the teablr

"Tsumu," Osamu drawls. He reaches out, yanks the towel from his brother’s hands, and shucks it into the trash bin. "You've been datin' the girl for two years now. If she gave a shit about yer face, you'd know."

"Sure, but..." Atsumu rakes his hair out in frustration. "...most of our relationship’s been over FaceTime. Her shitty wi-fi does my skin a favor."

"Well, how's that sayin' go? It's what's on the inside that counts?" Osamu muses, padding back into the kitchen. He's preparing some type of sandwich, judging by the smell. "I mean, I think yer personality's no better. But she must've seen somethin' in ya."

It takes every ounce of Atsumu's self-restraint not to shuck the box of towels at his brother's head.

Three hours later, you stand outside the arrivals terminal of the airport. Hair tousled from the flight. Fingers drumming against the handle of your carry-on. You'd flown in to support Atsumu for his first game of the postseason, and while you're excited to reunite with him after three months apart, there's always something...nerve-wracking about it. Almost as if you're meeting each other for the first time.

Those nerves subside, however, the moment your boyfriend's Jeep rounds the corner of the terminal.

"You're here!" you exclaim, burying your face into his sweatshirt once he climbs out of the car. "You wouldn't believe the flight I just had. This couple kept arguing beside me, and I'm pretty sure the little kid kicking the back of my seat gave me sciatica, but — wait, why are you wearing all that?"

Atsumu's arms flinch around you at the question. You blink up at his disposable mask, the large hoodie shielding his face from your view.

"I'm...cold?"

"It's the middle of May," you say flatly.

"I dunno." He averts your gaze. "Maybe Sakusa's rubbin' off on me."

"Bullshit," you seethe, squeezing him so hard that he yelps. "I know for a fact you licked the ground as a child. What's going on?"

"Alright, alright!" Atsumu concedes, practically wheezing beneath your iron grip. He taps your shoulder like a defeated UFC fighter and confesses, "If ya want me to be honest...I broke out pretty badly last night, and I don't want ya lookin' at me up close."

"Oh." Your expression softens at his words. The quiet vulnerability beneath them. "Is that all? Tsumu, you know I don't care about that kind of stuff."

"I know, but..." You spot the red hot blush creeping out from underneath his mask. "I wanna look good for ya, ya know?"

Your shoulders sink, a bemused sort of smile tugging at your lips. You gently reach into his hoodie and brush back the hair that's fallen into his eyes.

"You always look good to me, okay?" you reassure him, voice firm. Eyes earnest. "It's impossible for you not to. But, if you're looking for a quick skincare hack before your game tomorrow...I might have something that'll help you out."

"Stickers?" Atsumu asks you later that night, squinting at the sheet you're holding out to him beneath the dingy bathroom lights.

"They're not just stickers, silly." You swat your boyfriend's shoulder with your free hand. "They're pimple patches! They drain all the fluid from any surface-level breakouts, and they even come in different colors and sizes. See?"

"I dunno, babe," Atsumu murmurs as you peel a yellow star off the sheet with your tweezers and gently apply it along your jawline. "They look awfully cute on you, but...I don't think I can pull 'em off."

"I think you can pull anything off with the right attitude," you argue, sitting him down on the chair you'd dragged over from the kitchen counter. "You don't even need to wear them in public if you don't want to. Just try them on overnight and see how you like them."

You push Atsumu's hair back with your fluffy headband and proceed to pamper him for the next twenty minutes — cleansing his textured skin, massaging every nook and cranny with the moisturizer you'd sweet-talked past TSA. Even as you apply a yellow star to each of his spots, your movements are soft. Loving. A far cry from the vehement scrubbing Atsumu is used to.

"There. All done." You reach down and press a quick kiss to his lips. "Wanna see?"

"...huh." Atsumu blinks back, inspecting his face from different angles in the bathroom mirror. "They don't look half-bad, actually."

"See?" You yank the zipper across the top of your toiletries bag with a pleased smile. "Told ya they were cute."

Your boyfriend ends up liking the pimple patches a lot more than you thought he would. He orders a couple boxes for himself, stares at his reflection for a second longer than he normally does.

And when he shows up to the game the next day wearing them like a badge of honor? The social media headlines go crazy.

This professional volleyball player just made acne cool again.

This rookie setter's skincare routine just dropped — and dermatologists are obsessed.

Why Miya Atsumu's starry face matters in a world obsessed with perfect skin.

Needless to say, he feels a little less self-conscious about his skin after that. None of which would have been possible if not for you — holding him gently. Loving every part of him, scars and all.

Maybe it's time you reconsider the whole long-distance thing.

Actually a redraw of the first drawing I made of the b-man (2020)