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The first time Atsumu met Kiyoomi was on a Thursday afternoon in the cleaning aisle of the grocery store. Atsumu was running errands for Samu, who needed this particular brand of cleaner for his restaurant, for some reason.
There was one bottle left, and Atsumu was in the midst of a stare down with a weirdo in a face mask and a neon jacket who had reached for it at the same exact time.
The stranger was taller than him—unusual—and had thick, unruly black curls—also unusual. And he was glaring at Atsumu like he wanted him dead and buried. Neither of them said a word as they sized each other up, eyes narrowed, fingers twitching.
Atsumu didn’t know about this guy, but he couldn’t just pick up some other cleaner and call it a day. This was the one Samu used, the one that cleaned really well but didn’t smell too strong, perfect for keeping the restaurant sterile but not smelling like bleach. There were no alternatives.
The other guy must’ve had pretty strong feelings too, judging by the way his black eyes were practically burning with hellfire as he stared at Atsumu. Then he spoke, his voice low but softer than Atsumu had expected.
“Do it,” he said, a dangerous edge to his voice. “I dare you.”
Unfortunately for him, Atsumu grew up with a twin brother, which meant there was no line he wouldn’t cross when there was a dare involved.
Atsumu snatched the cleaner, stuck out his tongue, and ran.
Honestly, after recounting the story to his brother when he delivered the cleaner, that was the last he thought of it. Until he ran into the stranger again.
The second time was at the bus stop. Atsumu thought the tall guy with curly hair looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t exactly place him until they got on the bus and there was just one seat left.
Atsumu turned to offer it to the other guy, all polite and everything, only to find him already watching him with a preemptively displeased look. Suddenly, Atsumu remembered him.
“You! Cleaner guy!”
Cleaner Guy had clearly already recognized him and just huffed in annoyance at the outburst. They both glanced at the one empty seat, and then back at each other. For some reason, Atsumu’s manners and good will seemed to dissipate under Cleaner Guy’s distrustful glare. He hadn’t even done anything and the jerk already expected the worst of him? Well, fine.
Atsumu held his stare as he shifted towards the seat. If this asshole was so convinced he was a mannerless jerk, then so be it, Atsumu would gladly prove him right.
But before he made it down, there was a sudden pressure on the back of his knees, making them wobble dangerously. He grabbed onto the nearest pole to keep himself upright, and by the time he straightened, Cleaner Guy was sitting firmly in the seat, nose up as he looked at Atsumu like he was a little ant beneath his ugly orthopedic sneakers.
Atsumu refused to give into the urge to throw a fit. He was better than that, better than the childish rivalry this stranger seemed to have pinned on him. Instead, he stood right in front of the guy for the duration of the ride, locked in an unofficial staring contest and keeping track of who blinked first more than the other.
In the end, Atsumu got off the bus first, which felt a little like losing for some reason, but he kept his head high because Cleaner Guy had blinked first 37 times, and Atsumu had only blinked first 28 times, so he was the real winner and they both knew it.
The next time he saw him was just on the street. Atsumu was walking, face down to his phone, and stopped at a crosswalk. He lifted his head to gauge how long before he could cross, and found himself face to face with a dumbstruck Cleaner Guy, looking at him with wide eyes that hadn’t become hostile yet. He was kinda cute, actually.
And then his face wrinkled in what Atsumu knew was doubtlessly a sneer beneath his mask. “You,” he muttered, in that same low, melodic voice as before.
Atsumu’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, a voice called out “Kiyoomi, let’s go!” and Cleaner Guy was startling, attention drawn to the voice calling him forward as the crosswalk. He looked back at Atsumu for just a moment, and then they both took off, taking their longest strides as they raced across the street in a silent battle to see who was faster. Neither of them broke into a run, of course, because that would be terribly immature.
Kiyoomi made it across faster, damn him, because of his long ass legs. Atsumu gritted his teeth at the smug glance he received, and then they were parting ways again, Kiyoomi heading right as he trailed behind his buddy with the eyebrows, Atsumu to the left.
They kept running into each other, often enough that Atsumu wondered whether Omi, as he’d taken to calling him in his head, had recently moved to the neighborhood.
Whatever the reason, they kept meeting, and every meeting was some sort of unspoken contest. They grew increasingly more petty and less subtle with every interaction, and yet they never once spoke more than accusatory words or impudent goading.
And then, one day, Atsumu ended up shoving elbows to ribs as he and Omi battled through the door of Onigiri Miya (Omi won and beat him in, damn him), and Samu looked up and said “Oh, what’s up, Sakusa-san. The usual?” and Atsumu froze.
“You know him?” he all but shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at Omi’s broad back. Omi glanced over at his shoulder with him the way one might look at a screaming child in an adult only venue.
Samu had a similar look on his face. “Stop screaming, ya scrub, you’ll scare the customers.”
“Fuck you, I am the customers! More importantly, since when do ya know Omi?”
Omi froze, turned with a furrowed brow that Atsumu barely noticed. Samu glanced between them with understanding dawning on his face. “This is Omi? How the hell was I s’pposed to know?”
“More importantly,” Omi interrupted firmly, “who the hell is Omi?”
“You, idiot,” Atsumu snapped, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring up at him. Stupid tall jerk.
“My name is not Omi.”
“Kiyoomi, Omi, whatever, who cares?”
“I care, it’s my name! And why the hell do you know it in the first place?!”
“Eyebrows called you that the one time. I’m not stupid, y’know.”
“I don’t, actually,” Omi sneered derisively, “you sure act like you are.”
Samu interrupted before Atsumu could retort. “Can the two of ya stop blockin’ my door and get some food already?”
Omi sniffed, nose in the air, and marched past Atsumu like he was nothing more than a stain on the wall. Atsumu followed sullenly, glaring daggers into his back.
It was only once they sat at the counter (three stools apart, of course) than Omi suddenly snapped his head over with a sharp stare. He looked back and forth between Samu and Atsumu for a few seconds before dropping his head in his hands like he’d suddenly contracted a migraine.
“Twins. Of course.”
“Hah?! What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Samu smacked his hands down on the bar between them, “If you two don’t stop fighting in my restaurant, yer both gettin’ banned. Make nice, or no food for either of ya.”
“Samu, yer bein’-”
Samu cut him off with a deadly serious glare. “Make. Nice.”
Jaw clenching, Atsumu turned to look at Omi, who looked just as displeased as Atsumu felt. Omi turned to him reluctantly, and their stare down only lasted a few tense seconds before Omi sighed and shoved his hand out between them.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi. I’m new to the city.”
Atsumu glared at the hand like it might shock him, but Samu clearing his throat was enough to have him reaching out too.
“Miya Atsumu. Wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet ya-”
“Tsumu.”
Atsumu gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Welcome to the neighborhood. If ya ever need anythin’, I’m happy to help.”
Samu smiled at both of them like a cat who caught a canary, pleased as anything at their expense. “Good. I think the two of ya are gonna be great friends.”
From the look Omi and Atsumu exchanged, his hopes weren’t quite so high. But if being friends was a competition, then dammit, Atsumu was going to win.