0.

It’s close to 1 in the morning when his phone buzzes, and Atsumu is nowhere near sober enough to comprehend the texts appearing on his screen. 

He squints, blearily, trying to decipher through giant blobs of colour who exactly the notification is from, almost regretting the drinking contest he went up (and won!) against Aran. Next to him, Suna isn’t doing much better, for once phone left unguarded on the tabletop where he’s slumped. Aran and Kita are off in some corner, doing god knows what, and the only one remotely sober is Osamu, their designated driver, still picking at the leftover onigiri. There’s a particular glint in his eye that Atsumu knows means that he’s busy doing some particular chef analysis with the ingredients and god knows what else, so he resigns himself to swiping at the messages. 

Omi-Omi: Remember we’re both practising our sets tomorrow 

  Do not be late.                                          

Atsumu rereads the message twice, before throwing his phone (as gently as he can while drunk) with a loud groan.

“Fuck Sakusa Kiyoomi. Honestly”

Osamu turns his head around at the loud proclamation, before wordlessly joining Atsumu on the table next to him, retrieving Atsumu’s phone along the way. Instead of handing it to Atsumu like a sane person, he whacks his shoulder with it - ignoring his cry of pain - prompting Atsumu to monologue on “Stupid, Stupid Sakusa Kiyoomi and his stupid, stupid rules and stupid, stupid face.”

Osamu seems content to let him continue rambling, but with an unexpected amount of effort, Suna props himself up on the table, fully facing Atsumu.

“You’re kind of obsessed with Sakusa, aren’t you?”

Atsumu sputters.

His new fixation is one born of superiority. Not in volleyball - it doesn’t take a genius to notice Sakusa Kiyoomi’s sharp instincts and sheer skill - but in charm. Like, let alone having suaveness - hell, Sakusa’s Kiyoomi’s face is probably stuck in a perpetual line of disgruntle and disappointment - which occasionally curves up at a specific angle between 5 and 8 degrees when he looks down upon you, mocking. 

And if Atsumu perhaps thinks it’s a shame, considering his face, he isn’t drunk enough to admit that - even to himself. 

“Komori San did tell me Sakusa’s an emotional guy though”, Kita hums vaguely enough, having seemingly emerged from the deepest corners of the bar to provide sage wisdom on the perpetual disposition of Kiyoomi. Suna vigorously nods, before attempting to trawl his endless gallery for an almost certainly photoshopped image of Sakusa smiling.

“Omi cannot smile. It’s like. Statistically impossible.” 

Even imagining it sends a flush throughout his body. In horror. Of course. 

“You know what I think?” Osamu finally drawls, resting his chin upon his palm with a grin, and Atsumu suddenly feels a flicker of fear. “Tsum-Tsum here”, he helpfully adds, pinching his cheeks with a saccharine grin, “simply isn’t funny enough for Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

How. Dare. He. 

Atsumu’s face blooms scarlet. As if he could never be enough for that stuck-up prick. Sakusa Kiyoomi should feel lucky that he even spends time with him! A man who doesn’t know how to handle social interaction and function without the help of a 5-metre radius from everyone should feel honoured Atsumu even takes pity to keep trying!

"How dare ya say I'm not funny enough for Sakusa Kiyoomi!" 

Osamu takes one look at the petulant expression on his face and starts laughing even harder, and Atsumu suddenly decides that no, perhaps it isn't too late to repent for the fact he never ate him in his mother's womb.  

Before another full brawl can break out between the two of them, Aran holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

“We could always settle it using a wager.”

Atsumu grins, foxlike and sharp, before turning to Osamu. 

“If I manage to get a smile out of Sakusa Kiyoomi within 3 months, you’ll agree I’m the funnier twin and give me an entire 2 weeks’ free supply of your onigiri.”

There are very few things Atsumu likes to almost surely bet on - examples being volleyball, Bokuto’s ability to break the sound barrier when calling Akaashi, and Osamu’s ability to be an annoying, stuck-up ass. 

Osamu hums, before holding out his hand with mock solemnity.

“A week and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

The newest addition to the list? Sakusa Kiyoomi’s unflinching jawline. 

1.

There are 10 minutes left into the first game of the season in Tokyo, in a gym with over 3000 fans when Atsumu Miya lines up one of the last serves of the game. Though the distant cheering of the crowd is inspiring to some of the players - he knows Bokuto thrives off it, hell, in any other situation he would too - but this close to a victory - close enough he can nearly sink his teeth in - he can’t afford any slip-ups - any uncontrolled variables. The weight of the ball rests heavy and fits perfectly in the groove of his palm - but he doesn’t let the familiarity of the scene fool him into forgetting that playing against the Adlers is different from when it’s just practice matches. 

And though it may frustrate him, well. If there’s one thing life has taught him through a myriad of scraped elbows and bruised dreams, it’s how to channel that spark of anger. 

Atsumu smiles, fox-like and vicious as he hits a perfect serve toss - one slightly low, but still powerful enough to reach a fellow teammate, the resounding thwack memory at his point - comfortable enough to elicit a familiar welling up of nostalgia and competition. His eyes dart across the court, analysing the trajectory of the ball as it sails cleanly across the set (perfect path, his inner voice internally trills) - until the ball is smacked back against an impenetrable block of players, and he lands back on his feet, back in high-school again and staring at the faces of the triumphant team in front of him.

Damn it. This isn’t working. 

The frustration he’s feeling is clear in the eyes of his other teammates - he can see it reflected across Ninja Shoyou’s face - can see it in the way Adriah’s grin strains a little at the edges - the way Oliver’s hands tighten imperceptibly. 

But it’s nothing compared to the analytical grin Sakusa sports - eyes narrowed and face scowling, as though trying to figure out the key to cracking the game open. 

And then his gaze shifts - and there’s a flicker of something colder underneath, gone after an instant, and it hits Atsumu like a bolt of lightning. 

It makes him grin - makes him want to try something impulsive. 

“Omi-kun”, he continues, deliberately pitching his voice low so that the others can’t hear. “Trust me, yeah?”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Sakusa give Atsumu a long look, before dropping his hands to his sides.

It’s all the cue he needs for him to recklessly set the ball high up into the air. His body moves into a long-remembered dance, fluid and fast as he steps into motion, habit honed into instinct at this point. One step, two, three—he loses count and jumps, calloused hand slamming into the sweat-sticky leather of the volleyball. The ball sails upwards - a dazzling comet to the rest of the court and a thinly veiled demand.

Well? Hit it. 

There’s no doubt that Sakusa Kiyoomi is a brilliant player - there have been enough interviews - reports and articles on his “potential” and “style”.

But it’s one thing to read about it - and one thing to see his eyes twitch as he analyses the path of the ball in a way that is so perfectly like him - see his body flex as he responds to the arc of the ball, sending it perfectly across the court - the sharp zing through the air lost to the quick frenzy of players rearranging themselves to the unpredictable spin that he’s known for. Hirugami goes up too, but it’s a split second too late - and the thud of the ball as it hits the court is lost to the applause. 

Though he can feel the confused exclamations from Hinata and feel more than hear Bokuto loudly screeching in his ear, Atsumu doesn’t pause to think before carefully bumping a jersey-clad shoulder against Sakusa’s briefly. 

“Omi-kun”, he lightly drawls - giddy on adrenaline and excitement, inhibitions lowered now that one of his reckless decisions has already paid off. “No celebration?”

Sakusa sharply cuts his gaze away as he makes a soft noise under his breath - though not fast enough to completely hide the smirk he’s sporting - nor hide the familiar spark in his eyes.

“Your set was too far left.” 

Fingers twitching, almost hesitant to reach out, Sakusa walks off to address the Adlers. 

Demanding bastard, he thinks, but he’s still wearing a foxy grin as he trots behind him, maintaining a careful distance as they go. 

He tries not to think about the half-hidden smirk on his face - and the near brush of their fingertips. He dimly wonders if it’d feel like electricity - like the same thrum of lightning whenever he sets a volleyball into motion - like fingers fluttering an instant before locking together for impact.

2.

The sun has barely risen by the time the rest of the Jackals are up on their bus. 

This, however, has done nothing except possibly increase the amount of vigour in Bokuto's voice as he sings another slurring edition of the latest hit on the radio. Even though Atsumu's 90% sure this counts in some way as a violation of the Geneva Conventions with the way it pierces through his skull, he's frankly not awake enough to comprehend much. He could bother Hinata into doing something, but unfortunately, said Hinata is currently miming a conductor with such zeal that Atsumu perhaps wonders if there's any lost love between Shoyou and music. 

Meian ends up coming to their rescue, turning around and glaring at them with such wither and vitriol that it could rival Omi. Bokuto eventually shuffles back into his seat near Shoyou, as the bus quiets back down to a volume reminiscent of a traffic jam in the suburbs. 

However, as an unceasing panic starts to set in suddenly, Atsumu wryly ponders that perhaps Bokuto’s one-man band was the only thing loud enough to drown out the large thumping of his heart as he sits next to Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

At rest, like this, the sharp angles of his face smoothen out, light playing over his features with a soft, golden glow - an unintentional side effect from his constant attempts to find a comfortable sleeping position (though judging from the angle chosen, Atsumu can almost foresee the inevitable funk Kiyoomi’s going to be in due to an excess of kinks in his neck.) 

The bus rolls over a peaceful bump, and as though the universe is agreeing with Atsumu’s astute deduction, shifts Kiyoomi slightly, bobbing his still immaculate curls. Atsumu hums, turning the other way before freezing as he feels the bus jolt again - this time sending an irritated Omi straight into the space between the seat-

-And Atsumu’s shoulder. 

This close to him, Atsumu can feel the steady rhythm of Sakusa's breath - probably intensely regulated from all the yoga he does, because of course he does yoga - and can see the delicate curve of each of his eyelids, hooded and alluring. His moles are close enough for Atsumu to trace - and he has the irrational thought to try to connect them - like glittering stars in a night sky. 

As a particularly harsh sun ray strikes the window, Kiyoomi tsks, shying away like a vampire, Atsumu muses, before his heart rate kicks up another notch, and he stills, unmoving - because Sakusa Kiyoomi is now unconsciously nuzzling himself into the crook of Atsumu’s neck. 

His skin is impossibly soft, and his mouth twitches - curving imperceptibly - a facsimile of a smile. Studying him like this, unguarded and awash in the rosy sunlight, Atsumu can't help but feel faint at the sight of a completely unguarded Sakusa Kiyoomi - at the sight of him so peaceful.

So……..soft. 

So….human. 

He’s snapped back into reality by Bokuto's deep lungful of air, indicating another round of the song, and Adrian practically diving across the aisle to tackle him down. Despite his best attempts at stifling his surprise, he shifts imperceptibly - but even that much is enough to send Sakusa skittering back like a cat, eyes blown wide.

The two of them spend the rest of the bus ride in silence, content to let Hinata's chatter fill the space in between - and if Atsumu still steals glances at Sakusa back, it's only to see if Sakusa is planning to turn around and smile.

Nothing more, and nothing less. 

3.

The bar is vaguely familiar to Atsumu the same way everything’s vaguely familiar when you’re seeing swirls in mid-air, and internally he thanks himself for not breaking out into a brawl with Osamu the last time he was here. The next thing he thinks to himself is about the stupid bet and the stupid, stupid man who’s been taking up nearly all of his waking hours with every waking syllable that comes out of his stupid mouth. For analysis. 

Or something. 

Atsumu would have made more of an effort to remember, but it’s not often that Meian gives them free rein to get as drunk as they like - a victory treat to celebrate another match won against the Adlers before they’re forced up at ungodly hours of the morning for their regular drills.

(After an entire day of recovery, of course, from the inevitable hangover everyone would be nursing. Meian may be harsh, but he’s not an absolute monster.)

His head is spinning, and he feels lighter than a feather, and Atsumu knows without a certainty he is not drunk - rather, almost certainly hammered. Not that it matters, because he still makes his way to the bar to get more drinks because why the fuck not, since he’s already past the point to care. 

It’s only when he’s halfway across the room, and he’s close enough to recognise Hinata and Kageyama furiously making out in the corner, that it dawns on him that the bar is the other way, and he sharply veers away from the sight. Before he can make it any further, he finds himself collapsing into the nearest barstool and leaning close to the nearest person he can see-

“What. Are. You. Doing.”

Atsumu distinctly recalls his previous prayer and then also dimly remembers the fact that the universe, in general, is a fucking joke. 

Oh, he faintly thinks, as he turns around to get a front-row view of Sakusa’s steely glare. Karma is a bitch. 

But hell, does intoxication suit Sakusa Kiyoomi - a slight sway in his hips as he turns to face him, moving to some melody that only he can hear, one that he’d very, very much like the lyrics for. His usually sharp gaze is a little unfocused as it wanders over the room, his over-bright, red-rimmed eyes making him look tired and ready for bed. Or getting into bed with someone, he thinks, ignoring the unfamiliar twang of indignation and anger, only if Sakusa Kiyoomi was the guy to get into one-night stands. 

Atsumu gives himself a little shake, telling himself not to stare. Of course, he’s a pretty drunk. 

He stares anyway. 

How can he not, when every single thing about him is just the right side of dishevelled – his cheeks flushed and his hair mussed in that lovely end-of-the-night sort of way that makes him want to pull him closer and run his fingers through it. The still perfect curls that now curl loosely around Sakusa’s neck, so at odds with his put-together appearance on the court, beg to be pulled around his fingers, Atsumu not letting go until he’s rumpled and breathless, and the only thing that is on the both of their minds are each other. He wanders vaguely forward, thinking of doing just that, and his gaze suddenly sharpens and snaps to him.

“Miya?” he says sharply, as though glimpsing Atsumu for the first time, and well. Atsumu doesn't cower, but he does take a step back. Slowly, his dark eyes shift up and down his body (checking you out a delicious voice whispers in Atsumu’s brain) and all of a sudden, his prickly shield slips, and he visibly slackens. 

"I've found you." He says, in what he thinks is a whisper. 

It is not - yet the breathy lilt of his voice makes it sound like an invitation. 

Atsumu is certain this is a ploy to somehow send him to an early grave - because there's no other explanation for why Sakusa Kiyoomi is currently saying what he's saying- and because there's no other explanation for the way his heart painfully stutters a beat when he hears those exact words. 

You're drunk, his brain ridiculous supplies back.

"I'm very much not drunk, thank you very much. I'm completely undrunk." Kiyoomi glares back as he puffs up like an adorable cat, and Atsumu faintly thinks he's never been more glad that Sakusa is the definition of a liquor snob - only drinking the finest (and strongest) wines. 

"Right." 

The frown between Kiyoomi's brow deepens, and oh, he's fucking grinning now, the urge to laugh bubbling up in his chest as Omi continues scowling like the contrarian he is.

"I'm serious! I can walk perfectly straight. "

The fond feeling in his chest only grows as he watches Sakusa attempt to walk away - before swaying and falling back into Atsumu's arm, content to nuzzle into his chest. Something pleasantly possessive aches along his bones at the thought that he is the only one who gets to see him like this – only him and not Hinata or Bokuto, who gets to see him sleepy and soft at the end of the day, whispering secrets and leaning close - eyes and words crystal clear and bright despite the low hum and mundanity that comes with sitting in a cheap dive bar.

“Stop that. Don’t smile at me. I know what you’re doing.”

“And what am I doing?”

“You’re trying to… seduce me.”

Atsumu blinks. 

Did he mishear that? Freudian slip? Can you Freudian slip with your hearing when you're drunk? Even so, he can’t help but frown a little. In all the years Atsumu has known Sakusa Kiyoomi, and further in all the years he’s heard from Suna and Komori - this evening’s behaviour is extremely atypical for him - he’s almost never seen Kiyoomi this drunk, let alone expect him to go search for him in such a state. 

Which is ridiculous. Because Sakusa Kiyoomi is aloof. Mysterious. Not someone like Atsumu, who feels too much and wants too much, half ready to carve his heart out of his chest if Kiyoomi would direct a smile at him. 

Atsumu blinks again. 

“Does that happen a lot?” he asks, in what he hopes is a tone that doesn’t scream Hey, Maybe in another world where I was a bit drunker, and you were just a random stranger, and we had no emotional baggage I’d be kissing you senseless, but here we are, and I’m totally not jealous, but also I may be a bit jealous, but it’s chill and totally fine. 

His life is a train wreck.

Sakusa seems to ponder the question, before lolling his head onto Atsumu’s shoulder with frightening ease.

“Perhaps. About 5 times in this room, though none of them were good enough to be partners. There’s a difference between partners and partners, of course.”

“Really?” He says, only slightly shocked at the fact that Kiyoomi’s been propositioned 5 times today alone. But damn, if that doesn’t hurt Astumu’s ego. He’s not even locked eyes with anyone or checked out someone today (present company excluded, of course).  “What sort of-”

Sakusa ploughs on as though he hasn’t heard him, even as his voice slowly becomes barely discernible under the cottony feeling in Atsumu’s mouth as his eyes roved over Kiyoomi’s curls and the chaotic din of the bar around them. 

“The next song, dance with me.”

Atsumu stopped short. “What?”

"Dance with me," he repeated, clumsily pushing himself off from Atsumu's hand that he forgot was lightly coiled around his extremely nice to-hold bicep. "The next song, whatever it is." 

"If you wanted to get rid of me, you could have just said-" 

"No!" Kiyoomi puts his hands on his shoulders, and for a second Atsumu fears that he might lose his balance - an absurd image that almost makes him laugh. "The song. The next. Let's dance," Sakusa mumbles, eyes glistening and breathing heavy, but gaze determined. It's silly, really, but there's something adorable in the way he gazes at Atsumu with the seriousness of a marriage proposal, and laughter bubbles up in his chest. It's foreign – this urge to tip his head back and let himself laugh in front of Sakusa Kiyoomi - but he just lets it out, conflicted by how easy it is - how familiar all of it feels. 

But God, it feels wonderful, this addictive cocktail of amusement and care that Atsumu wouldn’t have any other way.

“Alright”, Atsumu finally says fondly, as he feels the beat of the next song start up, and he gently brings Kiyoomi to the edge of the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”

The song that plays in the background is quiet and smooth, a woman crooning out to her lover, accompanied only by a guitar. Even then, Sakusa moves limply, eyes focused downwards as Atsumu lets him lead through a decently complicated half-step that seems to fit this song exactly despite their stiffness. As the song slowly began swelling towards the inevitable climax, Atsumu let his eyes rove over Sakusa Kiyoomi’s body - in the dip of his shoulders, in the half crook of his grin, in the glimmer yet distracted allure of his eyes as he looked towards their feet, which had stopped moving a long time back. 

“Something interesting down there?”

Kiyoomi looks back up, eyes unfocused and dazed, and Atsumu suddenly realises he’s close enough to smell the faint, barely perceptible smell of alcohol on his breath. 

Close enough to see the chapped corners of his mouth. 

Close enough to kiss, he startlingly thinks as he sees Kiyoomi move forward. 

Before Atsumu can think too hard about it, he nestles his head into the crook between his shoulder and neck and slips his hands down from his hips to his waist, his quiet crooning more of a vibration into his neck than an actual audible sound.

“Atsumu?” Kiyoomi finally murmurs, the name almost an inarticulate sound in his alcoholic muttering.

"Mh?"

“You know the thing about partners?” 

Atsumu nods, half distracted, distantly remembering the drunken ramblings.

"You're going to tell me which one I am?" He half-jokingly asks, almost expecting the answer to be something flippant.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, before indulging him anyway, leaning close to his ear, his next few words barely above a whisper. 

"You're the best kind."

He says it so carelessly - like it isn’t the most remarkable thing in the world. Like it’s just a fact of life, known and accepted and unchanging. The sky is blue, the earth is round, and he makes him ridiculously happy just because he's the "best" kind. Atsumu presses his lips together, embarrassed by the sudden rush of emotion in his chest.

"I-"

Whatever he's about to say next is drowned out by the large clinking of glass in the background, and all of a sudden the moment breaks - the both of them simultaneously moving apart. Kiyoomi still smirks at Atsumu, as though he knows precisely what he's doing to him.

Even when intoxicated, he still looks at him with a challenge in his eyes - still looks at him with a look that tells him that damned fool still wants to win. 

Atsumu’s not sure that he'd be entirely averse to losing at this point. 

But for God's sake, not tonight. Not when Atsumu still hasn't managed to crack a full smile on Sakusa's face.

"Drinks!" It's not quite the smooth recovery he hoped for, but Sakusa doesn't say a word, only tilting his head to the side as Atsumu makes his escape. 

As he perches himself onto a rickety barstool, the song shifts into something more upbeat- but the moment he shared with Sakusa Kiyoomi out of all people still replays in his mind - the slight tickle of his breath as it ghosted over his ears, the firm but gentle grip of his palm on Atsumu’s hips. A strange combination of feeling like he can’t quite catch his breath and somehow like he also just took the deepest, cleanest, fullest breath of his life comes over him, and he furrows his brows at the surprising pleasantness of it all. 

He suddenly wishes Sakusa was here, not that he’d be much help in the current situation. He’s probably trying to fantasise in peace about how victoriously he’d be able to crow his immunity to any hangovers and headaches over the rest of them (over Atsumu only, he reflects in hindsight). Sakusa’s a bit ridiculous like that. His drunken brain supplies ridiculously beautiful, and Atsumu suddenly remembers why exactly he’s drinking again.

To forget about stupid Sakusa Kiyoomi and his stupid theoretical smile and-

-and the bartender suddenly slams 3 shots on the countertop in front of him, moving forward to the next counter. Atsumu says a quick prayer for good health and good times before downing it all in one go, and he turns around to get up and chase the bartender back - only to bump into the man at the barstool over.

"Sorry!"

The other man grins at him, shirt half unruffled, and platinum dyed sticking out messily in a charming, roguish way.

"I'm sure a handsome stranger like you can make it up to me by buying a round for the both of us." 

Sure, Atsumu may have been half joking when getting offended when Sakusa Kiyoomi had been propositioned 5 times, if only for the fact that deep - very deep down, he knows that number is slightly improbable even for someone as great as him. But at the same time, that doesn’t necessarily mean Atsumu has never been flirted with - hell, it doesn’t mean Atsumu Miya is blind enough to miss the hungry way the stranger's eyes skim over his body. 

Had it been any other night, Atsumu would have probably made this a night to remember for the both of them - a night spent with a quick drink and an even quicker tussle in slick and sweat at some rundown hotel. But for some reason today, an extremely familiar man with black hair and a smile for some reason he’s sure would light up the entire room creeps into his mind.

The clink of glass on the countertop breaks his reverie, and he dimly realises he’s been staring at the man with a dopey grin - a fact which the man seems to revel in, preening under the dim lights as he leans closer - far too close for someone with innocent intentions. 

“Hope you don’t mind. I ordered one for us to share. It’d be awfully presumptuous of me if I didn’t bother to greet the most sinful man I’ve met tonight.”

Even though the sensible voice in his head currently blares about 3 different warning bells, Atsumu doesn’t move away - paralysed by the knowing look in his grin so exactly familiar to the one Kiyoomi was just wearing-

“Miya?”

The sensible voice in his head goes very quiet.

Atsumu turns around on the barstool, ignoring the hesitant voice asking whether he's already spoken for.

"Ah, Omi-kun, wait-"

Sakusa opens his mouth, but then shuts it, eyes flicking between the two of them.

"I'll leave you to your date. My apologies for interrupting."

Without even a second thought, Atsumu scrambles up, following Sakusa into the freezing air.

"Omi, it's just a stranger-"

Sakusa turns around, moonlight silhouetting him like a vengeful angel as he glares at Atsumu, apparent indifference to Atsumu's matters forgotten.

"Do not call me that. And don't take me for an idiot. "

For a brief second, Atsumu considers reaching out to Kiyoomi and his hand twitches - a move that doesn't seem to go unnoticed, given the brief flash of…sadness? that flits across his features. 

In the end, none of them moves - and Sakusa finally turns, inky curls glistening in the moonlight as he walks away, leaving Atsumu to sober alone in front of the bar.

And it’s just…… it’s so damned unfair- the way Kiyoomi looks so breathlessly stunning even leaving like this - and Atsumu suddenly feels a stabbing ache go through him at how badly he wants to run back and say sorry for something not even entirely his fault.

The best kind of partner, huh? 

How could he say such things when Atsumu hasn't even seen him smile even once? 

4.

When Atsumu first looks into his mini fridge after promptly dragging himself through another tortuous evening drill session with Meian, Atsumu swears he can hear his brother shout in his head at the dismal state of it. Normally, Atsumu would simply order something - rather than run all the way to experiment with ingredients from a completely new store - but he supposes that it's about time that he figures out how exactly Osamu just throws things in a pot and somehow produces the next culinary masterpiece. 

Midway through swiping through Japanese recipes, Atsumu sees an ad for a surprisingly appetising-looking sauce and impulsively decides that perhaps it’s time to try something new - and so he scours the internet for easy-to-make dishes and quickly swipes to a recipe for some soup he’s never seen before. 

Pho, the cheerful grandma says as she shows off her little stove top that looks nothing like Osamu’s meticulously arranged shelves - a fact that despite everything sends a small thrill through him. Osamu’s always been the showier one with food - cooked for precision, cooked to experiment and discover. 

Atsumu’s simply happy cooking for a sense of comfort - one this recipe seems to promise in spades. 

As he navigates the slightly off-beaten crossings, Atsumu muses about the strangeness of the situation - even he can admit Osamu is the real culinary twin - and the only other place he's ever tried to cook for himself is at their childhood home in Miyagi, a surprise downpour always chilling the tatami floor - which always made the food seem even more fresh, even more warm. Though in a way, it's not that much of a surprise - on the court, alongside Hinata's sunny disposition, Bokuto's cheer, and even Sakusa's frown he's found himself a new home amongst the rest of them - maybe not one that is perfect, but one that is inexplicably perfect for him.

After stepping into the chilly wonderland of supermarket air conditioning with the sound of a tinkling bell, Atsumu finds that all things considered, grocery shopping isn't too bad. Though it takes him a few unnecessary turns around all the aisles to locate all the produce he came here to buy (and a few other extra sweets because really, who knew they had such a varied selection of mochi?) Atsumu can triumphantly tick almost everything off his list - except a packet of glass noodles, which he thinks is right in the aisle in front of him. 

And there he sees it - a holy beacon nestled in between two other irrelevant packets of other pasta brands. He's lucky he came when he did - it seems to be the last one in the entire store, and it seems to beckon to Atsumu only till it’s cruelly snatched out of the aisle, to be rescued and imminently kidnapped and held for an indefinite ransom in some random thief's basket.

Luckily, Atsumu has been training for the past few years for this - being a jackal and more importantly, a twin of Miya Osamu meant always fighting for the best food, and so Atsumu reaches out to grab the other edge of the packet with enough dominance that he’s certain is bound to scare the other person away. He doesn’t bother tugging on the packet more than once - he sagely recalls that if done one too many times, your hidden desperation will reveal, which can become a tool that your enemy can use against you. 

“Miya?”

Atsumu feels a faint sense of déjà vu as he hurriedly drops the edge of the packet, jaw slackening in surprise.

While being Osamu's twin may have prepared him for a lot of things, it unfortunately did not prepare him to combat people who could stun Atsumu with a single glance. 

Then again, nothing really could prepare him for the immense self-rationalisation and gymnastics he'd have to go through against Sakusa Kiyoomi every single time.

Even dressed down and bathed in the most harsh of fluorescent lights, Sakusa still manages to maintain flawless posture and form. More importantly, Atsumu realises upon looking down into his shopping cart, that he's somehow managed to stack everything up in neat little rows and ensure it doesn't spill outside his basket. Atsumu is sure that if Osamu was here, he would weep at the forgotten opportunity to make Omi a top aisle organiser and perpetual employee of the month, and instinctively, he shies his basket away.

"Pho?"

"You’ve made it before?"

Sakusa furrows his brows harder, as though regretting the inevitable headache that appears whenever he's in Atsumu's vicinity. 

"If you're making Pho, why are you buying sugar? And so little garlic…." 

Scandalised, Atsumu snatches his basket back. Even if Sakusa hypothetically was right in the sense that he hadn't bothered to properly look at the exact quantities of ingredients, he did at least bother to call Osamu to let him know about his culinary foray! Or at least leave him a voice note after he didn’t pick up, most likely still busy with his restaurant! 

As though he can hear his inner monologue, Sakusa arches a single eyebrow at him, and Atsumu slumps over defeated. 

Fuck his stupid face. 

As though deciding that a socially acceptable amount of time has passed, the irritation on his face grows, and he picks up the basket, heading to the counter. 

“Omi-kun, don’t you know I need the glass noodles? ”

To his credit, Sakusa stops, though his eyebrow twitches. 

“There are plenty of other recipes out there which are more traditional.”

“Yes, but the recipe calls for it as well, so it needs to be a staple of mine, y'know! And besides-” Atsumu scrambles, eyes catching on the nearby bottles of Soju and Sake cheerfully advertised, lining the aisles directly opposite to them. 

“If you want, you could come over and help me cook! We’d make a drinking thing out of it- have some food and wine-” And oh, Atsumu is rambling, so he sends himself a mental note to shut up and give Sakusa his most winning smile. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem as impressed as he hoped. And yet, it still sets Atsumu’s heart thrumming. 

“It’s 10 pm, Miya.”

Atsumu blinks, tossing his head back - if only to hide the darkening blush on his cheeks at the typical connotations that come with inviting someone to their house this late at night. 

“How badly do you want this?” Sakusa asks, eyeing the half-hefted bag of groceries, and Fuck, Atsumu thinks. 

That’s certainly something to think about later. Not now, in the middle of two aisles in their local grocery store. Definitely not now, under the inscrutable gaze of Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

“..... Fine. Under one condition.”

Atsumu’s already prepared to say yes, but he can’t help but try pushing a bit further.

“I don’t know, depends on the deal….” 

Sakusa holds his gaze impassively, though his eyebrow twitches again in what Atsumu realises is covert exasperation. 

“Just give me the rest of it. When you're done. ”

Atsumu would be lying if he said he'd know what to do with it anyway  - and with jubilance, he picks up Sakusa's basket alongside his and begins marching down towards the checkout. 

“Miya, wait-”

Instinctively, Atsumu switches both the baskets to one hand, the song and dance familiar from his childhood trips with Osamu, fingers gently stretching to hold the ones behind-

-Oh. 

Atsumu never thought of his hands as pretty - covered in calloused, fingers bruised asymmetrically - immensely useful but mechanical joints with seamless cogs. Holding Sakusa’s fingers, however, feels like holding paper lanterns - like cradling a gentle craft Atsumu can break in a minute. 

It feels like holding perfection - and Atsumu never wants to let go. 

Belatedly, Atsumu realises that it's Sakusa Kiyoomi - Sakusa touch-averse-no-sweaty-hands-will-bleach-his-eyes-out-after-this  Kiyoomi whom he's holding hands with, and he nearly drops his neatly fitted palm - already running through millions of excuses to quell the dull ache that he’s sure will remain imprinted - a phantom feeling he’ll continue chasing for the rest of his life.  

But then he feels the curling of fingers - soft, but firm - cold ivory contrasting with the warmth of the flush that he can feel prickling just under the marble skin. Atsumu’s gut twists with a hunger he can’t name - a feeling of fullness, yet desperate yearning. 

“... Just hurry and buy the groceries, Miya.”

And if none of them says another word about the matching blushes on both of their cheeks, then. Well. That's neither here nor there. 

-

“You can take those onions, and make X's in the bottom with a knife, and drop them into that pan.”

"In with the soup?"

"No. Shoot." He kneels and retrieves a pot from one of the lower cupboards. "In here. They need to boil for a minute, and then you take them out."

Atsumu does as Sakusa says, filling the pan with water and turning on the flame. He finds a knife and scores the onions, and under his watchful eye carefully measures the fish sauce and cuts the lime wedges, before throwing them into the broth. He searches in a cupboard for a stainless-steel spice caddy and throws in a star anise and a pinch of salt, before letting the contents come to a simmer. On his other side, Sakusa prods the pieces of meat with a wooden spoon, and Atsumu is free to let his eyes wander over Sakusa’s frame and marvel at how comfortable he looks cooking like this, humming a song under his breath, fitting into the small kitchen space so seamlessly - as a familiar piece slotted into place. 

“I’d rather you not burn my kitchen down at midnight. Don't want the neighbours to think that this is what I do with all the men I invite over.” Atsumu finally says, arms lazily inching a breadth away from Kiyoomi’s. It’s easier to cover vulnerability with banter they’re both familiar with, and his body involuntarily relaxes as he sees familiar irritation flash across his face, breaking whatever trance he is in. 

“Fuck you, Miya. Or would you rather I leave?”

Atsumu doesn’t bother answering - doesn’t bother calling out the bluff behind his words. It’s easier than breaking this illusion than admitting that Atsumu could have ordered out and not made a makeshift space in his life that Kiyoomi could have fit into, a small bubble of quiet amongst the loud. Easier than confronting the fact that Sakusa could have said no from the start - could have hidden closed himself from Atsumu and never shown him this side of him - from the highlighter-coloured jersey to the small reading glasses currently perched on his nose - could have hidden the way he relaxes around Atsumu in a way no one else seems to see. 

“I think I need to add more liquid," Sakusa finally decides, pouring water from a tea kettle into the pan, suddenly causing the glasses he’d forgotten to take off to steam.

"I can't see."

Sakusa unconsciously steps away so that he stands a bit closer to Atsumu - the rest of the apartment is silent apart from the sounds of the stove, the kind of quietness that comes only when it’s nearly midnight and everyone else with their sanity intact is sleeping. Even as he holds up his hands, messy from cooking, coated with flour and thin grease and prepares to remove the glasses, Atsumu reaches over him carefully - fingers pressed to his bare arms, cool despite the warmth of the kitchen, a whisper of Let me ghosting over his lips as he pulls him closer to pull off the fog stained glasses before his breath catches in his throat, and he’s faced with eyes wide and open and brilliant and bright and startling, staring straight at him - and instinctively he knows, from the storm raging in his chest and the drum of his fingertips on pale skin that something’s changed.

The sharp whistle of a pressure cooker breaks the silence between them and startled by the sharp noise, Sakusa looks away wildly, leaving the glasses askew before rushing to fix the fish sauce and ensuring the entire pot noodles haven’t been charred. 

Even as moonlight slants over the both of them, reminding Atsumu of the entire absurdity of the situation - it’s 1 am, and here he is making pho with Sakusa Kiyoomi out of all people - he can feel the palpable tension between the two of them simmer into something calm. Inexplicably, Sakusa starts humming again, a half smile curving his lips and starts doling out the steaming hot bowls of soup. It’s not perfect - the meat’s charred in some places, the noodles too stiff - but Atsumu savours the soup like a starving man, the broth filling him up with warmth. The light above them flickers, and perhaps because it’s midnight - perhaps because Sakusa’s trying to be soft, in his own way - he begins to talk - begins telling him a story about Motoya trying to impress Suna by trying to learn how to bake. The shadows on his face soften the harsh features - and for a change, Atsumu sits and listens - occasionally interjecting with short anecdotes. In one moment - when the shadows on his face shift with apparent disbelief, Atsumu thinks he sees the tiniest trace of a smile, open and honest, playing on the edges of Sakusa's lips - but then he slips off into drowsiness - the tartness of tangerines haunting his dreams, juxtaposed with the gentle sweetness that is simply, inexplicably Kiyoomi.

5.

Atsumu’s not sure when this started - when hanging out with Sakusa Kiyoomi became part of his daily routine - when sliding next to Sakusa Kiyoomi became an inevitable fact of life, regardless of whether he’d be loudly shouting with Hinata, or pummelling Bokuto over some silly bet. A lot of it is probably from his dogged persistence - but it’s still surprising how they’ve gone in a blink of an eye from mere teammates to good friends. 

And yet, he thinks, frowning at the back of the setter who’s currently doing his best to try to disinfect every single surface of the gym equipment he’s currently meant to be helping to carry for Meian (decidedly ignoring the fact that he’s also very comfortably perched on the floor under the guise of an extended water break with Hinata), he’s never seen that damn smile even once. 

And sure, Atsumu has always been a too-curious-for-his-own-good kind of guy - but this particular bet echoes in his mind for some reason he can’t name. Maybe because it involves someone else for a change. Maybe because that person is Sakusa Kiyoomi, out of all people - the one person Atsumu can never accurately predict, the one person who clashes with Atsumu like gasoline and oil but complements him like fire and kindling. 

“Is he staring at Kiyoomi-kun again?” 

Before Atsumu can think of an accurate response, Shoyo loudly cuts in, shushing Bokuto with what is meant to be a discreet whisper. 

It’s obvious why he’s his favourite Kouhai, really, Atsumu proudly thinks as he lets his eyes wander back towards Sakusa’s expansive back. Always ready to defend his superiors-

“We’re not meant to tell him we know!” 

Atsumu blinks once, brain grinding to a halt as he considers the words. 

“Know what?”

Bokuto and Atsumu make sudden eye contact, and Atsumu feels a sudden urge to take a deep breath and count to ten. 

See, the thing about the rest of the MSBY jackals is that the one thing - if it can be called a thing - that brings them together is their pestlike nature. Sure, some of them are upfront about it - like Sakusa, who would gladly invoice you an itemised list of everything you’ve done wrong the past month - while some of them are less intentional about it - like Adriah accidentally revealing he’s been watching Atsumu figure out whether it was a push or pull door for months on an end. 

Individually, however, both Bokuto and Hinata are probably the best at it - simply because the two of them are so genuine about it. You think they’re doing good and being honest until Bokuto’s loudly weeping on your shoulder about how beautiful Akaashi is at 3 am after offering to buy you a round, or Hinata’s grinding alongside you into the air - subsequently making a fool of yourselves on Instagram. 

And then you end up forgiving them, in the end, simply because they’re both fucking sweethearts about everything. 

Which is precisely why Atsumu’s already made a mistake by ignoring the biggest red flag of this entire conversation - the fact that the two of them are in complete agreement over something. 

“It’s just...your vibe.”

“Our….vibe?”

Hinata pauses, momentarily deep in thought. “Like… the tension between the both of you where you’re always staring at him, and he doesn’t look back until you’re not looking at him. And you also know everything about him like his favourite snacks and colours and flowers, even the things Bokuto and I never notice! And the fact that you always spend time around him outside practices, and you’re always able to predict his bams and counter with your kachows! It’s like me and Kageyama before-” 

Before Hinata can go into even more sappy and excruciating detail about his own love life and make Atsumu feel pathetic about the lack of his own, his mind glazes over to absorb Hinata’s spiral. 

Tension? Sure, he has regular tension with Sakusa Kiyoomi. It’s inevitable when you’re dealing with someone exactly like Sakusa Kiyoomi, who walks around 24/7 with an insane amount of rules and a stick up his ass. If there is any tension in the first place, it’s only from the frankly ridiculous amount of little grievances that Sakusa has about everything Atsumu does in general. Not that Atsumu really minds changing his habits, even if a good 50% are external factors, if only because adapting to seeing and living alongside a more comfortable Sakusa Kiyoomi is something he secretly doesn’t mind. 

The one thing that’d help dissolve some of that tension, however, is probably the fact that Kiyoomi has still never smiled in his direction. But now that he does think about it though, the two of them are probably his best bet on trying to figure out whether Sakusa’s capable of smiling - given Motoya’s probably in both Suna and Osamu’s pocket when it comes to the terms of the bet. 

“It's for science.”

“For science?”

“For personal reasons.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m performing a socially backed-up study.”

“Wow.”

“It's Osamu’s fault.” He’s losing credibility.

“Tsum-Tsum, just because you like Sakusa–”

“Shut up.” 

It’s because he really, really doesn’t. Sure, it’s been quite some time since he’s made out with someone or looked for another outlet to blow off some steam. And sure, he and Sakusa have been getting along together - and they do spend enough time off the court for their relationship to be misconstrued. And even if Atsumu is irrationally overly invested in making Sakusa smile for reasons he can’t explain, it’s not like there’s any concrete proof of it. 

It’s mere conjecture. Plausible Deniability. 

-Or it’s plausible deniability until a stray curl falls across Sakusa’s face, and Atsumu lets his gaze travel across the moles littering his face - mapping the haphazard constellations he makes until he meets Sakusa’s gaze head-on from across the room, a sharp pang in his chest pulling him in like a siren’s song. 

Omi-kun would look really good with a smile, Atsumu first thinks. I wouldn’t mind seeing it every day, is the next thought and oh, he suddenly understands Bokuto and Hinata’s casual sappy comments about their own lives and their partners, because he’s pretty sure he’s fallen head over heels for the most insufferable person he knows - fallen for the snark in his voice whenever he insults him and the quiet care at which he makes space for him - fallen for the constant push and pull between them and the stupidest quirks like the way he secretly loves reading maudlin poetry and the way he competes over everything. 

Oh fuck, he faintly thinks. 

Atsumu’s not sure what he wants to do right now. Scream? Cry? Kiss Sakusa Kiyoomi until he’s out of breath? Seek therapy? 

Bokuto sympathetically pats his shoulder with the wisdom of a centuries-old wizard as Atsumu crumples into his hands. 

“Don’t worry! You can just go up to him and kiss him! It worked out with me and Akaashi!” 

He should have swapped to the Schweiden Adlers when he had the chance. 

+1.

Here’s the thing about Sakusa Kiyoomi. Even though their relationship can be tenuous even on good days, and on some other days he’s a complete prick - well, the one thing that he doesn’t let it interfere with is his damn sense of professionalism. 

It’s unsettling, the way he’s able to push everything aside and pretend to notice the way Atsumu’s been ignoring him for days on an end, terrified by the sudden realisation that he wants to kiss Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi. Sometimes, when Atsumu feels particularly self-flagellating, and he notices him looking his way but not saying a word, he lets himself think that it wouldn’t matter in the first place - that Sakusa has never cared. 

It’s suffocating, the sudden realization that you like someone, he thinks. Like inviting a beast willing to swallow him up whole. Atsumu knows himself - he knows he won't be able to disguise it for long, that he'll burst eventually, the words he'd fought to keep buried rushing from his lips the moment Kiyoomi looks at him. 

But for now, he’ll contend himself by pushing himself further. Even though his t-shirt is soaked it sticks uncomfortably to his back, he meets Kiyoomi’s challenge with gritted teeth and satisfaction searing through his veins, agreeing to stay back even as the rest of the team files out of the gymnasium. 

The set starts easy. Even though Sakusa sometimes goes easy on the others, he never goes easy on him. Watching him give it his all, hair barely unruffled, even as his eyes narrow on the tosses Atsumu sends at him, makes the satisfaction in his ribs flare and grow. 

By the time they stop, both of them are breathing hard, and Atsumu briefly squeezes his eyes shut as he sees Sakusa step forward. 

“You don’t have to try so hard.” 

Atsumu stills, nearly flinching at the inexplicable hurt that comes with finally having Kiyoomi’s concern - the intense want that comes with being this close. Like this, less than one foot away from each other, there’s a small part of him that wants to simply give in to the voice in his mind to pin Sakusa Kiyoomi to a wall and kiss him till he forgets his name. 

But he doesn’t know how to ask for that. Can’t ask for that. 

“I do.” Doesn’t he fucking get it?

Kiyoomi’s gaze turns quizzical, even as he takes another step forward, so close to Atsumu he can feel his breath on his skin - can see the slight crinkle between his brow, can see the golden light framing him already like a memory. 

“Why?”

It’s warm and inviting, the way his voice echoes in the empty room, the air still between them except for the rush of blood in his ears and the thundering of his heartbeat. 

“Because I’m in horribly into you, you idiot.”

He looks at his lips for a split second before it hits him - an insane cocktail of adrenaline and embarrassing bravery that grabs him by the neck until he’s digging his fingers into his scalp, and he pulls Sakusa Kiyoomi till their lips finally, finally touch. 

Kissing Sakusa is like kissing the sun - like tasting the softest and sweetest thing Atsumu’s ever known, and he chases after it - colliding into his body and slotting his easily into his own as if they’d been carved together from the very start. Atsumu kisses him harder, burying his hands into his hair, and Kiyoomi loops a hand around him before dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. Atsumu whines, pliant in his hands, ready for him to take and take, a silly grin parting his lips against his will as his brain goes blissfully quiet - happy to stay like this, framed against a window underneath the sloping sun - just like this, for the rest of his life, having found everything he wants to know.

And then it hits him like a truck. 

Oh. Oh fuck. 

He doesn't even have time to come up with an excuse by the time Sakusa steps back, lips red and puffy with a giant smile on his face.

Atsumu feels his face burning as he reaches out, ever so gently to brush a thumb over his lips, the touch lingering even as he caresses the corner of his mouth agonisingly slow, as though memorising the features of Atsumu’s face. 

He’s dizzy, and the world doesn’t seem to make much sense right now, the thoughts in his brain blurring from coherent thoughts to simple exclamation marks. 

But then Sakusa Kiyoomi begins to laugh, wild and free, and Atsumu knows he’s a complete goner. 

His eyes are bright and inviting, sparkling with genuine mirth that spills from his face, lighting the skin up in a way Atsumu never knew he could fall in love with - brightens his face up in a way Atsumu now knows he won’t be able to live without. Even as Sakusa’s hands wander freely across his face, Atsumu feels his face heat up - suddenly shy even as he parts his lips in a silent request. Kiss me, he thinks, half pleadingly, as Sakusa’s fingers stray dangerously close to his lips, moving with a deliberateness and earnestness Atsumu has never felt before, kiss me until I can’t breathe - until the only thing that I can think of is you.  

“You know”, he finally hums, tucking his head into the crook of his neck, tangling his hands behind his back and pulling him tight. “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”

Atsumu gasps, his entire body going beet red even as Kiyoomi nuzzles him close to his ear, cool breath hot against the sensitive skin on his neck. 

“You—this is not how I wanted to tell ya! I wasn’t even sure if I was ever gonna tell ya, you absolute ass!”

“I thought you liked me”, Kiyoomi hums, light and free in a way that Atsumu hasn’t heard before. 

Atsumu freezes, voice catching even as he looks at the ground. “You’re welcome to ignore that.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” asks Sakusa, half smile still on his face, even as Atsumu scrambles back out of his embrace, face aflame, only half convinced this entire sequence isn’t just an extended hallucination from the universe. 

“Ya serious?”

But then Sakusa laughs again, sound too real and vivid to ever compare to any of his fantasies, sweat dripping down his skin and eyes earnest and bright, and he reaches forward to grip his wrists gently, pulling him back into a hug again, light slanting through the glass and painting them aglow - eyes closed and hearts peaceful, perfectly in bliss. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer him - instead, he lifts his head and kisses him, enough times that he loses count until his brain is dazed - until he’s a little but a mess under his palms and Atsumu finds he couldn’t care less. 

“If I had known it would lead to this”, Atsumu finally says, biting his bottom lip as his chin rests on top of Kiyoomi’s head, “I would have embarrassed myself in front of the team a lot sooner.” 

“You embarrass yourself enough anyway.” he finally hums, no real heat behind the comment. Atsumu still isn’t sure if he deserves that smile or those words and Kiyoomi’s whole heart - and he knows when the others get back they’re going to tease him mercilessly, but right now Sakusa Kiyoomi is looking at him with all the warmth of the world in his eyes and Atsumu finally knows what he looks like when he cares. When he cares about him. It's—it's so lovely that it makes his chest ache.