Kiyoomi staggers into the dorm’s living room, tipsy and weightless after a drinking session with Motoya. Atsumu is asleep on the couch.
God, he’s handsome, and not in an adoring way. It’s more in the he-wants-to-do-A-LOT-of-inappropriate-things-with-him way.
Kiyoomi kneels in front of the couch. Self-control dimmed by alcohol, his fingers hover over Atsumu’s face and trace the slopes and valleys—his nose, his lips, his jaw, his cheekbones.
He’s not touching but it’s close, so close.
There's a meager centimeter in distance between his skin and Atsumu’s, if he could wager a guess.
The temptation to touch, to kiss, sweeps him in a tornado of longing so overwhelming it feels like he’s being flayed.
He hears Atsumu groan. He pulls his hand back and stands up so quickly he almost falls over. Kiyoomi hopes he hasn’t been caught.
“You should move to your bedroom, Miya. You’re ruining my magnificent view of the living room,” he taunts, arms crossed.
“Yer view is magnificent because I’m in the living room, Omi.”
“I’m always so impressed by the levels of conceitedness you reach, Miya. Sometimes I’ll think you hit your ceiling and then you outdo yourself somehow,” he retorts, lips curled in disgust.
“That’s a lot of words to say I’m great at surpassin’ my limits, Omi-kun. Sounds like a compliment to me!”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Only you would take that as a compliment.”
“Yeah? Well, yer the only one who’d insult me and look so riled up while doin’ so.”
“Riled up? Who’s riled up? You’re delusional.”
“Huh. So the fact that yer breathin’ faster than usual and yer pupils are dilated is what? Jus’ a figment of my imagination?”
“Did anyone ever tell ya yer a bad liar, Omi-kun?”
“No, because I’m telling the truth.”
Atsumu shrugs. “So ya weren’t hoverin’ over me and fantasizin’ about kissin’ me or anythin’ like that, right?”
“Wha—I—were you—“ he sputters, before indignation and denial take over. “Absolutely not!”
Atsumu gets up and stretches his hands above his head, the hem of his shirt riding up to show the V on his hips and his scrumpti—shut up brain. He whistles as he bypasses Kiyoomi and makes his way to his own bedroom.
When Atsumu gets to the threshold, he turns around and says, “I’m not lockin’ my door, Omi. I heard the rest of the team is out until tomorrow. If ya need anythin’, anythin’ at all, jus’ knock.”
He does not miss the way Atsumu licked his lips after he said “Omi”. Unfortunately.
The door closes with a soft click, and Kiyoomi is mortified by how much his body wants to sprint towards Atsumu’s door.
He’s strong. He’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. He can resist temptation. He can do this.
His room is the door after Atsumu’s.
Kiyoomi bites his lips, momentarily considering fleeing the dorm and sleeping over at Motoya’s apartment. He shakes his head. That’s a coward’s way out. He’s not a coward.
His legs are quivering as he walks towards his room. He’s definitely going to his room and not—
His feet stop in front of a clumsily written sign that says “MIYA” thumbtacked in front of the door. In Kiyoomi’s dream, nightmare, and reality, it also refuses to move.
He sighs, loathing himself for the decision he knows he’s about to make. He knocks.
“Come on in, Omi. My bed’s warm.”
He hears the smirk in Atsumu’s voice beyond the closed door and sighs again. He’s fucking cursed. If the curse happens to be his humiliating “crush on Miya Atsumu”, it’s no one else’s business but his own.
He opens the door and closes it behind him.
I’m thinking of turning this into a pwp at some point, but who knows when I’d finish that one. Writing smut is my weakness. I take so long to write them.
