Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sakusa Kiyoomi has always felt more like an abstract concept rather than a tangible thing. It’s not like Atsumu hasn’t been aware of his existence. It’s hard not to be aware of Sakusa Kiyoomi, ever since he burst onto the high school volleyball scene and made a name for himself as one of the nation’s top three aces on their level with his weird, bendy wrists and took one of Atsumu’s chances at national glory from under his nose. 

But he’s always looked at Sakusa with a net in between them, the yellow-and-green blend of the Itachiyama jersey burning into his vision before the whistle blows—or from across the gymnasium at Youth Camp, with Sakusa looking completely indifferent to everything going on around him while Atsumu feels like he’s riding an invisible high that he’ll never come down from. 

Even then, Sakusa’s general apathy towards anything and everything surprised him. If he had Sakusa’s flexibility and prestige, he’d never let anyone live it down. Yet Sakusa never took the opportunity to boast over his achievements, even when it was well within his right, and that had only drawn Atsumu’s interest more. 

Sakusa’s decision to continue with volleyball into college and then to pursue a professional career has been a shock Atsumu hasn’t recovered from. Even with his skills, it’s hard to imagine the disinterested player pursuing a sport that requires his full attention and devotion. Yet, Sakusa Kiyoomi signed a contract with MSBY Black Jackals. Yet, here he stands in front of Atsumu, a good half-hour earlier than their scheduled practice time, his back turned to Atsumu as he packs his locker. 

The rest of the locker rooms are deserted. If anyone else were here, the footsteps would be impossible to hide, and the metal clang of the locker doors would be unmistakable. It’s far too early, the sun a faint shape on the horizon, and the rest of the team will undoubtedly be soaking the remainder of the time they have before the first practice of the season and Coach Foster drives them into the ground. After this, everyone hits the ground running, and there will be no chance to slow down or slack off.

Atsumu’s been here before. He’s witnessed it firsthand his first season in the V. League. He’s watched how excitement can turn into despair at the first loss and become frustration with the practices that follow. He’s felt the highs and lows of emotions that being a professional athlete brings, and he’s endured a lot of it as he struggled to prove his abilities as a competent first-string setter. This is his first season as a complete starter, and he wants to leave his impression on the court. But the fear of that crush of defeat lingers over his shoulders.

The fear that turns into insecurity and doubt—until it wraps around your ankles and keeps you planted against the ground. He’s gone through that fear the most.

That’s probably the reason he’s here early too: he wants to keep making a good impression. He knows his sets are good. He knows he’s practiced hard. He knows he deserves to be here. But even then, that fear that he’ll mess up, disappoint the team, and wind up on the bench is devastating. Even if it’s lessened since last year, it’s so palpable that it hurts. 

He wonders if Sakusa understands that—or if maybe he feels it, too.

Atsumu almost scowls. He doubts it. Sakusa seems like the type of superhuman that doesn’t let ordinary things—like fear or insecurity—permeate what he does. Still, Atsumu’s been there. He was the rookie last year. And Sakusa knows him. Maybe they’re not friends , but surely, Sakusa might find a familiar face a little comforting. 

He is the one that will be setting to Sakusa, after all. Regardless of Sakusa’s personal feelings towards him, that fact won’t change. Sakusa was aware of that when he signed his contract. He knows that they’ll have to communicate at some point. And Atsumu already knows that he’ll have to take the first step.

“Hey, Sakusa-kun,” Atsumu greets in his usual cheery voice. 

It echoes through the space, and he watches Sakusa turn in place with a look of disdain before returning his attention to his locker. His mask is still perfectly placed over the bottom half of his face, even though they’ll be practicing soon and they’re the only ones here at the moment. 

“Miya,” Sakusa responds gruffly, the bare minimum greeting.

“Oh no.” Atsumu steps over to his locker, the next one down from Sakusa’s, as the two newest members of the team. He notices Sakusa note the distance between them before inching away. “Ya can’t call me that. Everyone on the team calls me by my first name. Ya hafta call me Atsumu!”

“No, I don’t.”

Atsumu tries to recall his combination on the lock before undoing it. It swings open with a creak, and Atsumu winces at the clutter still inside. He thought he had cleared most of it out after last season. But he still has photographs tacked on the door of Inarizaki at Nationals and of him and Osamu at the grand opening of Onigiri Miya, along with a few half-finished sticks of deodorant and an extra change of clothes. “Oops,” he says. “Anyway, ya gotta. It doesn’t make sense otherwise. There’s no reason for ya not to call me Atsumu. We’ve known each other for years.”

Sakusa slides a glance over at the mess inside Atsumu’s locker before swiftly looking back at his own locker. “You just called me Sakusa-kun.”

He has a point there , Atsumu concedes. He unzips his duffel and pulls out a change of their practice gear. He always likes having two in his locker at all times: one for him to wear and the other in case of an emergency. “Alright. Then I’ll stop.”

“Perfect,” Sakusa says. “Don’t talk to me at all.”

Atsumu cries out in indignation. His eyes flit over to Sakusa’s locker just once. It appears as he’d expected it to: the dust has been swept away, and it’s maintained clean and simple. Sakusa has a spare change of clothes on the bottom shelf, his practice gear on the middle shelf, and his actual uniform on the top shelf. An extra pair of sneakers rests on the floor of the locker beside another pair of knee pads. A lint roller, several cans of deodorant, packages of disinfecting wipes, and bottles of hand sanitizer line the rest of the locker. With all of his belongings, it’s clear Sakusa is prepared.

On the other hand, as he looks at his own locker, he notes a piece of gum stuck in the bottom right corner. He should bring an extra pair of sneakers, too. How is that Sakusa is already a hundred times more prepared and organized than he is?

“We hafta talk,” Atsumu reasons. He picks a spare tissue out of his duffel and tears the gum out. He tosses it into the garbage that sits at the end of the row of lockers. “I’m yer setter now. We hafta communicate.” He shoots Sakusa a smile that is meant to be reassuring, but judging by the way Sakusa’s eyes narrow, it comes off more taunting than anything. “I’ll call ya by yer first name too.”

“Do not,” Sakusa says, reaching up to unhook his mask from behind his ears, “do that.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Kiyoomi.”

Without his mask, the curl of his lips is hard to miss. It isn’t Atsumu’s intention to get under Sakusa’s skin. Honestly. But he’s starting to realize that—even beyond volleyball—pissing people off is what he does best. 

“It’s—” Sakusa stops to let out a sigh, as if he wants Atsumu to know how irritating he is. As if he wants the audible evidence of it to sit in the air between them. “You’re annoying. Can’t you just call me Sakusa and that’s it?”

“Yer the one that said that I shouldn’t call ya Sakusa-kun,” Atsumu points out.

“I never said that. You’re the one that wanted to be called by his given name. I said no.”

Atsumu takes out his extra set of knee pads and drops them into his locker. Unlike Sakusa, there is no rhyme or reason to the organization of his locker. Everything just…sits there. “What ‘bout Omi?”

Sakusa grunts, but the sound isn’t as heated as his response to being called by his full name. It makes Atsumu pause, turning the sound over his tongue. A nickname would work. If anything, it suggests a higher level of comfort with someone.

“Uh…Omi-kun?” Atsumu suggests, letting that sit in the air between them instead.

Atsumu doesn’t dare look over at Sakusa now. All he hears is the rustle of Sakusa’s duffel bag being emptied before a zipper follows it. 

“I guess that isn’t terrible,” Sakusa says after a long while. 

Atsumu flashes his teeth before he can help it. “So yer gonna call me Atsumu?” 

“No,” Sakusa answers, the word blunt. He drops his duffel on the lone bench in the middle of the room and starts to undress. It objectively makes sense to change before the rest of the team hurtles in—if only to avoid the swarm. 

Atsumu pointedly looks at an unknown point on the wall. “Why not? Bokkun calls me Tsum-Tsum.”

“Do I look like I give off the same energy as Bokuto Koutarou?”

Well. Sakusa has a point there. He wonders if this is how all of their conversations will go. He’ll tease only for Sakusa to shut him down with a logical remark that leaves him reeling.

“I’m not tellin’ ya to call me Tsum-Tsum,” Atsumu reasons. His gaze hasn’t moved once from the wall. He’s not sure if he’s blinked, but he can hear Sakusa still changing behind him, so he stays still even as his vision blurs. “Just call me Atsumu.”

“We don’t know each other that well.” Sakusa stands up behind him. “You can turn around now.”

So he noticed. Atsumu ignores the heat creeping up his neck before grabbing ahold of his own practice gear. He doesn’t care if Sakusa looks at him, although judging by the way Sakusa is now fixated on his locker again, he’s not worth Sakusa’s attention. 

“So we can get to know each other.” Atsumu unzips his sweatshirt and hooks it onto a peg in his locker. In the next breath, he yanks his shirt over his head. “Let’s get dinner after practice. I’ll treat ya.”

“What?” Sakusa whips his head towards Atsumu before resolutely turning away. Atsumu freezes with his hands around his shirt for a brief moment before falling into the process of changing again. “Why?”

“Uh, ‘cause we’re teammates now? Duh?”

“That doesn’t mean we have to hang out outside of practice or matches. We’ll be seeing enough of each other as it is.”

Sakusa is still the person that shows up to get the job done—and that’s it. He fulfills the requirements asked of him, and he does it well, but Atsumu knows right away that Sakusa isn’t someone that’ll revel in the fame or glory he’ll get from being a professional volleyball player. He doesn’t soak in praise from the fans, and he doesn’t need compliments from journalists to soothe his ego. He is there to perform for his own expectations. Not anyone else’s.

In a way, Atsumu admires that. He cares way too much about how others perceive him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the weekly gifts he received from fans or the surge on social media whenever he posts an inane tweet or picture. Atsumu likes attention. Things like appreciation aren’t found everywhere, and he relishes it when it comes.

Atsumu pulls his other shirt designated for practice over his head, popping it through the hole. “C’mon, Omi-kun. Ya don’t hafta be so prickly all the time. It’s just dinner. I already said I would pay!”

“Look, I’ll hit your sets, so I don’t know why—”

“Okay,” Atsumu interrupts. He knows what a lost battle looks like. Believe it or not, he does understand boundaries. He knows Sakusa’s are more firmly drawn than most. He’s not going to push beyond Sakusa’s comfort levels. His intentions when it comes to dinner are well-meaning. “Then no biggie. Maybe another time.”

“Huh?”

“Another time, maybe.” Atsumu pulls off his sweatpants and exchanges them for a pair of shorts. “Maybe after we’re more comfortable with each other.” 

He feels Sakusa’s gaze burning the side of his head, but he tries his best not to acknowledge it as he bends down to tie the laces on his sneakers. 

“Huh?” Sakusa repeats.

The door to the locker room bangs open, and Meian and Inunaki step inside. “Hey, you two,” Meian says. “Already here bright and early, I see.”

“Mmm,” Sakusa hums. He seems to debate whether his greeting is too rushed or blunt, and he adds a small, “Hello.”

Atsumu tries his best not to smile. Regardless of their interaction beforehand, Sakusa still remains respectful as always to his seniors, and his slight hesitation has told Atsumu all he needs to know: Sakusa is nervous—even if it’s only a little. 

Atsumu throws a look over his shoulder. “’Course. I had to beat y’all.”

“Uh…” Inunaki jerks a thumb over at Sakusa. “I’m willing to bet Sakusa was the first one here.”

Atsumu scoffs at the same time Sakusa confirms, “Yes.”

Ignoring that, Atsumu stands up straight and pats his knee pads once to ensure they’re in the right position. “C’mon, Omi-kun,” he says, swinging a hand in the direction of the gymnasium, “let’s go warm up before everyone else gets here. I’d like to see yer funny little wrists in action.”

Inunaki coughs into his fist as he reaches his locker. “Out of context.”

Still, Atsumu is pleased when Sakusa follows him. Whether it’s to avoid the inevitable onslaught from the rest of their team’s arrival or whether he actually wants to get a head start, it doesn’t matter. Part of him wanted to give Sakusa the out if he wanted it to avoid that chaos early on. Atsumu needs a hitter, and Sakusa needs a setter after all. 

The anticipation that comes with the first match of the season has its own unique quality. The sensation that one experiences when facing a difficult opponent or a dreaded rival is not the same. This is the result of a build-up months in the making, as athletes let the brief respite wash over them and the restless desire to play again strengthen. The roar from the crowd is different too, like a deafening scream rather than the comforting hum in the background. Everyone is anxious for the new season to kick off—the players most of all.

For Atsumu, the anxiety sitting in his stomach is different. This is his first season as a permanent starter. This is his first match that he knows his position is made for him. There is a certain kind of pride with being taken off the bench, but right now, Atsumu only knows this tight bubble. 

But as the match goes on, Atsumu is reminded over and over again that he has nothing to fear. Even if he messes up once or twice—which he doesn’t —his teammates are there to back him up. Everyone’s performance is stellar, and within minutes, Atsumu is setting the rhythm against the Railway Warriors. 

Even Sakusa is outstanding. Atsumu hates to admit it, but Sakusa handles the pressure of his first match in the first division far better than he did. He had been so nervous that he’d nearly bawled on the phone to Osamu in the locker room, and the only thing that had snapped him out of it had been Osamu hanging up on the fucking call.

There is a certain kind of delight that Atsumu gets from setting the ball to Sakusa. He’s always enjoyed setting for the various monsters he’s played with over the years—from Suna to Aran to Bokuto—but there is something about watching Sakusa’s spin in action, knowing that he started the path to the points Sakusa creates, that warms his stomach. 

It’s the first match of the season, and the MSBY Black Jackals walk away with the victory. The cheers of the crowd have yet to diminish, even as rows filter out through the side doors. Atsumu has already stopped to meet a few people lingering, signed his fair share of autographs, and taken his portion of pictures. 

But all the while, his attention is elsewhere. 

He wanders over to Sakusa with a paper bag bunched in his right hand. He’s in the middle of his cooldown, taking his time to flex his wrists and ensure that he hasn’t strained himself too hard. Even above the noise that remains, his head lifts at the sound of Atsumu’s footsteps coming in his direction.

“Nice job today, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says. It’s the truth. Sakusa will fit in real nice with the team. He’s already looking forward to their next match. “Ya did well.”

Sakusa lifts one eyebrow. It’s a rare show of confidence in his own abilities, and Atsumu would be lying if he said the nonchalance Sakusa exhibits doesn’t tick him off a little. “Of course. I know what I’m here to do.”

“Mmhmm,” Atsumu hums. “Anyway, how’s yer schedule lookin’ today? Wanna go out for that dinner tonight?”

Sakusa lifts his hand off the floor, twisting it in his other grip. “That again? I think we know each other too well now.”

“Huh?” Atsumu barks. “Ya still call me Miya, for cryin’ out loud!”

“Isn’t it your name?”

“I mean, yes , but—”

“Miya, we don’t need to get to know each other. We see each other every day for hours. We spend all of our weekends together. I watched you fall asleep in the locker room after practice the other day. Frankly, I see your face more than anyone else’s.”

It is true that they see more of each other than most people. That’s the way it is when you play a professional sport. You’re with your team more often than not, and that would be enough if Atsumu knew anything else about Sakusa. He knows all of these little facts and tidbits about the others, but when it comes to Sakusa, it’s a blank slate. Beyond what Sakusa puts out there, there is nothing that he’s discovered on his own time. 

He knows that they can continue with this relationship that is strictly professional, as today has proven, but…he’s hoped that the two of them would have something to bond over, considering they clashed at the Interhigh, were chosen for the Youth Camp, and then joined MSBY around the same time. They’re the same age, have similar experience, and are both at the top of their level. 

And, if Atsumu is being completely honest, he wants to crack the shell around Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s a mystery to solve, and he is uncertain if he can make that fissure appear. He wonders what it would look like if Sakusa gave him any attention beyond what he gives him now. He wonders what it would look like to really see Sakusa beyond his perfect performances on the court. 

He wonders what it would look like if Sakusa’s eyes were on him instead—rather than the other way around. As it has always been. 

“It’s a beautiful face,” Atsumu says, bending at the waist. “Ya should consider yerself lucky.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. He’s nearing the end of his cooldown. Atsumu recognizes the final steps as he stretches out his arms towards his toes for a few seconds at a time. Sakusa follows the same routine after each practice, carrying it over to their matches, and he never deviates from his usual rhythm.

“So is that a no?” Atsumu confirms. 

Sakusa scoffs, sitting up straight. “What else do you want to know? Is it really that important?”

“It’s important to me! Like, what’s yer favorite color?”

“Really? Out of all the questions?”

Atsumu straightens, a hand splaying across his heart in mock offense. “It’s a great question,” he says. “It’s, like, the most basic icebreaker question ever.”

“Exactly. It’s unoriginal.” Sakusa jumps to his feet, finished with his cooldown, and his gaze sweeps across Atsumu once. For a split second, there’s a glint in his eye that makes Atsumu think he might change his mind, but it disappears in the next moment. “I’m going to change.”

“Alright.” Like last time, Atsumu anticipates the lost battle before it’s fought. He’s not disappointed. He’ll keep asking in case Sakusa changes his mind, because whether Sakusa likes it or not, they are teammates now, and it’s impossible to avoid each other. But he’s prepared for this. He holds out the paper bag fisted in his right hand. “Here ya go.”

Sakusa doesn’t reach for it immediately. He eyes it with slight curiosity first. “What is it?”

“Onigiri,” Atsumu answers. He points towards the crowd where the Onigiri Miya stand is in the process of clearing out. He’d spotted Osamu before the match, and his presence had calmed the nerves—even if only a little bit. “Have ya ever had Samu’s onigiri? I might be biased, but I think it’s pretty good.”

That’s a lie. He thinks it’s pretty incredible, but of course he would after sitting through countless years as a taste tester until Osamu was satisfied with his recipes and methods. Even if he had raged over Osamu’s decision to pursue work in the food industry as opposed to continuing with volleyball, he can’t deny the magnificence of what rests in front of him. Sure, rice balls are nowhere near as cool as volleyball, but Osamu’s creation of a successful business from the ground up holds some appeal. 

“No,” Sakusa says. He takes the outstretched package and unfolds the top of the bag, peering inside. “I haven’t. What kind are they?”

“Umeboshi,” Atsumu answers. “That okay?”

Sakusa folds the top of the bag over itself to keep the contents from spilling out. “That’s fine. How much do I owe you?”

“ Huh ? Ya don’t owe me anythin’. It’s my treat.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Omi-kun, ya gotta stop thinkin’ I’ve got some ulterior motive. Can’t ya just believe I want to do somethin’ nice for ya?”

“No,” Sakusa says, the word blunt. 

Okay. That stings a bit. Maybe his intentions aren’t completely pure. He is hoping that he can soften Sakusa’s sharp edges through the wonders of food, but apparently, that isn’t working as well as he’d hoped. “Well, whatever ya think I’m up to doesn’t matter. It’s yers. Enjoy.”

Atsumu has started in the direction of the locker room when he hears a soft, “Thanks,” from behind him. He doesn’t dare turn around in case Sakusa tries to convince him the word was a figment of his imagination, but he does cradle that response in his mind. It’s a small difference, but maybe, he isn’t as far off from smoothening Sakusa’s bite as he thought.

In the same way victory can bring a rush of exhilaration that lasts over the next week, a loss can set a team into a deep pit of despair. EJP Raijin are a strong team. Atsumu can testify to that fact himself, considering he’s set for one of their newest monsters for three years in high school, yet that doesn’t lessen the sting after he finishes shaking Suna’s hand beneath the net after the final whistle. The rest of their opponents’ faces blur together in his mind even as Komori and Washio come to greet him personally. The roar of the crowd fades into a low whisper in his mind, and all Atsumu can do is brace his hands on his knees.

It’s not like he had a particularly terrible performance. Actually, he had a good match. He scored a few service aces, his sets were impeccable, and he even had some great receives. That’s one of the hardest things to come to terms with as a professional athlete: you can do everything right, and still, things can go wrong. He’ll go back over the match on his own later at home, and he’ll find numerous instances where he’ll think, I should’ve done this differently or That set could’ve been better. And that crushing despair that arrives with every defeat will press down on his chest like always, until the cracks in his confidence appear.

No matter how many times he endures this, it never gets easier. In fact, he thinks it gets harder the higher the level he reaches. It gets worse knowing that it’s inevitable at some points.

We don’t need memories . Yet defeat is a memory that comes back as familiar as always, like the dreaded taunt it is. It mocks him every time, even at the moments he feels most impervious to it. Now that he’s a starter, its crushing blow leaves a greater impact. He has the ability to stop it, and he couldn’t. He can’t.

The crowd’s low whisper fills his ears. Sweat drips down his neck, trailing down his arms, and his jersey sticks to his skin. Every muscle in his body aches, yet the one that hurts the most is his heart. He knows he has to move. He’s aware of every camera pointed at him—of every head turned his way. It’s not like this is an important tournament. He has to stand up straight, chin up, and move on. 

But—it’s hard. This is the first loss of the season, and it stings. 

Instead of moving, he remains in the middle of the court, his feet pressed into the wood, his hands gripping his knees. Even as his breath heaves out of him in unsteady gasps, he keeps still, his gaze fixed downward. 

He has to move soon. He has to do something.

The crowd becomes white noise. His surroundings blur until even his eyes burn from staring at one point for too long, and Atsumu can tell he’s on the verge of snapping completely. 

He’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t pick up on the sound of footsteps approaching until a pair of sneakers appear in his line of vision.

“Miya.”

Atsumu lifts his head. 

Sakusa’s expression is neutral as always, as if he hadn’t just played a five-set match and returned defeated. But the evidence of the physical exertion is there: sweat gleams on his skin beneath the powerful lights, and his forearms burn bright red from the countless serve receives he pulled off today. His hair is even frizzier than usual, as if the curls are more disorganized from the usual way he frames it now that he’s older. 

Atsumu attempts his usual teasing smile, but his heart isn’t in it. “What’s up, Omi-Omi?”

“Are you going to ask me today?”

His brows furrow. “Ask ya what?”

Sakusa turns to the side, his gaze pointedly fixed elsewhere, which only confuses Atsumu further. “You know.”

“I—know what?”

Sakusa scoffs. “Are you going to invite me out for dinner tonight? Or not?”

Atsumu straightens so quickly that he gives himself whiplash. He presses a hand to the back of his neck at the searing pain that erupts and tries not to wince. If he’s being honest, the prospect of dinner slipped his mind. He’s kept up with the routine of asking Sakusa once after every match and occasional practice, but the answer has always been a resolute no.

It hasn’t been as discouraging as it seems. He’s finding out other things, like the fact that Sakusa likes umeboshi onigiri the best and that even after a defeat, he looks forward to the next match at all times. It’s been a test of endurance, one that he hasn’t minded, because with each fact he discovers, his interest only grows. 

“’Course I was gonna ask!” Atsumu paints on his best smile, as though he isn’t in quite a lot of pain at the moment. 

Sakusa’s lips flatten. He still hasn’t put on his mask. He won’t until after he showers and his face is clear of any lingering sweat. “Uh-huh.”

“I was!”

“Right.” A beat passes. “I’m picking the restaurant, and you’re paying.”

It’s a yes. It’s the only yes he’s gotten thus far, and it’s enough to make it all worth it. “’Course!” Atsumu exclaims, and the abrupt increase in the volume of his voice is enough to make Sakusa take a step back. “It’s on me.”

“Right.” Sakusa inclines his head in the direction of the locker rooms. “Well then. I’m going to change, and so are you. Because I’m definitely not going anywhere with you looking like that.”

Atsumu pouts. Sure, he might be sticky with sweat, and his hair might be curly and wet, but he doesn’t look like a fucking ogre.

Sakusa assesses him with one final look before ambling in the direction of the locker room. “Twenty minutes,” Sakusa warns over his shoulder. “Or I’ll change my mind.”

The excitement that overcomes him is so intense that Atsumu nearly forgets the loss they experienced tonight. As he watches Sakusa head off, he wonders if that was Sakusa’s intention all along. 

Sakusa manages to surprise Atsumu again by guiding them to a bistro not far from their gymnasium. Atsumu understands almost immediately why Sakusa has chosen to bring them here. The inside of the restaurant is spaced out enough, even with its slow movement of customers, and they manage to fit a table for two in the far corner away from prying eyes and ears. The menu is filled with French and Italian cuisine, and against the warm lighting, Atsumu squints in order to read the options before deciding on white wine and a creamy pasta dish. Sakusa requests a similar dish with beef as well, though he hesitates for a moment before agreeing on a glass too.

Once their menus have been retrieved and there’s nothing left to do but wait, Atsumu lets himself settle in. He’s actually managed to convince Sakusa to join him for dinner once. Well, technically, Sakusa extended the offer today, but it’s the result of his repetition that’s gotten him here. 

Atsumu takes the opportunity to study Sakusa outside of his obligations with the team. His hair is no longer frizzy with sweat. After his shower, his curls frame the side of his face perfectly, and for once, Atsumu gets to see him outside of his usual practice gear and uniform. Sakusa’s wearing a sweater that is closer to gold than yellow with a pair of jeans, and it’s such a strange phenomenon to witness that Atsumu feels like he needs to take a picture to capture the moment. His eyes flit around the restaurant, landing on each of the other customers before returning to rest on Atsumu.

“Why are you staring?” Sakusa asks.

“Nothin’!” Atsumu says quickly—too quickly. He pats his hands against the table in an erratic rhythm. “Just not used to seeing ya in normal human clothes.”

Sakusa scowls: his usual response to Atsumu’s antics. This, at least, has become even more predictable with time. “I don’t have enough of an ego to wear my jersey twenty-four-seven. I do wear other things.”

“I know, but I’ve never gotten to see you wear anythin’ else. See! We’re learnin’ so much ‘bout each other already. Now I know ya own that nice sweater. Did yer mother buy ya that?”

If possible, Sakusa’s scowl worsens. “No.”

“Then who bought it?”

“I did.”

Atsumu whistles. “Ya got nice taste in fashion then, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa harrumphs, and the sliver of a conversation dies right there. It’s not that Sakusa comes off as particularly shy. He’s just not much of a talker to begin with. It’s almost as if he never feels the need to say anything unnecessary—like anything else is a waste of breath. Each sentence that comes out of his mouth is meant to convey his tone and intention in the perfect amount of words. 

That would be fine—if Atsumu weren’t the kind of person that hates silence. Even as it grows between them now, the urge to fill it grows stronger. He can’t simply sit there and let it exist. Osamu can, and that’s probably the big difference between them. But Atsumu can’t help but destroy it every time it appears, even if he has to spout nonsense to do so.

“Ya did great today, Omi-kun.” Atsumu places his palms flat against the surface of the table. “Even if we lost.” 

Because even now, everything comes back to volleyball. Sometimes he thinks he’ll never be able to make room in his heart for anything else.

Sakusa shrugs at that. “EJP Raijin are good,” he says. “They have a solid lineup. It’s hard to win every game.”

As calm as ever. Atsumu wishes he could brush off the defeat that easily, but he’s not sure he’d be the same kind of player he is now if he did that. “I know that. I’m gonna have to listen to Suna brag for the next couple of weeks about it. He’s never gonna let me live it down.”

Even with his mask pulled over his face, Atsumu notices the way Sakusa’s eyes narrow. It’s almost enough to think that Sakusa is frowning. 

“And I’m gonna have to hear ‘bout it from my old teammates,” Atsumu continues. “I can’t believe I let Suna snag the win today. He’ll be so annoying ‘bout it.”

“You would know,” Sakusa mutters under his breath.

Atsumu wags a finger at him. “Hey! I heard that.” He drops his hand again. “I would much rather lose to Aran-kun. He would have been gracious about it. Not Suna. Suna is probably goin’ to send me pictures of the league rankings every day to rub it in.”

This time, Sakusa is definitely frowning. 

“What?” Atsumu demands. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No.”

“Spit it out, Omi-kun. I can’t read yer mind.”

Sakusa’s features pinch together as he mumbles, “It’s not like Motoya’s going to be any nicer about it either.”

Atsumu tries not to beam like he’s found Osamu’s hidden stack of candy. This is something he can work with. This is more than Sakusa’s usual level of indifference. He’s almost forgotten that Komori is Sakusa’s cousin. As well-intentioned as he looks at first glance, Atsumu wonders if Komori has a chaotic streak of his own hidden somewhere. 

“Ah,” Atsumu says. “Yer cousin gonna be a prick about it?”

“No.” Atsumu tries not to deflate. “But he’ll be happy about it. Which isn’t—uh, the best.”

“Ya really do have a way with words, Omi-kun.”

“If you wanted a better dinner partner, you should’ve asked Bokuto-san.” Sakusa shrugs again before gripping the table to shift in his seat. His knees brush against Atsumu’s, the table far too small for two professional athletes of their size, and Atsumu draws his legs back as much as he can. “Motoya will be pleased about the win. And…I’d like to beat him next time.”

Atsumu sits up straight, his back slamming into his chair. He almost forgets his choice to pull his legs back to make room for Sakasa until their knees knock together again. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he apologizes swiftly. “But we can work with that, Omi-kun! This is what I like to see.”

He’s never seen Sakusa aim this much distaste at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Atsumu clenches his hands into fists, pumping them in the air. “I mean yer clearly more than yer straight faces and yer perfect routines. You’ve got a competitive side to ya! I like it.”

Sakusa raises one eyebrow—and that single motion makes Atsumu feel as though he’s being judged very, very hard. “I’m a professional athlete,” he says. “Of course I like to win.”

Atsumu unfurls his fingers. “I mean, yeah,” he agrees. “But ya don’t look like yer that invested in the outcome of a match most of the time. It looks like it doesn’t matter to ya either way so long as you’ve done yer best.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I wrong?”

Sakusa debates that for a second, like Atsumu has actually made him question himself and his methods. “It does matter to me,” he says after deep consideration. “Of course I’m here to perform to the best of my ability, but it doesn’t mean anything if our team loses. We’ll lose points in the league, and it won’t matter if I had a good game today if we lost.”

This is an unexpected turn of events. A good one, but an unexpected turn. “You’ve got a competitive side to ya,” he repeats in childlike wonder.

Sakusa watches him for a second, and the intensity of his stare is enough to make Atsumu wriggle in place. His face feels warmer than before. Has someone turned on the heat? 

“Yes,” Sakusa says simply. In the distance, he spots their waiter walking over, two steaming dishes balanced in his hands. “For instance, I got more service aces than you today.”

As the waiter sets the plate down in front of him, Atsumu doesn’t glance once at his pasta. His gaze is fixed forward as Sakusa casually tears off his mask and murmurs his thanks as if he didn’t just rip Atsumu’s world out from under him. When he catches Atsumu staring, his eyebrows scrunch. “What?” Sakusa asks.

Three seconds of silence pass. Then, Atsumu screeches, “What?” loud enough to turn the heads of everyone in the restaurant. 

Atsumu is still grumbling over the fact in disbelief on their way out of the restaurant. After his brief outburst, at which Sakusa had looked so rattled that he’d drawn so much attention to their table, Atsumu had quieted down. He finished off his pasta dish and his glass of sake—both of which filled his stomach well after the exhausting match—and he had been the one to guide the conversation. True to first impressions, Sakusa isn’t much of a talker, but Atsumu doesn’t mind. He talks enough for the both of them, and he even steers the topic away from volleyball more than he expected to, pestering Sakusa about college and his relationship with Komori. Most of Sakusa’s responses come in the form of simple answers, but it’s more than Atsumu gets from him on a usual day.

After an hour, the pair depart from the restaurant, their stomachs full and satisfied, and they walk side by side down the sidewalk. There’s at least a foot of distance between them, though they manage to keep pace with each other. After the exercise earlier, neither wants to move too quickly, and their footsteps echo against the ground as people pass them by, brief snippets of chatter reaching their ears. 

From above, streetlamps line the path they take, casting a soft light across their figures. Atsumu glances sideways for a brief moment. Sakusa hasn’t spoken since they left the comfort of the restaurant, his mask adjusted over the bottom half of his face, but even then, Atsumu is keenly aware of each shift of his shoulders and each crunch of his steps. The light catches on the bundle of curls that frame his face, and Atsumu has to force himself to look away.

“I can’t believe ya beat me,” Atsumu grumbles, tucking his hands into his pockets, attempting to draw Sakusa into one last conversation before the night is over. He can’t be sure whether he’ll get another. “If I knew we were competin’, I woulda tried harder.”

Sakusa snorts. “We play in the first division. Are you actually telling me that you aren’t giving it your all already? It doesn’t make a difference if I told you I was counting or not.”

Atsumu resists the childish urge to stamp his foot. After all, he’s getting what he wanted. Sakusa’s talking—even if it is at the expense of Atsumu’s pride. “’Course it matters! You’ve already got the advantage on me with yer funky wrists. If we’re gonna do this, I’m not gonna let ya beat me again!”

Because Sakusa has beaten him. Promptly after the revelation, Atsumu texts Meian and Osamu to confirm. The captain replies with a brief: Uh, I don’t feel comfortable answering that , and Osamu  gives him a blunt: Yes. That’s embarrassing, dual wielder.

It’s a disorienting realization, knowing that he’s been competing with Sakusa in a competition he wasn’t aware of. He wonders how long Sakusa’s been keeping count—or if he’s the only one Sakusa measures himself against. If this continues, Atsumu will have to improve. He isn’t going to let Sakusa beat him at anything . Friendship be damned, Atsumu wants to win.

He’s already perfected the art of being a dual wielder. He just needs to figure out how to improve past that.

He’ll get there. He always does.

“It really doesn’t matter,” Sakusa says, his eyelids fluttering shut briefly. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

“Yeah, ‘cause yer the winner! Ya think it’s fun for me bein’ the loser?”

“You didn’t even know you were the loser until an hour ago.”

“Yeah, and that upsets me, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. “How am I meant to compete with ya if ya don’t tell me that we’re competin’ at all? That’s unfair.”

The two of them reach the corner of the street. There are a few cars lurking about, but the moment the coast is clear, the pair rush to the other side. 

“So you want to start keeping count?” Sakusa asks. Now that they’re on the other side, the beam of the lamps isn’t as strong, and his profile is cast in darkness. Atsumu has to squint to see his features clearly. 

“’Course we’re keepin’ count!” Atsumu says. “What are we keepin’ track of—exactly?”

Sakusa shoots him an incredulous look. “The number of services aces, obviously.”

“What ‘bout who scores the first of the match? Does that mean anythin’?”

Sakusa scowls. “No, that doesn’t mean anything. You always serve before me. That’s unfair.”

Atsumu waves him off with a flap of the hand. “No need to be prickly ‘bout it. If yer that worried I’ll win every time, we don’t have to.”

Sakusa snarls, though the sound is muffled through the fabric. “Fine,” he hisses. “We’ll keep track of whoever scores the first of the match too.”

Atsumu wears a pleased little smile on his face as they reach the point where they separate. He turns in Sakusa’s direction, not sure what he’s expecting. He isn’t exactly anticipating a hug or anything like that, but splitting up without saying anything feels wrong at this point. They’re going to see each other tomorrow afternoon for practice like always, and they’ll fall into their usual routine as planned, and it’ll feel like it never happened.

He hopes that things don’t go back to how they were before. He wants to believe he’s made progress and that he hasn’t hopelessly bored Sakusa with his presence tonight. Because—believe it or not—even Sakusa’s silent company was enough to distract Atsumu from the crushing defeat of today’s match, and maybe, his heart won’t ache as much when he settles in for bed later. 

“Alright,” Atsumu says with a gentle smile. “Good night, Omi-kun. I’ll see ya tomorrow at practice. Have a good evening.”

Sakusa’s neck digs into his chest as his shoulders climb to his ears. “Good night.” No Miya tacked on or anything. He turns away—

“What ‘bout next game?” Atsumu blurts out. “Can we go out for dinner then, too?”

Sakusa looks over his shoulder. From this angle, the exhaustion of today’s match is more evident, the fatigue creasing his features. He almost looks smaller, although it’s difficult for someone who reaches six-feet-four to ever look small. His face pinches together. “Ask me then,” he says, “and find out.”

With that, Sakusa turns away and ambles down the sidewalk. Atsumu turns away himself, his hands clenching into fists at his sides at the anticipation that rolls through him. It’s not a no.

Time passes as swiftly as always, never deterred by the rush of emotions that professional volleyball brings, and before Atsumu fully realizes it, they’re two months into the season. It’s been two months since he’s become a permanent starter. It’s been two months since Sakusa has integrated into the team. 

In those two months, a lot has changed. For one, he’s become a lot more intense with his serve practice. The idea of combining his powers as a dual wielder occurs to him over a stressful practice session which transforms into a series of strenuous attempts to create some form of a hybrid serve. Even as a dual wielder, Sakusa gives him a run for his money each match, shooting him a smirk that speaks a thousand words whenever he nails the ball on the other side of the court. And even with the advantage Atsumu has serving before Sakusa, he still manages to fumble the easy win on occasion, and more points are counted in Sakusa’s favor. 

He needs to get better. He needs to get stronger. He vents over the counter at Onigiri Miya, even if Osamu isn’t that sympathetic to his plight, and he takes extra care in perfecting each aspect of the serve: the steps, the routine, the needed silence, the timing, the swing. Everything has to be perfect otherwise it doesn’t work, but when it does , Atsumu falls in love with volleyball all over again. 

He used to experience this thrill whenever he beat Osamu, but the thrill of beating Sakusa is different somehow. The intense work behind the scenes is the same, yet the emotions are not. This isn’t a fated competition over the course of their lives; this is the clash of two players taunting and jeering in order to force the other to become their best. That’s all. 

There are many days in which he beats Sakusa. Then again, there are many in which he loses too, and Sakusa doesn’t have to rub his victory in for Atsumu to feel like he’s stuck in the mud.

But there is another way in which Atsumu’s life has changed in these past two months. After every match, he asks a question, and it’s simple. “Wouldja like to grab dinner with me, Omi-kun?” And unlike those instances before, each time, Sakusa agrees. 

There are a few conditions, of course: he always chooses the restaurant, and they never stay out too late. Since that first night, they’ve taken turns paying for their meals—not that it matters much considering they have the same salary. It’s the thought that counts. 

Each time, Atsumu talks for the both of them about everything and nothing and all that comes in between. He rants about Osamu; he praises the food; he discusses the league. For the most part, Sakusa listens, and Atsumu knows he’s listening because every so often, even with his mask on, his features contort, and Atsumu has gotten a lot better at reading each little twitch in order to understand his reactions. Each time, Atsumu manages to pry more out of Sakusa.

He learns a lot more about Sakusa: Sakusa’s wardrobe is full of bright colors, though his masks are nearly all monotone; Sakusa has great taste in restaurants and always leaves an exorbitant tip behind; Sakusa is a homebody, and he likes having time to arrive home and stew in whatever has happened during the day. 

None of this is ever stated directly. But Atsumu picks up on it anyway. He wonders if Sakusa is learning stuff about him in return, though he’ll never work up the courage to ask. 

At one point, Atsumu does start to worry that his presence is overwhelming Sakusa—that Sakusa only agrees to spend time with him due to the pressure he’s under. He voices this out loud to Osamu once, who shuts down his nerves with a simple, “Sakusa-kun doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would do anythin’ he didn’t want to, so stop fussin’ ‘bout it and wipe the rice off yer face.”

Osamu is right about one thing, at least. Sakusa doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.

Atsumu forgets this once. 

He’s gotten too comfortable two months in. He’s savored all the time he’s been able to set for Sakusa, watching the nasty spin he puts on the ball as he pinpoints the spot on the court he wants it to land, and he is glad that he isn’t on the other side of the net anymore, having to receive a ball like that. 

Inunaki storms forward to receive the serve as usual, and he sends it up at a decent height for Atsumu to hit it. He senses more than sees both Sakusa and Bokuto start their approach, and the options clash together in his mind. Bokuto scored the last point, and the DESEO Hornets are on guard against another cross shot from him. It’s better to stretch out and utilize the full width of the court.

As the ball settles into the bowl of his fingers, Atsumu sends it over to the left to where Sakusa is waiting. His eyes focus onto the arc of the ball as Sakusa leaps into the air into perfect form, and his wrist almost looks as though it snaps as the ball hits his palm. In the next blink of an eye, the ball lands on the other side of the court, even as the opposing libero slides in a last-ditch attempt to save it. 

There is a chorus of congratulations from the rest of the team as the scoreboard adds another point for their team. It was a beautiful set on his part, but the kill from Sakusa was even better. He rushes over to Sakusa, who straightens and glances over at the storm of footsteps. 

For a second, Atsumu forgets himself. He’s so caught up in the exhilaration of it all—in the beauty of the perfect set and spike—that he forgets. His arms extend forward, and it takes a quirked eyebrow from Sakusa for him to remember.

Atsumu freezes in place, his arms outstretched beyond his reach, and panic sets in. It’s almost a miracle that he managed to stop in time, but he forgot everything for a moment. Sakusa never does anything he doesn’t like, and he certainly doesn’t like celebrating after a kill—especially when that celebration comes in the form of a sweaty embrace.

Atsumu can’t pretend as if that wasn’t what he was going for. The evidence is written in his posture and the extension of his arms. He had wanted to hug Sakusa. Sakusa—who rarely ever accepts gifts or any form of physical affection. Sakusa—who most definitely doesn’t want to be hugged by Atsumu for any reason at all. 

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu starts, his tongue tripping over his words as his chest tightens. He thought he was better at recognizing boundaries, but he’s been lying to himself, because there’s no way he would have forgotten the most important rule otherwise. “I—I’m so sorry.”

Atsumu drops his arms at once, holding them behind his back to keep himself from doing anything else that incriminates him. His fingers wrap around his wrists, and he holds himself still. He hopes that the cameras haven’t caught his mistake, although that seems unlikely. If anything, the camera would have focused right on them , the two responsible for the point, and it would have highlighted his misstep. 

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu whispers, barely audible above the cheers in the stands. “I didn’t mean to.”

Sakusa stares at him, but it isn’t lined with his usual disgust or disinterest. The lack of venom in his look eases the nerves bubbling in his stomach a bit, but there remains a rough pinch that grows stronger the longer he looks at Sakusa. 

Sakusa doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts his face to the ceiling. “It’s raining outside,” he says, as if he can hear the patter of raindrops against the gymnasium from where they stand. “We’re not going out to eat tonight.”

Atsumu’s stomach drops.

Sakusa drops his head. “We’re getting takeout. I don’t feel like walking around in the rain.”

With that, Sakusa brushes past him to resume his position, and the sharp sound of the whistle is enough to snap Atsumu out of his daze. He hurries back to his spot on the court, letting his arms fall in front of him.

Sakusa definitely noticed his mistake. There was no way he didn’t. Atsumu was too obvious. He is waiting to reprimand Atsumu for it when they’re alone and out of the camera’s eye. Or…something else. There might be another reason, but Atsumu doubts it. He just hopes that he hasn’t made Sakusa too uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.

Regardless, they have never gotten takeout before. It’s always been a meal out. That’s something—right?

The rain outside is even worse than Atsumu imagined. Droplets slam against the window as he hops out of the shower, and he almost flinches at the intensity of the storm brewing. He releases a shaky breath as he rifles through the pile of dry clothes he left for himself on the toilet: his spare clothes that he keeps in his locker. The outfit consists of an old Inarizaki High School sweatshirt and a pair of ratty sweatpants, and although part of him detests the idea of Sakusa spotting him looking so run-down, he’d rather be warm and comfortable. 

Every step he takes around Sakusa’s apartment is edged with caution. He hardly knew what to say when Sakusa decided they were heading back to his place. Atsumu thought they would go to his (though it’s for the best that they didn’t considering his fridge is empty and he hasn’t swept the floor in over a week), but he wasn’t going to turn down the extended invitation. 

The only thing Sakusa did upon their entrance was instruct Atsumu to take another shower while he placed an order for donburi rice bowls. When Atsumu emerges from the shower, his hair towel-dried and ruffled, Sakusa is seated on the couch, a book clutched in his hands. 

The weight of his footsteps is impossible to hide, and Sakusa glances up once as he hears Atsumu coming around the corner. “It’ll be done soon,” Sakusa says, turning the page. “You won’t have to wait long.”

“’S fine,” Atsumu mumbles. He takes the opportunity to look around Sakusa’s apartment. Before, the shock had been too much to overcome, and everything had been a blur before Sakusa had nudged him through the bathroom door and locked him inside. Now, he gets to see the place Sakusa Kiyoomi spends most of his time. 

If he had to guess where Sakusa would live, it would look something like this. The space is minimalistic in nature, filled with furniture and appliances toned in neutral colors, and there is no physical evidence that someone occupies the space other than the occasional book or magazine strewn about. As expected, everything is spotless, without a speck of dust to be seen, and Atsumu would wager that Sakusa has all the essentials and nothing more stacked within his cabinets. There is a lone candle that sits on the table in front of Sakusa in a vanilla scent. Now that he considers it more, the entire space smells like fresh linen and vanilla. It’s a comforting smell, one that makes him want to snuggle beneath the covers and never come out. 

“Are you going to stand there and gawk all night—or are you going to sit down?”

Atsumu harrumphs before assessing his options. There is one armchair placed perpendicular to the couch Sakusa is seated on. He can take that. Or he can sit down on the couch next to Sakusa, which already feels like a more dangerous option. Or he can sit on the floor, his legs crossed beneath him. Either way— “Where should I sit?” he asks.

Sakusa shoots him an incredulous look. “Anywhere, Miya,” he says. “I don’t care.”

“So can I sit on yer lap?”

“I think the fuck not.”

Atsumu takes a few steps closer as Sakusa returns his attention to his book. The title is hidden behind his hand, but it looks like one of those thick non-fiction autobiographies that would bore him to death if he ever tried to read one properly. Sakusa, however, seems perfectly at ease reading it. He even looks intrigued as he turns to the next page.

Come to think of it, Atsumu has no idea what Sakusa does outside of volleyball. Their schedules are sealed tight, but even Atsumu has some free time to split between other activities. Although, usually those activities involve bothering Osamu or lazing around his apartment with the television on in the background. He’s not great at being alone. 

“Whatcha readin’?” Atsumu asks, leaning closer in an attempt to read over Sakusa’s shoulder.

Whether it’s on impulse or due to the sudden difference in distance between them, Sakusa sits up straight, the book held out of Atsumu’s reach. “Why do you care? Do you even know how to read?”

“Hey! I know how to read, thanks. Just ‘cause I don’t spend all my time readin’ biographies of old dead guys doesn’t mean I don’t read.”

“Yeah? What’s the last book you read then?”

Any lies he might have been able to give fail him, and Atsumu stammers. “Uh—I can’t remember! I was so wrapped up in the story, ya know.”

“Mmhmm.” Sakusa sends him a knowing look—the kind of look that gets under Atsumu’s skin because it reeks of superiority. It’s not like he doesn’t have that look on most days as well. But when it comes from Sakusa, Atsumu becomes well aware that Sakusa means it. Everything he does is perfect: from his spikes to his serves to his squeaky-clean apartment. Perfect, perfect, perfect. “I’m sure.”

At a loss, Atsumu figures it is time for him to sit down. He fidgets between all of his options, his eyebrows scrunched. Because if he’s being honest, what he really wants is to take the spot next to Sakusa—but he’s not sure if that would be crossing an invisible boundary. He’s already in the mud thanks to his inconsiderate stunt today. 

The sound of fingers rubbing against paper drags him out of his thought process.

“You showered,” Sakusa says, almost like a question. 

Atsumu cocks his head to the side. His hair is still wet, and he’s wearing a new set of clothes. He’s sure the physical evidence speaks more than his words ever can. “Yeah? You asked me to.”

“I know,” Sakusa replies. 

The book falls into his lap, the pages rustling. He has a pinched expression, but it’s different from the usual kind he directs at Atsumu. Those tend to be filled with annoyance after Atsumu has done something idiotic at practice—like allowing Bokuto to hoist him up onto his shoulders or convincing Inunaki and Adriah that they should attempt a three-person piggy-back ride. This looks more… considering . Like Atsumu is a puzzle he can’t figure out. It isn’t the awe-inspired look he always hoped Sakusa would give him, but it’s something different. 

“Omi-Omi? Ya alright?”

Sakusa lets out a deep sigh. “Do you still have the urge to hug me or has that passed?”

Just like that, Atsumu’s throat tightens. His hands fly out in surrender, though he has no response ready on his tongue. “I—I’m really sorry ‘bout that, Omi-kun! Honest! I won’t ever do that again—”

Sakusa cuts him off. “Because if you still want to, I’d rather you do it now than when we’re in front of the cameras.” His eyes fall back to his book, though they’re clouded over in a haze that suggests he isn’t focused on the characters. Atsumu is at a loss for words. “You’ve just showered, so. It makes sense.”

Atsumu isn’t convinced this isn’t a fever dream of sorts. There hasn’t been a time in his life where he’s witnessed Sakusa Kiyoomi willingly embrace someone. Half the time he’s seen Sakusa, he’s with Komori, and even then, there’s limited physical contact. The team has long since grown accustomed to respecting Sakusa’s physical boundaries. The only mishap Atsumu can recall is the one from earlier today—and it’s coming back to haunt him in full force. Part of him is convinced Sakusa is testing him, but the other part really hopes the offer is genuine. Because now that the thought has been planted in his brain, he can’t move past it. 

“But, uh,” Atsumu mumbles, “what about the germs? And stuff?”

Sakusa’s head lifts long enough to glower. Atsumu resists the urge to flinch under its sharpness. “You just showered,” Sakusa repeats. “It’s fine. I’m particular with what I like and what I don’t like. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Dumbfounded, his jaw slackens. “Are ya serious?”

“If you don’t want to, just say so. It’s a simple question.”

It’s not simple at all. The image of hugging Sakusa, nestling his chin against his shoulder, stretching upward to make up for the difference in height, inhaling his scent right after a quick shower is complex beyond belief. “But—I do!”

“Alright then.” Sakusa sets his book aside and stands on his feet. Now that he’s upright, it’s almost instinctual for Atsumu to put a few more steps in between them. It takes everything in him not to move right away—to keep still where he is. Sakusa snorts. “Are you going to hug me or not?”

“Psh!” A strangled noise leaves Atsumu’s throat, and he holds out a hand. “Gimme a second, Omi-kun! Ya can’t just spring this on a guy! I need a minute to process this.”

“What?”

“I never thought ya would willingly touch me, and now we’re here in yer fuckin’ vanilla apartment and my hair is wet and yer lookin’ at me—”

“You are ridiculous.” 

Sakusa takes a step forward before Atsumu can protest, and a pair of arms wrap around him, holding Atsumu flush against him. Atsumu’s hands clasp together behind the small of Sakusa’s back to give himself more balance as his mind rushes to process their position—to process this. Pushed up against each other, there’s nothing to stop Atsumu from hearing everything—from the hitch in Sakusa’s breath to the heartbeat pumping against his. It’s as he predicted: Sakusa smells like fresh linen and vanilla, even through the sweats he’s put on, though neither of them speak a word as Atsumu’s grip tightens.

This offer might never come again. He’s aware of that. It’s why, as the seconds tick by, he wants to hold on tighter. His chin sits on Sakusa’s shoulder, the cotton of his sweatshirt rubbing against his skin, and for a brief second, he’s certain Sakusa’s curls brush against his forehead.

But then the moment passes, and Sakusa’s grip loosens. Like that, Atsumu lets go, taking a step back, even though his entire front still feels warm—like he held onto Sakusa for hours rather than a few seconds. 

Sakusa’s phone buzzes against the table, and Sakusa reaches over to answer it as the delivery driver requests instructions on how to bring them their dinner. As Sakusa hurries towards the front door, Atsumu wonders if the flush to his cheeks is part of his imagination.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, Atsumu and Sakusa start hanging out more often. Their time together isn’t limited to post-match dinners. It extends beyond that to the point that the two see each other on most days off, even when they reach the breaks within the season. Each outing results in Atsumu learning more about Sakusa, and even if the irritated expression on Sakusa’s face never fades, he never objects to Atsumu’s company. It’s almost as if Atsumu’s presence has become a reliable constant—albeit one that Sakusa might find annoying. 

However, on one lone Saturday, as Atsumu wakes up with shivers and a pounding headache, he knows immediately that their plans to go shopping and pick out some clothes for Sakusa that aren’t fucking yellow are going to have to be postponed. Even as he shuffles to grab his phone, his body trembles, and Atsumu curls into a ball as he finds Sakusa’s contact information and dials.

For a few seconds, it rings until— “Miya.”

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu greets, even as his voice cracks. “How are ya?”

“Fine.” There’s a pause. “Why do you sound like you’re dying?”

“’M not. At least, not yet.” Atsumu glances at the thermometer resting on his side table, the temperature far too high to be considered normal. “We’re gonna have to fix yer wardrobe another time. I can’t make it.”

“I don’t care.” A beat passes. “Why?”

“I’m sick,” Atsumu says, and he can imagine the look of disgust on Sakusa’s face already. “Got a fever. It’s not that bad.”

“Mmm,” Sakusa hums. “Do you even know how to take care of yourself? How did this happen?”

“’S not my fault,” Atsumu protests. It’s not. Believe it or not, after that incident with Kita back in high school, he’s been super conscious of his health and recognizes the importance of taking breaks. But some things are out of his control, and this is one of those things. “I don’t know how I caught it.”

“Whatever.” Sakusa’s voice sounds far away now, though Atsumu doesn’t blame him. He must sound awful from the other end. “You do know that you have to drink lots of fluids, right? And rest? You have enough brain cells to process that much.”

“Omi-kun.” Atsumu wants to say more, but he can’t muster up enough energy to fight back. Not today. Exhaustion has crept its way into his bones overnight, and his entire body aches with each shiver. It hurts to even think too hard—though if it mentions this out loud, he knows it’ll be met with a solid roast, so he keeps it to himself. “Sorry.”

“I don’t care, Miya,” Sakusa says. “I have to go. Rest.”

A surge of disappointment rises, even though his rational side knows this is for the best. He should rest—after he takes a bath and stews in his thoughts. But part of him hoped Sakusa would stay on the line, almost like a quiet reassurance that everything would be alright. “Bye, Omi-Omi.”

There’s a beat before Sakusa mutters, “Bye,” and a beep signifies the end of the call.

Atsumu startles when the front door to his apartment bangs open. His eyelids are heavier than usual, but that makes sense considering his entire body is not functioning as it should. He sat down in the bathtub a solid twenty minutes ago, the bubbles rushing up to his chin as he sunk beneath them, but the warmth of the water must have made him too comfortable because he wound up dozing off.

Atsumu blinks a few more times to adjust to his surroundings. The water has cooled by now, which might prove beneficial for his fever, but it only makes him want to climb out. He’s so preoccupied with the decision of whether to get out that he forgets someone is inside his apartment until the door to his bathroom swings open. 

Atsumu can’t help it. He screams.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” someone snaps. “It’s just me. But you really should lock your front door.”

Atsumu blinks a few more times. The one light in the bathroom feels stronger than ever, and the intensity of its beam hurts his eyes as they fall upon the figure standing in the doorway. Once his mind registers the height, the mask, and the disposable gloves that reach the elbows, his mouth catches up with the rest of him.

“Omi-kun.” Atsumu relaxes back against the porcelain tub. He shoots Sakusa a lazy, sleepy smile, even as Sakusa returns it with a glare. “What are ya doin’ here? I’m sick, remember? Ya don’t wanna catch it.”

“I won’t,” Sakusa says. His gaze remains pointedly fixed on Atsumu’s face, even though the bubbles are enough to mask anything that Atsumu wouldn’t want on display. “I’m not stupid.” His eyes narrow. “You fell asleep in the bath.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. Idiot.” Sakusa snaps the gloves covering his hands, as if to reassure himself that they’re there. “What have you done since we got off the phone? Have you drunk anything? Eaten anything?”

Atsumu ducks his head to blow bubbles in the water instead of responding.

“You’re an idiot. ” Sakusa slams the door shut, leaving Atsumu to soak for another few minutes. Beyond the bathroom, Atsumu’s ears pick up on the telltale signs of Sakusa moving around his apartment, and if his mind were clearer, he might’ve freaked out about this more. They have been on the same team for months now, but this is the first time Sakusa has seen the inside of his apartment. He hopes he remembered to throw the expired milk out. Probably not. 

Just as Atsumu’s eyelids droop again, the door bangs open, and Atsumu startles once more.

“You were about to fall asleep again,” Sakusa says accusingly.

“No?”

“Liar. Get out. You’ve had your fun.”

Atsumu watches his toe bounce along the surface of the water. 

“Miya.”

“Fine,” Atsumu says. The water is much too chilly now, anyway. He sits up straight, the bathwater sloshing around his middle, and in the back of his mind, he registers Sakusa disappearing from the doorway again as he stands up fully. Even his legs ache as he heaves one after the other, and he wraps a towel around his lower half before padding down the hall and back to his bedroom. 

His bed hasn’t been made, the duvet rumpled into a ball at the foot of it. In the end, Atsumu crawls back beneath the covers in a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a crewneck, and it’s only once his head hits the pillow that he recognizes the dark shape standing at his door. 

“So this is your bedroom?” Sakusa asks. 

If it were any other night, Atsumu might have mustered up a flirtatious or teasing remark. But all he can think about right now is how tired he is—and how nice it would be to sleep for a few hours, uninterrupted. His eyelids fall again. “Mmm.”

There’s the sound of a glass being set down on his side table, and Atsumu peels one eye open to find orange juice waiting for him. As he reaches for it, Sakusa keeps his distance, sliding a few feet backwards. 

Atsumu only manages a few sips before his head starts to feel heavy again, and he almost doesn’t put it down quickly enough before he falls against his mattress, his duvet pulled up to his neck. 

“Thanks, Omi-Omi.”

Atsumu is sure he hears a grunt before a pair of footsteps leave the room and the door swings shut, cutting off all the light flooding in from the hallway. As his bedroom is shrouded in darkness, Atsumu snuggles in, the first wave of exhaustion hitting him like a truck.

The next time Atsumu wakes up, he feels a little delirious and disoriented as light floods into his room, falling straight onto his face to the point that he has to open his eyes. For a brief second, a shadow casts against him until the figure ambles further into the room. Sakusa still keeps his distance, hovering around the outer edges of the room as Atsumu sits up, despite the pounding in his skill urging him to lie down a little longer. He doubts Sakusa would let him, anyway.

Atsumu tries to calculate how much time has passed. A few hours, maybe. Judging by the fact that Sakusa hasn’t swapped outfits, it can’t have been that long. Although he still has a headache, his body isn’t wracked by shivers as intensely as before, though he still feels a chill seated deep in his bones. He hopes this means his fever has gone down since he last checked, but he doubts enough time has gone by for that to be true. 

“You should get up and eat something,” Sakusa advises. His voice sounds softer than usual, almost as if it’s groggy with sleep. “You have to check on your fever.”

That sounds like a lot of work. Although part of him recognizes the truth in what Sakusa is telling him, the other part wants to ignore him in favor of falling asleep again. Instead of answering right away, Atsumu grabs his glass of orange juice and drains the rest of it. When he finishes it, he smacks his lips together in an obnoxious manner. 

“Done?”

Atsumu nods.

Sakusa comes forward to take the glass, and as soon as he’s close enough, his other arm reveals itself from behind his back with a thermometer in hand. All Atsumu can do is groan pitifully as Sakusa holds it in front of his forehead. When it beeps, Sakusa inspects the screen with a narrowed gaze. 

“So?” Atsumu asks. “How is it?”

“It’s gone down a little,” Sakusa answers. “Not by much, though.” With that, he takes the glass and leaves the room. Atsumu almost takes his departure as permission to fall back asleep until Sakusa returns with a refilled glass and a bowl of vegetable soup in tow. He sets it down on the side table, avoiding any and all physical contact, even through the rubber of his gloves. “Here. Eat.”

“Yer so bossy,” Atsumu whines, though his hands reach for the bowl. 

It’s rare that he gets to savor a cooked meal when he’s not back in Hyogo with Osamu or his mother. His dinners mostly consist of expensive takeout, though he has gotten better at whipping up simple recipes himself. He wonders where this has come from—whether Sakusa has heated soup out of a can or what. Either way, the glass warms his hands, and as he tilts his head back, the tang makes him want more. 

Sakusa hovers in the corner of the room, watching like a hawk. If Atsumu were a better person, he’d insist that Sakusa go home. Obviously, Sakusa is uncomfortable being around him at the moment, germs and all. But Atsumu isn’t a better person. If he’s honest with himself, he can admit that he’s selfish. At times. Or all the time. But he likes the attention Sakusa is giving him right now, even if it comes from the fact that he believes Atsumu is too immature to look after himself properly, and he likes being taken care of. 

He’s a brat. And he knows it.

As soon as the bowl is drained, Atsumu sets it aside. Sakusa doesn’t move to collect it right away, though his gaze lingers on Atsumu. 

“What’s up, Omi-kun?”

“You should take another bath. You smell.”

“I do not!” Atsumu protests. “Anyway, I already took a bath today.”

“Yesterday,” Sakusa corrects. 

“Huh?”

“It’s been a day. You slept for, like, twelve hours straight.”

“ What ?” Atsumu’s hand reaches for his phone to confirm the time himself, and when the screen flashes on, the brightness burning his retinas, a day has indeed passed since he last checked. He presses a hand to his forehead. “Shit.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Sakusa says. “You’re supposed to rest when you’re sick. That’s how you get better.”

“Yes, but—” He doesn’t know how to explain it. The sensation of being lost in time isn’t one that can be captured easily, and he feels like he should have been more productive. No wonder he drained the soup so quickly. He can’t remember the last time he’s eaten a proper meal. Maybe Sakusa has a point about him being unable to take care of himself. 

“You should take a bath,” Sakusa repeats. He retrieves the bowl and taps one finger against the full glass of orange juice, a silent order. 

Atsumu follows through as Sakusa leaves to put the dish in the sink, taking long gulps until there’s nothing left. The citrus tang erupts against his tongue, and he kicks the duvet off him, swinging his legs around the side of the bed. His feet find his slippers on the floor before he stands upright and shuffles to the bathroom. The thought of soaking in the bath for a few minutes sounds more enticing the longer he’s awake.

“You’re so lazy,” Sakusa comments from his position in the doorway. He leans against the frame, watching Atsumu with his hooded gaze. “Aren’t you going to wash your hair?”

Atsumu sinks further beneath the water until his nose is buried beneath the surface. The influx of bubbles keep himself from being too revealing, but the heat radiating upwards and out is doing something to his brain. His mind feels more muddled than usual, his movements slower and sluggish, and as he swings his knees back and forth, the urge to fall asleep right here grows stronger. At least, he would —if Sakusa would leave him be.

“No,” Atsumu mumbles, lifting his head long enough to give a response that isn’t made with bubbles. His eyes feel heavier with the steam. He shouldn’t have filled the tub with warm water. If he was smart, he would have chosen cooler water to lower his temperature. Unfortunately, his entire life is a series of terrible decisions, and this happens to be one of the poorer ones. “Too tired.”

It takes a tremendous amount of effort to drag his gaze away from Sakusa, even when his look turns into one of irritation—with the situation or with Atsumu, he can’t tell. Instead, Atsumu watches his feet dance along the porcelain at the other end. 

“You’re so annoying,” Sakusa says.

“Ya tell me that all the time, Omi-Omi.” His voice still cracks every once in a while, but the decrease in volume comes by choice. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Ugh.” Sakusa stands up straight, peeling himself away from the door frame. He takes a step further into the bathroom, his feet brushing against the mat. “ Ugh. ”

“What?”

“If you say anything about this, I will stop. If you tell anyone about what I’m about to do, I will never do anything nice for you again. You understand?”

Atsumu turns his head to the side. “Huh?”

With a snarl, Sakusa rips his gloves off his hands and falls to his knees. The abrupt movement is enough to make Atsumu sit up with a squeak, because Sakusa is suddenly much closer than he was before, and he’s not sure the heat can only be attributed to the steam at this point. 

“Don’t breathe on me,” Sakusa orders. “We do this my way—or I’ll stop.”

“I wasn’t gonna breathe on ya! What are ya doin ’?” Atsumu demands. 

Without answering him, Sakusa grabs ahold of the bottle of shampoo that sits on the counter besides the tub. He peers at the label. “You’re not one of those guys that buys three-in-one body wash, shampoo, and conditioner, are you? Because if you are, I will drown you.”

“’Course not!” Atsumu points back at the counter where his selection of hair supplies and other products litter the surface. “There’s a red bottle there that says conditioner. But what are ya doin’?”

“Shut up,” Sakusa says as he plucks the bottle of conditioner out of the crowd and turns back towards the tub. “Lie down.”

“Omi—”

“For fuck’s sake, Atsumu—”

At the sound of his given name, Atsumu makes no further complaints. Any questions or protests he might have had shrivel away, and his tailbone bangs against the bottom of the tub in his effort to lie flat. His legs are far too long, pushing against the bottom of the frame, but once he makes himself comfortable, the small space is easier to bear. With his body fully submerged, the water coats his entire skin, the warmth chasing away the last of the shivers. Only his face remains above, just visible enough to watch as Sakusa peers over the edge of the tub. 

His mask covers half of his face, but even Atsumu can sense the hesitation as Sakusa hovers over the edge. Without his gloves, Sakusa somehow seems more vulnerable, and Atsumu desperately wants to wash that worry away—even though it may be in part due to his presence. 

With a long sigh, Sakusa rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “Ready?”

Atsumu nods, and his hair sinks further into the water, pressing against his scalp. He’s not sure what he’s bracing for, but he has some clue as Sakusa leans forward. There’s the sound of a lid uncapping before the squirt of shampoo, but even that isn’t enough of a warning before Sakusa’s hands start digging into Atsumu’s hair.

For a moment, he’s sure he’s stopped breathing. His heart tightens to the point that it hurts, and he sucks in air through his teeth as Sakusa’s nails scrape along his scalp. 

His eyelids felt heavy before, but now, he pries them apart with sheer willpower. He needs the visible evidence to believe what is happening, even as he can feel what Sakusa is doing. It has the sensation of a natural phenomenon that comes along once a lifetime that everyone stops to watch. But even as he watches Sakusa focus on the task at hand, his head hovering right above Atsumu’s, he can’t really believe it. 

Sakusa’s hands begin a simple rhythm of dragging the shampoo through Atsumu’s light blonde locks, scrubbing it in deeper before rinsing it out with water. It’s such a tender gesture that Atsumu can only stare, sighs leaving his mouth every few seconds at the tingling that erupts along the back of his head. 

Sakusa is as thorough with this as he is with everything he does. There isn’t a strand of hair that goes unwashed, even though every bone in his body probably yearns to escape the room and put distance between him and Atsumu. He sees this out to its completion too. 

“Stop making those noises,” Sakusa orders.

“Huh?” Atsumu asks before Sakusa dunks him beneath the surface and he chokes on a mouthful of water. When Sakusa’s grip loosens and he emerges from underneath, he’s sputtering and spitting everywhere. “What was that for?”

“I’m rinsing your hair, obviously.”

Any fight he might have summoned leaves him in an instant. It’s like the fever has taken every ounce of aggression out of him, leaving him a shell of his former self. He knows it’s strange for him not to argue back—as made evident by Sakusa’s eyes narrowing. Instead of responding, Atsumu watches him. Although he can still feel Sakusa’s fingers running through his hair, it’s different to watch how his features contort during the process.

Atsumu tries to remain as still as possible, making it easier for Sakusa to maneuver his head around, but there are still points when his skull feels heavier than usual, and Sakusa’s steady palm is all that keeps him from banging his head against the porcelain.

“You’re weird like this,” Sakusa mutters.

“Weird how?” 

“You’re oddly…compliant.” His fingers touch the nape of Atsumu’s neck, and a low sigh leaves Atsumu’s mouth. “You’re not fighting back.”

“I’m too tired to fight back.” He can barely keep his head up through his own strength. His neck is starting to twitch from the effort. “And…” A part of him wants to whisper that he has nothing to complain about now—that he wants to savor this comfort for as long as he can. But that feels too truthful, and he doubts that would go down well with Sakusa. “It feels nice.”

Sakusa doesn’t have a response ready for that. Instead, he finishes running the conditioner through and rinses Atsumu’s hair out one last time. It’s happened so quickly, and Atsumu feels like he didn’t get to enjoy it nearly as much as he wanted to. He relishes in these final few touches, even as the cold water makes him shiver. 

“Done,” Sakusa announces once all of Atsumu’s hair falls flat against his head. “Sit up.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not letting you fall asleep in there. Get out.”

Atsumu makes a sound akin to a whine before sitting up, disrupting the even surface of the bathwater. Sakusa scrambles to his feet in an effort to put some distance between them, and Atsumu props his head against the edge of the tub as he watches Sakusa wash his hands thoroughly at the sink. It’s a long process with each finger getting individual attention before Sakusa is satisfied, and he dries his hands off with one of Atsumu’s clean hand towels. 

“I need to go,” Sakusa says, turning around. He reaches for his gloves and yanks them back onto his hands, although Atsumu isn’t sure their effectiveness will withstand considering Sakusa has spent the last couple of minutes touching Atsumu’s head entirely. “I have something I have to do.”

Disappointment sinks deep within Atsumu’s gut, but he tries to brush it off as best as he can. It had to come to this sooner or later. It’s not like Sakusa was planning on taking care of him until he fully recovered. That would be ridiculous. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He knows how to take care of himself. He doesn’t need Sakusa’s watchful gaze ensuring he does everything right. 

“M’kay,” he mumbles. “Thanks, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s face appears redder than usual, but it might be in part due to the steam filling the room. “Get out of the tub,” he warns. “I mean it, Miya. Do not fall asleep in there again.”

“I won’t .”

Sakusa moves towards the door, but pauses on his way out. “There’s vegetable soup in the fridge,” he says, and Atsumu lifts his head. “Finish it all. Stay hydrated. And for fuck’s sake, get some rest. The season starts again next week, and you’re going to be even more unbearable if you haven’t recovered by then.”

Atsumu isn’t sure where the vegetable soup has come from. If his mind were clearer, he might be able to put two and two together. “Will do, Omi-Omi. Thank you.”

Sakusa says nothing else before the door to the apartment slams shut in his wake. Atsumu pulls the drain and watches the water seep out until there’s nothing left. Curling up on the couch sounds nice right about now.

His fever—and everything that happens in between—is never brought up again. Even when the season resumes the next week, Atsumu never mentions it. It’s not like he’s forgotten or that his mind hasn’t put the pieces together yet. But if Sakusa isn’t willing to talk about it, then he won’t breach that conversation either. Instead, he goes back to his own routine: working on his serves, practicing his sets, keeping up with the team. He’s gotten this far through repetition and diligence, and nothing is going to stop him now. 

Their first match after their break turns out with a victory, a straight three-set win, and the team leaves the gymnasium in a rush of exhilaration to go celebrate at the nearest bar. It’s a rare evening that doesn’t lead into practice the next morning, and everyone wants to take advantage of the scarce opportunity to kick back and take things easy. But the biggest surprise is that Sakusa himself tags along.

It isn’t like he never shows up for these team bonding sessions, but he is certainly picky about which he chooses to attend. It’s almost like how he was when he and Atsumu first started going out for dinner together, though this practice seems like it’s born more out of his personal preferences rather than a distaste for Atsumu’s company.

Atsumu tries not to make many mistakes, but his decision to attempt to out-drink Bokuto is definitely one of his worst. Within a few hours, his head is muddled with alcohol, and every text he tries to type out on his phone is pure gibberish. He struggles to sit upright, and he winds up leaning on Bokuto most of the evening. It isn’t until his head drops against the table that he wonders if he might not be able to make it back home in one piece.

“Ugh, idiot,” someone—Meian, maybe—says. “I told him he shouldn’t have tried to compete with Bokuto.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Adriah mumbles. “He was going to do it regardless. Is he asleep?”

A finger gingerly pokes at his head, and Atsumu groans, trying to get his message across: stop.

“I don’t trust him to get home safely,” Meian says. “He’ll probably trip and fall into a trashcan at this rate. Adriah, can you—”

“I’ll do it,” another voice cuts in. A sudden silence descends around him, and even if Atsumu is not fully aware of what’s happening, even he can sense that much. “I know where he lives.”

“You don’t mind?” Meian pipes up again. “I know this is—”

“If I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t have offered.” A hand cups his elbow, urging him to sit upright, and Atsumu peels his face away from the table. His cheek feels oddly sticky. “Come on.”

Too tired to argue, Atsumu lets the person guiding him lead him out of the bar and out onto the street. The evening air blasts onto his face, and his eyes flutter open a lot easier than they did before. He looks sideways as the person holding his elbow lets go, and he watches Sakusa start walking down the sidewalk, albeit at a slower pace than he normally would.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says with a giggle. Sakusa practically pouts at the whine in his voice. It’s adorable. “Yer takin’ me home?”

“Shut up.”

Atsumu trails after Sakusa, mumbling, “ Omi, Omi, Omi ,” under his breath the entire time, even when his tongue fails him and the syllables begin to slur together.

After hobbling the rest of the way home, the sight of his front door is welcomed and appreciated. With a hum, Atsumu starts patting the pockets of his jeans in search of his keys. His mind feels much more coherent than it did a half hour ago, but the aftereffects of the alcohol leave him feeling like he’s floating. He can’t erase the cheeky smile curling his lips, no matter how many weird looks Sakusa sends him. 

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says, sounding like he’s restraining himself from snapping, “your keys are in your jacket. Not your pants.”

“Oh.” His hand slides into the pocket of his jacket, and sure enough, the cool metal meets his fingertips. He drags out the chain and fumbles with it for a second as he tries to find the correct one. The entire time, Sakusa stares at him with beady eyes, as if he can will Atsumu to find the right key quicker. When he finds the correct one, it takes Atsumu another thirty seconds to push it into the hole. “There we go.”

The door swings open as the lock clicks, and Atsumu gestures with a flourish, even as he trips over the welcome mat. “Nice,” he mumbles. He has enough sense to pull off his shoes—but he lacks the balance. 

He teeters backwards into Sakusa, who lets out a small, “Oof,” before shoving his shoulder into Atsumu to keep him upright.

“Ah,” Atsumu says. “Sorry ‘bout that, Omi-Omi.” He finally gets one shoe off after several tries, and he tosses it next to the front door. He’ll worry about that later. When he’s sober and he can bend down without tripping. “One more.”

Atsumu pulls off the other shoe and nearly cheers. He shoves his feet into the slippers he leaves by the entrance and walks down the hall to his bedroom. Right now, he has a one-track mind, and all his brain wants is for him to lie down and sleep. He barely even registers Sakusa following after him, shutting the door and locking it when Atsumu forgets. 

Atsumu doesn’t even turn the light on before falling backwards onto the duvet. He doesn’t change his clothes, even if he’s wearing uncomfortable jeans. All he can think about is falling asleep right away, and just as his eyelids flutter shut, a monotone voice mutters, “Really?”

Atsumu picks his head up long enough to watch Sakusa amble into the room—just as he did when Atsumu had his fever. But this time, his steps are measured with less caution. It’s obvious he’s no longer wary of Atsumu, even with the clumsy way Atsumu is acting. His mask is nowhere to be seen, meaning that his pout is on full display, and Atsumu’s lazy smile widens at the sight of it. He can’t help it. He giggles.

“You should at least change your clothes before getting into bed,” Sakusa says. “That’s the bare minimum.” His nose wrinkles. “You should brush your teeth too.”

“Nope.” Atsumu drops his head back onto the mattress. He can acknowledge that Sakusa is probably right—because he usually is—but he can also acknowledge that, right now, he doesn’t give a shit. He wants to sleep. He’s exhausted. The match earlier today was physically taxing, and the combination of that with the alcohol buzzing through his system is enough to make him want to forget all responsibilities. “Too tired.”

“Ugh,” Sakusa says. “ Ugh. You’re so annoying.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His eyelids droop shut, and he can sense his mind being taken elsewhere until a hand reaches for the button on his jeans. The touch is so unexpected that Atsumu startles.

“Shush,” Sakusa orders. “I’m not going to do anything. You’re such a lazy shit. Let me at least take your fucking jeans off. Asshole.”

Although the venom in Sakusa’s voice reaches his ears, it only makes him relax more. He opens his eyes to watch Sakusa as he finally undoes the button and shimmies his pants down. It takes less than a second, but Sakusa’s face is beet-red the whole time, and as soon as it’s over, he puts a good two feet of distance between them. 

He can’t lie. He does feel more comfortable now. His underwear is far more suitable nightwear than his jeans. He wiggles his toes. “Thanks, Omi-kun.” 

“Shut up.”

“If ya wanted to take my pants off so badly, all ya had to do was ask. Whatever ya want, I’m all yers.” Atsumu stops long enough to let out a loud yawn. “But you know that already.”

In the dark, he can only see the brief outline of Sakusa’s figure, and his vision starts to fail him the more weariness sets in. His mouth is moving of its own accord, the words leaping off his tongue before he has the chance to properly process them, but that can’t all be attributed to the alcohol addling his senses. Half of his brazenness can be reasoned as the result of Sakusa’s intense stare. Even if he can’t see it, Atsumu can feel it, and that in itself sends shivers up his spine. 

He’s powerless to stop the next wave of slumber, and all he can force out is a soft, “G’night, Omi-kun.”

He’s sure the next sentence is a figment of his imagination. “Good night, Atsumu.”

Atsumu stirs the next morning with his head bursting with a pounding headache and a set of cracked lips that craved some form of hydration. It takes almost an hour to mentally prepare himself to leave the comfort of his bed, and even then, it happens with complete reluctance. His stomach starts to grumble until it’s impossible to ignore, and Atsumu is forced to swing his legs around and stumble to his feet. His balance is unsteady at first, and he presses a finger against his temple as it throbs, but he makes it to the kitchen in one piece.

His fridge is mostly vacant—except a few bacon strips, two eggs, and a few leftover sausages. Anything else is either leftovers from takeout orders or leftovers that Osamu has given him. He ought to go to the grocery store today. 

As he turns on the stove, Atsumu slumps over the counter and waits for the pan to heat before cooking his sparse breakfast. He rushes the process more than usual as his stomach twists inside, and he wastes no time in throwing everything onto a plate before finishing off the last of the orange juice in the carton and dragging his breakfast over to the table. 

Only to find someone already sitting there. 

Sakusa is curled up on one side of the table, a book propped open in front of him. He doesn’t move at the sound of Atsumu’s footsteps, nor does he glance up from the pages. It’s obvious he’s been awake for hours now. His hair is curlier than usual, as if he’s showered before coming here, and he’s in a different outfit than what he wore last night: a neon green T-shirt and gray sweatpants. It’s a strangely domestic image and not one that Atsumu has had the pleasure of acquainting himself with all that often these past few months.

Atsumu blinks rapidly a few times to see whether his eyes are playing a trick on him. But several seconds tick past, and Sakusa is still there. 

“Omi-kun?”

“Yes?” Sakusa digs a hand into his pocket and drops a pair of keys onto the table. Atsumu’s keys. “I stole your keys. Used them to let myself in this morning.”

“Oh.” Atsumu takes this as silent permission to join him at the table (even though it is his house), and he sets his tray down opposite Sakusa. The keys remain in a pile in the center, though Atsumu doesn’t move to snatch them away just yet. “Okay.”

It isn’t like there’s a complete gap in his memory from last night to this morning. Some parts may be fuzzier than others, but there are moments that stand out crystal clear—like Sakusa guiding him home. He remembers trailing after him, mumbling his name, and he remembers how Sakusa tried hard to be annoyed with him, but his expression hadn’t quite added up. He remembers how it had felt for Sakusa to hover over him like that and the way the heat had risen to his chest in response. 

But he didn’t expect to see Sakusa so soon. It’s meant to be a day off after all. Not that that means much to them anymore. Atsumu spends a lot of his days off with Sakusa now. He’s not exactly sure when they happened. It’s impossible to pinpoint. 

Atsumu takes a seat on the floor. “What are ya doin’ here, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa jerks a head at his tray without his gaze straying from his novel. “Finish your breakfast. Then we’ll talk.”

It’s an ominous note to leave them at, and Atsumu finds himself hurrying through his breakfast. The long-awaited meal turns into a rushed fiasco as he eats as quickly as possible in order to hear what Sakusa has to say. The food does sit well in his stomach, and the glass of orange juice leaves a nice tang on his tongue. Although his head still feels like it’s about to erupt, it’s better than before. 

Atsumu peels his eyelids open wider and stares at Sakusa, who hasn’t moved once other than the occasional turn of the page. “I’m done,” Atsumu announces, trying to grab Sakusa’s attention.

Sakusa casts a brief glance at the empty plate before sticking a bookmark between the pages and placing his novel flat on the table. “Alright.”

“So, uh, what are ya doin’ here?”

Sakusa gives him a slow blink, making Atsumu think that—no matter how much more alert Sakusa is—he probably is just as tired. “How much do you remember of last night?” Sakusa asks instead.

“More than ya think, probably.” 

“You remember Inunaki-san taking a selfie with you when you fell asleep against the counter?”

He doesn’t. His face falls. “Uh?”

Sakusa takes this as the confirmation he seeks. “That’s what I thought.”

“Oh, screw you, Omi-Omi. I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were that bad.”

Atsumu probably was that bad. He usually is a nuisance on nights out, not that the reminder ever does anything to change his behavior. The cycle starts back up again like clockwork. “Whatever.”

A silence falls between them, and Sakusa taps his fingers against the surface of the table. Atsumu is still so dazed that, for a few seconds, all he can do is watch Sakusa’s hand move around. It’s an odd distraction.

“Do you remember what you said to me?” Sakusa asks. Although the question is asked in his usual blunt manner, there’s an underlying hesitance to it that surprises Atsumu. It’s not like Sakusa to not be direct with everything he does. Things like hesitation are foreign to Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Atsumu mulls it over for a moment. He recalls flopping onto his bed; he recalls Sakusa pulling off his jeans; he recalls— 

Atsumu grits his teeth. He ought to control his tongue more. Even with alcohol flooding his system, it’s not enough of a reason to dig that much of a hole for himself. With the flat stare Sakusa is sending him, it’s not likely Sakusa will brush past Atsumu’s little comment. 

Because somewhere along the way, Atsumu realized that the reason he wanted Sakusa’s attention wasn’t out of some selfless duty to welcome Sakusa to the team. Somewhere along the way, he became selfish, wanting to bask in Sakusa’s company longer, wanting Sakusa to react to him somehow, even if it wasn’t always a positive response. He wanted Sakusa’s eyes on him—all the time. 

It’s something he’s grown to live with. It’s a universal truth: Miya Atsumu wants Sakusa Kiyoomi’s attention for himself. It can’t be changed, and it won’t waver. It’s scientific and nonsensical and can never be fully explained, but Atsumu has come to terms with it. Somewhere between the neat lines of a court and outside of it, he has found room in his heart for something else.

Someone else. 

“I—”

“You said you were all mine,” Sakusa repeats, as if Atsumu can forget how honest and sincere that simple statement is. “What— what does that even mean?”

Besides the hesitation, Atsumu can’t read anything else on Sakusa’s face. His head hurts too much to process this right now, and the quickening of his heart is making everything worse. Even now, Sakusa’s directness—which usually comes as a constant relief—unnerves him. He doesn’t know what to say. 

For once in his long life, Atsumu is speechless.

“I—” Atsumu breaks off again, pressing his lips together. A sound of frustration forms deep in his throat. 

“You said that I know that already.”

“Uh—”

“Say something , for fuck’s sake.”

Atsumu can’t. His lower lip pushes out, and although he knows he’s pouting right now, it isn’t entirely in his control. It’s almost a reflex that comes from having so much to say and not knowing how to phrase it. He doesn’t know how to get himself out of this—and how to not drive Sakusa away at the same time.

“Omi,” Atsumu starts before his courage leaves him, and his head dips. 

There’s a sigh. “Look at me, Atsumu.”

This is a reflex too—looking up immediately whenever Sakusa murmurs his given name. This is entirely out of his control, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly it happens. “Yeah?”

Sakusa looks like he’s biting on the inside of his cheek, debating his next words. If anyone is going to speak first, it’ll be him. Too blunt jerk. “I don’t take care of everyone when they’re sick,” he says.

Atsumu blinks. “Huh?”

“I don’t take care of everyone when they’re sick.”

As if repeating the sentence clarifies its intention. Atsumu wants to scream. If only Sakusa could be as blunt with his affection as he is with his disgust. What does that even mean ?

“ Huh ?”

Sakusa’s eyebrow twitches. In the next instant, he scrambles to his feet and crosses around the table to where Atsumu is sitting. Atsumu’s heart leaps up into his throat as Sakusa crouches down until they’re at eye level, and he hopes that Sakusa can’t hear the rapid beating that comes with his proximity. 

“I mean,” Sakusa says, grabbing hold of Atsumu’s shirt with both fists, “that if it had been anyone else , I wouldn’t have given a single shit.” His face leans in so close that their noses nearly brush, and all Atsumu can do is stay still as the statement sinks in. “I fucking made you soup, you fucking idiot. All because I knew you’d be too exhausted to do it yourself. So if you have something you’d like to say to me, now would be the time.”

Sakusa’s breath fans over Atsumu’s cheeks. It’s the closest they have ever been, and Sakusa isn’t even wearing a mask. He should be ten feet away, disgusted by the closeness between them, not pressed up against him, demanding answers that Atsumu doesn’t know how to give. 

“Omi-kun, I’ve always been honest with ya,” Atsumu says, picking apart each word with care. “I wouldn’t say anythin’ I didn’t mean.”

Sakusa’s face draws away a few centimeters, giving Atsumu the space he needs to process and breathe . “Then be honest with me now. Is that so hard?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s always hard,” Atsumu admits, “when half the time, I’m not even sure that ya like me at all.”

Sakusa’s eyes widen, and Atsumu falls into their depths, even as he registers Sakusa’s distant snarl. But then, like that, Sakusa deflates. He drops onto the floor, his legs crossed beneath him, and his eyelids flutter shut. It’s almost like he’s shutting down, and Atsumu can only watch in fascination as whatever emotions he had summoned evaporate.

“Kiss me,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu does a double take.

“Huh?”

His eyes remain closed, as if looking at Atsumu would destroy his nerve. “Kiss me.”

If it were anyone else, Atsumu might’ve teased more. He might have asked for a “please” or drawn it out. But this isn’t anyone else. It’s Sakusa. Atsumu hasn’t taken that for granted. He won’t take that for granted. 

Even as his heartbeat drowns out everything else, Atsumu leans forward. Sakusa stays still, even as Atsumu’s mouth grazes his. It takes another second for Atsumu to find a better position, but even then, it takes a bit of coaxing for Sakusa to respond. Neither of them reach to touch each other for this experimental moment, other than the brush of their knees together. Each nip of his lip feels like a test of his patience, and it hardly lasts for ten seconds before Atsumu pulls back.

Sakusa’s eyes remain closed. “Hmm.”

“What does that mean?” Atsumu demands. He’s aware it’s not his finest moment. He’s kissed plenty of people in the past, but kissing Sakusa puts his nerves on edge like no other. It’s a whole other situation. He never wants to push Sakusa past whatever he’s comfortable with, and the action of kissing someone for the first time is its own kind of adventure, so he doesn’t know what Sakusa likes or doesn’t like. He doesn’t know what’ll make Sakusa want to kiss him more, though he’d like to find out.

“Nothing,” Sakusa mumbles. “I just thought it’d be longer.”

Atsumu lets out a cry of indignation. “It’ll be better next time! I need to figure out how to kiss ya.”

Now it’s Sakusa’s turn to be confused. “Huh?”

“Everyone likes to be kissed differently, and I have to learn how ya like to be kissed. It’s that simple.”

At last, Sakusa’s eyes peel open. His stare is unwavering as ever as it lands on Atsumu. “Then practice. Isn’t that what you’re good at?” 

It’s the permission Atsumu is waiting for. When he leans forward, his mouth meeting Sakusa’s again, it feels like a gold rush.