#meg writes

It started somewhere between a talk in Lando's class by Oscar and Lando going up to him at the end of class. He has nothing to lose, he figures, and opens his mouth to start asking about positions at Oscar's company.

Before Lando can say anything, though, Oscar's pulling his backpack onto his shoulder and smiling at him. "I'm headed to my car, if you want to come with," he says politely.

"Thank you, Mr. Piastri," Lando says, but Oscar waves a hand in front of him.

"Just Oscar," he says with a smile. Oscar asks all the usual questions—what year is Lando, how did he end up in graphic design, what are his plans for after he graduates. Lando stumbles a little upon that one but Oscar doesn't seem to notice. He's trying to be as normal as he can, talking with a millionaire who could easily change his life if he plays his cards right. Oscar tells him a bit more about his life, his company, all in an Australian accent that's making Lando's knees go weak.

They go quiet for a moment as they go into a garage, and then Oscar's turning a corner, pointing out a car in a nearby parking stall.

"Well, here it is," he says as they approach the car—a blue 720S, sleek in its design and entirely too expensive for Lando to even be seen in close proximity to.

"Holy shit," Lando mutters, running a finger along the seam of the door. Oscar hits a button and the door slides open, lifting up and raising into the air, smooth and silent. He looks back to Oscar, who has an unreadable expression on his face. Not quite smug, not quiet excited. Something that Lando can't parse. He looks back to the car, bending to see inside. "I don't think I've ever been this close to anything this expensive before."

"Wanna drive?" Oscar asks, and Lando freezes. This is an entirely bad idea, Lando know it, but he can't help himself. Not when Oscar's dangling the keys out in front of him with a smile on his face. So Lando takes the keys and slips into the drivers seat, fingers trailing along the smooth leather of the steering wheel.

It's a bit of a drive to Lando's flat so they chat, Oscar answering Lando's questions as he comes up with them about the company, listening as Lando tells him about his own work in graphic design. He seems impressed, Lando hopes, as he tells him about the work he's done for other companies. He tries not to mention how he's graduating in a semester and doesn't have a job lined up yet. Maybe, if he's lucky, Oscar will be kind enough to use his connections and help him out.

As they get closer to Lando's flat, Oscar goes quiet. Lando tries not to read into it too much, like there's something he's hiding. Oscar just seems like he's in thought. They're pulling into Lando's driveway, though, when Oscar finally speaks again. "I want to offer you an internship," he says simply. Lando tries not to crash the car into a building.

"Oscar, that's—" he starts, but Oscar shushes him.

"We need someone with a fresh perspective on the team. I think you'd be a great fit." He says it so simply, like it's the easiest decision in the world. Lando feels like he's going to have a heart attack.

"I—I don't know how to thank you," Lando says. "I mean, an internship, that's—"

"Don't worry about it," Oscar says. But Lando notices the way his legs spread open, the way his eyes flick down to Lando's lips. And—he doesn't say it out loud, sure, but it may as well be just as obvious. Lando's not dumb, he knows that he isn't just going to get this internship for free, no strings attached. And, well. Lando figures it's not the worst thing someone's done for money. Plus, it's just an internship. Chances are he's never going to see Oscar much again. Not like he's a coworker that he's going to have to look into the eyes of every day and pretend he didn't suck him off in his hypercar. All in all, Lando's made worse decisions.

Lando puts his hand on Oscar's leg, and Oscar glances down at it before looking into Lando's eyes. If he looks really closely, he could swear that Oscar is blushing. But it surely must be a trick of the light. A man like this gets what he wants when he wants it, and Lando is no exception. Though he's still trying wrap his mind around why a guy like Oscar would want him, a broke graphic design student swimming in debt up to his eyebrows. Lando knows he's attractive, but it's not like anyone's breaking the bank for him. Well, maybe not yet.

Lando leans in over the console and from there it's just so easy to kiss Oscar. It's tenative at first, just a press of the lips and nothing more, but Lando pushes further, always testing his luck. It pays off, though, when Oscar's lips part and he kisses Lando harder. His hands go to Lando's shoulders, trailing down until they hook into the belt loops of his jeans and pull.

Lando scrambles over the center console and into Oscar's lap. He hardly notices as Oscar unhooks his fingers to shift the seat backwards. Oscar's half-hard in his jeans and Lando can feel it. He snakes a hand down to palm him through his pants and Oscar groans, his hips bucking into Lando's touch. Lando feels a bit delirious as he nips at Oscar's bottom lip and earns a little choked noise out of him. There's no reason he should be here but he's making Oscar feel good, making himself useful, proving himself that he should get this job.

After a moment Oscar pushes him away and Lando leans back, sitting on Oscar's lap. He looks down at him, takes in Oscar's wide eyes, the way he bites at his bottom lip as Lando continues to work him through his pants. Lando can't help but feel a little proud that he's made Oscar look like this, flushed and desperate before he's even really done anything. He almost feels powerful. But he shouldn't delude himself, not when he remembers why he's really here. He feels like it should put a sour taste in his mouth, but it doesn't, really. All he wants is more.

Oscar's hands go to his own belt, unbuckling it and pulling down his pants and underwear just enough to pull out his dick. Lando immediately wraps his hand around it, feeling its weight in his palm. Oscar stutters for a moment but then takes a deep breath and seems to steel himself, looking Lando dead in the eye and then purposefully looking downwards.

"Get on your knees," he says, an order more than a request. All Lando can do is comply, climbing down into the footwell, blinking owlishly up at Oscar. He takes Oscar's cock in his hand, stroking slowly, and it's not long before Oscar's pulling on Lando's curls and feeding him his cock. Lando exhales out of his nose as he takes the length into his mouth. His throat spasms as he goes further and he almost chokes but eventually bottoms out, his nose in the wiry hairs around Oscar's cock.

Lando gets into a rhythm, sucking Oscar's cock like his life depends on it. In a way, it might. This is his chance for a good career, to get out of debt, to make his parents proud. But even more, he wants Oscar to see him as someone important, someone who can do the job he's set out to do. He lets Oscar pull on his hair and fuck into his mouth, trying his best to breathe out of his nose and not choke. He's desperately hard in his jeans and as much as he wants to touch himself there's no room. He grinds against the seat in front of him as best as he can, fingers digging into the fabric of Oscar's pants, looking up at him with teary eyes.

"Fuck," Oscar groans, his thrusts getting shaky, uneven. "Fuck, look at you," he says. "Such a good boy for me."

Lando can't help but make a sound in his throat at that and watches as a little line appears in between Oscar's eyebrows. His mouth falls open and before Lando can tell what's happening he's being pushed away.

He gets it soon after, though, when Oscar's hand wraps around his cock and strokes desperately, so close to his release. His mouth opens in a silent moan as Lando opens his mouth, and then he's coming in hot, long strokes, all over Lando's face.

Lando gasps as come, warm and salty, lands on his tongue. His cheeks are burning as he ruts half against the seat and half against Oscar's leg. But it's worth it, this weird twist in his stomach as he sees Oscar smile down at him, thumb tracing through the come on Lando's cheekbone.

⛓️: When he saw Orion fall in the well of Cybertron, previously shot by his best friend, now turned into his greatest nemesis, Bumblebee, AKA Badassatron or B-127, managed to keep Elita from jumping to his rescue, despite him being smaller than her. She screamed a sparkfelt “NOOO-” and Bee’s audials flinched… he didn’t like too loud noises, and the crowd around wasn’t helping. He saw his best friend, Orion, fall to his death, no more left arm as it was blasted off by D-16…

⛓️: Elita fell on her knees, Bee silently trying to comfort her as he noticed D’s intense scarlet gaze, turning around to Sentinel desperately trying to crawl away, wounded and weak… Bee was overwhelmed, the crowd was cheering way too loudly for D, who was now dealing with Sentinel’s minions effortlessly as his fury took him over

⛓️: Suddenly, D took Sentinel by his back collar, Bee knew what would happen, he wanted to cover his blue optics, he didn’t want to look… but he did… as Sentinel was ripped in half… Bee subconsciously put a servo on his mouth plate in horror, while Elita was starting to not recognize D anymore

⛓️: He gasped when D ripped Sentinel’s t-cog out of his chest, wielding it in the air, making a speech to all high guard members as he started shooting and blasting down everything Sentinel owned… including some innocent cogless miners in the way

⛓️: Elita told Bee to evacuate the city, or at least try getting everyone to safety, even if she knew Bee was still too young to do all this… she couldn’t help but rush at D- wait no… Megatron… He tried to stop her, crying at her that it was suicidal, but instead she ignored the cries of the sparkling… rage also taking over her…

⛓️: Finally when Bee managed to get out of the crowd, he met Megatron’s gaze… it was firing red, crimson sparkles of rage emitting from them as he approached Bee, but Bee was mortified, he stumbled into his pedes and fell on the ground as D-… Megatron crouched to his level…

⛓️: “Come with me Bee… you’ll be safe with me… Sentinel’s gone… you’ll be better with me… under my care… forever” Megatron’s tone was petrifying, his red optics showing desperate possessiveness as he restrained himself from picking up Bee and bring him with the high guard and him… Bee was on the ground, mute from the fear that made his spark almost jump out of his chest…

⛓️: Suddenly, the ground opened from under them, a huge blue blast of energy knocked both of them down… but Bee? He fell unconscious, his processor not able to process anything anymore… he missed the fight of the titans… but what he didn’t know was that when the high guard and him left Iacon for good… Megatron brought something… or more like someone with him…

⛓️: Bee woke up in a room that wasn’t his, or maybe more of a “rusty old place that was falling down” type of room. He felt a painful pang onto his intake pipe… he touched it with a servo snd he saw blue energon on his digits… how was he even alive? He tried to ask himself the question… but trying to use his voice box made him feel intense pain, a pain stronger than Darkwing’s punch, a pain stronger than being left alone in sub level 50… a pain he couldn't even express… At least… not verbally

⛓️: Outside it was dark… smoke was seen outside, fire… then blasts of energy started to be fired in the sky, as if celebrating something… screams and victory howls were heard, which were loud enough to make Bee cover his audials firmly

⛓️: After some time, loud and imposing pedes could be heard walking towards his room, as he tried to get away, he noticed a tight handcuff on the side of the recharging berth he was on… he couldn’t escape… poor young Bee… still a sparkling, forced to live with a future tyrant until maybe, just maybe, Elita and Orion find him… Bee will learn everything that he missed… or maybe he won’t..

— After all, Megatron is known to be more than stubborn at times… he’ll take good care of Bee… as long as he… stays… quiet… —

OMG I AM SO PROUD OF MYSELF FOR THIS ONE!!! Second ever yandere work, GOD this felt so good to write.. anyway @shatteredglass36, I hope you liked it and I hope anybody who stumbled upon this likes it too ^v^

.

you leave him on a summer's day. humidity at eighty-three percent that afternoon, the sight of him wavers from the sweltering heat rather than the tears you have already shed to depletion long ago.

if it was different, you think this would have been a perfect day for a date. cheap vanilla ice cream from convenience stores, a second helping of azuki kakigori after the soft serve has all but melted away, sticky touches and stickier kisses as you try to ignore the way your body burns, both inside and out. you like to imagine what could have been.

atsumu has never liked summer, though. you know this better than anyone.

"we should break up," you tell him, sandaled feet planted in the dirt.

you end it like it is—professional, amicable, distant in the way that your goodbyes have never known memories of youthful kisses or tender words or skin without the heat of desire lying beneath. it's quick, painless, but you suppose a better word for it would be 'numb.'

atsumu tilts his head, his weight shifted to one leg as his lips purse into a frown. it's more of inconvenience than anything else.

"okay," he replies, the cicada cries deafening in the background.

a wind chime clinks above you.

"okay."

.

it's still summer when you meet sakusa kiyoomi in the produce section of your local supermarket.

you've seen him before at the v.league dinners back when you were atsumu's plus-one, nothing more than a greeting nod and a glance passed between you two. there were bigger priorities then, like how much champagne you could drink before you were dangerously past buzzed, or the best way to be atsumu's arm candy while playing up your party charm. sakusa usually slinked to the corner, away from the noise and flare. not that it really stopped the cameras from flashing photos of him whenever the opportunities presented themselves.

but now, clad in a facemask, casual grey sweats and a tee, you wouldn't have even noticed him if not for his towering height.

you peer up at him. he peers back.

the two grannies in the bell pepper section start to gossip.

"you're miya's girlfriend, right?"

"ex, actually," you reply, a tinge of embarrassment in your voice. admitting it out loud sets in the finality. "we broke up a few days ago."

"oh," sakusa says lamely. the sprinkler above the lettuce and cabbage turns on. "sorry."

"no, it's fine," you laugh, waving him off. "it's not like you could have known."

atsumu didn't say anything, then. you weren't expecting him to, not in the slightest, but you're grateful nonetheless. truthfully, you want the whole affair to be done and gone, and you guess atsumu feels the same. dealing with the questions from fans about the disappearance of his mysterious plus-one is a problem for another time, and it will be a problem solely for him. you hope.

the air conditioning is almost too cold in the supermarket, the frigidness a stark contrast to the heat haze outside. nearby, continuous beeping of the cash register sounds, the rattling of baskets and carts interspersed between.

pursing your lip, you scan over the freshly misted vegetables below, choosing the first two heads of lettuce that suit your standards. you start to look down the line to the tomatoes a few sections away, only to have your gaze catch on sakusa next to you, his eyebrows furrowed, the most concentrated you’ve ever seen him. his basket is still empty, save for a single bag of kale sitting at the bottom.

his dilemma only seems to increase by the passing second.

“do you, um,” you hesitate. “do you need help?”

beep. beep.

“i don’t normally shop here,” he admits, solemn. “i can’t trust the quality so i have to check it myself.”

“oh.”

you bite your tongue, your eyes shifting down to the cabbage in front of you. it seems alright, just the regular red cabbage you always bought. there certainly wasn’t anything there to warrant suspicion or a look of concentration that intense for that long. maybe it was a pro-volleyball player thing, though, atsumu never seemed this picky about the food he ate. maybe it was just a sakusa kiyoomi thing.

a leftover water droplet plops onto one of the lettuce heads. a shopper comes to the cash register with a particularly large grocery list. beep. beep. beep.

“so… is it up to standard?”

you should have bitten your tongue harder.

sakusa broods in his thoughts for a little longer, a frown underneath his mask, then takes a head of lettuce and places it inside a translucent plastic bag. "yes."

"that's good."

a second passes, then two. alright, that's enough of that. you swivel on the ball of your foot, ready to speed-walk away.

"i moved to this area, recently," sakusa says suddenly. you pause, turning.

"in the new complex around the corner?"

he nods. "do you live in this area, too?"

"mhm," you say, switching your basket from one hand to the other. "my place isn't as fancy as yours, but it's nice. a few blocks from here, actually."

silence falls again. your finger taps against the basket handle.

"i'll see you around, then?" you ask, tilting your head.

sakusa dips his head. "yes. i'll see you around."

.

two weeks later, you see him again.

dressed in shorts and a hoodie, he was the person you least expected to meet during a 10:00PM emergency trip to the convenience store.

“hi again,” you greet, holding up a hand to wave.

he halts in his search through the shelves of the preserved foods aisle, his back straightening as he returns your greeting. “hello.”

the automatic door hisses open as a customer leaves, the obaa-san at the front sending a sweet “have a good day!” their way. the doorbell beeps its standard tune. all of this seems like an aching sense of deja vu.

“how are you?” you ask, a bottle of calpis in your hand. the top of the bottle is held tightly between your fingers, a habit of yours to avoid touching the condensation.

“i’m well,” he responds, before turning back to the assortment of snacks.

“what brings you here at this hour?” you peer at the shelves, seeing the assortment of different umeboshi brands. the calpis sways back and forth. “are you checking the quality of the pickled plums?”

sakusa nods, a finger to his chin. “i ran out this morning and i haven’t had the chance to buy more until tonight. a neighbor recommended this place, but i’m not sure which one is best.”

you hum, scanning the brands. “personally, i like this one.” switching the bottle to your other hand, you reach for the package with red plum blossoms on top, handing it to him. “they’re just the right amount of softness, and it's a lot less acidic compared to the others here.”

taking the package, sakusa ponders for a bit, before nodding in approval. “i’ll take your word for it. thank you.”

“no problem,” you smile, before starting to walk to the front.

“why are you here at this hour,” he asks, following behind you.

“oh,” you hold up your calpis, as well as a jar of tiger balm hidden in your fist. “my shoulder has been hurting lately—i think it’s because of all that desk work i’ve been doing. i was hoping it would take the pain away.”

“and the calpis?”

you give him a slight smile. “that’s just for self-indulgence.”

sakusa smiles back, if only just the slightest tilt of the lips. you consider it progress.

the line at the register moves up, and you take a few steps to follow the queue.

"i saw your match the other day," you mention, thumbing the lid of the tiger balm. "it was the best play of the season."

he blinks, tilting his head. "you watch?"

"ah, well," you resist the urge to rub the back of your neck. "as much as i hate to say it, dating atsumu made me a volleyball fan. even if we broke up, i still watch, sometimes."

maybe you just want to see familiar faces again, even if it means nothing but reminiscing old memories, but you try not to think about it too much.

"hi, obaa-san!" you say cheerily when you reach the front of the line, setting your items on the counter. "how are you? is your back getting better?"

the granny's eyes crinkle at the edges as she returns your hello, voice soft and kind. "how sweet of you to ask, i'm doing well. how are you, dear?"

you shrug, lighthearted. "oh you know me, just the same old same old."

she frowns at the jar of tiger balm, eyeing your shoulder. "is it still hurting?"

"it's getting better! the workload has gotten heavier recently, so i'm just trying to hold on until it's over with."

she places the two items in a plastic bag and hands it to you over the counter. "make sure to take care of yourself, dear. you wouldn't want to have your handsome boyfriend over here worrying, now would you?"

"my—" your gaze flies to sakusa, then back to the granny. you stumble a few steps forward out of habit, and sakusa quietly places his package of umeboshi on the counter.

"thank you." he waits patiently for her to scan it.

"obaa-san! he's not my boyfriend, he's just..." you hesitate, not sure what to say next. he's an acquaintance? he's my ex-boyfriend's teammate? he just goes to the same grocery stores as me? they all sound wrong coming off your tongue. "he's a friend," you finally settle on. "he's just a friend."

"are you sure?" she presses, scanning the umeboshi and handing it to sakusa. "you're just friends with such a well-behaved, handsome young man—"

"good bye, obaa-san!" you rush out, the doors hissing as you step on the mat. "have a good night!"

"but i have extra jellies for you—"

"good night, obaa-san!"

the doors shut behind you, just as sakusa walks through.

"i'm sorry about that," you say, face buried in your hands. "she really does mean well, she just says a lot sometimes."

the air is still humid, even without the sun bearing down. residual warmth from the day lies in the pavement, the asphalt radiating heat as cicadas continue their calls well into the night.

"please don't mind—"

"are we friends?" sakusa interrupts.

"huh?"

"you said we were friends, earlier," he states, eyes gazing intently into yours. "are we friends?"

oh my god.

"we're... friends if you want us to be," you say slowly. you're not really sure how you ended up in this mess, but there's no backing out now.

“okay,” he says after a moment of silence, and you almost jump. a car honks in the distance. “let’s be friends.”

.

you feel fucking sick.

what started out as a regular after-work dinner had turned into multiple rounds of lost drinking games which now leads you here, swaying in the street, shit-faced drunk, ready to hurl at any moment. each heavy footstep comes with a tilting of the axis, eyes closed as you try to not faceplant into the concrete.

it’s too hot, you think, even for an early september night. everything in your body burns hot and red and it reminds you too much of the summer you despise. heat haze, august daze, you only remember it in the ways you want to forget.

and it occurs to you, while you try to work through the buzzing in your ears, that someone has been calling your name for the past five minutes.

“sakusa-san,” you manage to slur out. the wall you’ve found yourself slumped against is surprisingly cool. “funny seeing you here.”

in full practice sweats stands sakusa kiyoomi, partially concerned, mostly confused. “you’re in front of my apartment.”

"oh," you giggle, delusional beyond belief. "what a coincidence." hand on your brow as if blocking nonexistent sun, you dramatically scan the apartment complex from top to bottom. "what a nice place you live in, sakusa-san."

the exaggerated movement causes you to stumble over your feet, and you begin to topple over until you're met with a hard chest supporting you from behind.

"oof."

his hands are gentle as they guide you back to your feet, even if the movement itself is awkward and stilted. "would you like to come in until you're feeling better?"

"did you know," you say, ignoring his question, "that sea otters hold hands when they sleep? sometimes they use kelp too, but it’s to prevent themselves from floating away...i want to be an otter, or kelp, or both—"

he calls your name again, slowly, uncharacteristically patient, and your mouth snaps shut. "would you like to come inside?"

your voice comes out quiet. "yes, please."

letting out a deep sigh, sakusa wraps your arm around his waist and helps you toddle your way up the stairs. halfway up your toe trips on the edge of the step and you come tumbling down, only for sakusa to catch you by the waist and pull you upright again.

your toe still stings for a while, after that.

eventually you make it to his door, and with the balancing of you by his side and the keys he struggles to get out of his right pocket with his left hand, sakusa manages to have both of you stumble inside. carefully, he leads you to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding leading you straight into a wall.

you wince as he flicks on the light, your eyes barely adjusting before he turns on the sink. his gaze is on you, expectant, arm still around your waist.

"you need to wash your hands," sakusa says, his unoccupied hand around the soap bottle. "it will only make you sick if you don't."

"but—"

"your hand, please."

grumbling, you let go of his waist, wetting your hands underneath the tap and sticking your right hand towards the soap dispenser. sakusa squeezes a good dollop into your palm, and you scrub diligently. he was as health-conscious as ever.

"are you done?" he asks, once all the suds have washed off.

you nod, and he hands you a clean towel from his neatly folded stack on the counter.

"thank you," you mumble, teetering slightly. sakusa's grip on your waist tightens.

"are you okay?" he puts a hand on your shoulder to steady you, but his voice comes in short bursts, the cotton in your ears turning to static.

"sakusa-san," you begin, faint, "i—"

that's all you can make out, before you hurtle towards the toilet and heave out what remains of your dinner. your body covered in cold sweat and your breath coming in heavy pants, you feel a light touch on your back as sakusa crouches next to you and begins to rub your back stiffly.

"i'm sorry—" you start heave again.

"it's fine," he replies awkwardly, even as he mutters 'i just cleaned the bathroom too' under his breath. reaching up to his drawer, he takes a spare hair tie and carefully ties your hair back, tucking loose strands behind your ears. "just let it all out."

after a few minutes of dry heaving, you spit out the rest of the bile, wiping the edge of your mouth and runny nose with a torn piece of toilet paper before flushing it down the toilet. you sniff, rasping out another apology to sakusa, before slowly lowering yourself to the ground.

"let me just...rest for a bit…."

"wait, don't—"

before he can finish his objection you are already fully sprawled out on the floor, eyes closed and limp. you let out a low groan; sakusa stares at you in dismay.

“you can’t sleep here,” he says placatingly, trying to pull your limbs up. “it’s unhygienic.”

“just let me die—”

“no, come on—” in one swift motion, he has you in his arms with your face nuzzled in his chest. your fingers latch onto his shirt. “let’s get you to bed, okay?”

the walk to his bedroom is a quiet affair, your head still pounding and buzzing. sakusa smells of fresh detergent, like fabric softener soaked into the threads of the cloth. the best way you could really describe him is clean—unblemished, unstained. you take in another deep breath.

“i want to be kelp in the ocean,” you mumble as he sets you down on his bed.

“so you’ve said,” he responds, handing you a glass of water. “drink.”

“no,” you rescind your previous statement, taking sips. “i think i want to be an otter after all. to be tucked to someone’s side forever, treasured, never forgotten.”

he takes the glass from your hands when you begin to nestle it in your lap and sets it on the bedside table. “get some rest. i’ll see you in the morning.”

sakusa begins to walk away, and you latch onto the edge of his shirt, pulling him closer again. “don’t leave.”

“i have to.” heat stings in the back of your eyes. “i’m just going to the living room, you’ll be fine.”

you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. you hate to have people see you cry—it feels too weak, too vulnerable. "i won’t. i won’t. sakusa-san, i—" you choke on your words, twisting the fabric between your fingers. "i'm so fucking lonely."

it all comes rushing back. empty beds, wisteria bruises, hollow, fickle heart-shaped candy shells that only cracked the more you tried to fill. you’ve always asked for too little and wanted too much, and maybe that was why you were here, clutching onto salt-stained shirts instead of salt-soaked pillows, hoping for this to not become a new nightly ritual.

it’s strange how it’s gotten this far—how he’s allowed it to get this far. a part of you expects him to push you away despite your pleas, to shake his head and turn the other way. you wouldn’t even remember any of this tomorrow, if you were lucky.

and yet, sakusa brings you closer, his thumb tracing circles in the nape of your neck. you let out a shuddering breath, your hiccups subsiding.

“okay,” he says, quietly. “okay, i’ll stay.”

.

the first thing you wake up to in the morning is a splitting headache, fade-to-black memories, and the strangest inkling that you’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong.

clutching your forehead, you look to the side and see a glass of water and two pills on a plate, with a note in neat handwriting.

painkillers. make sure to take them.

you blink, trying to remember what exactly happened last night, and—oh. oh. you’re so fucked.

stumbling out of bed, you pop in the two pills before finding him in the kitchen washing the dishes.

“you’re awake, good morning.”

“i am so sorry,” you blurt out, ringing your fingers together. they had his shirt in between them last night, tears soaking the fabric—your eyes are probably puffy, though you haven’t gathered the courage to look in the mirror yet. everything about last night reeks of embarrassment. “i really didn’t mean to intrude, if you never want to see me again i'd totally get it—"

"hey," sakusa interrupts, turning off the faucet. "i'm not mad."

your thoughts come to a halt. "you're not?"

"it's fine," he shrugs, placing his bowl onto the drying rack. "i wouldn’t have left you outside at night when you were drunk like that."

"i—" your mouth clamps shut. "thank you."

it’s not as if it comes as a surprise to you that sakusa is a good person. you hadn’t thought he was a bad person, not by any means, but from the rumors you had heard about how closed off he was and the amount of times he had simply ignored anything not concerning volleyball, you would have assumed he really would have just left you there. you probably would have, if placed in the same circumstances.

"do you," you hesitate, looking around. "do you not have practice today?"

"we have sundays off," sakusa explains, leaning against the counter with his hands in his pockets. he gestures to your shoulder. "does it still hurt?"

"oh, this?" you laugh lightly, shrugging. "yeah, we just got done with our big project so it's all good now."

the clock ticks.

you begin to back away. "well, i should probably go, but, i really can't thank you enough for last night."

“like i said, it's no problem. besides,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “we’re friends. it’s what friends do.”

right. friends. and everything clicks into place.

.

what follows after is a flurry of unexpected events—the exchanging of numbers, coincidental meetings at obaa-san's convenience store, bimonthly shopping trips to the grocery store where you inspect the greens in the produce section together before you bring them home. to your surprise, sakusa starts becoming more of a friend than in name alone.

you learn that he has a cousin named komori who plays for the ejp raijins, that he actually did attend college before joining the jackals, and that he has a habit of crinkling his nose when he finds something he dislikes—you discover this during his many retellings and complaints of his rambunctious teammates. it's endearing, really.

and if you find yourself smiling at the fabric softener that he had personally recommended and gifted to you, you don't think much of it.

"would you like to come over for dinner?" sakusa offers one day while shopping for beets.

you smile, placing a bundle of cilantro into his cart. "i would love to."

night falls, you cook dinner together at his apartment, one thing leads to another and suddenly it becomes a ritual to have dinner at his place whenever time allows.

tonight, in particular, you’ve entertained yourselves to a nice steak and wine meal to celebrate his latest victory in an adlers v. jackals match. you’d insisted on having it being a little nicer than usual, and sakusa didn’t argue against the idea of red wine with company, so here you were at 10:00PM, sipping on sakusa’s favorite red wine on his couch as the two of you bask in the nightly ambiance.

"i think if i were an animal," he starts, cheeks rosy, "i would want to be a duck."

you stifle a laugh, a little tipsy yourself. "i think that suits you."

tipsy sakusa is the eighth wonder of the world, you've discovered. with a little encouragement and a glass of alcohol, he becomes the most expressive he'll ever be; you cherish sakusa in this state while he lasts.

"do you still want to be an otter?" he asks, almost hushed.

you hum, contemplating. you still can't believe he remembers your ramblings from that night, but he never fails to bring it up when you least expect it. "sometimes. i think most of the time i just miss having someone by my side, you know? i envy that about them."

swirling the glass absentmindedly, you take another sip. sakusa looks at you, something indiscernible in his eyes. placing his glass down on the coffee table, he turns back to you, determination set.

"i could be by your side," he says, and you immediately sober.

"what?"

"i could be by your side," he repeats, grazing your cheek with the lightest of touches. you almost jump at the sensation. "would you be by mine?"

he leans in closer, his palm now fully rested on the curve of your face. the low thrum of the dishwasher, soft classics playing through the record player you'd gifted him weeks ago, the ticking of the clock as it edges closer to midnight. your mind is frighteningly clear through it all.

your hand comes up to meet his, a steady breath as your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips and back again. you check it with yourself—once, twice. and then you lean forward, your lips touching his, scarlet-stained and ready for the chase.

.

the morning after comes softly, slowly, the sun rising and the birds tweeting along with the stretching of muscles and delicate touching of skin. it’s different from your past, the skin to skin, mouth on neck, affection in the way where each kiss means something more than just desire.

sakusa reaches for you first, always. it comes as a shock, his former touch-prone habits morphing into arms around waists, face nuzzled into the nape of your neck. you want it to mean something, for you to be special, if only to him.

you remember how atsumu would reach for you, only after you called for him. you remember atsumu, always on the verge of saying the name of someone else. you remember that you were neither his past, nor his future—you were never anything.

it all comes crashing down.

.

contrary to what many of your fellow peers believe, sakusa kiyoomi is not sloppy seconds.

sloppy seconds are reserved for repainted flowers on messy canvases, for melted popsicle sticks and burnt caramel and orange rind-stained nails that make you think of the crackling heater and blistering winds of a winter alone. it is not meant for him, for this, whatever this is.

he is not like you; sakusa could never be a sloppy second.

sakusa kiyoomi is petrichor before the rain, sunlight absorbed in freshly dried comforters, the soft billowing of curtains through open windows during spring's first morning breeze. he is the calm before the storm.

or maybe he is just the calm, and you are the storm—the salt pillows, smeared lip, cracked plate, sole-crushed rotten peach pit on pavement. maybe you are everything you have been told you would be, everything you have been made to be.

you think you love him, truthfully. you think you love him so deeply and earnestly that all you have left to give is love. but giving has never been the issue.

you have been bled dry, too abused by the truth that time is forever flowing, and yet you are a broken hourglass, sand endlessly pouring out of the cracks into an abyss with nothing to receive in return. and you suppose part of it is your fault, for allowing it to continue happening even as you watch your wounds bleed into oblivion, but you are locked into a picture-perfect fantasy where life is but moments in a frame.

but each day comes with something different: the bleary blinking away of morning streams of light, the dancing of fingers, push-pull-entwine-tighten, dryer-hot sheets against bare skin, drowsy laughter still left in the afterglow of the night before. you’re his first, he reminds you. first hand to hold, first body to embrace, first kiss out of a dream. what you feel is love—not just yours, but his too.

you are not a sloppy second; you could never be, not to him.

.

you meet miya atsumu again on a spring night. it’s a party full of glitz and glamour, annual v.league award afterparties never failing to make the celebrations the most extravagant they could possibly afford. though, you would never complain about being invited to these events, not when it gave you an excuse to dress up and drink.

sakusa had been pulled away by sponsors as soon as you had arrived, leaving you alone with a flute of champagne, a purse, and in the fancy black silk slip sakusa had given to you months prior.

“wear it to the events,” he had said, a teasing look in his eyes. “it’ll make them finally worth attending.”

you would think after all his insistence that he would actually be with you during said events, but you suppose old habits die hard. escaping to a corner away from the mayhem, you lean against the wall and sigh, waiting. the stilettos you’d brought seem to have no purpose other than to induce pain, but that was the price you had to pay for beauty.

and then someone calls your name.

you’d recognize his voice from anywhere, the friendly drawl, carefree spirit that never seems to disappear, atsumu comes up next to you and waves.

"hey."

you wave awkwardly back. "hey."

you stare at each other for a few seconds before your gaze diverts to the chandelier-lit ceiling, the marble floor, anywhere but him.

“so," atsumu swirls his champagne, leaning against the wall next to you. "sakusa, huh?"

he’d probably seen you come in together. you resist the urge to fiddle with the fabric of your dress, staring holes into the shiny golden floor. “yeah.”

you don’t really know what else to say. there’s a beat of silence, one filled with the low thrum of party chatter and the flashing of a shutter and everything else you used to hear when you used to come here with him instead of sakusa. it feels familiar, yet not at all.

“are you happy?” he asks suddenly, and you startle. glancing up at him, all you can see as you meet his warm brown eyes is sincerity, a far cry from that summer day. though maybe it isn’t, and you were just too wrapped up in hopeless, fantastical dreams to see. his eyes were always sincere, you realize, ever since the day you’d met him.

your wounds have been closed long ago, stitched and scarred over from where they had been torn apart and alcohol-drenched. you think this is what true healing feels like.

“i am,” you respond, smiling.

he chuckles, just the way you had loved. “okay.”

on this night, there is just you, atsumu, and forgiveness—for him, and yourself. this is your peace.

“okay.”

.

"are you still lonely?" sakusa asks quietly, his thumb tracing circles into the skin of your thigh.

the remnants of last night's rain tap on the window outside, a steady rhythm that threatens to lull you back to sleep. tap, tap, tap.