Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hello, ex-husband,” Atsumu drawls as he saunters into the genkan. A stack of paper is firmly clutched in his hands, and he waves it around in the air. He grins. “The papers are finalized.”

Kiyoomi shuts the door behind him with a kick of his foot. “Oh thank god,” he groans, “that took forever.”

“I mean, it was only … What, five months? I’ve heard way worse.”

Atsumu toes off his shoes and Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose at how he throws them into a corner, not bothering to set them down neatly – but he chooses not to comment. “So they still send my mail to your address? You’d think a divorce attorney, of all things, would know to take care of that.”

“Eh,” Atsumu lets out and drops down on his usual chair. The stack of paper lands on the table with a resounding, satisfying whack. “Whatever, I’m right across the hall anyways. And it’s not like we … hate each other or anything.”

“I guess not.”

Kiyoomi stares down at the pile of paper on the table and pulls back a chair of his own, settling down on it carefully.

“It’s, uh, it’s only a copy?” Atsumu says, clearing his throat. “All the records and the stuff are online, and we signed the whole thing two weeks ago anyway, this is just the physical version? If ya wanna, uh, have it. So.” He makes an unsure, sharp motion towards the pile of paper, shoves it. It scatters across the wood, sheets slipping over each other and one falling to the floor. They both watch it saunter down. Neither of them bends to pick it up.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“So.”

“So.”

The silence permeates the air between them.

“This is it, huh?” The usual slyness is gone from Atsumu’s voice, replaced by something almost – wistful?

Kiyoomi knows that it isn’t their marriage that has him reminiscing. He frowns down at his fingers that he’s clamped together in his lap. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. Divorced.”

Atsumu lets out a quiet little laugh. “Can’t really believe we were ever married, to be honest.”

Kiyoomi pushes his chair back, stands up. “I have champagne. I bought champagne? We should celebrate. Probably. Glad this whole ordeal is over. I am.”

“I– yeah. We should.”

Kiyoomi rips open the fridge door, finds the bottleneck wrapped in gold foil and pulls. Cold condensation glides at his fingertips and he pretends to busy himself with the bottle opener so he doesn’t have to face Atsumu for another little while.

Their divorce has been mutual, and in all respects without complications. He’d finished with it all for a long time. It just hadn’t worked, had it? And both of them had seen that.

This is just a confirmation of something he’s known for months now. Those papers on the table, with Atsumu staring down at them wistfully, they’re just–

“Fuck!”

He sucks at his thumb where a tiny red dot sits. Why the fuck did he try to open the champagne with a bottle opener? He throws it onto the table; it lands on wood with a clank.

“What’s wrong?”

“Slipped. Cut myself.” He sets the bottle down on the table too harshly, wishes it broke so he could busy himself with mopping up the spill. “You open it.”

He flees to the bathroom.

He stands hunched over the sink for a moment, trying to control his ragged breathing. He liked to think of himself as calm and collected during the divorce. Maybe not without spite or anger, surely not that, but calm. Collected.

His eyes meet their reflection in the mirror, turbulent and dark. He smooths down a black curl, and it catches on a streak of red.

It’s a tiny cut on the pad of his index finger, barely deserving of the name, just a scrape that has squeezed out three measly drops of blood.

He stares down at it.

“Ya hate blood.”

He almost jumps. “Jesus fuckin’–“ He cuts himself off and fully turns to Atsumu in the doorway. He scowls, looking at him with drawn brows. “Don’t do that shit.”

“Scare ya?”

“No, just don’t be – fucking–” Kiyoomi throws his hands into the air and waves them around before he realizes that he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. He drops them backes to his sides and balls them into fists. Takes a deep breath. “Just don’t,” he grits out.

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Chill.” The line around his mouth hardens. “I’m just checkin’ that ye’re not bleedin’ out back here, I still need ya ta sign one last thing. It’s some bullshit form, I think for privacy reasons?”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look at Atsumu as he turns to tear off a strip of toilet paper, wipes the smeared red streak off cleanly and throws the crumpled piece into the toilet. He watches it spiral down the drain; the sound of the flush is weirdly comforting.

“Wouldn’t have taken you for one to waste water.”

God, that fucking lilt of voice is too familiar to be comfortable.

Kiyoomi turns on the faucet more violently than usual. The water is too hot, but he doesn’t jerk away from it, just takes the bar of soap into his hands and starts sliding it between his fingers. “Shut up, Mr. I-pee-in-the-shower.”

Atsumu pushes himself up from the doorway as his mouth falls open. “I still don’t see what the problem with that is!”

The soap bubbles around Kiyoomi’s fingers as he rubs his hands together, the white suds making his skin slippery and soft. His breath evens as he looks down at them.

He scrubs around his ring finger, the blankness of it. A pale strip sits where a ring used to be; he’s surprised – he wouldn’t have thought that it was on for long enough to leave a mark. Not a physical one, anyways.

Kiyoomi notices that he still hasn’t responded when Atsumu scoffs. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought, don’t got any arguments to back ya up, huh? One, it reduces splashback,” he raises a finger, “two, I read somewhere that it’s actually more hygienic, ‘sides, ya always made me wipe down the shower after I used it anyways. Three, water waste! Got mad when I didn’t buy bio produce, but in this case, yer ecologic ass is allowed ta pollute the planet, huh?”

Kiyoomi roughly towels his hands dry.

“Shut up, Miya, this is why I’m divorcing you,” he grits out and shoves himself past him out the door, his forearm brushing Atsumu’s chest as he does.

He wants to scratch off the tingling sensation that crawls up his skin at the contact, but the only thing he can do is walk faster.

Atsumu laughs brightly as he follows. “Divorcing? You can use the past tense, baby, ‘s all done now, we’re free!” He saunters after him in the living room and points to the table. “I poured us some champagne.”

Kiyoomi pulls a face. “After a conversation about shower pee?” 

“Great, Sakusa, now ya made it weird.” He snatches one of the flutes and offers the other to Kiyoomi. He takes it a bit too harshly, careful not to touch Atsumu’s fingers as he does. The liquid sloshes around it freely, a tiny bit spilling over the rim onto his fingers.

“To the end of love and joy!” Atsumu calls out, widely grinning. “To glorious and blissful freedom, to our beautiful divo–“

Kiyoomi drains his glass.

Atsumu stares at him.

Kiyoomi hiccups and goes for the bottle to pour himself another one. “I know,” he starts as he tips it back, “I know how this looks. I get it. I’m snappish, I’m shaken, and I seem like I regret the divorce and want you back, which is not true,” he snaps. He pulls a face. “Not true.”

The champagne bubbles and fizzles, and it kind of hurts his throat as it goes down. He squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s just all a lot.”

His voice echoes loudly in the room; he still hasn’t gotten himself curtains since he moved in. The realization only manages to sour his mood further. “It’s all a lot,” he says, “and the marriage was a lot, and everything before that and everything after that too.” He stares at where the fading evening throws a golden hue onto the white wall next to the window and takes a deep breath.

“No, I get it,” Atsumu says, quietly. Too quietly, because Atsumu is not a quiet person. He looks down at his own glass, takes a sip, and immediately puckers his mouth. “I think I’m just repressin’ the hell out of it at the moment? But two hours from now, I’ll probably be callin’ Samu cryin’. It’s really over, huh?”

“It sure is.”

They both drop down on their respective chairs, suddenly boneless.

Kiyoomi pours himself another glass. “It’s weird,” he utters, “because the worst part of it is already over, isn’t it? All that’s left to do is just … signing a meaningless scrap of paper that doesn’t even have anything to do with what went down. And yet, it feels … it feels so absolute.” He stares down at the documents, the proof of what they’ve done. The tiny black print blurs together in front of his eyes.

A pen rests on the table, a blue thing with a silver handle, and when Atsumu nudges it with a fingertip, it rolls quietly across the surface until it’s stopped by Kiyoomi’s knuckle.

He sighs and takes it in his hand. “Where do I need to sign?”

“Ah, lemme see.” Atsumu rummages around the papers on the table. “Yeah, yada yada privacy, forward information, respect of clients, there we go.” He holds up the form and snorts. “Prolly so none of them lawyers can tell anyone ‘bout that one time ya called me a vain, immature brat with commitment issues.”

Kiyoomi raises his eyebrows as he plucks the piece of paper out of Atsumu’s hands. “Probably so no one tells anyone about how you once called me a spiteful, sad hag,” he evenly replies. He digs the tip of the ballpoint pen into the palm of his hand and presses his lips into a thin line as he slams the paper down on the table with his flat hand. “With ugly fashion sense.”

Atsumu’s head snaps up as his mouth falls open. “What about that time ya threw my sneakers out the window?”

“They were stinking up the room when I’d repeatedly told you to set them out on the balcony, and when I’d just bought new vanilla scented candles!”

“Yeah, on yer two-day shopping trip with Toya durin’ which ya ignored me, by the way, didn’t even text or noth–“

“Because you told me, and I quote, to get over myself and leave you the fuck in peace for a fucking second!”

Atsumu snaps his mouth shut, nostrils flaring. A muscle works at his jaw. “Ya know what, we ain’t gettin’ into this today,” he grits out. “Shut the fuck up and sign the damn papers.”

Kiyoomi does so blindly, an angry, indecipherable scrawl on a dotted line, and when he drops the pen back onto the table, he pushes himself up. The chair scrapes over the floor with an ugly screech. “Shut up?”

He  tries to find purchase on the table at the sudden dizziness that is taking up his mind, but doesn’t find a hold; his hands slip on the papers. They get swept to the side, tumbling over the edge of the table and sauntering to the floor in his periphery – but the only thing he can focus on is the simmering anger brimming up at him from Atsumu’s eyes. “So we’ll just … not talk? That worked out great last time, didn’t it?”

“The difference is,” Atsumu hisses as he jumps up as well, “that this time, there ain’t anythin’ that needs to work out.”

“Aaand we’re fighting again.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Fucking amazing.”

“I don’t know what ya expect me to do!” Atsumu throws his hands in the air. “Here I am, bringin’ the papers and tryin’ ta be nice cause this is an important day for me too, maybe, and maybe I still care about ya as a person and maybe this marriage meant somethin’ to me, how ‘bout fucking that, and you just … you … you … I don’t even know what ye’re doin’, ye’re pickin’ a fight and pretendin’ like ya didn’t!” Atsumu strides forward, not even knowing why, just wanting to get into his face, to elicit something from him. He balls his hands into fists lest he punch something. Or someone. “That’s what ye’re always doing, Sakusa, ya– argh! Fuck!”

Kiyoomi’s face twists into something ugly. When he steps into his space, Atsumu can feel furious heat emanating off his body. “Oh me, it’s suddenly me picking the fights?” He sneers down at Atsumu, and Atsumu ignores the wave of recognition that washes over him as he smells Kiyoomi’s aftershave again after all this time. “Have you forgotten how it was always you who came at me with some stupid fucking comment that was as unnecessary as bothersome, just trying to rile me up, waiting for me to snap!” He pulls his lips into a vicious scowl. “You didn’t ever want to respect my time or space, you just came and took, took, took. Never giving, always demanding, always taking.”

“Ya know what I’m givin’ ya right now?” Atsumu grits out. “I’m givin’ ya the fuckin’ middle finger,” he spits, and he does, the thick finger standing up right in Kiyoomi’s face, trembling before he pulls it back, “cause ye’re an asshole and ye’re makin’ us fight again and I’ll leave now, fuck you!”

Before he can, Kiyoomi darts forward, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back towards him. Atsumu’s shoulder slams into his chest painfully but Kiyoomi doesn’t care, he clamps his hand down around his wrist and keeps him in place right up against himself. Their erratic breaths collide. His furious eyes bore into Atsumu’s. “Don’t you dare leave right now, because I know you’ll make yourself the victim when you knew exactly what you were doing when you started making these off-handed comments and your judgy remarks and–”

Atsumu rips his hand out of his. “It was a joke!”

“But you always have to trudge up the past, I can’t bear it!” Kiyoomi lands a hand on Atsumu’s chest to shove him away, but the other man doesn’t relent, with a huff he presses even closer in spite, closer until their thighs are searing hot against each other, until Kiyoomi can feel the heaving of Atsumu’s chest to his own, his feeble hand squashed between them.

Atsumu lets out an angry grunt, grabbing at Kiyoomi’s arm, roughly flipping them both around. He shoves forward until Kiyoomi’s ass collides with the edge of the table. Their hips crash, bone to bone.

“What am I s’pposed ta do, ignore it like you have? I bet that ya haven’t cried once durin' the divorce,” Atsumu hisses through his labored breathing as he leans over Kiyoomi who is bent back, the edge cutting into his hip painfully, “cause ya take all yer feelings and cram them deep down where no one can see them and least of all you. Ya like doin’ that, don’t ya? If ya even have ‘em.” He laughs hollowly and cruelly. “Do ya even have feelings, Sakusa? Cause sometimes I wondered if ya did.”

Kiyoomi’s fingers are shaking, and he clamps them around the edge of the table until his knuckles hurt. He wants to butt his head into Atsumu’s chest to shove him off, but he seems to be frozen in place, caged in between Atsumu’s arms and the precipice behind him. He knows that if he yields, he’ll crash into the hard surface – so he doesn’t.

“Have you learned nothing from all this?” he spits. He makes a feeble move to get up, but Atsumu stays locked in place, pushing his hips only harder into Kiyoomi’s in indignation, a cruel curl to his mouth.

Kiyoomi pushes a thigh between Atsumu’s legs, but the other man just clamps his own down around it. Their faces are so close he can count the faint freckles dusting the bridge of Atsumu’s nose. He wants to scream.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you," Kiyoomi gets out, "it’s not a personal offense to you if things don’t go the way you want them to, it’s not a personal fucking offense if I’m not like you and don’t function like you.” His harsh breath collides hot with Atsumu’s collarbone. He bucks his hips up once more, burning with fight, his thigh rubbing up between Atsumu’s legs as he does. “You don’t have a right to flare up and fly into a rage each fucking time as if you’re entitled to everyone’s–“

His heart drops into his stomach.

His mouth falls open, but the only thing coming out of it is a choked wheeze.

“What?” Atsumu hisses, eyes blown wide open as he scowls down at Kiyoomi. “Why did’ya st–“

“What the fuck,” Kiyoomi grits out, “are you hard?”

Time stops.

Atsumu stares at him open-mouthed, shell-shocked, frozen in space as something flashes in his eyes, something so fast that Kiyoomi can barely catch it, anger morphing into confusion morphing into … realization.

They both look down at the same time.

There’s a bulge in Atsumu’s grey sweatpants, thin fabric stretching and straining over that noticeable swell right beneath the low-hanging waistband that Kiyoomi has seen and felt so many times before. Atsumu … Atsumu is …

“And what if I am?”

Atsumu’s voice is dangerously quiet. His gaze is firmly pinned on Kiyoomi, eyes drilling into his, demanding his undivided attention. “What if I am hard, what would you do then?”

He rolls his hips, hard, agonizingly slow, a languid grind against the other man for the sole purpose of being an asshole, and Kiyoomi has to stop himself from moaning at the friction. “I’d call you a fucking clown is what I would do,” he finally croaks out when he remembers how to talk, but the venom is lost. Confusion and panic is clouding his senses as he inhales a shallow, shaky breath, heat starting up a pounding beat between his own legs. Suddenly, his own skin feels too tight. “What is even going on? Can you not talk to me for five minutes without popping a boner like a teenager?”

He shoves against Atsumu’s chest yet again, and this time, he staggers back. But the sudden freedom doesn’t bring relief; Kiyoomi’s painfully aware of the pulsing between his own legs.

“It’s yer fault!” Atsumu’s cheeks have gone a deep pink. “Ya’ve conditioned me, do ya know that? Cause whenever we started fightin’, we ended up fucking, remember? And my stupid body took that we were figthin’ and just ran with it and thought I was gonna have sex and now I have a boner and it’s yer fault!”

“Just  … just deal with this!” Kiyoomi yells. His gaze drops and he wants to pull it away but he can’t, it’s magnetically drawn to that fucking bulge in those fucking sweatpants that are way too fucking thin, and now Atsumu’s cock visibly twitches under the scrutiny, and Kiyoomi suddenly remembers how it was always so thick and heavy against his palm, a pronounced vein drawing up from the underside and balls hanging full, and Kiyoomi imagines dropping to his knees right here and yanking the waistband down, taking him in his mouth over his boxers and– he forcibly yanks his head to the side. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he grits out, chest heaving as a faint ringing starts in his ears. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why does he remember the taste now? The heavy musk of him, the bitterness of pre-cum against the back of his throat, how he used to bury his nose in trimmed pubes and inhale as Atsumu moaned and groaned and–

“Well give me a goddamn minute,” Atsumu hisses, “so it can go down.” 

He’s breathless too, his cheeks burning in embarrassment and something else. His hand twitches over his sweatpants, but instead of hiding his erection, he just jostles it, fabric sliding roughly against tight skin, and he grits his teeth together, a faint huff of air still escaping him. “It ain’t like I’m gonna do anythin’ about it, and you won’t either.”

“And what if I do?”

Somehow, the silence is more deafening than the screaming.

Atsumu’s eyes are blown wide, his mouth ajar in shock as he tries to form words but fails miserably. His entire body has gone rigid and tight like a live wire.

Kiyoomi raises his chin in defiance. “What if I do something about it?”

His voice is barely trembling.

Atsumu’s tone is low. “Yeah, what then?”

It feels like even the air is holding its breath.

Kiyoomi takes a step forward, detaching from the table, venturing into much more dangerous territory. “Then I would be doing something very stupid,” he carefully pronounces. “Something that I most definitely shouldn’t be doing.”

While Atsumu’s gaze drops, Kiyoomi keeps his own straight forward. He doesn’t need to look down at himself to know what he’ll see.

Atsumu glances up again.

Kiyoomi’s hair is disheveled, sticking to his forehead with damp sweat, a dark contrast to the manic flush on his cheeks. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, the corded muscles working, but Atsumu doesn’t notice anything except for the dark tunnel of his gaze.

“Well,” he rasps, “I ain’t never been smart.”

Kiyoomi takes another step forward. Atsumu does too, a puppet on a string, his body having no choice beyond being pulled closer to the one he’s orbiting.

“What about you?”

Kiyoomi bends down, dark curls falling into his forehead as his gaze errs over Atsumu’s face. “I'm not sure yet,” he murmurs.

When Atsumu inhales deeply, his chest almost brushes Kiyoomi’s, electricity crackling in the space between them. The other man’s breath stutters. And then, he – leans closer.

“When have we ever been sure about anything?”

Their breaths rise and fall against each other, the tide of emotion and life.

Atsumu trembles with the impact, forcing himself not to jerk away, not to slap him in the face – or do something worse. Press even closer.

He resorts to ridicule, the way he always has.

“You just can’t stay away, huh?” Atsumu whispers against Kiyoomi’s lips. “I’m too much fer yer self control? All those careful walls?”

When Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, he chuckles, the vibrations transferring to Kiyoomi’s own chest and settling deep.

“I can’t fault ya,” Atsumu lightly says, “afterall...” He licks his lips. “Who wouldn't want a piece of this ass?”

The tension is broken. Kiyoomi jerks back. 

“I was wrong actually, this is why I divorced you.”

“Oh?” Atsumu tilts his head, trying not to stagger with the sudden cold absence of Kiyoomi’s warmth. “So it wasn’t my habit of not wiping the bathroom after I shaved?”

“No, how you used to leave the dishes unrinsed so they dried with food on them.”

Atsumu chuckles dryly. “I thought it was … how did ya word it? Oh yeah, my commitment problems and emotional capabilities of a six year old.”

“I thought it was my inability to talk like a normal fucking person,” Kiyoomi immediately fires back. “And my tendency to be a hurtful cunt.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes. “How about my constant need for superiority, Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi snatches the champagne bottle off the table, drains the rest, two rivulets dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. He roughly wipes over his chin with the back of his hand, wetness smearing against it.

His voice drops. “Don’t fucking call me Sakusa if we’re doing this.”

Atsumu’s eyes glimmer in the half-shade. He curls his lip, leans closer until their breaths collide. “Kiyoomi,” he whispers.

He melts into the brutal familiarity of those lips on his.

Kiyoomi's lips are dry and a bit chafed, a rest of alcoholic sweetness tainting the taste, and Atsumu needs them with a ferocity that scares him.

A wet tongue touches his.

Both their knees buckle at the same time. They barely notice in their frantic demand for more, more, more – lips moving, legs tangling, hands grabbing at everything they can find as their bodies crash into each other.

They’re in free fall, the world whirling around them just like it does inside them. Kiyoomi grunts in pain when his tailbone hits the floorboards, but Atsumu muffles the noise with his own mouth, ignoring the ache of his own knees where they knock into hard wood. He slings a hand around Kiyoomi’s head before it can hit the floor, curling his body around Kiyoomi’s entirety as he pounces on him. Kiyoomi bucks his hips up, and Atsumu almost moans with the familiar thrill.

He buries his face in Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispers into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t you even think we’re doing this without a condom,” Kiyoomi gasps, “I know you want to, but I fuckin– nnngh.”

Atsumu has ground his palm down on his dick. Kiyoomi arches up into the kiss as he undoes his own belt with shaky fingers, wiggling humiliatingly on the floor as he tries to shuck his pants off; not caring in the slightest.

The waistband of his jeans cuts into his thighs painfully but Atsumu helps with that by yanking them off entirely. The air is suddenly cool on his bare legs and he shivers, more out of reflex than actual chill – his body is burning inside out.

He scrambles for purchase on the floor but only finds the flimsiness of scattered paper; he wants to laugh at the sheer irony of the situation, but any capacity for humor has been yanked out of his body, yanked off him as Atsumu tears down Kiyoomi's underwear and pulls out his cock.

His hand fits itself around his length like it always has, two long strokes of his tight fist sufficing to bring Kiyoomi to full hardness. And then, he – he’s off.

Kiyoomi jerks his head up, cheeks flaming with indignation. “What?” he snaps.

Atsumu is breathing heavily above him, pupils so big they’ve almost swallowed the thin golden ring around them. “God, you need to– fuck, ya need to go prepare yerself.”

Kiyoomi flushes a bright, deep pink. “No I don’t.”

Atsumu furrows his brows. “Yes you do.”

“No, I– I was …” He takes a deep breath. “Fucking fine, I was trying to get off when you called earlier, alright?”

Atsumu’s eyes grow wide. “Oh.” And like clockwork, a sly grin spreads on his face. His voice drops. “Were you waiting for me thinking about it? How good I used to fuck ya? Yer fingers aren’t enough, are they? They never were. How often were ya thinking ‘bout my cock?”

“I fucking hate you,” Kiyoomi whispers as he smashes their lips back together, but Atsumu pulls back, a thread of spit still connecting them.

“Did ya miss me?” he asks, relentless, fingers curling around his lean thigh, inching up higher and higher. “It’s funny cause I know ya haven’t touched anyone either, I know because ya can’t stand to open yerself up to new people.” His thumb rubs over the soft inside of his milky thigh, then the pale divot where it merges into his hip, the ghost of presence sending crawls of shivers up Kiyoomi’s spine. “I bet you didn’t even try, cause you knew you were gonna fail. Wanted to save yerself the embarrassment, did ya?”

“You’re wrong,” Kiyoomi shakily gets out. “I did go home with someone.”

Something flashes in Atsumu’s eyes, and the ferocity of the next kiss almost hurts.

“Did he fuck you like I did?”

Kiyoomi throws his head back gasping.

“Did he know that ya like fingers in yer mouth, that ya like to drool on them like a desperate little slut? That ya like it when ye’re still a bit too tight to take me?” Atsumu bites down on the juncture between neck and shoulder, digging into skin just enough for it to hurt. “Did he know that ya wanna be so full of cock that ya whimper, beg and moan?”

His finger presses blunt and smooth against Kiyoomi’s quivering hole.

“Did he know you like I do?”

It slides in to the hilt.

Kiyoomi keens, legs thrashing at the intrusion, but Atsumu holds them down roughly with his arm, smoothing over trembling muscle as he lazily rubs against his soft, lubed up walls in broad, deep strokes. A lazy grin spreads on his face. “Oh?” he croons, “Already this desperate fer me? You’ll be sobbing by the time ya get my cock, won’tcha?”

“Feels so good,” Kiyoomi gasps, “fuck you, you feel so good. I wanna … god damnit,” he swears. “Forget the condom, you motherfucker. When was the last time you had sex?”

When Atsumu pulls away, his lips are ruddy and swollen; his eyes wild. “With you. It was with you. I haven’t … no.”

Kiyoomi halts. “Really?”

Atsumu guffaws. “Yeah, so fucking what?”

Kiyoomi drops his head back, it lands against the floor with a thunk. “Nothing, I’m surprised. You’re a sex fiend.”

“Well, this sex fiend,” Atsumu snarls, “isn’t normally going through a divorce, is he?” His knees are snug around Kiyoomi’s hips on the floor, sweatpants pooling around his calves and his white shirt still on as he looms over him. “Fuckin’ excuse me fer bein’ emotionally unavailable for a bit, will ya?”

“You’re always emotionally unavailable.” Kiyoomi coughs. “As evidenced by said divorce.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes so far back only the whites are visible. He yanks at the hem of Kiyoomi’s shirt with a hand and drags it up, his fingertips roughly brushing over Kiyoomi’s ribs as he does. “Can ya go fer five minutes without shadin’ me?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes and raises his arms above his head so Atsumu can slide off the shirt. “Like you didn’t start pestering me if I wasn’t.”

“Like you didn’t just ask to hop on my cock as soon as I did.”

“Like you weren’t just as happy to give it to me.”

Kiyoomi’s head thunks against the floor. He looks up at him from half-lidded eyes, the emotion in them indiscernible.

“What,” Atsumu snaps.

Kiyoomi doesn’t let go of his gaze. He hooks a hand behind his knee, pulls it back until his thigh is resting against his chest, knee pressing into Atsumu’s shoulder. His other leg is splayed out over the floor, lain to the side – plainly spreading his cheeks and revealing the tight, glistening rosebud sitting at his crease.

He curls his lip. “Shut up and fuck me,” he rasps.

Something tightens in Atsumu’s expression.

Pftuh!

Spit drips off his fingers in thick globes, and when he reaches down to smear it across his hole, Kiyoomi shivers at the filthy sensation.

Atsumu scoffs, dancing his fingertips over the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs that are spread out like an offering. “Look at ya, wet like a whore,” he mutters. “Can’t help but holdin’ yerself open fer me.”

Without warning, he plunges three fingers in; Kiyoomi clenches around them. “F-hah, fuck,” he gasps at the intrusion, the stretch, the hurt that is so, so good. He contorts his face in pleasure, screwing his eyes shut as he tries to hold onto anything else but the ball of heat in his stomach. He tries to focus on the cold, hard floor against his shoulder blades, his ass, calves, heels of his feet, anything but the man between his legs, how he flicks his thumb over his taint, pushing against his prostate from all sides, fucking in and out of him in a way that has Kiyoomi’s legs shaking. 

“Do ya know how much I’ve missed this? You, the perfect marble façade of a man, always even and unfazed and proper – reduced to a babbling, sobbing mess on the floor.”

Kiyoomi cries out when Atsumu sucks a bruise into his neck.

“I’m gonna be honest,” Atsumu hisses, hot breath fanning out over the dip of Kiyoomi’s throat, “sometimes I did try to rile ya up. Left the vacuum cleaner standin’ around in some corner where I knew ya’d stumble over it. I’d smear a bit of jam on the table and not bother to wipe it off. Throw the socks into the hamper inside-out.” He’s steadily building that pressure inside Kiyoomi that threatens to spill over but is still barely tamed, rubbing tight circles against his walls, just skirting the edges of that swollen gland that needs to be touched so desperately. Kiyoomi’s nails dig into his forearm sharply, but he doesn’t care, Atsumu doesn’t release his gaze from his face. “Just so I could see ya get angry, just so I could see how you tried to hold back yer temper. That muscle at yer jaw would be clenchin’ and that one vein would be pulsing at your temple. I’d watch yer eyes grow black and stormy, and I knew I’d get to break it all down.” Atsumu is breathless with the strain of holding Kiyoomi open, but he pushes on, spitting out word after word. “I hate you, you’d say, but you’d still moan like a bitch in heat.”

Atsumu hooks his fingers inside his slick, loosening hole, teasing against the sensitive bump of his prostate.

Kiyoomi’s back arches taut like a bowstring when Atsumu wraps a hand around his cock, his mouth falling open as Atsumu grinds their hips together, but he’s beyond the point of coherence. He distantly notices that a hand is nudging his thighs apart, spreading him so much wider for Atsumu to take, but then Atsumu flicks his thumb over his wet tip and smears pre-cum across the slit; and any attempt at a thought evaporates from Kiyoomi’s head as his hips desperately stutter and jump in Atsumu’s hold.

His fingers slip out and Kiyoomi doesn’t have time to mourn the loss – the blunt head of a thick cock rubs against his hole.

Kiyoomi flutters and pulses around it, desperate to pull him in, but Atsumu stills, waits, dark eyes raking Kiyoomi’s face as if searching for something. His expression clouds when he doesn’t seem to find it. He snaps his mouth shut.

“So yeah,” he grits out, “maybe ye’re right when ye’re sayin’ that I used to provoke ya. Did ya notice?” His grip around the base of Kiyoomi’s cock grows almost painful. His voice comes out as a whisper. “Did ya care?”

Kiyoomi looks up at him hazy, the heat clawing at his entire being almost unbearable, and he opens his mouth trying to form a question, a demand, but nothing except for a soft whine tumbles out.

It’s too weak for a gasp, too delicate for a whimper, and Atsumu can’t bear to hear it. He roughly grabs at Kiyoomi’s hips and lines himself up, sliding into position.

Atsumu thrusts into him like he reclaims him. 

Pushing in and filling him, burying himself where he’s already been long ago.

Something clicks into place.

Atsumu comes.

Kiyoomi is so warm inside, so wet and slick and fucking warm, and Atsumu is assaulted by the force of his arousal. Before he can understand what’s going on, his cock is pulsing and twitching, unloading all that pent-up fight and desire and anger deep inside Kiyoomi’s guts.

He’s not even fully in yet, and cum is trickling out around his shaft as they’re both trembling with the impact of what just happened.

Kiyoomi lets out a broken wheeze. “Did you just…” he whispers, scandalized.

Atsumu’s hands must’ve left imprints on his hips, and he lets go of them as if burned, chooses to hide his face with them instead, mind still hazy with his staggering orgasm. He wants to cry, scream, fuck, do anything except for looking at Kiyoomi.

But Kiyoomi doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t mock, he lets out a dissatisfied grunt, curls his hands around Atsumu’s shoulders and slings a leg tight around Atsumu’s hip. Lightning quick, he flips them over, slamming Atsumu to the floor and raising himself above him, the cock staying inside him all the while.

Atsumu cries out when his ass knocks into the floor hard, pain flooding his senses. Kiyoomi ignores the noise of protest entirely and grinds his hips down, a breathless sigh escaping him as he tries to take pleasure from the throbbing cock.

Atsumu whines in overstimulation but Kiyoomi only acknowledges it with a raised eyebrow. He slams a hand against the floor to push himself up until only the slick pink tip is inside him. His thighs are trembling. “Missed me that much?”

He sinks down, the thick pillar spearing him open with the sheer force of gravity. He arches with the devouring burn of it, head falling back to reveal the line of his neck. He’s glistening with sweat.

He lets out a quick, breathless laugh, a cruel one. “Is this all you can give?” he snaps. “Pathetic.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but claims it himself. He ruts down in little circling motions, demanding of Atsumu’s dick to thicken inside him again so it can fuck him the way he deserves.

“You like this, huh? On the fucking floor for me,” Kiyoomi grits out, a hand darting out to tweak the hard peak of a nipple. He smiles at the overwhelmed whine that follows. “On top of the divorce papers. There must be some irony to that.”

Atsumu’s mouth is forming shapes, allusions of what he’s trying to say and can’t, and Kiyoomi doesn’t have the patience to decipher them. His thighs tremble and shake as he forces himself into the air and back down, the slide eased by the load already inside him. His knees are protesting and hurting and he knows he’ll feel this in a week – but it’s not like he cares.

Atsumu’s cock hardens, still stuffed inside Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi’s moaning, sweating, whining louder by the second, his own cock bobbing red and angry up and down as he bounces, slapping against his stomach and leaving a wet smear of precum. He bites down on his own lip; he’s getting dizzy.

Atsumu isn’t faring much better. His entire body is burning up with a throbbing fever.

And fuck, fuck fuck fuck, why have they ever stopped doing this? Kiyoomi knows that there must be an answer somewhere, somewhere in the back of his head, somewhere that is not the tight coil of heat in his abdomen, not the wave of pleasure that’s washing over him. Not Atsumu who is sweaty and breathless and gorgeous, who is as much at Kiyoomi’s mercy as Kiyoomi is at Atsumu’s.

His abs tremble as he bends forward, lays his chest to Atsumu’s. His forehead thunks to the floor next to his ear. “Maybe I should’ve fucked you sooner,” he whispers.

Something changes, then. Something shifts. Atsumu’s eyes turn hard and his fingers tighten around Kiyoomi’s hips – his grip is no longer merely a helpless hold onto something for grounding, but intention.

Intention to hold Kiyoomi down as he ruts up into him, to keep him tight and warm right on his cock, not let him leave or move, not let him be anything but a loose body to fuck.

Kiyoomi can physically feel him get harder inside him, his walls adjusting to the velvety heat, turning him into someone he’s already been before. Atsumu cants his hips up, fucking into him fast and hard, his strokes just barely too shallow to hit that deep, precious spot.

Kiyoomi tries to keep the upper hand in this situation – but the feeling in his gut resembles desperation. “You should be glad I vacuumed earlier today. This is so filthy,” he laboriously gets out as he grinds deep, “I can’t believe I’m into this. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“Filth?” Atsumu pants. There’s something in his voice that even he doesn’t recognize. He sinks a hand into Kiyoomi’s hair, and the next thrust brings tears to his eyes. “Is that what I am to ya? Filth, somethin’ ugly an’ worthless and disgustin’ that only exists so ya can clean it away?”

Kiyoomi wants to answer, but he can’t around the moans falling from his lips, so he just shakes his head, exasperation creeping into the haze in front of his eyes.

“Cause I sure feel like filth.” Atsumu’s tone takes on something ruthless.

They both halt, pulsing against each other.

“As if you’re better,” Kiyoomi bites out, “as if I’m not just a convenient hole to you.”

“But you don’t wanna be more than that,” Atsumu hisses, “so ye’re not. You don’t wanna be more than a hole, and I don’t wanna be more than filth, so I guess we’re perfectly fine as we are, huh?”

Kiyoomi’s chest is rising and falling with the erratic movements of his breath. “I guess we are, Miya. I guess we fucking are.”

Another buck of his hips. They both moan.

“I thought ya wouldn’t call me that.” He’s relentless, he’s merciless, he’s wrathful. He pounds into Kiyoomi like it is his last day on earth, like this is his last chance at bliss.

He hits his prostate dead on, and when Kiyoomi’s hands scramble to wrap around his hips, desperate to halt the deep punishing pace, Atsumu catches his wrists and slams them to the floor. “Say my name,” he insists, eyes flaming at a deep thrust.

And Kiyoomi can’t do anything but take it.

The base of Atsumu’s cock stretches his hole full, his own cock bobbing thick and heavy and drooling in the air as he bounces on Atsumu's lap. He needs to get off, he needs to come, and Atsumu is steadily propelling him towards the edge.

And just when he thinks he might taste it, might fall off that cliff and be left sated, Atsumu slows down to an agonizing grind. His cock is catching at his rim, dragging the pleasure out of him like thick honey, and it is not enough.

“I told ya ta say my name, Kiyoomi,” he grits out, his wide-blown eyes glinting darkly as he’s watching his own cock disappear into Kiyoomi’s sloppy, greedy hole. “Say it. Atsumu. I wanna hear ya say it.”

His fingers tighten around his wrists, nails almost digging into skin. And when he sinks back in deep, Kiyoomi might sob with relief.

The orgasm crashes down around them quickly, yet it doesn’t feel like release.

“Atsumu!”

He yells his name as he comes, a long sob as he convulses around the thick intrusion pounding inside him. His abs tremble, his balls pull tight – the knot in his belly is cleaved in half. Cum shoots out of him and splatters all over Atsumu’s abdomen like a mark, a silent claim of possession.

He can’t even bring himself to whine when Atsumu pulls out, too spent to do anything but slump back on top of Atsumu’s thighs and work through the last aftershocks of his orgasm. He blinks down at Atsumu, his lids heavy as he focuses his gaze on his past and present.

Atsumu’s hand blurs with how fast he’s jerking himself off, cock wet and shiny with lube, the tip swollen and red. Sweat is glistening on his twitching abs, his chest rising and falling with his laboured breath.

Kiyoomi licks his lips. “Atsumu,” he murmurs. His legs clench where he’s perched on top of him, too spent to help Atsumu in any way. “Come for me.”

That’s what does it in the end. Atsumu unloads all over his own chest, streaks of hot cum landing across his trembling belly and hardened nipples.

It mingles with Kiyoomi’s.

The room is silent save for their haggard gulps of breath.

Their eyes slip shut again. Heaviness sets into their bones.

And then, they stand out on the balcony and shiver in the breeze.

“Neither of us have said that this is a mistake yet.”

“No,” Kiyoomi quietly says, “but it probably is.”

“Probably.”

Kiyoomi raises his chin. “I want to do it again.”

And Atsumu can’t help himself, he laughs. It’s a hard one, a long one, one that punches the breath out of his lungs, that makes him double over until his chest heaves and his stomach aches. He takes his time to ride it out, and once the last of his amusement has tumbled out of him, he stills. He stays hunched over. Exhausted, void.

He doesn’t even have the energy to utter more than a weak whisper. “Fuck, me too.”

Silence.

“We can’t, though.”

Atsumu scoffs, more at the phrase and less at the implication behind it. “Why not?”

“Because we don’t work.”

“My cock was workin’ just fine.” Despite the defiance of his words, there’s none to be found in his inflection; because deep down he knows that Kiyoomi is right. Oh, how right he is.

“If I wanted a cock, I could fuck myself on a dildo. You’re Miya. And everything that comes with that.”

“Yeah, I’m Miya,” he drags out, tasting the syllables in his mouth. “And ye’re Sakusa. That’s kinda the point, ain’t it? I guess I could go out there and find some random guy willing to fuck me, but I … I … I’m here. I told’ya already that I haven’t slept with anyone else, and believe me,” he snorts, “not fer a lack of tryin’. But everythin’ … it’s just … different with ya, alright? With you, everything has always been so easy. Like I was s’pposed to do it. Don’t tell me that ya don’t feel the pull.”

“A divorce is stressful, Miya,” Kiyoomi croaks out, “I didn’t fucking like it. That’s why we can’t …” he motions with his hands, “… do this again. I don’t want to go through it.”

“But we won’t go through this again, because this won’t happen in the first place. We won’t fall in love, we won’t get married, we won’t divorce, we’ll just … have fun. Like we used to.”

“Like we used to,” Kiyoomi echoes.

“You remember how great it was at the beginning, don’t you? How exciting and fun? I want that back.” He raises his chin defiantly. “Fuck, I ain’t scared of admittin’ that. I want it back. I missed it. Being … wanted.” He clears his throat.

Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. “What are you, lonely?“

Atsumu frowns. “The fuck kinda question is that? Course I am.” He scoffs. “I don’t need to know if you are, I’ve seen yer bookshelf.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth drops open. “Those are respectable authors who have honed their craft and love what they’re doing, and you shouldn’t–“

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves him off. “I’m just sayin’, nobody who reads that many romance novels is happy with ‘is life.”

Kiyoomi clamps his mouth shut. “But you’re not offering romance,” he finally gets out.

Atsumu snorts. “Of course not, what do ya think? We both know how that turned out last time.”

“So what’s going to happen? Am I, your ex-husband, am I going to be your pity fuck? Or what? A … a hole you can call up whenever you feel like it?” He curls his lip. “Because you miss getting your dick wet?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Yeah.”

Kiyoomi stares out into the night. “You truly don’t have any self-respect, do you?”

Atsumu casts Kiyoomi a long, dark glance from the side. “And yet half an hour ago, you were suckin’ hickeys all over my neck. If I was you, I wouldn’t be too fast with my judgment here.” He turns to him fully, sudden vehemence locking in his eyes. “Stop pretendin’ ta be all high and mighty, why are ya surprised that I want that? That’s exactly how we started out!”

“That wasn’t exactly how we started out,” Kiyoomi snaps.

Atsumu blushes brightly and looks to the side. “You fuckin’ know what I mean,” he finally mutters. “When you signed with the Jackals, and ya told me this, you said you came into the locker room on the first day, and I’d been bending down to pick up something from the floor and my towel had slipped, so ya came in through the door and saw my glorious bare ass and thought oh fuck. That’s how it started.” He presses his lips together. “And I know that’s true, cause ya’ve told me!”

“I’d like think that it started when you came up to me in the shower after training and asked to fuck my thighs, you desperate, desperate little manchild,” Kiyoomi hisses.

“It started when ya came all over the wall,” Atsumu snarls, “and told me to scrub it off.”

“No, it started when you did.”

Atsumu yanks his face to the side, suddenly beet red. “Whatever,” he mutters.

Silence.

“It’s funny,” Kiyoomi carefully says after a pause has stretched on for uncomfortably long, “Today, it’s been exactly a year since we got married.”

“Is it?” Atsumu says and scrunches up his nose. “I didn’t even notice.”

He did.

One year with Omi!!!!! <3 had flashed on his phone screen first thing in the morning. He’d forgotten to delete the reminder that he’d put in his calendar the very night of the marriage, when their rings were still cold on their fingers and warm around their hearts, when he thought … he thought he’d have an entire year with his Omi.

It was a reminder of what he had once and what he’ll never have again, a reminder of something that he doesn’t even want anymore. He clears his throat.

It’s a reminder that it’s been time for him to go for too long. “Well,” he says, and pushes himself away from the railing. “I know the way out.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t look up. “You do.”

Chapter Text

Practice the next day is almost the same.

Kiyoomi had slept terribly; he’d been tossing and turning all night, consumed with thoughts of the past evening and everything beyond that. Fucking your ex-husband will do that to you.

He slept terribly – and for what? Absolutely nothing.

Kiyoomi’s already in the gym when Atsumu walks in whistling crookedly, spread out on the floor on a blue exercise mat. He spots Kiyoomi stretching his hamstrings and halts.

Maybe it’s something about the way Atsumu’s eyes rake Kiyoomi’s flexing form, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips, that makes Kiyooomi think that next, Atsumu will waggle his eyebrows and drawl something like: “Stretching? Don’tcha think ya’ve done enough of that over the weekend?”

But he doesn’t. The corner of his mouth twitches before his eyes already flicker away. “Sakusa.” Nothing else. He’s turning, blond hair bobbing, and nothing else.

Nothing, not an acknowledgement of Kiyoomi or the change that has occurred between them, not a simple nod, no reassurement that what they did was okay, that it wouldn’t change anything between them, not a proclamation that it would change something between them. Nothing.

It pisses Kiyoomi off. The calm, slightly disgusted gaze that he had prepared to shoot him for this very encounter is now entirely superfluous.

He probably shouldn’t be pissed off; Atsumu’s silence isn’t exactly anything new. After the separation, they’d both agreed that even though they were on the same volleyball team, they were still both professionals. Kiyoomi had even offered to look into a move to another Division 1 team in order to avoid the inevitable fallout of their divorce, but when he’d told Atsumu that, the other man had been not only disgusted, but offended and angry.

“Ya really think I can’t keep my mouth shut if I need ta, Sakusa? Fuckin’ give me some credit. If ya join another team outta some misplaced sense of obligation, I’ll personally stomp y’all into the ground at our first game, break yer nasty wrist at the handshakes, and talk at the post-game interview about that nasty foot kink that ya have.”

So Kiyoomi stayed. And Atsumu did too.

And they made it work. They didn’t look at each other too much, didn’t think about each other too much, didn’t talk to each other too much. When Atsumu goofed off with Inunaki and Bokuto, Kiyoomi went up to Hinata and they showed each other baby elephant pictures on their phones. While Hinata was busy giggling with Kiyoomi, Atsumu asked Meian about his wife and the lodge he was building in his garden. It was fine. They might’ve not been fine, but it was fine.

And before the divorce, well … it had been anything but fine. Unpredictable, exhilarating, a giant steaming mess – but not fine. Fine is boring.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu, they weren’t supposed to be boring. They were supposed to bicker in some corner, then fight next to the urinal, then heatedly make out in the equipment room, Then fight again across the net, and then finally fuck against a locker after everyone had gone home. Practice isn’t supposed to be boring, but it is when Atsumu enters the gym, greets Kiyoomi by his second name and then turns away without even a tiny little “You know what was a stretch too? When ya told me I was vainer than Narcissus.”

How dare him, really.

So yeah, Kiyoomi is pissed off. Because if he wanted to be boring, he wouldn’t have slept with his ex-husband, now would he? And yet Atsumu is talking with Adriah, smirking and laughing and not sparing a single glance at him – like he used to do for months now.

Kiyoomi glowers at him from across the room, and Atsumu doesn’t even turn around to see it. 

Has his blood pressure always been this high?

Well, maybe not everything is the same. There’s a spring to Atsumu’s step that screams I got laid as he saunters back for his first serve of the day; while he talks strategy with Hinata for their two-on-two, his eyes keep erring over the shorter man’s shoulder and finding Kiyoomi’s across the net. Sometimes, his hands brush the back of his own ass, the tender globes where Kiyoomi knows that nasty bruises reside, and Atsumu winces just slightly.

But then again, maybe Kiyoomi’s just imagining it. Maybe it’s his look that lingers a bit too long on Atsumu’s legs as he jumps for a quick attack, maybe it’s his breath quickening as he imagines sliding his lips underneath the hem of those criminal shorts, maybe it’s his dick giving a twitch when Atsumu pushes his sweaty hair out of his forehead after a successful set and pumps his fist in swelling pride.

Kiyoomi wants that fist in his–

Sometimes he’s sure that Atsumu is watching him too. When Kiyoomi is in front of him in the rotation and turns around just in time to catch him snapping his gaze away, or when Kiyoomi’s stretching his arms overhead and feels a burning gaze tracing lines on flexing muscles.

The same imprint of those amber eyes haunts Kiyoomi during the break as he lazily lays his head back to drink. His grip is too tight; he squirts too much water out of his bottle. He lets it drip down his chin and throat, closing his eyes and letting his mouth fall open as he revels in the cool relief. It soaks the front of his shirt, makes it cling to hot skin. His nipples are probably hard.

When he opens his eyes, he finds gold. Atsumu is staring at him unabashedly from across the room, faint pink staining his cheeks; Kiyoomi gulps, feels the line of his throat jumping, and as Atsumu traces the movement, his gaze turns sharp. Kiyoomi is too far away to catch the twinkle in dilated pupils but he knows it’s there, knows what it looks like and what it promises.

Because Atsumu is looking at him, really, finally, looking at him, and what Kiyoomi sees there is the naked truth that he knows is mirrored in his own gaze.

Shameless, unabashed want.

He has difficulties focusing back on the game after that exchange of looks, because who has time to look at formations and think about strategy and have quick reflexes and hit those stupid tosses when all one can think about is the taste of their ex-husband’s cock on their tongue?

Fuck, what would he do to him first?

He wants to dig his nails into those thighs until he leaves bruises and marks as proof of where he’s been, he wants to kiss his way up his torso, grazing firm flesh with teeth in warning, higher and higher, he wants to fuck his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He wants to make Atsumu lose control, lose that disgusting fucking glint in his eyes, wants to ride him again until his ass burns and his legs shake.

And he wants Atsumu to be in control. He wants Atsumu to hold him down by his wrists, pounding his hips into him mercilessly as Kiyoomi pants and writhes beneath him. Atsumu would fuck him hard and fast, would demand his pleasure from him without mercy. He’d come inside, thick, viscuous fluid tainting him, and he’d fuck him through his orgasm, he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop until Kiyoomi’s crying and sobbing and–

A serve slams into the floor right next to him. He jolts almost violently.

“Don’t mind, don’t mind!” Bokuto yells from the other corner of the field.

He’s too swallowed up by embarrassment to even consider a response. He stubbornly keeps his gaze forward, because he knows that if he looked to the side, he’d catch Atsumu looking at him.

His dick twitches in his shorts.

By the time the whistle blows and signals the end of practice, Kiyoomi is weak in the knees with relief.

He’s already wanting to run to the locker room, planning to shower as quickly as possible and shoot Atsumu a text message with instructions to find him in his car, but then a hand lands lightly on his shoulder.

Hinata is smiling up at him. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Yes!” Kiyoomi wipes over his mouth with the back of his hand. “Um, yes, Hinata-san.” He gives a quick nod. “I’m very good, thank you for asking.” He pauses. “Why.”

Hinata blinks like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh!” he laughs a bit too airily, “Just wondering!”

Kiyoomi squints at him.

Hinata chuckles awkwardly. “What, um, what’s happening with you and Tsumu?”

God, did they all notice? He keeps his voice deliberately cool. “I don’t know, what should be happening between me and Miya?”

“Nothing, you’ve just … been … staring…” His voice trails off. He laughs that awkward laugh again. “Nothing! Sorry.”

Kiyoomi continues to stare at him.

Hinata buries a hand in his hair and pulls. “Aah!” he yaps. “It was very intense! That’s all.” He bites his lip and throws him a half-smile. “I’m just looking out for you.”

Yet Kiyoomi’s gaze has already wandered further, to somewhere behind Hinata’s shoulder where Atsumu is disgruntledly putting away blue exercise mats. The door to the equipment room is standing open, and he’s dragging a stack of the floppy plastic behind himself; a last sliver of blue following him into dim darkness.

Kiyoomi's gaze errs down to Hinata for just a second. “Excuse me,” he says, already breathless.

He pretends not to notice his teammate's eyes burning holes into his back as he makes his way across the room.

The door shuts behind him with a click. It echoes through the room, the tiny sound reverberating off the walls, and Atsumu whirls around.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi coolly says, voice rumbling just loud enough for Atsumu to hear, who straightens and pushes his sweaty hair out of his forehead, gulping.

“Hello,” he evenly responds. “Sakusa.” A glint takes root in his eyes, an annoying glint, because it’s proof of how well Atsumu knows what Kiyoomi will do next. A smirk sets into the corners of his mouth. Kiyoomi wants to lick it off.

“Miya,” he repeats, “what are you doing?”

“Oh,” Atsumu coos, “I thought it was obvious. Puttin’ away these exercise mats like a good teammate.”

“No,” Kiyoomi insists, “what are you doing?” He steps forward, right up into Atsumu’s space, and the shorter man’s breath hitches.

Atsumu leans his head back, looking up at him from half-lidded eyes as his hands slip open and he drops the mat he’d been holding. It flops to the floor. “I don’t know, I’m vibing.” He licks his lips, gaze flickering down to Kiyoomi's lips for the fraction of a second. “What are you doing?”

It’s hard to breathe through the tension.

Kiyoomi considers him for a moment before his eyes narrow. “You think you’re being coy, huh?” he murmurs. “Think that if you squat low enough for a receive and don’t deign me with a single teasing comment, I’d what? Get pissed off?”

“No,” Atsumu whispers, hand coming up and settling on Kiyoomi’s waist. It burns a searing mark into his skin. “I was hopin’ fer something like this.”

They stumble in their haste to crash into each other.

Their teeth clack together with a fervent kiss and Kiyoomi immediately retracts, whining “ow,” but Atsumu grabs him by the neck and pulls him back in. “Fuck,” he groans into his mouth, “fuck fuck fuck, why are ya like this?”

“Like what?” Kiyoomi is breathless. His hands hold onto Atsumu’s waist and he can’t help but squeeze, finally feeling the muscle that’s been driving him insane all day.

“The stupid water bottle was on purpose, was it?”

“And what if it was?”

Atsumu tastes just the same, his hands clawing at Kiyoomi feel just the same, the little chuckle he lets out when Kiyoomi pulls at his bottom lip in eager hurry is just the same. Kiyoomi answers with a groan and a push of his hips, already feeling his hardness reciprocated. Something feral is flashing in Atsumu’s eyes. “Do ya wanna get outta–“

“I want to suck you off right now,” Kiyoomi blurts out.

“Ya wanna wh–“ The rest of Atsumu’s speech gets yanked out of his lungs when Kiyoomi grabs him by the wrist and pulls him to the center of the room.

“Hey,” Atsumu protests as he stumbles after him, “did I hear that right?”

Kiyoomi lets go of his wrist in favor of grabbing Atsumu by the shoulders and pushing him down onto the stack of exercise mats, the other man bouncing with the impact as he gapes up at Kiyoomi, scrambling to steady himself with both hands on the plastic. Kiyoomi’s flat palm is searing hot against Atsumu’s shoulder. “Yes. I’ll make you scream, you bastard.”

Atsumu is breathless. “You wanna … suck my dick when I’m sweaty?”

“I sure fucking do,” Kiyoomi bites out, letting go of him and yanking his shirt over his head, barely glancing aside at him. “Don’t even ask me why.” 

He drops to his knees, the expression on his face only a bit disgruntled. “Actually, I know why, it’s those new exercise shorts you got. Why are they so tight, huh? Why do they have to ride up when you drop low for a receive, and why do they accent your huge fucking ass perfectly? I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” He holds Atsumu’s thighs open and fits himself between them, hands sliding up along corded muscle. He licks his lips, gaze firmly trained on the growing bulge.

“What?” Atsumu frowns, and pinches the slippery fabric between his fingers as he shifts forward for a comfortable spot, legs falling open wider. “These aren’t new, I got them two months ago.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi sighs and pulls the waistband of Atsumu’s shorts and briefs down in one go, “and I’ve wanted to do this for two months now, too.”

He swallows Atsumu’s half-hard dick down.

Atsumu had opened his mouth to retort, but only a choked moan comes out. “F-fuck, I’ve missed this so much. Wait, what?”

Kiyoomi hums around him in a sound that suspiciously sounds like nothing, but Atsumu can’t be sure given that he loses consciousness for a second. His thighs spasm around Kiyoomi as he takes him deeper in his mouth, deeper, deeper until his tip bumps against the back of his throat. Atsumu wants to scream. The vibrations course through his cock, making it grow harder in the wet heat of Kiyoomi’s mouth.

“I don’t know if we should be doing this, fuck.”

Kiyoomi pops off, squinting up at him. He looks obscenely disheveled, his lips already swollen and slick, his hair mussed, a flush from arousal and exertion staining his cheeks pink. “Why.” He licks a fat stripe up his own hand.

“I know everyone’s s’pposed ta be gone, but can I remind ya that the last time ya sucked me off in some back room,” Atsumu grits out and promptly wheezes when Kiyoomi wraps his hand around his base, “Inunaki stumbled in, screamed, and the entire team found out about our arrangement?”

Kiyoomi dips his thumb into his slit and Atsumu has to bite down on his own lip to keep himself from yelling out the force of his arousal. Kiyoomi is relentless; he pinches the head between his fingers, thumb rubbing tight circles just beneath the crown, smearing a thick glob of precum between his fingertips as he innocently blinks up at Atsumu. “Yeah, so? So what if they find out?” He scratches a fingernail over his sensitive taint; Atsumu’s thighs squeeze around his shoulders almost painfully. “We’ll tell them what we told them last time, that it won’t lead to anything anyways. Only this time, that’ll be true, of course.”

And Atsumu, he– he laughs.

“What?” Kiyoomi snaps, indignation setting into the features of his face.

“It’s funny a bit, ain’t it?” Atsumu props his elbows on the mat as he leans back and considers Kiyoomi from half-lidded eyes. “How we’re here. Again.”

“I don’t care if it’s funny or not. Kindly put your dick back in my mouth.”

Atsumu enthusiastically complies, sliding the ruddy, slick cockhead between Kiyoomi’s plush lips, but the shit-eating grin stays on Atsumu’s face. “Two months, huh?” he taunts as he shallowly thrusts forward, “Well, that’s weak. It’s been, like, four months for me. At least.” He hums. “Actually, now that I think about it – I might’ve never even stopped wanting to fuck ya.”

“Oh, me neither,” Kiyoomi easily agrees, pulling away for a second as his hands come up, tracing lines over the sensitive skin of his abdomen and thighs. Atsumu’s cock twitches, the trail of spit that’s connecting the tip to Kiyoomi’s lips trembling in the air. “It’s just this particular fantasy that I’ve had for two months?” Kiyoomi furrows his brows. When he ghosts his breath over the leaking tip, Atsumu’s legs tighten around his chest. He tongues at his foreskin, savoring the tangy taste and humming. “It was the game against the Raijins when you received a spike with your chest and fell over and your legs went up and I caught a glimpse of your jockstrap. I despised you so much in that moment.” He dives back in for a reverent suckle.

“And now ye’re here,” Atsumu states.

“I still despise you.” He accentuates his words with a firm rub of his fingertips across Atsumu’s sensitive taint, letting out a soft, self-satisfied “Heh” when Atsumu clenches his teeth. 

“Don’t pretend,” Atsumu pants out, “as if ya don’t like it. My cock is makin’ ya so fuckin’ dumb, yer droolin’ as soon as ya even think of it. Look at ya.” He licks his lips, his gaze firmly trained on the bulge in Kiyoomi’s own practice shorts. “I bet I could touch yer cock with my foot right now and ya’d come.”

Kiyoomi jolts and stills – and Atsumu knows he’s struck gold.

A dirty grin spreads on his face as he reaches forward and sinks a hand into Kiyoomi’s curls, prompting him to tilt his head up. “You’d like that, wouldn’t ya? You’d fuckin’ love that."

Kiyoomi’s eyes flash. “I can’t stand you.”

Atsumu is already toeing his shoes off.

He keeps his knees tight around Kiyoomi’s shoulders as he throws his socks to the side, relishing in the hungry look in Kiyoomi’s eyes and taking his cock at the base. Nudges it to Kiyoomi’s lips. They’re pressed together in indignation and his eyes flash in anger and his shoulders are hunched – but he still opens his mouth. Atsumu slides back into tight heat with a deep groan.

He lets Kiyoomi adjust to the familiar weight on his tongue before he pulls his foot off the ground and presses nimble toes to his thigh.

Kiyoomi chokes around his dick.

Atsumu chuckles and continues, self-satisfied with how Kiyoomi’s eyes slip shut as Atsumu slowly rubs the ridge of his foot into the sensitive inside of his thigh, his big toe sliding underneath the hem of his shorts. Kiyoomi moans brokenly around him, jaw falling lax when Atsumu delves further.

And as he slides his cock deeper, lodges the fat head in his constricting throat, he gently presses the ball of his foot down. Kiyoomi’s cock gives a violent twitch against his toes, and Atsumu is left breathless.

Kiyoomi has squeezed his eyes shut, barely moving his lips anymore as his own hips have started up a broken rhythm, an uneven rocking against Atsumu. He’s gasping and squirming as Atsumu feels Kiyoomi’s bulge throb up against him.

Atsumu swipes a thumb over his full bottom lip, smears spit across it, doubts that Kiyoomi even notices. He’s nothing but tight wet heat around Atsumu’s cock as his hips stutter forward, desperately reaching for release against the arch of Atsumu’s foot.

“Look at ya, suckin’ yer ex-husbands cock so well,” Atsumu tuts breathlessly. He puts weight behind his foot before backing off again, and gets dizzy on the stuttered moan that Kiyoomi gives him in response. “Imagine if someone walked in. Would see ya on the floor ruttin’ on my fuckin’ foot.”

He slings a hand around the back of Kiyoomi’s head and yanks him closer, effectively pushing his nose into his coarse dark pubes. “Every time they’d see ya, they’d think about how yer fucking moanin’ from me steppin’ on ya.”

Atsumu can’t believe his eyes. Kiyoomi’s rutting up against the arched sole of his foot, pushing against him desperately.

“Ya always like to pretend that yer so composed and unaffected, but when it gets down to it, yer nothin’ but a pervert about to come in his undies from my toes alone. Don’t even need hands to turn ya into a horny fuckin’ mess.”

Atsumu crooks his toes and grinds down slowly, gently rubbing where the other man is straining and swollen. 

Kiyoomi’s hips stutter. He whines pitifully around the weight of Atsumu’s cock in his mouth, spit dripping down his chin as he starts shaking.

Kiyoomi rides his orgasm out against Atsumu’s foot, trembling as he chases the thrill of release. Atsumu can feel Kiyoomi’s cock jump and spurt against his foot, thinks he can tell the exact moment that Kiyoomi unloads and soils his shorts. His mouth falls open wider, drool escaping him as he allows Atsumu to slide even deeper and lodge himself in his throat. He moans brokenly. A sheen of sweat is coating his face, the dim light making him look ethereal; otherworldly.

Atsumu is absolutely mesmerized by him.

They’d talked about all sorts of kinks back then. Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu likes praise, Atsumu knows that Kiyoomi likes humiliation. They’d talked about pet play, piss, pain, everything, tried a lot of it, and yet – nothing has ever felt as exhilarating as this.

Them just getting each other on such an instinctual level. Returning to each other, demanding the same things they always have and giving them freely – as if they’d never done anything else.

The reward of having Kiyoomi come undone at literally a twitch of his foot, knowing that he’s the only one who has him on his knees this way. Knowing that he’s so utterly gone for him.

There’s something swelling in Atsumu’s chest, something that almost resembles fondness, so of course he ignores it and thinks of something filthy to say instead.

“Who’s on the floor now, huh? Fuck, yer such a slut.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes snap open, pupils shrinking as he comes back to consciousness. Indignated, he pushes Atsumu’s foot off his lap and blinks up at him, lips still stretched taut around his cock. It’s so filthy, so hot, Atsumu gives another twitch.

Kiyoomi hums around him and Atsumu is already gasping at the sensation when Kiyoomi pulls off with a pop, a glistening trail of spit and precum smearing against his chin. His hand comes up, finds purchase against Atsumu’s thigh first, then wanders to his hip and grasps tight.

Atsumu groans when Kiyoomi starts with firm, long strokes.

“I’m a slut?” Kiyoomi is pulling him off at a ruthless speed. He narrows his eyes. “You’re not complaining.”

Ah.

Atsumu almost laughs, would do so if he wasn’t doing his very best to stave off his own orgasm right now. Kiyoomi’s putting up his walls again, his careful facade of composure and snarkiness. It’s kinda cute. Afterall, the proof of his debasion is cooling in his underwear right now.

“Suna might,” Atsumu pants, just to be an asshole, “complain, I mean. I was s’pposed to meet up with them right after training, but now they’ll hafta wait cause ya kidnapped me so cruelly.” He smirks down at him, grin growing wider when he catches Kiyoomi’s glower. “They’re probably just sick with worry,” he drawls, high on the feeling of absolute smugness. “Asking themselves where I am. There’s a lotta crazy people out there, ya know.”

Kiyoomi’s fist is tight and wet, and Atsumu fucks up into it. Kiyoomi flicks his thumb over the swollen cockhead, and Atsumu’s abdomen pulls tight. He’s so, so close, already brought over the edge by the view of an utterly debauched Kiyoomi only.

“Suna shouldn’t worry,” Kiyoomi murmurs, lids falling shut as he parts his lips again, spit glistening on his tongue and lips. His breath ghosts over Atsumu’s swollen tip. He didn’t think he could get any harder; he almost thinks he can feel the blood pumping at Kiyoomi’s fingertips.

“I’ll take care of you like the good boy you are.”

Atsumu loses it.

He lets out the most embarrassing moan at the praise, the fucking praise. Kiyoomi just knows how to push his buttons. His hands scramble to fist themselves in Kiyoomi’s hair and he ruts forward into tight warmth. It would be fine if only the goddamn mats didn't give out right there.

He tumbles to the floor with them, blue plastic cascading down around him and doing little to soften his fall. “Fuck,” he curses, ripping Kiyoomi down as well, barely managing to sling a hand around his neck before Kiyoomi’s head hits the floor. “Shit,” he says, “sorry, I didn’t mean ta–”

Kiyoomi scrambles onto his cock again. He’s on the floor, hands reaching out to scrabble at Atsumu’s bare thighs, scratching at them when they don’t find hold at first. His fingertips dig into dampened muscle. Atsumu falls onto his knees, pulled forward towards that maniac of a man, absolutely helpless against him.

Kiyoomi turns over on the floor. His eyes are pitch black. “Fuck my throat, Atsumu.” His mouth falls open.

Atsumu doesn’t really comprehend anything after that.

The head of his cock glides in easily, fitting itself between Kiyoomi’s lips as if it had always belonged there.

“Shit, ya can’t even breathe and yer beggin’ me ta cum down yer throat, huh Kiyoomi?”

Oh how he’s missed the sight of that small mouth stretching around his cock as he pushes deeper into wet heat, how much he’s missed burying his hands in a tuft of black curls and pulling until he meets glassy dark eyes and immerses himself in swirling desire.

When Kiyoomi tilts his head back, Atsumu slides deeper, deeper, until he thinks he can see himself there, his length bulging beneath the paper-thin skin of his unmarred throat.

He isn’t fucking Kioyomi too hard, not enough for him to splutter and gag, moving in time with his frantic breaths and gulps. He can’t believe he has him like this. He can’t fucking believe it.

He wants to ruin him. Suck bruises into that pale neck, trail a path of bites down that taut line, decorate Kiyoomi with himself. Mark him for everyone else.

He almost comes at the thought alone, squeezing his eyes tight in order to prevent it. He can only embarrass himself so much. As his hips stutter and his balls draw tight, he glides deeper. Too deep. Kiyoomi chokes.

Atsumu immediately slows as tears shoot into Kiyoomi’s eyes. The man’s entire body convulses, his throat constricting around him, which doesn’t help – but Atsumu still manages to get out a tight “Need me ta stop?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes go wide as he desperately shakes his head, his hands tightening around the curve of Atsumu’s thighs. His curls bounce on the floor.

“Shit, I knew ya’d say no. Yer a whore fer takin’ me like this, you knew what you were gettin’ yerself into. Ya love my cock so much ya couldn’t go without it for a couple’a months.”

Kiyoomi garbles out a sound that resembles indignation.

Atsumu licks his lips, his hand leaving the floor. He presses down on the imprint of his dick with the flat of his palm, leaning over Kiyoomi to fuck him faster, the sounds coming from him so obscene, so wet, just adding to the pleasure.

He looks up, just to see the wet spot on Kiyoomi’s shorts.

Atsumu is – breathless. He feels light, free, intoxicated on pure air. His head is spinning.

When he next speaks, he bends down to whisper it to Kiyoomi’s face. “Ya’ll never be someone’s slut like ya are mine, huh?”

Kiyoomi hollows his cheeks and drags his tongue up the shaft lodged in his throat. Swirls it around the head.

The stuttered groan that’s forced out of Atsumu echoes around the empty room.

Deep in Kiyoomi’s eyes, a promise glints. “Cmmhm inmshar.”

When Asumu pulls out, cool air kisses the tip of his cock. He shivers. “What was that?”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth, rests the tip of Atsumu’s cock on his tongue and lets another spurt of precum smear all over it. His eyes are a blurry maze of black. Wetness is clinging to his lower lashline. “Come inside,” he whispers.

Atsumu walks back into the locker room in a bouncing stride. “Good fucking day, folks!”

Meian is the last one in there besides Kiyoomi, and he squints at his setter. “Sakusa,” he calls out without looking away from Atsumu, “did Miya land a particularly clever insult sometime this past weekend?”

“No,” Kiyoomi disgruntledly says. He’d inconspicuously arrived about three minutes before Atsumu did, and now he wipes over his mouth with the back of his hand, just to be sure. He still feels the phantom memory of cum spilling between his lips, too much to swallow down. He gulps. “I might’ve just inadvertently stroked his ego.”

Stroked it, huh? Atsumu mouths at him behind Meian’s back, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. And then he rolls them again when Atsumu yanks off his shirt and shorts and just throws them to the floor.

“Oh my god,” Kiyoomi says.

Atsumu is wickedly grinning at him, wrapping a towel around his hips as he stands next to his discarded, damp exercise clothes on the floor. He pointedly peels off his socks and underwear and throws them onto the pile as well.

“Oh my god,” Kiyoomi repeats, “you’re not five, Miya, pick up your clothes.”

For a second, Atsumu stills, and then – with that infuriating twinkle in his eyes, he slowly loosens and drops his towel too. It pools around his feet.

He’s left standing naked, and cocks a pose.

“Not this,” Meian mutters.

“I’m going to bite your balls off,” Kiyoomi announces, but it doesn’t carry the usual venom. It’s difficult to be mean to a man whose dick you can still taste on your tongue. “I’m serious, if you don’t pick up your sweaty, disgusting shorts right now, I’ll–“

“What, divorce me?” Atsumu winks. “Did that already, babe.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Careful, or I’ll sneak into your apartment and steal the armchair you insisted on keeping.”

Atsumu cackles. “Your fault fer takin’ the good knives.”

“You don’t even cook! You used to whine about getting takeout half the time!”

Atsumu’s mouth drops open. “Bitch, you too! D’ya know that Samu got me a new knife set for my birthday, a knife set, like I’m an adult?” He pouts. “I just wanted the new Xbox.”

“Your brother is more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Sakusa breezily replies, “he should’ve given you some maturity along with it. Or maybe some–”

“Alright,” Meian says, and curtly nods at both of them. “I’m leaving, and also begging you to not start with all this again. Sakusa, if you end up killin’ Miya, you’ll hafta call cleanin’ services yerself.”

Five minutes later, Atsumu is eating Kiyoomi out in the shower.

///

“Uh-huh,” Motoya says, and continues tapping on his phone with one hand as he sucks on his spoon.

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose and sips at his straw, wincing at the slurping sound when his pink drink reaches the bottom. Motoya still isn’t looking at him, but Kiyoomi decides to just continue talking. “And then he said I’d have to fill out another form, but he can’t give that to me before I haven’t gotten the confirmation for that one, so I say why the fuck did you call me here today then, even though of course I didn’t say that, I said when can I come back again, hopefully at a time that won’t waste mine? Toya, you should’ve seen how he was looking at me when I–“ He breaks off, huffs.

Motoya’s fingers are flicking across his phone screen.

“Could you listen to me, maybe?” Kiyoomi asks, vaguely irritated. “What are you so busy with, anyways?”

“Texting Rin,” Motoya says without looking up. “Way more interesting than your Karen moment.”

“Great,” Kiyoomi snipes, “can’t you leave your husband alone for a single second?” He scowls. “They’re probably busy,” he adds as an afterthought, remembering his earlier … conversation with Atsumu.

“I’m just texting Tarou where we are,” Motoya says, scooping up another spoonful of ice cream. His attention is entirely focused on the phone in his hands, so when he leads the spoon to his mouth, he misses by a fraction and smears sticky pink against his chin. He darts out his tongue to lick it away. He isn’t successful, it stays. “And they’ll come join us.”

“No!”

Kiyoomi’s sudden yell startles Motoya. He looks up at him frowning. “Why.”

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. “Rin … is with Miya, right?”

Motoya’s frown deepens. “They didn’t say that, why do you know that?”

Kiyoomi clamps his mouth shut. Oh fuck. “Just … thought they might be,” he forces out.

Komori opens his mouth in confusion. “You alright? Tarou should be here in– there they are! Hi baby!” He waves with the biggest smile on his face as Kiyoomi slides deeper into his seat, wishing the ground would open up beneath him.

“And Tsumu is here too! Wait,” Komori says, and turns to Kiyoomi, “how did you know that he’d be with them?”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi weakly gets out as he observes them coming closer with absolute dread, “just a hunch.”

Motoya opens his mouth to say something, but is distracted by Suna dropping down on the chair next to him. They sneak a hand around his neck, pull him up for a kiss and chuckle against his mouth before their lips drop lower, open up to lap up the trail of forgotten strawberry ice cream. “Thought you couldn’t get any sweeter, baby,” they purr with a smirk, “but it looks like I was wrong.”

Motoya slides their lips back together. He’s smiling too. “You cheesy old sap.”

Atsumu wrinkles his nose as he plops down on the last free space in the booth next to Kiyoomi. “Ew.”

And at that, Suna turns their entire, sharp, sly attention to Kiyoomi. “Well,” they say, pulling back from their husband, “what a surprise. Nice to see you again, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi tries his best not to stare at Atsumu next to him. “Yeah,” he forces out, skidding to the leftmost edge of the booth, anything that gets him away from Atsumu. “Hi, Rin. And … Miya.” 

He snaps his mouth shut and gulps before he opens it again, scrambling for something to say. Fuck, what would he have told Atsumu a month ago in this same situation? Hell … a week ago? A day?

Something mean, something petty and superficial that wouldn’t have hurt but definitely sent Atsumu squawking. Uh. “Suna, I see you’ve brought the burden of my existence with you.”

That should be fine.

It’s not fine. Atsumu is intently staring at the salt shaker. The silence stretches on for too long.

Kiyoomi steps on Atsumu’s foot under the table, and the other man promptly jolts. “Oh,” he yelps, and awkwardly angles his body towards him, barely looking into his eyes as he realizes that he’s supposed to reciprocate the insult. “Um. Hello, you bastard.” He squints and winces. “Ah,” he tacks on. “What’s with the, uh, sour face?”

Kiyoomi gulps and stares at him, intently trying to convey the same panic he’s feeling onto him. Even though he might not have to do much on that front, going by Atsumu’s red ears which Kiyoomi knows are a sign for his nervousness. “Fucking idiot. Can you. Um. Uh.” Smoke must be coming out of his ears as he scrambles for an adequate response. Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Are you an ant infestation? Because you’re a huge problem, invading my private life and I can’t get rid of you.”

They stare at each other for a moment – and in unison, they turn to Motoya and Rintarou. The two have stopped with their hands half-tangled together and their eyes wide open, gawking at them open-mouthed in eerie synchronicity.

Atsumu gives a little cough.

Motoya drops his spoon. “Oh my god. You two–”

“–are totally fucking again, aren’t you.” The expression on Suna’s face is something between amazement and glee.

Atsumu winces. “Come on,” he whines, “are ya really completin’ each other’s sentences now too?”

“So it’s true. Also, that’s what you chose to focus on?”

Atsumu pouts. “Don’t gotta rub it in our faces.”

“What?” Suna wrinkles their nose and leans back in the chair, crossing their arms. The silver band at their ring finger flashes obnoxiously as they do. “That our marriage has never been better while you buried yours months ago and now decided to literally fuck on the grave?” They raise both thin eyebrows. “Genuine question. Are you fucking dumb?”

Kiyoomi flinches, but the married pair leaves him no room to breathe; Motoya leans across the table, eyes pleading and desperate. “Can’t you guys keep your hands to yourselves for like half a year?”

Kiyoomi sighs and finally decides to just keep eating. “It’ll be fine.” He takes a bite of his cream-covered strawberry. The taste explodes in his mouth, but he barely has a mind to savour it, energy humming through his every cell. It’s not quite panic, just … actually, what is it? Dread?

Suna’s face is unreadable. “It won’t be fine.”

“It will be.”

Motoya sighs and takes a sip of orange juice. “It won’t.”

“We’ll show you how fine we’ll be!” Atsumu yelps. “He sucked me off in the equipment room, unprompted, just before we came here! If that ain’t a sign that we’re perfectly fine, I dunno what is.”

“Tsumu,” Suna says, not even bothering to hide the twitch of their lips, “you two fucked and broke up on the same day, I don’t think sex will ever be the measure of anything in your relationship.” They pick up Motoya’s spoon to steal a bit of half-melted ice cream. “Well maybe stupidity,” they mumble around a mouthful of it, “cause there was lots of that too.”

“We almost had sex right before we broke up,” Kiyoomi corrects, “because Miya just had to demolish my home before he could stick it in, huh?”

Atsumu whirls around. “Ya know what, I’ll finally say it!” he huffs. “That vase was butt ugly, I wish I’d broken it weeks before!”

Kiyoomi’s mouth drops open. “It was a gift from my aunt!”

Atsumu narrows his eyes. “You hate yer aunt,” he spits before scrunching up his nose. “Not yer mother, Toya. She’s great, it’s the other aunt he hates.”

“I know,” Motoya says with a shudder, “everyone does.” He grimaces. “I wasn’t too mad about the shattered vase either. She was so offended when it happened that she kept away from our family dinners for four entire months.” He sighs deeply, gaze somewhere far away. “It was blissful.”

“And very symbolic,” Suna remarks and snatches up Motoya’s cup to take a sip, looking at the two of them from half-lidded eyes as they slurp loudly. “Broken marriage and all.”

“Unlike the vase, though,” Atsumu drawls and lodges an elbow right in Kiyoomi’s ribs, “it was Sakusa who ruined that one.”

“Excuse me?” Kiyoomi gasps. “Who here was responsible that we didn’t talk for an entire week straight back in April?”

“Nothin’ was straight about that week, ya came back on Saturday and fucked me in the ass!”

“And you liked it!”

“Of course I did, ya have a great dick!”

“What the fuck am I supposed to respond to that!”

While Atsumu spits something back, Motoya sneaks a hand across the table to hook his pinky into Suna’s. He sighs, looking down at the melted puddle of ice cream in his cup. “God, it’s starting again. Have they always been like this?”

“Yeah,” Suna replies, “this is stage one. Remember, we mapped it out.”

They look at the whisper-shouting two, noses almost touching with the way they’re hissing insults right at each other.

“Right,” Motoya says, and feeds Suna a spoonful of cream. “Stage two should commence in … two weeks, then?”

“Eh,” Suna says, tongue darting out to lick away a drop of chocolate that has escaped their mouth, “one, tops. All the pent-up frustration probably adds to the … hormones.” They peer at the former couple out of the corner of their eyes. “Hey idiots,” they finally snarl, and both jolt and turn to look at them.

Suna sighs deeply, eyes flickering somewhere between the toppled-over salt shaker on the table – an irate elbow’s fault – and the spot where a splatter of orange juice is bedewing the fabric of Kiyoomi’s sleeve in droplets. Atsumu sheepishly sets the cup back down at Suna’s continued devastating squint. 

“It’s not like I care or anything,” they drawl, “but please don’t? Just don’t. I know you’re telling yourself it’ll be just sex, but it won’t be, because there’s too much … going on for that.” They clear their throat. “And, um, I’d like for my friends not to be all miserable and heartbroken and shit again. So … don’t. This is exactly how your problems have always started. Instead of communicating or being open or vulnerable, you threw insults at each other, then took off your clothes, and then pretended like everything was fine. Even though of course it wasn’t.”

At Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s stares, they defensively cross their arms over their chest.

“Exactly,” Komori jumps in, firmly nodding, “whatever this is, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Thank you, relationship counselor-san,” Atsumu remarks, an ugly curve skewing the taut line of his mouth. “How about you two shut yer stupid mouths and let me and Sakusa fuck around in peace, I can’t fucking bear it!”

All three turn their incredulous stares on him.

Atsumu shrinks in on himself under the scrutiny. “Sorry Toya,” he mumbles, “that was mean.”

Komori sighs. “It’s fine. I’m more concerned about you two.” He frowns, wringing his hands. “Seriously, how– why – who–“

“Who was the horny bastard who initiated this?” Kiyoomi calls out. “Miya, of course.”

A long, cutting side-glance from deep-set eyes. “Cause you were complainin’ so much, eh?” Atsumu rolls his eyes. “No, what I heard was more along the lines of ‘fuck me harder with yer fat cock, yeah, right there!’”

“Ew,” Suna says and scrunches up their face, “it’s a Sunday morning, I really didn’t need this.”

Komori huffs out a laugh at their joke and brushes his fingertips over Suna’s shoulder who turns to look at him. “It’s neither Sunday nor morning, baby, are you losing track of time and space again? Will I have to make another appointment with the therapist?”

Suna smirks lopsidedly, and for a second, it seems as if that was it, they’d continue the conversation like before – but at the last moment before they do, they turn back to their husband. At the expression on their face, Motoya’s face goes slack. His hand falls away.

“Actually, this just hurt me,” Suna quietly says. They press their lips into a thin line and peer earnestly into Motoya’s eyes. “That was a difficult time in my life, and I know I make jokes about it too, but I’m not ready to be so casual with it yet. I hope you can understand.“

Motoya’s eyes have grown wide, and he scrambles to take Suna’s hands in his. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known.” He raises their knuckles to his mouth and presses a soft kiss onto them. “You know I adore you, support you, and would never deliberately hurt you. Thank you for telling me and being willing to be vulnerable. Let me make it up to you by cooking agedashi tofu today? We can talk about it over dinner.”

Atsumu looks down at his own hands. He doesn’t even know what the nagging pulling at his stomach is … envy? Is he envious? Of Suna and Komori’s easy intimacy, their immediate understanding of each other, their willingness to offer all of themselves to the other without question?

Maybe it isn't envy, maybe it's shame.

Shame that when they had tried to do this same thing, they hadn't been able to treat each other this way at all. Not just with passion or adoration, but consideration.

And yet when he looks over at Kiyoomi, he seems entirely unaffected. He's thumbing at a napkin, ripping off little stripes that saunter onto the surface of the table and collect in a neat pile.

No, that's not true.

The reason why Atsumu can't read an expression off Kiyoomi's face is because he can't read it anymore at all.

He used to have him memorized; used to know his elation, concern, anger, arousal, everything about him.

Now, he doesn't know what it means when Kiyoomi purses his lips at the shreds of paper, right eyebrow twitching just slightly, the set of moles above it moving with the motion. He doesn't know what it means when Kiyoomi's gaze lingers on Suna and Komori for a bit too long before he turns it to Atsumu and immediately rips it away.

Kiyoomi escapes him.

Atsumu licks his lips. He can still taste him.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe all of that stuff isn't that important for them. Because they're not doing all that love stuff that Suna and Komori are doing, are they?

Maybe it's enough to know that while Atsumu was eating him out, Kiyoomi's legs had been shaking so badly he could barely keep himself up with both hands clenched around the shower mount, that when Kiyoomi had climaxed, he'd pushed back on Atsumu's tongue so hard that the setter could almost hear his nose crack. Maybe it's enough to know that he'll be coming to Kiyoomi and that Kiyoomi will come to him, that there is no promise of a future or a haunting of the past, just two bodies seeking refuge and relief.

Yeah, he tells himself, he doesn’t need anything else.

///

Atsumu wins the last point with a setter dump.

As he jumps, his jersey rides up, and it reveals glistening muscle and a hint of a dark trail of coarse hair. Kiyoomi’s gaze traces Atsumu’s thighs as he comes back down, traces the way the tight corded muscles of his thighs bunch up when they catch the force of the impact. When Atsumu pushes his fist into the air and throws his head back in triumph, beads of sweat travel down the thick column of his neck, disappearing beneath the hem of his collar, his damp shirt clinging to his pecs.

His eyes are molten and dark when they err across the court to find Kiyoomi’s. His cheeks flushed. Atsumu licks a thin sheen of sweat off his cupid's bow.

They keep Kiyoomi at the interviews for too long.

One person compliments him on his three consecutive service aces in the second set, another asks him what kind of meal plan he started because he's gained definition on his arms, hasn’t he? Some woman ponders what his future career aspirations are, and he thinks about Atsumu taking him right here on the court, fucking him open for everyone to see. Someone else asks if he’s content with his performance today, and he imagines his asshole straining around four of Atsumu’s fingers while three others press down on his tongue until spit drips down his chin and his eyes roll into the back of his head. They’d do it on the bench in the locker room. Maybe someone would walk in. He almost whimpers.

“Huh?”

Someone asked him a question.

“Coming out of the college circuit yourself, what are you most excited about with numerous promising athletes having recently signed to other D1 teams? Do you think the dynamics in the league will majorly change or will it remain a fight dominated by EJP, Adlers and MSBY while the rest compete for scraps?”

He wants Atsumu to fuck his mouth until his throat bulges, he wants to swallow his bitter load until he can’t breathe.

“Goshiki for sure,” he gets out laboriously, hoping, praying that he won't get a boner on national television. “I’ve been following their career for a while, I admire their drive and aspiration most of all. I’m excited about what they’ll be able to do once the Green Rockets sign on more rookies. It could definitely–“

A heavy arm lands around his shoulder. Kiyoomi stiffens. 

Warmth radiates off Atsumu’s torso, his sweaty jersey clinging to his heated skin, a miniscule barrier separating him and Kiyoomi where he’s pressed himself flush to his back. “Hello,” he drawls into his ear. “Havin’ fun without me?”

Kiyoomi’s knees are shaking.

They’ve just finished a game, they’re sweating and reeking and filthy, and Kiyoomi should be disgusted by the mere thought of touching Atsumu right now, but he’s so goddamn horny.

What if he kissed him? Right here, right now?

What if he slung a hand around Atsumu’s neck, fingers curling into the raspiness of his undercut while yanking him in for a kiss? What if their mouths pushed together and he opened his lips and Atsumu’s tongue would already be waiting for him, and it would be slick and deft and hot and licking into his mouth and Kiyoomi would groan and land his other hand on Atsumu’s hip and bury his fingers in the damp, flimsy fabric of his shorts, digging into the flesh of his ass as he yanked him closer until their hips sit together tightly, and he wouldn’t be able to help the whine that climbs up within him as Atsumu grinds down just barely, rutting his hard length against his thigh as he’s taking his lower lip between his teeth and–

“Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi staggers with the impact of that simple word, resisting the utter need to wipe over his mouth with a hand and erase the memory of something he hasn’t even done.

“Yes!” he barks, snapping his head up. “Yes.”

To his side, Atsumu laughs lightly, and Kiyoomi resists the temptation to stomp on his foot. Because that would mean taking his thigh away from where it’s firmly pressed against Atsumu’s, and that would be just a waste, now wouldn’t it?

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi grits out, “My thoughts were somewhere else.”

And then the interviewer talks about team bonding and trust and the importance of being comfortable in an environment and therefore having the opportunity to to unfold and develop in synchronicity with others and holy shit, Kiyoomi couldn’t care less, when will this be over?

Atsumu leans in close to him. His soft breath tickles the sensitive shell of his ear. “I’m gonna fuck ya so hard after this,” he murmurs.

Kiyoomi almost crumbles against Atsumu’s firm chest, barely managing to keep up the feeble pretense of composure in favor of not embarrassing himself on live television. A shiver runs through his entire body and pools right between his legs, his cock twitching helplessly when Atsumu ghosts his fingertips over his waist.

He’ll grab him by the fucking neck and drag him out of  here right this instant, he’ll push him into the backseat of his car and he’ll tell him to get ready because Kiyoomi will destroy this motherfucking di–

“What was that?” the reporter asks cheerfully.

Kiyoomi barely manages to keep himself from squeaking out loud. Atsumu freezes and pales. “Uh,” he stammers out as he jolts back from where his nose was buried in Kiyoomi’s curls.

Kiyoomi wants to murder someone, maybe himself. “He said,” he weakly gets out, clear dread seeping into his expression as he looks at Atsumu with wide eyes. “He said that we need to … follow our hearts?”

The reporter’s face is friendly and open. “Follow your hearts in which way?” she asks.

Good question. Kiyoomi whips around to Atsumu, a dangerous kind of glint in his eyes. “Yeah,” he grits out, “in which way did you mean that, Atsumu?”

“To, um, to, you know, uh, be ourselves? Whichever way we want to be?”

“You should start an Instagram account with motivational quotes,” Kiyoomi murmurs.

“What was that, Sakusa-senshu?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again.

The reporter smiles, skipping over the awkwardness entirely. “So I take it all is well with you?” she asks. “On court, your work is as excellent as ever. But even off of it, you two seem very comfortable with each other again. We all know it has been a strained few months for you.”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi says, and lets out a shaky huff of breath, still not recovered from the fiasco. “Sure.”

“How are you two?”

“Good, good,” Kiyoomi begins, and hopes that his grin doesn’t come off as awkward as it feels. “We’re good.”

“Always the same,” Atsumu adds, his chuckle a bit too high as he scratches his neck and averts his eyes. “We’re just vibin’, we’re chillin’. Bussin’.”

Both the reporter and Kiyoomi’s heads swivel around to stare at him like he’d grown a third arm. At Kiyoomi’s panicked mouthing of what the fuck, Atsumu tries to remedy. “What do the kids say? We’re … um … a banger? We’re bangin’?”

“Oh my god, we are not banging,” Kiyoomi blurts out, horrified.

Atsumu tries to salvage the situation by making it worse, of course, hands flying around the air as he’s scrambling for words. His voice is tight and high. “I mean, we’re fly? A whole vibe.” He clears his throat, going a deep scarlet red at their continued stares. “Um. We’re good. Yeah, we’re good.”

A pause.

“That’s so great to hear!” the reporter responds with a blinding smile, eyes darting between the both of them before turning slightly to the camera. Both men stare into the black glass sphere, internally already having admitted defeat. “I have to admit that the news of your divorce shook up the news cycle quite a bit, and after only half a year of marriage too! Would you mind talking about that a little bit?” Before they can even respond, she powers on, and Atsumu and Kiyoomi resign to their fates. “It was about this time last year when you announced your marriage with, curiously, an Instagram picture by Miya. We’re pulling it up on the screen now, and Sakusa-senshu, can you tell us a bit about it?”

“I’d be delighted to.” He looks positively chagrined. “In it, I, uh, I suppose I was lying in bed under the covers, pouting at him and giving him the middle finger, while M–“ – he coughs – “while Tsumu was behind the camera and making a crooked heart at me with fingers.” He tries to soften his monotonous tone with a smile but by the way that Atsumu is looking at him with widened eyes, it probably just makes him look terrifying. God damn it, that Adlers’ setter must’ve rubbed off on him.

The reporter excitedly nods. “It’s such a fun picture, so far it has amassed almost four million likes on Instagram! How did you even take it?”

And this time, both of them freeze.

Kiyoomi’s organs barrel-roll into the ground as the color totally and completely drains from Atsumu’s face. And then, it comes back in a full, fierce blush. “I, uh, propped it up with my body?” he squeaks. And because he can’t say I had it in my lap leaned on my half-hard dick, he makes a chopped motion puffing out his chest and presses his chin down, imitating balancing the phone between, before realizing that he’s on a national sports broadcast and also realizing how stupid he probably looks -- so he turns even redder. “Yeah, I don’t remember, really,” he hurriedly adds, gulping, “I was, uh, occupied with other things.”

“Other things, of course!” the reporter says, that giant smile still plastered onto her face. “The binding of your love!”

Kiyoomi unfortunately knows what other things means, and it is not the binding of their love, but Atsumu fucking into him shallowly with slick fingers, never slipping in fully, just rocking his fingertips back and forth so the piece of brand-new metal pressed into Kiyoomi’s rim, made him feel the outline and weight of it, catching at his sensitive skin and drawing moan after moan out of him. He’d clawed red streaks across Atsumu’s shoulders and clamped his legs around his thighs by the time Atsumu finally pushed his fingers in fully.

Can ya feel that? Atsumu had drawled as the ring popped in, the stretch so wonderfully painful as Kiyoomi whined with that last barrier rubbing up against his walls, Yer mine now. No one else is gonna have ya like this ever again, baby.

A shiver runs down Kiyoomi spine and he jolts, hoping that he doesn’t look as hazy as he felt just now because oh god oh fuck, they’re on national television and he’s pretty sure he just passed out for a second from the sheer power of horny. He clears his throat. “It … was an eventful day.”

“It was for sure!” the reporter cheerfully adds, “I can’t tell you how surprised we all were when you two kissed out of nowhere after your win, and then even more when you posted said picture on the very next morning. Your romance was surely a whirlwind one.”

“It was,” Kiyoomi quietly agrees.

She devolves once more into some dumb fucking monologue about personal relationships and teamwork and whatnot, and Kiyoomi knows that both him and Atsumu have long clinked out of the discussion.

Even long after she’s bowed and hurried down the corridor, the cameraman after her, the scowl remains on Kiyoomi’s face. “I’m going out with you and the rest of the guys today,” he declares. 

He can’t look at Atsumu.

“You’re drinking, right?”

“We’re goin’ to a bar, ‘course I am.”

Kiyoomi purses his lips. “Good.” He needs a fucking distraction. Not like he’s going to say that to Atsumu.

Atsumu probably knows anyways, considering that the last time Kiyoomi had gone out with the team, they’d still been together.

///

Kiyoomi could scream.

The entire evening is just rotten.

Kiyoomi had intended to get drunk tonight, but that turns out to be much harder than expected. He already recoils at the door. It slams shut after Inunaki, and Kiyoomi instinctually stills, hand not even reaching out to touch the germ-ridden handle, looking to the side to look at – no one.

No one is there, not Atsumu, who used to walk with Kiyoomi on these team outings, who used to skip next to him while relaying a dumb story and chew gum and be annoying but would most of all carry wet wipes on him at all times and take a step forward when Kiyoomi would take a step backwards. He would reach out and clean the handle and he would tease Kiyoomi about it a bit, but he would do it, and now he doesn’t.

Kiyoomi is staring at empty air.

Hinata knocks into him, laughing breathlessly from his impromptu sprint against Bokuto across the parking lot. “Hey!” he calls out. “Are you just going to stand there? Is the door locked?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says, “it isn’t.”

Hinata opens the door while chattering away and Kiyoomi slips through, but the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach doesn’t subside.

It’s been long since he’s gone out with the team, longer than the divorce had been decided, longer than he can really remember, because – has it always been like this? This … uncomfortable?

He shrinks at the onslaught of smoky air, of the sour underlying smell of sweat and sweet alcohol, of warm breaths and pounding music.

Has he always felt like this?

Like he’s wading into an ocean barefoot knowing there are crabs hiding in the sand.

Someone bumps into his side and he jolts almost violently. Kiyoomi recoils from the man that’s already staggering away, shying away to the side where – no one is. He releases a shaky breath. Atsumu isn’t there, no one is there, no one who would shield his body from others, who would quietly direct him to a calm corner and help him clean his space.

No, Kiyoomi bitterly thinks as he furiously rubs a wet wipe over the sticky spot on the chair that he wants to settle down on, Atsumu isn’t here for him anymore.

Isn’t supposed to, really. Does he want him to? Does he miss him? He didn’t think he did.

He broods in the corner and watches the writhing mass on the dance floor, most definitely not up for the task of rubbing himself and his germs all over other people as they did the same.

But then again, maybe it’s easier to pretend that it’s the people and the germs and the everything that is making him feel so violated, so off-kilter, so wholly and thoroughly disrupted, and not the fact that Atsumu isn’t here to distract him from it.

Atsumu is on the dance floor, rolling his hips to a Latin song as Hinata enthusiastically grinds against him, their smiles so bright in the strobing lights that their teeth are glinting. Their bodies are entangled, firm arms around firm waists, and Atsumu looks like he’s having fun. Like he doesn’t have a worry in the world, like he isn’t … sitting in a corner wanting to cry because no one wiped down his stool for him.

Kiyoomi’s pathetic, isn’t he?

He clamps his fingers down around the edge of the table. He needs him. He fucking needs him, and he wants to retch at the realization.

Want, it is burning and fierce and exhilarating. He’s chased it many times before, and he can deal with it.

But need … is pure desperation.

Their relationship might’ve gone wrong when they started needing each other.

Atsumu has absent-mindedly dropped his head back, hair flopping into his eyes as he lazily moves to the drum of the music. His tight black shirt does nothing to hide the shifting of his muscles, the straining of his biceps against his sleeves as he swings his arms to the music, tilting and swaying and jumping as Hinata does the same. Flashes of color illuminate him in blue and green and red.

When Atsumu turns with a sweep on the beat, he looks at him. Their gazes catch on each other like flies on sticky tape. Something will decay on it.

But then again, Kiyoomi thinks. It’s want that’s coursing through his veins and pooling in his lower stomach, it most definitely is – and yet he feels pretty desperate.

Across the room, Atsumu raises an eyebrow. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes way too dark, and he’s … making his way towards him. Step for step.

Kiyoomi stands up.

Why does Atsumu want this? Why does he want him?

Kiyoomi isn’t a pleasant person, he isn’t a comfortable person, not someone who is terribly smart or funny or kind, he is mean and cold and can be relentless and biting, and Atsumu could have anyone he wants. He could look around the room and pick someone out, could make his way over to them with swinging hips and a confident smirk and could be fucking them in any hole an hour later. Why does he want him?

Atsumu comes to a halt in front of him, hair messy across his forehead, breathing still heavy as he hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans.

Maybe the why isn’t important, Kiyoomi thinks, maybe it’s only important that he does. That he does want him, that he does feel that merciless thrill, that terrible, terrible pull in his gut.

Atsumu’s eyes are a sea of gold. 

“Hey,” he breathes, “I’m hyped and pumped and I’m horny, wanna go do it?”

Kiyoomi stares at him for only a second before his defenses crumble. “Car,” he rasps, catching the end of Atsumu’s sleeve between his fingers.

And when they tumble outside togethe

They tumble outside together, shuffle through the thrum of people. Atsumu has his hands loosely around him so he can fend off any possible touches from strangers, and Kiyoomi places his other hand to Atsumu’s hip and grips him steady, holding himself grounded as his eyes err until they find the door.

Atsumu opens it for him. Kiyoomi’s heart shatters.

The cool night air is nothing but a relief, and Kiyoomi almost stumbles before Atsumu catches him around the waist, whirls him around so they’re pressed chest to chest. 

Together, they stagger a few more steps until Kiyoomi’s shoulder bumps into a lamp post, and Atsumu laughs and Kiyoomi – he has to, he does too. He slings both arms around Atsumu and looks down, knocking their foreheads together as he stares into the deepness of soft eyes.

Oh how he’s missed this, the faint smell of apple shampoo, the flush sitting at the edges of Atsumu’s face as he gazes up at him with his mouth standing open a tiny bit. How he’s missed rubbing their cheeks together, a slight stubble already scratching at his soft skin. Beer breath meets his, but he doesn’t care. How much he wants. How much he wants this, how he wants to slot their lips together, grab Atsumu’s chin and kiss him senseless.

But Atsumu doesn’t allow him to because he breaks away panting, a wild smile etched into his face as he jerks his head. “Car’s this way, c’mon.” He tangles their fingers together and pulls, and Kiyoomi can do nothing but stumble after him. There’s a certain light in his eyes as he looks up at him over his shoulder, still smiling so seamlessly and gleefully. “I probably still have the lube and condoms stashed in the glove compartment, and probably some of yer favorite wipes. We’ll clean it all before I ravage ya, baby, don’tcha worry at all.”

Kiyoomi stumbles. He freezes entirely as his brain shuts down. A certain kind of fuzzy static drills into his ears, a certain hum that renders his thoughts molasses and shakes him down to his very bones.

He’s still being pulled forward by Atsumu but he feels like his legs don’t move, like his limbs are too heavy and his head full with cotton. “What…” he arduously gets out, “what did you say?”

Atsumu stops and Kiyoomi almost crashes into him, and he still can only look at him as Atsumu roams his pockets for his keys, fingers erratic and imprecise from the alcohol buzzing in his veins. “Huh?”

Hair flops into his eyes adorably as he looks up, that dopey grin still etched onto his face. It fades as he takes in the expression on Kiyoomi’s face.

He immediately straightens, something searching and concerned in his eyes. “Hey, are ya, uh, alright?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi snaps. “What did you say?”

“I said we’ll wipe it down. The seats.” Atsumu gulps. “And, uh, I have lube in there probably somewhere? Hey, what’s–“

Kiyoomi’s face falls. He abruptly turns away.

“Hey, what’s going on,” Atsumu demands, a hand catching Kiyoomi’s wrist to turn him back towards him. He meets less resistance than expected, so he ends up pulling him around hard, and the other man jolts with fire burning in his eyes. 

“Don’t touch me!”

Atsumu’s mouth drops open. He pushes the heel of his hand down against his dick and clamps his other around his keys. “The fuck?” he says, “What’s wrong?”

“Just … just … leave me alone for a second.” Kiyoomi himself has his hands balled into fists, staring down the street at a fire hydrant, pointedly not looking at Atsumu even as he’s talking to him. His chest heaves with the effort of resisting the temptation to break into full sprint, to run anywhere, just away. His eyes do not fill with tears.

“Leave ya alone?” Atsumu’s voice rises in volume and he pulls at his sleeve again until Kiyoomi whirls around to glare at him, a muscle working at his jaw. His lips are pressed together tightly. “Why the fuck would I do that? Yer drunk! You were gonna fuck me just now! What’d I do?”

“I just don’t want to sleep with you right now!”

“Huh? You know damn well that ya do! Yer lookin’ at me with yer fuckin’ doe eyes like ya always do, I know that ya wanna fuck me and I know that ya know that too!”

“We can’t do this!” Kiyoomi’s voice is all wobbly the way it gets when he’s angry or overwhelmed, but he pushes on, spits out the rest of the words. “What the fuck, what if some kid comes by and sees us?”

Atsumu leans up to him with his lip curled. “As if that’s gonna happen. ‘Sides, ya know damn well you don’t care about the kids. Remember our first date, the one at the pier? A kid stumbled and fell down right in front of us and started wailing, and you laughed.”

“You did too! It fell funny!” he hisses furiously.

“Irrelevant! Why don’t ya wanna fuck me!”

“We can’t be like this anymore, we're in, in … fucking public, in a carpark, you're going to bend me over the console! It’s fucking nasty!”

“Liar, you once cockwarmed me during an entire drive-in movie. What’s this about?”

“I don’t belong to you!” Kiyoomi yells. “I fucking don’t!”

“I never said that, Sakusa,” Atsumu says, slowly and dangerously, “I never said that! Why are ya freaking out!”

“Cause this is like last time, we sleep together and we get too into it, and I start wanting only you and I can’t stop thinking about you and I suck you off in the equipment room and would be down to fuck in a parking lot, and you know me and what I want and what I need and you carry my fuckin’ wipes still and I can’t bear it, we say we won’t fall in love and I still will, and I can’t let this happen!” He takes a ragged breath. “Because what if I do, huh? I can’t believe I’m giving you this much credit, but what if I fall in love with you again?”

It’s out. His ragged breath sounds loud in the following silence, only interrupted by the hum of a passing car. Atsumu stares up at him, and it scares Kiyoomi that he can’t discern the emotion on his face anymore. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not yours,” he weakly exhales.

He doesn’t dare open his eyes. Atsumu stays silent for a while, but when he talks, the edge of his voice cuts him like a knife. “No, we’re not each other’s anymore,” Atsumu spits, “but what the fuck do ya expect me to do? All night ya’ve been sittin’ in yer little corner lookin’ at me like ya wanna devour me, tracing my every movement like ya can’t wait for me to fuck ya so hard that ya pass out, I know that goddamn look in yer eyes,” he snarls. “So what are ya doin’ now, saying that ya don’t? Pullin’ back like ya always do, pushin’ me away, tellin’ yerself that ya don’t need me. What are ya tryin’ to prove to yerself? That you don’t want me?” He huffs. Curls his lip. “Baby, your cock is half hard.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth drops open. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Isn’t that how I always am at the beginning?” He laughs hollowly. “But yeah, just do it, go off, go wild. Tell me I’m disgustin’, that I’m filthy and dirt, tell me that ya don’t want me and don’t need me, fine. I’ll just stand here and take it.”

“You’re fucking exaggerating now, you’re pulling this out of your ass!”

“But I feel like dirt!”

“Why are you fighting with me!” Kiyoomi yells.

“Cause ye’re lyin’ to yerself! Always honest, always blunt, always upfront Sakusa Kiyoomi, huh? Ye’re lying to yerself!” He scoffs. “I know you, you fucking moron. Ye’re in denial and pretendin’ like ya aren’t, and I can’t stand to see it!”

“You know me?” Kiyoomi says. His own voice sounds foreign even to him. “Well you’re wrong. Because I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t need you. I don’t need you to complicate my life any more than you already have, I could end our arrangement right here and I wouldn’t care one fucking bit.”

“You wouldn’t care?”Atsumu’s voice is too quiet. His head snaps up. “Ya wouldn’t care?” he repeats, louder and sharper.

“No,” Kiyoomi laboriously grits out, “I wouldn’t.”

And Atsumu is silent. His face is nothing but a grimace when he opens his mouth again. “You wouldn’t care, huh?” he drawls. “Ya wouldn’t care if I made out with someone, if I was grindin’ my cock on someone else’s thigh. You wouldn’t care if I marked their neck with hickeys and told them how beautiful they are, how pretty they look spread open by me. Ya wouldn’t care if I fucked them so full with cum that it bursts out of them at the–“

“Shut the fuck up!”

But Atsumu doesn’t. He doesn’t, he shakes his head and starts laughing to himself, giggles almost maniacally. It echoes across the empty lot, bumps into the asphalt and curbstones and clangs in the cavity of Kiyoomi’s chest.

And yet everything is silent when Atsumu’s eyes bore into Kiyoomi’s.

“Did ya even love me?”

The world might’ve stopped for a moment.

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu, stares at this man, stares at the familiar curve of his nose and the twitch of his eyebrows and the curl of his lip and he stares at him and wants to punch him in the face. “How dare you say that,” he growls, “how dare you fucking say that! Go! Go kiss someone else, go shove your tongue down their throat!” Tears are burning in his eyes as he shoves him away. He turns. “Go do it! I don’t care!”

But he does care, he cares so much as Atsumu sidles up to some skinny guy across the room, as he puts on his false fucking smile that has always aggravated Kiyoomi so much, as he casually touches an elbow and angles their bodies closer towards each other. Kiyoomi stares at him, how he’s put on his confident stance, how he flicks his hair back like he always does when he’s nervous, how that plasticky smile is still stuck on his face like a mockery of a real human emotion, he stares, stares, stares, stares, stares.

Atsumu stares back. He’s talking to the other man, but he’s looking at Kiyoomi, his eyes boring into his as he chuckles at some joke. He tells one back and when the guy throws his head back laughing, Atsumu’s expression drops. His eyes on Kiyoomi turn frigid. The smile is back again quickly.

Kiyoomi clamps his hands down around the edge of the table, but even that sensation is muffled through his gloves. Oh how he wants to pull his gaze away — but he can’t. He doesn’t want to see Atsumu lean closer and settle a heavy hand on a hip, he doesn’t want his other hand to come up and finally land on a lean bicep, his grin taking on a dangerous edge. He doesn’t want to see him lick his lips and send a last glance Kiyoomi’s way as he pulls the body in front of him closer until their thighs are almost touching, bowing his head and starting to lazily move to the faint music overhead.

He rolls his hips agonizingly slow.

When the man with the pink hair starts awkwardly bopping too, Atsumu laughs loudly and ghosts his fingertips over his shoulder. The blood freezes in Kiyoomi's veins.

Snapshots of memories flitter through his mind: a flurry of a night, one filled with laughter and sake and a half-unbuttoned shirt; a flushed Atsumu who had looked at Kiyoomi like a starving man, who had weaved across the busy dancefloor like nobody existed but him, who’d come to a halt in front of him, slowly lain his head back and put on a lazy smirk. “What are ya doin’ in that corner all lonely? You should be dancing.”

Fingertips fluttering over his shoulder before settling at his nape.

“Afterall, it’s yer wedding night.”

When Kiyoomi jumps up, he knocks over an almost-empty bottle of beer. He doesn’t busy himself with the spill, barely notices that some drops of golden liquid moisten his pants, he shoves himself out of the booth and goes marching, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Both men turn around when he stumbles to a halt in front of them.

“Hello ex-husband,” Kiyoomi utters, and a shiver runs down his spine as his gaze catches Atsumu’s. He knows that his cheeks must be flaming, but really can’t bring himself to care, not when Atsumu is still touching this stranger, when the indents of his fingers on this foreign body leave burning marks all over Kiyoomi, not when – Pink Hair gasps when Atsumu pulls him closer until their hips sit flush together.

“The fuck are ya doin’ here?” Atsumu murmurs. “I thought ya wanted nothin’ to do with me.”

“I thought so too,” Kiyoomi drawls. “But maybe I do care. Maybe I do.”

Their eyes bore into each other.

“So I wanted to join in,” he whispers.

“Join what?” the guy asks breathlessly, eyes jumping between the two looming men and the crackling tension that hangs between them like a thundercloud. He cracks a weak smile, eyes raking Kiyoomi’s figure in appreciation as he sizes him up. “Not like I’d mind, damn.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi repeats, “join what?” He gulps, bobbing on his heels. “What are you two doing?” he asks, miserably failing at sounding casual.

Atsumu looks at him from half-lidded eyes, taking a long sip of his drink. As he lowers his cup, he licks his lip. “Talking about my divorce.”

Sudden, pure rage burns up within Kiyoomi. “Oh are you?” he chokes out. “How interesting. Considering that it concerns me as well. Hey, cotton candy, aren’t you standing a bit too close to my ex-husband there?”

Pink Hair jolts and bites his lip, taking a step to the side. Kiyoomi swears he can hear the air crackling as their bodies detach. “Um. Good, uh, good evening?” It’s fucking unfair how good he looks, all golden skin and glossy, artfully tousled hair. He smiles, then, and he even has fucking dimples, Kiyoomi hates him so much. “You can call me Mitsuru, or Mitsu.”

Kiyoomi pulls a face. “Are ya havin’ fun, cotton candy?”

“Well we were havin’ fun,” Atsumu bites out, “until my cranky ex decided to show up and kill everyone’s good mood.” His hand is still resting on Pink Hair’s shoulder, their hips still resting on each other.

“Just continue to be in a good mood, then,” Kiyoomi gets out, gaze magnetically drawn to where Pink Hair has landed a slender hand on Atsumu’s waist, “and ignore me. Keep on doing what you were doing.” He clears his throat, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Actually, what were you doing? It looked like you wanted to kiss him for a second there.”

“And what if I was?”

Atsumu's voice is low, and takes another sip before stretching to set down the cup on a nearby table, eyes not leaving Kiyoomi for a second.

“If you were, I wouldn’t care,” Kiyoomi says, taking a step closer, “I wouldn’t care at all.”

“Oh?” Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “What if I did this?”

His fingers brush over an open collar, caress a dainty, pale clavicle.

Both of Atsumu’s hands are on Mitsuru’s body, both broad, strong hands staking a claim. Or rather – the denial of one.

They inch down a trembling chest, lower and lower until they settle into the dip of a trim waist. Press down on a forceful exhale.

Kiyoomi knows exactly what they feel like, would be able to pick out their touch in a room of hundreds, the long-gone ghost of them caging him in even now.

“I wouldn’t care,” he still says, throat constricted, “I wouldn’t care either if you pulled him closer.”

“You wouldn’t care,” Atsumu echoes.

“Fucking do it.” Kiyoomi grits out.

When Atsumu doesn’t, Kiyoomi takes another step forward, right up into their space until his chest touches to Mitsuru’s back, makes the other man jolt between them. But he doesn’t care, he raises an arm himself, slings it around the shorter man’s shoulder and neck as he settles his face next to Mitsuru’s, still looking, still observing. “Do it,” he whispers, his breath now brushing Atsumu’s, and he leans closer, leans to the left where his lips almost brush Mitsuru’s jawline, where he can inhale a hint of rich, fruity cologne. He keeps it in his lungs as his eyes flick upwards, catch a foreign blue gaze, a gaze that is confused and shocked but so intrigued, and Kiyoomi's eyes sweep back to Atsumu.

“You wanted to do it, didn’t you? The reason is irrelevant. Kiss him.”

Atsumu had once called him relentless. Without pity. He’d probably been right.

“I shouldn’t,” Atsumu croaks out.

“But you wanted to.”

Atsumu’s lips brush Kiyoomi’s first. The touch of a butterfly’s wing.

They land on the corner of Mitsuru’s mouth almost clumsily, and Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu has forgotten how to kiss someone that isn’t him. Kiyoomi’s arm is around Mitsuru’s throat, and he feels when he gulps, when he takes a trembling breath and parts his lips. Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu presses his tongue into him more insistently. A fierce and ugly kind of chimera roars inside his own chest as Atsumu’s tongue rolls, the muscle pushing into an open mouth and finding wet warmth waiting.

Atsumu lets out a weak gasp.

Kiyoomi feels vulgar, obscene, like an intrusion to intimacy, and yet he cannot look away. Atsumu’s eyes are half-closed as he moves glistening spit, his lips pink and glinting in the dim lights. Inviting.

Kiyoomi shouldn’t do it, he really shouldn’t, but he closes those last inches of distance.

He lays his own dry lips to a shapely jawline. 

Mitsuru jumps under his touch and Kiyoomi looks up – finds two pairs of eyes fixed on him. And yet he doesn’t see rejection or even comprehension in either of them. He tilts his head up, drinks in the hunger in dilated pupils. His mouth falls open out of his own volition. The air is cold against the moisture on his lips, but warmth soon returns when a mouth seals his own shut.

A greedy tongue pushes to gain access and he would chuckle against the eagerness if he could do anything but revel in the overwhelming relief that’s flooding him. He doesn’t even care who’s kissing him, just relishes in the demanding touch. 

(He does, he does care. It’s Atsumu.)

Something numb is sitting in the pit of his stomach, something that he should think about but he doesn’t, he doesn’t because those foreign hands on him feel so nice, the way they pull at him, pull him closer to body heat and the thrill of familiarity and strangeness and everything in between.

They stumble out of the door together. Kiyoomi’s fingers are entangled in Atsumu’s, his blurry gaze fixed on a tuft of pink hair hurrying in front of them to the car park. “This is mine,” Atsumu directs him, pointing a finger at his car, “I live in– fuck,” he curses. “I can’t drive, I drank. And so did Sakusa.”

“My apartment,” Mitsuru wobbly gets out, “it’s one street down. If we’re doing this.” He pauses, something unintelligible flashing in his eyes. He slings his arms around himself against the cool night air. “Are we doing this?”

Kiyoomi and Atsumu hold a long gaze.

Chapter Text

They tumble into the genkan in a heap of limbs and lips and heat. Everything is sweaty, everything frantic, everything hot. Someone is mouthing at his collarbone and someone is rubbing his dick through his pants and someone is squeezing his ass firmly, and Atsumu drops the keys that Pink Hair had pushed into his hands on the way up. Kiyoomi chuckles against his ear, the hot urge of breath sending shivers down Atsumu’s spine. “Nervous?”

Atsumu jabs the key into the lock. He ignores Kiyoomi and plants a wet kiss to the side of Mitsuru’s neck instead as he pulls him after himself into the entryway. Mitsuru is so tiny compared to the tall, wiry spiker he’s come to know, and he’s so eager and panting and flushing prettily and ah, Kiyoomi grabs the man by the neck and pulls him back towards himself, hands crawling over his chest to yank him out of Atsumu’s grasp.

Kiyoomi grabs Mitsuru by the chin and tilts his head up, and when his lips descend in a messy, wet kiss, he doesn’t bother with consideration.

Atsumu stares breathlessly at the filthy dance of glistening muscle, flesh pushing in and out of mouths, smearing spit between them and their chins and their noses. Mitsuru lets out the sweetest gasp, and fuck, Atsumu can’t bear it, he’s already fumbling with his belt before he remembers to take off his shoes, and by the time he’s shucked those off, he has to yank at his collar cause has it gotten hotter in here? Oh god.

“I won’t bottom,” Kiyoomi declares as he slams the front door shut, departing from Mitsuru’s lips with a squelching pop, his hand gliding down his shoulder and chest one last time. “I only bottom for–” He bites down on his own tongue before the name can slip, yanking himself out of both men’s periphery. “Cotton candy, are you comfortable with that?” he grits out.

“God yes,” Mitsuru says with wide eyes. “Fuck yes. Bathrooms are here and there. I’m g’nna go in first.”

“Wash your hands, thoroughly,” Kiyoomi commands, and Mitsuru can’t do much more than dazedly nod, already stumbling away.

“Actually, take a shower!” Atsumu calls after him. He doesn’t even know if the guy has heard him; he rips open the door to the guest bathroom with shaky knees and tumbles inside without even looking back.

And then the lock clicks and the wood rattles in the frame and it’s just Atsumu and Kiyoomi standing in the genkan, the tension thickening between them with each second.

The walls are eggshell white, the furniture pleasantly old-fashioned, the rug rumpled.

Atsumu shouldn’t say anything. He really shouldn’t.

“Happy?” he bites out.

Kiyoomi blinks, the line around his mouth hardening. “Very,” he snaps. “Go wash your hands.”

There is some symbolism to that, Kiyoomi thinks as he watches Atsumu turn with a clench of his jaw and his hands balling into fists, a symbolism that’s buried somewhere deep beneath the throbbing in his gut and the dizzying arousal clouding his every sense.

He paces around the hallway while he waits for either of the two bathrooms to be free for him to use, he paces and paces, traces lines into scratched parquet.

Memories want to flash in his mind, memories of coming in through the door and calling out I’m home!, of taking off his coat, of having Atsumu take off his jacket for him and spin him into a dizzying kiss, of welcoming him that one time with his dick already out and scaring the entire hell out of Motoya who had followed close on Kiyoomi’s heels.

Memories of leaving, of having Atsumu follow him up to the door and whining against his mouth, begging for just another few minutes, Omi-kun, of them skipping outside together laughing and hands intertwined, of himself stumbling, ripping the door open and slamming it shut behind himself, tears streaming down his face and anger cloying his breathway and pain making him tremble.

This is a different apartment, he shouldn’t remember anything at all.

Memories, they want to rise and clog his mind like glue, holding together something that’s been broken, and Kiyoomi doesn’t let them, he doesn’t allow them. He sinks a hand into his curls and pulls, grounding himself with self-inflicted pain, grinding a hand down on his hardening cock to stop himself from thinking, palming himself roughly through his jeans and hissing only lightly at the harsh treatment. “Motherfucker,” he hisses so he doesn’t have to form other words in his head, “you son of a bitch, you asshole, you–”

The door to the bathroom opens. Mitsuru was quick in the shower; he seems smaller like this with his pink hair plastered to his head, more vulnerable being as naked as he is, flushed all over his frame, and Kiyoomi’s gaze rakes the lines of his body. His stance is almost awkward as if wanting to cover himself but not quite daring to. He has a pretty dick, chubby and pale, it’s laying soft against his thigh, and Kiyoomi wants to feel its warmth in his mouth.

He curtly nods at him. “Thank you. Mi–” He catches himself just before the name slips, and he grits his teeth together. “He is in the bedroom, you can wait for him there.”

Should he call him Atsumu? He doesn’t want to call him that. He’d told him to call him that. It doesn’t feel right; because all this doesn’t feel intimate at all.

Kiyoomi takes his time in the shower, scrubbing his body down methodically and meticulously, fingers slipping through the soap across his shoulders, his arms. He rubs the coarse hair under his armpits, he cards fingers through the fuzz on his chest, rubs and scrubs until the suds are a moving mass of white. His hand slips between his thighs, and he makes sure to get every last trace of dirt and grime. He’ll get filthier later.

He turns the shower off with a creak. He could cry with relief when he lifts a soft, dry towel off the neatly folded rack on the windowsill, but the emotion quickly dulls. Two voices float in through the closed door. 

“You know, I just don’t get him.”

Atsumu.

“I don’t get him. Oh yes, fuck, keep doing that, that’s great. What does he want from me, huh? He wants me, but then he doesn’t, and I don’t get him.”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth together, quickly squeezing out his curls above the sink before roughly padding them dry. What an absolute bastard.

“Am I too demanding? I probably am. Can ya take me deeper? Aah, fuck yes, just like that! But he infuriates me, and I can’t figure him out, but he’s so hot!” Atsumu groans. Kiyoomi almost falls over when he raises his foot to roughly towel his toes dry, too distracted and aggravated by the voices to care about balance.

“I just wanna fuck ‘im all the time!”

“Didn’t you say that you, um, oh, yes, fuck, that you got divorced?”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with him being hot!”

Kioyomi’s heart is taking on speed and flying off the ledge, his fingers starting to tremble as soon as they let go of his hair.

“Is this … is this an elaborate joke? Did you set up a camera in here? Because I feel like this is–“

The door to the bedroom busts open with a loud bang.

“Talk about me when I’m in the room with you, will you?”

Atsumu is kneeling on the bed, his head whipping up at the announcement of Kiyoomi’s arrival. He’s feeding his cock into Mitsuru’s mouth, sweat already beading on his chest as his hands tighten their grip around those slim shoulders. “Kiyoomi,” he drawls, sickly-sweet, “won’tcha join us?”

“I’ll join the discussion,” Kiyoomi retorts and slings his damp towel to the side, not caring that it lands in a messy heap on the floor. “You don’t understand me? I can give you a fucking reason.”

He climbs onto the bed, crawling forward on the sheets like a predator, knees and hands sinking into the mattress, not removing his gaze from Atsumu’s as he snatches up the stray bottle of lube and pops the cap open. “You don’t try. You don’t try to really get to know me because as soon as something’s wrong, you take it personal and get offended and pity yourself and don’t even try to be there for me. You like to look at me and smile at me when things go right but when they don’t? You bail.”

He looks down, sliding into position behind Mitsuru who’s still bent over holding onto Atsumu’s thighs. His slim hands barely reach around the front of them. Kiyoomi slides his hand up the curve of his ass and spreads Mitsuru’s cheeks with his broad hand, slowly. Revels in the flutter of pink that it reveals. “Do you want me to stretch you open?”

Mitsuru pops off Atsumu’s dick and turns his head around, suspiciously eyeing Kiyoomi’s other hand where it’s fisted in the sheets. He gives a little cough. Kiyoomi’s knobby knuckles have turned white with the ferocity of his hold, thin blue veins standing out in light blue against the paleness. “I, uh, I’ll do it myself, please?”

Kiyoomi tosses him the lube, not sparing him another glance. He wiggles closer on the sheets, thinks that it probably looks humiliating, knows that it does because Atsumu’s mouth pulls into a smug sneer – but before he can become witness to his scorn, he curls his fingers around the thick base of that cock and pulls once, hard.

Atsumu wheezes mostly out of surprise, almost falling forward but catching himself with both hands clamping down on Kiyoomi’s shoulders.

“What’s your problem?” Kiyoomi unaffectedly says and starts stroking, ignoring Atsumu’s gasp at the tightness of his fist. He bends over, kisses a path up Atsumu’s thighs, suckling a bit too tight right next to his taint, making Atsumu’s hips stutter forward, the leaking head of his cock smearing wetly against Kiyoomi’s cheek. “Why are you always attacking me?” He noses into the softness of Atsumu’s lower belly, laps at coarse hair, ignores the breathless gasp that follows. “Why are you always going crazy over whatever I do or say, always asking me to indulge in your insanity and … and … and confront myself! Gah!” He lets out a dissatisfied, muffled yell, and upon deciding that some things are simpler than others, he opens his mouth and takes Atsumu’s cock in his mouth.

Atsumu wheezes brokenly. “I don’t understand ya,” he still snaps, and immediately bucks forward. He slides a hand around Kiyoomi’s neck and presses his thumb to his jawline, staring at where those slick lips fall open to take him in.

“You don’t wanna get uncomfortable, so ya hide yerself from me, but then when I don’t get what’s goin’ on in yer stupid closed off head all the time, ya get pissy, what the fuck kinda logic is that? And ya expect me to know but how the fuck am I supposed ta? I can’t read minds!”

He fists his hand into Kiyoomi’s hair and pulls his head back by the roots so he can look into his eyes, undeterred by the fierce hostility pouring out from them. “So please scream at me,” he spits, “insult me, punch me. Just don’t do what you’ve been doin’ all this time which is stay silent, just talk to me.”

“I have your dick in my mouth,” Kiyoomi says.

Well, says is an overstatement; the sound comes out half-garbled because of the, well, dick in his mouth, but Atsumu understands him all the same. So he pulls off. “There we go. Fuckin’ talk to me.”

“What if I don’t want to? What if I don’t want to open up to you and then deal with your tantrums and your nagging and prying, what if I don’t want that, what then?” Kiyoomi dives in to lick a fat stripe up the underside. “Besides, willing to be vulnerable?” he murmurs. “You never were when we were married.”

“Cause you were, huh?” He thrusts back into his mouth. “I’m Sakusa, and I’m open ‘bout my feelings, an’ I tell my husband what bothers me and I definitely don’t get pissed off an’ defensive and passive-aggressive and I definitely don’t fuck up our marriage along the way!”

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t play a part in the fucking-up as well.”

“Oh, we’re already shifting the blame again!”

“No I’m not, you’re … you’re … see! This is what I mean! You’re so easy to take offense, you don’t let me explain, don’t let me be, your hurt and anger becomes the only thing you can focus on! Stop overreacting for a second and–“

“Overreacting?” Atsumu wheezes. “Should I remind you of the entire Tokyo thing.”

Kiyoomi’s head snaps up. “Don’t you dare talk about the Tokyo thing,” he growls.

Atsumu barks out a hollow laugh and breaks their eye contact, raking a hand back through his hair. “Fuckin’ hell, I shouldn’t be arguin’ with ya while my dick is in yer mouth. I’d trust ya to bite it off.”

Kiyoomi flashes his teeth. “Try me.”

“Hi guys,” Mitsuru pants, pulling his fingers out of himself, “I think I’m ready.”

Kiyoomi throws Atsumu a last glower as he stretches out a hand for Mitsuru to take. He pulls him towards him, curling his fingers just a bit too tightly around his hand. He’s used to a bigger one.

Kiyoomi pulls him into a kneeling position on the bed, sliding behind him with both hands on his knees as he throws Atsumu a glower. Mitsuru’s thighs are trembling, spread as they are, knees already red from kneeling on the sheets. His ass is twitching. Kiyoomi can’t– Oh shit, condom.

His fingers fumble with the wrapper, foil crinkling, but finally, he manages to slide it on, cool and slick against his heated skin. The fluttering of his fingertips on his cock just makes him more desperate.

Kiyoomi’s thumbs slide into Mitsuru’s hole easily, roughly feeling around. He hooks them and pulls them apart, holding Mitsuru open as the lube squelches – revealing his soft insides. Mitsuru squeaks, but Kiyoomi pays him no mind, throwing a glare Atsumu’s way instead. “You better not think that I–” He halts and looks down at the ass he’s holding tightly. Mitsuru’s back describes a beautiful arch, shoulder blades shifting beneath skin as he wiggles to get comfortable on his knees, his trim waist just begging to be held. Kiyoomi slides out, presses a wet thumb to the dimple right above his asscheeks.

“Sorry, cotton candy,” he murmurs as his shoulders drop, “fuck, this is kind of shitty of us, isn’t it? Usually you wanna make your partner feel good and special, and here we are. Talking about our divorce.”

“No it’s fine,” Mitsuru murmurs, tightening his hold around Atsumu’s thighs. “I’m gonna have the best story at brunch tomorrow.”

He doesn’t talk for much longer than that. Atsumu lays his cock to his mouth, nudging at yielding, spit-slick lips. Mitsuru opens up greedily.

Kiyoomi breathlessly stares at where the cock that he himself has taken so many times disappears between those plush lips. Atsumu pumps his thick shaft in and out, groaning when Mitsuru sucks around it, when he tightens, when he pulls off, suckles the head, nuzzles his balls, laps at them softly.

Kiyoomi slides in.

It’s almost too hot, too tight, and he wants to scream with the sensation. It’s been so long since he was inside someone, since he’s had a pliant hole wrapped around his cock, and suddenly, he understands how Atsumu had come so quickly. 

He tumbles away from the edge, gritting his teeth together as he clenches his ass, desperate to hold out, desperate to make bliss last. He doesn’t look at Atsumu, doesn’t think he could bear to.

His composure doesn’t last for long, though; his hips take up a rhythm of their own. The first deep thrust is agonizingly good.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” Kiyoomi pants as he starts pounding pounds into him, “you’re so pretty, so cute. I want to fucking … ruin you.”

“Feels so good,” Mitsuru babbles around the tip of Atsumu’s cock, “you’re both so good to me. Give it to me … h-harder, deeper, fuck.”

“Oh yeah?” Kiyoomi gets out. “Do you like to be full?” He grabs at his hips, marvels at how big his lanky hands are against those trim hips. As he sinks deeper, he digs his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises. Kiyoomi pulses inside him, mercilessly sucked into velvet heat.

As Mitsuru moans, his jaw falls lax, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, dripping down to his chin. “Fuck fuck fuck,” Atsumu mutters, the look in his eyes nothing but dazy, “you got such a tiny little mouth, so tight for me.”

At that, an irrational stab of vicious jealousy hits Kiyoomi right in his stomach, and the next thrust pushes Mitsuru forward and right onto Atsumu’s cock. Mitsuru gags around it when it slides in to the hilt, the fat head pushing into his throat. Kiyoomi feels childish, entirely ridiculous, and yet he can’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “You usually say that to me,” he snarls.

Atsumu’s head swivels up. “What?” he snaps.

“Fucking nothing,” Kiyoomi mutters, and lets his hand wander around Mitsuru’s hip, grasping where he’s already hard and leaking. He swipes his thumb over the straining head of Mitsuru’s cock and ignores the whine that is smothered in Atsumu’s pubes. He keeps his eyes locked on his ex-husband instead. “Nothing at all.”

“Didn’t sound like nothin’,” Atsumu drawls, jaw clenched, the look in his eyes stormy. “But if ye’re decidin’ ta be petty, I’ll join ya. Ya said he was cute an’ pretty,” he bites out without letting go of Kiyoomi’s gaze for a second. His next thrust brings tears to Mitsuru’s eyes. “Ya never said that to me,” he repeats with vigor, “why didn’t you ever say that about me?” 

“You’re not cute,” Kiyoomi snaps. “You’re not pretty.”

“What am I then? Why’d ya fuck me if I ain’t pretty?”

“Because you’re you,” Kiyoomi spits out.

Something both tightens and unlocks in Atsumu’s expression. “What else?” he breathlessly asks. “What am I to you?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t look away and he doesn’t answer – he curls his fingers around the base of Mitsuru’s cock and strokes with his fist tight. 

That does it for him. Mitsuru wails.

Kiyoomi holds Atsumu’s gaze as he fucks Mitsuru's first orgasm out of him with vicious strokes; deep, fast thrusts that make Mitsuru erupt all over his own chest, streaks of cum coating his definition in white.

Kiyoomi’s grip around the softening cock slips with cum as he’s devoured by liquid gold.

A familiar hand hauls him in by the neck.

Atsumu’s mouth is wet and warm, and Kiyoomi moans into it. He isn’t gentle or restrained, he surges forward and takes, he pushes his own tongue into Atsumu’s mouth while his hips continue their relentless rhythm into that tight-sucking heat. He nips and bites and drags at Atsumu, pulling his lip between his own teeth just to gasp when he reciprocates – Kiyoomi retreats back for just a second, desperately struggling for breath.

Atsumu is wavering on his knees, Kiyoomi too. Mitsuru trembles between them. The air in the room is charged like a looming thunderstorm before lightning strikes.

Kiyoomi’s obscenely swollen mouth opens.

Atsumu spits right into it. Kiyoomi’s pupils dilate. Wet degradation burns on his tongue, makes his blood run even hotter.

Their lips find each other again; without grace, without mercy.

Maybe lightning has struck a long time ago already.

Somewhere beneath them is a moaning wreck, and they don’t even care, they furiously make out over its back. Both their worlds are reduced to only each other, set alight with the flame of their passion. Atsumu’s spit smears between them, and Kiyoomi can only make tiny, degrading little ah sounds into his mouth, knows that his lips aren’t doing much at all except take the force of their messy kiss.

He makes a feeble attempt at pretending to push back, bites down on Atsumu’s lip in a way he knows isn’t pleasurable. At that, the other man jerks back. With the motion and the indignation setting into his face, his hips stutter, and he slips out of Mitsuru’s mouth, allowing him a precious moment to breathe. Mitsuru doesn’t seem grateful.

“Don’t stop, please,” he babbles, blindly darting forward in greed, missing the cockhead, letting the slick tip smear wetly against his cheek. “Don’t you dare st–”

The words are punched out of him when Atsumu slams back in, throwing his head back as he lets out a guttural groan. Kiyoomi exhales, gulping down fresh air like he's drowning. He doesn't look at the cut line of Atsumu's jaw or the shifting of the muscles in his shoulders, the dark trail of coarse hair that's damp with sweat – he lets go of Mitsuru’s softening dick and presses his hand to the man's convulsing abdomen instead, pushes down right as he shoves back in. He imagines cupping his own heavy cock through that lithe little stomach and almost comes at the thought alone.

Almost.

It's not quite enough.

Not quite enough to fuck into this pliant little body, feel heat twitching around his cock, to take this stranger like he knows him. Not enough for this not to be someone else, someone he’s so intimately familiar with, who would throw him a glower or a lazy smirk even as he’s writhing on his cock, he wouldn’t be quiet or begging or pliant, he’d make a joke and flick his wrist and say something so mind-bafflingly disgusting that Kiyoomi couldn’t help but–

Kiyoomi grits his teeth together and dispels those thoughts.

He should be able to come right now. Mitsuru is sucking him in, he’s pretty and tight and moaning and he’s … not enough.

What’s enough is the twinkle in Atsumu’s eyes, the lazy curl of his lip, the way he pinches his brows together on a particularly deep thrust, the way he’s so effortlessly everything that Kiyoomi has ever wanted – and more.

Kiyoomi grabs at Mitsuru’s hips, the next stroke almost mean in it’s ferocity. Mitsuru’s thrashing in overstimulation around Kiyoomi. He’s trembling and clenching all over. A pitiful whine climbs in his throat just to be smothered by Atsumu’s cock. Why can’t he be enough?

“It’s funny,” Atsumu snarls. “Ya said that ya don’t want me, but ya keep lookin’ at me. Ya said that ya don’t need me at all and that ya could turn away at any moment, but yer here.”

Those deep-set golden eyes take him apart at the seams.

“You’re here too,” Kiyoomi rasps. He’s trembling. “You’re looking at me too.”

Maybe it’s the confusion that renders the next kiss a bit too soft.

Kiyoomi is trying to stave off his own impending orgasm, barely holding onto the coiling heat on his lips and cock and in his belly and fucking everywhere, and Atsumu licks into his mouth and gives a broken moan, and that’s it. That’s finally enough. Kiyoomi’s hips spasm.

The waves of orgasm crest above him, pull and lick at him in preparation for the crashdown, and then – nothing.

Mitsuru is off.

Mitsuru is gone, and Atsumu too.

Kiyoomi scrambles for purchase and only finds empty air. Mitsuru has slipped off Kiyoomi’s dick, pushed back against Atsumu’s hips, he’s turned over and fallen to the sheets and left them reeling with the loss of contact.

They’re both scrambling to make sense of what just happened as their bodies tremble with the loss of stimulation, and Mitsuru is laying back against the sheets, chest rising and falling with his heavy breath.

Atsumu pushes against Kiyoomi’s shoulder and sends him flailing. He humiliatingly lands in the sheets in a heap of trembling limbs; his knee hits Mitsuru’s thigh, and the other man whines. “Ow, fuck,” he mutters, turning his face away from him and into the mattress.

“Shit,” Atsumu breathes. “Are ya alright?” Blank concern seeps out of his tone. “Fuck, we were too much, weren’t we, we should’ve let ya breathe so ya coulda told us ta stop. Did we overwhelm ya?”

Mitsuru’s shoulders are shaking, and Kiyoomi exchanges an alarmed glance with Atsumu before laying a careful hand to his trembling back. “Are you alright?” he, too, carefully asks.

And then they realize that Mitsuru isn’t crying, he isn’t crying at all, he’s – laughing. “Did you overwhelm me?” 

He exhales a loud, shaky breath, his eyes crinkling and slipping closed as he falls back against the mattress. “Yeah you fucking did!” he giggles. His eyes snap open, mirth twinkling in them.

“Oh my god. Please go to a therapist.”

They’re thrown out unceremoniously.

Mitsuru doesn’t bother to put something on, to hide his still throbbing dick that’s splattered with his own cum and smeared with lube; he pulls his spit-slick mouth into a wry grin and lazily waves his hand in their direction. “Get out. You two clearly don’t need me, and I got what I wanted. Oh god, Yuki won’t believe this.”

Atsumu gapes at him. “So ye’re gonna throw us out or what?”

Kiyoomi’s head is spinning.

Mitsuru bends down and collects a pile of clothes from the floor. He extends it out to them, arms straining with the effort to hold them out. “These are yours, I think.”

Few moments later, Kiyoomi is stumbling through the genkan, a hand around his waist, another flat between his shoulder blades, not knowing which belongs to who, which is the one pushing and the one leading him.

Someone behind him is still giggling.

Click.

“Yer welcome fer yer two fuckin’ orgasms, dickhead!” Atsumu yells at the closed door.

No answer comes.

Kiyoomi frowns down at the shirt he’s just shrugged on. “Oh. I don’t think this is mine.”

///

The car doors slam shut behind them.

“Well,” Atsumu says.

“Well,” Kiyoomi says. “That was a bit of a disaster.” 

Atsumu doesn’t add anything more, just leans back into his seat with his shirt unbuttoned, skin sticky, hair messy, eyes somewhere far away.

In the bar, the lights are still on. Someone stumbles out the door. Sounds of clinking and laughter spill out, reaching them through the barrier of the windowpane. Blurry and indistinct.

Kiyoomi sighs. “Do you…” he starts, stops. He pinches his eyes together. “Do you want me to hold you?” tumbles out of him.

Atsumu looks up at that. He closes his mouth as something swirls in the depth of his eyes. “Do I want you to what?” he softly asks, the words almost too tender for the building tension in the tight space.

“Hold you.” Kiyoomi’s gaze is fixed on him now. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he clamps them down around the edges of his seat. “I thought you might need it. Today. I know you can feel like shit after sex if you don’t … if you don’t cuddle. Even if we didn’t really finish that part.”

“So you want to cuddle me?” Atsumu prods.

Kiyoomi’s gaze errs around the car, focusing on nothing and everything, appliances and surfaces and arches becoming a blur in front of his eyes as his hands are shaking. “I don’t think it’s about what I want.”

“I think it is about what you want,” Atsumu finally says. “I think that’s very important.” His rumpled shirt crinkles. “What do ya want, Sakusa?”

He can’t answer.

The shirt, the fucking shirt, the one that isn’t his, it’s too tight on him, it’s straining over his arms and stretches open over his chest and he can’t breathe, he wants to claw it off, rip it into shreds, burn it entirely. He doesn’t.

The radio is quietly playing. A broadcast of a game from a different time zone, the comforting drone of a foreign reporter’s voice, cheers and screaming in the background, silence when everything quiets down for a serve. Another cheer erupting after a dull thud.

Kiyoomi buries his face in his hands. “I want you,” he whispers, “I want you, I want you, I want you, is that what you needed to hear? And it won’t work because I want you, I’ll want you too much and I can’t want that.” He clamps his mouth shut. “And you don’t either.”

“Excessive use of ‘want’ there,” Atsumu mumbles.

“It’s a stylistic device,” Kiyoomi murmurs, too exhausted to snarl, “and don’t divert my attention. We need boundaries and you know it, or else I’m going to …” he gulps, “…I’m going to fall in love with you.” He shudders. “I’m sorry. I really am, for treating you like shit this entire time since we started again, for doing the same things that made you hate me once already, for … closing you out and pretending like that was better, like that would help. I’m still doing it, but I can’t help myself, I’m … I’m scared shitless.” His head drops, curls falling in front of his eyes. His voice grows quiet. “And yet I still want you.”

“Sakusa,” Atsumu whispers, “do ya think I’m not scared? By how … how easy it is to fall in bed with you, talk with you, fight with you? It’s like I’m livin’ through a dream I already had once. It’s so different but so familiar. And I…” He gulps. “I know I’ll hafta wake up.”

“Do we have to wake up?”

Kiyoomi sags, energy having fled him and leaving him no choice but to slump into himself as Atsumu’s gaze burns holes into his side. “What if we don’t? Because that’s what fucked it up, wasn’t it? We had a good thing going, and then we had to fall in love. Like idiots.”

“Worst decision of my life,” Atsumu easily agrees. “One out of five stars, would not recommend.” He barks out a dry laugh.

“But I want you,” Kiyoomi says, turning his head to the side, “so what do we do?”

The question hangs in the air like a disquieting, ugly, tangible thing, and neither of them dare to touch it.

Kiyoomi falls against the backrest. “I’m still hard,” he whispers. “Miya, please.”

The ride home is silent.

The world passes in a blur, an indiscernible sequence of places and people, of lights and shadows. Occasionally, another car roars in the distance. Kiyoomi closes his eyes.

He takes the shirt off before he even enters Atsumu’s apartment, bunches it up into a crinkled ball in his left hand, not knowing what to do with it. He thinks about using it as a rag to wipe his floors, but then again. He doesn’t know if he could even stand to have it in his living space at all. 

They make it to the couch. Kiyoomi drops down on it as he waits for Atsumu to get done in the bathroom, fiddling with the bottle of lube he took from the glove compartment. He looks up at the sound of footsteps. Atsumu’s expression is unreadable, his hair wet from his second shower tonight. He turns on the lights, and Kiyoomi is blinded for just a second.

As Atsumu settles on the couch, Kiyoomi’s legs fall open out of their own volition. The ghost of Atsumu’s hand tracing the seam of his thigh sends shivers down his spine. “Can I?”

“Of course.”

Atsumu’s thumb sinks past the pull of Kiyoomi’s entrance. They hold eye contact while he opens him up, brown into black and black into brown, the same defeated challenge pouring out from them both. Atsumu sheaths his fingers inside him, and Kiyoomi bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling with one hand holding his softening dick, pressing down to quiet the restlessness in his head. The only sounds in the room are their measured breathing and the squelching of lube, weirdly methodical just like Atsumu’s practiced movements.

“You’re wrong, you know?” Atsumu says out of nowhere, fingers pulling out for a moment. Kiyoomi almost jolts with the sound of his voice. “I don’t hate you, I never hated you. I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”

Kiyoomi looks to the side to avoid Atsumu’s searching eyes, squeezing around the fingers inside him. “I think I’m ready now.”

Atsumu frowns. “I know ye’re not.”

“I am.” Kiyoomi sits up, hands stretching out to grasp at Atsumu’s shoulders and pull him closer. He wiggles a bit for a more comfortable spot, sighs when the head pops in. He winces at the stretch and hopes that Atsumu didn’t see it, just wanting to get this over with at this point. He wants to be pushed to orgasm, ride it out together with the bitter tasting memories of tonight. Then he can get up, get it done with, and close the door behind him. Wish to forget the memories of this night altogether.

Atsumu seems to be deep in his own thoughts too, unusually mechanical in his movements, and what’s weirder – silent, for once.

He only grunts a tiny bit at a deep stroke, and Kiyoomi is perplexed to discover that he isn’t mumbling whatever filth he usually comes up with. No “ye’re so tight,” no “wanna call me daddy tonight?”, no “think yer gonna come untouched on my magic stick?” or whatever the fuck Atsumu’s always concocting up in that bleached head of his.

Atsumu is a talker, he’s chatty and loud and always has something to say, and he says nothing as his hand slides up to hook Kiyoomi’s leg around his hip as he draws out his thrusts, slowing down to a languid pace.

His abs glisten with the effort of moving and it should feel nice and it does, but Atsumu is so silent and not looking at Kiyoomi and–

“Goddammit, this is awkward. Alright.” Atsumu pulls out and before Kiyoomi can gasp at the sudden emptiness, he falls onto the cushions next to him, bouncing off them for a second before he finds a place to rest on his side, head at Kiyoomi’s level as he turns towards him.

He curls a hand around Kiyoomi’s waist as he scoots closer on the couch so neither of them fall off, his thighs pressing into Kiyoomi’s hip. He reaches out for Kiyoomi’s hand and lays it to his own waist, demanding proximity. Kiyoomi allows it. Atsumu’s eyes stay half-hidden beneath heavy lids as he props his chin up on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, his jawline digging into his skin.

“What made you fall in love with me back then?”

Kiyoomi cranes his head around, eyes going wide as his hand on Atsumu’s waist falters. “Excuse me?”

Atsumu’s face hovers right in front of him, and the bastard has the audacity to smirk. “Tell me what I did so I won’t do it again.”

Kiyoomi throws his head back laughing. He sags within Atsumu’s arms. “Oh my god,” he cackles, pressing his forehead into Atumu’s messy, damp hair, strands scratching at his skin, “that is incredibly funny. That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

Atsumu lays his head back. “I’m serious.” The wicked glint in his eyes betrays him.

It steals the breath out of Kiyoomi’s lungs. “Oh god,” he says, “oh god. This is, um, this is stupid?”

He tries not to let himself get distracted by the soft dick pressing up against his hip, biting down on his own lip in hopes that the sting will bring his mind clarity. “You know how I get really sleepy after about nine in the evening? And tend to fall asleep right here on the couch? You used to swoop me up into your arms and carry me to bed.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “And sometimes I wouldn’t be fully asleep yet, so I’d hear you whispering sweet things into my ear? ‘You’re so pretty’, you’d say, ‘you little meanie’, things like that. ‘I love you’.” He bites his lip. “Anyways, don’t do that if you don’t want me to fall in love with you. And especially don’t give me a kiss on the forehead after you tuck me in goodnight. No whispering ‘Nighty night’ either. What was it for you?”

Atsumu had been gazing down at the bony hand absentmindedly tracing idle lines on his hip, and now he snaps his head up. “What?”

“What made you fall in love with me?”

“Mine’s even dumber than yers. Ya know the assorted chocolate box we always got at the corner store?”

Kiyoomi rests his hand on his firm chest. “I do.”

“I once told ya that I hated the ones with pistachio cream inside, can’t stand ‘em. And from then on, each time we got a new box, you used to pick them out so I wouldn’t hafta eat ‘em. I never even asked you to, you just did. It was disgustingly sweet of ya.”

Kiyoomi cracks a wry grin. “You know what was even more disgusting of you? When you prepared me lunch in the mornings and cut up my apples into neat slices with lemon drizzled onto them so they wouldn’t go brown.”

“You know what ya can’t possibly be doin’ ever again? Pin down yer curls with those little hair clips, cause I’ll wanna kiss ya senseless. Ye’re too damn sweet, I’ll probably die of a heart attack if I ever see ya wearin’ those again. So don’t.”

Kiyoomi quirks an eyebrow. “Oh? You gifted them to me, remember? Loved fixing my hair in the mornings, too. Sometimes I still remember the visceral sensation of your fingers lightly scratching over my scalp as you untangled the mess. Makes me almost miss it. So yes, don’t be considerate or affectionate or tender in any way. Don’t take care of me if you don’t want me to fall in love with you.”

Atsumu scoots closer and curls his fingers around his hip, the curve of his hand melting to cool skin. “Well shit,” he says, and grins just a bit, “takin’ care of ya? That won’t happen, cause if I’m doin’ that, I’ll already be in love with ya.”

“Ew.” Kiyoomi purses his lips. “But speaking of ew, I think it would help a lot if I poured your toner down the drain, actually,” he loudly muses and cackles when Atsumu pinches his nipple. “God, highschool you thought he was so cool. I bet you were sometimes dancing in front of the bathroom mirror, holding a hairbrush like a microphone and pretending to be some idol.”

“Shut up!” Atsumu whines like a cat whose tail just got stepped on. Then, his eyes light up. “By the way, no singing to me when I wake up from nightmares.”

“Well you’ll have to stop doing the … the … the voice thing. When you’re sleepy, your accent gets thicker. It’s endearing. Stop it.”

“Don’t do that bit when we’re in a group of people and ya scoot closer and clamp yer hand down on my arm so hard as if I was the last bastion keepin’ you and insanity apart. Also no poutin’. At all. It makes my heart melt every time.”

“Well you can’t come up to me and silently link your pinky with mine when you need comfort but don’t want to say it outright.”

“Don’t cook me udon from scratch when I’m havin’ a bad day.”

“No knuckles kisses after we win a game.”

Atsumu’s mouth falls open. “That was what made you fall in love with me? I honestly don’t understand ya.”

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums, “to be honest, that fat ass of yours contributed a lot to it.”

Atsumu squawks.

Kiyoomi laughs again. “I’m serious, you’ll have to stop wearing your thigh-high kneepads if you don’t want me to go all Mr Darcy on you.”

“Oh?” Atsumu hums and flashes a sly grin, his eyes dropping back to both their abandoned erections. “I have no clue who that is, but I’m guessin’ it’s a bad thing.” His hand starts wandering. Fingertips tracing the area where Kiyoomi’s hipbones jut out, fleetingly light over his lower abdomen, pressing down on a patch of hair. Slipping lower until they can curl around a familiar strain. His voice drops. “What else makes ya hot about me?”

Kiyoomi gives a little cough to muffle a moan when Atsumu teases his fingers up and down his shaft, feeling the blood pumping at his fingertips. He gasps when Atsumu rubs over his taint, squirming with the sensation and clamping his legs together. Affronted, he shoots Atsumu a glare, fully turning to him now, bouncing on the cushions of the couch when their weight shifts. He greedily finds waiting flesh and grabs. Atsumu squeaks.

Kiyoomi laughs, just lightly tapping his fingers on Atsumu’s abdomen at first and meeting taut resistance before wrapping his hand around the thick base and palming Atsumu cock lazily, watching as it grows firmer in his grasp.

Atsumu chuckles breathlessly, throat pressed into the curve of Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Hey, respond bitch. What else makes ya hot about me?”

“Your thighs,” Kiyoomi promptly shoots, and turns a bit red with embarrassment. To salvage himself, he sticks his tongue out at him.

Atsumu darts forward and licks Kiyoomi’s outstretched tongue. Kiyoomi shrieks. He flinches back, hands falling away, but Atsumu immediately takes a hold of him by the neck and swoops him for a kiss, howling with laughter, barely managing to meet his lips as his own tremble.

“Shut up!” Kiyoomi laughs, swatting at Atsumu and wiggling underneath his body weight. The couch is creaking beneath them. “And don’t say ‘make me’!”

Atsumu licks his lips, propping his hands up on the upholstery as he looks down at Kiyoomi, a dangerous glint in his eyes. His mouth pulls into a smirk. “Make me.”

When they kiss this time, it’s less a clash of two forces of nature, and more of an avalanche that sweeps them both away. Atsumu languidly grinds on him as they sloppily make out, legs tangling and hands grabbing and breaths growing quick and shallow.

The couch is too small to properly accommodate two full-grown athletes, nevermind two very much sex-having athletes, and it’s quaking and shaking and bending underneath them, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care, not when this feels so good. They’ll just have to wiggle closer, and they do.

“What about me,” Kiyoomi pants out against the weight settled on top of his chest.

Atsumu tilts his head. “What about ya?”

“What do you like about me?”

“Nipples.” He bites into one. Kiyoomi arches his spine as his back lifts clean off the cushions with a keen. Atsumu smirks around him, starts lavishing attention to the hard nub. “They’re so pretty. I’ve missed yer tits. You should definitely start shavin’ yer chest again if ya don’t want me to fall in love with ya.” His eyes greedily take in the coarse fuzz on his chest; his cheek descends, nuzzling into it. “It’s so hot.”

Kiyoomi’s airways are tight. “Fuck. Fuck me, Miya.”

Atsumu doesn’t answer but his hand does inch lower on his body, sneaks between their bellies until it drags down between them both. Kiyoomi feels more than he sees him pulling his hand back, pull it back where it belongs, delving into the cleft of Kiyoomi’s ass and rubbing him open with two thick fingers. He gasps as he clenches around them.

“Ya know,” Atsumu finally pants, “you should also try bein’ less needy in bed. I love it when I have ya screamin’ and whinin’ like I’m the best ya’ve ever had.”

Kiyoomi bites his lip as his abs tighten. “And what if you are the best I’ve ever had?”

Atsumu’s gaze darkens. With the next kiss, his teeth graze his collarbones. “See, this is exactly what I mean. Yer actin’ all cold an’ aloof and unbothered, but then ya get a sniff of my cock and start droolin’ like a dog. It makes me wanna jump and rail ya.”

Kiyoomi bites his lip and lets his head fall back. “What else?”

“When ya get demanding.” Atsumu pulls himself up until he’s looming above him, looking down at him with damp blond strands falling into wild eyes. “When ya start beggin’ like ya can’t get enough of me.”

“Can I ever?”

“Fuck.”

Kiyoomi hides his smile with a smirk. He looks up at Atsumu from half-lidded eyes as he’s lazily rutting against him, trying not to come undone in the comfortable heat spreading from his abdomen into every part of his body. He bites his lip. Considers. And then he lets out the most pornstar moan, high and obscene, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He tops it off with a stuttered gasp.

Atsumu’s movements become fervent. His body settles on Kiyoomi’s like a blanket, his head falling to the cushion and shoulder digging into Kiyoomi’s as he bites into his shoulder. “You fucker.”

Atsumu plunges a fourth finger in. This time, Kiyoomi’s moan is real.

“You should stop teasing me if you don’t want me to fall in love with you, you really should,” he pants, “stop pretending like you don’t know or care about how much I want your cock spearing me open. It makes me go wild. Acting like I don’t faze you. That’s your intention, though, isn’t it? Getting me desperate to prove myself to you.”

Atsumu just smirks. “Heh.”

“Atsumu,” he whines. “stop teasing! Give me your dick. Come on, do it, give it to me right now, or I’ll … I’ll … I’ll fall in love with you!”

Atsumu’s chest heaves with the rise and fall of his breath, sweat glistening on every inch of his body. A tousled god, beautiful and unreachable, and yet right here in his arms. When Kiyoomi’s fingertips dig into his waist, Atsumu glances down. For a moment, nothing but dark gold exists.

“Falling in love?” Atsumu murmurs, sinking in. “Can’t have that.”

Later when Kiyoomi leaves, he’ll be closing the door behind himself and humming a quiet melody to himself, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth as he stretches his heavy limbs and indulges in the memory of a hot mouth against his.

This is him and Atsumu. This is how they are, and he’s happy this way. Walking away with the pulsing bite of love marks littering his chest and his scalp still twinging where Atsumu had pulled his hair a bit too hard. Relishing in the wonderful kind of soreness spreading up his spine.

It’s enough. He doesn’t want or need anything more.

Chapter Text

When Atsumu tells Osamu, he has to hold the phone away from his ear so his brother’s galloping laughter doesn’t shred his eardrums.

He lets it wash over him pouting, patiently waiting for it to die down, only muttering an indignated “bastard” that goes ignored entirely. Finally, Osamu stops laughing when Atsumu manages to convince him that yes, really, he’s telling the truth, cuz no I ain’t fuckin’ with ya, ya scrub! and then Osamu starts laughing again.

“Shit, ya really are the dumber one outta the two of us!” he gets out while gasping for air.

“At least I’m gettin’ the dickin’ down of a lifetime! Or am doin’ the dickin’ down of a lifetime. Whatever, ya get what I mean!”

Osamu falls silent for a tiny moment. And then, he simply says: “But don’t come cryin’ ta me. Cause if ya end up hurt, I’m gonna hafta come up to Osaka an’ do the whole defendin’ yer honor thing again, an’ we both know how bad Kiyoomi beat me up last time I tried ta do that.”

Atsumu squawks indignantly. “Sakusa an’ I have it all under control, I won’t cry!” He sniffles. “Actually that’s not true, he already made me cry. Yesterday, when he’d been ridin’ and edgin’ me fer like half an hour before he brought out those nipple clamps and–”

Osamu hangs up.

///

“What the fuck,” Atsumu says. “What are ya doin’?”

“I don’t know, what am I doing?” Kiyoomi murmurs to the skin of his neck.

“Yer doin’ the thing,” Atsum repeats, tone trying to be stern.

“What thing?”

The water is gently burbling around them, an easy sway as they lie intertwined in the bathtub, the water at this point lukewarm.

Their cum is probably floating somewhere around them.

“The cuddlin’ closer thing. Ya know. When ya want a little kiss but don’t wanna say, so ya just cuddle up to me like some octopus an’ attack my neck and don’t leave until I give in and give ya affection.”

“Oh. Sorry.” His lips don’t detach from Atsumu’s neck. “Should I stop? But it feels nice.”

“Ya know what won’t feel nice? When ya fall in love with me and I break yer heart. Stop doin’ the thing, and– why are ya poutin’? I told’ya not to do that either.”

“Sometimes I just want a kiss,” Kiyoomi mumbles, “what’s wrong with that?”

And Atsumu looks down at him, and he sighs. Kiyoomi’s hair is wet and adorably plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are dark and big like this, and his lips are wet and slick with water and spit, and they’re pouty, and–

Atsumu presses a peck to his bare shoulder.

Kiyoomi glows in satisfaction. He finally untucks himself from Atsumu’s neck and pulls away. “Nothing,” he calls over his shoulder as he heaves himself up, “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. See, you kissed me right there, and I’m not in love with you yet.”

“Ugh,” Atsumu says. He whines when Kiyoomi steps out of the tub and Atsumu is jostled with the waves, having to cling to the edge of the tub so doesn’t topple over.

“Ugh what.”

“Ugh I don’t know, Sakusa,” Atsumu replies. “It always starts with kisses, doesn’t it? Maybe we should be more careful.” He huffs and braces himself too, water streaming down his torso and noisily splashing into the tub. He bites his lip. “How the fuck even am I the responsible one here?” he continues as he reaches out for a towel on the hanger. “I was jokin’ when I said that my cock was makin’ ya dumb, ya know?”

“I’m not dumb.” Kiyoomi scowls down at his socks as he pulls them on. “Give me some credit, maybe? You’d think I’d remember what it feels like to fall in love with you, and also trust me not to do it again.” Atsumu steps out of the tub and onto the soft rug. “I still remember all those infuriating little things,” Kiyoomi continues, “how you used to get so engrossed in Animal Crossing that you wouldn’t give me attention at all, how you’d watch porn and afterwards shut the laptop but leave the browser window open, or how you’d– You know what, doesn’t matter. Point is, I know you all too well, which is why falling in love with you isn’t even feasible to me. Do you still keep the deodorant in the leftmost cabinet next to the hairspray?” Kiyoomi is already stretching out a hand.

Atsumu’s eyes lighten up. “No wait, do that more!”

Kiyoomi halts and turns around. “Hm?”

Atsumu enthusiastically rubs his body dry, towel flying. “That’s how we can prevent the love thing! We just keep remindin’ ourselves of why we didn’t work. Tell me why I aggravated ya so much.” Atsumu chuckles deeply and dryly. As he cleans his groin, he wiggles his dick only a tiny little bit in the air. “Tell me why ya had to drink honeyed tea for a week cause yer throat was fucked up from screamin’ at me too much. Why’d ya once threaten ta throw me off the balcony and then jump after me?”

“Your terrible morning breath, of course,” Kiyoomi deadpans. At Atsumu’s sulky face, he rolls his eyes. “Okay okay. I suppose it’s not a terrible idea. Please. Continue.”

Atsumu smacks his lips. “As if I remember all of it right now. Do ya know how much there is to complain to ya about ya?”

Kiyoomi hums. “I can only imagine. You know, I think– yes, I think it’ll be fine, I’m sure things will come up with time. After all, we always end up annoying each other as soon as we spend time together. And– there you go. You always want to talk about relationship problems after we’ve fucked because you think you’ll get away with it then.”

Atsumu smirks lazily at that. His half-lidded eyes drag over the entirety of Kiyoomi’s body, and linger on the pale skin of his chest that’s littered in bruises and love-bites. “...Don’t I?”

“If I wasn’t across the room right now, I’d hit you on the head,” Kiyoomi proclaims, and snatches his shirt off the toilet lid. “The other option is to let out a passive-aggressive comment. Oh wait, let me come up with one right now.” He scrunches up his nose. Starts buttoning up his shirt. “I love how you always felt the need to use the last strip of toilet paper but leave the empty roll hanging on the stand. Please keep doing it.”

But Atsumu just brightens again. “Hey, that’s a good idea too! Let’s do annoying shit on purpose, that would prevent the love thing for sure. I’ll always stall before changing the roll from now on.”

“Idiot, we don’t live together anymore. How am I supposed to get irritated by that when I won’t even see you doing it?”

Atsumu easily smiles and ruffles his wet hair with his towel. Drops splatter into all directions. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose when some land on his freshly buttoned up shirt, and Atsumu grins, wrapping the towel around his chest. His butt cheeks are hanging out beneath it. “Just come over more often, then. Does tomorrow at five work fer ya?”

“Are you going to use up an entire roll of toilet paper in one day?” Kiyoomi slides the empty roll off the stand and crumples the carton in his fist. “I’m sorry for your ass.”

Atsumu leers, letting his tongue loll out as he takes a step towards Kiyoomi. “I’m sorry for yours, baby.”

Kiyoomi scowls. “Don’t call me that.”

Atsumu cackles. “Hah! But no, obviously I won’t use it all in one day. I guess I’ll just uncoil it and stash it in the cabinet but leave the roll on? I dunno, I’ll think of something.”

Kiyoomi seems satisfied with that. He curtly nods. “Good. It’s carton, so don’t you dare throw it in the general wa–” He acquiesces at Atsumu’s offended squawk. “Okay, okay, at least the eco-conscious behavior that I drilled into you lasted for longer than five months.” He purses his lips as he wiggles into his jeans. “No, genuinely. Good. We’ll be fine.” He halts with his belt still unbuckled and shirt hanging out. “Now why are you pouting.”

Atsumu grumbles something indistinguishable.

“What was that?”

Atsumu wraps the towel tighter around himself. “Sometimes I want a little kiss too.”

Kiyoomi leans in. His lips are soft and dry on Atsumu’s forehead, and when he pulls back, his eyes rake Atsumu’s face in consideration. “Have a good day. I’ll see you tomorrow at five. In the meanwhile, think of why you don’t like me.”

///

“Okay,” Atsumu says tomorrow at about five, takes the plastic bag with takeout out of Kiyoomi’s hands and plops it down on his counter, “I thought of something. Ya should keep stealin’ my Inarizaki hoodies. And eating my mango yogurts. And–”

“You know what you should continue to do?” Kiyoomi easily replies as he takes off his scarf. “Flirting with the poor girl at the reception desk. After your conversation today, she was red like a tomato and called me Sasuke-san when I came in.”

“Ohoho?” Atsumu teases, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Are ya jealous?”

“Ew.” Kiyoomi pulls a face and also his shirt off. “Of course not. I’m just annoyed by it because I know the only reason you’re doing it is to aggravate me. You don’t even like women that much!”

“Hey!” Atsumu squawks, “I’m a feminist! Do ya even know how enthusiastic I am ‘bout eatin’ pussy?”

“How about you get enthusiastic about my ass instead?”

Kiyoomi unbuttons his pants and drops them.

Baby blue lace. G-string. The cord of a vibrator winding itself out from underneath it. Atsumu almost faints.

“You know,” Kiyoomi later says, cum splattered all over his chest and abdomen and hole. His mouth falls open in a yawn. “We’re pretty smart, actually. Continuing to fight all the time. Makes us remember why we’re a terrible match. Ow, why is your mouth on my dick again, that hu– oooh, hnngh.”

///

“Oof,” Atsumu says as he pounds into him from behind, “I really hate the way that ya clip yer toenails over a tissue but always in front of me?”

Kiyoomi cranes his head back over his shoulder. Sweat is dripping into his brows as his chest heaves with the effort of talking. “Didn’t you – ah – say you had a thing for feet, too?”

“Not with yers, I don’t,” Atsumu says and lays a hand to his hip to steady him as he angles his cock and hits a particularly deep spot, “so yeah, keep – fuck – remindin’ me how unfuckable they are specifically.”

Kiyoomi sticks them out and wiggles his toes. “They’re ugly, you say? Rude, but valid. Want to fuck them later?”

“Hell yeah.” He smirks. “They’re really gangly an’ ugly, and yer big toe sticks out all weird. I probably won’t even come.”

“Hey, cut it back on the degradation! We said we'd do the things we didn't like!”

“Mmh,” Atsumu hums, definitely not listening to him at all as he teases over his straining taint, rubbing tightly stretched skin before his thumb sinks in alongside his cock. Kiyoomi gasps when he’s stretched wider. “Fuck!” he yells, “Stop that! I like that too much, don’t make me fall in love!”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, “yeah no, please don’t do that. Who’s talkin’ about that? No falling in love for you or me.”

He manages to squeeze another finger in there. His cock is throbbing in the delicious tightness of Kiyoomi’s ass.

“But what ya did mention that one time was fisting. Wanna try right now?”

Kiyoomi cums so hard he blacks out for a few seconds.

///

“Miya,” Kiyoomi comments, squirming in his restraints for the fun of it, “it’s disgusting how you don’t even rinse the plates before putting them in the dishwasher.”

He’s handcuffed to the headboard, a spreader bar holding his thighs firmly apart as Atsumu keeps Kiyoomi’s cock nice and warm with his mouth.

“I’m talking crumbs, sauce, everything, it’s still on there. Hasn’t your mother taught you that it starts smelling if you leave it like that?”

He lazily bucks his hips up a miniscule amount and chuckles with satisfaction when he sees tears welling up in Atsumu’s eyes.

“Mmhmngh,” Atsumu garbles around his dick.

Kiyoomi’s smile falls away as he frowns down at him. “How often do I have to remind you not to eat with your mouth full?”

///

“You know what? Please keep on talkin’ to Iizuna, I hate that fucking guy.”

///

In the middle of Atsumu getting his ass eaten, he remembers, “ya spend too much money on takeout. Ah— yer gonna go broke by the time yer 30.”

Kiyoomi pops his head up for a second, chin glistening. “What, are you going to cook for me? Don’t act as if it hadn’t always been you to wail my ear full about ordering in. I can still hear your relentless whining. ‘But they have a Spanish specialty week. But they just added perch to the menu. But it's half-off friday, we can get two meals for the price of two.’ You fucker, you knew exactly how to appeal to my weaknesses.”

Atsumu half-heartedly smacks his shoulder. “Also, ya hold yer chopsticks all weird.” 

“Noted, I suppose. Can I go back to eating your ass now?” 

“As long as ya don’t hold a fork to i— ow! Less teeth, ya asshole!” 

A few hours later, they’re munching on fried duck and Atsumu pretends to be mad at Kiyoomi. “Ya could’a cooked this yerself, why’d ya hafta insist to order in?” he half-heartedly scolds him, and almost moans at the next bite. “Fuck, this is so good.” He coughs. “Uh, I mean, yer gonna live under a bridge two years from now.”

Kiyoomi can’t help himself, he laughs out loud. “God, this is ridiculous.”

“Ya mean, we’re ridiculous.”

“Yes, I mean–” Kiyoomi falters and halts. “What?”

Atsumu has looked up, a bit of food nestled into the corner of his mouth that’s standing open the tiniest bit; the hint of a smile resting on his lips, his eyes crinkled at the corners and glinting in almost–

“What?” Kiyoomi repeats, smaller this time. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, “nothing.”

He clears his throat.

“ ‘s just been a while since I’ve heard ya laugh. That’s all.”

“Shut the fuck up, don’t you dare look fond right now.”

“But I am fond! Yer always so grumpy an’ all, but at heart, yer such a silly little softie. And my cock is makin’ ya so dumb. It’s just funny to see ya laughing again. Didn’t think I’d ever get to witness it again. ‘specially not in these circumstances.”

“Hey,” Kiyoomi points out, “you’ve seen me laugh before. After that whole izakaya thing when you opened the door for me and I had a minor breakdown about that.” He smiles. “What the fuck are you even doing to me.”

“Fuck,” Atsumu groans, “just don’t remind me of that godawful night, I’m beggin’ ya.”

“Oh?” Kiyoomi teases. “I suppose that’s right. I’m supposed to be reminding you of how I always used to fart in front of you and pretend like I didn’t, right?”

Atsumu retches into his meal. “Sakusaaa!” he wails.

Kiyoomi laughs again, and it’s bright and tinkling and wonderful, and sets something loose inside his chest.

///

“Okay, I’ll go first today.” Kiyoomi’s arms are shaking where he’s bracing himself on the center console of the car. “If you want me to hate you,” he pants, “If you want me to completely, deeply, utterly despise you, you just have to drink orange juice straight from the carton again.”

“What if I told’ya that I did that with the milk once?” Atsumu says and pulls the string of anal beads out in one go.

Kiyoomi wails.

///

Atsumu rolls over on his side after he catches his breath. “Ye’re always projecting. Accusin’ me of doin’ stuff that ye’re doin’ as well. Like how ya told me that I always wanna talk about shit after sex cause I think ya won’t get mad. You’ve always done the same thing! C’mon, start sayin’ some shit ‘bout how I always respond to texts late. I know it’s burnin’ on yer tongue, ya waited fer five hours yesterday before I got a tiny little ‘okay’ back.”

Kiyoomi yawns, ready for a post-nut nap, half-heartedly mumbling, “you’re a dick for ignoring my good night text and posting a thirst trap on Instagram instead. Happy? I’m tired.”

Atsumu grins, pleased. “Now ya gotta passive-aggressively like my post.” 

“Go to sleep, Miya.”

“I’m in your bed.”

Kiyoomi pops open an eye. “Oh.” He closes it again. “Then go home and go to sleep, Miya.”

///

In the middle of the night, Atsumu jolts awake, chest sweat-bathed. “Fuck!”

He types in Kiyoomi’s number with trembling fingers, the digits glowing white in the darkness.

“What,” Kiyoomi slurs on the other end of the line.

“Yer aunt called me Osamu one time and ya didn’t correct her!”

Kiyoomi stays silent for a second. “That’s why you made me answer my phone right now?”

“Sure fuckin’ is! I was lickin’ my wounds fer days!”

“I don’t have time for this, I’m going back to sleep.” Kiyoomi yawns loudly. “You know I fucking hate it when you wake me up in the middle of night, Osamu.”

“Oi—!”

///

Kiyoomi closes his locker and promptly jolts. “Miya.”

“Sakusa.” Atsumu is grinning brightly. “Sex today?”

Someone behind them starts coughing; and all of a sudden, Bokuto is furiously rummaging for something in his bag. The tips of his ears are red.

“Shameless,” Kiyoomi mutters, and zips his jacket up. “We’re still at work.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “That didn’t seem to be a problem a month ago when I was just puttin’ away the exercise mats like a good, well-behaved teammate, and ya–”

Kiyoomi clears his throat, loudly. “No.”

“No what?”

“No sex today.”

“But we still gotta do the toe-sucking thing! We’ve been puttin’ it off for an entire week now!”

“But what if I’m tired, Miya, what then?”

“Then come over anyways. We don’t hafta have sex.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “We don’t? I don’t think that the point of our love-prevention-thing is to spend time together for the sake of spending time together.”

“But we’re not spending time together. I’ll be munchin’ on chips and strewin’ my crumbs all over the couch cushions, and you’ll be hoggin’ the TV remote and not even let me change the volume a tiny little bit.”

“Will you loudly comment about people’s haircuts while they sob over their deceased mother?”

“Will you put on one of your terrible pretentious French movie flicks?” Atsumu counters.

Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open. “They’re not flicks, and they’re not pretentious, they’re art and you just don’t appreci–” He cuts himself off. “You know what? Yes. Yes, I’m putting on Breathless by Godard.”

A few hours later, someone shoots a policeman, and it’s very tense and very, very sad, especially in all the black and white.

Kiyoomi looks over at Atsumu. “Hey,” he whispers. “Isn’t this the point where you should start scratching your balls?”

“Goddamnit,” Atsumu whispers back, and sighs. “How are ya always thinkin’ of new annoying shit for me to do? Like, just tonight I should gossip ‘bout their haircut, then I should scratch my nuts, then I should do the crumbs thing, then also get a glass of water but not wipe it off so it leaves a wet circle on the table and then do something else and something else too. See, I already forgot the rest! How am I s’pposed ta remember all of that?” He barks out a tired laugh. “If it gets any worse, I’m gonna hafta write this down. Cheat sheet fer the class of ‘Loving Sakusa Kiyoomi 101’.” He sucks air in through his teeth. “Oh wait, I should probably be failin’ that one.”

Kiyoomi’s head swivels up. “What did you just say?”

Atsumu turns to him with his brows furrowed. “Um … I’m gonna write it all down? So I remember?”

French mumbling from the TV takes up the space between them as they both fall silent.

Atsumu’s eyes widen. “...Wait.”

Two minutes later, they’re both bent over the kitchen table, each clutching a pen in their hands and staring at an empty sheet of paper.

“Okay,” Atsumu says, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, “About Sakusa Kiyoomi. That’s what I’m writin’. And ye’re doin’ the same, but with my name. And now we’re putting down all of the terrible and annoying things that the other has done and is doing, and we won’t fall in love!”

“Miya Atsumu,” Kiyoomi confirms, and writes it down. “What was the first thing I said? Right. Terrible morning breath. Extremely unkissable.”

“Oi! Yer bein’ mean!”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Isn’t that the point of all this? Come on, don’t yell ‘oi’, but be mean back.”

Atsumu purses his lips. “Sakusa Kiyoomi. Terrible bedhead. Also extremely unkissable.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him. “You used to tell me about how much plusher my lips look when I just woke up.”

Atsumu scratches his neck. “I lied?”

Kiyoomi is gleeful. “You didn’t.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue at him, but crosses out extremely unkissable. Kiyoomi can see him scribbling something else next to it, but his hand is obscuring his view, and he’s kind of angling his upper body like some elementary school nerd who doesn’t want his desk neighbor to copy his answers, and Atsumu is grinning again. Kiyoomi huffs, finally gives up trying to sneak a glance and just asks. “What are you writing?”

Atsumu flicks his gaze up. “Sakusa Kiyoomi. Terrible bedhead.” He wets his lips. “Extremely kissable.”

Kiyoomi’s face grows stormy. “Please, Miya,” he says, voice tight, “follow the assignment. We’re supposed to write down bad things.”

Atsumu tilts his head, a small smile spreading on his face. “But it’s a bad thing that I wanna kiss yer pretty face so bad, ain’t it?”

Kiyoomi stares at him silently.

“Are ya gonna tell me ta take off my–”

“Take off your fucking clothes, Miya.”

///

Suna welcomes Atsumu at the door in a gorgeous black gown. The plunging neckline is only held up by two tiny gold chains that glint as brightly as their eyes do. A rich white feather boa is draped over their shoulders. “Good evening,” they drawl as they puff it.

“You look amazing, also I hate you,” Atsumu declares as he steps out of his shoes, “this was Motoya’s present, wasn’t it?”

“It’s vintage,” Suna trills. As they tilt their head, their eyeshadow shimmers in the dim lights. “Second-hand, of course. And no, it wasn’t for the anniversary, he just saw it in some shop window a few days ago and decided to treat me. Today’s gifts are inside.”

“Gifts,” Atsumu huffs, “plural?”

Suna is still just grinning their infuriating little grin, so Atsumu busies himself with glaring holes into their back as they saunter into the living room, the hem of the dress swinging around their calves as they do, almost brushing their heels. “We have a few wines,” they call over their bare shoulder, feathers tickling their ear, “have your pick. I recommend the pinot noir, the fruity flavor pairs wonderfully with the cheese.” They flash a sly grin. “Not that you’d know that.”

“Ye’re fuckin’ fruity,” Atsumu mumbles and wheezes as soon as he catches sight of the table. “Why’s there so much cheese? And fairy lights, personalized table cards, appetizers? Why’s there so much everything? Just for your getting together date!”

“Oh no, imagine!” Komori has appeared from nowhere. When he slings an arm around Suna’s waist, his husband immediately leans into the half-embrace and lands a chaste peck on his jawline. Komori is positively glowing; Atsumu doesn’t think he’s ever seen a wider smile. “This little charcuterie night is for the anniversary of our first kiss and not the actual getting-together, we’ll celebrate that much more intimately. Hi, Kiyoomi!”

He steps up beside Atsumu, gruffly holding out a bottle of wine. “I didn’t know what kind of palate we were working with, so a port seemed too daring. I hope the moscato is fine.”

“I hate every single person here,” Atsumu declares, “but ya know what, at least there’s alcohol, so I ain’t complainin’.”

With a sly grin, Suna pulls Komori even closer to them, their husband melting to their side. “I'd tell you not to embarrass yourselves in front of our other friends from the birdwatching club, but who are we kidding, it’s you we’re talking to."

Atsumu pouts as he raises his gaze to look at the group of men and women that are already animatedly talking amongst themselves, a blonde woman throwing her head back with a boisterous laugh as a man with a shaved head and a tattooed neck shows her something on his phone.

Atsumu’s already taken a step forward, mind firmly set on embarrassing himself any way he likes, because we’re living in a free country, thank ya very much – but he’s pulled back. Startled, he turns around, just to discover that Kiyoomi has fisted a hand in his shirt.

As soon as Atsumu’s attention falls onto the interference, Kiyoomi twists his fingers tighter, fabric crumpling.

He doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips into a tight line before starting off into a different direction. Ah.

“Careful,” Atsumu murmurs into Kiyoomi’s ear as he stumbles after him, ignoring all of the raised eyebrows that Suna and Komori are sending their way and choosing to flash a smirk instead. “No scooting closer when you feel unsure around a group of people, remember?”

Kiyoomi just grumbles something incoherent while dropping down onto a chair on the end of the table opposite of the birdwatching club.

Atsumu’s grin grows wider as he pulls a chair back of his own. “What was that?”

“Two days ago, you wore the shorts again,” Kiyoomi repeats, squinting at him, “I think I’m allowed to do this just for tonight.” He rolls his eyes. “Besides, what am I going to do, fall in love with the man who once told me to leave his apartment and then proceeded to pack my bags for me?”

Atsumu’s eyes light up with a challenge and he scoots his chair closer until their thighs are pressed together and he can brush Kiyoomi’s forearm with his own. “Bastard,” he gets out through his smirk. “I thought it was pretty fair, considerin’ that one time ya bought me a box of Legos, wrapped it, and gave it to me sayin’ that I could play with that now instead of yer feelings.”

“Remember when you asked if we could get a goldfish because it would make for better company than me? God, I went to Komori’s house and cried for hours.”

“Ooh, what about the time ya snapped at me fer chucking an apple core into the residual waste instead of organic, so I ironed all yer shirts the wrong way so they had weird kinks in the front?”

“I’m honestly surprised I haven’t gone grey yet.”

“Wait, haven’t ya? I thought I saw some grey hair on yer temple before!”

“You did what?” Kiyoomi squawks, hand immediately coming up to feel over the spot. “That’s not true!”

“No it is, it’s weirdly white,” Atsumu ponders out loud with furrowed brows, scooting closer, one hand cupping Kiyoomi’s jaw while the other is already coming up to feel over the edge of his forehead, fingers smoothing over sleek dark hair and rubbing over the white spot before treading further up, softly carding through black strands, the kittenish movement almost ticklish. “Wait, it’s like that up here too. On the roots. But… It comes off when I ruffle it?”

Kiyoomi groans loudly, but he doesn’t slap Atsumu’s hands away, he just pinches his thigh before letting his heavy hand rest there. “Dry shampoo. I’m 23, Miya.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Atsumu responds with a wry smirk, ruffling Kiyoomi’s hair but not letting go of it either, “I would’ve thought that ya had fifty years worth of bitterness and spite stored up in that pretty head of yers.”

“I’d say something similarly mean about your head too, something about immaturity or being annoying maybe, but I’m afraid your ego is already taking up all of the space in there,” Kiyoomi responds, and flicks a finger against his forehead while his other hand squeezes Atsumu’s thigh. Atsumu cackles, his own hands too falling away to wrap around Kiyoomi’s hips.

Across the table, Suna and Komori stare at the two of them unabashedly.

“Oh my god,” Suna blurts out, horrified.

Komori’s mouth drops open before his head swivels around. “Atsumu and Kiyoomi,” he demands, tone hard and unrelenting and accusing in its entirety, “are you two friends again?”

They look at him dumb-founded.

“Uh,” Atsumu manages creatively.

Kiyoomi scrunches up his face as he tries for an answer. “I … wouldn’t say so?”

“No,” Atsumu agrees, “no, I don’t think? We don’t, uh, hang out? Well, except for sex, usually, but that doesn’t count, does it?”

“You’re hanging out right now,” Suna remarks, leaning back in the chair with arms crossed over their chest. “Laughing and bickering about dumb shit. An awful lot like friends would.”

Kiyoomi blinks. “But we’re not friends. We’re ex-husbands.”

Suna rolls their eyes at that. “Thanks for reminding me of the absolute absurdity of this situation.”

Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi with his brows furrowed. “Absurd? Do you know what they’re talking about?”

Komori looks like he’s experiencing intense physical pain, worse than the one time he tore his ACL on the court. “God, you really shouldn’t be able to surprise me anymore, but you somehow manage to every single time. I should’ve broken off contact with you about three years ago already.”

“You’re my cousin,” Kiyoomi protests.

Komori pointedly raises a round eyebrow. “Exactly.”

Suna cackles and cuddles into Komori’s chest, resting their cheek on their husband’s clavicle as they look up at him. “Hi babe, have I already told you that I love you today?”

Dark hair falls into their eyes and Komori brushes it aside gently. “Yes you have,” he murmurs, the expression on his face melting into fond softness as the corner of his mouth lifts up. “Eight times so far, I think. Wanna make it nine?”

“I love you,” Suna mouths, and presses a kiss right above Komori’s heart. Their husband flushes a bright red.

Across the table, Atsumu retches. “Keep it down on the PDA, will ya?” he calls, “Yer disgustin’.”

Kiyoomi looks similarly distraught. “You two are sickeningly sweet,” he agrees. “Didn’t your nutritionist tell you to cut back on the sugars?”

Komori, who has started to furiously make out with Suna, doesn’t even bother responding; he just throws him a half-hearted middle finger while nibbling at their lower lip.

Atsumu sighs and averts his eyes from them. “Anyways, Sakusa,” he loudly says, “how are ya on this fine evenin’? I think it’s really great of ya to be a normal fucking person and not a disgustin’, sappy creature who has to show off their husband like some cheap gold chain dangling on their arm.”

“Oh please,” Suna sneers, pulling back to glower at Atsumu, “if Toya-kun was jewelry, he’d be my most prized piece.”

“Could Toya-kun maybe wipe his mouth?” Kiyoomi asks. “You smeared lipstick on him.”

Atsumu cackles. Yeah, it really ain’t his color,” he jumps in. “That bold red shade’s too dark fer him. Coral would look nice on him I think, or something with more orange hues?”

Kiyoomi pulls a face. “No, not at all,” he retorts. “Look at his undertones, it would make him look sickly. I bet that a cool shade would compliment the color of his eyes very well. A soft pink, maybe with a grey undertone.”

“White looks good on him,” Suna dryly remarks. “I should know, I’ve painted his lips that color often enough.”

“Rin!” three people yell at the same time.

They just smirk wider. “What? You’re allowed to talk about all the filthy shit you do, but I don’t? Come on, I know that you’ve been boinking right before you came here.”

“Boinking,” Kiyoomi mouths while Atsumu’s mouth falls open, cheeks turning pink. “T-that’s none of yer business!” he splutters.

“It is my business, though,” Suna drawls, “if you two can’t keep your hands to yourselves underneath my dinner table. Come on, stop being so thirsty. There's like three different beverages right in front of you. You can let go of Atsumu’s thigh, Kiyoomi.”

He snatches his hand off it like it’s hot iron, heat shooting into his cheeks.

Atsumu gasps at Suna. “Hey hey hey!” he defends Kiyoomi, “don’t talk shit about my ex-husband, only I can do that!”

Komori sighs and falls back in his chair, rubbing over his forehead with his hand. “See?”

A crinkle appears between Kiyoomi’s eyebrows. “See what.”

“See that you’re friends again,” he enunciates.

“We’re not,” Kiyoomi protests once more, shooting Atsumu an unsure glance, “at least I don’t think.”

“But you seek out each other’s company,” Komori explains, “you feel comfortable around each other. You trust each other.”

“Of course,” Kiyoomi immediately responds, not even having to think about the answer. “I’ve always trusted Miya.”

Atsumu whirls around with a blinding smile. “Ya have?”

Kiyoomi scrunches up his face. “Why else would I choose to be around you? Of course I trust you.” After the pause that is taken up entirely by Atsumu’s blinding smile, Komori’s sigh, and Suna’s expression that screams of constipation, he hurries to continue. “But you’re annoying, of course, and I don’t respect anything about you.”

Atsumu leans forward, teasing grin unrelenting. “Ya trust me? That’s real embarrassin’ of ya.”

Kiyoomi squints at him. “I trust you to be an asshole, most of all. That’s what I meant.”

Atsumu sinks back into his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “I know it isn’t.”

Dinner is a comfortable affair. Wine and sake and beer flow freely, and between the sandwich appetizers and the seafood platter and the homemade bread and cheese and grilled vegetables and chocolate fondue and whatever else Suna and Komori have come up with, everyone fills their bellies to the hilt.

More and more people have trickled in and filled the apartment with bustling warmth. Atsumu spots Osamu somewhere with Kita, but then Kiyoomi demands his attention once more when he wants to show him the way Suna folded the napkins into cute little swans, and Atsumu loses sight of them again.

Atsumu catches up with Aran, they reminisce over their first year, pimply-faced Suna and giggle off the wrathful glances that are sent their way over Komori’s shoulder. They steal food off of Osamu’s plate and pretend they didn’t when Kita turns to them with his eyebrows slightly raised, they each boast about their respective muscles but most of all their biceps and devolve into a petty squabble that is interrupted by a woman from the birdwatching club, Madoka, sidling up to their table, her shirt already cuffed at the elbows, demanding that they try their luck with her.

Her arm muscles are nothing short of huge, and when she catches them staring, she laughs brightly and flexes, flicking her fingers into the direction of Atsumu’s biceps. “Do I wanna know why your right arm is bigger?” she teases.

While Atsumu gasps in affront, Aran breaks out into howling laughter, slapping the front of his thighs as he doubles over.

Even Kiyoomi interrupting his conversation with his former captain Iizuna for a second to peer over at the spectacle curiously. “I like her already,” he quips, specifically to to annoy Atsumu who huffs and promptly slides into position.

He barely avoids a squeak when Madoka wraps her fingers around his, his hand almost squashed by hers,  “I also teach boxing on the weekends,” she conspiratorially whispers, “so watch out, pretty boy.”

Two minutes later, the back of his hand kisses the surface of the table.

Atsumu proclaims and insists that she only managed to beat him because Kiyoomi had sidled up to their table and when he casually took off his sweater, his shirt rode up and revealed a sliver of flawlessly pale skin dotted with a single pretty mole and yeah that’s why I lost, shut the fuck up Rin!

Aran doesn’t drink alcohol, so his cheeks aren’t flushed like the rest of them are, but there’s still a glint in his eyes and a dangerous quality to his smirk as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, gaze firmly locked on Madoka who raises an eyebrow in challenge. As Aran stretches out his arm, she does too.

Atsumu groans and rubs Aran’s head as he gets up. “Hope yer gettin’ some tonight, Aran-kun, and it was nice meetin’ ya, Madoka!”

He leaves the two of them to their posturing and ogling and goes to find Kiyoomi instead. He’s finished talking to his and Komori's manicurist and ended up with Iizuna, his former high-school captain. He’s standing just a tiny bit too close to him for Atsumu’s taste, so he retches and hopes the guy looks up to catch him doing it. He doesn’t; his big sparkling eyes stay firmly trained on Kiyoomi’s face.

Atsumu saunters up to them with a big smile plastered on, and knocks his shoulder against Kiyoomi’s, sneaking a hand around his waist and pressing into his side, his other hand curling around his bicep. Iizuna’s eyes widen as Atsumu’s smirk does.

Kiyoomi stiffens and then relaxes into his hold. “Really?” Kiyoomi huffs down at him, yet not making a move to free himself from the half-embrace. “I thought you’d told me to talk to him. Besides, you’re ridiculous. There isn’t even a claim for you to stake, I was having such a nice conversation with him, and now he thinks you–” He trails off.

Iizuna is gone.

Atsumu hums in satisfaction much like a cat would purr. “Now he thinks that I what?”

Kiyoomi squints at him, but by the curl of his mouth, Atsumu sees that he isn’t really mad. “Now he thinks that I belong to you.”

Atsumu flashes a grin, a wicked one. “Don’t you?”

Before Kiyoomi can respond, the lights go out.

“Ah!” A squeaky yelps sounds over the sudden hushed murmurs that have erupted all over the room.

The lights come back on, and while everyone is still wincing at the brightness, a chubby woman on the shorter side with a grey-streaked bun, thick-framed glasses and a toothy smile hurries to the front of the room, her hands waving around in the air haphazardly. “I’m so sorry!” she giggles as she apologizes for scaring the daylights out of them.

She explains that she’s Yuna, Moto-kun’s mother, that she loves him and his lover so very much and couldn’t be happier to be here. And, most importantly, that she has prepared a slideshow of photos.

The USB in her hand is glinting in the light like a weapon, and her smile too.

“Mooom!” Komori groans from the back, but her grin just grows brighter. “Nope!” she calls out. “You’re not getting out of this!”

“Fuck,” Suna mutters, “I never should’ve showed her how to use PowerPoint.”

The room descends into laughter while Yuna gleefully plugs in her laptop and fumbles with the remote of the projecting device, spluttering about how this time, she really will get it even without asking Motoya for help.

Atsumu cracks a wry grin and turns to Kiyoomi. “How long do ya think it’s gonna take? Remember when she made us to sit through the pictures of their wedding, I think we were there for two hours.”

Kiyoomi smiles faintly at the memory. “I think it was.”

Atsumu chuckles lowly. “I remember, you were squirmin’ in yer seat the entire time cause we couldn’t get up but ya had ta pee and then I dragged ya into that one closet and let ya–”

A hand lands on his shoulder.

He yowls and jerks violently, whirling around and scowling when he sees who’s there. “What the fuck, Rin,” Atsumu hisses, a hand pressed to his pounding heart as he tries to calm his breath. “Don’t scare us like that!”

Suna scrunches up their nose. “You know what’s scary? The way you’ve styled your hair tod– okay, you know what, not important.”

In the dim lights, Atsumu can barely make out how they shuffle on their feet. “Yeah, um,” they say, looking supremely awkward, “I guess this is weird? You two don’t have to stay for the presentation if you don’t want to. I know me and Toya are perfect and amazing and great cause what else would we be, but, uh … we don’t need to rub it into your faces. Yeah, um.”

Next to Atsumu, Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “It’s ‘Toya and me’.”

Suna’s eyes roll back so hard that only the whites are visible. “Oh my god,” they groan, “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you two. Whatever, I’ll fuck off again and leave you alone with your history of driving the clown car against the wall.” They shrug, waving their hand around the air noncommittally. “I don’t care if you get all mushy after seeing me and Toya, yes Kiyoomi, me and Toya, be perfect. Go cry in some closet or something. Or take Atsumu with you and have furious ex sex.” They give a little cough. “I can’t exaggerate how much I don’t care.”

The tension bleeds out of Atsumu’s shoulders. “Oh but ya do, don’t ya?” Suna slaps Atsumu’s hand away when he tries to ruffle their hair, and Atsumu chuckles, a strange sense of fondness swelling within him. Because this is Suna, and they’re a bit of a cunt, really. But somewhere deep down, they do care. “Ya’ve become soft, Sunarin.”

They hiss at him.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone that deep down, yer the mushy one,” Atsumu drawls, already turning. “I’ll be fine, don’tcha worry. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle. That Sakusa an’ I are even doing this should’ve given ya the hint that we’re over the divorce.”

Suna breathes out. 

Atsumu looks up at Kiyoomi. “You comin’?”

Motoya and Rintarou’s Best Moments

is written on the first slide, in rainbow lettering and the font Papyrus, which, as Kiyoomi comments from the back, is only marginally better than Comic Sans. “Oh shut up,” Atsumu mutters as he nudges at him with an elbow, “stop thinkin’ yer better than everyone else just cause ya took that one graphic design class in college.”

“Excuse me,” Kiyoomi mutters back, “I got an A on that project, the professor called my work boundary-breaking.”

“You know what broke boundaries? When ya tried to fit those two dild– ooh, it’s starting!”

The first slide shows Suna and Komori’s wedding picture. A full frontal, a proper, classical one the way it would be shown on Pinterest or a magazine for brideswear; Suna is in a gorgeous sunflower yellow dress, Komori in a white suit and holding a bouquet, the colors of the flowers coordinated to Suna’s dress, an arm slung around their waist and leaning into them. They’re both wearing sweet smiles, embracing each other underneath the canopy of a willow with the sun breaking through the leaves. A perfect picture of a perfect couple on a perfect day.

They’re both wearing bright green crocs.

Laughter erupts all over the room as the perfect couple is standing to the side, looking so very, very smug.

“Idiots!” Atsumu yells over, and Suna crooks their fingers into a heart at him.

Suna has evidently taught Yuna well, because when she clicks a button, the picture dissolves into colorful pixels and flies off the screen in broken bits, another one coming out from underneath.

The two of them are pictured, Komori angled towards someone out of the frame, someone who he had been animatedly talking to. He’d apparently been gesticulating around the air, but in the photo, his hands have stilled as he’s looking back over his shoulder, his mouth open with a tender smile, cheeks flushed and eyes star-bright as his gaze is drawn towards the person next to him. Suna is resting their arms on the table and their cheek on them, plates stacked around them, hair splayed out all over the wood – they’re looking up at Komori as if he’d hung the stars in the sky.

A wave of coos erupts all over the room, and across from them, Atsumu spies Suna turning bright red. He cackles and nudges Kiyoomi. “Fuckin’ bastard,” he gleefully mutters, “Yuna is a treasure. I hope she shows the pic of them after Aiya spat purèed apple all over them.”

Kiyoomi just hums, his thoughts somewhere else. He traces the contours of Motoya’s smile, the overbordering sweetness in Suna’s eyes, the way they’re looking at each other as if nobody but them existed in the entire world.

Kiyoomi distinctly remembers the moment. It was him who Komori had been talking to out of the frame right then, about something mundane that he doesn’t remember anymore. Komori had been so excited that night, just glowing, high on bliss. He’d almost been stumbling over his rapid-fire words as he talked to him about coffee filters or an oil change or whatever they’d come up with. 

He doesn’t remember, only remembers how Komori had looked so happy. Reminding Kiyoomi of his own wedding day; how he’d been just as happy once, too. He pushes those thoughts to the side.

Another transition. Folded squares. Suna and Komori are showing off their rings – those candy ones that you can get at a vending machine.

Transition. A dice that turns.

Motoya's birthday, the 30th of July. He’s covered to the neck in mud, and Suna too. Hats flop into their eyes, their arms are sunburnt, scratches on their knees. Motoya is glowing with joy as he’s holding out a shovel and also a small, unopened wooden box. Suna had organized a scavenger hunt for them, and Motoya hadn’t shut up about it for weeks.

Kiyoomi snorts, and it’s a bit arduous. “Why didn’t you ever do something romantic like that?”

Atsumu leans into his side, grinning wickedly. “Why didn’t you?”

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi says, “I tried. I really did, and I don’t know how they do it. I was at my absolute limit trying to be romantic in any way, shape or form. Do you know how draining it was to remember to get you flowers every few weeks? Cause Motoya told me I had to be spontaneous and flirty and show casual affection.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, and wrinkles his nose. “I would’ve preferred it if ya’d shown me casual affection by bouncing on my cock extra hard that day. The flowers were just kinda sad once they wilted, and I never knew which recycling bin they went into.”

“Organic! Obviously!”

“Oh, look at me,” Atsumu whines, “I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi, and I’m so smart, I know the classifications of garbage, I went to college and I’m–“

Atsumu pinches his thigh and Kiyoomi yowls. He pouts at him, affronted. “Stop insulting me and look at the slideshow. Yuna was working so hard on it!”

“Ya aren’t lookin’ at it either!”

They turn more quiet as more pictures come on.

Komori sprawled out in a bouncy castle with his pants pulled down to his ankles, laughing helplessly as a kid glows up at him in the background, next to him Suna who is laughing their ass off, the frame frozen just where they'd reached into their pocket to immortalize the moment with a picture.

That had been Yuna’s famed grill party at the end of the summer, which Atsumu hadn't attended because he'd been visiting back home while Kiyoomi was moving his stuff out of their apartment. 

Transition.

Atsumu’s birthday, his smile a bit too strained while both Suna and Komori are holding up peace signs behind his head. The next picture shows them with their faces burning in competition and their fingers entangled, still above Atsumu's head. Kiyoomi isn’t there.

Transition. Halloween.

Suna with lazily drawn on whiskers and cheap velvet cat ears, Komori in a full Dracula get-up, red contacts and fangs and fake-blood and fake-greasy hair included.

“Their costumes didn’t match at all!" Yuna loudly complains, “I’d told everyone that couples would have to show up wearing couple’s costumes. You know what they answered? ‘Of course we match, we’re going as the sexiest people in this room.’ “

Atsumu had been Tinker Bell that evening, and Kiyoomi John Wick. Neither of them had stayed long, both had gotten drunk, and both had left alone.

Transition. Christmas.

Atsumu doesn't look at the screen or the pictures anymore, is content to watch his leg move erratically. He stops.

It’s nice, he supposes – Suna and Komori seem happy. But what they have is not what he wants or needs, and certainly not Kiyoomi.

He thinks of saying many things, words forming around his tongue but none daring to escape. A simple question of how Kiyoomi is feeling; a quiet admission that he’d stared at him from across the room at that Christmas party and despised himself for it. He thinks of asking Kiyoomi how he’d been doing back in September, because he’d looked god-awful, and what had happened in November that he looked so much healthier, with a bit of color back in his cheeks. He thinks of asking Kiyoomi if he missed him at Christmas; if he remembered the year before when they’d spent the holidays together.

He turns to him. Atsumu rakes his form with his eyes for a second, tracing the even lines of his profile that the light flickers over before leaning in so close his breath brushes Kiyoomi’s ear. The chatter of the other guests fades into the background as he focuses on the inquisitive glint in Kiyoomi’s dark eyes, the raised hair on their arms brushing, hand hovering above Kiyoomi’s on the table.

His fingers settle, snugly fitting themselves into the spaces between lanky, pale ones. He turns their hands over until Kiyoomi’s palm faces upward, grasped tightly in Atsumu’s hold.

Some things are easier than others.

“Hey,” Atsumu murmurs lowly, “are ya wearin’ the plug?”

Within the fraction of a second, the air charges with electricity.

Kiyoomi goes rigid next to him. Atsumu can barely suppress both a chuckle and a shiver. That’s confirmation enough.

“It’s been inside ya all evening, huh?” he continues. He bites his lip, and with a last flicker of his eyes towards the slideshow, he leans even closer.

“Are ya that much of a slut that ya need somethin’ to fill ya up all the time now?”

Kiyoomi is trembling. “It was your idea for me to wear it tonight,” he snaps through gritted teeth.

Atsumu looks at him for a second. “And ya did,” he finally murmurs.

Kiyoomi licks his lips slowly.

Atsumu drags him up by the jacket sleeve.

“Fuck,” he mutters as they stumble out into the hallway, hand still clenched tight in the fabric. “fuck, fuck, fuck. Been wantin' ya all night.”

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi’s lips slide against his ear, his breath hot against the shell of it. Goosebumps erupt all over Atsumu’s neck, and his hold around Kiyoomi’s trim waist tightens.

He risks a last glance back, but the living room is doused in darkness, the last of the slides projected onto the wall, and everyone’s attention on them.

He feels more than sees Kiyoomi’s presence behind him. The other man slings a heavy arm around his shoulder, hangs his head into the crook of his neck and just barely fumbles the door open with his elbow. They don’t bother to turn on the light, they’re reduced to shadows and the lingering warmth of demanding fingers.

Atsumu lets himself sink back against the wall as he grabs hold of Kiyoomi’s ass, hooking his fingers into the waistband, just barely dipping down into his crack. Kiyoomi presses impossibly closer, the hard outline of his cock already pushing into the tight skin of Atsumu's abdomen.

His own cock twitches in his pants. “Think you can come like this?”

“Like what?”

Their breath rings loud in the still silence of the cramped space. 

He slides his thigh between Kiyoomi’s legs, parts them gently, nudging them apart until he can rub up against sore hardness. His voice is nothing more than a whisper. “Like this.”

Kiyoomi is already grinding down. “Fuck,” he moans, and buries his face in Atsumu’s shoulder.

They scrabble at each other’s clothes, each other’s throats, caught up in the haze of something so familiar yet thrilling. He’s pushing against his zipper almost painfully and knows that Kiyoomi is too, knows how aroused he is by the way his eyes are full-blown black.

“Yeah,” Atsumu breathes, “just like that. Wanna see ya fall apart.”

“So good,” Kiyoomi murmurs against his lips, the sounds choked off, “feels so good.” He bites down on his lip but a whimper still escapes him, and Atsumu looks up in wonder at this miracle of a man.

“Shh,” Atsumu soothes him, burying a hand in his curls as his own head falls back, suddenly dizzy with the reality of the situation. “So good fer me,” he murmurs, “yer doin’ so well. Fuck, yer eager.”

Kiyoomi’s body is desperate as his hands curl around Atsumu’s shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer as he craves the heat he’s chasing. He whispers something, but the sound is muffled by the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt that he’s drooling against.

“What was that?” Atsumu breathlessly asks, gently prodding at his cheek to prompt him to lift his head.

Kiyoomi does, but he doesn’t look him in the eyes when his hips start their grinding assault again. “I … remember that first time? On the floor?”

Atsumu chuckles breathlessly. “How could I forget?”

Kiyoomi stills. “I told you I went home with someone.”

An irrational stab of fierce envy pierces through Atsumu’s stomach, because even though Kiyoomi is on him like a gluttonous rabbit, even though he’s leaking through the front of his pants, hands fisted tightly in Atsumu’s shirt, even though his mouth is spit-slick and swollen with the force of their kiss – he can’t fucking bear the thought of Kiyoomi with another man. That someone else gets to have him, got to have this. “What about him?” he chokes out.

Kiyoomi doesn’t look him in the eyes. “I didn’t pull through with it.”

“What?” Atsumu breathes, not trusting his ears to have heard correctly. His hand comes up and he grabs Kiyoomi by the chin. When Kiyoomi’s eyes find his, he’s swallowed by dark dizziness.

“I went home with him, but I didn’t sleep with him,” Kiyoomi whispers, pupils blown wide with lust. “I told myself that I was only looking for the escape of a warm body. Told myself that I wanted to do it, that I should do it. If only to forget about you. But…”

Both their hearts are pounding against each other, an erratic rhythm of desire.

“But?” Atsumu croaks out.

“But he wasn’t you,” Kiyoomi breathes. “Nothing compares to you. I left. I went home that day and ended up on my bed with three fingers buried in my hole, desperately wishing I had your cock instead.”

For a moment, they hold gazes.

Atsumu sags and trembles with the force of his arousal. “Fuck, ya can’t just say that.”

Kiyoomi sinks his hands into his hair and drags him into a kiss, one that’s hard and messy, lips moving against each other as Atsumu grabs at Kiyoomi by the hips and presses closer until their sweat-damp shirts meet, chests colliding, legs and knees knocking into each other. He messes up Atsumu's carefully gelled strands as he pushes him into whatever position he needs, as he crowds him against the wall and takes what he wants.

“Shit,” Atsumu whispers into him, choking when Kiyoomi rubs their painfully aching cocks together through their jeans, “look at ya. Fuckin’ look at ya. I can’t believe I get to have ya.”

Kiyoomi’s grip in his air goes tighter as his movements become frantic. He’s humping him like a dog; Atsumu might never have been this horny in his entire life.

“Fuck, ye’re perfect,” he mumbles, words tumbling out of his mouth as he’s drunk on the haze of Kiyoomi’s lust. His eyes are blown wide, his cheeks red and ruddy, spit pooling in his mouth. “I don’t …” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point, thoughts and feelings flowing out of him freely. “I don’t need to take ya on a scavenger hunt or fuckin’ … adopt a cat with ya or make personalized cards fer our first kiss anniversary with fancy ass wines and hundred types of cheese or whatever the fuck, cause I … I have ya in my arms so desperate fer me. I don’t know what else I could want.”

“I don’t know either,” Kiyoomi whispers, breath hacked. He turns his head up, a bead of sweat traveling down his temple as his hips rub torturously slowly to Atsumu’s, a soft moan escaping him when Atsumu grips his ass harder, fingers digging into the flesh of it. “I just know that I want you to fuck me.”

Atsumu rolls his hips up, hard, and Kiyoomi keens. Any inhibitions they might’ve still had, any hesitation or doubt are lost – they rut into each other desperately, pulling at each other’s clothes yet not bothering to take them off. Atsumu is straining painfully hard against the zipper of his jeans, Kiyoomi grinding against the hard bulge, and he can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop, it feels so good.

Fire is flaring deep in his belly, devouring him whole.

This is what they’re meant to be doing. This feels as easy and necessary as breathing, this is the rhythm that their bodies are meant to fall into, the same desire that they have always succumbed to.

Atsumu comes into his pants, sticky and warm, and it feels so filthy, so indecent, he can’t help but whine with the shameful pleasure of it. Kiyoomi coaxes him through it, his pliant body pressed to his entirety, face mushed against his neck, murmuring everything and nothing into the crook of his throat.

The noises are lost against his skin, but Atsumu remembers what Kiyoomi used to say to him. He remembers that velvety tone.

“So good,” he’d hear. “You’re doing so well,” Kiyoomi would coo, “look how hard you just came, Atsumu, so beautiful.”

Atsumu winds his arms tighter around him, pressing his face into Kiyoomi’s shoulder. His fingers curl into the thin fabric of the shirt, beyond caring that it crumples. “Ya haven’t come yet,” he murmurs, still breathless. “Use me.”

Kiyoomi is already moving. He pushes down against Atsumu, slotting their hips back together as he slings an arm around Atsumu’s neck, holding him in place as he grinds their bodies together.

The hardness of his length rubs against the inside of his thigh, and the way that Kiyoomi is panting, face contorted, lips twitching as he shamelessly chases release, is almost enough to make Atsumu hard again.

He gazes up in wonder as Kiyoomi fucks himself down on his thigh, occasional whimpers escaping him when he grinds low and deep. He is a vision, a moving picture of carefully curated composure falling apart and revealing something so raw and beautiful.

His lanky fingers fist themselves into his clothes and catch on Atsumu’s hair. But he doesn’t mind the twinge, his own fingers just grasping tighter around Kiyoomi’s ass before they wander lower, press over strained fabric until they can dip into his crease.

Kiyoomi’s hips stutter as he realizes what he’s about to do.

Atsumu smiles sickly-sweet. “Almost forgot ‘bout this one,” he murmurs, one hand undoing Kiyoomi’s belt, the other slipping down his back and underneath his waistband, the elastic of his boxers. “How careless of me.” 

His fingertips knock against something hard. It’s the jewel one, isn’t it? The thick plug with the blue crystal sitting at the flared base, the one that’s nestled so perfectly between his cheeks. The one that's rubbing and straining against Kiyoomi’s walls just that tiny bit too much, the one that he can feel with every movement, the one that makes him shudder when he sits down.

How the fuck has Atsumu even held out for half a year before fucking him again?

He rolls up his hips right as he pushes down on the base of the plug, jostling the toy inside him. He knows that it will press up right against his prostate, will push into that sensitive gland and–

Kiyoomi is coming in waves. Atsumu doesn’t relent, he curls his fingers around the base of the plug and fucks it in and out of him shallowly, knowing how it looks peeking out from his cheeks, that puffy pink rim stretching around the widest part.

Kiyoomi is held tightly in Atsumu’s arms as he buries his face against his shoulder and rides out his orgasm against his thigh, rutting in delirium as he slowly comes back down.

Atsumu swoops him into a kiss, their pink-bitten lips trembling against each other.

They’re still intertwined as they try to catch their breath, one chest rising and falling against another. Kiyoomi’s curls are sweaty where they are plastered against his forehead with sweat, his gaze still disoriented, his entirety so incredibly beautiful.

Atsumu smirks at him. “Good?”

Kiyoomi squints at him. He makes grabby hands. “Shirt.”

Atsumu bends down, picks it up and throws it at his head. The following squawk comes muffled. He cackles.

Kiyoomi finally manages to disentangle himself from his shirt and pulls it on. “Fuck you,” he says without venom.

Atsumu laughs brightly. “What for?”

“The sheer audacity of you roping me into doing this? God, I don’t even know.” Kiyoomi smiles too as he smooths the fabric down, ignoring where it clings to his abdomen with the last traces of his release. “Maybe the fact that I’ll have to drive home now with my own cum drying in my underwear?”

"Oh shaddup," Atsumu drawls, "you don’t gotta pretend as if ya don’t like bein’ a bit of a slut. You’ll probably find it kinda hot once yer squirmin’ in yer seat, and get half hard again each time ya step on the gas.”

Kiyoomi flushes bright red, but doesn’t refute it. Instead, he ruffles Atsumu’s head just a bit too hard. “Your hair looks like shit.”

“And whose fault is that, huh?” Atsumu lets out a self-satisfied huff. “Not like yers is any better.” He opens the door a crack. “Come on, it’s not like anyone will see us and immediately know what we did in there.”

Suna and Komori see them and immediately know what they did in there.

Suna groans as soon as they emerge, and Komori just wrinkles his nose at them. “Not in the closet,” he meekly complains.

Kiyoomi sheepishly smoothes down an errant curl.

“Yes in the closet,” Suna mumbles, “I hate you both, just in case you didn’t know.”

Atsumu slams the door shut behind himself and makes kissy-noises at them, already pulling Kiyoomi after himself back to the party – fingers interlaced.

Suna sighs. “Fix your hair, at least!” they call after them, but the pair is long out of earshot.

Chapter Text

While Kiyoomi’s always been most comfortable alone, it felt different after Atsumu. It’s only natural that the silence strikes you louder when you’ve become used to sound.

And yet it isn’t really quiet anymore, is it?

Kiyoomi is doing the dishes, pink plastic gloves submerged in soapy suds, a scouring pad clutched in one hand, the edge of a dirty mixing bowl in the other, and Atsumu is vacuuming.

A few hours earlier, he’d knocked on Kiyoomi’s door and strutted in, whining loudly. “Rin was teasin’ me ‘bout that failure of a cake I tried ta bake ‘em last year, and I wanted ta prove them wrong so I said hah, I’ll bake ya the best cake ya’ve ever eaten fer yer stupid birthday this time, but now I’m fucked cause I’m fine at cookin’ but I’m terrible at bakin’ an’ it’s gonna be shit an’ they’re gonna rub it under my nose an’ I hate everything!”

Kiyoomi had just hummed while nudging Atsumu’s discarded shoes with his toe so that they were standing in a neat line next to his own. “I remember that. I tried to tell you to use more flour but you were still mad at me because I’d told you that the cashier from the corner store likes me better than you, so you purposefully ignored my advice.”

“Cause ya were wrong then and are wrong now. Bashira adores me.” Atsumu had pouted miserably at him, even his hair seeming to be flopping into his eyes all depressedly. “Also, it’s just another example that my spite is ruinin’ my life. Ugh, sometimes I wish I was less competitive, it would save me a lotta nerves an’ trouble. And I’d be way less of a bastard, let’s be honest here.”

But at those words, Kiyoomi had gasped and gone rigid, body pulling tight. “Don’t you ever dare say that about yourself,” he’d gotten out through gritted teeth. He’d cracked his knuckles in fierce determination before stretching out a hand to curl it firmly around Atsumu’s shoulder. “That you’re competitive and a bastard are probably the most redeeming qualities about you. You know what? We’re going to bake the best cake that they will ever eat.”

“The last time ya tried ta teach me how to bake, we almost burned the kitchen down cause ya decided that ya wanted to suck my dick halfway through.”

“Well, what is it they say? Second time’s the charm?”

Atsumu had smiled. “They don’t say that.”

“Oh come on, work with me here.” Kiyoomi had raised an eyebrow. “Imagine what Rin will say if you show up with some sad chocolate soufflé that’s sunken in so far that it looks like a skate ramp. Wow, they’d probably say, this is even more deflated than your ego should be after you dared to show me this pity excuse of a birthday cake.”

And Atsumu had squawked and Kiyoomi had laughed and now his kitchen is smelling faintly of vanilla and lemon and a sweaty Atsumu because goddamnit Omi-kun, I didn’t think that bakin’ would be this stressful.

“I was talkin’ to Samu the other day,” Atsumu yells over the noise of the vacuum cleaner, panting as he maneuvers the nozzle underneath the kitchen table, pulling out the chairs with his other hand one by one, biceps bulging as he does. It’s inexplicably and unfairly sexy. Kiyoomi scrubs his bowl harder.

“An’ he told me that one of Shinsuke’s sheep got kids or whatever they call it. Wanna drive out to the farm one of these days and look at the beauties and give ‘em the worst names ever?”

Kiyoomi rubs gentle circles into the still warm cake-pan, stripping it of butter and crumbs as water sloshes around his forearms.

He doesn’t particularly like doing the dishes. Hates it, in fact, despises it. He gets wet and cold and his shirt starts clinging to him in the front and he doesn’t like the texture and wants to cry the whole time through, and if water gets into his gloves, he has to calm down for ten minutes with his head between his knees. 

Yeah, he hates doing the dishes.

But letting Atsumu do them is worse, because Kiyoomi knows he won’t do it right, and will be sloppy about it because he doesn’t care to do it right.

Kiyoomi will subject himself to the horror of submerging his arms to the elbows in dirty, slippery water if it means that he can be sure to have a clean plate to eat off of, and not one that still has bits of crumbs sticking to it and unidentifiable streaks on it.

Atsumu had actually offered, had said – “ya already helped me with the cake, least I can do is clean up. Lemme do the dishes?”

“Are you really pretending to be nice right now?”

“I am.” He’d winked. “Can ya stop pretending like there’s any way in hell you’ll actually let me wash the dishes? I’ll lie down on the sofa in the meanwhile.”

Kiyoomi had looked at him. What an absolute jerk. “No you can’t, you’ll start vacuuming. Your clumsy fingers got flour everywhere.”

“Ohoho, my clumsy fingers? Ya didn’t say the same yesterday evenin’ when I–”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Kiyoomi had shut him up by shoving him into the direction of the vacuum cleaner.

Atsumu had barked out a laugh and obliged.

The thick rubber of his gloves numbs the feeling of Kiyoomi’s fingertips, makes him lose precision, makes his movements sloppy – and yet he can’t help but think about how very tethered he feels in this moment right now.

He hates doing the dishes.

But he’s doing the dishes, and Atsumu is vacuuming, and he feels at ease.

He still doesn’t love him, of course not, but love is not the measure of all, love is not the measure of warmth or comfort or ease. They are friends again. They’re friends. Friends.

The word curls around his tongue in a peculiar fashion, as if not wanting to settle or at least not knowing how to, friends, as if that’s all they are, friends, as if that’s all they’ve ever been. They’ve been enemies, lovers, acquaintances, but friends?

They are.

The vacuum cleaner turns off.

“I might name one of those babies idiot. So whenever Shin calls out ‘idiot!’, Samu will come runnin’, but oh no, his boyfriend meant the sheep an’ not him! Wouldn’t that be really funny?”

“Shinsuke wouldn’t call Osamu that,” Kiyoomi hums. “Also, bold of you to assume that you’ll be getting naming privileges.”

Atsumu drags the body of the vacuum cleaner behind himself as he stalks towards the cabinet, scrunching his eyebrows together. “But Samu said that they’d let ya name one of ‘em if ya come, so why not me too!”

“Because Shinsuke adores me, of course. That’s the wrong cabinet, Miya, the vacuum cleaner goes in the storage room next to the genkan.”

Atsumu pouts. “Well how am I s’pposed ta know that? Back in my apartment, we used to stash it in the cabinet.”

“Well I’m not living with you anymore,” Kiyoomi says unfazed while pulling the plug, watching as the water starts gurgling down the drain.

“Admit it,” Atsumu teases, head peeking around the corner, an impish smile etched onto his sweaty face as he pushes his messy hair out of his forehead. “Ya miss seein’ me wiggle my ass all over the apartment.”

“Absolutely not,” Kiyoomi rectifies, “I sometimes still have nightmares about that one time you prepared breakfast naked and your balls got caught in the cutlery drawer.” He pops his pink gloves off with a snap. “I’d rather wish aunt Ena a happy birthday than move back in with you.”

///

Five days later, he moves back in with him.

Atsumu picks up on the first ring. He squints at the name on his phone screen that’s flashing way too brightly in the dark. “Sakusa?” he mumbles, still hazy with sleep.

“Miya!” Kiyoomi furiously whispers, “I’m gonna die!”

“Ye’re gonna what?” Atsumu pulls himself up, blinking himself awake and fumbling on the nightstand for the light. Concern seeps into his tone. “Where are ya?”

“The fucking balcony!”

Atsumu jolts up. “Ye’re not gonna jump, are ya?!”

“Bitch, I might.”

“Tell me what’s going on, right now,” Atsumu demands as he slides into his slippers, already rising from the bed.

“There’s a fucking cockroach in my bathroom!”

Atsumu halts. He has to restrain himself from throwing the phone to the wall. Instead, he falls back onto the bed with a resounding thump. “Oh my god, you absolute donkey,” he groans. ”You overdramatic moron, you–”

“Stop insulting me, this is serious,” Kiyoomi whines. “I’m on the balcony right now and freezing my toes off. How am I supposed to walk into this apartment ever again?”

“Easy, ya pick up yer foot and set it down. And open the balcony door first, maybe.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“A tiny bit.” He sighs deeply. “Sakusa, what do ya want me to do?”

“Come over, obviously,” he hisses, “and fucking step on the motherfuckers!”

Atsumu yawns. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Evil doesn’t sleep.”

“But I’d like ta.” He groans again. “Half of ‘em are gonna be hidin’ in all those cracks and crevices anyways, I won’t be able ta–“

A shrill shriek cuts him off.

He groans louder. “I said, it ain’t gonna help much if I do anythin’, just come over and sleep here.”

Silence. Silence that stretches on for just a bit too long.

“I still have the … the guest room?” he adds, suddenly a bit nervous as he scratches the hair at the nape of his neck. “You know, where ya used to sleep on the bad nights when we–“ He clears his throat; willing those thoughts away. “Anyway. Ya need to get some sleep, an’ I’m right across the hall.” He pauses. “We have a game tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi finally says. “Okay. Fine.”

“Is it fine?”

“Of course it is.”

“Don’t say ‘of course’, cause that’s not true. Is it fine, Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi pauses. “Yes,” he finally says. “It is.”

Atsumu hears shuffling in the background; a woosh, then a swoosh. He strains his ears. “Are ya walkin’ through the apartment now?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi whispers, “just opened the door.”

“Why are ya whisperin’?” Atsumu whispers.

“They might hear me!”

“The cockroaches?” Atsumu snorts. “What are they gonna do? Crawl out of their little holes and look up at ya with their little bug eyes all menacingly? Scurry towards you on their little–”

Kiyoomi squeaks.

“Alright,” Atsumu sighs, “just come over, and maybe don’t let them kill ya on the way.”

“Oh believe me,” Kiyoomi mutters, “I’ll kill myself before they’ll get the chance.”

Atsumu barks out a laugh, pushing himself up from the bed. “Good to know that ye’re as overdramatic as ever. I would’ve hated it if our divorce had killed yer diva tendencies.”

“Oh? You call me overdramatic?” Kiyoomi’s voice is rising now, something like fury simmering beneath the surface. “What if I listed you the various diseases that cockroaches carry, huh? Let’s start alphabetically. Cholera, diarrhea, dysentery–“

“You don’t hafta tell me all of ‘em.” Atsumu slips out of the sheets and into his slides.

“But I will. Gastroenteritis, listeriosis, lepro–“

“Hey,” Atsumu says, and yawns. “What kinda shirt do ya wanna wear?”

That actually manages to shut Kiyoomi up. “Huh?”

Atsumu taps his chin as he considers the insides of his closet, one hand propping the door open. “Ya probably still sleep in yer underwear, so what kinda shirt do ya wanna wear?”

“Let me repeat myself. Huh?”

“Well … by the way I know ya, ya got up at this unholy time fer a glass of water cause hydration is key, Miya, and ya probably didn’t pull on pants or a shirt cause why would ya except oh wait, ya flicked on the lights and there was a nasty, filthy, ugly bastard on the sink, and ya screamed yer balls off and hightailed outta the bathroom, barely snatched yer phone off the bedside drawer before barricadin’ yerself out on the balcony. By the way I know ya, ya won’t spend a moment longer than necessary in the contaminated apartment, not even talkin’ about takin’ anything from it with ya, so ye’re stealthily scurrying through the apartment in yer boxers right now. And I’m askin’ what kinda shirt ya wanna wear, cause by the way I know ya, ya really won’t wanna cross the hallway in yer underwear and knock at my door half-naked. Am I right or am I right?”

Silence.

“You are right,” Kiyoomi admits.

Atsumu snorts. “So, which shirt? I’ll come get ya at yer door.”

“The … the … the baseball one? The big one?”

“You got it.” Atsumu pulls it out of the stack, taking two others with it. Oops. He messily swoops them up and throws them back into the closet. He’ll deal with that later. “Be there in a sec.”

Half a minute later, the door to Kiyoomi’s apartment swings open and reveals him wearing a pair of white boxer briefs, neon green house slippers and, at the sight of Atsumu, the pinched expression he always wears when he’s feeling positive feelings but doesn’t want other people to know.

He slips the shirt on without preamble when Atsumu holds it out. It’s huge, the excess fabric flapping around his mole-dotted arms. He snuggles into it.

“Ye’re allowed to say thank you, ya know. Thank you, Miya, I’m so grateful that you didn’t just hang up on my dramatic ass, and– what’s this?”

Atsumu bends down to discern the scrap of paper that Kiyoomi has clutched tightly in his hand. It crinkles when he turns it over.

Atsumu catches just a sliver of a sentence before it dances out of view again. Black on white, Atsumu is a prideful ba…

“Oh!” he says, “of course! Can’t forget that one.” He hums as he starts walking across the corridor towards his own apartment. “Let’s hang it up next to my letter, I have mine up with a magnet on the fridge. Come in, come in,” he lilts, swinging the door to his apartment open before stepping aside, leaving space for Kiyoomi to slip through, “but…” He halts and bites his lips. “I hope ye’re aware’a the house rules if ye’re gonna be stayin’ here.”

He scrunches his nose up, turning more earnest as his smile vanishes. He shuffles on his feet, avoiding Kiyoomi’s eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m … pretty strict about ‘em. I dunno if you’ll be able to adhere to all of them, it might be difficult for you.”

Kiyoomi’s head swivels up. “O-oh?” He’s already shrinking in on himself, shoulders hunching as his mouth droops and a strange, fearful glint takes root in his big dark eyes. He suddenly looks almost child-like in his careful apprehension.

Atsumu feels only a little bad. He winks. “Live, laugh, love.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth drops open into a tiny O.

Atsumu barks out a laugh, wanting to reach up and ruffle Kiyoomi’s sleep-mussed hair, has already stretched out a hand, but instead of doing what his fingers itch for, he gestures down the hallway, flashing a tired smirk. “Ya know where the bedroom is. Sheets are pretty fresh, ya shouldn’t hafta worry ‘bout anythin’.” He hums. “D’ya wanna take a shower before?”

Kiyoomi’s shoulders lose their tenseness. “You fucking bastard.”

Atsumu cackles and snatches Kiyoomi’s letter out of his hand. An envelope with his own letter is already hanging on the fridge, and he rips open the flap, stuffs Kiyoomi’s in there too. It fits just barely, bulges the envelope, and makes the ugly ripped edge stand open. “Oops,” Atsumu lets out.

The red characters of “ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?” that he’d scribbled onto the envelope in a bout of humor are staring at him in the dark.

He stretches to the side and opens a kitchen drawer with his pinky, roaming its contents until he finds adhesive tape. 

He thrums his fingers on the plastic of the refrigerator door while he tries to glue the envelope shut again. The edges are messy and jagged and unpretty with the way he barely sees anything in the obscurity, and the taste of glue sticks to his tongue because he tried to bite off strips of tape and failed – but it has to suffice. “We’ll put them into a new, bigger envelope tomorrow I think,” he distractedly says over his shoulder, only to do a double-take when he doesn’t get an answer and discovers that Kiyoomi is already gone.

Somewhere in the back of the apartment, the shower turns on.

Barely ten minutes later, Kiyoomi crawls into Atsumu’s bed, damp and warm and soft with a shirt wrapped around his head. He smells of apple shampoo.

Atsumu rouses at the shifting of the mattress and squints and blinks at him in the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand. “With yer headwrap thingie, ya look like s’me old-timey French peasant woman doin’ laundry at some brook.”

Kiyoomi halts, propped up on one elbow. He curls his fingers around the hem of the duvet. “What the fuck,” he enunciates. 

Atsumu yawns loudly and cuddles into his pillow. “Dunno, ‘m sleepy. Don’ listen to anythin’ I’m sayin’ right now.”

“You should shut up anyways,” Kiyoomi murmurs, “because you’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The accent thing. You draw out your vowels and your tone goes scratchy but also velvety and so endearing, so stop talking.”

“But ya look like an old-timey French peasant woman doin’ laundry at a brook.”

“I think I’ll leave.”

“No, stay.”

The words have slipped from his lips before he can stop them. He clears his throat.

“Um. Yeah. You can stay here ‘n the meantime, is what I was tryin’ ta say. Til the infestation’s sorted.”

“I can’t, it’s too much.”

“It’ll be what … a week, two? I have the guest room. And some traps that ya can put out.”

“I’ll feel bad intruding.”

Atsumu reaches out to turn off the light, and the room is suddenly swallowed by darkness. “You know it’s easiest if ya stay. The apartment’s too big fer one person, anyways.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat. The sheets crinkle when he pulls them up to his chin. “Okay.”

Atsumu hums, the both of them falling silent.

The curtain waves with the gust of air creeping in through the balcony door that’s standing open a crack.

Time passes slowly like melted wax dripping down a candle.

“Go to sleep,” Atsumu says.

“The roaches shook me.” Kiyoomi pauses for the fraction of a second. “I’m not tired.”

“Liar, I know yer tells. When yer sleepy, each second breath of yers starts tickin’ upwards a bit, and ya roll onto yer belly. And once ya’ve gotten comfy, ya let out a little sigh and pillow yer head on yer one arm. Ya did all that that like five minutes ago already, but yer still not asleep, I can hear yer brain churnin’ into the dark over there. Did’ya forget I used to sleep in the same bed as ya all the time?”

“No. No I didn’t.”

Silence.

“Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t even – this is too much, ain’t it? I can … I can go to the couch? I can get a second duvet, I’ll let ya sleep in here, it ain’t a problem, I can–“

“No. You should sleep too, Miya. I also know when you’re tired.” Kiyoomi laughs softly. “Did you forget that?” he murmurs. “Stay here with me.”

“Okay,” Atsumu whispers back.

His hand twitches. The sudden itch to reach out and thread their fingers together overcomes him, and he squeezes his eyes shut to quell it. His heartbeat pulsates in the black before his eyes. Kiyoomi is so close he can feel his presence as a warm weight in space next to him.

It would be easy to turn over, stretch out his hand and splay it across a stomach, curl it around a firm waist and pull the body next to him closer until he’d be able to tuck his chin in the crook of a neck, lips resting on smooth skin, dark curls tickling his forehead. It would be so easy.

“Good night,” Kiyoomi says, “sleep tight.”

A soft exhale of breath.

“And thank you.”

The sound is so quiet, Atsumu isn’t sure if he’s imagined it. “You’re welcome,” he still whispers.

///

Atsumu wakes up to the smell of coffee.

He lies in the sheets for a moment longer, eyes closed against the golden sun coming in through the balcony door window, and takes in the distinct absence next to him that he should have gotten used to a long time ago.

But the sheets are crumpled on Kiyoomi’s side – Kiyoomi’s side – and maybe they would still be warm if Atsumu stretched out a hand and touched them. He doesn’t.

Kiyoomi is standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand, sipping on a mug with the other. He looks up when Atsumu enters, and the way his hair is an unintelligible mop, how his face is still puffy and swollen from sleep, the slow blinking of his eyes that seem darker in the morning sun – it’s a scene that Atsumu has seen so often before that he’s transported back in time for a second. The journey gives him whiplash.

“Morning,” he croaks out.

“Morning,” Kiyoomi responds evenly, offering a smile and putting down his phone and turning to the coffee maker. “I helped myself to everything. Do you still take it with sugar and milk?”

Atsumu gulps. “Yes.”

Kiyoomi opens a cabinet with practiced familiarity, takes out Atsumu’s favorite mug, the one with the Onigiri Miya logo, and sets it down in front of the coffee maker. He hums as he opens the fridge door, taking out the–

He halts. Looks, squints, blinks. What he sees is unchanged.

His voice is dead quiet when he talks. “That’s oat milk.”

Atsumu winces. Fuck.

Kiyoomi whips around, mouth dropped open. “I knew you were lying when you insisted you preferred soy! No one prefers soy milk!”

“It’s an accident that I bought oat!”

“You have two more cartons in here.”

“Soy milk isn’t that bad!” he whines.

“And yet,” Kiyoomi snarls, “it’s oat milk that I’m holding.”

“Just gimme the damn coffee,” Atsumu responds, cheeks bright red.

Kiyoomi starts grinning wickedly. “I fucking knew that you were just too stubborn to admit it. What else were you lying about? That the blue dish soap didn’t smell better? That half a cup of fabric softener really is too little for an entire load of laundry? And I know I was right on that one.”

He raises his arms so his shirt lifts, stretches across his shoulders and reveals a flash of pale skin right above his briefs. “And this shirt is awfully soft for half a cup, you prideful bastard.”

“Shut up!” Atsumu laughs, “or I’ll make ya call the exterminator yerself.”

Kiyoomi blanches and gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Atsumu saunters around the counter. “Oh I would,” he drawls. “What do ya prefer, roaches in yer apartment or … making one simple phone call?” He bites his lip. “I don’t think Orkin & Izuna Pest Control take emails, ya know.”

Kiyoomi’s hands are trembling. “Would you really make me do that? Would I have to call a person in the year of 2019, would I have to call an actual person and talk to them on the phone?” He shakes his head. “And there I was, thinking you loved me once. How can you do this to me?” But he can’t hide the grin pulling at his own lips.

“Maybe I won’t do this to ya if you give me my coffee right now.” Atsumu nods at the steaming mug.

Kiyoomi pours in a thin stream of white. His hand stills, and he hesitates before setting the carton back down.

Atsumu’s voice is quiet. “You still remember how much milk I like in it.”

“I do.” He hands him the steaming cup.

And when Atsumu raises it to his mouth, he tastes familiarity.

Chapter Text

The ritual of consideration is almost grounding. Alarm, get up, pad into the kitchen, put on coffee, trail over to the fridge. Two letters hang there carefully folded in an envelope, fixed with two magnets in the form of a red mushroom and a dragonfly. 

ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?

Thinking.

I think he’s tender when his eyes blink slowly, I think he’s soft when his hair reflects morning sunlight into all directions, adorable when his limbs are still slow and clumsy. I like seeing his face.

No, it doesn’t feel like last time. I don’t feel the all-encompassing need for him, I’m not devoured by my forceful attraction, not swallowed by my own helplessness against him.

Write No. Open fridge, take out milk and a jug, put it on the stove and pour it in, open drawer, take out frother, turn it on. Listen to the quiet vibrations while the smell of coffee starts permeating the room, listen for the sound of feet tapping on the floor.

One, two.

Kale, apples, bananas, chia seed, blender. Ice. Button. By the time it quiets down, Atsumu is standing in the doorframe.

“Good morning.”

///

Some things are different this time around, but Atsumu quickly realizes that not everything is.

Kiyoomi must have some kind of supernatural hearing, because as soon as Atsumu has finished his quick lunch and stacked his used plates on top of each other, cutlery and glass clinking as he sets them on top and balances it all over to the sink – a rustle comes from the other room.

Atsumu has curled his fingers around the handle of the dishwasher, already pulled it open a crack, steam curling out from the gap, when a hrumph comes from behind him.

Atsumu inwardly sighs. As he turns around, the dishwasher slips shut again with a quiet click.

Kiyoomi is hovering in the doorway. His lips are pursed.

“What,” Atsumu finally says when Kiyoomi’s been silent for too long.

The other man takes a few steps into the kitchen. “Are you putting the dishes into the dishwasher?”

“Was about ta, yeah.”

“You’re going to rinse them before, right?”

Atsumu looks down at the plate on top. Something wet is clinging to it, and also a few crumbs and a bit of green onion. And is that soy sauce? Was he about to rinse it? No. “Yes.”

Kiyoomi’s expression grows pinched. “No you weren’t. Give them to me, I’ll do it.”

“Hah,” Atsumu lets out, “still neurotic ‘bout this bit, huh?”

“Miya. Give them to me.”

“But ya hate cleanin’ the dishes, ye’re always complainin’ the entire time yer standin’ at the sink.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t immediately respond. “Let me,” he repeats, and when Atsumu doesn’t react, he takes a step forward. “You won’t do it right.”

At that, Atsumu narrows his eyes. He reaches out to the side and turns on the faucet, pointedly grabbing at a bottle of yellow detergent with the other, already squirting a thin stream of it into the sink. “Who said I wasn’t gonna do it right?”

“The tap is still turned on cold. You have to use hot water.”

Atsumu turns it on hot.

“Use the other detergent, this one is more of a grease solvent. Didn’t you read the label?”

Atsumu roughly sets the bottle to the side and takes up the one next to it, splashes an angry amount into the filling sink.

“You can’t mix detergents or they’ll cancel each other out.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “So what ye’re sayin’ is that the only way to wash the dishes is to be a finicky bastard about it?”

And Kiyoomi grits his teeth, steps closer and yanks the bottle of detergent out of his grasp. “I’ll do it.”

Atsumu yanks it back. “No, I’ll do it!”

“No you won’t, because you don’t care enough to do it right!”

“Of course I don’t care, why do I need to wash the dishes before putting ‘em in the dishwasher? That’s what the fuckin’ dishwasher is for, it washes the dishes!”

“Miya,” Kiyoomi grits out. “Let me do it.”

A muscle twitches at Atsumu’s jaw. “No.” 

He doesn’t know for how long they stay there staring at each other, neither of them willing to back down.

Atsumu sets the bottle detergent down. “Let’s have sex instead?”

Kiyoomi sighs too. “Let’s have sex instead. I’ll ride you, I think.”

///

“The cat’s a sphynx,” Komori excitedly tells Kiyoomi, “her bitchass owner didn’t want her anymore after she got into a fight with some ratty dog and lost an eye. We can pick her up in a few weeks, and Tarou and I are praying that everything goes well. We went to meet her yesterday and she really took to Tarou, sniffled at their hand and all. She was still a bit wary of me, but I’ll give her a bit of time, you know? She’ll come around. We already bought all the stuff for her and we’ve made the appointment with the vet for a check-up and aaah, I’m just so excited!”

Suna chuckles and gently bumps their shoulders together. “She’ll love you, don’t worry. If even I could come around to you, she definitely will.”

“Oh please,” Komori huffs, and bumps back. “Don’t act all tough now. As if you haven’t had the fattest crush on me ever since I picked up all your spikes during Interhigh.”

“I thought you were the most annoying person in that entire stadium, and every single Inarizaki player can confirm that.”

Komori grins brightly. “You didn’t deny the crush part.”

Suna flicks their tongue out at them. “No, cause every single Inarizaki player can confirm that too.”

“You’d think that the incessant flirting would stop after an entire year of marriage,” Kiyoomi grumbles into a bite of pizza.

Both Suna and Komori start laughing like hyenas. Kiyoomi just looks at them with a pinched expression. “What.”

“Oh please,” Komori finally gets out through bubbling giggles and tears in his eyes, “just look at you and Atsumu.”

“That’s something diff–” he starts to defend himself, but then his phone pings with a number of messages and he trails off. “Wait a second.”

Miya Atsumu: mom come pick me up i’m scared

Miya Atsumu: lol

Miya Atsumu: hey no srsly i’m at the gym

Miya Atsumu: i stayed late and it’s raining so hard

Me: I’m out with Motoya and Rin.

Me: Just take the bus?

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi says and looks back up, waving a hand around the air. “Please continue. What were we talking about?”

Komori has calmed down, and now his eyes are fixed on the phone that is lying on the table screen-down. “Was that Atsumu?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “What if it was?”

“Then I’d say we can talk about that fucker for a bit,” Suna drawls. “I heard you moved back in with him.”

“Moving in is a bit of an exaggeration. I’m sleeping in my old room until I get rid of the roaches. We don’t even see that much of each other. Wipe that look off your face, Toya, you should be glad I didn’t burn down the entire apartment complex as soon as I spotted that roach.”

“But you’re living with him.”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “It’s not like that’s anything new.”

Suna loudly clears their throat, making a sound that suspiciously sounds like “dumbfuck”.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Anything you want to say to me, Rin?”

“Yes,” they say, and snatch a bread roll off Motoya’s plate. “Dumbfuck,” they enunciate, and take a big bite of the bread, teeth glinting.

Komori snorts. “I’ve long given up on trying to tell you anything, Kiyoomi, but … isn’t it weird? To be back there?”

“I mean yeah, of course it is, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” Kiyoomi draws circles on his napkin. “We both have our space but don’t mind being around each other, we have to share a bathroom but it’s fine because I make him clean up after himself. I do the dishes and he takes out the trash, cleans the windows too. Cooks more than I do. We alternate with vacuum cleaning.” He rips off a strip of thin paper from the napkin, then another. The texture is comforting at his fingertips. “We fuck. We fight. It’s what I’m used to.”

“You fight?”

“Oh, just about … simple things.” Kiyoomi purses his lips. “Nothing bad. The other day, Miya was putting on nail polish because the nail on his pointer finger had broken, and I gagged from the smell and asked him if he really had to do this while I was cooking breakfast. Or when I brought home the wrong kind of rice and Miya was pissed off from training still and his knee hurt so he asked me if I’d ever listened to him in my goddamn life cause Jesus Christ, I should know that he prefers the other brand, or when I accidentally squeezed that lemon into his eyes but he insisted it was on purpose, and then he... – you know what, it doesn’t matter.” He clears his throat and pushes the shreds of napkin he ripped off together into a neat pile on the table, and goes to tatter the rest of it as well. “We get on fine and if we don’t, we manage to fuck it out. Is what I’m meaning to say.”

Suna and Komori are silent for a bit. “You know we’d offer you to stay with us if we weren’t living in a different city,” Komori finally carefully says. “You have enough money, you could get a hotel. Maybe Hinata has some space, didn’t he recently move into a bigger apartment?”

“I know,” Kiyoomi replies, “but I’m living with him for now for the same reason I only moved across the hallway when we divorced. The training facilities are a walk away, there’s the park for me to run at, I don’t have to deal with heaps of traffic, the rent is cheap and– why am I telling you this, I’ve told you all this before. Besides.” He looks up. “There’s comfort in the familiar, isn’t there?”

They look at him for a moment.

“Comfort in you fighting,” Suna repeats.

“It’s what I’m used to,” Kiyoomi helplessly repeats, “and it’s never bad? It’s not like I’m being vulnerable or allowing him to really hurt me – I’m not opening up in the first place. It’s always the inconsequential stuff that gets roped into our fights, stuff that we get over.” He swallows; his tongue feels thick in his mouth. The napkin crinkles between his fingers. “It’s inevitable with us, I think.”

But Suna doesn’t relent. “Comfort to what?” they repeat, louder this time, “This unhealthy cycle? Not listening to understand, not listening to respond? Not having a dialogue, just a confrontation? Suppressing the hell out of both of your emotions and wanting to rather eat glass than recognize them? Having the victim role become a main character in the play of your lives?”

A long pause.

“You’re mean,” Kiyoomi mutters at Suna.

They lean back in their chair, considering him from slanted eyes. “No, I’m just telling you that all anger exists for a reason. And maybe you should focus on the reason for it first before you react to it.”

“Huh,” Kiyoomi says.

“Huh?” Komori’s expression is unreadable. “Is that all you have to say?”

The napkin is fully ripped apart now. Kiyoomi looks down at it. “I guess it is.”

Someone loudly clears their throat. Their heads swivel up at the same time.

Atsumu has dragged a trail of rain after himself, water dripping from his plastered hair, his soaked hoodie, his glistening face. His shoes squelch as he comes to a stand in front of their table.

His bottom lip is wobbling.

“You look like a wet rat,” Kiyoomi blurts out.

The look in Atsumu’s eyes turns vicious. He straightens, his posture snapping chock-full of tension. “Well you look like a fuckin’ asshole,” he snaps, “so how ‘bout that, huh?”

Kiyoomi reels back, detaching his gaze from him as he shifts in his seat. “Oh my god,” he mutters, “is this about the dishes thing again? I told you I wouldn’t back down on that, it’s something I need to do for myself and–”

“No,” Atsumu snaps, “it’s about how I asked ya to fuckin’ pick me up and ya didn’t cause ya wanted ta eat yer pepperoni fuckin’ pizza!”

Kiyoomi’s lips drop open marginally. “This is a margherita,” tumbles out of him.

He wishes he could take the words back as soon as he said them, because right then, Atsumu’s top lip starts wobbling too.

Atsumu cries whenever he’s sad and whenever he’s angry, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know which one he'd prefer for him to be right now.

“I can’t believe this,” Atsumu gets out, “I can’t fucking stand you.”

Something sticks to the back of Kiyoomi’s throat, and any ounce of sympathy flees from his head. “What,” he repeats, voice tight. “Could you stop snapping at me incoherently, for once?”

“Why? You deserve to be talked to like this.”

Kiyoomi’s jaw drops. “Ex-fucking-cuse me? How … how did you even know I was here!”

“Rin posted an Instagram story’a their food, but – that ain’t fuckin’ important!”

“What’s important, then?”

“That ya don’t fucking … I dunno, don’t fuckin’ care ‘bout me!”

“Who told you that?” Kiyoomi replies testily.

“You!”

They stare at each other.

“What?” Kiyoomi repeats, dangerously low.

“I’m in the fuckin’ … the fuckin’ … gym, an’ I’m tired and my head hurts and it’s fuckin’ pissin’ outside and I just wanted ya ta pick me up an’ maybe tell me some stupid fuckin’ joke and I’d tease ya or whatever the fuck and my head would be lighter and we’d get home and shower and then I’d go to sleep, we’d do that, I thought. But apparently not, cause yer pizza margherita is more important to ya than yer fuckin’ friend!”

“You’re being irrational,” Kiyoomi curtly says, “and emotional. Don’t–”

“Emotional?” Atsumu’s voice rises. “Fucking so? Yeah! I’m emotional, I’ve always been, what’s wrong with that, huh! Just cause you like to pretend like ya aren’t!”

“Why are you attacking me? I was just having a good time, I haven’t had the best week either, and–”

“Okay, good if ye’re having a good time, but what if ya made some for me? Time?”

“I have my own life too, you know?”

“But I woke up in the middle of the night for you when you were scared of a measly little cockroach!”

“What does that have to do with anything! Maybe I’d be able to talk to you or be around you more if you didn’t decide to pull a temper tantrum each time something goes–”

“Kiyoomi,” Komori grits out, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Both men jolt, suddenly reminded that an entire world exists beyond the two of them. The restaurant has quieted, heads turned in their direction not so inconspicuously. Kiyoomi feels dozens of pairs of eyes burning marks into his skin. His shoulders hunch.

“I don’t care what these people think of us,” he snaps, latching his furious gaze onto Komori, barely managing to drag it away from Atsumu.

Komori’s face is difficult to parse, the line of his mouth tight. “I’m not telling you to stop because of other people, I’m telling you to stop because of yourselves. He’s hurt, why is your first reaction anger? And yours, Atsumu?"

“I’m not hurt,” Atsumu rasps, his voice hoarse like someone’s who’s hurt. “I’m mad. And ye’re a cunt.” He flicks his fingers into Kiyoomi’s direction.

Kiyoomi jumps up too. “And you’re a bitch!” is forming at the back of his throat, but Atsumu has already turned away, already turned on his heel with a frustrated grunt, shoes squelching as he starts marching away from them.

Kiyoomi’s heart is pounding furiously in his veins as his feet itch to run after him, he’s snatched his jacket off the back of his chair, wiggled out from the booth, tucked in his shirt again, smoothed down his hair, when he– he stops.

He closes his eyes.

Atsumu doesn’t want to talk to him, he doesn’t want him to go after him, Atsumu doesn’t want to see him right now. Atsumu doesn’t want him.

He wavers.

“What?”

Kiyoomi flinches at the sound of the simple word. His shoulders hunch. “What what?” he asks.

“Why the fuck are you standing there?”

He turns around; Suna and Komori are staring at him, the expressions on their faces impenetrable. There must be something in Kiyoomi’s eyes, something about the way he’s standing or frowning or trembling with the weight of the decision that makes Komori’s eyes harden. “When he’s hurting you, your answer shouldn’t be to hurt him back. Ask him why he’s hurt, maybe. Go after him.”

It’s a demand.

“But he doesnt lo–”

“Shut up about love. He’s hurting, that should be reason enough to offer your compassion. For once, don’t be selfish.”

Deep down, he knows that they’re right.

He feels like everyone is staring when he walks through the restaurant, past the tables, past the people, all their thoughts. Yet his eyes are only honed in on the door, the glass that reflects the lights from inside, obscures the darkness outside by reflecting faces and bodies back at him.

Stray raindrops hit him as soon as he pushes the door open.

To his left stands a hunched figure, hands buried in the front pockets of his soaked hoodie, shoulders drawn up to his ears where blond hair is plastered to his head. Face obscured entirely by the shadows.

Something has a relentless hold on Kiyoomi’s throat.

“Miya.”

Atsumu jerks. “The fuck do ya want?”

Kiyoomi’s mouth is forming empty shapes, an allusion to what he wants to say – and can’t. He’s scrambling for something to say, something to do, but his mind is empty; he has no frame of reference. He’s never done this – inquire into the why beyond an irritated scratch at the surface. He’s flailing helplessly.

He closes his mouth again.

Atsumu’s pants are clinging to his legs, the fabric drenched. He’s tried to bury his face into the collar of his shirt and didn’t succeed; water is dripping off the tip of his nose. He’s trembling.

“Put on a fucking jacket,” Kiyoomi grumbles, and throws his own at Atsumu.

It lands on his shoulder and sticks to it, Atsumu not making a move to accept it in any way. Kiyoomi can observe it tilting, fat raindrops hitting it, points of dark sliding off thick leather.

“You’ll get sick.”

Atsumu’s fingers are slow and frozen, almost not able to grab at the leather – and when he finally does succeed, his movements are clumsy and bumbling.

Heavy leather slides around his shoulders, the cut of it a bit too big on him. He doesn’t zip it up, just pulls the lapels over each other.

And then they stand there.

“Yer gonna be cold,” Atsumu finally quips with Kiyoomi’s leftover warmth, not making a move to remove himself from it.

Kiyoomi takes a shaky breath. “What are you feeling?” The words feel awkward and clunky in his mouth; unused. When Atsumu doesn’t answer, he adds: “How can I help?” His voice cracks.

“You don’t have to do this.” Atsumu sounds rough. Tired.

“What if I want to?”

It continues to rain down on them.

Atsumu stays silent.

Kiyoomi looks away and twirls his keys on his index finger. “My car is parked over there.”

They don’t talk during the ride, neither as they walk up the stairs next to each other, as Atsumu unlocks the door and motions for Kiyoomi to step inside first.

While Atsumu is showering, Kiyoomi lies on his bed flat on his back, clothes already stripped, and focuses on the pristine white of the ceiling.

This will blow over in a few days again, he thinks. They’ll lay low for a while, won’t talk to each other, only send half-heartedly vicious glares at each other across the kitchen island and ignore everyone’s stares at practice until Atsumu cleans the entire bathroom or Kiyoomi makes katsudon for them both. Then, Atsumu will come up to him from behind and mouth a wet kiss to his neck and they’ll make out on the couch, and they’ll both crack a stupid joke, and they’ll both be a bit relieved that the silence has ended and that they're back to normal.

Normal. Yes. Because this is the way they’ve always functioned. And what else is there to do?

The shower turns off. The ceiling is still white.

It fits, Kiyoomi thinks, that this feels off. Like this isn’t quite right. Afterall, this is how they’ve always been, and this has never felt quite right.

Because he can’t really fault Atsumu, can he? Kiyoomi had never handled it differently either, he’d never been brave enough to tell Atsumu that he was hurt, that he wanted him to know that he was hurt. That he trusted him enough to tell him that he was hurt.

He still wouldn’t.

Bright white.

He should get up and take a shower too. His limbs are heavy. He closes his eyes for just a second.

///

Atsumu comes home the next day to a present in front of his bedroom door. His knees creak when he bends down to pick up the carton box, turning it around and raising the pink post-it note so he can read the label.

FINE DARK 80% CHOCOLATE PRALINES
WITH PISTACHIO CREAM

He casts a long, curious glance to the door on the other side of the corridor before his gaze falls back onto the box. He rattles it. Full. The door to Kiyoomi’s room stays closed.

He whips out his phone before even opening his own door, jamming the box beneath his arm as he types out a text still in the hallway.

Me: is this supposed to be an apology?

The response comes immediately.

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): A peace offering.

Me: you know I hate pistachio chocolates, and I know that you know that. so why’s there an entire box of them on my doorstep.

Me: out with it, what’s the “gift”, for u 2 be a jerk? if that was supposed to be a surprise, you failed :))

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): You know, you were a bitch yesterday too. What kind of man would I be if I gave a nice gift to someone who had basically called me an indifferent cunt? Decidedly spineless. Still, you deserve a bit of consolation since I admittedly was being a bit of a cunt too. Therefore – a gift, but a bad one. One that I knew you wouldn’t like.

Me: i

Me: …

Me: ur a jerk. and immature. and probably cackling to urself right now I should just come over and whack you on the head

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): Yet I don’t hear some brute relentlessly pounding on my door. So I must not be that big of a jerk.

And Atsumu, he … he almost smiles. Almost. Kiyoomi is a huge jerk, but why does he also have to be kind of funny sometimes? He squints down at the box that’s tucked tightly between his bicep and chest and sticks his tongue out at it, prompted by the weird concoction of fond spite that’s swelling in his chest. And because he's anything but immature.

He’s already wanting to craft another text that accuses Kiyoomi of being a meanie and an idiot and also asks him since when he likes to waste food, because Atsumu is sure as hell not going to eat these chocolates, so what’s up with that, but before he can begin to type, the chat pings with a new message.

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): By the way, these chocolates are favorites of Nakajima-san.

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): You know, our friendly elderly neighbor in 205? Bowl cut, crocs, has been watering the sad plant next to your welcome mat ever since I moved out? Is wearing a pinched expression whenever she comes across you in the hallway because she’s been keeping the limp, wilting plant next to your front door alive for six months without as much as a “thanks” from you?

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): Can you believe that she was complaining to ME about MY ex-husband? You probably didn’t even notice that the plant exists and needs some water to be kept alive, please. By the way, Toya told me I was a bitch for not asking you before taking the cute little watering can during the divorce, but I know that if I'd asked you, you would’ve insisted to keep it out of spite and then proceeded to drink beer out of it.

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): Anyways.

MARRIAGE STORY (2019): Rip the first post-it off, there’s a second one beneath.

Atsumu does, and his eyes widen at the wall of text that’s scribbled neatly in tiny, clean rows on pink paper.

Thank you so much Nakajima-san,

for taking care of the plant next to my door. You see, I’m a bit negligent about it, have never cared much for it, probably don’t even know its name (Dracaena) – because it was my husband at the time who picked it out, who potted it and cared for it and poured effort and love into it growing, whereas I barely spared a glance at it and interrupted and talked over him when he was excitedly telling me that it was finally blooming.

Maybe you should have let it die, but alas – you didn’t, it’s still standing. And I am grateful, because this will hopefully be a learning opportunity for me and a chance to get off my ass and finally learn to take responsibility for another being as much as I do of myself.

I stand forever in his and your gratitude, and I pray that you will accept this small token of mine as an apology for your continued effort.

Best gree(n)tings,

Atsumu.

Me: you fucking dork, how did i ever fall in love with you

Me: …thank you.

The MARRIAGE STORY (2019) at the top of the chat distracts him so he clicks on it, thumb hovering over Kiyoomi’s contact information. He stresses at his lip as he considers. And finally, he sets his fingers down, taps around on his screen in a haste as he types in a new name. Finally, DORKIYOOMI blinks up at him.

But then he notices that the joke is kinda shitty and that if he were to show it to Kiyoomi, he’d probably just level him with that devastatingly pitiful stare, and besides, it doesn’t even look that pretty, so his thumb presses the edit button once again and he types in a new string of letters.

Ping.

KIYOOMI: I hope we’re alright.

He stares down at his phone, his grip slowly growing sweaty.

This shouldn’t be enough. This is a box of chocolates. This isn’t an apology, this isn’t a talk – yet Atsumu knows that it is all he’s going to get.

So it has to be enough.

He shakes off the lingering feel of unease, takes a deep breath and turns on his heel.

///

“Ya know,” Atsumu drawls when Kiyoomi opens the door, “I should apologize too.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

Atsumu hums. “Yeah. I was wet and cold and tired, and that always makes me a bitch.”

“Oh trust me, I noticed,” Kiyoomi bemusedly comments.

“Hey!” Atsumu squawks, “I’m tryin’ ta be nice here!”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu huffs, “I even have a gift fer ya too.”

Kiyoomi squints at him suspiciously before stepping aside. “Come in. I don’t like this. What’s the gift.”

“It’s a great one,” Atsumu boasts, “but a terrible one.” He winks at him.

Kiyoomi purses his lips. “Is it your dick?”

Atsumu brightens. “It’s my dick!”

“Was this supposed to be a self-deprecating joke?” he deadpans.

Atsumu sticks his tongue out and throws the box of chocolates onto the quilt on Kiyoomi’s bed. “You think it’s hilarious, don’t even try to lie.”

A smile twitches at the corners of Kiyoomi’s mouth and he stretches out his arms. “Shut up and come here.”

Atsumu has almost reached him when his phone rings. He groans and pulls it out, wincing when he reads the display. “Sorry, I have to take this, I haven’t called ‘er in a while.”

Kiyoomi readjusts his hair, disentangling himself from Atsumu with a last pat on his shoulder. “No worries. I was going to order something to eat, do you want some as well?”

“Course. Hi mom!” 

Her voice is deep and warm. “Hi, baby, how ya doin’.”

“Pretty good,” he drawls, a smile of his own stretching across his face as he scratches his neck, “enjoyin’ life, ya know, the usual. A new vegan place opened right at the corner and their summer rolls are to die for, I scarfed down like ten last week and didn’t regret it one bit.” He sighs, half-heartedly kicking the foot of Kiyoomi’s bed. “Only shitty thing was that we lost against the Raijins. Rin rubbed it under my nose like the annoyin’ bastard they are, ya know ‘em. And fuckin’ Motoya.” He chuckles. “We were at their anniversary party, and really, can they get any more annoyin’? I love ‘em, but I hate ‘em. Who allowed them to be that much of a power couple?"

“I don't know!” His mother is laughing too. “I don’t think they could be more perfect for each other if they tried.”

“Oh god,” Atsumu says, “they really are. I wouldn’t be surprised if they committed arson and then disappeared into the wild while makin’ out.” He shakes his head, another laugh escaping him as he starts walking out of Kiyoomi’s room, stopping in the corridor. “Did’ya know that Suna once fought with him and then came to me with a bunch of beers? We got drunk and instead of complainin’ about their husband, they just waxed poetically about his gorgeous eyes that are sometimes grey but sometimes blue in a particular light, and sometimes a bit green with golden specks? They ended up cryin’ cause Toya has just the prettiest smile ever and what if he doesn’t smile at me like that ever again I’m gonna cry he’s so perfect I don’t deserve him.”

His mother is gasping for air. “Remember in high school when Samu wanted ta ask out that one girl with the blonde bangs, so Rin told ‘er that Samu was pissin’ his bed until he was twelve?”

Atsumu laughs. “Fuck, how has Rin even become like this? Shit, love is disgustin’.”

“It changes us all,” his mom says more quietly before tapering off, the smile still evident in her voice. “I– Ya sound happy, Tsumu.” She exhales. “I’m happy.”

Atsumu has already opened his mouth to respond when another voice floats in from the kitchen, effectively cutting him off. “I’m ordering Chinese, do you want number seven or fifteen? Oh wait, no, they changed the menu. The duck that you like is fourteen now.”

Atsumu freezes. His mother does too. For a second, the line is silent. Then, “Is that Kiyoomi?” Her tone isn’t even accusing; more like the defeated sigh of someone who is stating that they know to be true.

His silence speaks volumes.

Her exhale is miniscule. “Oh, Atsumu.”

He doesn’t say anything for the next few seconds. Finally, he responds with a raised voice, purposefully keeping a tremor out of it. “The duck is fine, thanks.”

“Atsumu.”

He sighs. “We’re just eating together. It’s fine, okaasan.”

“I don’t know if it is. That man has hurt ya.”

“And I’ve hurt him. We’re both adults.”

“Be careful.”

Atsumu laughs. “Ya know me, when am I ever careful?” He grimaces. “You know Sakusa too, and we … you know … you know how we are.”

His mother stays silent for a while.

“Ye’re greedy,” she finally says, “ye’re greedy with what you want, and when ya don’t get it, you get angry. That’s how ya’ve always been. I don’t want you to get angry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu says, and laughs a tiny bit. “Don’t want that.” He hums, taking a half-step and peeking around the corner into the kitchen where Kiyoomi is squinting at some leaflet while tapping on his phone with the other hand. “I’m serious, Ma, we’re fine. I promise. I’m not gonna let anythin’ like last time happen.”

“Oh come on, is that really up to you to decide?”

Atsumu snorts. “It better be. I get it, yer motherly instincts and whatever are actin’ up. But ya said it yerself, I’m happy, right? What happened between me an’ him was depressin’, but it’s also in the past, and let’s just talk about something else, alright? How’s the garden, what’d ya plant so far?”

“It’s March,” his mother quietly says. “Atsumu. Baby. Listen to me.”

Atsumu exhales and resigns himself to his fate. “I’m listening.”

“It’s his fault if he doesn’t want you, not yours. You know that, don’t ya? Be careful,” his mother repeats, her tone taking on something that hasn’t been there in a while. “And take care of yerself.”

“That’s not always the same.”

His mother is silent for a bit. “Okay,” she finally says. “Okay, alright, I’ll leave ya be. I don’t wanna meddle in whatever yer up to.” She hrmpfes. “And don’t eat takeout too often, baby.”

They exchange their goodbyes, and after he hangs up, Atsumu stares at the phone in his hand for a moment longer. The screen is cracked, a tiny, long hairline crack that reflects silver when he tilts his phone into the sun.

“What did she want?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu looks up. Kiyoomi is clad in a comfortable sweater, soft grey hanging down his tall frame, making him look oddly sweet. As if his lips are poutier.

Atsumu shakes his head. “Oh, nothing,” he says. “It’s … no, nothing.” He flashes a smirk. “Now about that gift of mine…”

///

“Well hello there,” Kiyoomi mumbles.

Atsumu is shaking with silent laughter. His morning wood is pressed up right against Kiyoomi’s ass.

He splays his hands across Kiyoomi’s chest from behind and crowds closer, a soft grunt escaping him as he does. “What’cha makin’?” His chin reaches over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, and he angles it up so he can look at his face.

“Breakfast.”

“But ye're just starin' at the rice cooker.”

“I’m staring at the rice cooker,” Kiyoomi confirms.

Atsumu hides a smirk. “Is this about the time ya burned rice and smoked out the apartment and didn’t know what to do so ya called the cops?”

Kiyoomi purses his lips. “I also prepared miso soup and some salmon and tsukebono, but I’m afraid all of that will only be available to people that are not assholes and not mean to their teammates who are just trying their best. You fucker, it was you who taught me how to cook after that incident back then, you’ve seen way worse!”

Atsumu slowly grinds his dick against Kiyoomi's backside. “Asshole, ya said?”

Kiyoomi flippantly slaps his thigh. “Don’t even try your clumsy act of seduction, I won’t allow myself to experience the utter humiliation of fucking up rice in a rice cooker ever again.”

“So ye’re gonna look at the closed lid until it’s done.”

“Yes. This will be the most perfect rice you’re ever going to eat.” He stares down at the appliance and bites his lip.

Atsumu hums and presses closer, eyes raking Kiyoomi’s face as he smiles indulgently. “I’m sure it will be.”

“Now go away,” Kiyoomi murmurs, “get dressed and wash up. Food will be waiting for you once you’re done.” He squints. “You spoiled brat,” he belatedly adds, as if remembering to be at least a little mean. The fondness in his tone just renders it endearing.

At that, Atsumu tightens his hold around Kiyoomi’s chest and lands a quick peck right beneath his ear. “Alrighty, sir.”

He’s ambushed in the bathroom a few minutes later. He sees Kiyoomi’s reflection in the mirror and has barely time to open his mouth before the other man is already behind him, one hand thrown around his shoulders to pull him back towards his chest, the other sneaking down Atsumu’s naked stomach until his fingers slide under the waistband of his boxers. “Breakfast’s served,” Kiyoomi mumbles as his fingers wander even lower.

Atsumu squeaks.

Kiyoomi chuckles and angles his head for a kiss, shaving cream smearing coolly against his cheek. Atsumu’s eyes are big like this, and dark, and Kiyoomi rubs a rough thumb over the patchy stubble at his jaw. “Hurry,” he rasps, “or it’ll get cold.”

And with a last squeeze of his hand, he leaves him standing there with a thundering heart and a dick that’s slowly perking up again. Atsumu scowls down at his tented underwear. “Hey,” he grumbles, “can ya chill? I still hafta pull on pants.”

He finally does manage to pull on pants, and fresh-faced and pantsed and hungry, he walks into the kitchen.

“Did you want nori? I didn’t think we had any left, but I can go check.” Kiyoomi looks up when he enters, and he sets his phone down on the table in front of him. A number of plates and bowls sit in front of him, and Atsumu already has a hand curled around the back of a chair when he halts. “Oh! Wait, do ya have a pen?”

He turns back and walks the few steps to the fridge, stopping and squinting to read the note on it.

ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?

No no no no no no no no is written beneath and above and next to it and everywhere. No no no, sometimes in big letters, sometimes small ones, sometimes scrawly, sometimes neat.

“Pen’s attached to a magnet with a thread because I got tired of looking for one,” Kiyoomi supplies yawning. “Seriously, you can do this after, the food will get cold.” He chuckles. He looks adorably wrinkled as he always does in the morning, the slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth softening his edges even more. “Is this how my hard work gets treated in this household?”

“It’s fine,” Atsumu says, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth as he takes up the pen and rolls it between his fingers. “It’ll take just a second.”

ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?

No, he scribbles next to it

Chapter Text

“Did’ya already do the laundry?”

“Did I do what?”

“The laundry. I did it last week, and now it’s yer turn.”

“Miya.” Kiyoomi sighs, taking off his reading glasses and slumping against the backrest, squinting from his place on the couch to where Atsumu is hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. “I’m so fucking tired, no, I didn’t do the laundry. I … didn’t even know I was supposed to.”

“Haven’t I…?” Atsumu scratches his head. “Oh. I thought we’d talked about it.”

“Well, we haven’t.”

“Don’t get snide with me, mister. I’m askin’ ya now, can ya please do the laundry? We live together here, ya know, and I did all of it last week.”

“I can, but … tomorrow? I had that exhausting fucking interview, then I helped Toya with the cat bed, and auntie called me for two hours about her best friend’s birthday present. Please. I’m at my absolute limit, let me do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow we have the away game, and I don’t wanna come back in two days to smelly laundry. I wish I had a washing machine in the apartment too, but you insisted to take it with you, didn’t ya. Sakusa, please.”

“Oh, are we really circling back to– you know what, not getting into that. Can’t you do it?” Kiyoomi massages his temples. “I’ll do next week.”

“What if ye’re not here anymore by next week?”

“Why do you insist on me doing the laundry?” Irritated, Kiyoomi pops open a tired eye. “Look at me. I was almost asleep when you decided to bust in, if I go down there with that heavy basket, I’ll probably fall down the stairs and break my legs or something, why can’t you just do it?”

“Cause the laundromat is creepy!”

Kiyoomi stares at him incredulously. “It’s creepy,” he echoes.

“Yeah, there’s always some Russian fucking … kid’s music playing overhead on the tinny speakers, and it’s in a dark corner and sometimes the fluorescent lights randomly go out and the entire room is just lit in washed-out green from the street lamps and I think I once saw a raccoon with a collar and sunglasses sitting behind the counter? I don’t fucking know, it’s creepy.” Atsumu fiddles with his fingers as he steps into the living room. “But it’s clean and fast and cheap and near the apartment so I use it but I hate it, and ye’re not a little bitch like me and won’t poop yer pants like I do every time, and please do the laundry?”

Atsumu blinks down at him with puppy eyes.

“Oh my god.” Kiyoomi sighs and raises himself up with a wheeze, blinking to dispel the weight of weariness from his eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it.” He halts and squints at Atsumu, looking entirely non-threatening with the way his mussed hair is drooping into his eyes. “But you’ll pay for the hospital bill if I keel over and hit my head. Or get robbed because I fell asleep while waiting. Or get cursed by Russian kid ghosts. Wait.” He yawns.

He tilts his head as he considers. “If you don’t wanna go alone,” he finally slowly says, “and if I don’t wanna go alone, why don’t you just keep me company?” He raises an eyebrow at Atsumu and shoots him a small smirk as he tightens the waistband of his sweatpants. “What were you going to do all evening anyways, jerk off in your room?”

Atsumu squawks and jumps onto him to tickle him. The couch bounces with their combined weight.

Twenty minutes later, they find themselves in the laundromat, Kiyoomi propped up on a washing machine and scanning the completely empty room while Atsumu is crouching on the floor in front of him, scrabbling in their basket and pulling out sock after sock.

“Where’s the raccoon?” Kiyoomi asks while languidly suckling on a lollipop he stole from the bowl at the entrance, swirling the globe around his tongue until it goes blue with hardened sugar.

“I dunno, I’m still not sure I didn’t hallucinate the entire thing. Woulda been possible, cause I’d come home from smokin’ with Rin and Samu when I got the great idea to go wash my kitchen rags and only those, and had the freakout of my life. So it mighta been the smoke. The body-hand ratio was all off, too.” Atsumu turns a pair of underwear inside out. He retches. “Ew,” he mutters, “that’s dried cum.”

“Probably yours, then,” Kiyoomi comments, “I always wash mine out if I get them dirty.”

Atsumu looks up at him, frowns. “Ya do?”

“I’ve always done that.”

“Well I’ve never– hey!” he squawks and huffs, making a motion to push himself up from the floor. “How come it’s me sortin' through all this shit now when this was supposed to be yer jo–“

Kiyoomi swings his leg up and brings it down on Atsumu’s shoulder, effectively pushing him back down onto the floor. “But you’re doing so well for me,” he coos, and grins down at Atsumu as he wiggles his ass on the plastic surface and suctions his cheeks around the lollipop. “And my job is to be very sexy and cool.”

“Are ya tryin’ ta make me horny?” Atsumu grumbles as he dives back into the basket. “Cause if ya are, it’s workin’. Stupid oral fixation.” He throws in another face cloth and Kiyoomi’s apron before slamming the washing machine door shut and squinting at the display and various buttons.

“We’re in a laundromat, Miya. It smells like wet socks, coins and bleach, there’s absolutely nothing sexy about this.”

Atsumu’s tongue peeks out in deep concentration as he plays around with the settings, a steady beeping accompanying his ministrations as he murmurs nonsense to himself. He presses down on a button with a click and huffs in triumph and then – the lights go out. He groans. “Oh my god, I knew this would happen. It always fucking does at the worst moment.” He bangs a fist against the machine, and it beeps in affront before setting off a series of silent clicks on the inside of it.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, even though Atsumu can’t see him doing it. “Can’t you read the display?”

“Yeah but that doesn’t help me, does it? Cause there’s like five knobs and six buttons with two thousand different settings and I wanna do extra rinse and spin but I can’t see shit, I'd probably kill the whole thing if i tried ta do anything on it right now."

“But you just turned it on, I can feel it rumbling beneath my ass.”

“You do? I did? Fuck!” Atsumu squawks. “I haven’t put in the softener yet!”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know if Atsumu can see him laughing, but it doesn’t really matter because he reaches down blindly anyways, grabs an upper arm and pulls him up towards him. He’s still chuckling by the time Atsumu has fit himself between his spread legs, and Kiyoomi wraps his legs around Atsumu’s hips and his arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. “It’s fine, really. How much can go wrong?” He hums. “Actually, a lot, but I’d care more if I was less tired. Besides, too much softener is supposed to be bad for the clothes, isn’t it? And it’s not like there’s anything delicate in there, half of what you stuffed in there were just your cumsocks and too tight yoga leggings.”

Atsumu gasps, affronted. “Going to ignore that comment about my very respectable socks from Nike that I wouldn’t defile ever by the way, and excuse me, are ya tryin’ to tell me that my pants are too tight? You, who routinely shops for jeans in the women’s department?”

“They make my ass look better!” Kiyoomi yelps, “also, clothes don’t have a gender and yours look like you tried to combine a TikTok influencer with those shitty ads on Instagram.”

“You know,” Atsumu says, and lays his head to Kiyoomi’s shoulder, “I’m gonna bypass the absolute slander that ya just spewed and focus on the tragedy that is yer ass. Cause yer right, it is very hard to make it look good, given that it ain’t really there. Remember how my mom was really weird when she first met ya? It was ‘cause she was scandalized that I married such a flat ass. Granny had to go lie down fer a second, too.”

“You bully,” Kiyoomi murmurs, a smile pulling at his lips. "And liar, your family loves me."

The light from outside is dim, yellow in a weird way, tinted coolly. It washes out Atsumu’s features, makes him look easier, gentler. Softer. 

Kiyoomi tilts his head and tangles his fingers in Atsumu’s hair. “You should get a haircut sometime soon,” he murmurs, “it’s getting long.”

“Ya once said ya liked me with longer hair.”

“But you once said that you hate the way it sticks to your neck and forehead then.” A slight smile plays around Kiyoomi’s mouth. “And that your waves lose their … what did you call it? Playful bounce,” he enunciates.

Atsumu buries his face in Kiyoomi’s neck, but Kiyoomi feels him smile against his skin. “Bully,” Atsumu whispers back, and after a second: “I’d know a better use fer that mean mouth of yers.”

They trade lazy kisses in the hazy light of a liminal space. Time does not seem to exist except for a blinking 00:46. Kiyoomi knows how he wants to spend his time left, and it’s with his arms heavy around Atsumu as they kiss slowly, too spent for excitement.

“You taste like sugar,” Atsumu murmurs, “and artificial sweetener.”

But everything about this is real, the quiet rumbling of machinery that’s slowly heating up his seat, the tinkling melody playing above them that does remind him of something melancholic and mystical in a comfortable way, the soft but insistent press of Atsumu’s lips against his. The way his hips fit snugly between his thighs, the way their chests rise and fall together with the breaths they exchange between them, the way that Atsumu is still the same as he’s always been.

“You taste like…” Kiyoomi tries, but doesn’t succeed at finding adequate words. He softly grumbles, unsatisfied, and dips in for another peck, opens his lips just gently to taste. His thumb runs gently over Atsumu’s jawline, feels over hesitant stubble.

“You taste like Atsumu,” he finally murmurs, “I wanna say that, but that’s very stupid.”

Atsumu’s warm lips slide against his collarbone as he angles his head to lay into the crook of his neck. “It’s not,” he says, “I wouldn’t be able to describe what ya taste like either. Yer just Kiyoomi.”

He pulls back.

The washing machine continues to putter beneath him in a soft rhythm.

“You called me Kiyoomi, just now.”

Atsumu doesn’t cower from his gaze. “And you called me Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi.

How long has it been since he’s heard that name not accompanied by a moan, a gasp, a desperate whine right as Atsumu’s arms tightened around him? Now, his arms are around him too, but not out of heat or arousal or desire, maybe just the seeking of comfort. They lay heavy around his waist.

Atsumu is warm in his arms, he is warm around him, he’s warm everywhere, and Kiyoomi doesn’t want to let him go.

He remembers when he last heard his name like this.

“Atsumu,” he repeats, the world curling around his tongue in a curious fashion.

If he concentrated, Kiyoomi thinks, he’d be able to feel Atsumu’s heart thump next to his own.

“How long until the lights turn back on?”

“Takes a bit, usually.”

In the corner, a vending machine stands, half-empty with crinkled packages of chocolate bars and soft drinks and dried banana pieces. Kiyoomi smacks his mouth lightly, the taste of blue sugar still lingering as he avoids Atsumu’s eyes.

Should it be this easy? They’ve never been easy. Never been simple.

And yet it is. Easy. To choose to be around each other, to find comfort in familiarity. Seek a compromise, enjoy it.

Kiyoomi wonders if those snacks are expired, if he could even eat those still.

Atsumu rouses from their entangled embrace and inadvertently launches his elbow into Kiyoomi’s rib and kicks his shin.

“Ow,” the other man softly whines, his train of thought broken off. He chases after Atsumu’s warmth, but his arms are too heavy, so he lets them fall to his sides again. The washing machine starts up another cycle, rumbling and grumbling beneath him. Kiyoomi blinks up at Atsumu. “Leaving?” he mumbles. “It’s not done yet.”

“No,” Atsumu says with a gentle smile, “I’ll put on music. I feel like dancing.”

“ ‘m tired.”

“We don’t hafta go fast.”

And that’s how they end up swaying together in the laundromat to quiet swing music seeping out of the speakers on Atsumu’s phone, the lights still dim, their eyes still half-shut. The music mingles with the trinkling melody overhead, a ghostly reverberation that isn’t quite distinct.

Their shoes squeak quietly on the linoleum floor with every turn, a reminder of the steps they're taking. The sounds quiet down as they do, settling into a calm, comfortable rocking on the spot.

“We should’ve done this more often,” Kiyoomi murmurs into the crook of his neck, “it’s nice.”

Atsumu hums, and the sensation travels through Kiyoomi’s chest that’s pressed against his. “Hm, we should’ve.”

Something about laws of motion, something about moving bodies that are inherently inert only to be stopped by an outside force, never out of their own volition. Kiyoomi’s brain is too sluggish to properly formulate the thought, so he just burrows his nose deeper into the crook of Atsumu’s neck.

And they continue swaying.

“My mom said something interesting a while back.”

Kiyoomi hums. “What was it?”

“She called me. Told me to be careful. Ya know how she is, she gets concerned. So she told me to eat less takeout. And also be careful.”

Kiyoomi would snort, but he’s too tired for that, so he resorts to a deep chuckle. “Solid advice.”

Atsumu laughs too. “No, it’s interesting what I thought after. That maybe…” He pulls away a tiny bit before deciding against it and pulling his arms tighter around Kiyoomi’s torso, his face mushed against his shoulder. He clears his throat. “That we were too careful sometimes. You know?”

Kiyoomi takes too long to answer. “No.”

Atsumu takes a deep breath, finally detaching himself from him. “We were too careful with each other.”

“I don’t think so,” Kiyoomi quietly says and pointedly pulls him in again, “by the end, we were fighting every single day.”

“You know what I mean,” Atsumu insists.

“No I don’t.”

“Yes ya do. The way we were fightin’, it was ‘bout petty shit, stupid shit that didn’t matter. We’d have entire arguments about the way we’d organize the kitchen cabinets or who forgot to buy more toilet paper or who should’ve exchanged the lightbulb, but neither of us really cared, did we? Still, fighting about that was easier than … really hurting each other.”

“I did want to hurt you sometimes,” Kiyoomi admits.

“I know. And I did too. But…” He hesitates. “Sometimes, I think I wouldn’t have been able to even if I wanted to.”

A sigh rises deep within Kiyoomi, and he suppresses it, doesn’t want Atsumu to witness it, not when he’s so close that he can read his body like his own. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that we couldn’t hurt each other anymore because we’d stopped being vulnerable a long time ago.”

The machine puffs out whirring noises that sound like foam being crunched before it sets off a different cycle and rhythm.

When Atsumu takes a deep breath, Kiyoomi feels it against his own chest. “Yeah,” he finally says, “yeah, I guess that's what I was tryin’ ta say.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that?” Kiyoomi’s voice has taken on an edge that he hasn’t even put there. It’s unusual for defensiveness to show up around Atsumu these days, but he hasn’t yet decided if he’ll welcome it. For now, it’s just there, hanging in the space between them, and Kiyoomi thinks he can feel the air turn colder.

“See,” Atsumu says, and he laughs. It’s hollow. “Ye’re doin’ it. Ye’re bein’ careful. You don’t wanna think about it, you don’t wanna reflect or … relive the pain, you just wanna turn your head away and continue to exist. And I ain’t sayin’ that I’m not doin’ the same, but…” He takes a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes together. “But nothing. Nothing. I guess I just. Wanted. To understand why … why this works, but not the rest.”

Kiyoomi stares at a water spot on the wall. “I guess,” he finally says. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Atsumu doesn’t respond. They continue swaying.

Kiyoomi wishes he could want this to last forever. Wishes he would want to stay here, body and mind reduced to the person and moment in front of him. Wishes he was content.

But there’s that nagging again. That relentless, merciless nagging.

He decides to kiss Atsumu again. He doesn't have to think when he does; doesn’t have to struggle or fight – not anymore, at least.

Their lips move against each other, their calm breaths mingling into the silence, hands gliding and grasping at each other's bodies slowly.

Atsumu’s eyelids fall shut with the weight of the past day, and Kiyoomi allows himself a moment to look; to let his gaze linger as Atsumu noses into his cheek and curls his hand around the back of his head, thighs pressing into each other.

He knows that he’s holding onto Atsumu’s hips a bit too tightly, that his angle is a tiny bit off. That his lips are hanging in the air just shy of pressing to Atsumu’s temple.

If he doesn’t have to fight anymore, then why does he feel like he’s losing?

“Come on,” Atsumu finally says, detaching himself from Kiyoomi right as a beep sounds and the blinking display jumps from 0:01 to end. “Let’s go hang it up. I fixed the laundry rack the other day, it should work fine again.”

“Can I make dinner while you do that? You know I hate the texture of wet fabric.”

“Only if you’re making oden. It’s freezing.”

A tiny bit later, the broth is simmering on the stove. Kiyoomi stops chopping his vegetables and turns to the fridge to take out the seaweed, but just before he reaches it, he stops. “Hey,” he says, “who drew the smiley face on the fridge?” His hand curls tightly around the handle.

“Oh,” Atsumu calls over from the other room, “that was me. When I went out for my run this morning.”

Kiyoomi stares at it. It’s just a quick scribble, the circle of the face doesn’t connect whole, the two dots of the eyes aren’t in a line, the curved smile is a bit too wide and big, and he doesn’t understand how it’s there. 

ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?

A smiley face.

He remembers the feeling of a warm body to his, of swaying to two different melodies, of not feeling quite content, of–

“Why?” His voice is trembling.

It … couldn’t be. It couldn’t, right? Atsumu would’ve told him, he would’ve done something, he would’ve–

He jerks almost violently when Atsumu sneaks an arm around his waist. “You alright?”

Kiyoomi exhales shakily, squirming away from the touch in a way he hasn’t in a long time. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Atsumu squints at him, letting his arm drop back to his side. His fingers curl into a fist. “Scare ya with what? The arm or the smiley face?” His voice is carefully neutral.

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, so Atsumu diverts his attention back to the little note. He purses his lips. “I got tired of scribbling ‘no’ every day, so I decided to spice it up.”

“With a smiley face?” Kiyoomi asks quietly. “That doesn’t really carry the same connotation as ‘no’.”

Atsumu blinks at him from the corner of his eye, but Kiyoomi keeps his stare firmly forwards. Finally, the other man sighs. “It’s not really important what we write, though, is it? It’s more the … checkin’ in that’s important. Stoppin’ fer a second in the kitchen, and thinking while searching for a pen to write. Considerin’. What we write after ain’t really matter, cause if we thought ‘yes’ we wouldn’t be writin’ anything anyways, we’d be freakin’ out and breaking it off, right? So it doesn’t matter what we write. As long as we write something. Whatever it is, ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or a smiley face. So.” He clears his throat. And winces. “Don’t worry, I’m not in love. Was just bored.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says. “Yes. Good. That makes sense.”

Something in his chest creaks like arctic ice. He wonders if it'll crack.

His voice is lacking force. “It’s a good idea. Looks nice.”

“Right?” Atsumu smiles, and slings his arm back around Kiyoomi’s chest and squeezes it for a second before he lets go and leans up to open a cabinet. Instinctively, Kiyoomi leans towards him to make up for lost warmth. “Maybe I’ll draw a fox or something tomorrow.” He hums as he takes the package of peanuts down.

“Don’t snack too much,” Kiyoomi scolds him.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “As if you weren’t wanting to get to the red wine before you spotted the smiley face.”

“Not true,” Kiyoomi admonishes him, “because I’m already occupied with preparing dinner. So don’t eat the peanuts.”

“Hey,” Atsumu says, and throws one into his mouth. “Try saying peanuts, but without the t.”

Kiyoomi furrows his mouth as his tongue curls around the word. He absentmindedly stirs the pot. “Peanuts … peanus … pea…”

Realization dawns on him. Atsumu is still cackling by the time Kiyoomi is setting the big pot down in the middle of the table, and his ass is still tingling with the force of the hit that Kiyoomi doled out with his big wooden spoon.

Later, Kiyoomi places their used bowls in the sink and looks at where the faint streetlight coming in through the window illuminates the fridge door. He wipes his hands on a tea towel.

“You haven’t written anythin’ on the fridge today yet I think,” Atsumu had said at dinner through a mouthful of vegetables.

“Don’t eat with your mouth full,” Kiyoomi had said, “but yes, I haven’t found time today. Do you think I should draw something too? It does get repetitive.”

“You could draw a tree maybe, or a butterfly. A frog?”

“You know I’m terrible at drawing, that’s way too hard.”

“You can’t draw a frog wrong. They’re just creatures, man.”

Kiyoomi had chuckled softly into his spoon. “A frog it is, then. But don’t whine when it comes out ugly.”

Atsumu had let out a soft breath. “Ah, there’s no way it could.”

And now, Kiyoomi stands there and looks down at the pen he’s holding, his fingers still wanting to curl around the warmth of another body. He remembers the easy hold around his entire being, the embrace of something comfortable and familiar. Swaying with a swaying body.

He remembers and considers.

And then he draws a frog.

///

A few days later, Kiyoomi asks him to spend the night in his bed with him.

Atsumu almost stumbles head-first into the rear of his car. “I’m sorry, you what?” he asks, pulling himself up with the roof of the car, asking himself if he’s heard correctly as he regains his balance.

Kiyoomi is remarkably calm. “I want you to sleep with me. Like, sleep sleep.” He raises an eyebrow at Atsumu’s bulging eyes and lets out a huffed puff of breath. “Not for a stupid reason,” he enunciates, “not for something like sentimentality.” After a pause, he cracks a weak smirk. “Remember how I once said that it would be really hot if you fucked me in the morning while I’m still half asleep?”

Someone on the other side of the car park starts coughing furiously and Atsumu, ever shameless, doesn’t even have the decency to blush. He’s still staring at Kiyoomi with wide eyes.

“Why are you quiet?” Kiyoomi demands, “Did I say something wrong?" There’s a small crinkle on his forehead, but only sincereness to be seen in his eyes. "You don’t have to agree if you don’t want, of course.”

Quiet … it is quiet, now. Kiyoomi is still a deep, calm sleeper, taking even, steady breaths that make his chest rise and fall in measured movements.

Atsumu pushes himself upright, the duvet sliding off his shoulders and pooling in his lap as he turns his head to the side. Hesitant pale morning sunlight is streaming in through the windows and throwing a soft hue onto the dips and valleys of Kiyoomi’s face.

Atsumu shivers at a gust of cold air, chest exposed; yet his sleep-addled eyes don’t leave Kiyoomi’s resting form.

God, he looks serene.

How long has it been since Atsumu has seen him last without a pinched expression, without that guarded look, without an aura of careful reclusion whenever he was in Atsumu’s presence, without pressure in his shoulders, no wrinkle between his slightly creased eyebrows?

Atsumu reaches out, fingertips dancing over Kiyoomi’s face as they meet soft puffs of breath. He teases the tip of his nose with a fingernail and Kiyoomi scrunches up his face before relaxing again. Atsumu smiles to himself; he’s always been ticklish.

His finger touches down between his eyebrows, smooths over warm skin where that crease is usually situated.

He wants to lay down next to Kiyoomi and look at him properly, just look at him. Now that Atsumu’s allowed to look for the first time in months, he wants to lay his hands to his cheeks and watch him exist for a lingering moment suspended in time.

But those are dangerous thoughts, those are thoughts that belong to the past and certainly not to Atsumu – so he pulls back his hand and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he readies himself.

When Atsumu pulls back the covers in one swift motion, he’s left speechless by the entirety of Kiyoomi’s naked body. He hadn’t bothered to put on clothes yesterday, and now the milky expanse of his skin is on full display. He’s laying on his side, one hand splayed out over the mattress, his legs tangled in the sheets, cheek buried in the pillow. He’s so pale he almost becomes one with the sheets, his hair a dark crown that’s spilling over white. Tiny moles dot a treasure hunt, a splatter of them on his shoulder blades, they trace a path down the dip and ridges of his spine, a gathering on his hip, they weave down his thighs and calves. Atsumu carefully caresses one on his ankle with his thumb.

Kiyoomi lets out a soft sigh at the touch and Atsumu looks up, sees eyes erring beneath closed eyelids. Kiyoomi’s mouth has fallen open to let out easy breaths, and Atsumu climbs over his sleeping form to close the distance with his own lips.

It’s odd to kiss him like this when he’s quiet, odd when he’s soft and yielding, not pushing back. Atsumu’s lips slide against his, lap at pliant flesh, nipping and asking and taking, and there’s something thrilling about the knowledge that Kiyoomi lets him do this, that Kiyoomi trusts him enough to let him do this.

And yet … and yet. Is it really Kiyoomi when he’s not pushing back? As sweet as his lips are, they’re not pulling into a sneer, not talking, they’re not laughing, they are just soft – so Atsumu moves on.

The rest of his body is more responsive. When Atsumu sets down a gentle kiss onto his collarbones, Kiyoomi lets out a sigh, turning his head in the pillows as his eyelashes flutter. Atsumu mouths a wet trail of open-mouthed kisses down his chest, laving his tongue over smooth skin and spending a moment to swirl around his nipples, goosebumps running all the way down his torso. Kiyoomi squirms lightly, another soft breath escaping his lips.

Atsumu could get lost in the expanse of Kiyoomi’s pliant body, could spend hours upon hours worshipping and serving it. He feels the ridiculous need to press a chaste kiss to his forehead the way he used to do, and then pull back and be confronted with the intensity of Kiyoomi’s lust-addled eyes.

But his eyes are closed, and Atsumu doesn’t kiss his forehead.

His thumb rests at his waist for a while, idly drawing circles before deciding to aim lower. Kiyoomi is still soft when Atsumu takes him in his mouth, but at the gentle strokes that Atsumu distributes along the insides of his thighs, fleeting caresses of his fingers around his groin, he thickens in his mouth. Atsumu smiles around him when Kiyoomi softly whines – so demanding even when he’s asleep.

His hand cups Kiyoomi’s backside, sliding up the curve of it before dipping between his cheeks. Atsumu’s own breathing quickens when his fingertips finally find that familiar spot. He rubs his dry thumb over his pucker, silently begging for entrance; Kiyoomi squirms with the sensation.

Atsumu doesn’t relent, he continues stroking and presses a number of chaste kisses to his hipbones, licking around the trail of hair and nudging his lips against his belly. The muscle trembles under the attention, and Kiyoomi turns his head again, his breathy noises getting louder.

As Atsumu sets the last peck down on his navel, his hand falls away.

He licks his way around his shaft, down his balls, taking them between his lips just quickly before sliding even lower.

He presses the flat of his tongue against Kiyoomi’s puckered hole. Pale thighs start trembling around him. Atsumu slides a hand up to his knee, holding him open as his tongue darts out to lap at his flesh.

Kiyoomi’s breathing is deep but heavy, chest rising in full movements, fingers barely twitching where they lay limp against the sheets. Atsumu takes his hand in his and threads their fingers together as his tongue teases around his rim, circling his hole slowly in broad strokes before dipping into heat. His nose grinds against his taint as he explores Kiyoomi so intimately, soaking up his hearty musk.

His breath is falling out in heavy huffs now as sweat is beading on his forehead.

“Oh, you’re so good for me,” Atsumu murmurs, “look at ya. So pretty. So eager.” He holds Kiyoomi’s cheeks apart with his broad hands, revealing the ring of his entrance as he licks into him.

Kiyoomi’s cock is straining against his belly in soft pink, a pearl of thick precum beading at the tip and dripping onto his abs. His flush has crawled down all the way to his chest, almost reaching his nipples. God, they’re so pretty and perky; Atsumu flicks a finger over them, delighted to receive a gasp.

Kiyoomi’s erection is hard and straining, foreskin pulled back tight to reveal the rosy, slick tip – he’s still asleep, yet the laxness of his limbs and the undamped noises escaping from between quivering lips are betraying his unresting state as his eyes stay shut.

Atsumu can feel himself growing hard as well. He resists the urge to grind his hips down against the mattress for some sore relief against that building pressure in his gut and instead continues licking and lapping, sliding his hand up Kiyoomi’s thigh again and spreading the wetness around his mouth with his thick thumb.

Kiyoomi full-on moans when it pops in alongside Atsumu tongue. Atsumu chuckles against his skin, his own spit smeared all over his chin and nose as he looks up. Kiyoomi’s hand has grasped at the sheets, his lower body restless and bucking. He’s esperately trying to get away from the sensation but can’t, because Atsumu is holding his hips down, preventing him from jerking up with a single strong forearm.

He slowly pumps his finger in and out; he isn’t in a hurry.

In a way, he feels untethered similarly to Kiyoomi, almost as if he’s a visitor in his own body, removed as a person and only remaining as an entity to give pleasure.

Once his finger meets less resistance, he adds another one. The tight, hot grip around Atsumu’s fingers makes a shiver crawl down his spine and he exhales, once again reminded of the heaviness hanging between his own legs. But this isn’t about him, this is about Kiyoomi writhing and gasping on the sheets, slowly but steadily losing his composure and not even knowing.

Atsumu's lips glide up, kissing at soft flesh and suckling before he looks again.

Kiyoomi is ethereal.

He almost doesn’t seem graspable like this; pale but flushed, face contorted into the sweetest expression as he’s panting, gasps spilling freely across unconsciously bitten lips. He’s angelic, all pale skin and long-limbed grace, his even face flushed in mindless pleasure.

Not for the first time, something seizes in Atsumu’s chest.

He doesn’t deserve him.

Atsumu jolts with his own thought, the sudden realization about the situation sinking in heavily. He isn’t yours. He presses his eyes shut, taking a deep breath as he continues to open him up, laying his head to his thigh and gazing up at him.

Does he want him to be?

Sometimes he wonders if it would’ve been better had they never met all. Had they never seen each other in a gymnasium filled with delighted screams, the smell of teenage boys’ sweat, and tension flying between every participant. He wonders if it would’ve been better had Atsumu never turned around at the sound of the metal door opening with a clank, the soles of his sneakers squeaking on laminated wood as he threw a look back, eyes catching on a tall figure, face obscured by both a pristine white mask and a curtain of unruly black curls.

He’s endless but ephemeral, not meant to stay. Slipping through Atsumu’s fingers like water and leaving only the wetness of spilled tears dripping from his hands.

Would it have been better had they never started talking, started fighting, started … loving?

To love means to know someone, and to be known, one needs to be vulnerable.

It had never stung that much before, before they were in love, before they shared each breath and moment, each triumph and defeat, came together and left together. It’s almost funny that their most vicious fights happened back when they still loved each other. Back when they still knew where to pick for it to hurt, where to search to find something ugly.

And yet the deafening silence had been worse. The tight-lipped “Miya”, the walls, the light lost from dark eyes. The arms crossed in front of a chest, the impatient tapping of a shoe on the floor, the mask, the mask, always the mask. Paper crinkling between his fingers.

And now he’s spread out in front of him again like a caricature of those sweet moments of swelling joy and overbordering contentment, like a caricature of everything Atsumu has lost.

Because it’s odd to see Kiyoomi like this again – like he trusts him. Not just odd; unsettling, nauseating, devouring in its ache.

Was it worth it?

Atsumu presses his face against Kiyoomi’s thigh, hot skin against the wet pressure behind his eyelids. Fuck, he won’t cry like this.

He buries another finger inside him and curls it, and that is what makes Kiyoomi’s knees twitch and his breath quicken, hands spasming fruitlessly as Atsumu takes his cock in his hand too.

He tries not to think as he quickens his pace, letting more of his spit dribble down to his hole until he’s so wet and open that Atsumu can slide right in, his own hard cock sheathing itself in the tight confines.

He tries not to think as he thrusts forward, by now so used to the motion that it feels like an extension of himself, he tries not to think as Kiyoomi keens with the small jolts, rousing and moving, his eyelids fluttering as his body convulses, as his abs pull tight and his legs start shaking. Atsumu tries not to think as he touches Kiyoomi’s cock and leans up to capture his waking mouth in a fiery kiss, as Kiyoomi erupts all over his stomach with a small sighed gasp.

Atsumu comes inside Kiyoomi, he releases the evidence of his desire and taints Kiyoomi with it, pushes his mess so much deeper into him with a last long stroke.

He tries not to think and yet when Kiyoomi slowly blinks his eyes open, Atsumu sinks into the darkness of dilated pupils and realizes that the abyss within himself is filled with the all-encompassing yearning for something he knows he won’t have.

Atsumu allows himself to steal this precious moment of lingering unawareness. He watches as Kiyoomi emerges from slumber, as his features twitch, as his fingertips regain feeling, as expression seeps back into his face.

He watches as this Kiyoomi comes back to the surface together with their past, as he wipes away the last persistent traces of someone from so long ago and transforms into someone Atsumu does not have access to.

He turns his head away and closes his eyes – as if that could prevent the inevitable.

He knows that time has run out when he hears the bed creak. Kiyoomi sits up. “Miya.”

His voice is rough but quiet.

Atsumu opens his eyes and stands up. “Tell me why you don’t love me.”

Kiyoomi’s head snaps up. “What?” The word is barely more than an exhale.

“You heard me.”

Kiyoomi rubs over his face with the back of a hand. “What?” he asks, voice trembling with sleep, “that’s personal, and I just woke up and – what’s going on? I’m not going to–“

“No,” Atsumu insists, voice hoarse and broken, “tell me why you don’t love me. Because you don’t. I’m begging you.”

Kiyoomi stares at him silently. His blinking eyes are still glazed over with slumber. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

Atsumu holds his gaze. His hands tremble. “I do.”

“Why do you think that I would want to?”

Atsumu presses his lips into a thin line. “Alright then, I’ll go first.” He raises his chin defiantly. “Sakusa, I won’t ever love you again.” The line of his jaw is tight, but there’s a crack in his voice. “It won’t ever feel the same again. How could it when I’ll always remember who we were together, when I’ll always remember what ya did?” He laughs, and it’s short and cruel. “When I’ll always remember what I did?”

His harsh breath rings loud in the silence of the room.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, his voice as hard as steel. “Now what did that do for anyone?”

“It’s a reminder.”

“To me or to you?”

Atsumu doesn’t answer the question. “Now you say it.”

“Why.”

“I want you to! I can’t love you again. Fuckin’ tell me that you don’t or I’ll leave right now.”

Kiyoomi snaps his mouth shut, the sheets rustling as he shifts. “You’re ridiculous,” he finally says, “we won’t fall in love again.”

“Yet I won’t comfort you if we do.”

Kiyoomi drops back onto the sheets and turns his head into the pillow, pulling the quilt back up to his shoulders almost protectively. It doesn’t bring warmth.

He asks himself if this is a dream, a cruel one, one that a fucked up part of his mind has concocted specifically to confuse him, to punch this bitter sinking feeling into his stomach. And yet this is real; Atsumu is standing above him, tall and beautiful and unreachable as ever, and Kiyoomi can’t read his face.

“Tell me why you don’t love me,” he insists.

There’s something in his tone that Kiyoomi can’t decipher, that he cannot understand for the hell of him; something that scares him.

He looks him in the eye and finds nothing but bitter vehemence.

“I don’t love you.”

His voice is as silent as it is monotonous, carefully kept together as he tries to sort the swirling chaos in his head into words. 

“I remember what it was like. When I loved you, you were all I thought about. I wanted to know who you were and what you wanted and needed. I wanted to be by your side, not miss a moment of your life, wanted to be your life. I didn’t want to miss a single smirk or tease or pout. Being with you, it was … it was a thrill, a constant hum underneath my skin that … that …I can’t even describe it, it fucking…” He exhales shakily. “It gave me life.” He closes his eyes, desperate to push on even though his voice starts trembling. “I was restless without you and couldn’t forget you for a second, I was at mercy and loving it, it was exhilarating and terrifying and torturous. At the end. To know that I was defenseless against you.”

Kiyoomi’s voice echoes around the room.

When he’d moved out, he’d taken his heavy drape curtains with him; now there’s only a white veil obscuring the budding morning. The door is cracked open the tiniest bit. Cold air trickles in.

“No,” he finally says, “I don’t love you.”

Pause.

“Thank you,” Atsumu says, already turning away. “I’m going. Tell coach I’ll be late, I have some errands to run.”

“No, you don’t–“ Kiyoomi suppresses a yawn and blinks. “Sorry. You don’t have to go.”

“No, I think I do.” Atsumu’s smile is crooked and plasticky and awkward, and he still doesn’t let it drop. “I think I’ll go.”

“Are you–“ Kiyoomi sighs. “You didn’t fall in love with me because I made you coffee. But if you stay and I do make coffee, you’ll feel a million times better. C’mon Atsumu, don’t be silly.”

The sound of his name is a slap to the face. He recoils like a hurt animal, a strange sort of defensiveness rising in his throat like bile. “Atsumu,” he repeats, “Atsumu.” The word curls around his tongue like barbed wire. “I’m not silly. Since when are ya callin’ me Atsumu again? I’m going.” He’s already pulling on his pants, not looking into Kiyoomi’s eyes.

“But you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Kiyoomi’s voice is quiet. “I don’t know if you’re scared or just a cunt.”

Silence.

Atsumu’s head whirls around. “What?” he breathes.

Kiyoomi’s chest twists in something that is quick and ephemeral and undecipherable, something that almost feels like regret. But that can’t be, that cannot be, because next, he raises his chin and opens his mouth again. “I said,” he pronounces, “that I don’t know if you’re scared or just a cunt.”

Because that’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

Kiyoomi has been too quiet throughout all this exchange, too pliant, too receptive; he’s supposed to push back, spit something back, say something to rival Atsumu’s own bitterness. This Atsumu, this trembling Atsumu with big eyes that seem almost damp, he unsettles Kiyoomi entirely.

This is new territory.

It makes him wish to turn back to what he’s used to. And what he’s used to is this – hurting him for the sake of it.

Atsumu has already opened his mouth, already curled his lip, anger has already deeply set into his eyes. He rises to his full height, balls his hands into fists, and then he – stops.

He stills.

His face is still an angry grimace, his eyes still narrowed, brows drawn, teeth clenched, but he doesn’t say anything. And then, he closes his mouth.

His shoulders droop.

The world tilts.

It’s a miniscule change, a tiny one, and yet Kiyoomi feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

“Okay,” Atsumu quietly says, his voice hoarse, “okay.”

The whisper is so terribly fragile.

Kiyoomi lets go of a shaking breath. “Wait,” he dares to say, “I didn’t… I didn’t…”

“What did you not?”

Kiyoomi wishes he could say that it is affront in Atsumu’s voice, anger, indignation, something that’s been there since the beginning, but he finds none of it. Atsumu’s voice is quiet and cold and breakable and Kiyoomi feels like he’s the worst person in the world.

Atsumu shakes his head minutely and turns it away, gaze barely ghosting over Kiyoomi in favor of settling on the door to the balcony where the curtains are wavering with the morning breeze. “Okay,” he says again.

Still that dreadful tone of voice. Kiyoomi is glued to the sheets, he’s terrified, he’s … reeling in free fall. There’s something so utterly wrong about all this, so disgustingly off-kilter, something that he wants to cut out with a knife and throw far, far away, and yet he can’t move from his spot. His fingers tighten in the sheets almost painfully.

He can feel his knuckles turn white.

“Ya know what? Take yer list down, the one at yer fridge.” Atsumu still isn’t looking into his eyes. His hands are shaking. “Take it down, and write it again. Ask yerself why ya don’t love me, properly this time. I’ll do the same.” He huffs out a cruel laugh. “About Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he drawls. “Ya know what the first line will be?”

Atsumu looks at him, really looks at him. His eyes are stone cold.

“He’s cruel.”

Atsumu turns on his heel.

Kiyoomi is pulled forward on an invisible string, chasing after something he can’t even name, but before he can stretch out a hand or even call out a name, Atsumu’s already gone. Kiyoomi stares at the blank wall.

The sheets suddenly feel so cold, any warmth seeped out of them together with Atsumu’s presence. Goosebumps run over his arms and back, and he clenches his jaw lest his teeth start clattering out of sheer turmoil.

He feels sticky all over, warm and damp and disgusting, like an outside witness to his own consciousness. He wants to claw his skin off.

He wonders what Atsumu is feeling.

In the distance, the apartment door slams shut. The noise echoes through the hollow in his chest.

///

Atsumu slinks back into the apartment in the evening.

He’s considered not coming back, he really has. Has considered leaving that bed behind, that man, that terrible, yawning abyss at the pit of his stomach.

And yet he’s here.

He opens the door and unlaces his shoes, he sets them down next to a pair that doesn’t belong to him, and he goes into the kitchen.

Moonlight is illuminating the room through the window above the sink, and it catches in the metallic gleam of a pen.

A single blank sheet of paper has been placed on the counter, a pen next to it. A silent request. Acceptance.

He could still leave, Atsumu thinks.

He takes up the pen, and it weighs heavy in his hand.

He doesn’t feel much at all while he’s writing, he focuses on the smooth glide of the pen on paper, black bleeding onto white. He feels weirdly detached throughout the entire process, a bit as if he was gutting a fish. A mechanical process, somehow both tedious at the same time. Emotionally disconnected.

He remembers the summers of his childhood fondly, the days he spent in the forest behind his grandparents’ house, the little lake at its middle, his grandmother smearing way too much sunblocker on him and giving him a silly little hat and telling him to drink enough water, his grandfather taking his brother and him fishing. He laughed when his ojiichan made a joke that his obaachan would’ve probably smacked him for, almost strangled his brother with the fishing line, spluttered and coughed when he was shoved into the lake in retaliation, and cried when his ojiichan smashed a fish’s head in with a stone.

ABOUT SAKUSA KIYOOMI

Rinse your catch with cold water, scrape it, cut it. Hold the knife with a firm hand, be careful not to go too deep.

Slip your fingertips into the opening, spread it. Look.

Insides on show.

Atsumu’s hands had shaken when he’d done it the first time, but the act quickly loses its novelty, the morbid fascination. It becomes a sequence of instructions, no emotion behind it, no story, no thrill.

His pen scrapes across the paper; it slips at a period, so Atsumu makes it a comma instead and continues the sentence.

Next, you’ll remove the guts at the root, gently, carefully. Don’t want them to spill. At this point, there shouldn’t be much resistance, you shouldn’t need to cut any more with your knife.

Rinse again.

Remove remaining organ residue. Then the head. One cut, flip it over, then another. If the head isn’t fully removed by your two cuts, you can grip it and twist it off.

Atsumu could still leave.

The tip of his pen is trembling above the plane of white.

He’s laid down the past, but the future is still unwritten.

He doesn’t want to leave.

To the side of the coffee machine, they’ve taped their little roster of household chores. Kiyoomi’s idea. Who is dusting, ironing, taking out the trash, cleaning the kitchen, windows, the floors, so on. They’d planned it all out for a few weeks in advance, Kiyoomi with his hair clipped back, a look of pure concentration in his eyes as he did the math and scribbled down each of their duties, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. By June 14th, they’ll need to have made up a different schedule because from then on, the current list runs blank. Right now, it’s May.

It’s Atsumu’s turn to do laundry tomorrow.

He folds his letter in half and walks over to the fridge in two long strides. His fingers glide under the flap and in, holding the space open.

There’s another letter already in there; another new one. The often folded and unfolded paper titled ABOUT MIYA ATSUMU that he’s seen so often in between Kiyoomi’s fingers, it’s been replaced by a crisp white sheet. Ink not yet dry.

His fingers itch to take it out.

He doesn’t, he slips his own in and seals the envelope shut.

Atsumu grills sanma that night, and as he prepares the daikon and lemon, he asks himself if he should invite Kiyoomi to come out and eat with him. The grains of salt rub coarsely at his fingers as he sprinkles it all over the fish.

He eats alone and in darkness, trying to savor his effort, yet tasting just ash. He hasn’t asked Kiyoomi to come eat with him, and Kiyoomi hasn’t asked him.

He puts his leftovers into his fridge, aluminum foil crinkling, and the fridge door closes with an audible sigh of cold.

And there it is, black on white.

ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?

Chapter Text

They haven’t talked about it.

They haven’t talked about the deep, constricting confusion in Kiyoomi’s throat, the marred gold of Atsumu’s eyes, the silence that they should be used to, the one that smothers any ounce of comfort beneath its weight.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to deal with it – so he doesn’t.

They do what they’ve always done.

They haven’t talked, but Atsumu slinks into Kiyoomi’s room that next morning, bridges the silence with fingers that settle on the small of his back. Hesitantly, slowly, as if exploring uncharted territory and not one they’ve mapped out long ago already. And Kiyoomi accepts the invitation. He opens his eyes and turns around, lets the bedsheets fall away, bares his chest and reaches up; flutters his own hand over Atsumu’s heart.

He tries not to think about the past because when he thinks about the past, his airway tightens and his head starts spinning and he has to lie down beneath a weighted blanket until those black spots stop dancing in front of his eyes.

He doesn’t think, but the body doesn’t need to think in order to remember. The body molds itself to another; their hips slot together in an ancient rhythm, his chin fits into the divot of Atsumu’s neck and shoulder, their fingers tangle together as if they’d always been intertwined.

He knows it’s always been like this, but has it always felt this wrong?

Sometimes, he almost thinks he might yearn.

Kiyoomi doesn’t exactly know what for, can’t pinpoint a thing or emotion or state he might want – he just knows that there’s that gentle pull in his chest, a twinging that occasionally pangs and reminds him of its presence. Like a hook on a rope, one that’s lodged right in the center of his chest, and he doesn’t know who stands at the end of it. The twinging is gentle, usually, less a laceration or violation, moreso a reminder. I’m here. You don’t know what I am. Or what I want.

It makes him uneasy. He doesn’t know how far it’s lodged, how much it has dug into the soft, giving flesh of his chest, doesn’t know how hard it’ll pull, eventually – and how much it’ll rip out with it.

They’re resting in the aftershocks, harsh breaths contrasting with the tired consumption of their limbs and minds, and when Atsumu cards sure fingers through Kiyoomi’s hair and softly tugs at the strands, Kiyoomi closes his eyes and lets himself pretend.

That this is enough, that it is right, that it’s fine for him to have seen wetness glistening in Atsumu’s eyes right before he threw the door shut and not have said anything about it. That it’s fine that Atsumu looked hurt and sad and defeated, defeated , that he didn’t spit fire, didn’t yell out his anger at the world and Kiyoomi, that he – let go. That he was so decidedly unlike the Atsumu that Kiyoomi has come to know, the one that he had once come to love.

Yet pretending cannot last long.

Not when it’s been made all too clear where both of them stand in this; have always stood in this. Because he remembers , even if he tries not to.

Atsumu is wiping him down with a cloth, the rough fabric not gentle enough on his sensitive skin even though Atsumu’s hands are careful, and he suppresses a hiss. From this angle, Atsumu’s eyes are obscured.

Kiyoomi doesn’t think it’s the past he wants, not really. He knows the past, remembers it in all its cruel facets, and sometimes he wishes he were able to still want it.

It would make things easier.

If he could name this feeling that’s swallowing him up from inside out, if he could understand it.

Because it’s this uncertainty that offsets him, the dreadful non-knowing. Because a letter is hanging on his fridge, one that he wrote barely a week ago, one that reminds him of what he’s supposed to do when he starts wanting what he can’t want.

But if it is something else he wants, then he’s just staring at a blank sheet of paper.

Bam!

The ball slams out of bounds. Kiyoomi stares at his tingling palm. Too much force.

What does he want?

“Don’t mind, don’t mind!” Atsumu yells across the court.

Kiyoomi turns to him.

“Actually,” he wants to say, “I do mind. I do mind that everything feels so deeply and utterly wrong. Eerily familiar, as if it should be right, yet I know that it isn’t. As if I woke up to the furniture in my room having been moved five centimeters to the left while I slept. In place, but not.”

He wants to say that.

He closes his mouth again.

He doesn’t know what it is he wants; he only knows that it isn’t this.

What is wrong with them?

///

Suna heaves out a long sigh. “The cat fucking shat on me. Come in.”

From the back of the apartment, a panicked yell comes. “Rin, d’you think window cleaner will work?”

Atsumu starts cackling hysterically. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life, better even than my–”

“Ow.”

He’s bumped into Kiyoomi. They both wanted to enter the door at the same time, had already taken a step forward before their shoulders crashed together, and Atsumu jolts back just as Kiyoomi does too.

Atsumu gulps as he stumbles on his feet. “Oh. Uh. You, uh. Go in first.” He clears his throat and takes another step back, making a jerky, haphazard motion with his hand.

The door creaks in its hinges, the space between them empty.

Kiyoomi stares at him for a second before he coughs slightly. “No, please go first.” His hands are feeble as he makes the same aborted gesture towards the open door.

Atsumu doesn’t move. They stare at each other. He clears his throat. “Go,” he insists.

But now, Kiyoomi doesn’t want to back down. “No,” he says, “you go.”

They stay banned in their staring match; not quite a stalemate.

Atsumu drops his car keys. They land on the floor with a soft clink.

“Oops.”

Atsumu doesn’t detach his gaze from Kiyoomi’s. “I guess I’ll hafta pick them up right now,” he slowly says. “And you’ll hafta go in first.”

Kiyoomi thinks he might scream.

He’s endured three entire days of this now; this hell. Them tip-toeing around each other, not even knowing what is off but irrevocably feeling that it is and experiencing all of the dreadful fallout.

He can’t bicker with him anymore, can’t smile with him anymore, can’t even insult him. Everything he does is tainted with this terrible, indescribable abnormality, and he buckles underneath its weight.

Where has their effortless connection gone, their instantaneous understanding? Why can’t they shake the weirdness? Why can’t they treat each other the same way they always used to? A month ago, a year ago, they would’ve never had this insecure little conversation, and if they did, then only out of spite. ‘No, you go’, Atsumu would’ve drawled sickly sweet, sarcasm dripping from his words like honey, and Kiyoomi would’ve replied ‘No please , go first!’ with a lunatic smile.

Atsumu should’ve grinned as he said those words, he should’ve smirked with a mirthful twinkle in his eyes, and not this terrible imitation of a smile that he’s been putting on these last few days. It doesn’t belong to him, doesn’t belong on his face or anywhere near Kiyoomi’s vicinity, it freaks him out, and he–

“Oh my god,” Suna declares, “I have more important shit to deal with than this. The last time there was this much drama around a door was in Titanic.”

Komori comes sprinting out of the bathroom with a rag in one hand and a spray bottle of window cleaner in the other. “Taroooou, come here! Tell me what to do!”

Suna has already whipped out their phone. “How to clean cat shit from clothes,” they pronounce as their fingers fly across the screen. Then they still and squint at it. “You have to use laundry detergent,” they read out loud, “mixed with water? Warm one.”

“Our boiler broke,” Komori whines, “how the fuck do we get warm water.”

“We have a kettle.”

“But we prepared tea for Kiyoomi and Atsumu.”

“Then pour it out.” The corners of Suna’s mouth curl into an impish smile. “By the way you’re freaking out, you’d think the cat shit in your lap.”

“It didn’t,” Komori whines, “but I’m gonna have to sit in the lap that it actually shit in, so I’m fucked anyways, honey. Warm water, you said? Maybe we could turn on the washing machine and wait for a few minutes until it’s going then open it up and scoop some out and soak your pants with it?”

Kiyoomi stares at them both, horrified. “How are you alive.”

Komori winks at him. “Just kidding, we don’t have a kettle yet.” He cackles. “But we did fix the boiler the other day, so we’ll just use water from the sink.”

“Not necessary,” Suna adds, “because I lied too.” They lazily wave their phone around the air. “They wrote here to use cold water.”

Komori starts giggling at them. “Hey, my love,” he says, “wanna go make out right now?”

While they do, Kiyoomi tries to get his breathing under control. He thinks he’s going to faint.

“Bastards,” Atsumu grits out next to him, shaking his head, “ya planned this, didn’t ya? Rehearsin’ in front of the mirror an’ all before we arrived.”

“We didn’t,” Suna easily says, and Komori flashes a smile next to them as he wounds his arms around them tighter. “We’re bastards, but we’re spontaneous bastards. Especially when we get to fuck with you two.”

“I hate you both so much,” Kiyoomi mutters.

Komori brightens and rests his head on Suna’s clavicle as he looks up at his cousin. “I bought those disgusting cheese puffs you like to eat with your sake.”

“...Maybe I don’t hate you that much,” Kiyoomi acquiesces. 

“Did the cat even shit on ya?” Atsumu calls out to Suna after they’ve already started sauntering towards the living room. Only they would somehow manage to saunter while shuffling in their slippers. “Or were ya lyin’ ‘bout that too?”

“Of course she didn’t shit on me, she loves me." Suna throws a look back over their shoulder, brows lightly knitted. They smile. “She’s baby.” They turn again, humming in self-satisfaction. “Will you two shitheads manage to get the sake from the fridge? Food’s already on the table.”

Atsumu whirls around to Kiyoomi again, mouth stuck wide agape in outrage, “Can ya even believe ‘em, cause I can’t, at this point they’re just … uh … they’re—”

He breaks off.

Kiyoomi gulps. “They. Um. They’re what?”

Atsumu’s mouth is ajar, but no sound comes out.

Kiyoomi would like to ask Atsumu what he wanted to say and what he couldn’t, would like to know what prevented him from doing so, but his own throat is constricted too. 

“Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with them,” he finally gets out with his voice trembling – his response is a feeble, terrible excuse at light banter.

“Hah,” Atsumu says. “Yes. A lot.”

How long has it been since they hadn’t known what to say to each other?

Kiyoomi wants to slap himself and his own thoughts. Of course he knows how long it’s been.

He opens his mouth, and only a small creak comes out. He shuts it again. Ducks his head. “I’m getting the sake,” he says.

The cat is one of those wrinkly naked ones, she has only one eye and a spiteful hiss that sounds just like Suna’s, and Komori and Suna absolutely adore her.

Atsumu and Kiyoomi join them at their dinner table with some onigiri and sake, and they’re in the middle of uncorking the bottle when a rosy head peeks around the corner.

When Komori coos “Cleopatra” at her, she comes sauntering over with her tail swinging. She digs her claws into Atsumu’s pant leg, climbing up into his lap and trampling all over him before jumping onto the table and butting his hands with her wet nose so that he takes them away and she can spread herself out all over the surface. Atsumu has to save a glass from toppling over because she swatted at it with her tail.

“So she’s a bitch,” Atsumu states as he looks down at the lolling cat.

Komori whacks him on the head, and so does Suna. “Ow ow ow!” he whines under the hits pelting down on him.

Cleopatra looks up from licking her own ass and yanks her jaw open in a long, drawn-out yawn.

Suna protectively pats her head. “She’s gorgeous, and she’s right about not liking you.”

“And very wonderful,” Komori adds. “Aren’t ya, baby?” he coos.

Atsumu snorts. “Oh I see, yer gonna become one of those couples who instead’a kids just gets a cute little thing that licks her own ass?”

Silence. Every one of them around the table halts and looks up. Atsumu curses himself, deeply .

“I do think we wanna have kids at some point,” Komori finally softly says, squeezing Suna’s hand.

Suna smiles at him shortly before looking down at their lap. “Yeah,” they repeat. “But not now. At this point, we don’t have the security, time or ability to raise a child. I do want to have a family with him at some point, but that … can wait.” They squeeze his hand back.

There’s something … there is something about the unbearable softness in Suna’s eyes as they look at Komori that causes a twinge in Atsumu’s own chest, and he looks down at his joined fingers for a second.

Why can’t Kiyoomi and him be like this too?

Well … they used to be, but not anymore. Maybe that’s why it hurts this much to look at them – because he knows that they could’ve been like that too. Could be like that too.

Atsumu interrupts his own thoughts by biting down on an onigiri, half of it falling apart and out of his mouth.

“I know that ya’d be shameless with abusin’ us as babysitters,” Atsumu munches, picking stray rice grains off the front of his shirt. He expects Kiyoomi to tsk at him from the side, and he doesn’t. He gulps down a big bite, keeps his gaze trained firmly forward. “I bet that ya wouldn’t even give us money, probably just say somethin’ like ‘you get paid in our daughter's beautiful smiles’ or whatever the fuck ya can come up with.”

“Please,” Suna huffs, “bold of you to assume that we’d leave our darling daughter in the care of you two buffoons.”

“Hey!” Atsumu squawks, jolting straight, “You could trust us!”

Suna looks at him long and hard.

Atsumu winces. “Yeah okay, I kind of can’t be mad at ya if ya don’t. Still!”

Komori hums under his breath. “Shut up,” he mumbles, “and just look at this beauty.” He smiles down at her as he smooths a hand over her back, his palm still clumsy about it, not yet used to the motion. “Isn’t she the cutest?” he coos as he tickles the tip of her nose with his finger, and laughs softly. “She’s just the best, aren’tcha?”

“She is.” Kiyoomi has bent forward, carefully discarded his mask as that tiny rosy nose twitches up at him. He’s stretching out his pinky, carefully poised in the air, almost trembling when he sets it down on the wrinkly nape. The cat purrs at the touch and Kiyoomi visibly sags, releasing a relieved sigh.

Atsumu hadn’t even noticed that he’d held his own breath alongside Kiyoomi until it stutters out of him. Kiyoomi looks … he looks…

There is fondness to be found in Atsumu’s heart, a gentle squeeze as he looks at dark curls falling into a pale forehead, obscuring those damned moles, eyebrows scrunched together just slightly in wonder.

Sometimes, he wonders about what could’ve been.

If they could’ve been.

Could’ve been lovers, could’ve been husbands, could’ve been each other’s forever. If Kiyoomi could’ve looked at him the way Suna is looking at Komori, if they could’ve lived with each other, sorted out their shit, if they could’ve continued to laugh and bicker and love and maybe think about getting a cat too or a new vacuum or another bush of rosemary. If they could’ve…

Kiyoomi looks up.

And Atsumu, he – panics. Because what the hell is he supposed to do with all this softness in his throat, all these thoughts, this melancholy? He doesn’t know, but before he can think of something, Kiyoomi suddenly pushes himself up from the table and blurts out “I’m going to go wash some dishes.”

Kiyoomi has already squirted a bit of detergent into the sink, turned the valve on hot, pulled out a pair of bright green gloves, was about to turn on the tap, when –

Quiet steps behind him.

Kiyoomi’s shoulders hunch. “Atsumu.”

He turns the tap. Water rushes down in a stream, pattering when it meets the metal surface of the basin.

“You hate doing the dishes, let me do it.”

“I can’t–“

“I can do it. Let me do it.”

“You won’t do it right.”

“Then let me try .”

Kiyoomi watches as he does, with a hawk’s eye as Atsumu plugs the sink and lets the water run, slipping on the thick rubber gloves and carting his fingers through the water, twirling them so foam is forming. He looks nervous, unsure, his eyes seeming to snap to the side every so often as if to check that Kiyoomi is still watching him.

Atsumu used to be sloppy whenever he did the dishes. Less because he didn’t know to be thoroughly committed to the task, but because he didn’t care enough to be.

But now. Atsumu cleans, and he’s careful about it, his eyes too big, his hands too slow, but he’s careful, uses too much soap, rubs too many circles into the plates with the sponge, but he’s careful . He tilts the ceramic until the light reflects off of them, squints so he can see remaining particles, dunks it again if he spots any. Washes lingering foam off with cold water in the other sink, settles them in Kiyoomi’s waiting hands.

Kiyoomi dries them off.

The tea towel is rough on his skin but comfortably so, eases the heat and slippery texture of the wet plates, becomes a tool of his work. He likes this so much better than submerging his hands into dirty, soapy water to the elbows and praying that none of it splashes onto him. One last swipe, and it’s dry. Clink. A stack of plates is already standing there.

They’re quiet as they do the dishes side by side. Their silent understanding is accompanied by the occasional gurgling of the water, clanging of silverware, quiet huffs of breath. The rustle of their clothes where their bodies brush.

The plates are firm and warm in Kiyoomi’s hand, and they’re dry.

A faint smile is lodged in the corners of  Atsumu’s mouth as he turns once more, swiping soapy suds off a knife with his glove before he hands it over to Kiyoomi carefully, handle extended. Kiyoomi takes it.

Atsumu has started humming a quiet melody under his breath. A gentle drone. Soft company of their unhurried movements.

He doesn’t want to do the dishes alone ever again, Kiyoomi realizes.

And that’s it.

The ice cracks.

Kiyoomi is reeling for breath.

Suddenly, he knows what he’s been longing for. This is what he wants, this is what he yearns for, and this is what he can’t have.

Doing the dishes side by side.

Allowing yourself to come closer, offering understanding and compassion and support without question or hesitation.

It hurts, it hurts .

To have everything you could ever want be dangled in front of your eyes, right here and yet out of reach.

His hands cramp.

The knife that he’s been holding glides smoothly through his skin, slides along his thumb, cuts a clean mark, and red drips onto a white tea towel.

The burn stings.

He barely processes what happens next. He lets out a soft, surprised breath, stretches out his hand, not even knowing what for, and Atsumu calmly turns his head in question, his eyes widening in shock when he realizes what he’s seeing. “Omi, yer bleedin’? Yer bleedin!”

He’s at his side with one long stride, nothing but panicked concern shining on his face.

“Shit,” he breathes, “don’t touch it! I’ll get the … the disinfectant, we’re alright, yer gonna be alright. Don’t worry, just breathe, this isn’t like last time, okay? It’s just a scratch and we’re here, nothin’s gonna happen to ya, shit, I’m sorry, we’ll get a band-aid and I’ll bandage ya up, okay, and yer gonna be as good as new, alright?”

His left hand grips Kiyoomi’s tightly as his other one knocks into the cupboard and yanks it open, blindly searching for the emergency kit. Firm hands softly press him down onto a kitchen chair.

Kiyoomi looks up at him. Atsumu’s hands are warm and a bit sweaty, his voice is high with concern, cheeks red and eyes shining with agitation as he fusses over him, the small spray bottle of disinfectant trembling in his hands as he gently grabs at Kiyoomi’s pulsing finger, turning it over so he can properly see the laceration.

Spritz. Dense white foam turns pink. Atsumu wipes it off with a piece of tissue. “They got plasters in here too, d’ya want a white one or one with birds on ‘em? Why’d they have band-aids with birds?”

It easily latches around his finger, and Atsumu’s thumb rubs over it to smooth it down. It clings to his finger a bit too tightly. Red quickly stains white. Bleeds into a half-unfolded sparrow’s wing.

“Are ya alright?” Atsumu whispers up at him. “Does it hurt?”

Does it hurt?

His finger is numb at this point, he only knows that he’s bleeding because a red dot is seeping into the pristine white of the plaster; his finger is numb but everything else isn’t.

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, and Atsumu looks at him still in concern. “Kiyoomi?” He bends down and presses a chaste kiss to the tip of his finger. His lips scratch against white.

Maybe Kiyoomi shouldn’t be thinking about this right now, maybe he shouldn’t ever think about anything as foolish as hope , maybe he should think about a letter and a number of scribbly drawings on their fridge instead. Maybe he should.

But could he hope? Could he be allowed to?

Atsumu’s eyes are big, and there’s something soft in them as he looks at him. Something soft with a hint of melancholy, a bit of longing. Something vulnerable.

And with startling clarity, Kiyoomi realizes that he has to end this.

He’s hoping.

They used to return to each other like baby falcons to pieces of meat set out on a small plate in winter, greedy and presumptuous and thinking of nothing else until they found it. Clawing and wrenching and devouring in their want and need.

This time around, something was different. The desire was more muted; gentler in its cruelty.

Not directed onto something immediate and present but faraway and undefined – and so much more dangerous because of it. Has it really taken him this long to notice it? It’s festered in the meantime, matured, rotted like foul grapes. The smell is sweet-sour.

Kiyoomi’s hands are warm, his finger is stinging, his heart is beating, and he wants to fall in love with Atsumu.

His breaths rattle through his chest. Atsumu is looking at him with his big, beautiful eyes.

Kiyoomi wants to cry.

Instead, he holds up his trembling finger. “I said…” His voice cracks, and he tries again. “I told you not to take care of me if you didn’t want me to fall in love with you again.”

He still remembers when he told him that, remembers it as if it’d been yesterday.

He’d laughed as he had said it, breathless with the evening, the presence of Atsumu, the rapture that he felt on this small uncomfortable couch of theirs – “You shouldn’t take care of me if you don’t want me to fall in love with you.”

And he remembers what Atsumu had answered.

“Well shit,” he’d said, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth too, “takin’ care of ya? That won’t happen, cause if I’m doin’ that, I’ll already be in love with ya.”

The plaster has little birds on it, and it’s snug around Kiyoomi’s finger, and Atsumu has pressed a kiss onto it.

“I told you that,” Kiyoomi repeats, voice feeble.

The smile on Atsumu's face has vanished, he’s gone pale grey. Something in his eyes – cracks.

Kiyoomi still wants to kiss him. He wants to take his face in his hands and tell him that everything will be fine, just fine, and he wants to kiss the tip of his nose and hold him until he isn’t shaking anymore.

He won’t.

Because this is the end, isn’t it? This is the end of everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s ever had.

This is it.

He abruptly stands. “I want to go home.”

Home.

He wants to cry.

///

The car ride is quiet. Night has fallen, shrouding the street into a kind of nebulous darkness that only gets interrupted by the periodic wandering of dim yellow street lights.

Maybe Atsumu drives more slowly than usual. Maybe he takes his time to shift into first gear again, to release the clutch, step on the gas. Move forward.

Maybe he hesitates to let go of this moment hung up in thin air, of this pouch in time that they’ve crafted for themselves.

Because he knows that he’ll have to unlock the door and step through it and look at the truth on his fridge – shatter the delusion that he himself has designed: the lie that he’ll ever be able to stay away from Kiyoomi.

That he could taste him without devouring all of him.

He doesn’t want to stop seeing him, stop laughing with him, living with him, doesn’t want to – and that’s exactly why he needs to.

His fingers clamp down around the steering wheel. They’re approaching a green light, and internally he begs that it turns red. That he’s allowed to stop, allowed to linger, allowed not to come home and face the truth.

The lights stay green and he keeps driving.

Night passes them, lights and shadows, traces of quiet life, all of it a blur beyond their little enclosed space. The air is too thin; Atsumu can barely breathe.

The silence bends and bloats and stretches between them.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi abruptly says, and Atsumu can barely keep himself from jolting.

“Yeah?” he croaks out.

“Let’s stop for milk on the way. We ran out this morning.”

Atsumu knows they didn’t, because just this morning Kiyoomi had opened up a new carton of it so he could foam some for Atsumu’s coffee.

They’re not out of milk.

Atsumu lays his head back against the headrest and tries not to cry at the invitation that he’s just been offered.

A late-night grocery run.

One last moment. One last scene before the curtain falls.

///

When Kiyoomi pushes the door open, he knows that it’s the last time it’ll feel like this.

With Atsumu’s warm hand wrapped around his own, his heat right behind him. Kiyoomi takes a shaky breath. What a privilege to be here with Atsumu, to have been allowed to spend time around him, his life with him.

And Kiyoomi closes his eyes, and he lets himself indulge. One last time, one grandiose last time.

“Right,” Atsumu says. “Milk.” He huffs out a soft chuckle. “Soy or oat? Oooh, the apple yogurt that ya like is on sale!”

Kiyoomi loves the tone of his voice, the rough indulations, smug teasiness, soft drawl. He could listen to it forever, have it lull him into sleep, wake him up. How has he never realized he’s feeling like this?

“Do ya think,” Atsumu starts, “that the cat really will shit on the floor or something?”

The refrigerators hum.

Something clicks back into place.

Atsumu is weighing a packet of chips in his hands, considering. “I just love the mental image of Suna cleanin’ it up with some glove or napkin with their fingers all pointy and wrinklin’ their little nose all iffy.”

“Shit on the floor? Oh, she definitely will, if she’s Suna and Komori’s lovechild. Not because she doesn’t know better but because she’ll inevitably decide to be a shit-stirring bitch.” Kiyoomi turns and promptly groans, snatching the crinkly bag out of Atsumu’s hands. “ Milk ,” he sternly says, and accentuates it with a firm stare as he shoves it back onto the shelf, “we’re only getting milk.”

“But it says that it’s a new flavor!” Atsumu whines. “Extra burst on the tongue!”

“Child.”

“Killjoy.”

“Toddler.”

“Look, it’s pickles and garlic flavored! Ya love pickles and garlic!”

Kiyoomi sighs in fake exasperation. Inside his chest, the hollow creaks.

Everything he’s ever wanted, and everything he’ll never have.

But he doesn’t think about the hollow, doesn’t think about the emptiness waiting behind it, he clings to the feeling of his heart beating out of his throat, the euphoric rapture that’s making his fingers tremble.

Bashira is in a state between shock and thrill when they come up to the register and plop a carton of oat milk, two electrolyte drinks and two bags of chips down on the counter. “God,” she gasps, pushing up her glasses, “I haven’t seen you two in so long!” Her braces glint in the fluorescent lights as she smiles brightly. “How are you!”

Exhilarated. Terrible. Wonderful. Crushed. I want him to buy me pickles flavored chips forever.

Atsumu laughs, bracing himself on the counter. “Pretty good, sweetie,” he teases, and throws her a wink. The high-school girl promptly turns red.

Kiyoomi whacks him on the head and rolls his eyes, hard. “Good evening, Bashira-san, I hope you’re well. What’s going on with you, how are you?”

“My boyfriend broke up with me and my best friend cut my bangs and they came out, like, so bad and I cried for two days, but you … I…” she stammers. Her eyes are blown wide open, still processing as she’s struggling for the right words. “What … hello?”

Hello , Kiyoomi thinks, I can’t bear the thought of not seeing his face in the morning.

“Ah, yes,” he instead says. He blinks. “Bangs are not for everyone.”

“Oh my god, don’t say that ,” Atsumu hisses at his side and hits him on the arm. “Ya look so good, Shira-kun!” he quickly yells, “really good!”

“Do I?” She brightens and paws at the strands. “It gets oily so quickly, and I have to use the straightener but sometimes the curling iron. It takes me sooo long to get ready in the mornings,” she whines.

“Tell that to him,” Kiyoomi drily comments, “he takes half an hour in the shower each morning because he has about five products that he all needs to massage in and let soak.” He leans closer conspiratorially. “You know what the worst is? He likes to sing .”

“Bastard,” Atsumu whines, and knocks his hip into his. “Just cause ya don’t hafta use much more than that little gel thingy that ya scrunch into yer hair when it’s still damp cause yer an idiot with stupid pretty curly hair that doesn’t need much attention and care!”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him and turns up his nose. “It’s the curly girl method, look it up. Also, how am I supposed to invest attention and care into anything when I have you who’s hogging all of that already?”

“Oh.”

Atsumu and Kiyoomi whirl around; they’d forgotten about Bashira entirely.

Her mouth stands open a bit before it turns into a tiny smile on her own. “So I’m guessing that Atsumu won’t come in anymore at two in the morning reeking of alcohol, and stare at the frozen octopus for ten minutes?”

Atsumu turns red faster than a traffic light. “No,” he weakly whines. “And that was only one time! Say somethin’ embarrassin’ about him too, so it cancels out!”

“Hm,” she ponders as she starts scanning their items. Beep . “There was that one week where Kiyoomi came in every single day with red-rimmed eyes and only bought instant soup?” Beep . “And not even the good brand?”

“God,” Atsumu winces, “that is really sad, Omi.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, and then brightens. “Shira-kun, I have a question for you. Which one of us do you like better? Me, right?”

Atsumu gasps next to him. “Excuse you . Motherfucker! Now she’ll hafta say yes!”

Beep .

“No I don’t,” Bashira replies, entirely nonplussed, “if I’m, like, really honest, I preferred your friend Suna when they came in with you, they gave me great tips on what kind of jewelry worked well with my eyes.”

Atsumu and Kiyoomi groan in painful unison. “Not them! ” they both exclaim.

They promptly start laughing.

Kiyoomi feels high on this moment – like it could last forever and the two of them together within it. And he doesn’t know what makes him do it, has no clue, but he’s compelled to, he – takes a packet of fizzy gummy worms off the little rack next to the counter and places it next to their purchases. “Add that one too.”

Atsumu furrows his brows at the crinkly bag. “But you don’t like– oh. ” His face smooths into something softer, something so much more tender as his lips slacken.

Kiyoomi furiously blushes, and he’s already making a move to snatch the gummy worms off the counter again, but Atsumu wraps a hand around his wrist to prevent him from doing exactly that, laughing breathlessly as he bites his lip and looks up Kiyoomi, red tinging his own cheeks. “No,” he quietly says, “we’ll take it.”

“God!” Shira bursts out, a giant smile stretching across her face, “I’m so glad you’re back together again!”

They whip around. Freeze.

“Oh, that’s not–”

“We’re not–”

They both break off.

Atsumu doesn’t know what his face looks like, but knows that his heart drops into his stomach, a heavy, plunging weight. The ground wavers beneath him.

Kiyoomi isn’t looking at him, but his entire figure has hunched, shoulders drawn up as his entire body stills.

Somewhere next to them, the refrigerators continue to hum and whirr.

The silence between them is cold.

Shira’s eyes have gone wide, her lower lip trembling as she struggles to form words.

Finally, it’s Kiyoomi who talks, stilted and almost mechanically. “We’re not together,” he gets out.

“We’re not,” Atsumu confirms, his own voice as tight as Kiyoomi’s. “We aren’t … no.” He gulps. “No, we’re not in love. Or together. Or anything like that.”

The reminder is a slap in the face, and he feels it burning. For a moment – for a moment, he’d allowed himself to forget and to indulge, to think that this could be his life, could’ve been his life, that he could’ve had this and so much more with Atsumu. But this? It’s not real This is not what they’re supposed to do, not what they’re able to do. They’re only fooling themselves.

Fooling the other, too.

“Oh,” Shira weakly exhales. “I– I’m sorry, I didn’t want to assume, you both just looked so…” She trials off, not even knowing what to say.

The two men in front of her watch her in rapt attention, but she doesn’t continue, doesn’t know or dare to say anything.

“What did we look like?” Kiyoomi says with a small voice, silently but relentlessly.

“You just looked like you cared about each other,” Shira whispers.

“We don’t,” Atsumu automatically says, desperate and emphatically.

“We don’t?”

Next to Kiyoomi, Atsumu stiffens.

The store is dead silent.

Kiyoomi’s jaw is clenched. “We don’t?” he repeats, head swiveling around only to find Atsumu’s gaze locked onto him already.

Not love, he thinks, he didn’t expect love, or want it, even. But caring about the other . He thought he could have at least that. He thought they were friends. He thought he could have that.

“I thought we didn’t,” Atsumu says, something tentative in his tone. “We were … no, we … we don’t, right?”

Kiyoomi’s lips pull into a tight line. “We don’t,” he repeats, his own voice sounding strange to him, “no, of course we don’t, why would we.” He clenches his teeth to keep his lips from trembling. “You’re you, and I’m me, and we… no, there’s nothing between us at all.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu ejects, and barks out a laugh. “Why would anyone even think that?” He looks back at Shira, cracking a smile that is as wide as it is fake. “Sorry,” he trills, “but I’d hate to get back together with him.” When Shira doesn’t respond, just continues to look at him with wide eyes, his grin cracks. “It would be a disaster,” he still says, “I mean, just imagine. Hah! Look at him!”

Kiyoomi straightens to his full height. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps.

He’s tumbling, he’s falling, he’s swept into a maelstrom of eerie familiarity, and his hands don’t find hold.

“Oh nothing,” Atsumu immediately says, “just … you know .” He takes a deep breath. “Ye’re prickly and peculiar about what ya want and yer always annoyed at me. Couldn’t stand bein’ with me at all. Yer … Sakusa.”

The sound of his last name is a slap to his face. Kiyoomi reels back, shoulders hunching in on themselves. “What does that mean? ” he enunciates. “That you’re Miya? Immature and insecure and–”

“See,” Atsumu says, whirling around to Bashira as he laughs. “See! Why would we ever work out? It was a disaster bein’ together with him, why’d I even want that?”

Kiyoomi should step back and take a deep breath and remove himself from the situation until he can see anything but the pulsing red rage, he tells himself it’s rage, that’s closing in on his field of vision, but he doesn’t want to, so he curls his lip. “Yeah,” he snaps. “Why would I want a life with him? We both deserve more than that.” He chokes up. “How could I even …”

“... love him.”

The sound of Atsumu’s voice rings out in the total silence of the store.

They’re all quiet as Shira rings up the last item with trembling hands, avoiding to look at their faces as she mumbles the charge. Atsumu pulls out a few crinkly notes and throws them onto the counter. “You can keep the rest,” he rasps. “Buy yerself somethin’ nice. Go to the hair salon. I don’t … I don’t know.”

Kiyoomi is already on the way out, fingers clutching their items so hard that his knuckles go white, probably squashing their chips. The line of his mouth hardens. Pickles flavored. He loves pickles.

“Goodbye,” he calls over his shoulder.

The squeak of Atsumu’s sneakers on the tiles is the only sound beside the constant hum of the refrigerators. Kiyoomi pushes against the handle of the door and closes his eyes against the rush of cold night air on his face.

The sound of the bell jingling doesn’t manage to cut through the thick tension between them.

The door slams shut behind the both of them, glass rattling in the frame, and Atsumu stops to a halt on the sidewalk. Kiyoomi walks a few steps further, but doesn’t turn around.

“You don’t care about me, huh?” Kiyoomi calls out, voice loud and clear across the deserted street.

Atsumu doesn’t answer.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

They claw each other’s clothes off in the genkan.

Atsumu drags and pulls at his shirt as Kiyoomi fumbles with the button on his pants, he grinds down on him and rubs him through his jeans, pressing closer, closer, closer until they’ve become a pile of tension and heat and rushed breaths.

For once, they don’t laugh, they don’t bicker, they don’t fight, they just pant into each other’s mouths as they desperately try to reach for something that’s out of reach.

Kiyoomi rips his head away from their furious kiss, a thread of spit still connecting them. “Go wash– fuck,” he mutters, “go wash your filthy hands.”

I want them on me, for now and ever.

Atsumu comes back with damp fingers and a bottle of lube.

Kiyoomi winds himself into Atsumu’s arms, then out of them, and Atsumu yanks him back in, crowds him into the kitchen and against the counter, then the fridge, barely avoiding a collision with the cupboard, not even knowing where they’re going, just desperately pushing and pushing and pushing and – Kiyoomi’s hip hits the dining table.

The world is spinning around him. The familiarity of the scene that’s playing out right in front of him throws him back into the past – oh, the past, the past, the past. The edge of a table, a hand that’s gripping it too tightly – his composure falling apart entirely.

If Kiyoomi closed his eyes, could he stop thinking about it?

He tries. He closes his eyes – but when he does, rough lips settle on his.

He can’t help but yield, opens up to the assault of a tongue, pushes back, pushes forward, reaches out to grab at a crumpled shirt, a body that’s dancing in and out of view, and Atsumu digs his fingers into a trim waist.

“What do you want?” Atsumu rasps, and knows the answer already.

“Fuck me.”

“I can do that.”

He does. H, he slides a hand up Kiyoomi's thigh and hikes his leg around his hip, Atsumu’s other hand grabbing at the waistband of Kiyoomi’s white boxers and wrinkling thin white fabric before gripping what’s straining beneath it.

That’s easier than sobbing with the desperate demand for Kiyoomi to come back to him, the desperate demand to hold him for just a little longer.

Ending it … they are ending it.

This is what they wanted to do, this is what they needed to do – but then why does it hurt so much?

Kiyoomi looks up, eyes black with a glazed fever as his hands claw at the hard surface of the table, scrambling for hold that he doesn’t find. “I want you to fuck me,” he spits, “until I can’t think. Until I can’t be angry at you anymore. That’s all I want from you.”

He’s holding Atsumu’s heart in his hands, that odd, vulnerable little thing, and he’s digging his fingers in until vivid red seeps out.

“What I want,” Atsumu snarls, “is that ya stop talkin’. Will ya do that or do I have to shut ya up myself?”

He was wrong, his heart has always been his own. It was himself who reached into the cavity of his own chest and rummaged around until he found life, until he found something worth looking at. He’d taken it out and offered it once already; he should’ve known that Kiyoomi wouldn’t want it the second time either.

Kiyoomi opens his mouth again, so Atsumu surges forward and closes it with his own. Kiyoomi falls back against wood and pulls Atsumu on top of him, his fingers digging sharply into his shoulder muscles as he struggles for breath.

They don’t make a show of getting naked, they strip themselves bare with the desperation of drowning men.

Atsumu drags his shirt off while Kiyoomi fumbles with his own, fingers trembling around the last one button until he yanks. A button clatters to the floor unsettlingly loud and the shirt flutters after it.

Slices of moonlight seep in through the window, illuminate a chest that’s glowing almost white in its paleness, shed light onto long fingers that fumble and scratch at revealed skin, shine a spotlight onto the frantic dance of frantic bodies. Light that is swallowed whole by the black expanse of dilated pupils.

“I don’t care about you,” Atsumu whispers against his lips, struggling to undo his belt, “I don’t know why I haven’t left yet.”

But he does know, doesn’t he? Because he knows he’ll never be able to replace the soft stuttering whine that Kiyoomi lets out when Atsumu closes his hand around his neck. He’ll never be able to forget his fluttering eyelashes, the way that a pink blush dusts delicately across pale cheeks, travels down to his neck and chest, and stops just short of dark nipples. He’ll never be able to not think about how Kiyoomi is so pliant despite all he’s putting up, how he only needs someone to understand him, someone willing to stay with him.

Atsumu will never be that person, because Kiyoomi doesn’t want him.

He licks down to his heaving chest, digs his teeth into skin, scratches over tender, engorged flesh in a desperate attempt to keep his lips from trembling. A sheen of sweat is coating Kiyoomi’s entirety – Atsumu’s eyes are moist too. Would Kiyoomi notice if Atsumu squashed his tears on heated skin?

He drops his pants; they pool around his ankles. He hasn’t had the time to take his shoes off.

By the time their bodies meet again, Kiyoomi is naked too. His knees knock into Atsumu’s when he shucks off his pants, grunting when the waistband catches on his heel. But Atsumu just pulls him in, wishes he was kicking against his shin instead of empty air. Wishes Kiyoomi gave him something to work with. Fire behind his eyes. An insult. A word of contempt and passion and something. But his mouth only opens to suck bruises into Atsumu’s neck.

Atsumu remembers that he told him to shut up.

They’re wound around each other in a perverse imitation of an embrace, they’re so close, chest to chest, hip to hip, sharing their erratic breath across their parted lips – and yet they couldn’t be further apart.

There’s a hollow in Atsumu’s chest that can’t be closed, one that’s so yawningly empty, so devouring in its greed. A hole of swirling black nothing that’s nauseating in its mercilessness.

“On your front,” he says, “I don’t want to see your face.”

He might just kiss it too softly.

Instead, he traces the arch of Kiyoomi’s back as he turns, scours the pattern of moles for meaning, convinces himself that he doesn’t want to press a kiss onto each of them. He pushes down a hand between his shoulder blades until Kiyoomi’s chest meets the surface of the table, the other hand grabbing at his thigh to spread him out like a meal to be feasted on.

Kiyoomi is writhing on the table. He’s straining to spread his legs but the waistband of his trousers doesn’t let him, cages him in, makes him keep them together. Atsumu pushes a rough hand between those flawless thighs, wishes he could mark them up the way he wants to, with soft kisses and laughter smothered into cool skin. He wishes he could grasp them gently, hold them apart as he takes him apart, he wishes–

He smooths a hand over his chest, his sweaty, clammy hand. Oh, how the flesh yields. His fingers still fit around his waist so snugly, still trace lines they’ve drawn before, they still reach out to grasp at something that has always been out of reach.

His fingers slide between his legs easily, find trembling flesh that’s ripe to take, that’s always his, that has always been his – he wants to laugh.

There’s nothing funny about this, absolutely nothing, and he wants to laugh.

A blunt, lubed up finger ghosts over Kiyoomi’s hole. He jolts with the wetness, a whine rising in his throat, but he chokes on it when Atsumu’s finger breaches him, driving into his heat without consideration. He clamps his thighs down around Atsumu’s wrist, but the man pries them apart, rips off his pants the rest of the way so he can spread him wider. It isn’t a gentle hand that grasps at his thigh, it isn’t a soft touch that makes the muscle beneath it twitch, it isn’t consideration that pulls Kiyoomi forward until his ass meets the edge of the table and shoves his thigh to the side so Atsumu can add another finger.

He’s tempted to push in, to see tears beading at the corner of Kiyoomi’s eye as he silently demands more with the harsh curl of his mouth – yet he hesitates. He knows he hasn’t been at it for long enough, knows that the stretch will hurt; and that’s when Kiyoomi looks up and behind himself. Sweat is beading at his brow, wetness glistening on his face, above it all a look of fury that pierces Atsumu to the core. Kiyoomi clamps his long bony fingers around a wrist that he’s so familiar with, and he grips and pulls until he doesn’t recognize it anymore in his harsh clasp. “Another one,” he hisses, “since when are you soft with me?”

Since when have I been? Atsumu asks himself. Since when had he allowed himself to weaken, to mellow out, to be vulnerable again, since when– a wet kind of pressure is waiting just beneath his eyelids, and he clamps them shut so it doesn’t spill. What kills him, what fucking kills him is that even though he doesn’t see, even though there’s no direction, only darkness waiting in front of his eyes, he still knows his way around Kiyoomi’s body. He knows the length of his hamstring, knows the touch of his inner thigh, the softness of the juncture where it meets his hip. He knows the weight of his sac, the tight stretch of his taint, knows how sensitive he is right at the base of his cock, knows that Atsumu made him once come just teasing light touches across it while three of his fingers were buried inside of him.

He wants to cry and he doesn’t. He isn’t soft, he isn’t gentle, he plunges two fingers in and rubs against his walls until he finds his prostate and assaults it ruthlessly. He brushes his fingertips over the swollen gland, crooks his fingers, holds them, massages pressure into it until Kiyoomi’s noises are hacked gasps, and he can’t look him in the face, so he adds another finger.

“I’m ready.”

Is he?

Atsumu still takes his cock, guides it where he needs it to go. The tip dragging over Kiyoomi’s skin leaves a trail of fire.

“And there I was sometimes, thinking you wanted more.”

“Well, obviously not.”

“Good that we don’t get any wrong ideas about this.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Atsumu pushes in.

If Kiyoomi is a hole, then he’s already swallowed him whole.

Atsumu fucks him ruthlessly, with long, hard thrusts that make both their bodies shake.

Filth.

Kiyoomi wants to wallow in it.

Wants to sink his hands in to the elbows, wants to wade through knee-deep mud, wants to lie in the brown of rotten leaves and go under together. He wants to retch, wants the stench, wants it clinging to him and seeping into his every crevice. He never wants to scrub it off again. He’s filth, he clings to him, he paints him a different color, why doesn’t he mind the cool dirt on his skin? It hides him as it seeps into his every bone, uncovers him from within as he becomes it. If he drops a bar of soap to the floor, does the soap get dirty or the floor clean?

Kiyoomi can just barely hold onto the edge, thrown around with the force behind Atsumu’s strokes. His pelvis meets Kiyoomi’s ass, skin smacking into skin as Atsumu pounds away ruthlessly. That’s all that’s left for him to do, because everything that he wants to do, he can’t.

This is wrong, this is so very wrong. Where Kiyoomi’s body had always been refuge, where his warmth had always been bliss, the noises he coaxes out of him sustenance – now Atsumu only feels like fleeing.

Broad hands land on his ass cheeks and spread them. Atsumu catches a glimpse of pink where he himself disappears.

“Fuck me harder!”

Hold me close and never let me go.

Atsumu wants to curl up into a little ball, he wants to beat his hands over his head and drag his palms down his face, squeeze his eyes shut and hunch his shoulders until they cover his ears. Instead, he tilts his hips so he can fuck deeper.

He wants to throw up. He desperately tries not to let his hands linger, to whisper traitorous things that are too sweet.

And yet Kiyoomi sees through him. Atsumu’s never been able to hide, has he?

His trembling hand wraps around Kiyoomi’s straining cock. It’s on an upstroke when Kiyoomi turns his head and looks back over his shoulder – finally looks him into the eyes.

And what he sees there makes him freeze.

Atsumu ignores Kiyoomi’s crest-fallen expression, the way the other man suddenly flinches, hands pushing against the table to raise himself. Atsumu just grabs at his hips and tries to push himself deeper, tries to bury his cock in a warm place.

Kiyoomi is shaking all over. 

“Why are we doing this?” he asks, distraught and frantic, “What the fuck, why are we doing this?”

“Because I don’t care about you,” Atsumu chokes out, “because I don’t love you.”

Liar liar liar, he wants to scream, you fucking liar!

Oh, how he cares.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi whispers, and the hacked sound is a punch to the gut.

He should be used to the name, should be used to that sound out of his mouth, but knows he never will be. A distance that he doesn’t want, a strained formality that has never existed, an insult to a shared history.

“What?” he coos, bile rising in his throat as the first tears spill, “you can take it, right?” He clenches his jaw as his hips take up a mechanical rhythm again. “You can take cock like a good boy.”

His words are wrong, they’re disgusting, they claw their way out of Atsumu’s throat and – once they’re out there, they do they worst they could do, they linger, cling to his skin and body and mind and Kiyoomi’s too, they hollow around the room like an echo of long-past emotions.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi repeats, tone sharp. “Your cock has gone soft.”

Their laboured breaths resound around the room. Kiyoomi has stilled entirely, tensed up on the table and beneath Atsumu touch as if waiting for … for what?

Atsumu’s eyes trace the ridges of his spine; watches them ripple beneath the surface. Moles dance across pale skin – blur in front of his eyes.

A hot tear drops onto the dip of Kiyoomi’s back. Rolls to the side.

“Oh,” Atsumu weakly exhales. “I guess it has.”

Atsumu watches the way the light plays with the trail of wetness.

All fire, all passion, all the thrill and arousal has vanished from his blood and left in its wake only a hollow exhaustion that pierces him to the bone.

His body buckles.

Before his front can meet Kiyoomi’s back, he staggers back, feet stumbling as his vision tilts and tints black. He’s still wearing his shoes, his pants, and they wind around his ankles in a stranglehold. He rushes to bend down and pull them up, his head spinning with the motion.

His fingers shake; he doesn’t manage to close the button, so he leaves it open. His chest seizes in silent sobs and he runs a hand over his face. Oh, the relief that Kiyoomi isn’t looking at him, is frozen on the table in his position from before; unmoving.

“I’m going,” Atsumu says.

Kiyoomi finally hoists himself up. He cranes his head around and scrambles to pull his knees towards his chest, suddenly looking so terribly naked and vulnerable; he shivers. Kiyoomi knows that his voice is dull and empty before it even comes out. 

“Going where?” he calls after him.

A terrible kind of creature is sitting at the pit of his stomach, eating away. The thicket in his chest makes it hard to breathe.

Atsumu stops just before the door, one hand curled around the handle.

They look at each other, and they know.

“I love you,” Atsumu rasps. The words claw at his mouth and throat.

He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

On the way out, he stops by the fridge. Rips the envelope open, takes a letter out. It crumples in his fist.

When Kiyoomi hears the front door slam shut, he slides to the floor, utterly boneless. He lets his head drop back against the table leg.

The pain in his chest is a numb one, a pulsing one. He won’t cry, he tells himself. He won’t.

He does.

The sobs are ugly and loud and they hurt him as they come up, a clump of wetness forcing itself through his body in convulsions. He slaps a hand in front of his mouth to smother them but doesn't succeed; his fingers are trembling, his hurt spilling between them freely. Kiyoomi wraps his arms around his shins and presses his face into his shaking knees. The hollow of his eye fits into the edge of the kneecap, unrelenting pressure to the tears welling up against his lashes.

The plaster on his finger has little birds on it. He rips it off and with it the scab. Fresh bright red trickles anew.

He’s sorry, too.

Chapter Text

And Atsumu sits in his old childhood bedroom and stares at the ceiling. It’s just how they left it, the bunk bed, the matching desks, the battered posters of gone volleyball stars. A tear in the wall next to the smiling picture of Masayoshi Manabe where Osamu had once swung his fist at him and Atsumu had ducked out of the way. Crack.

Atsumu’s head lolls to the side, his gaze sliding over the ceiling, the corner of the room where he thinks he can make out the thin white threads of a spider’s home. He remembers that closet, remembers that Suna had once brought a dirty magazine into school, that they’d shown him and his brother women with big tits and small shirts. He remembers one picture in particular, one on the page after the center spread. A western woman on her side in a pure white bathing suit, one knee up to her chest. The bulging of her cunt barely visible, water drops clinging to her skin, her arm, her leg, her hair. She’d had sunglasses on, huge ones that obscured half her face. He remembers heat shooting up into his cheeks and quickly turning his eyes away, feeling like he’d been watching something forbidden.

He remembers a second journal, and Suna had brought that one too, a boxing magazine of big men with bulky bodies and bulging muscles and sweat streaming down their necks and chests and legs and there was this one photo of this one guy in a secured foot stance, torso leaned backwards, shorts stretching against a pronounced swell in tight red shorts. A boxing glove was aimed right at his face and that strange mix of terror and resignation had shone in his eyes butand Atsumu had only stared at that fucking bulge. He remembers sitting with Suna and Osamu behind the drafters, and Atsumu thought he felt something twitch in his pants and he looked down and grabbed at his dick and he looked at the bulge and looked at his dick and the muscles and his dick and looked at his friends and his dick and said “Guys, I think I’m kinda gay.”

“Shit, I think so too.”

Osamu and Suna looked at each other after those same words had tumbled out of their mouths and they started laughing and Atsumu laughed too.

He remembers lying in here, lying awake, thinking about girls. He remembers reaching into his underwear and feeling his dick throb in his hand as he imagined boobs, untethered, a headless trim torso in space. He imagined grabbing them, digging his fingers around flesh until it spilled over. He remembers tugging at his dick, biting around the duvet so his sleeping brother wouldn’t wake up, he remembers pictures flashing in front of his eyes, a six-pack, thighs crouching down, a set of beautiful muscly shoulders that could’ve belonged to either man or woman. He remembers seeing Aran’s ass once in the locker room and dizzying heat rising into his head, he remembers not getting the picture out of his head, he remembers thinking about what he would’ve done had Aran turned around at that moment, if his cock had been bigger than his or not. He remembers sticky underwear and hasty breath and squeezing his eyes shut as cmon cmon cmon, as he spilled into his own fingers and searched around next to him for a tissue.

He turns on his side and stares at the wall. He stretches out a hand, feels over a streak of grey on white paint. Was that ... he doesn’t remember what it was. He remembers that he once tried nail polish because one of the girls that they were sitting at lunch with had brought some and Oomimi dared him to put it on and he did. It was the cheap kind, some bright blue, and when he’d climbed into bed that night and grazed the wall, it had rubbed off and left a smear, but that was the other mark right below the grey mark, what’s the grey mark? It looks a bit like a sheep.

ARE YOU IN LOVE YET?

He’d once drawn a sheep next to that sentence.

He clamps his eyes shut but he can’t help it, the tears are already spilling over, squeezing out beneath his eyelids hot and salty, wetness biting in his nose as his mouth parches and his throat constricts.

He cries in his old childhood bedroom, the weight of long gone years wracking his body in trembling sobs. He almost chokes on his own breath, nose suffocated, and he turns over, smears a trail of snot into the freshly washed pillow. He inhales the scent through the tears, and it’s so familiar that another bout of tears spills from him.

Why is he crying?

He doesn’t know, and he turns on his other side, stares at the railing. A fat tear rolls out of his eye and into the divot between eye and nose, rolls over the bridge, into his other eye. He blinks the intruding coldness away. Six notches are carved into the wood of the railing. One for each person he made out with while this was still his room. He closes his eyes again. He sniffles, the sound disgusting. He couldn’t care less.

He sometimes lay here squinting at a phone, an old one with a small display, typing on it with his tongue poking out as he carefully adjusted his too big thumbs so he didn’t hit too many letters at once, inwardly groaning when he had to backtrack. Kita sending out messages about volleyball practice, Suna sending a weird joke that Atsumu just had to laugh at because it was so bad, Osamu texting him from another room of the house instead of yelling at him. His girlfriend breaking up with him because he didn’t give her as much time as he did volleyball.

He snorts when he thinks about it, but then the smile falls off his face.

He ... remembers that he still has that phone. Tucked beneath his pillowcase, safely stowed away there. He pulls it out. It has a crack across the screen just like his phone now has, a long one along the entire ridge. He smooths over it with a finger, tries to turn it on – battery empty. Where’s his charger?

He looks at the ceiling while he waits, he looks and looks and looks until the white blends together into a giant maelstrom. He tries to turn his phone on, but only the battery percentage flashes. 4%. He keeps it plugged in as the software logo is displayed, as the animation stalls, as the home screen loads, part after part. He opens his notes app.

When he’d changed phones some years ago, he’d kept some notes in, couldn’t bear to get rid of them – and each time he came to visit his childhood home, he added to them. Less of a diary, more of a weird kind of documentation that he doesn’t know the purpose of. Nostalgia, maybe.

The top note is from just under a year ago, and it’s short.

Oh god, Atsumu. I love you so much, do you know that?

And he knows that he didn’t write this one himself, knows exactly who’d written this one. In fact, he remembers sitting next to him on this very bed, cuddled together as both their too long legs had hung over the bump of the railing. Just as Atsumu’s, his fingers had been too big and long for the screen, he’d had to backtrack at any third word too because he was someone who cared about typos, someone who–

Atsumu scrolls down. Down down down to the very bottom, down to the one note that he’d written all those years ago.

i kissed a boy today??!
          December 07 ^th 2012

Atsumu closes his eyes.

Goosebumps crawl up his neck as something seizes in his chest, something ugly and vicious and relentless, and he wants to cry again.

He’d seen Sakusa around before, tall and gloomy, with black hair and sharp eyes and a jacket that seemed too bright for him. They hadn’t ever really talked, both belonging to different circles that never mingled all that much and besides, Sakusa was somewhat withdrawn during all of training camp. Which was why Atsumu had been surprised to look up from the back of the bus seat in front of him and find a pinched face looming above him.

“Can I?” Sakusa’s voice was different from what Atsumu had thought it would be; beneath the gruffness, something melodic lied. Atsumu was just staring for a few seconds before taking in the meaning of the words and that Sakusa was pointing to the free seat next to him. Atsumu jolted. “Oh! Um, yeah. Sure, yeah.”

It was mostly the surprise that had rendered him unable to dish out a comeback, and maybe a bit his stolen breath at how pretty that even pale face was, even just the part that was visible above his mask. Brows creased, dark eyes glinting as the boy next to him dropped down, back rigid, posture straight, gaze undiscerning.

“Miya Atsumu,” he finally drawled because he didn’t have anything better to say, “but ya probably know that already.”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu finally teased with a lilt to his voice, because he didn’t know what else to do, “anyone ever call ya that?”

At that, a heavy gaze landed on him. Atsumu bristled under the scrutiny. “No.”

“Do ya want me to call ya that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Yer fun company,” Atsumu said, and crossed his hands in front of his chest, stopping his foot from tapping on the floor. “Why are ya back here? We’ve never talked.”

Kiyoomi perked up a bit. "You’re a loser."

Atsumu’s brain halted. "I'm a fuckin' what?"

Sakusa had raised his chin in defiance, but his cheeks were still tinged pink. “When Eikichi was distributing chewing gum earlier, I noticed that you were asking from the back if you could get some too but he didn’t hear you and so you just slumped back in your seat with your top lip wobbling.” He dug into his backpack and got out a crinkly packet with pink and green swirls and a bright red font, holding it up before Atsumu. “Do you want my gummy worms?”

“Why do ya wanna give them to me?”

“I don’t want them.”

“Why do ya have ‘em?”

The package crinkled between his fingers. “I went to the store with the other group and I didn’t want to buy anything so I didn’t take anything but then at the cashier I felt stupid and I grabbed them.”

Atsumu snorted. "Hah. So yer a loser too.”

Sakusa pinched his lips into a tight frown. “Do you want the gummy worms or not?” he snapped.

And Atsumu said, “Yeah. Yeah, I really want ‘em.”

Their fingers didn’t touch when Sakusa handed it over, and Atsumu didn’t know if Sakusa wrinkled his nose when he ripped open the packet and scattered sugary salt all over his lap but he assumed it, and then Atsumu didn’t look at him and his face anymore but at the bag of gummy worms and – “Oh.” He blinked. “Wait, my hands are all sweaty and sticky an’ gross, I don’t know if I can eat ‘em like this.”

Sakusa looked at him for a second too long.

And then Sakusa squeezed hand sanitizer into his open palms and then Atsumu pinched a worm between thumb and index finger and dangled the green and red thing into his mouth and munched. “ ‘s good,” he got out and grabbed another one, yellow and blue, the plastic of the bag crinkling at his knuckles. “Want one?”

“I don’t think I’ll like the taste,” Sakusa said. He still took one.

And Atsumu watched him take off the mask, watched him hook a careful finger behind an ear loop, then the other, watched as pursed lips came to light, and Atsumu’s breath hitched at how pretty Sakusa was even in the shitty dim lights like some kind of god of stars with pale skin and rosy cheeks and a pouty mouth that – sighed open as he gently put a gummy worm into it. His fingertips slipped in with it, dipped between soft pink lips into a dark warmth. Came out slick and sugary-sticky.

And Atsumu gulped. “Wanna make out?” he blurted out.

He immediately froze, ducked his head, and hoped to recede in shame – but Sakusa didn’t laugh, didn’t scream, didn’t do anything, for that matter. But he took Atsumu’s sweaty, sticky, gross hand in his sweaty, sticky, gross hand. And he kissed him.

The first slide of their lips together was awkward and unused and new, and in the back of his mind Atsumu knew that this was Sakusa’s first kiss as well, but he didn’t have time to think much because the wet tip of a tongue was nudging at his lips, and it was mostly surprise that prompted him to part his own, and oh, all of a sudden they were making out. They weren’t very good at it, but they were sure doing it.

Atsumu didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he landed one on Sakusa’s thigh and the other one on his arm, and Sakusa probably didn’t know what to do with his either, so he clamped them together in his lap like some nun holding a rosary, and Atsumu laughed.

Sakusa’s teeth grazed Atsumu’s bottom lip as he pulled off, cheeks burning, his gaze a bit wild. “What?” he snapped, “Are you laughing at me? I swear, if you’re laughing at me, I will–“

“I’m not!” Atsumu had whispered, eyes wide, letting go of Sakusa. “I’m not,” he repeated, quieter.

And then they sat there and avoided each other’s eyes and blushed a bit more and … “Do ya want another gummy worm?”

He did. By the time the bus pulled into the driveway, the bag was empty, and Atsumu angled it up in the air and tilted his head back and let the leftover sugar and salt trickle into his mouth. He scrunched up his face at the taste. When he opened his eyes, he discovered that Sakusa’s were boring into his.

A small wrinkle had appeared right between his eyebrows, and Atsumu didn’t quite know if it was from irritation or confusion or disgust; Sakusa had put his mask back on. “I’ll see you around,” he offered before descending down the steps of the bus.

And they did see each other around. Atsumu, present-day Atsumu, he stares down at a cracked and too bright phone screen – and tries to make sense of the blurred letters staring up at him and the numbness threatening to swallow him whole.

he so pretty wtf                                                                December 07 ^th 2012

i mean hes kind of a bitch but he so pretty                      December 07 ^th 2012

He gulps down the clump of wetness in his throat and scrolls further up.

yo fuck interhigh but also goddamn
          January 06 ^th 2013

weird dude?? i like his face when he’s all insulted
          January 06 ^th 2013

Atsumu hadn’t cried on the court. While he’s over-emotional and absolutely shameless and not scared of attention ever, he also hates it when he doesn’t get what he wants. So he went off after the whistle, found the most secluded bathroom in the building, entered it, zipped up his pants in front of the last urinal, got his dick out and started sobbing.

He’s an ugly crier, and if he hadn’t been wailing and bawling and hiccupping like a kid who’d scraped their knee, he might’ve noticed the other person in the room earlier.

Sakusa came to a stand next to him, right in front of the only other urinal in the room, and turned his head. Didn’t even pull down his zipper or nothing, just stared down at Atsumu, who wiped over his nose with the back of a hand and sneered. “What? Gonna watch me cry? See how pathetic I am?”

And then he realized that Sakusa wasn’t even watching him, he was looking down at his dick that was still hanging out of his pants. And it’s an embarrassing thing to be caught with your dick out, really, and Atsumu didn’t like it one bit and kind of felt like shriveling up and hiding, but another thing about Atsumu – he’s cantankerous and so very defiant, so he straightened. “What’cha looking at it for?” And he sniveled, widened his stance, and gripped it at the base. “You wanna suck it? Wanna slap it? Punch it?”

He waved it around, as teenage boys do.

Sakusa only looked at him strangely. “No,” he finally said. “No, I don’t.”

“Then what are ya doin’ here?” Atsumu must’ve looked miserable, cheeks red and tear-streaked, the hurt from the lost match still obvious in his face, but Sakusa probably hadn’t noticed, since he was still staring at his dick. Atsumu exhaled. “Seriously, how long are ya gonna look at it?”

Sakusa jolted, jerking his face around and facing the wall with burning cheeks as if he had only realized what he’d been doing just now. “As long as it takes for you to stop crying.”

“Gonna say that it doesn’t suit me? That I ain’t the cryin’ type? Should pull myself together?”

Sakusa pursed his lips. “No, it does suit you,” he said, “you seem like a person who cries a lot. But I need to use this bathroom, and I’ll only be doing that once you’ve left. So please stop crying.”

And Atsumu did, out of sheer surprise. “Yer a bit of an asshole,” he blurted out, “anyone ever tell ya that?”

“All the time. Are you done?”

“Insultin’ ya?”

“Crying.”

He was, Atsumu realized. Tears were still drying on his cheeks, but the clump in his throat was gone, and all of a sudden, he felt more like himself and the asshole he was again. He leered, for the one and only reason of annoying Sakusa. “Ya know what, I think I know why yer so eager ta get me outta here. Probably wanna cry too. Ya lost in the third set against Morikawa, that’s fuckin’ embarrassin’.”

Though not quite as embarrassing as fucking up all three of the serves he went up for, one awkwardly floundering out of bounds, another going in the net, the last one not even being hit because Atsumu swung his arm and missed, and oh, the clump in his throat was back.

Sakusa looked at him with something like pity and something wet clinging to his lower lashline too, and Atsumu’s voice was choked when he talked. “Want me ta kiss it better?”

He was crying again by the time their lips detached with a wet smack, and would’ve been embarrassed had Kiyoomi not been crying too. They avoided looking at each other’s red rimmed eyes, shuffling on their feet as they suddenly were both too far and not enough apart.

And Atsumu had opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say, and closed it again, and – “Miya, your dick is still hanging out.” And after a tiny pause: “Is the tip supposed to be that color?”

Atsumu’s upper lip started wobbling. “Fuck you, dude. Why don’t ya show me yours if it’s so much better?”

It was pale, slimmer and longer, and Atsumu tilted his head as he looked at it. “Looks fine ta me.”

Kiyoomi tucked it away. “Yours looks fine too.” And, as if an afterthought, he added: “You stopped crying.”

“You too.”

Atsumu blinks and he’s back in the present.

not a virgin anymore!!!! holy shit
          December 2 ^nd 2013

does it count if he didnt touch my dick and i just came in my pants??
          December 2nd 2013

Heat rises into Atsumu’s head when he just thinks about it.

He’d never considered himself a fast learner, but he discovered that learning was fun if it was about kissing and if it involved a beautiful if a bit standoffish boy who seemed just as enthusiastic about the whole ordeal as he was. Atsumu hadn’t kissed anyone else since that first time, but as he and Kiyoomi were crowded in a corner, he realized how much he’d missed it. Maybe not even it, maybe him, maybe the way Kiyoomi’s expression became just a bit feral when Atsumu looked up at him with wide eyes, he was so tall, and maybe Atsumu liked it a bit too much when the other boy tugged at his hair a bit too sharply as he tried to angle his head for better access. Whatever it was, it made him dizzy, and hot, and made him let out little moans and keens that made him want to cover his face in embarrassment hours later, but that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part, and the best part, was probably how Kiyoomi was pressed up tight against him, all gangly and hard and bony and so demanding, so greedy with his mouth, how Atsumu gasped when he felt something hard grow against him, and reached down with a hand to hesitantly feel over it. And Kiyoomi recoiled like a hurt animal, pulled back so quickly with something like confusion and terror in his mind, but Atsumu had just laughed again and went after him, thrown his arms around his shoulders and slotted their lips back together.

And maybe their kiss had grown a bit too messy because Atsumu was more focused on rutting his hips up against Kiyoomi and maybe there was too much tongue and spit involved and his lips weren’t moving that skillfully anymore because it just felt so good to grind down and feel him against himself. It sent tingles up his spine, and he might’ve whimpered against Kiyoomi’s teeth and the other boy wouldn’t have noticed, because he was panting too.

At some point, hands got involved, hands over clothes, searching and rubbing and finding, and Atsumu should’ve been really embarrassed that he was coming in his pants but somehow, he didn’t find the energy to care, not when it felt so good.

Kiyoomi followed after; Atsumu coaxed a climax out of him with nipping teeth and a roll of his palm and a firm grasp around his waist, and for a moment, all he could do was stare. Stare as Kiyoomi threw his head back, curls bouncing, blush tinging his cheeks almost the same color as his bitten lips. Time felt frozen for a moment, frozen for this moment of ethereal beauty, and Atsumu counted one, two moles, one, two seconds, before the world resumed.

They didn’t really talk about it, couldn’t look each other in the eyes more than on that damned bus just a few weeks back, but heat was still pulsating in their veins, and Kiyoomi was still breathing heavily, and Atsumu still felt where he’d bitten down on his own tongue as he was coming.

His pants were sticky and warm and he wanted to go take a shower but he also wanted to stand here in this hallway with this beautiful boy for a bit more, and his eyes were shining in a way that made him think that he wanted to do that too, but then footsteps sounded somewhere far away and he jolted. “Yeah,” he croaked out, “see ya, uh, around.”

somehow i don’t know if this made it better or worse
          January 4 ^th 2014

Itachiyama won Inter High in their third year. Atsumu watched from the sidelines; he didn’t know if he was relieved or not that he couldn’t play against Kiyoomi. He didn’t think he cared that much about Kiyoomi, because all he cared about was the deep, dark, bitter pit of regret that was sitting deep in his stomach and making it hard to breathe and swallow and not break into tears, so no, he didn’t care about Kiyoomi all that much, more about the fact that his brother was almost crying, that even Kita was tight-lipped when a first-year asked where the bathrooms here were, that Aran had disappeared about half an hour ago with Suna and a pack of cigarettes. So no, maybe Atsumu didn’t care all that much about Kiyoomi – but then again, maybe he did.

His dick was slim and pale and long and it was heavy in his mouth, and he closed his eyes as he swallowed around it. Kiyoomi was probably breathing heavily and making soft keening noises and wonderful gasps, but as Atsumu buried his nose in unruly pubes and tried not to gag around the weight in his throat, he could only focus on the droning hum of his bottomless disappointment. Still, it was comforting to hold onto trembling thighs and close his eyes and allow himself not to think for a few blessed minutes.

He asked Kiyoomi to fuck his mouth and he did and afterwards he helped him up and raised a hand to his mouth to take away the last traces of his release, a fingertip sliding in between his lips just barely. Atsumu resisted the urge to bite down on it. “Thank you,” he said instead. “Yer spunk tastes really bad.”

As he went outside, the slip of paper with Kiyoomi’s number burned a hole into his pocket.

i can’tffucking stay here o h my god
          July 15 ^th 2014

im going insane
          July 15 ^th 2014

Atsumu once ran away from home, as teenage boys do. He barely remembers what the reason had been, a disagreement with his mother probably, Samu’s constant pestering, the uncertainty of future, the unsettledness of the past, it didn’t matter, he ran away. He took a bus, wondered if he should feel bad that he paid for the ticket with his pocket money, decided not to think about it and curled up in the very back seat against the window. It was one of those seats that don’t have the foot thingey at the bottom and he roused and shifted trying to get comfortable but couldn’t really, easing in and out of consciousness as the lights outside grew bleary and dull. He jerked awake as the bus came to a final halt, raising his head, knowing that his hair was flat and mussed. He didn’t know anyone in Tokyo, didn’t know where he was or why he was here but he knew that he’d typed in a phone number a few months ago.

Kiyoomi’s aunt hummed a quiet melody as she drove the both of them home, her fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm on the steering wheel. “You two boys can take the bigger room,” she said, “I’ll put out the futon.”

And Atsumu still didn’t know any more as he lay in a strange room in a strange city caged between two familiar thighs, he just gasped up into a familiar mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut as he came against a coming body and waited for the weight on top of him to disappear, but instead it settled, curled around him until they drifted off to sleep together. They woke up sticky and shy and Atsumu let him use the bathroom first. After he realized what he’d done, he screamed into a pillow for a bit.

Kiyoomi bid him goodbye at the bus stop and Atsumu didn’t know what to say but was overwhelmed with the urge to linger, so he did. And stared at him a bit, words not wanting to form in his mouth. And Kiyoomi ducked his head and his lips twitched and his voice was soft. “Your cum tastes really bad too.”

B104!!!!!!
          October 2 ^nd 2014

Kiyoomi’s dorm room number that first year of college. It was a brass sign, the 4 a bit crooked, a smidge on the 1 that never let up no matter how relentlessly Kiyoomi rubbed at it, just below Atsumu’s eye level. The door used to creak when it swung open, and it would be accompanied by a “Come in, have you eaten?”

Kiyoomi usually only had shitty cup noodles for Atsumu, and they used to sit at the edge of the bed and slurp them in silence because the desk was already full with neatly piled sheets of paper and books.

omi sat on my face for a whole hour today, I had to wash my hair twice to get all the spunk out. my chin hurts I’m never gonna live this down I despise this man (I don’t).
          October 17 ^th 2014

In college, Kiyoomi was a pale boy with a coffee addiction and dark circles under his eyes, and Atsumu liked to look at him when he studied. There was something serene about watching someone be so dedicated, so concentrated on nothing but whatever he was doing at this very moment in time. Fascinating. Adorable how Kiyoomi used to disinfect all of his pencils before a study session because he knew that he’d inevitably end up nibbling on them. Cute how he wore thick, warm socks and tucked his feet underneath himself because they always got cold. Wonderful how he sometimes let Atsumu lay his head in his lap while he was reading over literature for class, carding fingers through his hair absentmindedly as his eyes searched through neat lines of black. Sometimes, his fingers would catch on a knot; pull just enough for it to twinge. Atsumu never minded it.

He looked good back then from all angles; he was sharper, more angular. It had been Atsumu to teach Kiyoomi that there was an entire world beyond cup noodles and boiled eggs, that an additional clove of garlic never hurt anyone, that you most definitely have to salt your pasta while it is still boiling. Maybe it’s that which he remembers those years most by.

Asking his mother and brother for recipes he could try with him, scribbling them down neatly on little notes that he would carefully fold and put into his wallet and pull out to show to Kiyoomi. For his birthday that first year, he gave him a spiral folder. The first recipe he put in there was his mother’s udon. With extra aburaage.

Kiyoomi’s bed was creaky that first year of college, and Kiyoomi used to butt the top of his head on the wall and swear; and Atsumu would disentangle himself from him enough to laugh and rub the sore spot. One time, he kissed it, and Kiyoomi blushed.

23 things i like about you.
1. your smile
2. the way your eyes squint when you smile
3. your two front teeth
4. the way your fingers feel
5. your taste in music
6. your taste in movies
7. your taste in life
8.
          November 23rd 2014

Sometimes, they would ask – his parents and friends. If they’d ever get to meet his “lover boy” up in Tokyo. And every time, Atsumu would laugh, waving them off with a half-hearted “oh, it isn’t like that” and another joke. Always another joke.

Did he yearn even then?

britney fucking spears
December 13 ^th 2014

Kiyoomi liked pop music. Shrill, Western bops with sexed-up beats and void lyrics, and he would dance to it. “I can’t embarrass myself in front of you any more than you’ve embarrassed yourself already,” he’d hum when Atsumu would watch smirking from the bed as Kiyoomi puttered around the bigger, well-lit room of his new apartment armed with a feather duster and a cloth, swaying his hips to some 2000s pop girl as he spritzed window cleaner onto glass. “And stop grinning,” he’d admonish him despite the smile pulling at his own lips.

“Ye’re just too cute,” Atsumu would respond, and Kiyoomi would throw a rag at Atsumu and then himself so they could tumble into the sheets together.

before
i find myself looking at the side of your jaw
the circle of light in
crowds
a thorn in my stomach
and pain in my smile
heat radiates

after
you fucking pisces bitch
center of every stage
and the worst kiss
to ever be performed.
laugh
that quaked like the big one,
breath, hot and muggy,
like june in tokyo
nobody wants that
dick
          March 2nd 2015

THE FUCKIN BUS FARE I CANT BELIEVE HIMMM
          March 2nd 2015

This time when Atsumu cried, nobody was there to be an asshole and make him be so surprised by it that he’d stop. This time, he was already used to the asshole being an asshole, which was the reason he was crying in the first place.

He didn’t like it when his friends or family or teammates called it a breakup, because you have to have been together in order to break up, don’t you?

He got over it quickly, or at least liked to think so. He bought new shoes with the money he used to spend on the train to Tokyo, got an eyebrow piercing, and started taking up swimming with the free time he suddenly had. He fucked a bunch of guys, and none of them felt the same. Backstroke was his favorite style, followed by butterfly.

it’s been four months i think
          August 3 ^rd 2016

Atsumu didn’t think about Kiyoomi.

He became first-string setter indefinitely that year, got swept up in the flurry of wins and losses and other people. That year, he got himself a new apartment, one that was too big for one person, he slept with Hinata and laughed about it with him after, he landed an ad campaign with Louis Vuitton and killed three house plants, and most of all, he tried not to think about Kiyoomi.

He
          August 2 ^nd 2017

And then, he was back.

Back in the gym, back in Atsumu’s sight, back in his life.

mom asked me how he is, now what tf do i tell her?? 
          August 2 ^nd 2017

i can’t believe this but i do lmfao
          August 2 ^nd 2017

Atsumu remembers everything after that like a searing mark in his mind. He remembers turning around, finding a pair of familiar eyes and searching for an old challenge. The magnetic pull of bodies that didn’t belong apart, mouths crashing into each other, hands tangling, sweat mending. The delight of a smile, the joy of a laugh, the hunt for something more.

After a year apart – nothing between them. No shame, no excuses, no hurdles, just Kiyoomi and Atsumu.

The first whispered “I love you”, the easy falling into an embrace, the ever-present, overpowering pull. Carving out a space for themselves within each other.

Bringing Kiyoomi home to his parents, introducing his “lover boy” with a sheepish laugh and a nervous bite of his lips, desperate for approval as his mother looked up at Kiyoomi with sparkling eyes and a too firm handshake, turning red when his father clapped Kiyoomi on the back and asked him with a billowing voice to “take care of our Tsumu, will ya?” Grabbing Kiyoomi by the sleeve and dragging him up the stairs with his face still burning.

Falling into an old bed with the love of his life and smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, pressing his forehead into Kiyoomi’s neck as he listened to the relentless pounding of his heart.

Finding an old phone and old notes and old confessions and sharing a giddy giggle, Kiyoomi taking the old device into his hands and starting to type. Atsumu had wiggled closer, whining to get a look, but Kiyoomi had held it high up out of his grabby hands, laughing out loud as his thumbs flew. Finally, he turned the phone around and showed him what he’d written, his smile even brighter than the screen.

Oh god, Atsumu. I love you so much, do you know that?

A silent promise to stay, to finally stay.

...

And then they didn’t.

The door creaks.

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi should probably think about the past, he really should, but the past is fleeting and he can’t grasp it, and all there is is Atsumu.

Atsumu with an oily face and brash yellow hair and a voice that scratches and breaks when he raises it too much, Atsumu who flushes pink right after. Atsumu sandy blond showing off his new nipple piercing, Atsumu silver blond who thrusts a gleaming gold trophy into the air, Atsumu ashy blond who signs a lease and looks at him with a twinkle in his eyes. Atsumu with adult braces that he whines about, Atsumu with faint freckles and Atsumu with stubble on his chin and a cut on his cheek from shaving and Atsumu with a pimple right above his right eyebrow. Atsumu with a ring around his finger and so much fondness in his eyes, Atsumu who fights and screams and has fire in his eyes and Atsumu who’s silent and empty and dulled and scary.

Atsumu whose body is a reassuring weight to his, Atsumu with calloused but careful thumbs, Atsumu who’s drawing invisible circles into his skin.

There’s Atsumu who claws marks into his back, Atsumu whose laugh is bright like the sun and renders things just as cold in his absence, Atsumu who comes and leaves, Atsumu who rests his chin on his shoulder as he looks up at him, Atsumu who kisses him. 

Always, always Atsumu who kisses him.

Kiyoomi staggers up from the floor, daring a shaky step towards the fridge where an envelope is ripped open, the edge of a piece of paper peeking out. It slides out with a rustle.

What he expects is the truth he’d written down himself so many days and nights ago, a truth that he’d laughed and smiled over and that’s now marring harsh edges into his face.

Yet when he unfolds it – that handwriting isn’t his.

It’s not neat and proper with careful curves and hooks, it’s volatile and rambly and rounded, and it’s Atsumu’s.

He took the wrong letter.

The paper trembles between Kiyoomi’s fingers, his grip slowly growing sweaty.

ABOUT SAKUSA KIYOOMI

Kiyoomi is shaking.

What about him?

he’s cruel

He squeezes his eyes shut. The creature in his chest roars.

He doesn’t want to read this. He knows it’ll hurt, knows it’ll hurt exactly because he knows that it’ll all be true. Atsumu knows him like no other does, he understands him more deeply than anyone ever should.

Because he is cruel, isn’t he? And Atsumu had known that all too well.

Had said it to him, had tried to tell him, and – Kiyoomi had never bothered to listen.

Because it’s easier to focus on others’ mistakes than your own.

Afterall, hadn’t he written a letter, too?

he’s too proud

he’s mean

doesn’t take me into consideration

he carries grudges

he can’t admit when he’s wrong, not even to himself

he never takes the first step

Oh how he wishes that Atsumu hadn’t been in a position to write this, that he himself wasn’t in a position to read this.

Because Kiyoomi stares down at the piece of paper and wishes he could disagree. He wishes that he could disagree, wishes so very desperately for that ripping ache in his chest to subside. It doesn’t.

he doesn’t let himself want things

he thinks he likes being lonely

Kiyoomi does think that he wants, he does think that he desires – he just doesn’t like it when the desire takes hold of him. When it grips and squeezes him painfully, when it wrings him dry of anything else.

Doesn’t like it when the mere thought of someone makes his chest constrict and his head spin, makes him extradite himself so brutally and absolutely – makes him want to lose himself in him.

He doesn’t like it when what he wants is too big, too glorious, too beautiful, that even the prospect of possible disappointment is too much to handle.

Better to stay safe, better to stay on grounded earth, not experience it at all.

Is it?

Atsumu has always been greedy with his want, desired things freely, and was hurt and disappointed and angry when he didn’t get them.

Where Kiyoomi shies away from exaltation, Atsumu looks for it, Atsumu – relishes in it. He always wants more, always wants more, and when someone isn’t able to give it to him, he lashes out.

Atsumu, who wants things fiercely and desperately, and demands them with fire and hunger, he doesn’t understand it when someone doesn’t seem to want him just as much. Is hurt by it.

But Kiyoomi did want him, that’s just the point, he did want him, and pulled back so he could pretend like he didn’t.

he was scared of me sometimes I think

that he’d get hurt by me

because I could

hurt him I mean

And that’s why they fucked it all up, wasn’t it?

Kiyoomi’s always been someone to go things alone, to prefer the comfort of his own solitude. No one to inspect, no one to disturb, no one to unsettle. No one to stay.

He’s always preferred to stay in the comfort of his own solitude, but Atsumu made him think that he didn’t have to.

And vulnerability? It’s scary.

Once you’ve let someone in, they don’t leave.

It’s so rewarding to have someone hold your entire being in their palm, so sobbingly good and embracing, but it’s scary.

Because they can balance you in their palm, but they can also clench their hand into a fist and crunch you within it.

But if you don’t care about someone, they can’t hurt you.

There is nothing to be hurt when Kiyoomi tastes salty sweetness melting on his tongue, when he bites out a comment to some kid who’s somehow both grinning and crying in front of a urinal, when the heat spreads from his groin into his head and burns any attempt at a thought. Nothing to be hurt when he doesn’t allow himself anything beyond that, when he lets himself be fucked in the tiny dorm room that his life has been reduced to but makes sure that the door is locked tightly behind receding footsteps. When he feels cornered by the things Atsumu makes him feel and do, when he’s scared and acts to counter it. Nothing to be hurt when he says with an eerie kind of nonchalance that the two of them should maybe stop doing whatever they’re doing, because he has this big biology exam coming up next week and all this is getting a bit boring by now and the bus to Tokyo every week probably isn’t cheap either, right? Nothing to be hurt when Atsumu stabs a finger into his chest and tells him that he’s an asshole, and he’s fucked better people anyways, ones that don’t give him the shitty brand of ramen either.

he would rather feel nothing than the bad things

but he made me feel the bad things

I don’t know what he’s trying to prove when he hurts me

Kiyoomi’s cruel.

Not always out of his own volition. Not always from a place of deliberation. Sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself.

Kiyoomi jolts.

No, that’s not true, that’s not true at all.

Sometimes, he could’ve helped himself, could’ve stopped to think and listen and not be cruel. He could’ve done it. But he didn’t.

i guess it doesn’t matter now, he won’t hurt me again

i hope

He remembers it.

The fights, the fucking, the loving, all of the mess, it had blended together until it was all a maelstrom of emotion undistinguishable.

But what he does remember in vivid detail is the end – because they’d been silent.

He remembers that silence most of all; the nauseating, lingering feeling of unease that permeated the infinity between them.

It had lasted for weeks and neither had really talked about it, neither had really thought about it or considered it. Never asked if it would pass, just assuming that it would. And then it didn’t.

Then the silence didn’t end. No communication, no connection, no recognition. Two people looking at a stranger.

He doesn’t know what they’d tried to accomplish when they both tried to still contort their bodies into a familiar form. When Atsumu reached out and laid his hand to Kiyoomi’s naked chest as if he would find anything in there, when he grasped at his cock as if Kiyoomi would be able to give him anything.

The heat of bodies rutting into each other, the fire of hissing sharp words at one another – and the utter emptiness behind it all.

Hair messy from the fingers carding through them in anger, spit flying from rapidly moving lips, eyes somehow both wild and closed off.

That day, they’d been stumbling along the wall, lips interlocked as they both searched for something that wasn’t there, as they both distracted themselves from what was there. An elbow clacking into a wall, a knee bumping into another, a shoulder painfully hitting a chest – a hip knocking over a vase.

It didn’t happen in slow motion, not in any way that was computable to either of them. One moment, it was there, and the other – not.

Clank.

And they looked at the mess on the floor, and neither of them had the energy to scream at the other about it.

Kiyoomi did feel the itch, the need to bite out a bitter and unnecessary comment, a weak scratch behind the cavity of his chest to see that old flash in Atsumu’s eyes flare up – and he didn’t bother to cave in.

The vase laid broken in shards on the floor and entirely inconsequentially so.

They looked at each other.

Silence.

Kiyoomi opened his mouth, but no sound fell out. Nothing but empty air between them.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu said.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi said.

And they looked at each other, and they both knew.

and then he told himself he didn’t need me in the first place

he’s childish that way

Nothing to be hurt.

But there is, isn’t there? Because Atsumu had begun cleaving him open inch by inch even then. Because Kiyoomi had cared from the beginning.

And the thing that Kiyoomi has never understood, the thing that he’s never quite grasped – is that sometimes, the hurt is good.

Sometimes, the hurt grounds you, moves you, makes you change. Introduces the possibility of growth.

And how are you supposed to meet someone face to face if you’ve never had the intention to move towards them?

It’s scary to be vulnerable, but sometimes, you have to allow it.

They should’ve been braver.

Kiyoomi is crying, he realizes. Tears slipping down his cheeks, dripping off his chin, wetting the trembling paper.

He didn’t cry back then. Back then, when they knew, when Atsumu pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. In understanding. Acceptance. Defeat. Back then, when he left. Back then, when Kiyoomi didn’t ask him to stop and turn back.

Back then, when Kiyoomi had already stopped loving him.

he always lets me go too early.

He crumbles to the floor, his body no longer able to hold his weight, and he doesn’t even detect the impact. He’s numb, he’s numb numb numb, a debilitating kind of coldness spreading from the center of his chest to every cell and crevice of his body. His fingers are shaking; distantly, he notices that the paper is crinkling between them, but his body has long gone out of focus.

Should he have tried?

Could he have tried?

He wants to.

///

Atsumu’s mother finds him laying in bed, still staring at the ceiling, phone clutched in his hands. Her voice is very soft when she speaks. “I made dinner.”

“I’m coming,” Atsumu mumbles, hesitant to rise from the warmth of his old sheets. His knees are bent because his legs are too long, his shoulder digs into the wall and the pillow is lumpy, but he allows himself to stay for a moment longer.

He takes a deep breath. It really does smell like it used to. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

Over a bowl of udon, steam curling into his face and food burning the roof of his mouth, he closes his eyes. He gulps. “I think I love him. Again. Still. I don’t know.”

The soft clinking of the silverware is the only noise in the room.

“That’s alright,” his mother finally says. “That’s understandable.”

“But it ain’t good.”

“I can’t tell ya if it’s good or not. Are you gonna to do something about it?”

Atsumu looks at the noodles hanging from his chopsticks, watches as a bit of meat slowly slides down and plops back into the bowl with a little splash. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I think I will.”

///

The bus hits a pothole.

Atsumu bangs his head against the window and jolts, the flashing pain yanking him out of the lingering drowsiness that’s hung over his mind since the moment the motor roared awake and the bus pulled away from his childhood home.

It’s not tiredness that’s making his limbs heavy and the weight on his shoulders unbearable, moreso a kind of bone-deep exhaustion that has chained him down to this all-encompassing emptiness that’s spreading from his heart all the way into his fingertips.

He wants to stop thinking, but knows he won’t be able to sleep.

Quiet music is playing overhead.

It had been another bus back then, another bus in which Kiyoomi had asked a question.

How did you know you were in love with me?

They’d lost the game and had to cancel their reservation at the izakaya. Kiyoomi pulled Atsumu quietly towards the bus in the morning, face obscured by a scarf even though spring was budding, firm fingers not letting go of Atsumu’s wrist for even a second. He settled down in the very back row and waited for Atsumu to throw their bags somewhere next to them and settle down at his side before flinging his arms around him wholly, burying his face in the thick fabric of Atsumu’s hoodie and burrowing himself into the comfort of his arms.

How did you know you were in love with me?

“Because it’s always been you,” Atsumu had whispered, tracing a finger over the silver band on his finger, “it’s always been you to make me want to laugh and cry and feel.”

Oh, how they had felt. 

The cross-country bus that he’s now in is rumbling and stumbling with the effort of pulling ahead in the rain, the air conditioning a wheezing hum somewhere above him. None of Bokuto’s snoring, Hinata’s quiet chatter or Kiyoomi’s rumble as his arms tighten around Atsumu’s waist.

He’s alone.

Atsumu tries to stop his leg from jittering and doesn’t succeed, choosing to stare out into the pouring rain. It’s almost night, and the headlights of distant cars light up the ever-moving pattern of running raindrops on the pane. Coldness seeps into his right side and he bunches up his jacket between his shoulder and the window. It doesn’t help.

He remembers another time, another bus.

Sweetness still lingering in his mouth as he stared up in awe, as he touched fingers to his lips and didn’t know what to say. The sourness of sugar and salt as the depth of black devoured him whole, laying on him a touch that would stay.

Another bus; a smaller one, one with Inarizaki printed across the side and the stale smell of sweat, deodorant and desperate disappointment hanging around the air. A window standing open, letting in wind and fresh air that made Kita-san’s hair flutter prettily but didn’t succeed to dispel the rancid mood. Interhigh second year, hopes and dreams that had been shattered and left behind, and Atsumu staring out through the half-open window as he could only think about a tall boy with a pretty frown. Tears long dried on his cheeks.

Then – back to Hyogo, back from training camp. His mother had meant to pick him up, but then it had ended up being his grandmother’s 90^th birthday and Atsumu had said he didn’t mind taking the train at all, and so he was sitting on this train with some farmer next to him, and he should’ve thought about him or his grandmother or something, but everything his mind could come up with was the sensation of tongues pushing together, of warm hands grabbing at heated skin over clothes, of shallow breaths meeting and growing into each other, of – Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi, he’d asked to call him.

Interhigh third year; Atsumu staring out the window at the cloudless sky, the perfect blue sphere that had seemed so out of place for the defeat they all felt. He remembers the tangy taste in his mouth – bitter. Almost as if he could still feel his weight on his tongue.

For some reason, he’s always remembered the journey. The act of coming and leaving, of already knowing he'll be walking away from something before he's even arrived.

Taking out his wallet to pay for the bus fare to Tokyo and the squared foil of a condom falling out; and only grinning sheepishly at the howling laughter of the driver.

It’s weird to look at the world from the window of a moving vehicle. Everything goes, everything passes, everything becomes incomprehensible beyond the constant of movement. It’s soothing not to concentrate on one thing but rather the absence of it, a stream of both something and nothing.

Atsumu has always liked highways, the noise protection a repetitive grey structure against the bushes and trees peeking out from behind them.

He’d bounce his leg in time with them, one pole, two, three, four five sixseventunnel. Sudden darkness outside, only the reflection of yourself remaining in the pane. A ghostly afterimage.

He remembers squirming in a seat with his ass burning. The scratches on his shoulders numbly aching. His head being just a bit too light.

Sometimes, the tinny radio would play. He liked it best when Miki Matsubara was on, her sweet voice lulling him into the comfortable state of not-quite-sleep until the jerking halt of the bus would remind him of the evergoing stillness of the world.

He typed up a furious note in a scratchy bus seat that one time, fingers shaking and lip wobbling, cursing himself out for even feeling bad.

Because he should’ve known, should’ve known known known, but he didn’t.

“Fucking ass,” he muttered back then on the way home, “goddamn shitty motherfucking donkey bullshit. I bought the one-year ticket, the fare fuckin’ costs me nothin’. Fuckin’ asshole.”

In the present, Atsumu almost – laughs. He lets his head drop back against the seat as the faint amusement pulling at him is not quite enough to beckon a laugh out of him.

But his head feels lighter as he thinks of the rest.

The rest, the rest, the rest, what’s the rest? Falling into the backseat of Atsumu’s car after that first practice together, already swollen and sticky, already hungry and greedy, already wanting far too much. The windowframe shaking as they did. A sunset somewhere beyond it.

Atsumu holding onto a wobbling plant from IKEA for his absolute life as Kiyoomi raced into the corners, theentire car tilting and screeching. Atsumu tried not to throw up as he fixated some indistinct point through the windshield, internally vowing not to ever get into another vehicle with Kiyoomi ever again.

Of course he did, of course. Giggling and skipping through the rain after they said “I love you”, after they said “marry me, you bastard” right after, clothes soaked and hair wet and shivering all over, yet not able to dispelling the warmth inside them as they jumped into the subway, looking at each other with a quiet kind of reverence, already imagining how they would undress the other tonight.

Wedding.

Atsumu driving with Kiyoomi in the passenger seat, feeling a soft gaze on his cheek and only tilting his head and humming, hand reaching out to rest on Kiyoomi’s thigh. Making a turn as Kiyoomi interlaced his fingers with his.

Wedding night.

Both being tipsy, both not minding walking. Filling the silence with their own, with chatter, with smiles, with laughter. Atsumu racing ahead and Kiyoomi following after him, the steady pitter-patter of feet hitting the ground, propelling him forward, forward towards Atsumu, running towards–

Other memories pass in a haze, don’t want to linger as much as these ones did.

Memories that are a bit sweet and a bit sour and now taste bitter on his tongue.

He finally pulls out his letter.

ABOUT MIYA ATSUMU

His heart drops into his stomach.

He inhales a shaky breath. It’s the wrong one. How is he going to–

It doesn’t matter now if he took the wrong one, he supposes. The reason he’d written his own, well – it’s already too late for that. 

The writing blurs together in front of his eyes.

He doesn’t want to read it, doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to read it.

His chest aches, it aches, it hurts – but he knows that he has to do this. For Kiyoomi’s sake; for his own.

He reads it in one go.

atsumu is defiant

he lashes out to distract from himself

he doesn’t like it when he makes mistakes

he says hurtful things he doesn’t mean

he wants too much

he demands things I don’t think I can give

he never takes the first step

he gets angry at me when he doesn’t understand me

he doesn’t want to understand me

why does he get angry at me

Atsumu’s shaking.

Is he this person?

He wishes he could say he’d never meant to hurt Kiyoomi, but he, he … he can’t. It’s not true. He’d wanted to hurt him so badly, had wanted to hurt him as much as he’d been hurt, had wanted to throw the knife and twist it just to see Kiyoomi’s face contort in pain. He was this person and is this person, and he can’t forgive himself for it.

His chest is ripping apart.

They’ve always returned to each other out of some inexplicable kind of emotion, had always been drawn into each other’s orbits and never quite managed to let go.

Even now, Atsumu yearns, even now, he wants, even though he knows that he shouldn’t.

He wants to have him like he always has, wants to have him in his entirety, and wants Kiyoomi to have him too.

But not like this. Atsumu won’t allow himself to have him like this.

Because if he has him like this, he doesn’t have him at all.

He exhales a shuddering breath.

///

Bashira looks up at the sound of the bell.

“Good evening,” Atsumu says.

The bag of fizzy gummy worms crinkles when he places it on the counter. “Good to see ya again, Shira-kun.”

“How are you?” Her voice is quiet, her eyes big behind her thick-framed glasses.

Atsumu manages a weak smile and looks down at his hands resting on the counter. “Ah, what a question.”

The fluorescent lights crackle above them.

“I’m sorry if I–” She chokes on the words. “If I messed things up,” she whispers.

Atsumu shakes his head. The refrigerators keep humming next to him. “No.” He laughs a tiny bit. “No you didn’t.”

He looks up.

“You didn’t do that at all.”

Chapter Text

His key slots itself into the lock with a glide, clinking softly as it meets resistance. Atsumu’s fingers are sweaty. He turns it. Click.

The door yawns open.

The genkan is quiet and dark, but beyond it, dim light is glowing. A rustle. Then–

Kiyoomi stands in the doorway.

“Tadaima,” Atsumu whispers.

“Okaerinasai.”

A piece of paper is crumpled in his fist, and his knuckles are clenched just as white.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu breathes, helplessly.

Because when he looks into his eyes, he only sees the same longing that is mirrored in his own.

Kiyoomi takes a step forward, then another, and Atsumu does too. They cross the genkan in three long strides, letter tumbling to the floor as Kiyoomi already reaches out for him. Long, pale fingers that slot around Atsumu’s own, that clamp down, grip tight with desperation. Hold him firmly.

Atsumu crashes into him. Shoulders knocking together as they both waver on their feet, an unnamed force propelling them forward until their bodies collide.

And how easy it would for Kiyoomi to bend down and close the feeble distance with his lips, how easy to melt into him like he always has. Kiss away their thoughts and their worries, kiss away everything that’s been holding them apart.

He doesn’t do it.

He knocks his forehead against Atsumu’s and closes his eyes. Stays like that.

He’s trembling, trembling like a leaf in October.

Atsumu’s voice is hoarse. “I’m scared,” he whispers, “I’m so fucking scared.”

“Do you think I’m not?”

For a moment, neither of them can talk, both choked up, both so overwhelmed with the reality of the situation, the reality of them both really, finally standing in front of each other. Kiyoomi curls his hand around Atsumu’s. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “For the person I’ve been.”

“Don’t be,” Atsumu says, and when he wipes away the streaks of tears on Kiyoomi’s cheeks, he only realizes that he also started crying. “Don’t be,” Atsumu repeats, softer. “Please. I wasn’t better.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Kiyoomi tries to laugh, and it’s a miserable, wet little thing and gets half-caught in his throat. “It shouldn’t have been a competition. I was cruel, and I shouldn’t have been. But I don’t want to be anymore, I don’t want to be cruel.”

He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t want to let you go,” he whispers.

“And I don’t want to go.”

Atsumu squeezes his fingers so tightly it hurts, but Kiyoomi clings onto the grasp, needs it fiercely and desperately, his last point of contact with the world. “I did want to.” Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “But maybe what I wanted even more was to be asked to stay.”

Kiyoomi’s heart thumps in his chest almost painfully. “And what do you want now?”

“You.” Atsumu laughs helplessly. “I want ya so much, I’m scared of it. Because the last time I wanted ya this much, we ruined it all. So yeah, I’m scared. Of fucking things up, of not being enough, not giving enough, of … getting hurt again. Cause like last time, I fell in love with ya, and like last time, it won’t … I won’t…” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He gulps down the wet knot in his throat. Tears burn in the corners of his eyes. His voice is broken when he talks again. “I like ya too much to have us end up like that again.”

“Like,” Kiyoomi mutters. “You like me.”

Atsumu looks up alarmed, mouth slightly ajar. “Did I–”

Kiyoomi curls into him as he giggles, and it’s wet and choked and glorious. “ Like , after all we’ve been through.”

Realization dawns on Atsumu and he blushes fiercely; buries his face in his neck. “Oh my god, was that weird? Did I ruin the moment? Should I have said somethin’–”

“No,” Kiyoomi whispers, and lays a hand to his cheek, gently stroking over his cheekbone and not relenting when Atsumu doesn’t immediately tilt his head up. “It’s … it’s good that you like me.” He smiles wryly and awkwardly. “It’s important.”

He takes a deep breath as the smile slips off his face, hand falling away to fist itself in the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt. When he talks again, it’s hesitant. “You know why I only realized so late that I was in … you know? Again?”

Their clothes rustle as Atsumu shifts in his arms, and Kiyoomi grasps him tighter, bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. He opens his mouth, but the words don’t want to come, don’t want to tumble out, and he says – “Atsumu.”

“Kiyoomi?”

“Please look at me. Look at me when I say this.”

He does. He tilts his head up, and his expression is so terribly, blissfully open that Kiyoomi has to clutch him tighter so he doesn’t just keel over.

Those eyes have haunted him, have followed him, have not let him go. Those eyes, he’ll never forget. He finds flecks of light within them.

“I like you, Atsumu.” He trembles with a swallowed choke. “I like to be in your presence, I like when you talk to me and laugh with me and stay with me. I want to hold your hand. I want to kiss your nose, I want to wake up next to you. Know that you’ll be there the next day too.”

“Kiyoomi–”

“Atsumu.”

They just look at each other, eyes wide, in – wonder.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi repeats, voice shaky. “I always told myself it was nothing because I didn’t feel like I felt then,” he whispers, drowning in the depth of those eyes. “And it’s true, it was nothing compared to what I feel for you now. Back then, love was exciting, and thrilling, and scary – and now it’s quiet and simple and warm and hard and still scary.” His chest is heaving, and Atsumu is pressed to it tightly.

“Is it worth it? I don’t know. But I want to know.”

Atsumu is still looking at him with that wondrous kind of softness, with that unbearable warmth. Fondness. “Oh, Omi,” he breathes.

And Kiyoomi is suddenly dizzy.

There it is, there it is, all laid out in front of them, there it is, ready for Atsumu to take. Finally, finally his.

And Atsumu – Atsumu smiles at him. It’s a slow one, a hesitant one, a beautiful one, and it’s the sun breaking through the clouds. “I want that too.”

It’s everything he’s ever wanted – and everything he’ll have.

“Holy shit, Omi, oh fuck Omi, are ya cryin’? Did I say somethin’ wrong, can I– oh my god, ya fuckin’ sap , I can’t believe ye’re really cryin’ right now over my fuckin’–”

Kiyoomi shuts him up with a kiss.

Some things do stay the same.

Chapter Text

The second time around, they have crow’s feet, and grey streaks, and kinder eyes.

The ceremony is a quiet one, at a small beach in late April with the cherry trees blooming. “It’s sappy,” Kiyoomi had said, “it’s so sappy and predictable and cheesy.”

And Atsumu had tucked a dark curl behind an ear with the familiarity of someone who’s done it a hundred times before. “Yer the mushiest bastard I know, Omi. ‘sides, the blossoms will look good with your hair..”

And Kiyoomi had blushed and Atsumu had smiled.

It was a beach wedding, the wind softly jostling their hair, the waves a gentle melody in the background, and when they slid the rings over each other’s fingers, they both started crying.

Their cheeks are dry now, but their hearts still full.

The canopy swing that looks out from their terrace is a creaky little thing with striped cushions, and Kiyoomi is holding Atsumu close.

The sun has long gone down, and both the darkness and chill of an April night have settled upon them. Faint light falls through the large kitchen windows and bathes them in a warm yellow from behind. Neither of them feel the cold, not really. Not when they’re bundled up in a blanket like this, not when they’re this close to the person that matters most, shoulders pressed together, arms around each other, legs lazily tangled together.

Words are not needed.

On the other side of the garden, the trees rustle. They’d planted them when they moved into the house and they’re sizable now, have started bearing fruit. Mellow fuyu and aromatic yuzu, fuji apples and ume.

Kiyoomi has an adorable little gardening cap. Whenever he snips at his branches with it on, Atsumu comes out of the house and teases him about looking like a dad, and Kiyoomi grumbles and pretends not to preen under the attention. Usually, it doesn’t take long for him to thrust some utensil into Atsumu’s hands, making some joke about him being lazy, leaving all the work to his poor husband, and then revels in the giggling and bickering they get up to while letting the sun shine onto them.

Atsumu is the one to break the comfortable silence. “Pretty soon, we can plant the tomatoes too.”

“Same place as last year?”

“Hmm. Didn’t we wanna try moving them to a sunnier place? I know ye’re peculiar ‘bout the placement of all the plants in the garden but– now why are ya poutin’?”

“What if you tried moving to a sunnier place?” Kiyoomi grumbles.

“No chance,” Atsumu whispers. “Ya’d miss me too much.”

Kiyoomi tightens his arms around him and chuckles, and it reverberates deep in Atsumu’s own chest. “Very true. Remember how it took only six months of your absence to make me go crazy and of course want to marry you all over again.”

“Actually, I don’t know what would’ve been funnier,” Atsumu grins, leaning closer into his warmth, “fucking on the divorce papers or getting a second marriage just three months later. We should’ve done it. I should’ve opened that door and looked at ya, and I should’ve taken yer hands in mine and said ‘Kiyoomi, marry me’. That’s what I should’ve said, not something stupid like ‘I’m scared’.”

“But you were scared.”

“Of course I was, but I also knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And that was more important in the end, wasn’t it?”

The moon comes out from behind a cloud.

Their breaths even as wisps of light slowly curl through the sky and illuminate the world in silver, crowning the trees that surround and embrace their home.

As Kiyoomi uncorks the champagne bottle with even, measured movements, Atsumu watches from half-lidded eyes.

The moonlight reflects off his skin that is still as pale as it was those fifteen years ago, it catches in the tousled curls of ink and those threads of silver, gleams in the curve of his eye. His laughter lines. As Kiyoomi tilts his head, shadows wander over his face, paint a landscape of life. Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat.

“What?” Kiyoomi murmurs, not looking up as he measures out an equal amount into two slim glasses.

“Ye’re beautiful, ‘s all.”

Kiyoomi swats his hand at him and grumbles something incoherent.

They’re both still a bit buzzed from the wedding party, their limbs tired from dancing, their cheeks aching from smiling so much, happiness settled deep into their bones.

The little critters in the grass are chirping, their bodies are warm against each other, their hearts beating steady, and Kiyoomi closes his eyes against a breeze of wind.

“We should’ve gotten married back then,” Atsumu insists, “it would’ve been incredibly funny.”

“Very funny,” Kiyoomi agrees, “and very stupid.” He takes a sip, relishing in the taste. “Considering that rushing into things had killed our relationship once already.”

“I dunno, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs, and he raises their joint hands to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “It feels pretty alive to me.”

They look out into the quiet commotion of the leaves, the unknown of the night, they look out and then only at each other.

They wash the dishes together; the plates, the forks, the champagne glasses.

Atsumu is standing at the sink, yellow rubber gloves on, hands slow and steady as he rubs the sponge over the ceramic. Even circles into white. Suds slip off the surface. He’s humming a little song under his breath.

Kiyoomi is waiting with a tea towel in his hands. He takes the out-stretched plate gingerly, grasps it before starting to rub the cloth over it. Warmth at his fingertips.

The plate clinks faintly as he sets it down on the counter, and Atsumu is already holding out another for him.

Kiyoomi takes up the little melody that Atsumu is humming underneath his breath, joins in with his lower voice, a vibrating timbre. The motions of his hands are familiar, the careful clasp, the broad swipe. He uses a different cloth for the cutlery, a finer one, one that doesn’t leave smudges, and it’s cool at his fingertips when he lifts it off the stack underneath the sink. Atsumu hands him the forks with the handle extended, and Kiyoomi looks down at them as he dries them.

Then, only the champagne glasses are left, and Atsumu eyes them appraisingly above the sink. Kiyoomi opens his mouth.

Atsumu turns to him, smile turning deep. “Yeah, yeah I know,” he says fondly, “I gotta be careful when I clean ‘em. Ya’ve told me a hundred times. The glass is thin an’ delicate.”

The glass is thin and delicate, and Atsumu handles it with care. Kiyoomi watches the soapy water slowly slosh around the sink as Atsumu swirls the glass, rubs along the outer ridges. Tap. Fresh water until it runs clear over glass.

Atsumu watches how Kiyoomi dries the champagne flutes, watches the deliberate movements of his hands, the tensing and curling of his long fingers, the touch of which he’s long memorized all over his body. Kiyoomi feels the gaze on his face but doesn’t look up, is fixated on glass, on the smudge at the rim. He swipes over it. Clear. Perfect.

He sets both the glasses down.

Clink.

Atsumu crowds him against the sink.

Kiyoomi’s breath gets stuck in his throat. Atsumu’s face is so close that their breaths meet, close enough to feel their hearts beating against each other, so close that he could count the freckles on Atsumu’s skin if he hadn’t memorized them long ago already. “What’s this?” Kiyoomi murmurs.

Atsumu’s eyes are a sea of warm gold. “An ambush.”

“Then ambush me.”

The meeting of their lips is soft.

Atsumu’s hands settle on Kiyoomi’s hips, and Kiyoomi’s arms slot around Atsumu’s waist – sure and steady as if neither of them had ever known another place.

And they kiss.

Kiyoomi catches Atsumu’s bottom lip between gentle teeth, pulls. Smiles at the gasp he receives.

He could do this forever, he thinks. Indulge in the slow press of mouths to one another, mingling of breath and warmth, taking and offering. He’s used to the curve of his lips by now, is familiar with them, has long committed their movements to his heart and memory. He’ll never stop learning their form.

Kiyoomi’s hands roam the expanse of Atsumu’s back. He glides his palm over the firm line of his shoulders, fits it over the curve of his shoulder blades. His fingers trace lines down his spine until they come to a rest on the small on his back – and he presses closer. Their chests come together, warm and firm and real and everything he’s ever wanted.

And they kiss.

They’re kissing and kissing, they can’t stop kissing. They’re supposed to be putting away the dishes and empty the basin and move to the couch or the bed, oh, definitely the bed, but they can’t stop kissing.

He’d be content to stay here for the rest of time. Kissing in the dim lights of their kitchen, grasping at each other even though they’ve already gotten everything.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi finally whispers, making a feeble move to untangle himself from his arms, not quite bringing himself to do it.

Atsumu’s mouth chases after his own. “What?” he whispers back against his lips.

Kiyoomi catches his cheek in his hand. His thumb rubs slow circles on his jawline. “We should probably move.”

Atsumu only makes a weak sound of protest before he moves closer again, closing the distance once more. Kiyoomi chuckles against his mouth. “Don’t you want to get to the rest of our wedding night?”

Atsumu hums against him, burrowing closer, arms tightening around Kiyoomi’s waist. He ducks his face into his neck, breath even and warm on his skin. “Dun’ wanna stop kissin’ ya,” he whispers.

Kiyoomi’s small laugh is a warm huff of breath against Atsumu’s lips. Kiyoomi’s hand comes around Atsumu’s cheek, prompts him to tilt his face up once more. “Good that you won’t have to stop kissing me ever again.”

His chest feels full enough to burst.

And once they do find the bed, once they fall into the sheets, once they keep holding onto each other as tightly as they always have – nothing is between them anymore.

Atsumu undresses Kiyoomi with reverence, pays attention to each patch of skin that he uncovers, eyes tracing fiery lines all over it.

And Kiyoomi looks up at him with that certain kind of softness that he’s always allowed himself only with Atsumu, stretches out his arms so Atsumu can pull the shirt off, tracing the line of his collarbones with a dancing fingertip.

“I could look at ya forever.”

“I’ll do the same.”

Kiyoomi himself reaches out to thumb at a button of Atsumu’s shirt, slips it open, then another. His fingers lay themselves to the smooth expanse of Atsumu’s chest, faint hair tickling his fingers, beneath it – a steady heartbeat.

And Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu, and Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi – and they both know that they don’t want anything else for the rest of time.

“Kiss me again,” he whispers.

Atsumu takes his face in his hands and places careful pecks all over it. On his forehead first, then his lips brush down, find the bridge of his nose, the tip.

Kiyoomi scrunches it, and the motion is so helplessly endearing, Atsumu can’t help but place another kiss right on it. It turns pink with his brush.

He’s teasing, and they’re both aware of it, they know that he’s only drawing out the anticipation for something that they both already know. His thumb ghosts over the peak of a nipple. Kiyoomi’s breath stutters.

“Atsumu,” he warns, though his tone is fond more than anything. “Will I have to pluck words out of the mouth of my twenty-year-old self?”

“And say what?”

Kiyoomi licks his lips. “Come on and fuck me already.”

Atsumu shakes with the force of his laughter.

Giggles burst out of him as he clutches at Kiyoomi’s shoulders, curls into him as glee tumbles out of him. A smile tugs at the corners of Kiyoomi’s mouth as well, and he hides it in Atsumu’s hair.

It’s shorter and darker now but just as soft, and Kiyoomi inhales the scent of apple shampoo. The scent of home. “Well?”

“Well what?”

The sheets crinkle.

“Fuck me?”

Atsumu tilts his head, looks at him from deep-set eyes. He bites his lip. “No, I don’t think I will,” he murmurs.

Kiyoomi smiles too. “You won’t?”

As Atsumu leans in, his breath tickles Kiyoomi’s ear. “No,” he whispers, “I’m going to make love to you.”

A long pause.

Kiyoomi blinks at him. His throat is dry. “How fucking dare you,” he rasps. “And you say I’m the mushy one? I’ll divorce you again, Tsumu, watch me fucking do it.”

And yet he’s blushing, he’s blushing so hard.

Atsumu pulls him closer, arm curling around his waist. “No ya won’t,” he whispers, tinkling mirth pouring out from his eyes. “Even though that would probably be the funniest thing we could ever do.”

Kiyoomi tilts his head and smiles. “It would be,” he agrees, his voice soft. “And yet we could be doing something else instead.”

“Atsumu.”

“Kiyoomi.”

He tilts his head up, and his lips part out of their own volition. “Make love to me.”

Atsumu closes the distance. The kiss is unbearably tender.

Their pace is slow, their murmurs soft, the tangle of their bodies so simple and familiar.

And as they merge into each other, they promise not to let go ever again.