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Motoya’s eyes glance between his cousin seated next to him, and the singer currently on stage.
“Kiyo, is it just me, or is he looking at you?”
It takes everything in Kiyoomi not to frown, “Shut up Motoya, you’re imagining things.”
The blonde singer meets Kiyoomi’s eyes and fucking winks.
Motoya snickers, “Yeah, I’m imagining things cousin dearest.”
-ˋˏ ༻ three hours before performance ༺ ˎˊ-
Kiyoomi’s standing on the red carpet, facing the right and posing for the cameras.
He’s attending the annual music award show against his will.
His cousin already finished his turn on the carpet. He’s probably already mingling inside the venue.
“Omi-kun~!”
Kiyoomi’s spine stiffens. He tunes out the annoying voice, instead shifting his body towards the right for the cameras.
“Omi Omi!!”
An arm wraps around his waist, startling Kiyoomi.
Sadly, he is all too used to this annoyance, so he doesn’t flinch, but his smile tightens at the corners.
The camera flashes are blinding, the photographers asking for the two to face them.
Kiyoomi’s hand comes up to rest on the other’s back, pinching him.
“Miya.” He reluctantly acknowledges the singer, tilting his head to show off his jawline for the cameras.
“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu drawls, eyes raking down his body before meeting his, “Ya look good.”
Of course he does. Kiyoomi refuses to dress in a simple black tuxedo.
While he’s wearing a classic white shirting, his white and black jacket is encrusted with hand-embroidered pearls. His cousin convinced him to have a white and black fan as an accessory, pulling the look together.
Kiyoomi scoffs. The photographers ask them to turn to the left, and they have no option but to oblige.
“I wish I could say the same about you.”
The blonde’s wearing an all-black ensemble, but the real eye-catcher is the jewel-encrusted cape connected right above the deep v-neck.
Atsumu leans into Kiyoomi, his hand tightening on his waist. Kiyoomi plays into his scheme, shifting so the blonde’s hand slips to rest on his hip. He leans down slightly, his dark curls against Atsumu’s platinum blonde.
The camera shutters are deafening.
“Miya-senshu, just one of you please!” A photographer calls out.
Atsumu squeezes Kiyoomi’s hip before stepping away, eyes sparkling with mischief as he winks at Kiyoomi.
The singer covers his mouth with the fan before scowling.
‘Fuck you.’
Atsumu smirks as he reads his lips. Instead of retaliating, he blows him a kiss before facing forward once more, posing for the cameras.
Kiyoomi follows the red carpet into the awards venue.
He spots his cousin conversing with some other singers. Motoya spots him and gestures him over. Oh well, Kiyoomi’s in no rush to get to his seat.
-ˋˏ ༻ two hours before performance ༺ ˎˊ-
“What the fuck.”
Atsumu grins, chin resting on the palm of his hand as he taps Kiyoomi’s name card.
“Missed me?”
“What the fuck Miya?”
Kiyoomi refuses to believe they’re forced to sit next to each other. Every year, the committee seats them together, and every year they get into a scandal.
Last year was gossiping and not covering their lips, leading to lip readers exposing what they were talking about.
Not that they were all that accurate….
Two years ago it was making origami of gum wrappers. Motoya had a ton of gum sticks, and Kiyoomi and Atsumu were just bored enough to eat the whole pack solely for the wrappers.
But he digresses.
“There’s no way they sat us together.”
Atsumu shrugs and pops a mint, “I guess they think our ‘fan service’ is worth whatever we end up trending for.”
Kiyoomi’s nose wrinkles in distaste at his and Atsumu’s banter being seen as ‘fan service.’
“Oh, you found our seats!”
Motoya pops up behind Kiyoomi, successfully scaring the shit out of him.
“‘Toya-kun!”
“Ah, Atsumu-san!”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but takes his seat between his cousin and his worst headache as they converse with a little too much energy.
It’s not like they can get into any trouble.
-ˋˏ ༻ thirty minutes before performance ༺ ˎˊ-
He was so, so wrong.
So far they’ve had their managers scold them into putting on a politely bored face, not to blatantly ignore the act performing.
Honestly, it’s music clearly made for the radio, with no substance or anything. It’s not even good music. Kiyoomi likes pop music, but some of these singers are clearly just singing whatever their team of twenty writers conjured up.
Their managers also politely told them to lean forward, not towards each other as it gives the image that they are not interested in the acts.
They aren’t interested, but they simply nod and lean away from the other.
Then their managers told all three to stop passing notes.
It’s going to be a long night…
-ˋˏ ༻ performance time ༺ ˎˊ-
“M’kay, wish me luck Omi!”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and tries to trip the other as he gets up, “Break a leg.”
“Aw—“
“Literally.”
He ignores his cousin snickering in favor of watching Atsumu blow him a kiss.
Spreading his fan, he raises his middle finger in response.
“You’re blushing~”
Kiyoomi scowls, turning to face his cousin once Atsumu’s out of view.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Motoya playfully shoves his shoulder into his cousin’s. He picks up a program, using it as a makeshift fan to cover his lips.
“C’mon Kiyo, when are you gonna admit you like him?”
Kiyoomi gnaws on his lips, “I can’t, you know I can’t.”
“You can, you just don’t want to admit it,” Motoya frowns, “You know you’re giving him mixed signals. You play into his little schemes but then refuse to even glance at him elsewhere. He likes you Kiyo.”
Thankfully, the announcers present Atsumu, saving Kiyoomi from responding.
He focuses on the stage and—
Oh.
Atsumu’s stylist deserves a raise.
His blonde hair is artistically tousled, bangs falling to the side.
He’s wearing a black button-up, the first couple left open to show off his chest.
His gold suit jacket glistens under the lights, drawing everyone’s attention to himself.
Kiyoomi recognizes the song from the first couple of notes.
“You know this song?” His cousin practically yells into his ear.
“It’s a single he recently released. He’s basically talking about everyone wanting him and his commitment issues.”
Motoya laughs. His eyes sparkle with mischief as he observes his cousin observing Atsumu.
Kiyoomi can’t look away. Even if he wanted to, he’s captivated by the way the blonde commands the stage.
This is probably the most attention Kiyoomi has ever paid at an award show.
That’s when Motoya notices that his cousin isn’t the only one… captivated.
Motoya gleefully notices that Atsumu’s also glancing their way very frequently.
Oh, he wants to make sure Kiyooim’s attention is solely on him.
Very interesting!
He leans in conspiratorially, “Kiyo, is it just me, or is he looking at you?”
It takes everything in Kiyoomi to not frown, “Shut up Motoya, you’re imagining things.”
The blonde turns to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes at that very second and fucking winks.
Motoya snickers, “Yeah, I’m imagining things cousin dearest.”
The music settles into a steady beat.
“Alright,” Atsumu smirks from the stage, “I want every single one of ya to get off yer rich asses and dance!”
Motoya cackles as whispers and cheers erupt from the other celebrities and singers as they stand up.
Kiyoomi mumbles a number of insults under his breath but complies.
Atsumu grins, “Perfect.”
He practically skips down the steps, his band keeping the beat steady as Atsumu searches the crowd, flipping his mic in his hand.
Honey brown meets black, and Kiyoomi feels dread crawl up his spine.
This was not what he practiced.
Atsumu’s smile is sickly sweet as he saunters up to Kiyoomi, eyes raking over his body.
He meets his eyes once more and raises an eyebrow.
‘Play along, will ya?’
Kiyoomi puts his hands on his hips and steps forward, away from his seat. He raises his chin, looking down at the blonde, ‘Well?’
Atsumu brings his mic up to his lips, walking around Kiyoomi slowly.
“♪ See, I ain’t tryna hurt ya, baby, no, no ♪”
He reaches out, grabbing Kiyoomi’s hand and making a big show of kissing the back of it.
Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu wants him to lean into it, so he puts his other hand around the other’s shoulders.
Atsumu squeezes his hand twice, ‘Thank you.’
“♪ No, I just wanna work ya, baby, yup, yup ♪”
He flips his hand, kissing the inside. He smirks against his wrist, no doubt noting the spike in Kiyoomi’s heartbeat.
He tucks the microphone into his pants, the top part sticking out.
There’s an innuendo in there…
Atsumu places his hands on Kiyoomi’s waist, bringing him flush together.
Kiyoomi loosely wraps both his arms around the other’s shoulders, leaning back slightly.
Atsumu guides him into an intimate dance.
From the corner of his eye, Kiyoomi can see Motoya recording them.
Atsumu’s hands pull Kiyoomi’s arms away as he turns them around, Kiyoomi’s back against Atsumu’s chest.
One of the blonde’s hands lands on his hip, the other around his waist. Kiyoomi’s hands rest atop his arm, allowing himself to be guided once more.
Suddenly, Atsumu presses a kiss on his shoulder and shoves him off.
Scowling, Kiyoomi turns to find the blonde blowing him a fucking kiss and running back to the stage, his microphone back in his hand.
“♪ You better, you better, you better
Run, run, run away, run away, baby~!♪”
Motoya is downright gleeful as his cousin returns next to him.
“Kiyo—“
“Shut up,” Kiyoomi grumbles, smoothing out his suit, “Stupid Miya and his belief that everyone wants him.”
The rest of Atsumu’s performance runs smoothly, and everyone erupts in cheers as he ends his act.
“What the heck was that??” Kiyoomi hisses as the blonde returns to his seat.
“What, ya didn’t have fun Omi-kun?” Atsumu grins boyishly, delighting in the way Kiyoomi scowls.
“No you imbecile, I’ve seen you practice. You were supposed to dance with different people, not just me. Never mind that, I wasn’t supposed to be a part of this skit!”
Atsumu shrugs. His eyes are bright as he nudges his elbow against the other’s, “What if I only wanted to dance with ya, Omi-kun? Would ya still be calling me an imbecile?”
Motoya chokes on his water.
Kiyoomi's brain malfunctions.
The lack is immediate retort is enough for Atsumu to smirk, “Thought so.”
Kiyoomi’s eye twitches.
If he thinks he can fluster him with a song, all Kiyoomi has to do is release one he can use to mock him.
After all, all’s fair in love and war.