Chapter Text
Miya Atsumu was not blind. He knew how to appreciate beautiful things. Or beautiful people. He’s appreciative enough that he tended to leave passing compliments to those who caught his eye. Being interested with beauty in general made him somehow completely enamored with the intricacies of the human aesthetic, in the ins and outs of what society would consider as essentially pretty.
He was not oblivious enough that he would simply ignore his teammate, Sakusa Kiyoomi’s, good looks. And no, contrary to what others may presume, he was not infatuated. Just—as stated before— appreciative. Who wouldn’t be? With long black curls that fell like gentle waves over his face, framing his defined jawline and cheekbones, and obsidian black eyes which glittered like jewels under any slivers of light—Atsumu would have to be blind to not consider Kiyoomi even the tiniest bit gorgeous. It didn’t help that the other also had incredibly broad shoulders and pale complexion and long legs which seemed to go on for days on end. He looked regal, in a way. Mysteriously elegant and bewitching.
He'd rather die than admit it out loud, but hidden within the depths of his own mind, he conceded that Kiyoomi was, indeed, the embodiment of an ideal male lead in a romantic fiction novel.
And yes, it embarrassed him to acknowledge that. He sounded like a prepubescent girl fawning over her first ever crush.
Atsumu would find his eyes gravitating towards Kiyoomi’s direction, as if compelled. Then he would momentarily gaze at the raven-haired man, taking note of his indifference, his sharp features, and the way his shirt slightly rode up to expose a bit of skin whenever he jumped to deliver a ruthless spike over the net. Sometimes he would also glance at the other’s jersey—at the taut stretch of fabric encompassing the muscles of his upper body, the edges of his sleeves bunching as his biceps flexed while playing.
It’s not like he would intentionally glance towards his way and thoroughly analyze every bit of him. He knew it was quite creepy to even specifically notice such things about Kiyoomi. Atsumu was merely…observant. And dumb. And confused as to why out of all the goddamn people in the world he had to pay attention to, it had been Kiyoomi.
…
“Yer literally a fuckin’ idiot.” Osamu sighed for the nth time as he rubbed the side of his forehead in a placating manner. He resembled a man on the verge of a bad migraine. “Honestly, how the fuck do ya not hear yerself right now?”
Atsumu shoved another serving of onigiri in his mouth, face adopting an expression of uncertainty. “What do ya mean?” He asked curiously after chewing languidly on his food. “Also, this onigiri is delicious.” He commented.
His brother stared at him disbelievingly. “Really, ‘Tsumu? Ya really don’t know the shit yer spewing?” He almost looked comical to Atsumu, his black cap tilted sideways, apron dotted with grains of rice, face painted with the look of pure irritation.
Atsumu shrugged, “ I don’t get what yer saying.”
“Ya’d been rambling about Sakusa Kiyoomi for ten minutes. Ten minutes. ” Osamu stated this as if proving a point. A point which Atsumu was obviously not reaching. He used to subject Osamu for hour-long rants about other things—usually anime characters, but that was besides the point—so what if he talked about the esteemed volleyball player for a couple of minutes?
“Yes, and?” He queried with an eyebrow raised in bewilderment. What was Osamu trying to say? Was it improper to talk about an acquaintance? Atsumu was terribly inept at hidden meanings.
Osamu grunted exasperatedly. “Never mind. I hope ya find out for yerself. I won’t spell it out for ya.” And with that he walked away, heading towards the kitchen to wash the remaining dishes. His eyes followed his brother’s retreating figure and he then let out a noise of confusion. Had all the onigiris his brother made finally cloud his senses and push him into insanity? Was he too stressed that he was making assumptions about Atsumu supposedly rambling about Kiyoomi? All this nonsense was puzzling him.
“Oh well,” Atsumu muttered self-assuredly. “His problem, not mine.” He downed his cup of water and continued eating to his heart’s content.
Practice, although normally enjoyable for Atsumu, was now akin to a living hell. There were only two weeks left before the new season started and Coach Foster was pushing them to their limits with their revised training regime. The scrimmages were fun, yes, but the exercise routines? Exhausting. Atsumu had to endure running laps around the court even though his thighs ached painfully. Their captain Meian also barked out orders for them as they worked out, continuing to motivate them as their muscles progressively became sore from use.
Atsumu took deep heavy breaths, sweat running down from the sides of his face. He slumped down on the floor, feeling his body burn from fatigue. Beside him, Inunaki, their libero, was also sitting on the ground, stretching his calves. His eyes trailed Kiyoomi, who was currently doing reps on the weights. He watched the other slowly lift the dumbbells, his forearm curling to haul the heavy objects. Kiyoomi’s arm muscles protruded from underneath the shirt, revealing toned biceps— and were those his veins bulging from his muscles? Beefy was not the word he’d use to describe Sakusa Kiyoomi. When they’d first met in the All Japan Youth Training camp, the other boy had been mostly lithe and thin. But now as years had passed, he had developed into a fine, muscular man, with a physique that basically screamed pro-athlete. Even though he was not as thickly muscled as Bokuto, he definitely had the full package: broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs.
Atsumu wasn’t shy in admitting that his teammates were, for lack of better word, good looking. The countless hours of training surely gave way to fit bodies which could rival a model’s. They each had their own visual appeal (any person with two functioning eyes could see that). However, he didn’t really look at them like the way he did to Kiyoomi. He was no stranger to admiration for his team’s physical features, but it had not come to a point wherein he would particularly get distracted by them. For example, he found himself, through various slips of time (unintentionally, mighr he add), watch the spiker do his drills.
‘His spikes are amazing.’ Was what he thought every time he watched the other play. It’s something he had conditioned himself to think to divert his eyes from simply staring at his face. Not that it helped much, anyway. Somehow, most of the time his thoughts would wander to very-not-teammate-appropriate territories, ones which he would rather not expound on.
He didn’t notice the blush covering his cheeks all the way up his ears until Inunaki whistled from his side. “Getting pretty distracted right there, Atsumu?” He teasingly remarked, and Atsumu snapped out of his induced staring, looking very much like a deer caught in headlights. He waved his hands around nervously, trying to contradict the libero’s statement.
“I-I wasn’t getting distracted ‘nunaki-san!” He sputtered and then noted that his face was quickly turning into an alarming shade of red. “Just watching everyone, that’s all!”
Inunaki gave him a shit-eating grin, his eyebrows raised. “ Right.” He said, apparently enjoying the blonde’s state of panic. “Everyone, huh?” Then he laughed, and Atsumu was mortified.
“I’m just observing! Stop assuming shit.” He mumbled, disgruntled. Inunaki just laughed once more before resuming his stretching. Atsumu huffed and shifted his gaze to his other teammates who were doing their own routines. Staring at someone didn’t mean anything, right?
Okay. It clearly did mean something, judging from how Shoyo was snickering at him. He had been discovered glancing at Kiyoomi yet again, and of all people it had been the loud and boisterous orange-haired volleyball player. In Atsumu’s defense, it was only a passing glimpse—only a sweep of his eyes at the direction where Kiyoomi was practicing his killer serves. He absolutely had no intentions of watching the other. But to his surprise, Shoyo had been attentive enough to catch the setter briefly peering at the other spiker.
Shoyo sniggered, his brown eyes twinkling with mirth. “Enjoying yourself there, Atsumu-san?” He asked jokingly. Atsumu willed himself to not crumble under the sheer force of embarrassment, but alas, he was quite unfortunate; the tips of his ears were covered with a blush.
Atsumu let out a forced smile and tried to ease his awkwardness from having been caught. “ ‘m fine, Sho! Just standing ‘round here.” He gestured towards the court where some members of the team were practicing on, the squeak of their shoes audible against the polished floor. He hoped his response was enough to deter the other from asking any more questions.
Shoyo levelled him with a knowing look, as if he knew something the blonde didn’t. “Hmm,” He hummed, “It’s really obvious, ‘tsumu-san. Don’t think some of us hadn’t noticed.” Atsumu was a bit taken aback at Shoyo’s display of perceptiveness, and he was utterly befuddled at his statement.
“Noticed what?” Atsumu furrowed his eyebrows, perplexed. What was he talking about? What did Atsumu do to garner their attention?
“Y’know,” Shoyo transferred his gaze towards Kiyoomi, and looked back again towards him. “Him.” His vague answer certainly didn’t help him understand his message. Atsumu was lost. Was he talking about the reason why Atsumu often stared at Kiyoomi?
“I kinda don’t get what yer saying here.” Atsumu said dubiously. “If yer talking about Omi, then there’s nothin’ wrong between us. We’re not getting into fights or anythin’ “ He elaborated. And it was true. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening between the two volleyball players (although they still resorted to verbal attacks and mindless bickering). Everything was perfectly normal, on his behalf.
“No, no!” Shoyo shook his head, fluffy orange tufts of hair bouncing along with the movement. “What I meant is that—” the smaller man leaned forward as if revealing a secret, “—you think Sakusa-kun’s really, really hot.” Then he leaned back, beaming widely. Like a cat that caught the canary.
Atsumu wanted nothing more than to evaporate. He quickly looked around to check if there was anyone near them and thankfully, no one was. “Omi-kun isn’t that hot.” Shoyo raised an eyebrow at him in return, “Okay maybe’s he’s quite easy on the eyes, Sho. But what’s the big deal about it? Can’t I just have a moment to appreciate nice faces?”
Shoyo almost hadn’t bought it and would have continued teasing him, but then he may have had seen the other’s cluelessness. A look of amusement then settled on Shoyo’s face. “It’s okay if you find him attractive, ‘tsumu. But, well.”
“Well what?” Atsumu asked imploringly.
Shoyo scrutinized him for a short moment before letting out a chuckle. “Never mind. Just know that I’m rooting for ya!” Then the exuberant tangerine turned around and headed to the locker room, leaving Atsumu even more confused.
“The fuck is he goin’ on about?” He muttered to himself, a pile of questions already starting to form at the top of his head. What the hell was Shoyo referring to?
He was about to chase after the shorter man in his haze of puzzlement until he accidentally lets his eyes wander (again) to Kiyoomi (again). The way his line of vision was immediately drawn to the other was almost automatic, like metal to a magnet. It was kind of infuriating—on how his shirt clung to his muscled, sinewy build, how he still appeared cool even with the rivulets of sweat streaming down his face, how he looked so effortlessly fine —because Atsumu knew of only a few people who could reach that level of beauty. And somehow, somehow that beauty had been gifted to Kiyoomi, who was an uncaring, indifferent asshole that rattled Atsumu’s nerves. How can someone with a personality like that be so simply beautiful?
Atsumu inwardly tsked. Totally unfair, he thought as he saw Kiyoomi deliver yet another flawless spike.
It had taken a few gruelling weeks for Atsumu to realize something. Maybe, just mayb e , he was depraved of any intimate action and so he decided to project it to another person—or in other words, he was thirsty. And extremely gay. The distinct lack of fruity interaction that he had was getting to his head that it made him fantasize about a man with pretty eyes and pretty hair and pretty moles.
It had been a steady build-up—from watching to fantasizing. He thought of how soft Kiyoomi’s raven curls would be underneath the tips of his fingers as he carded through them, how fitting the palm of his hands would feel wrapped around his wrists, how sturdy his calves would be as he touched them. He found himself yearning for physical contact like a touch-starved man. Yet he never thought of it as weird. He believed it was nothing out of the ordinary; it’s okay to think about that sometimes right? He couldn’t control his mind. It would always drift elsewhere, usually conjuring up an image of smooth alabaster skin and two dotted moles—Sakusa Kiyoomi was oftentimes the subject of his thoughts.
Atsumu excused the whole lot of his thoughts as a product of his sexual depravity. Yes, he was just thinking about Kiyoomi and his physique since he happened to be the person who he was interacting with regularly, and gazing at him came easily to Atsumu. It was just a harmless projection, and besides, it wasn’t like Atsumu wasn’t trying to stop himself from thinking about the other (he tried so hard to keep Kiyoomi’s face from popping up when he was lost in his contemplation). It wasn’t his fault that the other had features that deserved to be showcased in magazines and billboards and TV shows due to its—
Ah. Maybe he did need to get laid, he mused to himself. Maybe that would prevent him from incessantly staring.
“Stop dawdling around and practice, Miya.” Kiyoomi’s voice snapped him back out from his reverie. A frown was pulled tight on his face, the corners of his mouth stretched into a thin line.
Atsumu scratched the back of his neck, flustered, after the man caught him getting spaced out. “Yeah, yeah.” He averted his gaze, avoiding Kiyoomi’s pointed look. “Stop reprimanding me and also practice, Omi.” He retorted. Kiyoomi scowled and scrunched his nose in disgust at the dubbed nickname.
Atsumu wanted to bonk himself on the head for less than preferable reasons. How was it that he, Miya Atsumu, found him physically attractive when he always looked like something crawled up in his ass and died? God, it really did seem that beautiful people did not have any facial limitations or whatsoever, judging from the way he still appeared to possess good looks while having a semi-permanent frown on his face almost 90% of the time.
“Tch.” Atsumu heard Kiyoomi click his tongue in distaste. “Whatever. You clearly do need practice. I don’t want to hit your subpar sets.” He said sardonically, and Atsumu’s eye twitched in indignation. Throwing a volleyball at his face would be so tempting to do right now, his looks be damned.
“Bold of ya to assume I’d want ya to hit my sets.” He replied, crossing his arms. He made eye contact with the spiker, gazing at him irritatedly. See, this was why it wasn’t exactly in his best interests to include Kiyoomi in his careless imagination. This man, while cordial to others, acted like an absolute shit stain to Atsumu. (Hot guy and a dick? He hated them). “Shoyo and Bokkun are much better spikers than ya are.” He added and rolled his eyes subsequently.
Kiyoomi’s lips, which were previously pulled into a frown, stretched into a condescending smirk. “You tell me, Miya.” The mocking tone of his voice deepened as he put emphasis on Atsumu’s last name. “I’d like to think that I’m the best, you see.” There was a hint of a teasing glint in his eyes as he rebutted, looking every bit like a privileged asshole.
“Yer not—” Atsumu harrumphed, “—and besides, I’m the one who scores more. Not ya and yer freaky wrists.” Atsumu totally did not want to admit that he had been the slightest bit affected by Kiyoomi’s mockery. He definitely did not find it hot. (nor did he find any of their daily banters playfully fulfilling—he did not ).
Kiyoomi’s stupid smirk widened, as if he knew the begrudging effect he had on Atsumu. “Really?” And there it was again—the taunting tone which annoyed the setter to no end. Oh, how Atsumu yearned to wipe that haughty expression off.
“Yeah, Omi-kun, ” He drawled out, taking note of the contempt reflected in the other’s face. “Real— ow !”
He was cut off short by a volleyball to the back of his head. It hurt like an absolute bitch, and his head throbbed even more horribly every time each second ticked by.
A loud patter of footsteps approached him, the sound of rubber skittering against the ground notifying Atsumu of someone’s presence. “Oh my god ‘tsumu I am so sorry!” Bokuto exclaimed hurriedly, face twisted with worry. He could see Shoyo in the back sporting a sheepish look and Atsumu groaned. Bokuto and Shoyo were inherently fun, yes, but the both of them together were just impending disasters waiting to happen. Both were enablers for each other’s crazy ideas and Atsumu honestly did not know whether he should be terrified or amazed.
Well, now he’s terrified. He felt like he’d been hit by a meteor rapidly descending from Earth—Bokuto’s spikes were clearly way too forceful. He now kind of understood why some people didn’t want to play volleyball.
Atsumu nursed his head in his hands, grimacing in pain. The throbbing ache was still evident. Shit, was there going to be a huge bump on there tomorrow? He hoped not. He’d appear ridiculous with a big lump situated near the crown of his head. “Ugh. What the hell were ya two doin? Felt like a fuckin’ rock hit my head.” He grumbled, rubbing the forming bruise gently in hopes of alleviating the pain.
Shoyo scratched the back of his neck, seemingly bashful. “Heh, well—Bokuto-san and I were practicing this new move…and I may have had messed up the timing of my set.” Bokuto nodded uneasily. Bokuto’s high-powered spike mixed with Hinata’s accidental blundering set, which disastrously collided with Atsumu, resulted in nothing but pain.
Kiyoomi coughed near him, likely masking a snort of laughter. Atsumu felt his eyebrow quirk in annoyance. “I know yer laughin’. Shut yer trap,” He bit out. To Atsumu’s chagrin, the corners of Kiyoomi’s lips pulled up slightly, showing his hidden delight at the present situation. What a jerk. As if it was any less humiliating that Atsumu got injured by a volleyball.
“Were you hit that hard that you’d think I’d find you funny?” Kiyoomi responded drily even if Atsumu was basically sure the other was laughing at him and his ‘idiocy’ in the deep recesses of his mind. Rude.
Another throb of pain made itself apparent and Atsumu shut his eyes as he felt it pound in his head. “Get me some ice. Fuck, this actually hurts.” He keened, and Shoyo and Bokuto immediately left to find ice. Thankfully, the impact was not forceful enough to warrant a concussion, only a mild bruising which could gradually be healed (hopefully).
After a few minutes the ice was handed over to him, and Atsumu winced as he pressed it to the injured area. Fortunately, practice was over when the accident happened so he did not have to worry about strategically setting with a bruise on his head nor did he have to deal with the other members of the team chortling at his recent predicament. Both Shoyo and Bokuto expressed their apologies repeatedly, Atsumu nodding those off in hopes of getting the two loudmouths to shut up.
“You’re not icing it properly.” Kiyoomi commented, staring at the cold object gripped in Atsumu’s hands. A tinge of worry presented itself in his eyes. Wait. Maybe the ball did hit Atsumu too hard. Although Kiyoomi could actually act decent enough around him during serious moments, anything related to him actually expressing concern for Atsumu was out of the picture. That was too improbable.
Atsumu snorted. “Yeah, like you were the one that got hit.” He said sarcastically. “Pretty sure I know I’m icin’ it correctly.” He dabbed his head lightly with the ice, not letting it linger too long because of its sheer coldness.
Kiyoomi looked at him impassively before taking a small step forward, surprisingly near Atsumu. “You are, Miya.” And he stepped closer. It took all it had for Atsumu’s eyebrows not to reach his hairline due to shock at his proximity.
“Huh?” Atsumu let out, nonplussed. He could clearly see the strands of hair falling messily down his forehead, the flutter of his lashes, the pointed slope of his nose. For some reason, his heart thumped wildly in his chest at Kiyoomi’s closeness.
The look in Kiyoomi’s eye was undecipherable. “Place it on the bruise. Not near it.” He said, not moving away.
Atsumu felt rooted on the spot, as if grounded by some intangible force. Yet by grace he found himself able to reply, “Awww, is dear Omi concerned about me? I’m flattered.” He joked, trying to cover up his unbidden surprise. Kiyoomi didn’t say anything for a brief moment, instead opting to look at him. It’s a bit disconcerting, being pinned under his scrutiny.
Silence washed over them and Atsumu drowned in it; he was rendered speechless by the uncomfortable atmosphere even if his heart was fluttering. This was weird—Atsumu hadn’t actually thought of being stuck like this, near Kiyoomi who was (daresay he refute it) a bit concerned about him. The idea of that was foreign to him, by any means, since both of them usually resorted to nosy jabs and blunt remarks. Kiyoomi was as prickly as an overgrown cactus. Too bad the only redeemable thing about him was his looks.
Kiyoomi took another step nearer. They were at least half a meter away from each other (which was already close , considering Kiyoomi’s distaste of lack of personal space).
Atsumu blinked. “What.” It came out more of a statement rather than a question. His vocabulary was reduced to one word. It should’ve been: what the fuck. And yes, what the fuck was happening and just why was his heart beating so fucking loud.
A beat. Then the black-haired man regarded him with an obscure expression. “The ice is melting.” Kiyoomi spoke lowly.
At the closer sight of Kiyoomi, Atsumu discreetly sucked in a breath. Prickly attitude aside, he was handsome. The furrow in his brows, the slight dip in the edges of his lips, the perfectly placed moles—they were blatantly visible to Atsumu, and he was captured by their distinctiveness—and wait could he just stop getting distracted again?
They gazed at each other for a moment. Atsumu could basically project question marks from his head at his obvious confusion (he heavily disregarded the fact that his ears were most probably burning with embarrassment). There was no exchange of words, nor was there any half-assed rebuttals. Just the setter and the spiker in their own little bubble, caught up in the haze of their own distractions.
Muffled laughter reached his ears, dispelling the silence, and his eyes zeroed in on Hinata and Bokuto behind Kiyoomi who slapped their hands over their mouths. They were elated, shaking with suppressed glee (Bokuto made kissy faces while Hinata threw him a finger heart). Those fuckers.
Atsumu suddenly took a step back and redirected his stare to a stray volleyball located at the near back.
“Anythin’ funny to share, guys? ” He sported a saccharine smile, directly shooting a pointed look at both loudmouths.
It did not seem to bother them, though, for they didn’t put in any effort to repress their matching shit-eating grins.
“Should we tell ‘em, Bokuto-san?” The tangerine stage-whispered, like Atsumu was literally not meters away from them and couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Bokuto’s eyes sparkled and—oh, that was not a good sign—“Nah,” He supplied. “It’s fun just the way it is. Makes practice more exciting!” He beamed brightly, nearly blinding him with its aforementioned brightness. The gray-haired man was definitely up to something, and heavens forbid if he and Hinata join forces and start scheming. Atsumu did not want to experience another migraine caused by these two.
“Shut yer trap, both of ya.” Atsumu massaged his temple with his fingers, stopping himself from sighing once again. Bokuto and Hinata sniggered like the sneaky gremlins they were, and Kiyoomi silently walked away from the three of them, probably tired of the noise levels they were producing. The duo, to his growing irritation, continued to talk like Atsumu was just not standing there with an ice to his head.
“Wow. The slow burn is on par with TV dramas!” Shoyo mused.
Bokuto rubbed his chin in contemplation, “Hmm. Specifically, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers 50k words slow burn romance.”
Atsumu did not have any clue on what the hell they were saying, nor did he have any energy to comprehend what they meant by enemies-to-friends-to-lovers which sounded like a tag from a 2013 Wattpad story. “What the hell are you guys sayin’?”
Bokuto and Shoyo shared a conspiratorial look before shaking their heads. “Nothing.” They chirped simultaneously. Well that certainly didn’t sound like nothing.
Atsumu cocked an eyebrow in suspicion. “ Right. Anyway, is there anythin’ you guys can do except fer meddlin’ into my business?” He grabbed a volleyball and tucked it under his right arm, his left hand perched on his hip. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again at the twin smiles both of them were sporting.
“Hopefully you’ll figure it out quickly Tsum-tsum!” Bokuto replied enthusiastically, as if he had any idea what they were talking about.
“What does that—ugh, ya know what? I’m just gonna head to the locker room. I’m not about to dissect this cryptic shit ya both are spewing.” Atsumu shook his head and walked away, pointedly ignoring the hushed giggles both players shared.