Chapter Text
It started with an invitation from Komori to go out drinking with him and his teammates. Now, Kiyoomi isn’t a big drinker himself, but when the promise of seeing his favorite band perform live was put on the table, Kiyoomi just couldn’t resist. In a heartbeat, he accepted the invitation. Besides, he thought to himself as he texted his “Sure, why not?” he realized he might need a drink or two to cure him from his recent restlessness.
Only, when he arrived at the bar that night, his restlessness doubled — even tripled, if he’s being honest — at the glimpse of a familiar head of stylishly tousled blond hair. It’s one thing to be co-workers with your ex, but to have them be in the same friend group is a whole different, much worse thing. And, by some irksome twist of fate, that’s just the situation Sakusa Kiyoomi finds himself in.
“Kiyo!” calls Komori over the chatter and music. He stands up and jogs over to his cousin, pulling him into a crushing hug. “You got here okay?”
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi replies, breathless as he pulls away to scan the crowd for the blond. He turns to his cousin. “You didn’t say Miya would be here,” he says, his tone accusatory.
Komori looks at him apologetically and Kiyoomi feels bad for it. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I told the guys they could invite their friends if they wanted to, and Rin invited the Miyas.”
“Great,” Kiyoomi sighs and the look on his cousin’s face makes him regret it immediately.
“Don’t mind him! Let’s just have fun tonight." Komori tugs on his arm to lead him to the bar counter, where they find two unoccupied stools to sit on. He says something to the bartender, who nods and whips out two glasses then starts pouring them matching drinks. “So how have you been?” he asks, leaning on his elbow to appear casual.
Kiyoomi spares one more glance over Komori’s shoulder before giving up and focusing on his cousin’s face. He hopes he doesn’t bump into Miya later.
“Things have been…” he trails off, searching for the right word, “okay, I guess?” Because bleak and miserable would get him nothing but furrowed brows from his cousin.
Despite his best effort Komori still sees right through him, raising a single bushy brow. Kiyoomi chuckles humorlessly. “Not convincing enough?” he asks, picking up his glass and gulping a third of it.
Komori picks up his drink and takes a generous but slow sip, gesturing toward Kiyoomi with the almost full glass, a bit of his drink sloshing against its lip. “I asked you how you’ve been; not to lie to me,” he says, eliciting another chuckle from Kiyoomi.
“Really though,” he says, sounding unconvincing even to himself. “I’ve been good.”
“Kiyo…”
“What do you want me to say?” Kiyoomi takes another gulp of his drink. “That I’ve been miserable?”
Komori clicks his tongue at that. “Well, no,” he says, rolling his eyes and takes another sip. “It’s just… It’s been ten months, Kiyo.” He looks up from his glass and watches Kiyoomi’s reaction.
I’ve been getting over it, Kiyoomi wants to say, but that would require him to actually be getting over the breakup, which evidently he isn’t.
His breakup with Miya wasn’t that bad, he supposes. In fact, they were very mature about it; no fighting, no yelling, just calm and straight to the point… And somehow that makes it even worse than bad, if that’s even possible, because that’s not Miya — Miya is raucous, short-tempered, and never one to back down from an argument because he’s convinced there’s always a way out to everything. But when it came to their breakup, he just sort of gave up? Like there’s no fight left in him.
Now that he thinks about it again, it was so bad that in the months that have passed, the only thing Kiyoomi can think about is the defeated look on Miya’s face when Kiyoomi uttered the words, “I think we should break up.”
It doesn’t help that even at work he can’t avoid being reminded of that night. And now, Miya’s here and Kiyoomi’s thinking about him and their breakup again on the one night out he’s supposed to be free and relaxed.
He picks up his glass and finishes what’s left of his drink in three big gulps. “When’s Nomad playing?” he asks instead.
Komori stares at him for a moment, before sighing and whipping out his phone to check the time. “In about an hour, give or take,” he answers.
“Good, then I’ll just stay here until then,” Kiyoomi says, then calls to the bartender to refill his drink.
“What…” Komori looks at him disapprovingly. “No, absolutely not,” he says, rising from his seat, his stool screeching loudly from the sudden movement. He takes Kiyoomi by the wrist and drags him to a nearby table of men — his teammates, Kiyoomi assumes — as Kiyoomi tries to fight free of his death grip. Sometimes he forgets how strong his cousin really is.
“You will sit here and you will have fun tonight,” Komori tells him, the fierce look on his face suggesting that he isn’t accepting any back talk. For a split second, Kiyoomi is reminded of his aunt.
Kiyoomi slumps on an empty seat and bites his tongue, looking like a chastised child. Then, wordlessly, Komori turns around and walks back to the bar to retrieve Kiyoomi’s drink for him, which Kiyoomi takes with a muttered, “Thanks.”
Looking around, Kiyoomi recognizes some of the faces sitting at the table as people who have appeared in Komori’s Instagram posts: his teammates and their friends or partners. Some of them say hi to him, while some simply offer polite smiles. Distractedly, Kiyoomi returns their greetings and smiles. He’s looking for one specific person, and is glad when he doesn’t find him sitting among them.
“Not looking for Miya are you?” asks Komori, taking the empty seat next to his cousin.
“No,” Kiyoomi lies, his cheeks turning a bright red after being caught. Komori doesn’t waste the chance to tease his cousin about this and Kiyoomi blames the alcohol when his blush spreads to his neck and ears.
“If you must know,” Komori says, lowering his voice as he leans closer to Kiyoomi. “He’s over there.” He nods to the far end of the bar where indeed Miya is standing, talking with his twin brother and Suna Rintarou, his mouth stretched in a wide open-mouthed smile as he throws his head back laughing at something Suna said.
He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that hugs his lean figure nicely, paired with long pants that fall loosely over the slight curve of his ass. He looks annoyingly good and Kiyoomi can’t help it if he’s staring for longer than socially acceptable.
His jaw clenches as he finally tears his eyes away. “Good to know,” he says before putting his drink up to his lips.
About an hour and several shots later, Kiyoomi finally winds down, the pleasant buzz of being tipsy relaxing his shoulders as he leans back against the sturdy cushion of the suede couch he’s sitting on. He chats with Komori’s teammates and laughs at some of their jokes, occasionally leaning dangerously close against someone’s plus-one.
It’s when he is in the middle of drunkenly recounting a spectacularly unfunny experience through bursts of giggles when Nomad comes on stage, announced by the sudden flickering of the strobe lights and an energetic voice booming from the speakers exclaiming, “Good evening everybody!!” Kiyoomi drops the story immediately and starts cheering loudly, much to the amusement of his cousin and everyone around their table.
“Good evening to you especially,” says the singer, chuckling as she sends a wink over to Kiyoomi, who clutches his chest and pretends to fall backwards from the wink’s impact.
“Remind me to invite you out for drinks more often,” Komori laughs.
“Don’t.” Kiyoomi groans as he sits up. “This actually feels like shit,” he grumbles then reaches for another shot despite that.
As the guitarist strums the intro chords to their first song of the night, Komori snatches Kiyoomi’s shot away and holds it far from his reach, chuckling at his cousin’s lame attempts at taking it back.
“No way man,” he says, downing the shot himself, ignoring Kiyoomi’s slurred complaints as he does. “Go have some water.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “You’re such a downer,” he says, his voice taking on a petulant tone which a little part of him cringes at.
“Hm, there’s a saying that goes well with this. Something about calling the kettle black?” Komori laughs and Kiyoomi starts giggling too.
“Whatever, I’m going to the bar,” he tells Komori then pushes off the couch and tries to stand up. He stumbles, but a firm hand on his hip steadies him. He turns to thank the person who helped him and is greeted with a thumbs up from one of Komori’s teammates, too drunk to stand up himself.
“No more alcohol!” Komori calls out to Kiyoomi's retreating back as he carefully makes his way around their table and to the bar.
There, he’s greeted by the bartender. She asks him what he wants and he pauses too long before asking for some water.
“Had too much to drink?” she asks, laughing as she takes out a glass.
“Not enough actually,” he replies, eliciting another laugh from the bartender. She hands him the filled up glass and he thanks her, leaning lazily against the bar counter as he takes a big gulp, draining the glass immediately.
The bartender offers to fill up his glass again and he gratefully accepts. Once replenished, he takes the glass and begins to drink the water in slower sips, turning his body toward the stage, watching the performance while also occasionally scanning the crowd for a certain blond. Kiyoomi realizes he hasn’t seen Miya — nor his twin and Suna — in a while. He starts from the last spot he saw them standing at, which was the far end of the bar, next to the stage. When he doesn’t find them, he scans through each nearby table one by one, squinting to get a better look through the bar’s dim lighting.
“Hey,” comes a voice from his left, distracting him from his search. He turns to see the bartender leaning forward against the counter on her forearms. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask ya,” she continues. “Are ya here with anyone?”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at her, but answers anyway. “’m with my cousin and some of our friends.”
The bartender chuckles breathily at that. “No silly. I’m sayin’, do ya have a girlfriend?” she says, her voice lowering to a sultry tone as she leans even further forward, pushing her chest flush against her arms.
The action, paired with the low cut of her top, gives Kiyoomi a clear view of her cleavage, which he welcomes. His eyes travel down from her face to appreciate the curve of her chest, framed by long blonde waves, before snapping back up at the sound of her clearing her throat. When they resume eye contact, the bartender gives him a smirk, knowing exactly what she’s doing.
Kiyoomi takes a sip of his water, suddenly feeling his throat parch. “Nope. No girlfriend.”
Hearing this, the bartender hums, seemingly pleased by the idea. “Wanna get outta here?” she asks after a beat, leaning away. Free trial’s over. “My shift ends at midnight.”
“That’s in about an hour.”
She waggles her eyebrows. “Exactly,” she says before spinning around to tend to a different patron.
Kiyoomi watches as her figure retreats, the sway of her hips almost matching the beat of the song playing in the background. It’s only when he manages to tear his eyes away from her backside that he spots something at the end of the counter that makes his heart stutter.
It’s Miya. But he’s not alone — a gorgeous raven haired girl sits next to him, giggling as she plays with the chain of her necklace, twirling her pointer finger around it and tugging at the pendant lightly. Miya watches this movement intently and smirks when she playfully smacks his chest. Kiyoomi’s eyes are trained on them now, unable to look away despite himself. He wants so badly to know what they’re talking about for them to be so smiley like that — but even more, he wants to know why they have to be sitting that close to each other. They’re practically breathing in each other’s breaths. Ugh, gross.
The girl stops playing with her necklace then turns to reach for a napkin and pulls out from god knows where a pen. She scribbles something — her number, Kiyoomi guesses hotly — on it and kisses the corner of the square napkin, before neatly folding it as Miya watches with interest. When she turns back to hand it to Miya, Kiyoomi half hopes he declines, but much to his surprise and irritation, Miya accepts it. He pockets the napkin and leans close — too close — to whisper something to her that makes her burst out laughing, holding onto his bicep to steady herself. At this, Kiyoomi’s jaw tightens, feeling the ugly, hot sensation of jealousy searing his chest from the inside. He leaves his half-empty glass on the counter and makes a beeline for the exit.
Outside, the world is humid and quieter, but not any less lively than it is inside. The doors close behind him, muffling the singer’s voice as she hits a high note and the guitar takes over. Next to him in the shadows, Kiyoomi barely makes out the shape of a cat pawing at a trash bag in search of its next meal. He scrunches his nose when the cat succeeds in tearing a hole in the trash bag, spilling wet garbage out to the ground.
The bar’s signage hangs above his head and glows brightly as he leans against the wall perpendicular to it. He thinks back to the scene he saw at the counter and immediately notices the heat that shoots up to his chest, burrowing inside his ribcage like an angry animal. It only gets angrier, thrashing about, when he thinks of the way he leans into her hair and the way she grabs his arm in return.
Kiyoomi runs his hand through his curls and sighs deeply, hoping it will somehow make the feeling go away. It doesn’t.
“Get a grip, Sakusa,” he grumbles to himself.
He and Miya are broken up. For ten months now, going on eleven. That’s the indisputable reality. Seeing Miya with another person after all this time shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. In fact, it’s good if Miya’s moved on. At least now, with this girl in the picture, maybe he’ll start sending better tosses. (Not that his tosses ever got worse after their breakup. They’re always annoyingly perfect and on point.)
His brooding is momentarily interrupted by a weight against his leg and a gentle rumble that sounds akin to purring. Despite himself, he jumps back, meeting eyes with the culprit as soon as he does. When he recognizes it as the cat from before, Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. Inspecting his pant leg, he hopes the cat didn't smear anything nasty on it.
“Shoo, go away.” He tries to wave the cat away, but it doesn’t budge. In response, it meows at him and tries to headbutt his shin.
“No!” Kiyoomi narrowly avoids the cat’s head, causing it to stumble forward. The cat doesn’t give up though; it simply marches forward and tries again, causing Kiyoomi to jump back. “No!” he practically pleads with it, “Don’t—!”
Suddenly caught in a silly dance to avoid being rubbed against by the cat, Kiyoomi doesn’t notice the bar doors parting and closing. It’s only when the cat scampers off, startled by the sound of a kicked pebble, that Kiyoomi even notices someone else has exited the bar and joined him out here.
From his bent over position, Kiyoomi looks up, and his back straightens immediately after as if sobering completely when recognition dawns on him. “Miya,” he says, hating how breathless he sounds.
Miya scoffs. “Thought you were inside,” he mumbles, but Kiyoomi catches it.
“What, I can’t be out here?” Kiyoomi bites back and regrets it almost immediately. Force of habit.
Miya looks at him with furrowed brows, his gaze as sharp as daggers. “Did I say that?” he asks, tone lowering dangerously to match the sting of his gaze, and Kiyoomi falters at it.
“No.”
Another scoff. “Thought so,” Miya says before turning away.
This is their first proper conversation, Kiyoomi realizes. Their first proper conversation outside of training in months and they’re arguing. It almost makes him laugh because of course they're arguing — it’s all they’ve ever done. Even when they were still together, arguing is all they do. Never with any true malice, of course. More like playful pointless arguments throughout the day. Memories of better days fill Kiyoomi’s chest with a feeling of warmth mingled with sadness. How Kiyoomi wishes this were the case now
He looks at Miya’s back, facing away from him, and is suddenly reminded of what he saw at the bar again. It’s bothering him even more now than he’d like to admit.
“Shouldn’t you be inside with her?” he asks against his better judgement.
Miya whips around and fully faces him this time. “Hah?!” he says, seemingly taken off guard by the question. “Who?”
Kiyoomi is properly embarrassed now, but he’s dug his grave — might as well lie in it.
“That girl from the bar,” he says, his voice trailing off as he loses confidence halfway. “The one that gave you her number.”
The confusion on Miya’s face melts away at the detail and is instead replaced with a knowing smirk.
“Oh, ya saw that, huh?” He put his hands on his hips. “Were ya watchin’ me? Yer a creep, Sakusa,” he sneers, and Kiyoomi feels his heart break a little. No, not at the insult, but at the indifference in Miya’s voice as he says his name — the way he’s referring to him with his name and not a silly made up nickname. Not even Kiyoomi, but Sakusa.
“Ya know, I wasn’t gonna call her — management an’ all that y’know,” he continues, “but now that you mention her, maybe I will! I mean, she is kinda hot.” Miya continues to ramble about this girl and how attractive he thinks she is, but Kiyoomi stopped listening after he said he’d call her after all.
Amidst Miya’s rambling, time seems to slow and multiple thoughts run through his mind at the same time. The first is an admission to himself that, yes, he is definitely not over Miya no matter how many times he tries to convince himself. The second is a testament to their relationship: knowing when Miya is fucking with you takes flight hours, which Kiyoomi has a lot of. And right now he’s putting those hours to good use. The third and final one is perhaps the most familiar thought, and it takes over him in seconds.
With a brain that’s still a little muddled with alcohol, strong jealousy, and even stronger feelings of desire, Kiyoomi marches over to Miya and takes his face in his hands. Miya isn’t spared even a second to process what is happening before their lips crash together. Miya freezes. For a beat, clarity takes over Kiyoomi’s mind, followed by fear.
This is batshit crazy.
He thinks Miya will push him away, but he doesn’t. Instead, Miya melts into his touch and their lips slot together perfectly, as if Miya’s mouth still remembers the shape of Kiyoomi’s the way he still remembers Miya’s.
Movement comes naturally to them: Miya’s hands travel to familiar spots, grabbing Kiyoomi’s forearm, his bicep, then finally his nape to guide — push — Kiyoomi deeper into the kiss. And Kiyoomi? He lets him of course. He’s putty in Miya’s hands. In return, he lets his hand find Miya’s hip and pushes him against the wall, his other hand slipping between Miya’s head and the coarse surface.
The kiss escalates quickly, becoming rougher within seconds. Months of pent up frustration — Lust? Longing? Anger? — reflecting in desperate, hurried touching, the grazing of teeth on tongues, and the biting of lips. Kiyoomi feels Miya’s hand travel to the small of his back and up his shirt, warm hands running up and down his skin. He leans forward, deepening the kiss even more than it already is and Miya lets out a sigh. His hand, which previously held Kiyoomi by his nape, moved up to tangle his fingers in Kiyoomi’s curls. And then he tugs, tight and firm. Kiyoomi is undone.
“Atsumu,” he moans against Miya’s lips, low and wretched, unable to hold himself back from pushing his body closer against the other man’s body, desperately craving friction.
What they’re doing right now could get them both arrested for public indecency and then fired from the MSBY Black Jackals. It would be the scandal of the decade — but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it. He’s missed and wanted it for months. So much that he almost can’t believe it’s happening to him, like a fantasy come true…
The next thing he knows, he’s stumbling backwards and out of that fantasy, propelled by a sudden force against his shoulders. It takes him a second to process that Miya has just shoved him. When he looks up at Miya, he sees that the other man is looking at him with wild eyes, his chest heaving as he processes what just happened as well. The air around them grows thick with a tension that wasn’t there before.
Kiyoomi thinks he should say something, but then again, what do you say to someone you just made out with and practically dry humped? This person is also your ex, by the way, just in case the situation isn’t awkward enough!
“Miya,” he starts, his voice shaky, unsure. “I—”
“Don’t.” Miya cuts him off before he can get whatever he wants to say out, his voice a gravelly warning as he pins Kiyoomi where he stands with a pointed gaze. He turns toward the bar’s entrance and puts a hand on the door. Before he pushes it open he speaks to Kiyoomi over his shoulder, “Tonight didn’t happen.”
And then he retreats into the bar, the uncomfortable tension dispersing with his leave.
Still outside, Kiyoomi stands still, stunned by what just happened. It takes him a second to compose himself, and once he does, he immediately looks around to see if anyone saw them. To his relief, there were no witnesses to their scandal-in-the-making. Well — no one, except for that damn cat.
Kiyoomi frowns at it. Its little face offers no judgement but somehow makes him feel worse.
He sighs. Tomorrow’s hangover will be brutal, but not as brutal as the memory of Miya’s lips and hands when it inevitably resurfaces. He heads back to the bar anyway.