Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bokuto breaks into Atsumu’s room like a tornado in human form (which he is on most days, but today it’s barely 6am and Bokuto is beaming from head to toe), only to yell, “I’m getting married today!” and leave the room just as fast as he came.

Atsumu blinks, waits for another beat. Sure enough, Bokuto peeks his head in again to give Atsumu a grin that would split anyone else’s face in two. “I’m really getting married today,” he whisperes this time around, as if the entire hotel hasn’t heard his previous declaration. 

Atsumu does what any good friend does and nods with a hungover smile. Bokuto’s grin somehow grows even wider, and he pops out of the room, only to be heard bursting into Hinata’s a few seconds later. A sigh climbs out of Atsumu as he rubs at his temples and shoves the duvet off himself.

“Do you think he knew I was here?” Sakusa deadpans, fingers clutched around the duvet to throw it back over his face in case Bokuto decides to burst into Atsumu’s room again. (The third time’s the charm and all that.)

“I don’t think so,” Atsumu says slowly, because quite honestly, he can’t believe Sakusa’s in his bed either. He stares at the bedhair, the sheet lines pressed into Sakusa’s cheek, and wonders just how hungover he must be if he agreed to sleep with Atsumu.

He must stare at Sakusa intensely enough to garner a reaction, because Sakusa pushes the duvet off and raises himself on his elbows. “Do I have something on my face or are you into creepily staring at me early in the mornings?”

“Mean, Omi-Omi!” Atsumu says out of reflex. The silence stretches after that, something that seems awkward only for him, if how relaxed Sakusa’s shoulders are is anything to go by. (Atsumu hates himself for being able to read how tense or not Sakusa is just by the line of his shoulders, but he prides himself on being a hella good setter, so this is just another part of the job.)

When the silence becomes too much (which is probably just a minute, because Atsumu has grown up with a twin and thus never learnt the real meaning of the word), he breaks it with a forced laugh. It’s shrill even to his own ears, so he’s not surprised when Sakusa glares at him. “So,” he starts awkwardly, and doesn’t really know what to say after that. “We were very drunk?” Atsumu doesn’t know why it comes out as a question - his headache is proof that they were very drunk. Sakuksa Kiyoomi in his bed is fucking proof that they were very drunk.

Sakusa nods, and winces a little, but unlike Atsumu, he isn’t sporting a deadly hangover - he probably just has a crick in his neck again. “I doubt I would let you kiss me if I were completely sober.”

“Hey!” Atsumu protests, and then, in a godsent moment of clarity, “Ya were the one who kissed me first!”

Sakusa considers this, and his nose wrinkles. It would be cute if he weren’t insufferable. (Oh, who’s Atsumu kidding, he’s cute anyways.) “I doubt I would kiss you if I were completely sober,” he amends, which is fair. Atsumu is surprised Sakusa kissed him at all.

Which begs the question, “So then, why didya kiss me?”

The way Atsumu remembers it is like this: a very drunk cousin of Bokuto’s came up to him last night and, in no uncertain terms, told him that he doesn’t get why Atsumu’s on the national team when Japan has a whole Kageyama Tobio. He didn’t quite get to finish that sentence before he tripped over his own feet and face planted to the floor, and by the time Atsumu recovered from the shock enough to check on him, the guy was already snoring.

Needless to say, his words shouldn’t hold much weight, but they hang around Atsumu’s head for the remainder of the evening. He knows what he’s worth, knows what Tobio’s worth too, for that matter. He knows he won’t be able to pull off a more than perfect minus tempo quick from the other side of the court, but he also knows that Kageyama won’t be able to pull off a toss from the form of a spiker, so really, they’re evening it out.

It shouldn’t matter, because Atsumu wrecked several teams with his serves and even more with his tosses, but it does matter, because Bokuto is getting married, and Atsumu’s only one year younger. He’s been pushing this thought in the depths of his mind, but all it takes is one drunk cousin for the ugliness to rear its head.

The thing is, Atsumu never cared about what anyone else thought. He always had volleyball, and that was enough - he was the best high school setter, then the up and coming star of the V League that everyone looked out for, then a part time model you’d have to be blind not to see on the billboards plastered around Japan and the best server in the League. It was always enough until it wasn’t, and as always, what tipped him off was Osamu.

Having a twin is like being born with both the biggest blessing and the biggest curse stuck to your side, and yet Osamu had the audacity to detach himself from Atsumu’s side. He loved something more than volleyball and was so certain of it that he bet his happiness on it. And Atsumu, Atsumu was a little shit about it, yelled and threw a tantrum, and then stalked into the kitchen, sat on a stool and demanded that Osamu try all of his recipes on him first. He thought he was quiet about it, too, but Osamu just looked at him with something almost fond , pushed a plate of onigiri under his nose and said, “Yer such a sap. Tell me if this needs more salt.”

To any outsider, the balance is struck quite nicely: Atsumu plays volleyball, Osamu has a successful restaurant chain. Atsumu tries out all of his brother’s recipes first, and Osamu comes to all of his volleyball matches. Atsumu scouts for good restaurant locations when he’s on away games and Osamu picks up his sorry ass when his serves just ain’t getting in.

But Atsumu’s an insider, and he sees where the balance is tipped off: he comes home to an empty apartment, while Osamu goes home to a cat and, when he’s on a break, Suna. Atsumu calls his brother first most of the time - Osamu only calls when he feels that Atsumu did something too embarrassing to admit to it, and then laughs his ass off about it when Atsumu eventually (predictably) gives in. Atsumu still only has volleyball, and Osamu has so much more.

And then it creeps in on Atsumu that maybe volleyball won’t always be enough to win the bet.

Atsumu fucking hates that all it takes is a drunk cousin to remind him of this, to remind him that if he ever is not as good as Kageyama Tobio, he has nothing left. It crashes down on him like a precariously built tower of stones blown off by the slightest breeze, and Atsumu almost calls Osamu right then and there. His fingers curl around the phone, then drop it and pick up the whiskey tumbler.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sakusa deadpans when Atsumu decides to down the entire glass in one go and starts coughing because this is strong .

Of course Sakusa has to find him when he’s at his lowest, because if there’s anyone other than Osamu who can tip the scales, it’s him. Atsumu narrows his eyes at him and deigns him with a, “Drinking,” before flagging down the bartender.

See, Atsumu takes ‘can’t hate it unless you love it’ a bit too literally, because somewhere between finding Sakusa fun to rile up and being told that they make a great team, he realizes he may or may not have a crush on him. It’s nothing too serious - Atsumu has had crushes before, and they always die in the wake of his passion for volleyball, but the problem is that Sakusa loves volleyball just as much. The problem is that Sakusa figures out he’s a jerk and still follows him to the bar to make sure he doesn’t drink himself into a coma.

The problem is that bantering with Sakusa starts becoming something Atsumu anchors himself to, and the last time he anchored himself to something, Osamu quit volleyball to do hot entrepreneurial shit.

“I already regret asking this,” Sakusa says as he sits down on the stool next to Atsumu, “but why are you drinking?”

“Cause we’re at a party, and that’s what people do at parties.”

Sakusa looks like, if he had just washed his hands and wasn’t touching a glass of unknown origin, he’d pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “That’s what people do in university, not when they’re 24 years old and professional athletes,” he grinds out.

Just to spite him, Atsumu orders something even stronger than the whiskey and swallows it in one go. It leaves a burning sensation down his throat, but it’s worth it just to piss Sakusa off. “Didn’t know ya cared so much,” Atsumu says, because flirting with Sakusa is the best way to rile him up, and also because sometimes he imagines what it would feel like if one out of the thousands of times he does, Sakusa actually flirted back.

“Maybe I should let Coach know he should look for new setters,” Sakusa deadpans, and Atsumu’s not even disappointed. He calls out to the bartender again and pretends not to feel Sakusa’s eyes on him, staring hard enough to probably see all his thoughts. “Did you do something embarrassing again?”

“Why wouldya say that?!” Sakusa raises an eyebrow, nonplussed. “I didn’t!” Atsumu defends himself - he’s not even sure why he has to in the first place, but something about Sakusa always makes him be on his guard. It’s what makes the banter fun in the first place, but tonight, Atsumu isn’t really feeling it. “I didn’t do anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with you, so ya can just lemme drink in peace,” he mumbles into the rim of his glass.

Sakusa sighs, a long suffering thing, and then flags the bartender down himself and orders some fancy wine. He swirls the glass with careful, practiced moves, and turns to stare at Atsumu in a manner that spells out I’m waiting and I’m not patient.

Atsumu doesn’t get why Sakusa does something he so obviously hates, but he doesn’t give any signs he’ll get up and leave either, so Atsumu finishes his drink and hums. “Do ya ever think about what ya’ll do after volleyball?”

“Athletic trainer,” Sakusa shrugs, because of course he knows. He went to university for this and everything. “Is this what you’re worrying about? I’m sure you’ll get offers to be a coach, Miya. Or you could continue with your modelling gigs.”

“But what if I don’t wanna do that?” Atsumu grumbles.

Sakusa eyes him like he just pulled off a new serve, and he’s breaking it down to toss and turn it on all sides. “Then you don’t do it,” he eventually says, like it’s that simple. “You’ve got a lot of time to think about that, so why are you agonizing over it now?”

“Because we’re at a wedding ,” Atsumu groans. He doesn’t know if he wishes Osamu was here to read his mind or if he’s relieved that Sakusa can’t.

If the latter was true, it doesn’t last for too long. “Oh, so that’s what it was,” Sakusa says, like he just finished a puzzle and is very satisfied with the way each piece is in its rightful place. “Why are you worrying about that? You said you’d marry me if we were both still single by the time we’re 30.”

He says it so casually that it doesn’t register in Atsumu’s buzzed brain at first, but when it does, he almost spits out his drink. (He doesn’t, because then Sakusa would make him clean the entire bar, and he’s too tired to hold a mop tonight.) The smirk curling Sakusa’s lips makes the situation all the more insane, and for a moment, Atsumu wonders if he knows.

“You remember that?” Atsumu chokes out instead.

“You’ve said it several times,” Sakusa arches an eyebrow again. Atsumu might be bordering on drunk, actually, because for a moment, he finds himself contemplating how nice Sakusa’s eyebrows are.

Atsumu’s first instinct is to refute that statement, except it’s true. It started off as a joke - when Bokuto would bring up Akaashi all the time, and Sakusa would sigh, Atsumu’d say, “Don’t worry Omi-Omi, I’ll marry you if no one else offers by the time you’re 30.” It became a bit less of a joke for Atsumu when he realized the feelings involved on his part weren’t all fun and rivalry and weren’t going away, but Sakusa always rolled his eyes and ignored him, so Atsumu always just assumed he erased those exchanges from his mind.

“Do you want to marry me?” Atsumu asks instead, because what else is he supposed to say? 

Sakusa wrinkles his nose and sips his wine. Atsumu has enough self awareness to take that as a no .

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say anything else, because Hinata crashes into the free stool next to Sakusa and starts telling them about how Hoshiumi and Ushiwaka are having a dance-off, which even Atsumu in his semi-depressed state can’t possibly pass on. Ushiwaka’s robotic moves and Hoshiumi’s worm are hilarious enough to push his thoughts and the discussion with Sakusa towards the back of his mind once again. Bokuto and Kuroo drag him to the dancefloor, too, and by the end of the night, Atsumu’s having fun .

But then the night does come to an end, and Sakusa’s still there. This is really how all of Atsumu’s problems could be summed up: no matter what happens, in the end, Sakusa’s there. He’s there regardless of whether they win or lose at the end of a match, he’s there at the end of practice, waiting for Atsumu to drag his butt home, he’s there at the end of parties to drive home, he’s there at the end of the Jackals’ movie nights to make Atsumu clean with him because Half of this mess is yours anyways. He’s always there, and it makes Atsumu almost think he wasn’t kidding earlier.

“Omi-kun, were ya waitin’ for me?” Atsumu winks.

“Just making sure you didn’t pass out so Bokuto’d have to carry your sorry ass upstairs. He’s getting married tomorrow, you know?”

Almost.

“I’m not even drunk, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu sing-songs, which isn’t entirely a lie. He’s bordering on the line of drunkenness, but he’s still got perfect control of his body - enough so to beat Kuroo in a dance off - and enough wit left to banter Sakusa into tomorrow. Then again, that did become a reflex lately, so maybe it doesn’t say too much about how sober he is.

“Sure,” Sakusa says, sounding entirely unconvinced. He leads the way to the elevators, and they make their way upstairs in silence, but then Sakusa stops in front of his room and says, “Shower. Brush your teeth. I’ll bring you an aspirin.” and ducks into his room before Atsumu even has a chance to reply.

Still, he leaves the door unlocked, because Sakusa never says something and doesn’t see it through, and steps into the bathroom. Showers after practice feel good - washing down the sweat feels well earned, feels like it’s part of volleyball -, but showers on days liek today feel like a failed attempt to scrub away the day, to peel off the layer of his anxieties and thoughts he wants gone.

Atsumu emerges out of the shower feeling only marginally better, but at least he smells nice now. He brushes his teeth methodically, and hates that even when he managed to scrub away most of Sakusa, the little circles he runs his toothbrush into bring him to the forefront of his mind once again.

He steps back into his room wanting to hide himself in the warmth of the hotel blankets and not think about anything until his alarm rings, but instead, he finds Sakusa sitting on what most surely isn’t the gold hotel blanket, holding a glass of water.

“Drink,” is all he says, pushing the glass into Atsumu’s hands. He does, almost mechanically, because Sakusa’s sitting on his bed and watching him. Once he’s halfway through the cup, he nods approvingly and holds out the paracetamol. Atsumu takes it wordlessly and drinks the rest of the glass.

He puts down the cup on a coaster - his room didn’t have coasters - and says, “Ya could’ve just left it here.”

“You would have forgotten about it and woken up to a horrible headache.”

“So ya do care!” Atsumu grins, and then remembers that he was just trying to scrub Sakusa off, so he has no right to come into his room and bring him water and pills and coasters. “Why do ya care?” He actively tries not to pout, but he can hear it in his voice. He should just shut up and take whatever Sakusa’s willing to give him, but this is grounding , and Atsumu’s scared he’s reading it wrong.

Sakusa’s quiet for long enough that Atsumu almost says, Forget ‘bout it , but then he gets up and takes a step closer. Like this, Atsumu has to tip his chin up a little to meet him eye to eye, and it makes him feel like he wants to cuddle under the blankets again. He tries taking a step back to lose that little height disadvantage, but Sakusa’s palm presses against his cheek, and Atsumu forgets how to breathe, let alone move.

It happens in a second, so fast that he can’t wrap his mind around it - Sakusa’s lips on his, moving, saying something, demanding an answer. Atsumu might be a little buzzed, but he’s not a fool - he’s had an answer to this for a while now.

What he doesn’t have an answer to is why Sakusa kissed him in the first place.

“Because I wanted to,” Sakusa shrugs, bringing Atsumu back into the present, where Sakusa is sitting in his fucking bed, naked . “I’d rather date you before I marry you, Miya.” He says it with a smirk, like he knows what he’s doing, like he means what he’s saying.

Atsumu blanches. “You don’t, don’t regret it?”

Sakusa frowns like the notion hasn’t occurred to him. “No. Do you ?”

“No!” Atsumu rushes to say, and then, “But why ?”

“Are you being purposefully obtuse or do you actually not get it?”

Atsumu thinks about how Sakusa’s always there at the end of it all, and how in the version of his future that he envisions for himself, the one where he wins his bet with Osamu, Sakusa’s there at the end, too. He thinks about Sakusa in his room, holding out a glass of water and an aspirin and then kissing him and pulling him atop a blanket Atsumu has seen many times when rooming with Sakusa on away games.

He says, “I don’t want to read this wrong,” and it sounds like please .

Somewhere along asking Sakusa why , looking at him became too much, and Atsumu started averting his gaze, bunching up the duvet in his lap and counting the creases. He feels a thumb on his jaw now, nudging him to look at Sakusa, and feels lips pressing to the corner of his mouth softly.

“I like you.” It’s a whisper, fluttered against his lips so he doesn’t get to see Sakusa’s face. “I don’t know why, ” Sakusa adds, like the word is torturing him, too, “but last night you went out to buy condoms and then desinfected the package and washed your hands and brushed your teeth again, even if you didn’t have to, so I figured this is serious for you, too.”

Atsumu blinks. I figured this is serious for you, too. He feels a smile tug at lips, the sort of genuine smile he always thought would hurt with how deep into his heart it tugs. Instead, he finds it makes him feel light, and right, and pushes him to lean over and kiss Sakusa again, full mouthed and slow.

“It’s serious for me, too,” he says when he pulls away, and is graced by one of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s tiny smiles. He’s leaning in again when he suddenly remembers and brusquely pulls away, squinting at Sakusa. “Why didya say you wouldn’t kiss me sober, then?”

Sakusa looks almost pained to admit it, but despite the nose scrunched in disgust, he grinds out, “Liquid courage,” and closes in the distance before Atsumu has a chance to wrap his mind around that.

***

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu whines, knowing he sounds mopey and not really caring.

Sakusa steps out of the kitchen holding a spatula and says, “Don’t yell from the living room.”

It’s so domestic that it makes Atsumu’s heart ache. He hops off the couch and trots into the kitchen, plopping into a chair when he spots the not yet chopped carrots and grabbing the knife next to the cutting board. It’s in moments like these that it hits Atsumu that he does actually know Sakusa - he knows where he keeps his mugs and that there’s a cup with fox ears there just for Atsumu; he knows that he needs to fold the kitchen towels twice before putting them in the second to left drawer; he knows how to wipe down the tap after he’s done with the dishes.

He’s only been dating Sakusa for three days.

Maybe he should have figured Sakusa’s feelings out a lot sooner, Atsumu ponders as he slides the nicely chopped carrots into the curry, and Sakusa doesn’t step away. He just lets him into his personal space and props his head on Atsumu’s shoulder, and it’s so domestic that his heart aches .

And that’s precisely why his current predicament makes no sense. “Samu doesn’t believe we’re datin’,” he pouts when he feels Sakusa waiting. “Is it that hard to believe?”

Sakusa hums in thought. “You realize he’s having fun riling you up, right?”

“Ya think that’s it?”

“Did he really sound shocked?” Sakusa asks, in a voice that implies no one should be shocked about this turn of events. It’s almost like saying Here, take my feelings, they’re for granted and Atsumu doesn’t know what to do with something so big trusted in his hands except lean back against Sakusa and stare at the ceiling.

“I mean, it’s Samu. He always just sounds like a scrub.” He feels Sakusa chuckle into his shoulder, shuffling a little to stir the curry but not letting Atsumu go. “Hey, Omi-kun, do ya wanna make a bet?” Sakusa tilts his head, a quiet inquiry. “Wanna bet who on the team will figure out we’re dating first?”

In light of the very sudden change of relationship between them - Sakusa would disagree, saying that it was an obvious development to everyone but Atsumu -, they haven’t really told, well, anyone. It’s only been three days, but Atsumu wants to take a page out of Sakusa’s life philosophy and do this right, pay proper care to everything and do it well. He wants the dates with flowers and restaurants you have to dress up for and the cooking at home after a long day and collapsing on the couch together dates. He wants to bask in this version of Sakusa whose sharp lines are softened by the kitchen glow without an overly excited volleyball team and the PR peeps flooding them with questions.

“I bet on Inunaki,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu blinks. “What?”

“Do ya like, want me to win?”

“Who’s your pick?” Sakusa raises, and it sounds like a challenge.

“Bokkun,” Atsumu says, like it’s obvious. He turns around, losing the point of contact that was Sakusa’s chin on his shoulder, which proves just how big of a deal this is. “Bokkun’s weirdly perceptive about this things, and he has ‘Kaashi.”

Sakusa looks at him with an unreadable expression. Eventually, he says, “That’s cheating!”, and Atsumu realizes he’s pouting . His lower lip isn;t even sticking out, but it’s in the fluctuations in his voice and the way the arm he has looped around Atsumu’s waist tightens just a bit more. “You said on the team , and now you’re involving Akaashi-san.”

“Bokuto’s the one who involves Akaashi in everything. Besides, they’re married now, they come as a Bokuto set.” Atsumu knows he’s winning this argument, because Sakusa lets out an indignant puff and peels himself from Atsumu’s side to set the table. “Are you pouting, babe?” Atsumu says, not even trying to suppress what Sakusa would call a shit eating grin. 

Sakusa doesn’t answer. He puts on his oven mittens to move the pot onto the table, and Atsumu still finds it absolutely adorable that he actually wears them - they have small owls drawn all over them, a birthday present from Bokuto. “If Bokuto actually figures it out first, I’m throwing these away,” he threatens, shaking the innocent mittens in front of Atsumu.

“Yer really childish sometime, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu hums, handing him the chopsticks. “I like that about ya.”

The clatter of spoons against the table stops, and Atsumu turns around only to have one of said spoons shoved into his mouth. At the other end of it, Sakusa looks flushed (well, only the tip of his ears, but Atsumu still counts it a win). “Shut up, I’m not going to lose to the guy who tripped during our fanmeet.”

“Will ya let that go?” Atsumu whines, taking the spoon out of his mouth and considering sticking it right into the curry, just to spite Sakusa.

But then Sakusa’s smirk gives way to something softer as he asks, “So when are we visiting your brother?”

Atsumu lets the spoon clatter in his bowl, trying to swallow down a dopey smile. “Friday?”

***

Friday is such a nice day that Atsumu feels like it’s almost a crime that he has to ruin it by visiting Osamu, but Sakusa has turned the keys in the ignition before Atsumu even got to open his mouth and argue how they should be on the balcony instead, tending to Sakusa’s impressive succulent collection, really.

They make it to Onigiri Miya just as the sun is setting and the sign is being flipped to closed . Atsumu storms in like he owns the place (which he technically does, it’s in the name ), and earns a, “The hell ya doing here?”

“ I ,” Atsumu declares, eyes flitting around the restaurant, “am here to inspect how clean this place is.”

“Ha?!” Osamu tilts the mop he’s holding so he can poke Atsumu with it if he gets any closer. “What does a scrub like ya know about cleanliness?”

“More than ya think, given that my boyfriend’s a clean freak and all.”

“Don’t call me a clean freak,” Sakusa deadpans, letting the door fall shut behind him. Doorhandels are his biggest enemies, and he won’t touch one more than needed - this was one of the first things Atsumu noticed about him, back when Sakusa joined the Black Jackals and stared at the door to the locker room like it would be intimidated and fling itself open. “I parked the car just around the corner, but I’m not sure if the place was reserved by anyone. Is that alright, Miya-san?”

“It’s fine, but more importantly, Sakusa-kun, did Atsumu kidnap you? Blink twice if you need help.”

Sakusa doesn’t blink twice, but Atsumu can tell he’s laughing beneath the mask. He hands him the wipes he had just dug out of his pocket to disinfect their seats, and proceeds to trap Osamu in a headlock because, “Yer such a piece of shit, yknow that?”

“Ain’t that just grand, comin’ from yer mouth?” Osamu digs the end of the mop in Atsumu’s ribs, so Atsumu tightens the chokehold.

In the background, years of practice make him sense Suna’s presence, as well as the familiar feeling of being filmed whilst doing something ridiculous. “What did you get yourself into?” he hears Suna ask Sakusa, and that’s all it takes for him to release Osamu and dodge a hit in the nick of time.

“I’m a delight , why are ya two doin’ me dirty like this?”

“I shared the womb with ya, there was nothin’ clean about ya in the first place!”

Atsumu’s ready to jump at his twin’s throat again, but then a sentence muffled by a mask stops him. “He’s not that bad, actually,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu knows that voice - it’s the I hate admitting it but it’s true voice. It makes all the rough lines of his face lose their edge.

“Ew,” Osamu says, and Suna wrinkles his nose in a similar sentiment. “So is this really happenin’? Ya two’re datin’ now?” Sakusa gives a small nod, and Osamu takes a second to mull that over before his face slides into a sly smirk. “Well, good luck, Sakusa-kun.”

“Wait, so ya believe him that easily?!” Atsumu does not yelp , thank you very much, but he sees how others might misinterpret his indignation for something so graceless. “I’ve been tellin’ ya we’re datin’ for almost a week but ya just believe Omi-kun?”

Osamu turns the sly smirk onto him, and Atsumu has about half a second to think about how he may have miscalculated here. “Ya’ve been bugging me for months about your Omi-kun , I thought ya just hit your head and dreamt it all up. Now that I think about it tho, maybe if ya had hit your head ya’d be less obnoxious.”

Atsumu feels his face burning. He turns to Sakusa to tell him to listen to none of this nonsense (Osamu knows too much. He knows too much about what Atsumu thinks of Sakusa’s hands and his moles and frankly, none of that is dinner-friendly conversation.), except Sakusa’s wiping down a stool and casually settling himself at one of the tables. When he feels the twins’ eyes on him, he says, “I’ll just have my usual.”

“Sure,” Osamu manages after a moment, obviously amused.

Suna, the sneaky bastard, slides into the chair on the other side and says, “I can offer you blackmail material on Tsumu, you know, to pass the time.”

“Sunarin, you’re losin’ yer best friends rights really quickly,” Atsumu hisses, only to be promptly ignored. What’s even worse is that Sakusa takes off his mask to reveal a smirk, and Suna takes that as a sign to unlock his phone and start scrolling. “I fuckin’ hate all of ya,” Atsumu declares, plopping down next to Sakusa with an oomph.

And it’s terrible, really, because his boyfriend fits into this disfunctional family dynamic like there was always an empty spot just waiting for him. It’s terrible because Suna remembers all of the embarrassing moments from high school, and Osamu shouts out the little details he left out from the kitchen, but then he still brings Atsumu fatty tuna and pretends to cough through a proud smile as his brother digs in and lets out a hum.

It’s terrible because somewhere in the middle of this, Sakusa’s hand lands on Atsumu’s knee, squeezing it every now and again, thumb pressing into the dip of his knee when Sakusa chuckles at a story, and Atsumu knows this will become a regular thing.

***

Sakusa turns into Kiyoomi a lot faster than Miya turns into Atsumu , and with such ease that Atsumu gets whiplash. Or maybe that’s just from Kiyoomi sticking his tongue out in concentration as he taps the moisturizer into Atsumu’s cheeks.

“Stop bopping your head,” Kiyoomi hisses, a tap turning into a poke.

“Can’t help it, the song’s catchy,” Atsumu shrugs, humming along to the chorus. “‘Sides, it was ya who insisted on the skin care thingy.”

Kiyoomi puffs, squeezing more moisturizer onto his fingers and proceeding to rhythmically tap it onto his own face. “I had to. You only use micelar water, not even a foam cleanser!” Atsumu wants to protest, except the skin around his lips does crack in winter, while Kiyoomi’s is baby smooth, even with the mask. 

“Yeah, because sometimes I’m, yknow, too tired to do an eight step routine ,” Atsumu hisses as Kiyoomi tries to even out a face mask onto his forehead.

He gets the back of his wrist slapped. “Would you stop talking? The mask is wrinkling!”

“Only if I get to put yers on,” Atsumu grins.

To his surprise, Kiyoomi doesn’t miss a beat as he says, “Sure, whatever, just stop moving. ” So Atsumu does, lets Kiyoomi fiddle with the mask, poking out all the air bubbles with swift moves down Atsumu’s cheeks and chin. From this distance, Atsumu gets a close-up on the cute hair band that pushes Kiyoomi’s bangs out of his face - it’s Hello Kitty themed, because a kid gave it to him at a fanmeet, and after washing it twice, Kiyoomi took to using it regularly. It’s one of those small things Kiyoomi does so naturally that it makes Atsumu feel gooey. He’d peck the tip of his nose, only he knows he’ll get a fond scolding for wrinkling the mask.

He’s pondering the pros and cons of that when Kiyoomi hands him a new pack and sits down on the edge of the bathrub next to him, waiting. Atsumu puts as much care into it as he has seen Kiyoomi do, sliding the mask perfectly over the slope of his nose and pressing the moisture in. He can’t help but feel proud when Kiyoomi checks his job in the mirror and says, “Acceptable.”

“Ya really have a way with words,” Atsumu snorts, picking up his phone to thumb through his playlists now that the song he was bopping to is over. He has a family Spotify account he shares with Osamu and Suna, because he needs every possible blackmail information at his disposal, and he has recently talked Kiyoomi into joining them, so now his fingers hover over the classical playlists and soft jazz mixes that belong to his boyfriend.

He’s decided on a lofi vibe when a notification pops at the top of his screen. It’s from Motoya.

yo, are you with Kiyoomi rn?

“Why is yer cousin textin’ me?” Atsumu asks, immediately followed by, “Oh no, is he gonna give me the shovel talk?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and peeks over his shoulder at the message. “No, he’s much more likely to embarrass me. Don’t reply.”

This is precisely why Atsumu grins and types back, yh, we’re doing his weird skin care thingy.

“It’s not weird ,” Kiyoomi protests, and Atsumu presses a kiss onto his earshell (he can’t get scolded for that). Kiyoomi hums and leans more into his shoulder. “You’ll thank me when we’re forty and your skin still looks like this.”

Something in Atsumu’s chest sings at the way Kiyoomi throws when we’re forty around so easily, like the we is for granted, now and in the future. He thinks back to that night in the hotel room, how he said I’d rather date you before I marry you , and wonders how much of it was real. Wonders if this is what he’ll have after volleyball.

His phone buzzes again, two texts in quick succession.

is he sharing his skincare products? you must be really special
but i’m texting you for business, atsumu-kun

“Am I special, Omi-kun?”

“Yes, you’re a special brand of annoying,” Kiyoomi deadpans, but the tips of his ears are a tiny bit pink. Atsumu must be careful or he’ll fall. (Both figuratively and literally, he’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub and his butt is really starting to protest.)

pray tell, Atsumu types back, because Kiyoomi’s still watching over his shoulder and he knows he finds big, smart words hot. Kiyoomi quirks an eyebrow but says nothing more.

i was at my aunt’s today, guess what i found under the TV-set

“Oh no,” Kiyoomi mutters, just as Atsumu’s phone buzzes again.

It’s a picture this time, obviously taken from a photo album. The light reflects off it a little, but Atsumu can clearly see a mini-Kiyoomi scowling at the camera, clutching a volleyball to his chest.

“ Oh my God,” Atsumu squeals, and doesn’t get the time to process or recover before a new picture pops under the one that took his breath away.

It’s a slightly older Kiyoomi, probably around six years old, happily munching on what Atsumu supposes is umeboshi, a satisfied smile tugging just slightly on the corners of his lips. He must not know the picture is being taken, because he doesn’t look at the camera, eyes closed to fully immerse himself in the taste. It’s the same expression he makes when Osamu sends food over and he bites into the onigiri.

“I should disown Motoya,” Kiyoomi sighs.

Atsumu takes personal offense with that, because he knows there are more pictures where these came from and he needs to see them all. He tells Motoya as much and turns to Kiyoomi with a scandalized expression. “Mori-kun is a delight and ya’ll do no such thing. These are cute pictures of ya, Omi-kun! I can’t believe you’ve deprived your boyfriend of this!”

Kiyoomi almost frowns, then remembers the face mask and puts on the most non-impressed expression he can muster. “You didn’t show me your childhood photos,” Kiyoomi points out matter of factly, and well. He’s not wrong, but.

“Ya wanna see my childhood photos?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “It would be interesting to know when things started going wrong with you.”

His phone buzzes again, revealing a picture of Kiyoomi on his first day of elementary school, mask and the usual scowl in place. “I dunno about me, but I just found out when things started goin’ south with ya .” Tiny-Kiyoomi’s school bag has a tiny volleyball keychain, and Atsumu tries his hardest not to coo at the sight.

The timer goes off, cutting out any smart comeback as Kiyoomi takes the mask off Atsumu's face and rubs the remaining moisture onto his neck, pushing at the collar of his shirt to get the last droplets onto his collarbone. Atsumu holds his hand out to do the same, so Kiyoomi sits back and lets him, but not without commenting, “I can’t believe Motoya is actually betraying me like this.”

“I think he’s doin’ ya a favor,” Atsumu muses. Kiyoomi lifts an eyebrow, nonplussed. “He’s showing me the best of ya!” Atsumu grins, big and self-satisfied as he dabs the last of the moisture into the dip of Kiyoomi’s collarbones.

He’s about to say something that begs for praise like Is this also just ‘acceptable’, or are ya gonna bump me up, Omi-Omi? , but Kiyoomi’s fingers fist into his shirt and pull him down until their lips crash. The thing about Kiyoomi is that he does everything properly, at the best of his capacity, including but not limited to volleyball, cleaning and, as Atsumu has recently discovered, kissing. Kiyoomi kisses like he wants to make up for words, presses into Atsumu like he’s saying Do you understand?

Atsumu thinks he does.

Kiyoomi pulls apart just to mutter into his mouth, crooked smirk pulling at his lips, “Are you sure this isn’t the best of me?”

Atsumu knows it’s a ruse, but can’t really bring himself to care when he kisses him again, open mouthed and hot, fingers pulling at the roots of Kiyoomi’s hair to get that low, deep throated sound out of him and swallow it whole. There are hands on his hips, at the small of his back, everywhere, and Kiyoomi smells clean, like the rose water they just used and that weird conditioner that has caviar extract in it, but he also smells like Atsumu’s fruity bodywash.

Bunching his fingers in the soft cotton of Kiyoomi’s sleep shirt and kissing him like he’s trying to press his soul into him, to say this is serious for me, too, feels oddly like anchoring himself.

***

Off season means resting, but for Atsumu, it means his fingers itch in search of a volleyball, which is why, after his morning jog, he often ends up stopping in the park and joining the kids who pass the ball around.

“You’re late today, mister!” one of the boys calls out as Atsumu jogs towards them.

“Sorry ‘bout that, I had to take the cranky one with me today,” Atsumu laughs, jabbing a finger in Kiyoomi’s direction.

It’s a Friday, which means it’s their date day. It becomes a thing, because Kiyoomi likes having plans and calendars and neatly organized dates, even if being off season means Atsumu has been at his apartment more often than not, and that there’s an entire drawer for his underwear and slacks there by now.

“‘Kay,” the kid easily agrees. “Do you play volleyball too, mister?” Kiyoomi nods, catching the ball easily when the kid throws it his way with an excited, “Show us!”

Kiyoomi looks at the ball, then at Atsumu, and he smiles. “Should I toss for you, Omi-kun?”

“Isn’t that a given?” Kiyoomi deadpans, but there’s something easy in the way he says, in the way his shoulders don’t tense up as he advances onto the beton court. It’s not as easy to slide here, but Kiyoomi doesn’t waver as he passes the ball to Atsumu and runs, then flies.

Atsumu has learned how everyone likes their tosses, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like changing things up, challenging them where he sees the opportunity. The toss he gives now it’s one he’s been practicing with water bottles, the one he just shrugged about when Shouyo asked if this was Kageyama’s woosh then stop toss. It’s one he’s polished since high school, with Osamu and then with Suna and then with the 1st and 2nd years, one he’s managed to match with Bokuto and Meian, but one that Kiyoomi only scoffed at.

“You know I like my tosses high and close to the net,” was all he had to say to it, and Atsumu smirked.

Today, he tosses, high and close to the net, watches the ball stop in mid-air for a split second. Kiyoomi spikes it without missing a heartbeat. He puts a gross spin on it, and it lands between two of the kids with a heavy sound.

There are wowed exclamations as the kids run over to them, but Atsumu’s eyes are trained on Kiyoomi. He sees him replay the spike mentally before he turns to Atsumu, a corner of his mouth pulled up unevenly. “That was absolutely disgusting,” he says, and Atsumu laughs so hard that he thinks he might have fallen.

***

Off-season also means interviews, which is how Atsumu and Kiyoomi find themselves in the studio, shooting the friendship test for Glamour. By fan request, Bokuto and Hinata were paired together, Adriah was stuck with Inunaki, Barnes and Meian took the role of the group parents, and Atsumu found himself disinfecting the pens with Kiyoomi’s favourite brand of wipes. They’re both very serious about today, because it’s a perfect chance to settle their bet.

“How did you meet?” the director asks, and then the cameras are rolling.

It’s an individual segment, but Kiyoomi’s sitting right next to the camera, so Atsumu still wears his shit-eating grin. “We met in high school. Both of us were invited to the Youth Training Camp in our first year, and Omi-kun was even more prickly than he is now. He didn’t immediately hit my tosses, took the time to wrinkle his nose at the ball before hittin’, and it pissed me off so much that I practiced until late at night to make sure he’d say my tosses were the best. But look at us now,” Atsumu grins, and catches Kiyoomi rolling his eyes at him. “He’s my hitter, so who won?”

Sakusa’s reply is a lot more clipped, but equally as sharp. “Miya already said this, but we met in high school. I don’t like people who don’t put their money where their mouth is, but I guess Miya doesn’t like them either,” he shrugs, and Atsumu tries not to swoon, because this is high praise in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s language. He knows, he wrote the dictionary himself. “He was really annoying - he still is, but at least his hair isn’t piss colored anymore.”

“ Hey!” Atsumu can’t help but let out, and the staff laughs.

“The only wise decision you have made regarding your hair, Miya, was to let me bleach it,” Kiyoomi says, a smirk playing around his mouth. Then, back to the camera, “Miya rarely makes good first impressions.”

“Ya make me sound so charming,” Atsumu grits out when Kiyoomi is back behind the camera to get his water.

“Maybe, but you’re still my setter,” Kiyoomi easily says back, and Atsumu wishes he could kiss him right now.

The second segment is writing two things they like about each other, and Atsumu, charming as always, despite what Kiyoomi might have the public thinking of him, says, “Only two? That’s too little!”

Kiyoomi levels him with, “Two is too much,” and the staff laughs again.

They get two minutes to think, time during which Atsumu keeps trying to sneak a peek at Kiyoomi’s little post it, and Kiyoomi glares at him and pates him on his back so Atsumu has no chance to see it unless he wants to have a crick in his neck. The staff giggles again, and Atsumu finds himself muttering, “Well, I guess we’re gettin’ lots of screen time,” which his mic obviously picks up and they get even more laughter.

Kiyoomi goes first when the time is up. “I wrote that you’re a good setter-”

“That’s not a compliment, Omi-kun,” Atsumu complains, using what Suna calls weirdly effective puppy dog eyes . “That’s like saying the sky is blue!”

“Good thing I didn’t write modest here, huh,” Kiyoomi quips back, earning another round of chuckles. Maybe they missed their true calling as comedians, Atsumu thinks wryly.

“Didya just write that cause you couldn’t think of anythin’ else?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says, eyes wide and earnest, like he doesn’t get Atsumu’s complaints. “I wrote it because it’s true. You’re a good setter, Miya. You remember the tosses everyone likes best but never settle for what’s comfortable.” He shrugs, completely unaware of what his nonchalant praise does to Atsumu, then adds, “I also wrote you’re attentive.”

“Huh,” Atsumu says, not sure what else there is to say.

“When I first joined the team, Miya knew I was particular with hygiene, and he was accommodating about it. He’s always in everyone’s personal space, but he respected mine, and started bringing a pack of the wipes I used around, in case I ran out.”

Atsumu’s grinning from ear to ear now, elbowing Kiyoomi lightly. “Yeah, but now ya high five us after a play! Ya should’ve seen Bokkun and Shouyo’s faces after Omi-kun first high fived me during practice, they huddled around him so quickly that Omi-Omi hid behind Captain!”

“Now why would you lie to our fans like that,” Kiyoomi mumbles grimly, incriminating himself further. “What did you write, anyway?”

“Glad ya asked!” Atsumu beams, unfolding his piece of paper with an air of seriousness that is only half feigned. He wonders if he gives too much away when he says, “I like yer passion for volleyball.”

“Elaborate,” Kiyoomi says, looking at him like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult question.

“Yknow I used to play with Samu, ah, my brother,” he adds for the camera, “in high school. He didn’t go pro - by the way, if yer watching this, drop by Onigiri Miya!” he winks to the camera. “He was one of the few people who always wanted to try somethin’ new with me, and when he told me he’s quittin’ I was scared I wouldn’t find that anymore.”

Atsumu shrugs, and wonders what Osamu will tell him when he watches this. That he’s a scrub, probably. “But then I joined the Black Jackals, and Bokkun was already there, always demanding new stuff from me, and then Omi-kun and Shouyo joined, so it’s never a dull day,” he grins, lightly punching Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Omi-Omi always calls me out if I slack off, so I can’t let my guard down.”

“Huh,” Kiyoomi says, and he looks like he hasn’t quite figured out his answer yet, and wants to ask Atsumu more about that when it’s just the two of them. “What’s the other thing you wrote?”

“Yer great thighs,” Atsumu laughs, letting Kiyoomi rip the paper from his hands.

“He did actually write that,” Kiyoomi says to the camera, “but then crossed it out.” He quirks an eyebrow at Atsumu.

“I thought ya’d write serious stuff so I should as well. The second thing I actually wrote is the way ya never half-ass anythin’. Omi-kun never in his life put his mind to something and didn’t follow through,” Atsumu says sagely to the camera. “After practice he replays everything in his head and then corrects it the next day. He’s the sort of person Samu could never call a scrub.”

“I like doing things properly,” Kiyoomi shrugs, not really impressed - to the casual eye, that is. Atsumu sees the subtle pink coloring the tips of his ears and is glad the camera cuts off before he does something too obvious.

The last segment they have to do in pairs is staring into each other’s eyes for twenty seconds. Atsumu can already imagine how that went for the other teams. “How long do you think Shouyo and Bokkun managed to stare before bursting into laughter?” he asks Kiyoomi as the staff fumbles with the lighting.

“Five seconds or less,” Kiyoomi answers around a chuckle.

The staring into each other’s eyes turns from a friendly exercise to a competition, much like things always do between Atsumu and Kiyoomi. The staff must have figured this out over the course of the shooting, too, because they don’t stop them when the twenty seconds are up and they’re still staring, let them go up to fifty-six seconds and then tell them they’ve blinked at the same time.

“Are ya sure it’s at the same time?” Atsumu asks with the worriness of someone that grew up with a twin and knows better than to believe in convenient coincidences.

“We should get a rewatch of that,” Kiyoomi says, like they’re on the court. “In slow motion,” he adds for good measure, and the staff laughs but indulges them anyway.

***

They’re back home (when did Kiyoomi’s apartment become home ?) after dropping by the market for fresh fruit. Hands washed and peaches deposited in the fancy fruit basket that Kiyoomi has because he likes being organized (his towels are divided in nine categories, and Atsumu is absolutely terrified by the fact that he can list all of them in alphabetical order if you woke him up in the dead on night), Atsumu plops unceremoniously onto the couch.

“Scoot over,” Kiyoomi demands, poking Atsumu’s thigh with a toe. Atsumu only gives a non-comittal growl and rolls around so he can face Kiyoomi with the full If I have to move right now I’ll die face. “Fine then,” Kiyoomi concedes, and bonelessly drops over Atsumu, curling into his chest like he isn’t a full 4 cm taller and constantly shoving that fact into Atsumu’s face.

Atsumu cards his fingers through Kiyoomi’s curls and steadies him with a hand over the small of his back, pressing a kiss into his hair. Discovering that Kiyoomi is actually going for a medal in underground cuddling (underground because no one would believe Atsumu if he were to try selling that information and he’d get exiled to the couch) is one of the best things that has ever happened to Atsumu. He told Motoya as much, and earned a “Finally someone who understands me, I have pictures of Kiyoomi sleeping in my lap from when we were young, I can drive a good bargain for them.”

“So, my thighs?” Kiyoomi asks, drumming his fingers on Atsumu’s chest like it’s free real estate. Atsumu doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s smirking in an insufferable way.

“They’re great thighs,” Atsumu says, shrugging his free shoulder. It’s a fact that has been monetized by Gucci, and that their fans are vividly aware of, so why would Atsumu be blind to it?

“And you think Bokuto would pick up this hint before Inunaki?”

“Inunaki has heard me talk about yer ass before, this ain’t news.”

Kiyoomi lifts his head slightly to look into Atsumu’s eyes, trying to find the lie written on his face. When he doesn’t (because it isn’t a lie, and Atsumu isn’t even embarrassed about it), he quips, “You talk to Inunaki about my ass?”

“He may or may not, on occasion, have listened to me praising yer ass,” Atsumu says, very carefully. He can tell Kiyoomi’s trying not to laugh. “It was very professional tho!” Kiyoomi tilts his head, and the message is clear. Atsumu slaps his ass just because he can . “Damn alcohol and those skinny leather pants of yers.”

“Motoya forced me into those.”

“Bless Mori-kun,” Atsumu says, making a show of staring at the ceiling with thankful eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kiyoomi says around a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his jaw before he settles back, head tucked under Atsumu’s chin and fingers drawing aimless patterns on his arm. “Atsumu,” he calls when the silence stretches out, and Atsumu has a feeling he knows what this is about. “Why did you choose the Black Jackals?”

The question is in past tense, but Atsumu knows it should be in present continuous. Over the last two years, more than ever, Atsumu has been getting transfer offers, and turning them down without overthinking it. “I never really studied English in high school, ya know?” And even if he had, Atsumu wouldn’t leave japanese food, his childhood home, his parents, his dog. He wouldn’t leave Osamu.

“What about other teams here?” Kiyoomi prods, and he has that look again, like he’s trying to figure out a problem.

“Osaka was close,” Atsumu says, and leaves it at that, because if he admits he’s still anchored out loud, it will feel real. Once words are said, they settle somewhere, register like solid, and weigh you down even further. “What about you, Omi-Omi? Didn’t you want to play with Mori-kun?”

“Then he wouldn’t have to receive my gross serves,” Kiyoomi says, laughter in his voice. It makes Atsumu feel full, makes him think this is why, I don’t want to leave this . He tries ignoring the anxiety coiling in his guts and holds Kiyoomi closer. “I like the Black Jackals,” Kiyoomi continues, softer. “We do things right and pay proper care to each play. I think if I play with this team, I can have my last game one day and feel satisfied. Besides,” he adds, pressing his lips to Atsumu’s collarbone, “I like being settled.”

It comes out naturally and makes something swell in Atsumu’s chest. He knows Kiyoomi doesn’t half-ass anything, that he can’t stop once he starts something, loves that about him. Like this, with Kiyoomi’s legs tangled in between his and his lips mouthing along Atsumu’s neck lazily, a mindless thing, like pressing kisses where there is exposed skin is the only logical thing to do, Atsumu’s anxiety feels dumb. 

“Being settled doesn’t mean not growing,” Kiyoomi says against his skin, like he can press the words into Atsumu. “People like Hinata and Kageyama will probably not settle until they can’t play volleyball anymore, but being attached to something else doesn’t mean you love volleyball any less. Staying here doesn’t mean you’re losing or not challenging yourself.”

“Omi-kun?” It comes out like a question.

“You know your brother never left you, right?” Atsumu tenses, and Kiyoomi presses his fingers into his arm, frowning. “Osamu-san left volleyball, not you. He’s at all of your games. He’s still the one who picks you up when your serves suck.” Atsumu makes an indignant sound in the back of his throat, and finally relaxes. “I’m not leaving volleyball, and I’m not leaving you either.”

The gooey thing inside Atsumu goes fully liquid, fills him up to the tips of his toes. “You sound awfully confident about that.”

Kiyoomi props his chin on Atsumu’s chest and gives him a wicked smile. “I never half-ass things. Didn’t you like that about me?”

One of these days, Atsumu will have to face the music and name the thing that makes his fingers tingle, that rivals his hunger for volleyball and fatty tuna, but for now he’ll let his boyfriend tease him about the pink dusted over his cheeks and kiss him properly.

***

Neither Inunaki nor Bokuto get the hint, but their fans seem to.

“Why is yer ass trending on twitter,” is the first thing Osamu says when Atsumu picks up the call, and it sounds like a tired sigh rather than a question.

Atsumu has no idea what’s going on. “I have a splendid ass, why wouldn’t it be trendin’,” he says anyway, because he takes offense to his ass very personally.

“Actually, if we’re talking body parts, it’s Sakusa’s thighs that are trending. Tsumu’s just trending as his whole dumb self,” Suna adds helpfully somewhere on the other end of the call.

“The fuck,” Atsumu mutters, putting the call on speaker so he can open his twitter. He’s still sweaty and waiting for his turn to shower, leaning against a chair in the kitchen and apparently trending on twitter. It takes him thirty seconds on the tag to realize that the Glamour video is out, and he lets out a chuckle. “Omi-kun!” he calls, just as the bathroom door slings open.

“What?” Kiyoomi pads over, hair still damp. He takes the phone from Atsumu and lets him take over the towel to dry the ends of his hair, scrolling through the feed. He stops at a gif of Atsumu elbowing him cheekily, with the caption they really be doing this right after they talked about how sakusa enjoys his personal space, huh , and chuckles.

“Is that Sakusa-kun?” Osamu asks, not waiting for the reply to add, “I can’t believe ya two are this obvious on the daily yet yer team can’t cotton up. Yer basically livin’ together at this point and they haven’t noticed?”

“Practice just started again,” Atsumu says, defensive. “Bokkun will figure it out soon.” He can hear his brother rolling his eyes in the chortle he lets out. “ He will, ” Atsumu insists.

Kiyoomi looks at him with one of those hard to read expressions. “Go shower,” he eventually says. “I’ll talk to Osamu-san in the meantime.”

It’s a bit concerning, just how well Osamu and Kiyoomi get along. By the time Atsumu’s out of the shower, they have switched to facetime, Kiyoomi settled on the couch and smiling at whatever Osamu is showing him. Atsumu sneaks around the couch to peer at the phone, and lets out a shriek when he recognizes his picture from that one time he got chicken pox in kindergarten.

“Why would’ya show him that?!” Atsumu cries, trying to steal his phone back from Kiyoomi and failing spectacularly. “Those were my ungraceful years!”

“Yer always ungraceful,” Osamu snorts, flipping another page in the album. “Oh, this is from that time we were learnin’ how to ride bikes. Remember when we started racin’ and ended up out of town?”

Atsumu sighs, giving up his attempts at reclaiming his phone and plopping down next to Kiyoomi. “Yeah, Dad was really mad. We got grounded, he locked our bikes away and everythin’.” Kiyoomi chuckles, leaning into Atsumu’s shoulder. “Why are ya even lookin’ at photos?”

“Yer boyfriend asked to see them,” Osamu shrugs.

Atsumu directs the raised eyebrows to Kiyoomi, who doesn’t even see his face from where he’s nestling his head into the crook of Atsumu’s neck, but feels the question hanging in the air anyway. “You saw mine, this was only fair.”

He says it with a smile in his voice, so whatever protests Atsumu had bubbling on the tip of his tongue die down. He heaves a sigh that lands on the right side of fond, and plays with Kiyoomi’s hair, watching as Osamu flips to another page. There’s a lot he forgot about - that time him and Osamu attempted making mochi as a surprise for their parents, but ended up having to clean the mess they made, with only some very sloppy race cakes to show, or that one day they attempted rolling their towels like their Ma did after washing her hair, and discovered that their Ma must have been a magician because towels just don’t sit like that.

“I can do that,” Kiyoomi points out, snagging the towel that he had left to dry on the back of a chair and folding it over his head in a few swift moves.

“ How, ” Atsumu and Osamu breathe at the same time, equal parts impressed and frustrated.

Kiyoomi smirks, and spends the next five minutes attempting to teach them the mysterious ways of folding a towel hat. Suna, the bastard, gets it on his first try, and after failing a sixth time, both Atsumu and Osamu give up. The call disconnects moments later, leaving Atsumu to pout on the couch.

“Are you sulking?” Kiyoomi asks, like it’s not obvious. Atsumu’s lips pull in a deeper pout, and he crosses his arms for emphasis. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and pokes his cheek. “Come on, you oversized baby, we have to eat.” Kiyoomi pushes himself off the couch and grabs Atsumu’s wrists, hauling him up and dragging him into the kitchen.

Atsumu’s still pouting, although marginally less, when an apron gets tied around his waist and Kiyoomi gives his ass a pat. “Your brother did have a point when he said you’re basically living here now,” he points out, gesturing towards the slippers and the mismatched mittens that once belonged in Atsumu’s kitchen, but were brought over because Atsumu’s much more of an avid baker than Kiyoomi ever was.

“Are ya trying to cheer me up by askin’ me to move in with ya?” Atsumu asks, disbelief and hope mingling weirdly in his voice.

“No,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu feels his heart sink. “I’m not asking to cheer you up, that is. It’s a real question - if that’s something you’d like. You don’t have to say yes if you’re not comfortable-”

Atsumu pushes down the hilt of the knife Kiyoomi is holding as he rummages through the cupboard for onions, cups his jaw and kisses him. Kiyoomi makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat, but loosens the grip on the knife to slide an arm around Atsumu’s waist and press him closer.

“I don’t remember the last time I slept in my own bed, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says when they break apart, foreheads still touching. “I’m literally wearin’ yer shirt right now. Which reminds me we really need to go shopping, I can’t stand yer highlighter clothes, they make me look like a lemon -”

“It’s because of the hair,” Kiyoomi quips. He’s smirking, obnoxiously proud at the gasp that rips out of Atsumu, and kisses him before he gets to protest about how Kiyoomi’s lucky Atsumu loves him despite his terrible, awful , completely non-existent sense of style. Kiyoomi’s teeth are dragging across his lower lip when Atsumu realizes that was the first time he let love slip out, after having guarded it so valiantly even in his thoughts, and that it was easy .

He lets out a pleased sigh (which might also have something to do with the way Kiyoomi’s licking into his mouth), and pulls away briefly to say, “I really want to move in with you.”

Kiyoomi smiles and brings him back in, and it feels a lot like I love you too.

***

The Black Jackals have movie nights twice a month (they call it team bonding, but it’s really just an excuse to trash on each other’s favourite movies), usually in Atsumu’s apartment because a) he has a big living room and b) he doesn’t mind the mess. Seeing as, as of last week, his apartment is now Kiyoomi’s apartment and the team is still very much blissfully oblivious to this arrangement, everyone is shocked (to say the least) when Kiyoomi announces, “Would you like to watch the movie at my place?”

Hinata’s mouth hangs open for only a split second before he breaks into a beam and joins Bokuto’s hoot-hooting. Meian, a bit more courteous, asks, “Are you sure you’re fine with the mess, Sakusa-kun?”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose but nods anyway. He shoots a glare Atsumu’s way, as if to say, This is all your fault, and Atsumu puts on his angelic, but-I’m-still-cute face, and shakes his hips a little as he walks back into serving position.

No one seems particularly surprised to find Atsumu there before them. Part of hosting the movie night is that it’s as subtle as “we’re dating” announcements can get, and it still leaves them with a chance at settling the bet, so Atsumu just exchanges a look with Kiyoomi and they both shrug when no one brings it up at the sight of Atsumu wearing a yellow hoodie that they’ve all seen Kiyoomi wear before, or at the fact that he wears slippers with his name on them, matching Kiyoomi’s.

Because Kiyoomi cares for his couch’s well-being, there’s a blanket spread out over it, which Bokuto, Hinata and Inunaki immediately claim for how puffy it is. “Your apartment is really… normal,” Adriah notes, sitting down in one of the armchairs.

“Did you expect a dark lair?” Hinata asks, eyes wide and sparkly.

“Well, we still haven’t seen his room,” Inunaki hums, earning a glare from Kiyoomi.

“Please limit the damage to the living room,” he grinds out, placing a bowl of homemade nacho on the table. Atsumu follows behind with the popcorn, and pats Kiyoomi’s arm encouragingly. “We’ll have to vacuum after this.”

“I bought new dust bags when I went out for the snacks,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi looks so relieved that he could kiss him right there. “Don’t ruin our bet now,” Atsumu chuckles, nudging him towards the only spots left on the pillows strewn over the carpet.

It’s Hinata’s turn to choose the movie, and because the only movies Hinata watches are the ones his younger sister or his brazilian friend recommend to him, they end up with a Ghibli movie. My Neighbour Totoro is a cozy watch that Atsumu’s mother used to put on to lull him and Osamu to sleep, and Atsumu never actually got to see how it ends, because he usually had his head in his mother’s lap, snoring softly long before the credits rolled.

Even as an adult, Atsumu doesn’t seem completely immune to the power Totoro holds, because he finds himself fighting sleep by shoving more food in his mouth. While he’s driven by the need to know how this movie ends after having seen the first half at least ten times as a kid, and also by the need to shove it in Osamu’s face that he knows how Totoro ends, Kiyoomi has no such qualms.

It’s been a long day, and Kiyoomi has been stressing over being a good host most of it. It was really endearing, seeing him come to the realization that he never, ever, actually hosted a get-together in the middle of the night on a late Thursday, and then spending the time after practice the next day cleaning the entire place and making a list of what everyone liked to drink and eat.

So when a weight falls against his shoulder, Atsumu isn’t all that shocked to see Kiyoomi has dozed off with a little smile on his face. He just looks content , with his friends having already gone through most of the snacks and reminiscing about their childhood in shushed voices, and Atsumu feels so full. He shifts a little so Kiyoomi won’t have a crick in his neck when he wakes up and makes a mental note to rewatch the movie with both him and Osamu. And Suna, after they finish their Friends watch and Suna accepts that he has shit taste and Monica and Chandler are the superior couple.

The team starts talking louder as the credits roll, but Kiyoomi doesn’t even stir. They usually don’t turn on the lights right after the movie is over, letting the credits roll as they share their musings. In the dark, everything is quieter, and the soft voices talking about how nostalgic Ghibli movies are and about how Hinata should be banned from choosing the movie because it’s never a trashy romcom they can poke fun at lull Kiyoomi back to sleep.

Atsumu pats the inside of his knee, where he’s ticklish but tries to pretend he isn’t. Kiyoomi mutters in protest and rubs his forehead against Atsumu’s hoodie. Atsumu bites down on a chuckle.

“How about you, Omi-san?” Hinata says, and even with the lights out, Atsumu can read the excitement. He’s probably sitting at the edge of the seat, eyes lit up with that sparkle that Hinata gets when other people enjoy themselves. “Did you like it?”

“I think he really did,” Atsumu says, “considerin’ he’s out like a light.”

“Eh?” Bokuto says, flipping the light switch on the tall lamp next to the couch. “Wah, Omi-Omi really did fall asleep!”

“Was it boring?” Hinata pouts. “Maybe we should watch an action movie next time.” Next to him, Inunaki pumps his fist, probably running through the entire Marvel catalogue in his mind.

Atsumu waves Hinata’s worries away, “The movie’s really good, but Omi-kun’s been stressing about hostin’ this whole thing. I think he was just relieved it all went well.” He decides to leave out the part where this movie was what him and Osamu continued to watch in high school when they couldn’t fall asleep, and yet still never reached the ending, because Hinata lights up like a Christmas tree.

“We should help with the cleaning!” Hinata beams, already hopping off the couch and picking up the empty bowls. He looks around a little disoriented, so Atsumu points him towards the kitchen and wonders how the hell none of them mentioned Kiyoomi sleeping on his shoulder or Atsumu living here.

The light, the now louder shuffling and the poking at increasing frequency finally wake Kiyoomi up, and he blinks at Atsumu blearly, squeezing his hand on reflex. “The movie’s over,” Atsumu hums. “Bokkun and Shouyo are cleaning up.” Kiyoomi scrunches his nose, and Atsumu chuckles. “I’ll go make sure they put the bowls where they belong, and then wipe down the tap and the counter. You go say good-bye to the rest of the team, and then we can vacuum. Okay?”

Kiyoomi nods, and very seriously, in the way only sleepy people can be, whispers, “I love you.”

The words hang in the air. Atsumu’s throat is dry, and he really wants to shout, because he’s been brewing the same words over and over for weeks now, trying to squeeze as much as he can out of them, to seep them into the magnitude of their meaning, to make sure he’s not half-assing anything, and now Kiyoomi whispers them half-asleep like it’s that easy. Like Atsumu already knew. (He did. Kiyoomi is loud with his hands and with his eyes, and Atsumu learnt how to listen long ago.)

There’s a loud thump coming from the kitchen, and it startles both of them. Suddenly fully awake, Kiyoomi throws a worried glance towards the source of muffled curses, and Atsumu pushes himself up. “I’m gonna check, but we’re revisitin’ this later.” He waits for Kiyoomi to nod before rushing into the kitchen.

Nothing’s broken, is the first thing Atsumu registers. Bokuto hit his elbow onto the handle of the drawer, is the second thing he notices, and lets out a puff of laughter. Bokuto gives him a look of betrayal, and Atsumu just shrugs. “Do you need some ice?”

“Maybe,” Bokuto gives in, gracefully accepting the pack that Atsumu digs out of the fridge. They’re always stacked on it, what with Kiyoomi’s freakish wrists and Suna’s weird flexibility and Osamu’s love for ice in literally everything he drinks. Atsumu’s name is on the lease and yet he barely uses the ice compartiment. Go figure.

Atsumu picks up one of the kitchen towels and dries the bowls in practiced, circular moves, placing them back in their designated cupboard and reaching for the sponge to wipe down the counter. It’s habit by now, and it’s only once he’s wiped down the tap that he realizes Hinata and Bokuto are giving him… pitying looks.

“What?”

“Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto says gently. “Maybe you should, you know, tell Omi-Omi.”

“ What? ”, Atsumu repeats.

“I don’t think Omi-san would say no if you asked him on a date,” Hinata supplies, just as gently.

It’s so ridiculous that Atsumu doesn’t know what to do but cover his laugh. Kiyoomi, with his impeccable timing, chooses that exact moment to walk in, preventing the other two from reaching some other far-fetched conclusions like Atsumu crying or some convoluted thing that would explain everything but the obvious.

“We’ll. We’ll go first,” Hinata says, bless him, eyes darting between Atsumu and Kiyoomi and mouthing something that looks suspiciously like Tell him. Well, Hinata’s not entirely wrong - Atsumu does have things to tell Kiyoomi, but he also has a living room to vacuum first, and buying time has always been his specialty, on and off the court.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi starts after the carpet has been vacuumed twice, and Atsumu’s going for his title as maniac cleaner by plugging in the vacuum for a third time.

Atsumu looks up, remembers how easily Kiyoomi said it, and lets out, “It’s just unfair.” Kiyoomi tilts his head. “It’s just,” Atsumu tries again, finally putting the vacuum down. “I’ve been trying to find the right moment to say it, and then you just muttered it half-asleep.”

“Why, did you have something planned?” Kiyoomi asks, with a smirk that makes Atsumu flush. So maybe he did plan on cooking dinner and doing the whole candle gimmick, but it felt like this is the sort of occasion that calls for it.

Kiyoomi crosses the distance between them to fold his arms around Atsumu and bring him into a hug, and Atsumu doesn’t resist. Kiyoomi always smells good, always feels like home . Admitting it doesn’t scare Atsumu as much these days. “I love you too,” Atsumu mutters into his shoulder.

“I know,” Kiyoomi says, and he doesn’t even sound smug about it, just fond. Atsumu buries his face deeper into his shoulder, and thinks that he wants this every day, feels as certain of them as he is of volleyball.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says later that night, with his arms looped around Atsumu and pressing to the strip of skin peeking from between his briefs and his shirt. Atsumu hums, turning his head slightly to see the way the light filtering through the curtains touches Kiyoomi’s face. “Did your planned confession include Taylor Swift songs?”

Atsumu loves him so much. “There might’ve been You Are In Love somewhere in there.”

“Huh,” Kiyoomi hums, and then, “I always thought we were more like gold rush. ”

Atsumu flips around so quickly the mattress creaks, but Kiyoomi’s braced for the impact, cupping Atsumu’s jaw carefully and melting into him. Atsumu’s going to marry this man, and it doesn’t sound scary at all.

***

Atsumu settles, and the Black Jackals still have no clue.

Kiyoomi falls asleep on his shoulder on the way back from a practice game, hand fisting around the lapels of Atsumu’s jacket like he’s steadying himself, and Inunaki takes a picture before telling Atsumu, “You should probably get laid before you develop a hand kink.” Atsumu doesn’t tell him that between the two of them, Kiyoomi’s the one who has a thing for hands.

They always room together. The team knows they always room together. Kiyoomi walks down to breakfast behind Atsumu in a loose collared shirt, a hickey visible just above his collarbones, and Bokuto texts Atsumu that he’s gonna buy him free drinks after the game to drink away the heartbreak. It’s ridiculous, but Atsumu’s never said no to free drinks.

It gets to the point where Atsumu’s sure he could smack a kiss on Kiyoomi’s face in front of everyone and they’d think that’s their new way of fighting. He bitches about it to Osamu, who, as always, has no sympathy for him.

“Has it occurred to yer tiny brain that maybe they don’t realize shit cause you and Sakusa-kun are actin’ the same as always?”

“We are?” Atsumu asks, picking his head off the table. “But we’re livin’ together now and everythin’.” Osamu shrugs. “If this keeps up the team’ll find out we’ve been datin’ when we send the wedding invitations.”

“I’ll disown yer ass if ya get married before me,” Osamu threatens, poking the tail of a ladle in Atsumu’s cheek. “I’m pretty sure Rin’ll ask after they beat yer butts in the next game, so sit yer ass and wait.”

“I’ve been waitin’ for my best friend to also become my favourite brother for years,” Atsumu sighs, and Osamu pokes him harder. “That is, if he can win against us,” he smirks.

Osamu returns his smirk and slaps the back of his hand when Atsumu sneakily reaches for another onigiri.

They don’t win the next game against EJP Raijin. The Jackals are in tip top shape, but so are their opponents - Motoya gets a touch on what would otherwise be service aces, and when Suna picks up one of Bokuto’s razor sharp straights, Atsumu feels his blood sing. This, this, this, he never wants to give this up.

The score is so tight that they get pushed into a deuce in the second set, and lose to a feint from an overly smug Suna. If they have to admit defeat, though, Atsumu supposes this isn’t the worst way, not when the smirk Suna’s wearing turns into a more genuine smile when he spots Osamu in the stands and pulls him apart after the game.

Post-game exhaustion kicks in all at once, which means apart from his throbbing muscles, Atsumu also has to carry half the weight of a flopped over Kiyoomi. “Do we really have to go for drinks?” he mumbles, but lets himself be dragged behind the rest of the team anyway.

“Do ya really wanna face Samu’s wrath for not being at his engagement party,” Atsumu says, and it’s not a question because they both know the answer.

The bar Osamu chose is nice. For one, it’s a small, cozy thing, and it’s rented out for the Raijins tonight - a victory celebration that dubs nicely as an engagement party, Atsumu will admit, even if he doesn’t get the logistics of Osamu planning his own party. “Shouldn’t it be a surprise?” Atsumu had asked Suna when the Jackals got the invite.

“We’re talking about Samu here. I can never hide anything from him, and he would’ve gutted me if I ordered food from the competition.”

Atsumu shrugs, because that’s true - Osamu knows when Atsumu gives in, about once every two months, and goes for a good old McDonalds burger, and he hunts his ass down and lectures him about nutritional values and knowing where your food comes from, all while filling his fridge with onigiri. Being cared for is nice every now and again, so Atsumu lets himself be fussed over, and as he looks at Suna with an arm around Osamu’s waist, whispering something in his ear that makes them both laugh, he thinks his brother is taken care of, too.

“Congrats,” Atsumu says when Osamu drops into the chair next to him, stealing his sake cup and downing it in one go. The atmosphere is too good to fight him for it, and Kiyoomi is slouching warmly into his back, so Atsumu doesn’t really want to move.

“Thanks. Damn,” he whistles as he looks around, a smile spreading onto his face slowly. “I’m really happy.” 

Atsumu punches his shoulder lightly, and Osamu lets out a chuckle. He peers around Atsumu, and earns a drown out, “Congratulations, Osamu-san,” from Kiyoomi.

“Thank you, Sakusa-kun. Ya should talk this scrub into coming to Hyogo when ya have some time,” he says, pointing at Atsumu with a telling glare. “Ma’s been waitin’ for both of ya, says she even made umeboshi for yer Omi-kun. ”

Kiyoomi perks up at the mention of umeboshi. “We get a week off at the end of the month.”

Osamu grins, patting Atsumu’s shoulder as he gets back up for more rounds of talking to people and making sure everyone’s enjoying the food. “Then it’s settled. End of the month, both of ya, Hyogo. And call Ma more often, ya slob,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Myaa-sam, congratulations,” someone says from behind them, and Atsumu turns at the familiar voice.

“Thanks, Akaashi-san,” Osamu smiles back, going on to say, “There’s onigiri over there-” when Bokuto loudly interjects.

“KEIJI!” In a flurry of motion, a Bokuto-shaped weight attaches itself to Akaashi. “How was work? Are you done editing that chapter? Did you get anything to eat today?”

“It was alright, we made the deadline. Yes. I had the leftovers from dinner.” Akaashi slips a hand around Bokuto in a half-hug, a small smile playing around his lips. “I heard there was onigiri?”

Bokuto lets out a hearty laugh, and Atsumu finds himself smiling, too. His wedding ring is catching the light, now taken off the necklace he tucks it on during the games, but for as larger-than-life as Bokuto is, a literal beam that both supports the team and gets the audience fired up, Bokuto’s happiness is quiet, woven into the gentle way in which he holds Akaashi’s hand, and how he pulls out his chair first, massaging his shoulders idly as Akaashi digs into the onigiri. It’s something he’ll have after volleyball, too.

With half of Kiyoomi’s weight slumped into his side, Atsumu thinks he finally understands.

Akaashi is sat in front of them, tucking into onigiri like there’s no tomorrow - or maybe like he just made a deadline and he finally feels alive again, as Kiyoomi explained the university experience to him -, eyes darting between Atsumu and Kiyoomi like he’s assessing the situation. Kiyoomi feels it too, and straightens up, glaring at Atsumu from the corner of his eyes.

“Are congratulations in order for you, too?” Akaashi asks politely, and Atsumu tries not to perk up too obviously. Beneath the table, Kiyoomi’s knee digs into his thigh sharply.

“Congratulations? Why?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi taps his fingers on the table twice, as if trying to decide. His eyes stop on their hands and how they touch in as many places as possible (the wrists, the tips of their pinkies, the joints) without quite being laced together, and he nods to himself.

Cupping a hand over his mouth, Akaashi whispers something in Bokuto’s ear. The subtlety is completely useless when Bokuto’s hands slam into the table and he very loudly asks, “You’re dating ?”

The chatter at the table dies down, and Atsumu feels several pairs of eyes on them, his smile only growing wider the more the attention shifts to Kiyoomi letting his head fall to the table, defeated. (Atsumu manages to sneak a hand under his forehead right before Kiyoomi’s head hits the wood, and the impact leaves his hand sore.)

“What’s that?” Inunaki calls from next to Bokuto, and Kiyoomi throws him a glare without straightening up.

“Now you ask,” he hisses.

“Now, Omi-Omi, don’t take it out on the team,” Atsumu sing-songs, rubbing Kiyoomi’s neck mollifyingly. “But I do think that means I won our bet,” he grins, and Kiyoomi swats his hand away.

“I’m not doing it,” Kiyoomi declares straightening up to his whole four-centimeters-taller-than-Atsumu height, because he’s the sort of manipulative bastard that will conviniently remember he’s taller and cross his arms like a movie villain when trying to make a point, but will basically shrink into a little spoon when cuddling. (They developed a “taking turns” system, and Kiyoomi made a schedule for it, because of course he did.)

“Ya can’t go back on the bet, Omi-kun.”

“What bet?” Meian asks, rubbing at his temples like he already regrets asking.

“We bet on who’d figure out we’re dating first,” Kiyoomi sighs, and points the look of betrayal™ at Inunaki.

“So you are dating?” Hinata asks, looking caught between confused and delighted. Osamu barks out a laugh in the background, and Atsumu would flip him off if he weren’t in the innocent presence of Hinata and the elegant aura Akaashi radiated.

“Is it really that hard ta believe?” he cries.

“I mean,” Inunaki sounds like he’s defending himself. “You weren’t acting any different?”

“Told ya,” Osamu calls from the end of the table. Atsumu really does flip him off this time.

“We live together!” Atsumu protests. “Ya visited our place! Why’d ya think Omi-kun would suddenly want to host movie nights?!” If Atsumu entertained the idea of this being a conspiracy for half a second there, that definitely flew out the window with the blank stares he’s getting now.

“Seriously?” Kiyoomi asks too, rebellion over the bet forgotten to marvel at their teammates. “He was wearing slippers that said Miya Atsumu. He wears my clothes to practice half the time.”

“They’re just plain shirts!” Inunaki protests. Atsumu has a feeling he’s taking this as a personal offense to his role as the official detective (read: gossip central) of the team.

“Exactly,” Kiyoomi deadpans. “Atsumu doesn’t even wear plain pajamas.”

“Ya stole my Ryan pajamas!” Atsumu points out. “And ya have no right to complain ‘bout my clothes when ya used to dress like a highlighter! I had to reinvent yer style, ya should thank me.”

“Ah, that explains the sudden change,” Meian says, like he’s connected the dots. Atsumu throws a thumbs-up and gives his captain a nod - he can forgive the obliviousness of a man with taste.

“Don’t forget I saved your hair, Miya,” Kiyoomi smirks.

“Hair and clothes aside, you never did anything… couple-y,” Inunaki insists, thumbing through his phone in search of incriminating evidence.

Kiyoomi shrugs. “PDA is what the media sells as the standard love language, but some people show it differently.” Akaashi nods along, and Atsumu has the feeling that if he left them to it, they’d write an essay.

“But Tsum-Tsum usually tells us about his dates,” Bokuto says, sounding almost betrayed. “Did you not trust us after all? But I thought we were best friends, Tsumu!”

Atsumu reaches out a hand to pat Bokuto’s arm. “That’s not it, Bokkun. It was just really new, and we wanted to figure it out between us first. And then the bet happened - but we never meant to hide it from ya or the team.”

“So when did you actually get together?” Barnes asks, ever the reasonable voice.

“Bokuto and Akaashi-san’s wedding,” Kiyoomi says, and immediately winces at the chorus of exclamation. At the table next to theirs, Atsumu catches Suna filming everything and Motoya almost choking on an onigiri as he tries not to bust a lung laughing. He flips Suna and his camera off (for posteority), and Osamu sticks his tongue out at him.

“So Keiji and I brought you together?” Bokuto asks, both hands now clasping Atsumu’s. His mood did an 180 so fast that Atsumu’s getting whiplash, so he just nods numbly.

“Five months?!” Inunaki wails. “How could I not see it?!”

“I wonder the same thing,” Kiyoomi mumbles.

Inunaki looks like he’s questioning his entire existence, so Atsumu decides to say, “If it puts ya outta yer misery, Omi-kun bet ya’d be the first one to figure it out.”

“And who did you bet on, Atsumu-san?”

“Bokkun.”

“TSUM-TSUM!” Bokuto yells, leaning over the table to squish Atsumu in a hug. “You do love me after all!”

“What did you bet on, Omi-san?” Hinata asks as Atsumu gets smothered into the world’s biggest hug.

Kiyoomi lets Atsumu slump into him once he’s released. “If I won, Atsumu had to start donating some of his belongings.” Atsumu tips his head back to glare at him, the same way he did when this was first suggested. “You hop from hobby to hobby. We have a boxing bag, crocheting needles, golf clubs and beads catching dust in the basement.”

“Ya said nothin’ ‘bout the puzzles.”

“I liked the puzzle phase,” Kiyoomi shrugs with one shoulder.

“That’s disgustingly domestic,” Inunaki drones. “And now that Atsumu won?”

Atsumu beams . Kiyoomi clears his throat and mutters something that not even Atsumu hears. “Ya’ll have to be louder, Omi-kun.”

“I said ,” he seethes, “I have to call Atsumu petnames for a week.”

Everyone stares at Atsumu like he grew a second head. “What?!” he protests. “I’m hopin’ it’ll catch on.”

“It really won’t, babe ,” Kiyoomi deadpans, and if Atsumu weren’t already leaning against him, he’d topple off his chair.

“This isn’t happening. This can’t be real,” Inunaki says, scrambling for his phone, ready to press record as soon as Kiyoomi opens his mouth again. On the opposite side of the table, Suna has probably already posted the video and is gaining new followers by the second. Atsumu should get paid for the amount of content of his face Suna posts - he’s a blessing for his best friends’ Instagram and Twitter, and should be acknowledged as such.

“Well,” Meian claps his hands, “we’re really happy for you too. Please don’t let the petnames get in the way of practice.”

“Never, captain, we’re professionals, aren’t we, Omi-Omi?”

“Of course, pumpkin .”

It’s terrible. Atsumu snorts ungracefully. The bar erupts into laughter. Kiyoomi pours himself another cup of sake with all the enthusiasm of a man going to war, and downs it in one shot. Atsumu loves it.

***

The pet names don’t catch on, but Atsumu’s the only one who’ll ever hear Kiyoomi mutter his name sleepily, eating some vowels here and there as he burrows his face in Atsumu’s chest and lazily kisses his collarbones, and he’s fine with that.