Work Text:
Miya Atsumu consumed. He devoured. He was a black hole, a monsoon, a deep, abyssal creature who clawed his way out of the shared space of his mother’s womb and fought tooth-and-nail to take everything he wanted. He was selfish. He was manipulative. He was greedy and ambitious and vain and self-aware enough to use this to his every advantage when and wherever possible. It’s how he’d managed to mark his territory, so to speak, as first-string setter for MSBY straight out of high school. It’s how he’d kept sponsorships and advertisement campaigns and made himself something of a household name. It’s how he’d survived every social interaction he’d ever had in his life, despite… well…
If there was one thing Miya Atsumu was not, it was nice. People knew him, people maybe even respected him. Above all else, people tolerated him. Atsumu knew this, used this. It was how he navigated life - bickering, teasing, charming, annoying one person at a time. It didn’t build strong friendships, but so long as everyone knew his name, that was good enough. Which is why, when Sakusa Kiyoomi first walked onto the practice court and quietly, emotionlessly, introduced himself, Atsumu felt his entire sense of self slip away.
It started with Sakusa’s introduction. It was polished, professional, rehearsed. His face, partially covered by a mask and doubly so by the dark waves of his hair, betrayed nothing. When Atsumu had first joined the team, he could hardly rein in his excitement and recalled the muscles of his face actually aching from the grin plastered to it. But Sakusa introduced himself like he was announcing the weather or making an appointment.
Atsumu was already familiar with Sakusa. They were, if not well acquainted, certainly from the same circle. But that had been another lifetime ago, back when Atsumu hadn’t quite figured out how to properly bleach his hair (AKA have a professional do it) and Sakusa hadn’t quite grown out of the awkwardness of quickly-grown limbs and into the features of his face. Now, though - tall, lean, confident - this might as well have been a stranger. There was something mysterious about the man standing in front of their crowd of teammates. Atsumu was intrigued. He was curious. And so when he volunteered himself to show Sakusa the facilities - actually volunteered, without prompting - he’d hardly known what he’d done. A few quick glances of confusion, suspicion, and disbelief crossed the faces surrounding him. His teammates knew Atsumu, and this behavior was too nice to be legitimate.
But their coach, although not without a disbelieving look of his own, accepted Atsumu’s offer, and soon Atsumu was escorting Sakusa around the place, blathering on about the team, about practices and routines and expectations, and about his favorite topic, himself. Atsumu did, admittedly, stray from the strictly necessary information, instead choosing to complain about his teammates' idiosyncrasies and Osamu in general and every significant moment of his life since the last time he and Sakusa had crossed paths. All the while Sakusa walked beside him, face impassive, not even deigning to respond with a “hmm” or a polite “that’s interesting.” Atsumu didn’t notice, not until an hour had passed and the impromptu tour had ended in the locker room, that Sakusa didn’t seem to be listening at all.
Embarrassed, Atsumu rubbed the back of his neck and willed away any tint of pink that might threaten to mar his cheeks. “Well, ah, that’s pretty much it. Waddaya think?” he asked, suddenly feeling like an overenthusiastic child showing off his artwork to an adult.
Sakusa faced him, his eyes narrowing at the setter as if in serious assessment. Atsumu noticed that Sakusa was taller than him, and taller than he had even been a half-decade ago. “I think,” Sakusa replied, “that you like the sound of your own voice.” He nodded to himself, once, as if agreeing with his own vocalization, turned on his heels, and walked out of the locker room.
“Hey!” Atsumu called out, offended, once he had recovered enough from the shock of the statement. “Come on, Omi, everyone knows that! Ya don’t have to be such an ass!”
-
It was true, Atsumu could admit that. He loved little more than listening to himself. He was, after all, his very best friend and companion. No one loved Atsumu more than Atsumu, that was a verifiable fact. Hell, no one liked Atsumu more than Atsumu, even. But the statement rankled, the calm, factual way it was given. The lack of emotion behind it. It was barely even a judgement, the way it was given to him. So Atsumu had to cope from the blow in the best way that he knew how - calling Osamu. That way he could listen to himself talk and annoy his twin (truly, a genius move).
“...and he didn’t say a goddamn thing the whole time! Can ya believe it? Like, I was out there, trying to be nice and all, pourin’ my heart and soul out there trying to help Sakusa of all people to feel welcome, and that’s what I get! Nothin’. Not even a ‘mmhmm’ or a ‘that’s too bad.’ Can ya believe it?”
“Yeah, I think I can believe it, idiot. It’s not like he’s the most personable guy in the world. He’s in fact notoriously -”
“And then! I get done with the whole tour. I walked the whole facility and played tour guide. And d’ya know what he says to me? D’ya?”
“No, because ya won’t get to the point or let me -”
Atsumu cut in again. “He says, AND I QUOTE, he says ‘I think you like the sound of your own voice.’ That’s what he says to me! Can ya believe it?” Atsumu waited for Osamu to respond, only to be met with silence on the other side of the line. “Well, is he an asshole or what?”
If Atsumu expected to be met with agreement, righteous indignation, and support, he was delusional. Instead, he was met with increasing laughter.
“Well, he got ya there, now didn’t he?” Osamu wheezed between shaky breaths. “I’ve changed my mind. This guy’s great!”
“‘Samu!” Atsumu cried. “Come on! You’re supposed to be on my side, here!”
“Nah, ya brought this on yourself. That’s what ya get for being nice, bro.”
-
Atsumu could admit that perhaps Osamu had a point. It was out of character for him to go out of his way like that, except for in the ways in which it made Atsumu the center of attention for a while. Yeah, he could admit that. He liked being the star, the focus, the all-consuming center of the universe every now and again. He liked it when eyes fell on him, positively or negatively, and especially appreciatively. Atsumu wasn’t sure, then, what offended him more: being ignored that entire time, or the moment he had Sakusa’s focus.
He had vowed to not repeat his first mistake. He would not be nice, not for the sake of niceness. He would not go out of his way. He would not do more than necessary. He would be truly, sickeningly, himself. Bravado, cutting words, obnoxious attitude, and all.
-
Except he kept finding himself being nice. Atsumu didn’t know what his problem was.
It started (or continued, more like) on the next practice. Sakusa needed a practice partner during warm ups, and so Atsumu volunteered to partner up with him.
Then it was when the lid of Sakusa’s water bottle broke due to a shanked serve receive and Atsumu went to the vending machine and bought him a bottle of water. He wasn’t even the one who shanked the damn ball!
Then it was paying for Sakusa’s food at a restaurant during an away game trip.
Then it was staying late to set so that Omi could get a few more hits in.
Then it was keeping an extra pack of masks in the locker room for him.
Then it was letting Omi have the window seat on the bus.
Then it was bringing icepacks to Omi’s apartment when he knew the hitter’s wrists would be aching.
And then it continued. At first, his teammates gave him weird looks that went along with his weird behavior. Once, Bokuto even questioned Atsumu’s motivations (before accepting excuses at face value, shrugging, and moving on). Eventually, unfortunately, these Omi-specific acts of kindness became so commonplace that they were no longer noticeable or noteworthy.
Sakusa accepted it all with a face that was apathetic at best and annoyed at worst. He never questioned Atsumu, although Atsumu could see the occasional surprise at his thoughtfulness in the scrunching of his brow or a wide-eyed look. Sakusa even eventually accepted Atsumu’s nickname for him, Atsumu wearing him down like the tide wears boulders into pebbles.
But he was unreadable, Omi. He said little to Atsumu except to cut him down with curt barbs, still only called him Miya, and refused to give any personal details about his life. Atsumu, despite months of digging, knew almost nothing about Sakusa Kiyoomi. He was an enigma. And for the first time in his life, Atsumu was consumed.
-
Sakusa Kiyoomi was unlikeable. He knew this about himself inherently. If he hadn’t known it to begin with, it would have been difficult to reach another conclusion when it had been told to him with such frequency. He knew this about himself. He accepted this about himself. He moved on, and didn’t expect personal relationships beyond those of convenience or obligation.
He obsessed. There was no other word for it. Kiyoomi focused, he observed, and he obsessed. When he loved something, he loved it with his whole self. It consumed him with an all-encompassing, unbridled alacrity. It intimidated others when his usually dispassionate composure cracked; he could see it in their faces. It didn’t help that his already-resting-bitch-face was often covered with a mask. But that was fine. He didn’t need them to understand it, to understand him.
His first obsession started in childhood. Kiyoomi had loved the sciences, especially biology. He’d been fascinated about all sorts of creatures, big and small, and how they affected all else on the planet. Eventually he’d learned about bacteria. Eventually he’d learned about viruses and fungi and prions and parasites. That’s when the first obsession took a turn for the negative.
It became an obsession with sickness and health and contamination and infection and - well, it became paralyzing. Debilitating. Consuming. Destructive. Kiyoomi had strategies, coping mechanisms, rituals that helped. Some he came up with, some were more professionally advised or outright doctor’s orders, because no matter how obsessed he was with not getting sick, he’d never stop the pervasive sickness in his brain that whispered outlandish, apocalyptic scenarios and told him they were true.
Volleyball helped. Hell, if it hadn’t been for volleyball, Kiyoomi didn’t think he could stand being around others whatsoever. His single-minded obsession for the game didn’t outweigh his fear of infection - more like cancelled it out. When he dug for the ball, he didn’t have time to think about what germs could be on the floor he just landed on. When he served, he didn’t register the beads of sweat forming on his brows and immediately worry about fever. When he hit, he wasn’t afraid of whose hands had been on the ball he was touching. The court was the only place his mind was truly clear.
Getting the call that he would be playing professionally for the MSBY Jackals was a chance for Kiyoomi’s methodical obsession to actually matter.
-
Sakusa Kiyoomi knew a few things about Miya Atsumu. He knew the setter was arrogant. He knew he was selfish. He knew he was annoying. He knew he was damn good - Kiyoomi had seen it with his own eyes, played with him during camps and against him at Nationals. He didn’t know he was kind.
Kiyoomi thought it was a joke, at first, the way Miya had volunteered to show him around. Then he thought it was just a way to pat his own ego (he wasn’t ever dissuaded from that, actually). He took in the words that Miya so freely offered to him, tried to really listen, but ended up doing what Kiyoomi did best: compile information.
- Miya loves his team.
- Miya loves his brother.
- Miya feels incredibly fortunate to be here.
- Miya is desperately, obnoxiously lonely.
(All of this Kiyoomi could parse out because Miya said the exact opposite.)
- Miya speaks frequently, but says little.
- Miya finds silence uncomfortable.
- Miya finds me uncomfortable.
(That’s a given, who didn’t find Kiyoomi difficult to be around?)
- Miya still has traces of that accent.
- Miya speaks with his hands.
- Miya’s… not incorrect… to be so conceited about his looks.
With that thought filed, the tour ended. Kiyoomi realized that he hadn’t been paying attention to what the setter was saying for at least ten minutes. He winced internally, and saw that Miya was waiting for a response, looking almost desperate for one. So he said the only thing that he could think of. Miya gawked, offended, but Kiyoomi wasn’t one to backtrack or apologize. While Miya’s face grew increasingly red and contorted, Kiyoomi took his opportunity to flee. He walked away as calmly as he could, thankful for the mask that was hiding his grimace.
Yep, Kiyoomi was unlikeable, all right. There was no changing that.
-
Somehow that didn’t seem to deter Miya. Despite Kiyoomi’s blunt comments, refusal to engage, and purposeful distancing, Miya kept returning to bother him. The man was as enthusiastic as he was relentless. He kept doing things, little things, big things, like they were nothing. As obnoxious as he was, Miya doubled it with annoyingly considerate acts. Kiyoomi couldn’t stand it.
First, Miya gave Kiyoomi a nickname. Well, he continued to use the nickname he’d coined for Kiyoomi back at training camp. No one had ever given him a nickname before that, not even his parents, and no one had attempted after. But there Miya was, bouncing about as he repeated it over and over. “Omi. Omi-Omi. Omi-kun. Omiiiii pay attention to me! Imma spike the ball at yer face if you don’t listen to this story. It’ll be worth it. Osamu embarrassed the hell out of himself yesterday, you’ll love this…” and so on.
And then there was the competition. Of course Kiyoomi was competitive - they were all professional athletes; that’s how they got to be professional athletes. No one was more competitive than Kiyoomi. He was the most competitive with others, with himself, the most competitive, in general - but no one was more loudly competitive than Miya Atsumu. He taunted, he raved, he complained and pouted and mocked and jeered and bragged. And Kiyoomi got little more satisfaction in life than beating him in service aces. He tried to hide it, of course, tried to show nothing, but sometimes the smirk as he cut into Atsumu - he could admit to himself that he called him Atsumu in his head, not Miya, only called him Miya aloud to annoy him - betrayed him. As loath as he was to admit it, he relished in the competition. He enjoyed crushing Atsumu’s score as much as he enjoyed crushing the competition on the other side of the net.
And Atsumu kept including him in ways, little, unnecessary ways, that few others ever had. No matter how many flat looks Kiyoomi gave, no matter how many times he rejected Atsumu’s offers, Atsumu never got the point and let him be. He asked Kiyoomi to join in the team’s nights out after games. He partnered with him during warm ups. He somehow bribed Komori for Kiyoomi’s number (it had to be Komori, the little shit) and kept sending him pictures of cacti that he wrote “remind me of you!”. He ensured Kiyoomi got the window seat on the bus, and got the first shower at the hotel rooms, and always had the end seat during team meals so that he wasn’t crowded.
Worst of all was that Atsumu wasn’t as unobservant as he looked. Try as Kiyoomi might to keep any and everything from Atsumu, the man picked up on his needs like he picked up on an opposing team’s plays. He set for Kiyoomi in the way that made him play best. He never touched him, even though he’d climb all over Bokuto and pick up Hinata in excitement. He noticed when Kiyoomi’s joints ached or his head pounded or he needed a shield from incessant reporters or clamouring fans. He kept alcohol wipes and athletic tape in his gym bag and, with just a look at Kiyoomi, handed them over without a word of chastisement or expecting thanks.
In fact, it was like he expected nothing at all from Kiyoomi. That was the most confusing part of it. In Kiyoomi’s experience, relationships - any and all social interaction, in fact - were transactional. Yet, for all of Atsumu’s high maintenance behavior and arrogant bravado, he did all this without a second thought. He talked, oh how he chattered constantly, but he did it like he didn’t expect Kiyoomi to talk back, or even listen. He was just… there. Always there.
Miya Atsumu was annoying. It was like he was obsessed with Kiyoomi’s terrible company. He’d clawed his way into Kiyoomi’s life in a way that made him indispensable. And begrudgingly, disgustingly, Kiyoomi wanted to keep him.
-
It escalated at an out of town game. It was a loss, a tough loss, and it stung. The locker room was quiet, a dejected aura filling the space as everyone readied themselves to go back to the hotel. Even Hinata was quiet as he shuffled to the showers, the orange ball of energy subdued and exhausted. Sure, Atsumu knew that an undefeated season was a long-shot, and that losses were inevitable, even when they played their best, but that didn’t make it any less miserable. He knew the mood would lighten when the team commiserated at the bar later, but for now it was heavy. He sat on the bench, staring unseeingly at his phone, waiting for the inevitable, taunting text from Osamu. If he’d only seen that setter dump coming from the other side, if his last serve hadn’t been out, if only…
His cyclone of self-pity was interrupted by something falling into his lap. He dropped his phone, dumbly, before looking at what it was. A protein bar, his favorite flavor, the one that he’d been paid to promote and which prominently featured his drawling smile on the front. He looked up to see Kiyoomi glowering up at him.
“Eat it,” Kiyoomi muttered, face mask pulled low on his chin. Atsumu could see the frown weighing down his features, the scrunch of his brows making his eyes almost completely dark. Then the man turned away and began to pack up his bag.
Atsumu stared at him for a moment, feeling his mood begin to lift. “Aw, Omi, I knew you cared about me!” he teased, before opening the package and taking a sizable bite. “I knew you didn’t hate me!” he continued, smacking on the bar as he spoke around it.
“I’m not dealing with your hangry bitching all the way back.” Kiyoomi still wasn’t looking at him. “And don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s disgusting.”
“I love it when ya talk sweet to me like that, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu crooned, just to see Kiyoomi freeze for a second, back tense in irritation.
“You’re so annoying, Miya,” is the response he received. Atsumu could picture the eye roll as Kiyoomi raised his mask back on his face and picked up his bag. He turned back to Atsumu, clearly waiting for him to join him. “Hurry up, you’ll keep the team waiting.”
Mood almost lifted, Atsumu took his time to pack up simply to make Kiyoomi’s foot tap in impatience. Still, he waited for Atsumu to get up and they walked back to the bus together. “You’ll come join the team tonight, yeah? Not just goin’ back to the hotel to brood?”
“I don’t brood,” Kiyoomi replied tersely.
Atsumu laughed. “All ya do is brood!”
“That’s you. What were you doing on the bench if not brooding?”
“I was thinkin’ about how you’re gonna be paying for my drinks tonight since ya lost in service aces,” he lied, a slow smile spreading on his face. Kiyoomi’s face twitched, and Atsumu knew he’d struck a blow. Point for Atsumu, he thought to himself. “In fact, I think you’ve gotta come down for drinks because of that. All my drinks, all night!”
“You’re a moron.”
“There’s that sweet talk once again!” They sat next to each other on the bus, Atsumu waiting for Kiyoomi to settle in his window seat before joining him and continuing to tease him the entire ride back.
-
Much to Atsumu’s surprise, Kiyoomi did join him at the bar, although the deadpan stare told Atsumu exactly how much he was regretting it with every passing moment. Hinata was three sheets to the wind and had devolved to mostly speaking in sound effects to describe the match. “And Bokuto, he was like, whoosh and POW and it was soooo cool!” he exclaimed, the sad look on his face from the locker room now a distant memory and replaced with his typical exuberance. Atsumu made eye contact with Kiyoomi and rolled his eyes fondly, receiving a small but amused smirk from the hitter.
“Hey, don’t forget about that kill of yours in the second set, dude, it was sick!” Bokuto yelled back, and the two attempted their increasingly complicated secret handshake that ended with a chest bump. Luckily, the bar had cleared enough that there was space for their increasing boisterousness.
Kiyoomi departed for a moment, returning with two beers - one for himself and another for Atsumu. Atsumu reached into his pocket and handed an alcohol wipe to Kiyoomi without a thought. They exchanged items and Kiyoomi wiped his beverage down with a thorough, methodical efficiency before taking a drink. Maybe it was the low light of the bar, or the exhaustion after the tough battle of the game, or the three beers Atsumu had already downed, but as he watched Kiyoomi with fondness, he noticed (not for the first time, if he were to be honest with himself) the pale expanse of Kiyoomi’s neck as he took the first sip. He noticed the way his lips pursed around the bottle, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with the sip, the way he held the bottle delicately in his long fingers. Okay, he stared. He’d admit it. The rambunctious banter of his teammates faded away for a moment. And Kiyoomi was staring back, right back at him, impassive face almost questioning, but not questioning at all.
“...and Atsumu, I can’t believe they called that serve out, it looked super in bounds to me! Atsumu?” Hinata’s voice crashed back into Atsumu’s awareness, and he was pulled out of Kiyoomi’s orbit for a moment. He looked at Hinata, who was holding a stool for balance as he looked at Atsumu expectantly.
“Ah, hell, it was fuckin’ in, I knew it!” Atsumu replied, maybe a moment too late to be unnoticed. He pulled a dramatic face for effect, pulling his hair a bit in faux-frustration. “I shoulda questioned the ref, but I didn’t wanna Foster to pull me again! He always gets mad and calls me difficult but ya know what? I think yer right!”
“He’s right. You are difficult,” Kiyoomi sniped at him. “He would have pulled you.”
“Omi! How could ya betray me like this?” Atsumu whined, only half playing. “Yer my teammate! Yer supposed to be on my side!”
“Hmm,” Kiyoomi considered for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. You should have complained. It would have been funnier to see your tantrum.”
“Yer so cold-hearted, Omi-Omi. I don’t deserve this.” Kiyoomi didn’t respond. Atsumu didn’t expect him to. Instead, Kiyoomi took another long pull from his bottle, and pulled Atsumu’s focus once again. And maybe he shouldn’t have had those first few shots at the beginning of the night, because watching Kiyoomi was making his head spin.
-
“Come on, Atsumu. It’s late. We have to be back on the bus in… six and a half hours,” Kiyoomi called from above him. Atsumu looked up from where his face had been resting on the cold table. Had that much time passed? Kiyoomi raised his eyebrow expectantly. “Or we could leave you here to drool on the bar.” His face twisted in disgust.
“I don’t drool,” Atsumu protested weakly, wiping his face to be sure. As he expected, no drool. He’d been fine, really, he’d just put his head down for a second and all of his energy left his body.
“You’re going to complain the entire way back that you’re sore if you don’t make it to bed,” Kiyoomi prodded.
“I’ll complain the entire way back anyways, and you know it, Omi,” Atsumu responded, but stretched anyways, back popping satisfactorily as he started to get up. Kiyoomi hummed affirmingly as Atsumu stood. He blinked his bleary eyes and as he rose, blood rushed to his head and he stumbled a little and expected to simply go down. But he didn’t fall. Kiyoomi steadied him, one hand gripping his forearm and the other at his back.
Atsumu looked at the hand touching his arm in shock. Kiyoomi pulled him up, then continued to hold on as he guided him out the door.
“Are you that drunk? I know you’re stupid, but not that stupid, Miya,” Kiyoomi complained. “The tab is paid, let’s go.”
Atsumu couldn’t find words. Kiyoomi didn’t seem to notice, refused to even look at him as Atsumu shuffled his feet towards the exit. Kiyoomi is touching me. But he didn’t comment on it. And he tried not to think about how he felt about the warm hand clutching his arm. He let Kiyoomi guide him back to the hotel, to the elevator, to their shared room, and deposit him safely on the bed, his hands never leaving Atsumu until he lay down on the mattress.
-
Kiyoomi could not remember a time in his life since it began that he had ever willingly touched another human being in a public space. Sure, it couldn’t be helped sometimes, like having to shake hands during formal ceremonies, but those times had usually been prepared for in advance, rehearsed in his mind over and over until he was sure he could handle it, and concluded with hasty hand sanitization and prolonged washing after that. His distaste for the physical form and biological reality always kept him at a safe distance from any interactions that could result in his prolonged contact with another. And so he could not explain the reason why he’d steadied Atsumu… or why he continued to manhandle him to a second location. Even more, he could not fathom the utter lack of disgust he felt when that contact ended. He washed out of principle, of course. He would have washed up one way or another, having just spent several hours in a filthy bar, of all places, but it was perfunctory rather than necessary.
Kiyoomi sat on the hotel room’s bed afterwards. Atsumu had fallen asleep almost instantly, over the covers, shoes still on. Kiyoomi watched him, assessing. He thought about the look Atsumu had given him. Well, looks. All throughout the evening, any time Kiyoomi glanced his way (more frequently than he would like to acknowledge), Atsumu was already looking at him. And then the look he gave Kiyoomi when he realized who had kept him upright… Kiyooki could not explain it. All wide eyes, soft expression. The typical confusion, yes, because Atsumu was frequently confused, Kiyoomi thought in amusement. And so he watched the man curl up on the bed and considered what he knew about Atsumu.
- Atsumu was a carer. He cared for his appearance, he cared for his teammates.
- Atsumu was a giver. He gave out his opinions freely, he gave a damn about nearly everything. He gave Kiyoomi space when he wanted it, and attention when he needed it.
- Atsumu was, annoyingly, not as annoying as Kiyoomi would like to pretend.
Kiyoomi mulled this over, absentmindedly worrying his bottom lip. Then, without thinking, he pulled the top blanket over Atsumu and plugged in the sleeping man’s phone before returning to his bed for a sleepless night.
-
Atsumu awoke to a blaring alarm tone and a throbbing in his head. He cracked open his sandy eyes, confused for a moment about where he was before the night’s events flooded back into his brain. He struggled to pull his hand out from the tangle of blankets in order to hit snooze on his phone, but it turned off before he could manage. He sighed and shut his eyes again, ready to savor the ten minutes he had before the alarm blasted into his eardrums once again, when he noticed a shadow behind his eyelids. He opened them to find Kiyoomi looming over him.
“Get up. We need to be on the bus in half an hour and you haven’t packed yet.” Kiyoomi was already dressed in his typical athleisure travel garb, but his hair was still wet from the shower.
“Ugh, Omi-Omi, fifteen more minutes,” he whined, his voice even sounding weak to himself.
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “No. You’re not going to make your hangover everyone else’s problem. Get going.” Atsumu pouted, but to no effect. Kiyoomi continued to stare down at him threateningly until he groaned and wiggled out of the mess of a blanket he was trapped under. “Shower first. You reek of beer and I’m not enduring that the whole way back.”
“So mean, Omi,” Atsumu muttered, but trudged his way towards the shower. He knew it would make him feel a little more human, even if he had to just sit under the spray for a while. He undressed - and was he still in his shoes? God, he musta been drunk - and put the shower as hot as he could handle. Then he looked at his arm and remembered Kiyoomi’s hand there. The water seemed freezing for a moment in comparison to the heat of his body as he pictured being escorted back the previous night by the man packing up in the opposite room. Huh. Now wasn’t that somethin’?
They made it back to the bus, only five minutes late, much to Kiyoomi’s chagrin, but took their normal seats and waited for the actual latecomer, Hinata, who looked like death itself. Atsumu prayed to any god that would listen that Hinata would pass out instead of blow chunks the moment the road started to get windy. If anything would set off an already-terse Kiyoomi, that would be it, and he didn’t have the energy to handle the unstoppable meltdown that would ensue. And he says I have tantrums, he thought, sparing a glance at the man in question.
His mask was already in place, but Atsumu could see dark circles under Kiyoomi’s eyes that foretold a bad time. He didn’t know when he started to notice these little things about Kiyoomi, but he knew that a tired Kiyoomi was a bitchy Kiyoomi, and when that doubled with travel, everyone would suffer.
“You should try an’ sleep,” he muttered to him, half for Kiyoomi’s sake and half for everyone else’s. Kiyoomi made a noncommittal sound, busy scrolling on his phone. “Furreal.” He took a deep breath, and before he regretted it, said what was on his mind: “Thanks for helpin’ me back last night.”
He only knew Kiyoomi heard him because his thumb stopped scrolling for a second. He blinked once, twice. “Of course.” Kiyoomi’s voice was impassive, but his voice was not. It was… soft. Atsumu didn’t have the energy to examine that, and stared past Kiyoomi through the window as the bus began to move.
And soon they were on the road back. The cityscape faded and the road turned, winding itself into more rural landscape as traffic lessened and skyscrapers became mountains and fields. Atsumu was in a rare pensive mood as the drive continued, headphones in but music decidedly off as he mulled over the previous day’s loss and the previous evening’s interesting turn. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe he was -
He was pulled from his contemplation by something bumping into his right shoulder. One bump, another, and then Kiyoomi’s form leaning against him, his head on Atsumu’s shoulder, his curls brushing Atsumu’s ear. Atsumu could smell Kiyoomi’s shampoo, his face cream, could hear the soft, even breathing that projected the calm slumber he had succumbed to. His hands were still holding softly onto his phone. Atsumu panicked for a second, thinking back to the previous evening. If he’d collapsed into bed, not even taken off his shoes or jacket, how’d his phone get on the charger? Hmm. He glanced back on the sleeping form against him and decided, with great effort, to stop thinking about it. He closed his eyes and drifted off himself.
-
Kiyoomi had three kinds of days: days, bad days, and Bad Days. Though rarer than they used to be, the third kind still came, and were still nearly impossible to predict until after they arrived. But, predictably, today was a Bad Day.
It had started yesterday, technically. Maybe what set it off was when a stranger at the grocery store sneezed out in the open, in front of him, not bothering to cover their face. Or maybe it was the article he read about declining flu vaccine percentages. Or maybe it was the news report about romaine lettuce being recalled for E Coli. Or maybe it was the fact that he watched Inunaki’s elbow drip blood on the floor after diving for a ball. Or maybe it was all of it. Or none of it.
Either way, Kiyoomi could feel the mounting panic the previous night like a tidal wave he could not run away from. He felt the pulsing in his ears, felt his breathing grow shallow and ragged. He did not sleep last night, putting any energy he had into deep cleaning his already spotless apartment. And it was pointless, truly pointless, because he was going to get sick and then he was going to die.
He’d already called out of practice. It had happened once or twice already since he started playing for the Jackals. It was A Thing. Coach Foster was as understanding as he could be, and there weren’t really any pressing games to worry about, but it still added to the gnawing feeling in his bones. He’d be useless anyway, unable to do anything, too paralyzed to go for a ball that might be ready to infect him with some god-awful disease or stand next to someone who could be exhaling a cloud of virus that would certainly lead to his demise. He was unable to do anything here, in his own home - the cleaning frenzy had led to him collapsing on his couch, mask and gloves on, shivering and nauseous with the absolute certainty that this was The End.
The television was off; he couldn’t risk something setting him off further and, frankly, his mind was too busy to focus on whatever storyline was put in front of him. His phone had died after his phone call to his coach and he couldn’t physically bring himself to move in order to charge it. It’s not like it would help him anyways. He’d just end up reading about deadly viruses and rare types of cancer and statistics about illnesses currently ravishing the nation.
He watched the day begin from that spot, watched the shadows move across his apartment as the sun moved from east to west. He listened to distant traffic below and the muffled sounds of life coming through the closed window. His head hurt. Hell, everything hurt. He didn’t ice his wrists after practice like usual and he imagined that he could feel them swelling as his body ached from the curled up posture he had assumed all day. He needed to sleep, but if he slept, he would probably wake up with something horrible - if he woke up at all.
His thoughts twisted and warped and he kept tears at bay, but only barely. And then he heard it, so quiet at first that he thought it was imagined: a knock on his door. When he didn’t respond, it grew louder, more insistent.
“Omi?” called a voice through the door. “Are ya alive in there?”
Ah. Well. There was only one person that could be. Kiyoomi considered warily, exhausted. If he didn’t respond, what were the chances that Atsumu would just leave? Probably slim to none.
He sighed, gathered his courage, and with a voice hoarse from disuse, he replied. “For now.”
“Whadda you mean, ‘for now’? Ya got me worried, ya scrub!” Atsumu called. “Omiiii, let me in!” Kiyoomi could hear the pout from behind the door.
“Can’t,” he sighed. Defeated. No one needed to see this, least of all him. Kiyoomi knew how he looked, how inexplicable his actions were, how illogical this was.
“Well, then, I’m just gonna come in. Last chance ta get dressed before I catch a glimpse of ya,” Atsumu said, a chuckle in his tone, that easy smile of his evident to Kiyoomi’s ears. Kiyoomi didn’t respond. “Wow, nothin’? Definitely comin’ in then.”
The door was locked, Kiyoomi knew it was. He’d checked no fewer than twelve times last night, locking it, unlocking it, and relocking it for good measure before spraying down the door handles and wiping them down again with an alcohol wipe.
But he heard the click of the lock and the turning of the handle and felt the slight movement of air (probably poisoned air, air from outside) as the door opened. He didn’t look, couldn’t look, head aching from the clench of his jaw and furrow of his brow.
“Havin’ a spare key in yer locker is a shitty idea, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said to him. He could hear Atsumu take his shoes off and pad into the living space. Kiyoomi made a noise in the back of his throat, and even he couldn’t tell if it was in acknowledgement, protest, or irritation. “Nice place, but I can practically taste the Lysol in here. Coach said yer sick or somethin’?” he inquired, and Kiyoomi finally raised his eyes to see Atsumu as he stood in front of him on the couch.
Kiyoomi flinched, his stomach roiling. “Probably. I’m going to get sick, and then I’m going to die.” Saying it aloud didn’t help. It made it less of a possibility and turned it into a certainty.
Atsumu studied him for a moment, the easy smile dampening into something different as it seemed to click. “Ah, I get it. Well, I guess ya don’t need a caretaker to hold yer hair back or make ya soup then.”
Kiyoomi couldn’t even muster the bite he wanted in his words. “I wouldn’t need it anyway.” He stopped looking at Atumu, couldn’t look at his face any more. “You should go.” If I’m infected, you’ll get infected, too, he thought grimly. I’ll kill you.
There was silence for a moment, so Kiyoomi braved looking over once again. “Nah, I don’t think so,” Atsumu replied, thoughtful, still looking at him like he could see right through him. “When was the last time ya drank water?”
Kiyoomi shrugged. He couldn’t say, couldn’t think about it.
“Do ya want bottled water or from the filter?” he asked, navigating to the fridge. Kiyoomi tried to be annoyed, really tried, with the way Atsumu was making himself at home here, invading his privacy, his sanctuary, his tomb. “Omiii,” he called, waiting for Kiyoomi to answer.
Kiyoomi considered. Which was likely to be safer? The bottled water could have been tampered with. The filtered water may not be filtered enough. Eventually, he decided that fuck it, Atsumu was already here and was deliberately invading the insanity, so he would have to learn if he chose to stay. “I don’t know which one is less likely to kill me,” he sighed.
“Whadda mean?” Kiyoomi began to voice his list of concerns. Tampering. Poisoning. Bacteria. Lead. The pros and cons of each variety. His voice strengthened with his words, and he could feel the anxiety leeching out, invading the airspace between them.
“Holy shit,” Atsumu murmured from the kitchen, almost too softly to be heard. Kiyoomi flinched, held himself tighter in anticipation. Atsumu was quiet for a moment, and Kiyoomi almost felt satisfied in scaring him off, in the fact that Atsumu was going to realize what he’d stumbled into and leave and -
“Well, I think, all things considered, bottled water is probably the safer bet,” Atsumu mused aloud.
Kiyoomi was stunned out of the churning spiral of his thoughts. He looked up, and Atsumu was there, unscrewing the cap off of a bottle of water. He offered it to Kiyoomi. “Drink it, go on. I’m not gonna ask what’s the worst that can happen, cuz ya already just about told me, I think. But trust me and drink it. It’ll help.”
Kiyoomi considered for a moment. He did trust Atsumu, completely, and when did that happen, anyway? He thought back to the compiled mental list of Atsumu Facts. Slowly, shakily, he took the bottle from Atsumu’s hand and sipped. And it did help, almost instantly, his body immediately craving more as dehydration screamed inside of him. Atsumu watched him in the way that Kiyoomi realized Atsumu always watched him.
“Now move over, we got tape to watch,” Atsumu demanded, hardly waiting for Kiyoomi to shift before scooting to the other side of the couch. I’ve never had someone over before, he thought benignly, before realizing that was the first benign thought he’d had all day. He felt lighter, somehow, Atsumu’s presence grounding him in a way that was foreign to Bad Days. They watched tape for a while, Atsumu talking over most of it while saying very little of substance, the words passing through Kiyoomi’s skull. He knew he didn’t have to listen, didn’t have to respond, and that Atsumu would keep a steady stream of sounds regardless. I love this idiot, he thought, watching Atsumu instead of the game tape. Somehow, the thought didn’t pull him back into the spiral. Somehow, it steadied him.
“And ya know what, Omi-Omi? Yer hair’s a wreck, I should take a picture of it to show ya next time you make fun of my roots!”
“Do it and you’re dead, Miya,” Kiyoomi said, a smile threatening on his face for the first time all day.
-
Atsumu couldn’t figure out why he did it, why he kept doing it, kept going out of his way for the tetchy hitter who couldn’t even make it to practice, damn it. But Coach had said something about Omi being sick, and there he was, breaking into his locker to retrieve the spare apartment key he knew was taped at its top. There he was, walking his ass to a konbini for water and medicine and the man’s favorite snacks. And there he was, waltzing his way through the man’s door despite Kiyoomi’s protests. Because Kiyoomi’s voice wasn’t right through the door, and because he couldn’t stop going out of his way to be nice to the irritable guy.
And because he knew how Kiyoomi felt about his health. He saw the weary way Kiyoomi looked at everything yesterday and he saw the blood drain from the man’s face when he saw those drops of blood on the court. And yeah, he should just get over it, because he is a professional athlete and everything, and sometimes blood happens, but Atsumu just had this niggling feeling that Kiyoomi was in the middle of a meltdown of serious proportions.
Atsumu always trusted his gut, even when common sense was on the table. Even when the odds told him no, if his gut said yes, he said yes. It had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count, but his gut feeling was always the way he went. And it was right, once again, because when he walked into Kiyoomi’s apartment, he could tell that something wasn’t. When he saw Kiyoomi’s face, pained and pale, Kiyoomi’s tall form shrunken in on itself to be small, he couldn’t even bring himself to the self-satisfied self-righteousness he usually got from being right.
Miya Atsumu was not a nice person. So why the hell was he here, mother hen-ing his teammate and trying to convince him that he’s not dying?
Atsumu talked through film, partially just to hear himself talk, sure, but also because the more he yapped, the less constricted Kiyoomi became. The more he teased, the less tension he saw in the man’s hands. The more he ranted, the less weariness he saw on Kiyoomi’s face. Eventually, he looked like himself again, more or less - tired, bone tired, but that expression of pure terror and defeat was gone, and that was a win in Atsumu’s book.
The game ended eventually, and Atsumu felt suddenly self-conscious there on Omi’s couch. He scratched the back of his head, closed his laptop, and clapped his hands on his thighs. “Well,” he started. “Ya feelin’ better yet?” Kiyoomi considered for a moment before nodding. “Good, so go back to practice tomorrow. I outta go, I guess. Ya gotta get yer beauty sleep, Omi-Omi,” he chuckled, his most-practiced smile on his face. He started to get up, but something stopped him. A hand, Kiyoomi’s hand, held his and held him in place.
“Stay,” was all he said. Not a demand, not a plea. An offer.
Well, who was he to refuse? Atsumu sat back down.
-
Atsumu awoke to an ache in his back, a crick in his neck, and the socked feet of one Sakusa Kiyoomi heavy across his lap. He yawned and stretched, jostling the other man enough that his eyes opened as well.
“Oh,” he said, surprised. His feet stayed in their place. “You’re still here.”
“Of course I’m still here, Omi,” he replied. “Ya trapped me.”
Kiyoomi looked down for a moment, noticed his feet, and Atsumu noticed a blush begin to rise in his cheeks. Precious, he thought, unbidden. “I apologize for being such trouble,” the man began. “I know I’m… a lot -”
“Nah,” Atsumu reassured, trying to save them both the embarrassment of Kiyoomi’s formal apology. “Don’t worry about it. I know you.”
“You do, don’t you?” Kiyoomi muttered, his eyebrow raising, his eyes on the verge of rolling.
“I’m just surprised you let me in, if everything was so infected and out ta get ya. Woulda thought maybe you’d think I was, too! Why wasn’t I also contaminated, or whatever?” He joked.
Kiyoomi’s blush deepened and his eyes grew wide. It took him a moment to respond. “I’d never actually considered that possibility,” he confessed, looking startled. Atsumu could almost hear the cogs churning in his head.
“No, don’t start!” Astumu protested, and, without thinking, poked Kiyoomi right in the center of the forehead. He winced internally. Now you’ve done it, he bitched at himself. All that work to not touch the man, and make him - and try to - and now -
But Kiyoomi simply stared at him, head slightly cocked, but strangely unbothered. So Atsumu did it again. And again. And again. Until Kiyoomi pushed his hand out of the way, a familiar glare back on his visage.
“Ah, there he is, my Omi-Omi’s back!” he cried with glee. If there was one thing Atsumu knew he excelled at, it was setting. If there was a second, it was being irritating.
“You’re a moron, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi responded, left eye twitching.
“Ah, my first name, Omi-Omi! I love ya too,” said Atsumu thoughtlessly. And winced in a desperate realization of what he’d just admitted. Sure, he could play it off cool if he was careful, if he said the right thing…
Both of them were frozen in place. They stared at each other, almost daring the other to make the next move, make a joke, get them past this awkwardness somehow. But the moment for jokes had passed, had fled too quickly, and there was an awkward and unresolved truth hanging above them. The moment was fragile and Atsumu couldn’t think of how to not break it, how to fix it and go back to the easy banter of the previous moment. He couldn’t tell what Kiyoomi’s face was doing, the expression unfamiliar on his internal gallery of Kiyoomi faces. But his eyes were large, and deep, and dark, and his face was flushed, and his lips were slightly parted, and the way the morning’s light framed his face was really something…
It was Kiyoomi who spoke first. How long had passed? He couldn’t tell. “Atsumu,” he said, simply. Atsumu watched the way the sounds escaped past Kiyoomi’s lips, the sound of his given name from Kiyoomi’s voice unfamiliar but not unpracticed.
And Miya Atsumu wasn’t a nice person. Neither was Kiyoomi. They’re both stubborn, and difficult, and rude, and demanding, and selfish. And if Kiyoomi was going to go around, teasing him with his own name, for christ's sake, make his own name so damn appealing to listen to, he was going to retaliate. And Atsumu always trusted his gut, and he knew what his gut was telling him. So without a second thought, Atsumu closed the distance between them.
Soft, he thought as his lips touched Kiyoomi’s. Warm, a second thought. Two words he decidedly did not associate with Sakusa Kiyoomi.
But the third thought never came, because Kiyoomi’s hands brushed Atsumu’s face as he pressed back, lips giving and kiss deepening. A sound escaped from one of them, but he couldn’t tell which, as Kiyoomi pressed farther again, towards him, crawling up and atop him completely, holding Atsumu in place with his thighs. Atsumu didn’t hesitate to touch this time, kneaded Kiyoomi’s legs as their lips parted and eyes opened and Kiyoomi gave Atsumu the softest, most crooked smile he had ever seen.
Maybe Miya Atsumu wasn’t a nice person. But this was pretty nice, he had to admit. And if being regular-old Atsumu could get him this, there was nothing he would change. Kiyoomi took Atsumu’s face in his hands again, cocked his chin up, and pressed another kiss on Atsumu’s lips. And Atsumu was consumed, completely.