words i wanted you to tell me.

the rest of the morning feels horrible for everybody. an obvious damper in the air as no one is feeling energized or static enough to proceed with the rest of the day’s practice.

if it wasn’t so sunny outside, hinata swears, he could hear thunder and lightning flashing so dramatically.

“obviously we’re all not feeling great this morning.” meian starts, addressing everyone on the team as they all huddle around each other. “some more than others.”

atsumu sees the pointed look his team captain gives him. he does his best to look to the side and ignore it.

“but, regionals are coming up, and that means i need everyones heads to be in the game.”

atsumu knows he hasn’t been the best teammate today, but can they really blame him? he wasn’t just picking on them for no reason. the serves really were weak and the timing and the tempos of the plays were just plain subpar.

if he was in a good mood, then fine, sure, maybe, he would have relayed those criticisms better, be gentler and nicer.

but tough shit, because today, he’s not.

today, he is in an awful, horrible, terrible mood, and the team’s below-average play was just making everything worse.

“so, why don’t we all take a break?” meian’s voice cuts him out of his slump, and for the first time all morning, his shoulders pick up a bit in anticipation. “how does thirty minutes sound?”

thirty minutes sounds great – fantastic, even.

but not for him to take a break, no - no way. there’s absolutely no time for that.

because right now, as meian speaks (so awfully slow, atsumu thinks) you are currently 15 minutes away from his gym stadium, tucked away in an opera theatre with one of your classmates, watching a performance you’re assigned to write an essay on.

and usually, he’s cool with things like that, it’s normal for you to go on university trips with your friends. your major takes you all over japan for the amount of assignments it has you accomplishing, after all.

but for some reason, this time he’s not. this time he can’t be cool with it.

this time it gets under his nerves so much that it just about makes him want to explode at a wall.

this time you aren’t with the friends he’s met before. this time you’re with someone new, someone assigned to watch the show with you, and it’ll be someone he’s never met, just the two of you there, in the theatre, in the dark, alone.

he’d yell at a floor if he could.

now, he isn’t a jealous person. he really, really, really isn’t.

and when you both left the house this morning, he’d given you a kiss on the cheek with his usual sly grin, an i love you to start the day, and a promise that he’d pick you up when he can.

but the second you left his sight, it was like it all suddenly hit him.

you. a guy. alone. in a theatre.

you were basically going on a date.

and that puts a very, very awful taste in his mouth.

“alright you rats,” meian sighs as he takes a look at the team he’s talking to, no one seemingly paying attention anymore after the minute he said ‘break’, “be back in thirty. i mean it.”

and that was all the cue atsumu needed to hear. one second he’s breaking from the team huddle, and the next he’s bolting out the door.

“be back in thirty or it’s diving drills for all of you!”

atsumu glances on his wristwatch as he runs, he’s got about thirty minutes on the clock and you’re about fifteen minutes away from him by foot. he didn’t bring his car today and really, just from the practice alone this morning, his heart rate is already up by a dozen.

he can’t afford to slow down now. so, he’ll just have to run faster.

this is fine — better than yelling at the floor, at least.

“so, how about that performance, huh?”

you look up from your watch as your classmate’s voice cuts through your thoughts. he’s standing to your right, awkwardly distanced, but a decent amount of feet away that he’s not so close.

is it bad that you don’t remember his name?

“it was okay.” you give him a polite smile, scratching your cheek in instinct as you make polite conversation.

“i thought it died down a bit during that final part though.”

“i noticed that too,” he gives you a smile back, “it did lose momentum.”

the conversation is very polite, quiet, riddled with pointless small talk to make up for the painful awkwardness wafting in the air.

you’ve got half a thought in the back of your mind to make up some lame excuse to just suddenly leave and go, but you still kinda feel a little bit sorry for the guy for being stuck with you on this project.

(plus there was that whole forgetting-his-name thing that something tells you you should feel guilty about.)

curse you, randomly assigned project partners.

despite having shared classes with mr. nameless over here and seeing him around campus a handful of times, the two of you never really interacted until this morning when you both met up for this theatre watching project.

you’d mentioned it to your husband in passing, and halfheartedly expected him to make a fuss about it, especially when you told him that it’d be another guy you were partnered with, but much to your surprise, he’s taken it pretty coolly ( a feat you weren’t aware he was capable of ).

now though, as the show just ended and the two of you wait in front of the theatre for the next bus to arrive, the air is filled with a thick awkward silence that you hope when the bus does come, it goes in the complete opposite direction of where he’s headed to.

you’d almost feel bad for the guy for having to withstand such awkwardness if it wasn’t for the fact that you hoped he’d just walk away and leave.

“you wouldn’t happen to be free after this, would you?”

the silence comes to an end when he turns to you, hand on the back of his neck, cheeks slightly flushed.

so much for just walking away and leaving.

his voice seems quieter now, less whole, and he’s pretty much looking at every other thing except for you, “i just noticed that it’s around lunch now and well, maybe we could grab some food together and continue discussing the show?”

now, you wish the bus would arrive and just run you down on the spot.

what do you even say? surely, not his name, you can’t even remember it.

if atsumu was here right now, he would absolutely lose his shit, maybe even yell, or cause a scene, but that’d be enough to rescue you from this highschool confession scene about to unravel, but he’s not and he’s busy and far away and–

“hey, did i miss the show or sum’n?”

you blink. was your husband a genie or something? suddenly appearing out of nowhere each time your little heart calls for him?

“tsumu?” you’re more excited than surprised, “what’re you doing here?”

instead of answering you, your very sweaty husband turns to look at the guy you’re with instead. the very guy who’s been tormenting him all morning in that sweaty little head of his.

he is so not impressed.

“miya atsumu,” he says suddenly, almost scoffing, and he wipes the sweat from his forehead as he straightens his posture, and with that same sweaty hand of his, he extends it out for your classmate to shake. “nice to meet ya.”

your classmate gives you a nervous laugh, looking at you more than the odd and suspiciously sweaty man in front of him.

he asks, smile breaking a little bit, “miya?”

“yup.” atsumu replies bluntly, and he’s got that punchable smirk of his on his face again, “miya.”

where was that bus when you needed it?

“nice to meet you too.” your classmate gives him a short reply, that same polite smile he gave you earlier now appearing not-so confident, and he grimaces slightly as he shakes your husband’s hand.

you try not to laugh — it wouldn’t be polite.

the next bus is forgotten though after that gruesome little handshake as your poor, poor classmate suddenly gets a text from - apparently - his mother, asking him to walk back home right this instant.

you tell him you understand and that it’s okay and that you hope he gets home safe.

and you both ignore the fact that his phone has been in his pocket this entire time, and that neither of you saw him get any text at all.

really, you owe him for putting him through such awkwardness, but when you remember his name, you’ll remember to return the favor.

once he leaves — rather hurriedly — it’s just the two of you now, you and your very sweaty husband.

“hey, what’re you doing here?” you ask him for real thus time, less surprised now and more pleased to see him so suddenly, “did you finish already?”

atsumu finally gives his attention on you, and just like magic (genie magic?) his sly and obnoxious demeanor changes into something so much more familiar.

he deflates a little bit, now that it’s just you around, and you’re grateful that the cool japan air has dried down most of his sweat before he envelops you in a hug.

“nope.” atsumu shakes his head, melting away in your embrace, “meian gave us a thirty minute break, i thought i’d swing by.”

you push him off, and you tilt your head at him, brow raising, “but it’s more than a mile away?”

“yeah.” he gives you a nervous laugh and his ears pink up just a little bit, “yer telling me.”

so, maybe, he didn’t take it as coolly as you had initially thought. maybe you did marry a very jealous man who would run over a mile to come see you.

but that’s okay too, because your cheeks hurt from smiling so much at that fact.

“does this have anything to do with the text sakusa sent me earlier?” you give him a knowing look, smile teasing.

“depends.” atsumu squints his eyes. “whadd’he say?”

“something along the lines of “help. come. right now.”, does that make any sense at all to you?” you raise a brow, and you cross your arms over your chest as you ask.

“nope. not at all.”

“oh, you are evil when you’re jealous.”

“i am so not jealous.”

“you so are.”

it’s easy to tease him when he’s like this. all flustered and pink in the ears, and the toothy smile on his face makes you forget that he could ever be seen as anything remotely close to scary or intimidating.

you give him a soft kiss on the cheek. “thanks for coming to see me.”

“i did it all for my sake.” he tells you, scratching the back of his neck, “sorry.”

“reminds me, shouldn’t you be getting back by now?”

atsumu takes a quick look at his watch, it’s almost that thirty minute mark meian gave him for his break, and he knows, all too well, that he’ll get another earful of it when he gets back.

you see him look worried for a moment.

not to say that he wouldn’t deserve it. he knows now — now that he isn’t blinded with all consuming jealousy — that fine, maybe, maybe, he might’ve been an asshole today.

but he’s back to himself now, and he really didn’t want to do any of those diving drills.

“come on, let’s go back now, i’ll come with you.” you take his hand in yours as you tug him to make a progressive step.

he perks up a little bit, “you will?”

“well, you need all the help you can get sweet talking everyone back into believing you haven’t been a jackass to them all morning.”

“that’s different.” you level a stare at him, one that’s serious and fierce and that communicates everything you mean in the single look alone. he meets it with one of his own, familiarity and uncommunicated languages all the rage between the two of you. “she doesn't make me cum.”

“neither does yer boyfriend.” he shrugs, taking another large bite of his burger as you screech in offense. your hand meets his bicep with a sharp slap and he grabs at it in pain. “ow! ya were the one that told me that!”

”some people take a minute to figure it out.”

”sounds like its taking a lot longer than a minute.” he mutters to himself. “look, its a lost cause. just dump the guy before it gets anywhere. ya haven’t had sex yet, he’s got a weird face, dude cant tell a fake orgasm from a real one. why are ya fighting me on this?”

“fingering is sex! your body count would be zero if fingering didnt count.” you insist loudly and atsumu rolls his eyes. he crumples the foil his burger came in and throws it across the room, cheering loudly when it makes it into the bin in the corner of his room. 

his room is much the same since the last time you visited. photos of passing years sit framed on the desk— an image of he and osamu with their arms wrapped around each other, taken right before atsumu left for the olympics. another of you and atsumu placed right next to it, you leaning over his shoulder and him laughing loudly, beer bottles held deftly in hands and drunken flushes decorating your faces. momentos of faded high school memories, interspersed with flashes of young adult realities. 

its more sophisticated than it once was. minimal in furniture, and of the items that decorate the room they’re the perfect reflection of a twenty-four year old athlete. his closet is lined with designer gifted clothes, but his desk chair remains stacked with undone laundry, the basics of his everyday life found in the plush cushion more than on the hangers. the jacket you’re currently wearing was stolen from the top of that pile just after delivering a pointed comment at how cold he keeps his apartment. 

its a far cry from the bedroom he used to share with his brother, the one you remember at the dusk of previous memories. it was cramped and contained, lines between the two boys constantly blurred and you having to learn rather quickly where to step and when. but even now, as he lives on his own in a city a bit further from you than you’re comfortable with, not much has changed. you still sit on the left side of the bed and he takes the right; you still eat burgers on his bed and steal his jackets, and he throws papers into trash bins and insists he could’ve made it professional were he not already in volleyball; you still moan and complain about the woes of daily life and he still listens to them endlessly, interjecting the same amount of dumb enthusiasm as you know him to have. 

there is still much in common that remains between he and you. trusted familiarity, endless comfort; a bubble that remains whole and precious, unaltered despite life dealing its hand to you. you’re convinced there’s no one else in the world that gets you quite like atsumu does. 

there’s also no one in the world that works you up, quite like atsumu does.

atsumu stands from the bed, retrieving your own trash from your lap and chucking the rest of it in the bin. lithe and lean, he moves with a body that is sculpted to perfection as he turns off the overhead light and instead turns on the desk lamp, submerging the room in the lowly warmth of its glow. days are shorter now and the sun has just made it return home, leaving you to the dim luster of a pleasant comfort. 

its quiet, intimate. words entirely inappropriate to describe the weekly hangout with your best friend of seven years. 

pushing thoughts aside, you fight to remember what the whole point of the conversation was about. a boyfriend, right. your boyfriend.

right. 

“and he does not have a weird face, he’s just… interesting. it’s what i liked about him.” 

“revolting. i’m this close to spiking a ball in his face. it would be plastic surgery for the dud.”

“you’re being mean.” you tell him. 

atsumu scoffs loudly, “and yer being stupid! yer the one that’s complaining to me about it. yer really gonna date a guy who can’t figure it out when he fingers ya? what happens when ya actually have sex with the bozo?”

“it takes practice. i don’t blame him for not being able to get me there on the first try. i see him later tonight so i’ll talk to him about it. it’s hard to figure out how to turn someone on and then try to, you know, get me there—“

“woahwoahwoah—timeout.” atsumu hold his hands perpendicular to one another, forming a ‘t’. his eyebrows practically touch the hairline of his bleached hair. “he doesn't even turn you on?”

“not everyone is good at everything, like you.” you mean it sarcastically, but it comes out short and meek. it’s embarrassing to have to cover for the misgivings of your current beau, but there’s an obligation to. a point to make, especially to the man in front of you. 

you’ve met the ex-girlfriends, heard their feedback for the man before you. an average of six out of ten in boyfriend material, but he knocks the ball out of the park when it comes to the bed—or so you’ve heard. 

(aya, the most recent girl to have made her grand exit, followed you on instagram and asked you to not be a stranger. whether that was so she could have her in for atsumu or because she really wanted to be friends is still up for debate, but the gesture ended with a message in your directs.

[9:17] it sucks, he’ll always be more in love with volleyball than any girl he could ever date. and even if he didn’t, you’re his number two anyway, so there’s really no way i can win.

[9:20] i’m super sorry, aya. if it’s any consolation, i really liked you two together. he’s just slow, i’m sure you guys will figure it out.

[9:20] you were our biggest argument. 

[9:20] so no, i don’t think we will.

[9:21] i’ll miss that dick tho, best orgasm of my life. rip

there’s not much you can say to a message like that. there’s not much you can say to the surge of smugness that courses through you either, so you don’t.

you don’t tell atsumu about it.)

“alright. sit up then.”

his voice startles you. “what?” 

suddenly, he stands before the side of the bed, looming horribly tall over you as he peers down at you. he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, the fabric unintentionally pulling down ever so slightly and the waistband of his black boxers peeking out in greeting. the light of the desklamp casts a halo over his silhouette.

your attention is drawn upward and it’s hard to deny the familiar pang that tends to strike through you every so often in times like this. the simple effect of being near him. atsumu is unfairly handsome, and while it’s hard to put a name to the feeling that pulses inside of you when the light catches him just right or when a smile is even more charming than usual, the ache is always the same.

it’s fleeting, you convince yourself. something you refuse to settle on for too long. contexts and suppressed hopes pushed to the back of your mind along with the other unspoken things.

“come on.” he gestures two fingers upward. “i’ll show ya how easy it is to turn a girl on.”

its curiosity that has you standing up on your knees on the comforter, nothing more. its the wonder of how exactly your best friend makes his move on women that leads you to be so close to him, chests practically touching. breaths intertwining as atsumu stares a kind of serious into you that you’ve never been in the receiving end of before.

“im gonna touch ya.” his voice is low and your heart beats erratically in your chest. you nod. 

lifting his right hand, cold fingertips run across the heated skin on the back of your arm. digits trailing upward as he paints a pathway up. and it’s nothing—just his hand on your arm, nothing new or different, and yet your breath hitches. innocent in theory, but something solidifies on atsumu’s face, the familiar signs of determination playing out on his face. it’s less babied now, more formed and angular with the growings of an adult man, but it’s the same focus in his eye, the same clench in his jaw. 

his fingers trail up then down, repeating a circular figure on your skin. the sounds of your mingling breaths the only whispers between you two. your eyes dart down to his lips, but his stay fixed on you. studying every flicker of your eye, every inhale. 

his fingers break from their pattern and trails down to your wrist, then your palm, then your own fingers. tracing them, dancing with them, intertwining them slightly only to pull them away. 

“we should stop.” you whisper after a moment of his caress.

“why?” he asks and a quick glance to his gaze reveals that he knows why. he’s just making you spell it out.

it’s unfortunate that the only reason you want to stop is out of principle, and not because you truly have any reservations about any of this. your boyfriend of three months all but an annoying buzz in your ear.

“this feels like cheating.” you tell him simply. atsumu cocks his head to the side, charming smirk pulling across his lips. 

“i’m touching yer arm. this isn’t anything, yet.”

“you shouldn’t be touching my arm like this.”

“why? cause it’s working, right?” his voice drops to a low rumble, words vibrating through you and shooting straight to your core. “see how easy it is?”

“that means this is cheating then, right?” the question is posed, but it’s obvious it’s more to convince yourself than him. because all that he’s done is touch your arm and you’ve felt the bubbling of that unnamed something heat within you. it feels the exact same as it did seven years ago when you met him; feels identical to the moment four years ago when a drunken night led to a drunken kiss that was forgotten about the next day; feels the exact same whenever he looks at you like he does now, like you're open for the taking. a pointedly very different response to the dread that comes when getting intimate with your actual boyfriend. 

and while atsumu may be doing this to prove a point, to rub it in your face that he was right and you were wrong, you don’t trust that you’ll be able to not carry this with you. to not want more than you should. 

“nah.” he says simply, knowingly. “if i kiss you then it’s a problem.”

“oh, so kissing is cheating, but fingering isn’t?”

“can you shuddup? always runnin’ that damn mouth.” he renders you quiet. 

satisfied with your silence, he brings his left hand to cup your jaw, thumb and index finger grasping your chin and tilting your head to the left, leaving your neck exposed. he leans in, nose tracing a line up the column of your neck until he meets the juncture between that and your jaw. it’s a simple movement, and yet it feels like eternity in his hands. his breath hits steadily against the expanse of your cheek as he whispers into your ear.  “does he touch ya like this?” 

the gasp you release is guttural.

the arm previously fiddling with your fingers quickly wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him. you have no choice but to embrace him with your own arms, hands cupping the back of his neck to steady yourself. it’s impulse to run them down the expanse of his back, to feel the muscles that he’s worked so hard for, but you resist. keeping yourself locked on his neck and nothing more, as though you being pliant to his ministrations wasn’t jeopardizing enough.  

his thumb inches upward, stroking the corner of your lips sweetly. “does he take his time with ya? cause i would.” 

its then that his lips meet the skin of your neck, tingles erupting from the connection. all of its effects causing an inadvertent clench within you. “it’s not about shoving fingers inside and just doing it. its about doing it the way you like it. and i’d make ya tell me how ya like it. since yer always runnin’ that damn mouth, might as well put it to good use.”

its all-encompassing, the traitorous burn between your thighs. and yet, this is the unnamed something, all that you’ve pushed away.

“astumu—” you whine and its in that exhale of yours that he releases a sigh of his own. one that almost sounds restrained.

“tell me to stop.” he says quickly, lips mouthing against your neck as he utters the words. 

and you don’t want him to. not really. the desire is feverish, unlike anything you’ve felt before and to end this is to end the sweetness of something you’ve yet to taste. if it were to be with anyone you would want it to be with him.

you could take the teasing, the “i-told-you-so” from osamu, the obliteration of a friendship for the uncertain promise of something more. but it isn’t right. not like this. if mountains were to come to a head, you want it to happen because they were gravitated to each other, not because the earth told them to do so.

“stop.” you tell him, and it’s like a hot brand that strikes him. he’s immediately pushing away from, untangling his limbs from you and stepping back into the swath of darkness in the room. 

his breaths are deep and heavy, that much you can tell from the distance. shuttering exhales that wrack his chest. you can hardly make out his irises, only see the intensity of dark pupils. it’s hard to believe that he could be feeling the way you do, just from the simple touch alone. a quick glance down to his grey sweatpants proves otherwise. 

a moment, then two, pass by. ragged breaths filling the distance, words spoken in the silent language you’re both fluent in. 

“does this mean i’m easy then?” you ask quietly, an effort to ease the wall of tension. 

“no.” he shakes his head gently, “just means i know ya.”

he knows what he means to say, the words and all of their yearning practically knocking against his teeth to escape. it’s the long haul, almost a decade long game of carefully advanced chess pieces to get to this point. blocked, temporarily, by the appearance of the new guy. a boyfriend of yours that atsumu met once, a guy he barely attempted to learn the name of. for reasons of his own, their knowing pertinent only to him. held deeply within the urges of being seen, the desires of having you wholly, completely.

there are plenty of other ways that he could do this—probably be more eloquent about it. admit pushed away feelings when you’re not in the midst of ranting about how your boyfriend just can’t get you off. 

but the tension irks him. thick enough to cut a knife, always following the two of you in the long held stares and closeness in which you two gravitate towards each other. the answer to your boyfriend problem is standing right in front of you. he knows what he wants you to do when you see your boyfriend later tonight. 

there are certain shoes that atsumu is convinced he could fill better than your boyfriend.

your face is flushed, and the desk lamp makes you look angelic under the lowlights, and you're wearing his jacket like you always do in a way that makes him believe it was always meant for you. and he’s not entirely convinced, even without the cloud of lust that hangs over him, that you don’t want this just as bad as he does.

osamu once said that atsumu wouldn’t admit his feelings to you even if they hit him over the head. they’re here, now. settling in the distance between you two, bobbing in the capsizing waves of want. they ache to be spoken, knock repeatedly against his gritted teeth. 

but a choice is made in that moment, with you looking at him as wild as you are. atsumu will admit to the selfish and prideful part of himself, but this—you— aren’t something to just take. the taste of your neck, the feel of your body against him, it must be given to him, earned. not because he needs to make a petty point, but because you want him to. 

he cares for you too much to be reckless in how he plays his cards. even if osamu will bust his balls for it later.

you have a boyfriend. and he can’t force you to change that. it wouldn’t be right, he’s given you the taste, he hopes it will be enough.

“like that.” he says after a moment, pushing down his pride and long held desires for you. “tell him ya like it like that.”