this? What if he’d prefer if Kiyoomi woke him up rather than just letting it happen?
Ah. His back is cold, Kiyoomi realizes as Atsumu shifts, making his t-shirt ride up; now, his bare back is pressing insistently against him.
Yeah. He should wake Atsumu up before he spirals into insanity.
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and shakes Atsumu’s shoulder lightly. “Miya,” He whispers, albeit there not being a reason to.
“Mmmh,” Atsumu mumbles against the pillow, still unconscious. Kiyoomi’s eyes fly open when Atsumu turns around, now facing him– and scoots closer than before. “S’cold, Omi,” a cold arm wraps around his waist.
He freaks out. “Miya–” He squirms in Atsumu’s hold, but Atsumu seems like he’d rather die than let go, stubborn even while sleeping; and only then does Kiyoomi register that he and the Miya Atsumu, who he might’ve been crushing on since high school is on the same bed as him and not only that, but he’s cuddling him.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Shut up,” Atsumu orders in a raspy voice, and Kiyoomi has no interest in declining his request– mostly because he is actually too flabbergasted to reply. Atsumu must’ve noticed his stiffness even in his sleep because he proceeds to wrap both arms around Kiyoomi’s waist and pulls him closer. “Cuddle, Omi…”
Kiyoomi admits he'd lost this battle. Atsumu is way too much and Kiyoomi is way too weak. With no hesitation left, he wraps his arms around Atsumu’s freezing waist (How could he not spare some warmth?) and yanks him up, letting Atsumu rest on top of him. He asked for this. Just when he closes his eyes, he hears Atsumu’s voice once again.
“Omi-Omi…?”
He woke up.
“Sleep, Atsumu.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t get to see Atsumu’s lazy smile in the dark, but he doesn’t miss how domestic it feels when Atsumu nuzzles his face in the curve between Kiyoomi’s shoulder and neck, and he has to contain himself from kissing Atsumu’s forehead impulsively.
“We talk about this… Tomorrow,” Atsumu says, slurring his words.
Holding Atsumu closer, he replies. “Hmm, sure.”