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They should have won.

It’s the only thing Atsumu can think as they line up across from the players of Fukurodani. He bows with the rest of his team, his mind a constant repetition of we should have won even as they step forward to shake hands. Across the net, Akaashi Keiji is expressionless and beautiful, as he’s always been, and Atsumu’s palm is sweaty when they shake hands.

We should have won.

This is Atsumu’s final trip to Nationals. They've been on a hot streak, winning almost every practice match and blazing forward with no signs of stopping. Even without Kita and Oomimi and Aran, they've been a force and this was the year- this was the year when nationals should have been theirs.

And then the rug was yanked from beneath their feet by Fukurodani. Fukurodani, with a team made up mostly of first year starters. Fukurodani, without Washio, Sarukai, and Konoha- without Bokuto, beats them within two sets. They hadn’t even played a third set because somehow, their fresh-faced libero had figured out exactly how to dig every one of Atsumu’s serves, stopped nearly every perfect spike Atsumu had set.

The trudge to the locker room is almost unbearable. The rest of the team is crying around him, frustration and heartbreak rolling off of them in near tangible waves. Even Osamu is brushing away frustrated tears. The only one not crying other than Atsumu himself is Suna, who seems nearly unaffected beyond the tense line of his mouth and the unnaturally straight set of his usually slouched shoulders.

Atsumu knows he should be crying. Out of all of them, he knows he’s the crybaby, the one prone to loud reactions and emotional outbursts, but he can’t. Even under the weak spray of the showers, his eyes are dry. The only emotion rolling in his chest is fury, potent and nauseating, urging him to do something.

But there is nothing to be done.

“Oi.”

Atsumu glances at his brother as he tugs on a clean shirt. The only sign that Osamu had been crying is the puffy, reddened skin around his familiar eyes. Usually Atsumu would say something about him looking ugly, but it seems like too much effort, or maybe just the wrong time. Fighting with Osamu wouldn’t soothe him, not right now.

Atsumu hums in acknowledgement and looks away, stuffing his sweaty uniform into his bag.

“You okay?” Osamu asks, and then at the last moment adds, “Fuckface?”

“Fine.” Atsumu shrugs on his jacket, zipping it up to his throat, and pulls his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s just go watch the other matches.” He brushes past Osamu, pretending not to see his bewildered glance at Suna.

--

The team finds a cluster of seats looking down on the match between Itachiyama and Nekoma. It's hell day, the one day of the competition where teams may be forced into a second match, but Itachiyama and Nekoma are part of the morning bracket, just as Inarizaki had been.

And against all odds, it looks like Itachiyama is losing.

“The fuck?” Atsumu mutters, leaning forward in his seat. The scoreboard shows a one-to-one set match. They are in the middle of the third set, and Itachiyama is down eleven to nineteen. Nekoma’s Russian had just finished his serve rotation, and from the murmurs of the audience, Atsumu picks up that Lev’s first serve had been shut-out by a dig from Sakusa, followed by a sharp spike from a first year whose name Atsumu doesn’t recognize.

On Itachiyama’s side, Sakusa is up to serve. Atsumu sits back a bit, an odd sense of relief rolling over him. Sakusa’s serves are legendary, as much as it pains him to admit it. He’d played against and with Sakusa enough to know that blocking his serves is almost impossible, usually a matter of luck rather than skill at their level. It should get them the points to close in on Nekoma- Nekoma, who had no fucking right to have made it this far into the rotation anyway, not without Kuroo and whatever their annoying libero had been called.

Sakusa steps up to serve. Atsumu watches him, watches the way he releases a breath and relaxes into his stance. He tosses the ball between his hands before the whistle sounds. Then he steps forward, tosses the ball, jumps in his annoyingly perfect form, hits the ball, gives it that same nasty spin as always-

And Nekoma lifts it before it can touch the floor, right into the hands of their setter, who pushes it in a flawless arch to the kid with the mohawk, who slams it down onto the opposite court, just out of reach of Komori’s dive.

Just like that, Sakusa’s serve rotation ends, and Nekoma’s score ticks over to twenty.

The match is over within fifteen minutes. Itachiyama loses, nineteen to twenty-five, and the anger in Atsumu’s chest returns at full force.

---

The boys from Itachiyama don’t need to stay in a hotel in their own city, but they do. It just so happens that it is the same hotel where Inarizaki is staying, and when they return after the day’s matches, Motoya is waiting in the lobby.

“Hey! Miya-san!”

Atsumu lets a hiss of breath out between his teeth, before pushing himself to smile lazily at the libero. “Komori-kun,” he greets, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

Motoya comes to a halt just in front of them, wiggling his fingers in a quick greeting to Suna and Osamu who had stopped just behind Atsumu. “Hey! Tough luck today, huh?”

Atsumu just arches a brow, and reminds himself that he wasn’t the only one who was humiliated today, and that Motoya is just being friendly, as always.

“I just wanted to tell you- we’re going out to dinner in a bit, just the third years, and if you guys don’t have plans-” Motoya’s bright eyes break away from him to look at Osamu and Suna, and then back again. “-you should come with us. There’s a barbeque place a block out that we really like.”

“Sounds fun,” Osamu says placidly.

“Fat ass,” Atsumu says immediately, casting his brother a look, before turning back at Motoya. “Sounds fun,” he reiterates, ignoring the sharp elbow Osamu digs into his ribs.

And that’s how Atsumu ends up in a restaurant not only with the third years from Itachiyama, but also a scattering of other third years from other teams. He somehow ends up seated between his brother and Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’d been surprised that Sakusa had even come out, but watching Sakusa slowly disinfect his seat and his space at the table is by far the most entertaining part of the evening, so he can’t complain.

He is surrounded by chatter, and for once he isn’t the loudest one at the table. Instead, he keeps his head down. He wishes ardently that he’d brought his fake ID along, even though no one would believe he was the only person of-age at the table. A beer would have probably made him feel better. He settles for piling meat on his plate instead, wolfing down more than would be advisable on any day other than one where his dreams of finally taking home a Nationals win had been crushed. He can’t even lose himself in the thread of conversation around the table, completely uninterested in talking about good plays from the match because good plays didn’t matter because they had fucking lost.

He's sulking, and he doesn't even feel bad about it.

“You’re quiet, Miya.”

Atsumu pulls his eyes away from his water to look over at Sakusa. How long had he been staring at his drink, silently willing it to become a beer, without speaking?

Long enough, apparently, to be called out by the world’s most taciturn person.

“Huh?” he says smartly, meeting Sakusa’s dark eyes with a slow blink.

Sakusa doesn’t have his mask on, because even he isn’t enough of a freak to take it on and off while having a meal. Instead, his face is bare, pale lips twisted in distaste. He has one fist under his chin, his elbow carefully braced on the table on top of a folded napkin.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, watching Atsumu with unreadable eyes, before he says again, “You’re quiet.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes and mimics Sakusa’s posture childishly, barely noticing when his bare elbow lands in a puddle of spilled sauce. “What? You miss me runnin’ my mouth?”

The frown on Sakusa’s face deepens, and for the first time all day, Atsumu feels the anger coiled tight in his belly ease. “I’ve never heard you quiet for so long and was beginning to think you were sick,” he says slowly. “I was hoping to have an excuse to get away from you.”

“No such luck, Omi-Omi,” he drawls, feeling his face curl into a wicked grin. “I’m just fine.”

“Must not be,” Sakusa says mildly. He hasn’t looked away, dark eyes locked on Atsumu’s face. “Or you wouldn’t have lost that match.”

And there’s the anger again, swirling out and snapping at Atsumu’s limbs with sharp teeth. His smile drops immediately, and the anger only rises at the sight of the tiny smirk that curls on Sakusa’s lips. He feels pinned under his gaze, like he’s being challenged to do- something. “Fuck you. Y’all lost to Nekoma, that’s fuckin’ embarrasin’.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “We lost to their setter. He had us figured out by the end of the first set.”

“Yeah. And you fuckin’ lost.”

“I’m aware,” Sakusa says, sharp. Finally, finally his dark eyes flicker away, and Atsumu feels like he can breathe again. “We never should have lost that match. They were just- determined.”

Atsumu makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat and slumps into his seat. “Tell me about it,” he mutters mulishly, pushing a hand through his hair. “Shoulda been able to crush Fukurodani.”

“Should have,” Sakusa agrees mildly, eyes turning back to him.

Atsumu arches a brow, surprised. “Ooh? Are you payin’ me a compliment?”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow. “No.”

“Sounds like yer payin’ me a compliment, Omi-kun.” He grins, stretching languidly in his seat, just to see the way Sakusa physically retreats out of the way of his outstretched arms.

“Don’t call me that.” Sakusa rolls his eyes again, looking away. “Statistically, you should have won. Fukurodani is weaker than it has been the last three years, and your team has been winning. You should have won.”

“Right?” Atsumu lets it come out as a miserable whine, and impulsively adds, “You shoulda beat Nekoma easy, they’re just good on defense.”

“It’s annoying.” Sakusa’s eyes are back on him, and Atsumu realizes with a sudden thrill that having Sakusa’s attention on him feels good. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, not since the last Japanese Youth Intensive. Sakusa had ignored him the entire week, no matter how much Atsumu had tried to get a rise out of him. Now it feels like he's practically swimming in his attention. They’d been talking for nearly five minutes, and Sakusa is the one who’d started it.

At least Atsumu won something today.

They spend the next fifteen minutes cutting apart Nekoma and Fukurodani’s skills in withering detail, outlining exactly how easy it should have been to beat them. Sakusa doesn’t even mention it when Atsumu’s knee drifts against his, too caught up in detailing exactly why Nekoma’s second-year libero’s form is actually terrible to enforce his strict no-touch policy. The small point of contact sizzles in the periphery of Atsumu’s awareness, a quiet throb of want calling out beneath his irritation.

The conversation trails off after a while, both of them running out of bitter complaints and petty digs. Still, their combined fury lingers in the air, and Sakusa’s eyes have been on him for so long that Atsumu is almost afraid of what will happen when he looks away.

He realizes that they’ve been staring at each other in dead silence for too long. He realizes that not only is Sakusa’s knee still touching his, but it is actively pressing against his, and something in Sakusa’s eyes has changed. They aren’t so blank any more, and the irritation that had shone there as they talked about their matches has dissolved, replaced by ambient heat that reminds Atsumu of the last hot embers of a campfire.

The silence lingers for another long moment, and when Atsumu speaks, his voice comes out rougher than he expected it to. “Hey, Omi-Omi,” he says, low enough that Sakusa’s head tips a little to the side to hear him. “I’m kind of tired.”

“Go to bed then,” Sakusa says mildly. His leg shifts, pulling away from Atsumu’s, and Atsumu chases the contact, spreading his thighs to press their knees together again.

“I might get lost, ya know. Goin’ back to the hotel.” Atsumu licks his lips thoughtlessly, and doesn’t miss how Sakusa’s eyes follow the movement before returning to his.

“You’re useless.” Sakusa turns his head away, and his leg retreats again. The quiet tension Atsumu thought was building between them seems to disappear, and his mind is screaming no no no-

Sakusa slips his mask back on and scoots his chair away from the table to stand. “I’ll have to take you back then, won’t I?” he says, almost too quietly for Atsumu to hear.

Atsumu’s heartbeat ratchets up, blood pumping so hard so suddenly that he wonders if everyone at the table can hear it. He stands, knocking his knees awkwardly against the table.

Osamu, who has left Atsumu to sulk on his own all evening while absorbed in conversation with Suna and Gin, looks up. “Where’re you goin’?”

“To sleep,” Atsumu says immediately, leering down at him. “What? Ya gonna miss me?”

“Choke,” Osamu says flatly, before looking back at Suna like he’d never looked away, picking back up on their thread of conversation immediately. Atsumu doesn’t miss the way his brother’s hand is settled on Suna’s thigh beneath the table, and usually he’d give him shit about it, but Sakusa is already half-way out of the restaurant, and Atsumu isn’t stupid enough to let this opportunity pass when he can make fun of Osamu any other day of the week.

He falls into step with Sakusa on the sidewalk, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The sun had fully set while they ate, and the chill in the air is enough to sting. It doesn’t help that Sakusa hasn't even spared him a glance, some of the heat that had built between them fizzling into awkward silence.

They make it half a block before Atsumu gives in, filling the silence to assuage his building nerves. “Why’re ya even stayin’ at a hotel? Don’t ya live here?”

“It’s a team building exercise,” Sakusa says. His breath is a visible cloud in the air. Atsumu is a bit jealous that Sakusa is wearing a jacket.

“What, they got ya sharin’ a room with the whole team?” Atsumu laughs, and he knows it sounds obnoxious, but he doesn’t really care. “Sucks for you, Omi-kun, you and your delicate-”

“Don’t call me that,” Sakusa interjects, tossing him a narrow glance. The silence lingers for a long moment, and then he adds, “I made them give me my own room.”

Atsumu huffs a laugh, even as his belly flips nervously. His own room, his own space, privacy-

“‘Course you did. Nothing but the best for you,” he taunts.

Sakusa doesn’t rise to the bait, and the last few minutes of their walk are spent in silence. They step into the elevator together, and Sakusa hits the button for his floor with an elbow. The doors close, and Sakusa doesn’t ask what floor Atsumu needs. They settle in opposite corners of the lift, and Atsumu finds himself staring into Sakusa’s eyes again. He wonders if everyone feels like they are being tugged into the gravitational pull of a blackhole when they look at Sakusa, or if that's just him.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and Sakusa looks away and steps out. As his feet cross the threshold, without sparing another glance, he says, “Coming?”

Next thing he knows, Atsumu is stepping into Sakusa’s hotel room. His stomach is doing somersaults, close enough to nausea that he isn’t really sure if he’s actually excited. He kicks off his shoes by the door, nearly tripping into the wall. “Fuck-”

Sakusa flips on the light in the entryway, casting the small hotel room in pale light. He steps into the bathroom and Atsumu hears the sink come on. He stands at the door in his socks awkwardly, feeling wrong-footed. He swallows down his nerves and slinks forward, leaning against the doorway. Sakusa is washing his hands, clinically scrubbing between each finger.

“Hey, Omi-Omi-”

“You can wash your hands when I’m done,” Sakusa says, cutting a glance in his direction.

“That’s not what I was gonna-”

“If you wash your hands,” Sakusa continues, as if Atsumu had never interrupted, “There’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll actually let you touch me.”

Atsumu’s mouth shuts with an audible click of his teeth, heat spreading to his cheeks. “I-”

“That’s what we’re doing, right?” Sakusa knocks the handle of the sink with his elbow, cutting off the water, and picks up a hand towel. “We’re going to… touch.”

If Atsumu felt less nervous, he might have called Sakusa out on how entirely fucking awkward that sounded, but instead he just stares at him with wide eyes, mouth moving soundlessly for a moment before he croaks out, “Yeah. Touchin’.”

Sakusa steps back and pointedly looks at the sink. Atsumu moves into place quickly, fumbling with the soap before turning the water back on. He scrubs at his hands more thoroughly than he ever has in his entire life, painstakingly scrapping beneath each of his nails and pushing the water towards scalding hot as he rinses.

It's been the most surreal day of his fucking life. First, he lost to Fukurodani, and then he watched Itachiyama lose, and then he had an almost civil conversation with Sakusa Kiyoomi and now he’s in his hotel room and- and-

Holy shit, not in his wildest dreams had he imagined Sakusa Kiyoomi actually allowing him to touch him. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. As soon as he found out that touching wasn’t a thing that Sakusa did, he’d wanted to touch him. Atsumu hates being told no to anything. At first the urge was just to touch because he couldn’t, but then, tangled up in jealousy over Sakusa’s skills and irritation at his fucking terrible personality and annoyance at his peculiarities, was the frustrating acknowledgement that Sakusa's attractive. Heartbreakingly, earth shatteringly attractive in a way that makes Atsumu run his mouth and beg for attention. He wants to know what those dark, perfect curls would feel like between his fingers. He wants to know if Sakusa's hands are rough and calloused the way Osamu’s are, or strong but painstakingly well cared for like Suna’s. He wants to know if his skin is as soft as it looks and if it tastes like rubbing alcohol or like boy or- or-

Atsumu’s wanted to kiss Sakusa’s scowling mouth since the first time he’d seen him take off his stupid mask.

It's aggressively silent when he turns off the water. He grabs another towel to dry his hands, knowing that if he tries to wipe them on his pants Sakusa will just make him wash them again, and suddenly not being able to touch him immediately seems like an absolute nightmare.

He tries his best not to look too desperate as he turns away from the sink, dropping the towel in a careless pile by his feet. He holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers in Sakusa’s direction, getting an unimpressed glower for his efforts. “Squeaky clean,” he brags, and tries to ignore how stupid it sounds in his own ears.

“Very good,” Sakusa praises blandly. He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, his mask hanging from one ear.

Atsumu makes a face, leaning back against the counter. “Mean, Omi-”

“I’m pissed off.”

Atsumu blinks, thrown off by the sudden declaration. “Huh- why? I washed my hands, ya watched me-”

“I’m pissed off because we lost, and we should have won.” Sakusa's staring at him again with those stupid black eyes that give away absolutely nothing. The bathroom is both too dark and too bright for Atsumu to read anything in them.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Yeah, I know the feelin’.”

“And I just want-” Suddenly, Sakusa looks as frustrated as Atsumu has felt all fucking day. His mouth is twisted down, a faint furrow appearing between his brows. “I want to break something.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, and it comes out like a sigh. His frustration is surging up again, and mixed in with it is the need to do something. “I wanna- I wanna practice serves until my hand's numb.”

“Until my fingers cramp.”

“Until my fingers break.

“I want-” Sakusa stops, swallowing thickly. “I want to forget about it.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees, eyes darting down to watch the way Sakusa’s muscles clench and relax at his throat. It makes him feel- hungry. “Omi, I wanna-” He cuts himself off, and he knows without looking that his face is flushed.

“What?” Sakusa asks. His arms drop out of their fold, fingers clenching restlessly at his sides.

Atsumu shouldn’t say it, because if he is reading this wrong- if he isn’t here for the reason he thinks he is-

“I wanna touch ya,” he manages to say, and the words feel like sandpaper, but he can’t stop himself, the rest of his words tumbling out against his will. “I wanna pull your hair and I wanna- kiss ya, and I wanna-” He shivers, because saying that feels like admitting to a crime because Sakusa and sex should be a combination that solely exists in his mind. “I wanna touch ya-”

“I want to kiss you,” Sakusa cuts in, and his voice has dropped an octave, and Atsumu thinks, maybe, that he can feel how the words tremble through the air. “I want to bite you so hard you bleed.”

And isn’t that a picture. Atsumu is a little terrified about what it means about his psyche that those words send blood rushing to his cock. “Yeah, Omi- yeah, that would be-”

“Fuck,” Sakusa curses, like he's pissed at himself, and then he crosses the room, hands clamping down on Atsumu’s wrists so hard Atsumu thinks he might be able to feel the bones grinding together. “Don’t make this a thing-”

“Not a thing,” Atsumu says quickly, tipping his head back a fraction to look up at him properly and oh. Sakusa’s eyes aren’t black. They're dark, dark brown, but his pupils are so blown it doesn’t even matter, because his irises are almost entirely consumed. Atsumu’s breath hitches without his consent, mouth falling open to pant out a single breath.

“Don’t- touch me too much,” Sakusa grinds out. “My- hair is fine, and my neck, but-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Omi, whatever ya want-” Atsumu arches up towards him, getting their mouths close enough that he can feel it when Sakusa exhales. “Just, really want- it, whatever-”

“I just need to do something, and you seemed like you wanted to- do something too-” Sakusa’s hands squeeze his wrists even tighter, tight enough that it’s painful, and it makes Atsumu dizzy how fucking hot that is.

“I do, Omi, fuck-

“This is just- it’s nothing, but we’re both frustrated-”

“I’m not gonna try to call ya tomorrow or nothing, I fuckin’ swear-” Atsumu leans forward a little more, trying to get their mouths together, and Sakusa leans back, escaping the press of his lips. “Fuck,” he whines, and he can’t even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed about begging.

“If- if I tell you to stop doing something, just stop. Or I’ll make you stop.”

Atsumu nods quickly, eyes skittering across Sakusa’s face. “Yeah, I get it, just-”

“Fuck,” Sakusa says, and then he finally closes the distance, their mouths crashing together in a painful click of teeth because neither of them are truly prepared. But Atsumu can’t find it in himself to care, making a distressed noise while still twisting his head to try and make it into an actual kiss. As soon as their mouths line up properly, Atsumu parts his lips and Sakusa is there, his tongue skating past Atsumu’s lips and pulling a groan from him before he can stop himself.

Sakusa releases his wrists to grab at his hips instead, long fingers sliding past the edge of his t-shirt to dig into the meat of his waist, tugging him closer. Atsumu’s hands rocket up, digging into Sakusa’s hair and- it’s coarser than he expected it to be. It’s thick and tangled in on itself in messy ringlets, so easy to grab onto. He arches closer to him thoughtlessly, not even embarrassed that getting closer means he has to stretch onto his tiptoes to close the gap between them.

Sakusa hands reel him in immediately, and he presses close, their bodies lining up just right and oh. It’s like fireworks are going off behind his eyes, because their hips line up and they're pressed against each other and he isn’t the only one who’s hard. Atsumu has never been so grateful for his commitment to athletic wear, or less irritated by the lurid shade of Sakusa’s track pants, because the layers of flimsy cloth aren’t enough to hide how affected they both are at all.

He moans thoughtlessly into the kiss, stretching his jaw a bit wider so Sakusa can press deeper. Sakusa kisses like nothing he’s ever imagined. Even when he’d dared to think of what kissing him might be like, he’d thought it would be light and fleeting and almost teasing but no- Sakusa kisses like he’s trying to devour him, warm tongue skating over his teeth and soft palate, rolling against his own in a heady press that makes Atsumu tremble.

Atsumu breaks away when his lungs start to burn, groaning when Sakusa’s teeth catch on his lower lip and pull it just a fraction too hard. “Fuck-” The resulting shiver is so strong his feet slip, socks gliding across the tile. He knocks his tailbone against the counter with a hiss. He manages to release Sakusa’s hair without yanking it, hands flying back to grab onto the rim of the sink.

Sakusa steps away and for a split second Atsumu panics and wonders if he’d managed to fuck it up with that stunning display of clumsiness- then Sakusa’s hands clench in his shirt, tugging him away from the counter to steer him out of the bathroom.

There aren’t beds, but there are two plush futons arranged on opposite sides of the room. Atsumu clocks Motoya’s jersey cast across the back of a chair before he’s pulled into another kiss. Sakusa’s shoulders curve down to meet him before Atsumu can lean up, the angle forcing him to bend back under the pressure. The kiss is brief, just a searing glide of spit-slick lips before Sakusa breaks away again.

“Is it okay if- we-” He gestures at the futon that must belong to him with an awkward jerk of his chin.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, running his hands over the short hairs at the back of Sakusa’s neck, the only place he knows he can touch. “How do ya want me?”

Sakusa makes a low noise, hands clenching rhythmically where they’ve landed on his waist. “Lay down and I’ll- on top of you?” he says, and it’s the first time he’s sounded anywhere close to unsure.

Atsumu nods quickly, scraping his nails against his scalp before stumbling back, falling onto the futon gracelessly. He grabs the edge of his shirt, instinctively moving to rip it off before pausing. “Is this-” He lifts it a little, looking up at Sakusa desperately for an answer. From the floor, Sakusa seems to tower over him. It sends a thrill up his spine unexpectedly; he’s never messed around with someone his size before, much less someone a little bigger than him, and an animal part of his brain he doesn’t even recognize begins chanting big big big with something akin to euphoria.

Sakusa stares down at him for a long moment, just hovering, before leaning over to tug his own shirt over his head. Atsumu doesn’t move, mouth dropping open at the sudden reveal. For all the times they’ve trained together, Atsumu has never seen him without a shirt. Sakusa is always first in the showers, already clean and dressed by the time Atsumu waltzes in. And he knows, right, he knows that Sakusa is an athlete, one of the top high school athletes in Japan, sprinting towards a professional career but- that doesn’t prepare him for how fucking ripped he is, nothing but tight, sleek muscle and broad shoulders.

“Fuck, Omi, what lab were ya made in?” he says, eyes raking over his chest. “I mean, Jesus, do ya ever take a day off?”

“Just shut up and take off your shirt.” Sakusa tosses his shirt to the side and drops to his knees at the end of the futon. There is a faint, smug curve to his lips that makes Atsumu’s breath catch as he scrambles to obey, flinging his shirt away. Sakusa shuffles closer and Atsumu spreads his legs automatically to make room, eyes flitting from his face, to his chest, down to the sharp cut of his hip bones, and how the jut of them suspends his track pants a bare centimeter away from his flat stomach, the faint trace of hair beneath his belly button leading down to-

Sakusa pushes him back with curled knuckles, not hard enough to actually make him fall, but Atsumu moves with the motion anyway. Sakusa shifts over him, bracing himself on his arms. He holds himself stiffly, body suspended a few careful inches over Atsumu.

“This is the weirdest hook-up I’ve ever had, ya know?”

“You make it sound like you have a lot of experience.” Sakusa blinks down at him slowly. One of his hands shifts to curl in Atsumu’s hair, touch light.

Atsumu smirks up at him. “Look at me and tell me ya don’t think I could have my pick, Omi.”

Sakusa arches a brow, the twin moles on his forehead lifting with the motion; Atsumu has the very embarrassing impulse to press his lips against them. Sakusa’s fingers curl tighter in his hair, and Atsumu barely resists the urge to whine, tipping his head back a bit to ease the sting.

“You want to go find someone else then?” he asks, voice completely level as if Atsumu leaving would have no effect on him whatsoever. Fucking annoying.

“If ya don’t hurry up and do somethin’-” This time when Sakusa tugs his hair, his mouth is already open, and his whine escapes before he can suppress it. That smirk is back and it’s annoying how attractive it is.

“If I had known that was all I needed to do to make you shut up…” Sakusa tips his head down, lips gliding up his throat.

“I fuckin’ hate ya, Omi,” Atsumu manages, hips jerking slightly at the combination of barely there lips and tight fingers.

Sakusa chooses that moment to drop his body down against him, rolling his hips in a slow, delicious press that makes Atsumu’s mind go blissfully blank for a half-second. He arches up into it, making a frustrated noise when Omi lifts up again and out of his reach.

“Doesn’t feel like you hate me,” he says against his ear. “Feels like you like me just fine.”

“Jesus Christ, yer a freak, Omi-Omi, never would have pegged ya for- oh.” Atsumu shivers, hips giving another little jerk when Sakusa bites at the cartilage of his ear. “Oh, fuck-”

Sakusa soothes the sting with a slow drag of his tongue before leaning back a bit to look at Atsumu properly. “Miya, to be clear-”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me Miya while you’re touchin’ me like that,” Atsumu snaps, twisting against the sheets as much as he can under the cage of Sakusa’s body. “If you make me think about ‘Samu while we’re doin’ this, I’m gonna hurl-

“Atsumu,” Sakusa interjects. Atsumu stops squirming, looking up at him properly. Sakusa stares down at him, cheeks a ruddy pink despite his unaffected expression. When he seems confident that Atsumu isn’t going to interrupt, he glances away briefly before continuing. “To be clear. I can’t- I won’t touch you. I can’t, like that. But-” He shifts, rolling his hips against Atsumu’s again. Atsumu sees the small crinkle between Sakusa’s brows at the pressure, and it makes a bizarre form of pride blossom in his chest.

“But we can do that,” Sakusa finishes lamely. He dips his head, expression hidden behind his fringe.

“Just a little dry humpin’? That’s fine, Omi-kun, I don’t mind.” He shifts, taking advantage of the fact that Sakusa hasn’t pulled away this time to roll their hips together again. He can feel the line of Sakusa’s cock against his. He hums appreciatively, eyes dropping closed.

“That’s as far as we go,” Sakusa murmurs, face still hidden. Atsumu realizes abruptly that this is Sakusa nervous. It must be part of the germ thing and the touch thing, that Sakusa isn’t willing to get totally naked and go any further. He wonders if other people have turned him away for it, if they couldn’t handle Sakusa’s odd quirks.

Atsumu can very much handle him.

He shifts, pressing his feet into the futon to get the leverage to roll their hips together again, head tipping so he can brush his lips against Sakusa’s ear, marvelling at how his shoulders curl forward in a shiver at the touch. “I like it,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even have to try to make himself sound alluring; a couple of frantic kisses and awkward grinding have already gotten him to a place where his voice is rough and breathy. Embarrassing.

Sakusa makes a small noise and Atsumu can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but his hand curves around the back of Atsumu’s head, cradling it above the futon to keep him close. Atsumu rolls his hips up again, letting himself moan at the weak friction. “I like it,” he repeats, carding his fingers through Sakusa’s hair. “Makes me feel dirty. Like’m not good enough for ya.” He wishes desperately that he had permission to touch him more, to grab his hips and pull him down into the languid press of their bodies.

“Atsumu-”

“Fuck, yeah.” Atsumu nuzzles his nose lightly against his cheek, humming. “I like that, too.”

Atsumu feels Sakusa swallow, hears the dry click of his throat. One of Sakusa’s hands slides slowly down his side, all the way past his hip and to his thigh. He shifts, hitching Atsumu’s leg up around his hips before sinking down with a hard, controlled grind, and finally there’s the friction he’s been looking for.

Atsumu takes the adjustment as permission to hook his legs around Sakusa, dragging him down into the cradle of his hips. Sakusa sinks closer, arms raising to brace himself over Atsumu again. He lowers his head, pressing firm kisses down the line of his throat as he builds up a careful rhythm with his hips.

Atsumu lets himself lay back and take it, the sudden sensation of skin-on-skin with their bare chests, tight pressure, and biting kisses along his throat enough to make him lose focus on anything other than the feeling. The way Sakusa is grinding their hips together is so reminiscent of fucking that it makes something in his brain melt. Atsumu has never been fucked before, was usually all too happy to do the fucking, and suddenly the thought of spreading himself out for Sakusa to fucking take is so alluring he can barely breathe.

“Fuck, fuck-” He arches up, stretching his throat to give Sakusa more access. Sakusa’s teeth sink into the delicate hollow of his throat and Atsumu keens, a shudder rocking his whole body. “Omi, yeah, yeah- did ya do it like you wanted to, did ya make me bleed-”

“Not yet,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough and faint. He bites down again, and the pain of it sends a rocket of pleasure directly to Atsumu’s dick. He’s already throbbing, so achingly hard he doesn’t know what to do with himself, holding onto Sakusa’s hair for dear life.

“Oh, God- fuck, Omi, how’d you learn how’da do it-” Atsumu whimpers at another sharp bite, shaking under him. He tugs at his hair, and Sakusa follows the pull, sweat damp forehead pressing into his. “Kiss me, fuck-”

Sakusa obliges, meeting his lips in a messy kiss. His hips are losing any rhythm, moving against Atsumu’s in anxious little circles. At least Atsumu isn’t the only one who’s close. Atsumu feels like he’s teetering on the edge, the friction just-not-quite enough to tip him over. He wishes he could shove a hand down his pants, certain that one touch would be all it would take-

But Sakusa wouldn’t like that. It might upset him, and despite spending ninety-nine percent of their time together doing everything in his power to piss Sakusa off, Atsumu very much wants this to be a good experience for both of them.

Their kiss is barely a kiss. It’s mostly frantic tongues and panting and half-hearted nips, and even that is so much that Atsumu has to jerk away, smacking his head back against the pillow with a gasp. “Omi, Omi, Omi- ‘m close-”

Has he ever been this turned on? When he was fifteen, getting his first handjob from his neighbor Chieko, he’d been too worried that he was somehow doing something wrong to focus on anything other than his embarrassment. When he had sex for the first time with Kumi from class 2-C, he’d been so focused on looking good above her, that he’d barely been able to pay attention to what sliding into her had even felt like. It feels a little like the first time he’d given a blow job, maybe, the same crawling heat scratching beneath his skin, but-

But he can’t even look at Sakusa without feeling like he’s going to explode. He’s been jealous of Sakusa since the day he met him, frustrated by his reticent personality, irritated by his nonreactions-

Oh, fuck. Does he actually have a crush on Sakusa Kiyoomi?

Atsumu peels open his eyes to glance at Sakusa, who has turned his face into the crook of Atsumu’s throat, panting against his skin as he works their hips together relentlessly. “Oh, fuck-” He drops his arm across his face, pressing his eyes into the bend of his elbow, digging his teeth into his lower lip in an effort to just shut up. Shut his mouth, shut off his mind, just shut up-

Sakusa’s face turns against his neck, teeth grazing over his collarbone. Atsumu’s toes curl, one leg jerking straight against his will, falling away from Sakusa’s waist to press against the futon. He’s close-

Sakusa’s hand wraps around his wrist, jerking it away from his face to press into the pillows above his head instead. Atsumu keeps his eyes pinched shut, teeth digging so harshly into his lip he thinks it might bleed, every nerve ending in his body vibrating and too sensitive. He doesn’t see it, but he feels it as Sakusa tenderly licks his captured lip, making him release it with a gasp, a shiver jerking his whole body up in a sharp arch.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says, and his voice is so rough it sounds like it hurts. “Open- your eyes.”

Atsumu shakes his head a little, panting. “Can’t- fuck, Omi, gonna-”

“Look at me-” Atsumu just shakes his head again, rolling his hips up against Sakusa’s thoughtlessly, chasing after his release in a way he knows is disturbing the rhythm Sakusa had set.

“Please.”

Atsumu’s eyes snap open, looking up at him. Sakusa, whose pale face is mottled red, with a faint layer of perspiration at the line of his wild hair. Whose lips are pink, and maybe a little swollen, whose eyes are dark, dark, dark- and looking directly at him, clouded with arousal.

Atsumu lets out a noise he’s never heard himself make before, head twisting back against the pillows as he teeters over the edge. He feels it from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, every muscle in his body contracting so hard it’s almost painful. He arches away from the sheets, eyes forced closed again as he trembles through it, Sakusa’s hips continuing to grind against his until it feels like too much.

He jerks weakly at the hand Sakusa still has trapped, whining, mind a thousand miles away as he comes down. “Ow,” he mumbles, slowly forcing his eyes open again.

Sakusa stills immediately, mouth slightly open as he looks down at him. He releases Atsumu’s wrist, shifting his weight onto his elbow instead. Atsumu hadn’t even noticed Sakusa’s other hand where it had settled against his belly, long fingers stretched across the flat plane of his abs.

It takes a couple of slow blinks for his mind to clear, and another moment to realize that Sakusa is still riding the knife’s edge, body trembling above him, hips held still a bare inch away from Atsumu’s slowly relaxing body.

Atsumu lets out a breath and lifts his hands, sliding his fingers along Sakusa’s neck and into his hair. “You didn’t- can I-”

It’s Sakusa’s turn to close his eyes, head jerking slightly into his touch. “I can-”

“Let me-” Atsumu swallows thickly, sliding one hand slowly down Sakusa’s neck, stopping carefully at his chest. When Sakusa doesn’t protest he continues, grazing his fingers slowly down. He feels the twitch of Sakusa’s abs as he grazes past them, hand coming to a halt again at the edge of Sakusa’s pants.

“Don’t,” Sakusa grits out, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Won’t really touch ya, Omi,” he breathes, tipping his head up to brush his lips against his jaw. He trails his fingers along his waistband, a tiny aftershock shivering through him as he finds his target. He brushes his fingers delicately over the covered line of Sakusa’s cock, a thrill skating up his spine at the small damp patch in the fabric.

Sakusa releases a hard breath, hips twitching and stilling immediately. “Wait-”

“Is it okay? I’ll stop, if ya want me to.” He brushes his knuckles against him again, a barely there touch. “Ya made me feel so good, Omi, just wanna return the favor…” He stops, hand hovering close, but not touching. “You’re runnin’ the show, just tell me what to do.”

Sakusa turns his head into the hand Atsumu has moved to his cheek, letting out another harsh breath against his palm. “Touch me,” he hisses, brow furrowed.

Atsumu grins despite himself, and cups him firmly through his pants. “You can move, ya know.”

Sakusa growls- fucking growls- and presses into Atsumu’s hand. The hand on Atsumu’s stomach moves to grip his waist instead, fingers digging into his flesh.

“That’s it, Omi-Omi,” he murmurs. He strokes him slowly, dragging his thumb over the head. He tips his head, pressing kisses up his jaw. He can feel Sakusa shivering over him, his hips jerking into his touch. He nuzzles his nose behind Sakusa’s ear as the other boy sinks closer to him. “Ya like it, right?”

Sakusa hums, dropping his head against Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu curls his hand into his hair, tugging it lightly. “Yeah, ‘s right.” He wraps his hand around him the best he can through the barrier of the cloth, stroking him fast and tight. “Come for me, yeah? Kiyoomi?” he whispers, another faint thrill running through him at the use of Sakusa’s full, given name.

That seems to do it. Sakusa’s body goes stiff above him, hips flexing in sporadic little jerks. He doesn’t make a sound, but Atsumu feels it as he comes, in the twitch of his cock and the sudden dampening of the cloth as Atsumu works him through it. He stops when Sakusa’s hips still and cant away from the touch, gliding his hand lightly up his chest to curl into his hair instead, holding him close. Sakusa’s body slowly relaxes, slumping fully against Atsumu as he comes down.

They lay like that together for maybe thirty seconds before Sakusa retracts his hands, batting Atsumu’s touch away as he rolls to the side, sprawling half on the futon and half on the floor. Atsumu decides it’s best not to mention that the floor is probably filthy, letting Sakusa come down from the rush of endorphins in silence.

The silence stretches on long enough for Atsumu to notice the uncomfortable, tacky feeling of his underwear and the distinct ache in his neck and wrists. He makes a face, shifting awkwardly to pull the fabric away from his skin, and turns his head to look at Sakusa.

Sakusa is staring at the ceiling, the flush in his face almost entirely gone. If it wasn’t for the uneven movement of his chest as he catches his breath and the distinct dark stain on his stupid lime green joggers, it would have been impossible to tell that he’d spent the last twenty minutes humping Atsumu stupid.

Atsumu snorts at the thought and Sakusa turns his head to look at him, eyebrows drawing together in mild irritation.

“Feel better?” Atsumu drawls, lips tilting into an easy grin.

“Not really,” Sakusa says. But he isn’t moving, body still spread out in a relaxed sprawl.

Atsumu snorts again, twisting onto his side. He props his cheek in a hand. “Liar.”

Sakusa clicks his tongue irritably, turning his head to look back at the ceiling. “Definitely worse.”

“Liar,” Atsumu reiterates. “You’re a winner now. Got a prize better than nationals.”

“Please tell me you aren’t talking about yourself.”

“‘Course I am.” Atsumu huffs a laugh.

“Arrogant.”

Atsumu watches him thoughtfully, letting them lapse into silence again. Atsumu certainly feels better than he has all day. With his hurt feelings pushed away, it’s easier to look past nationals; it might have been his last opportunity to compete with his brother and the rest of Inarizaki by his side, but it was hardly his last chance to play. He was already being courted by multiple division teams, set to go pro as soon as he graduated. Most of the fuckers who beat him today would never have the same opportunities that Atsumu would, so really, who was the winner?

“Hey, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa opens one eye, glancing over at him. “What.”

Atsumu shifts, tugging idly at his waistband. “Yer gonna go pro, right? After graduation?”

Sakusa turns his head properly to look at him, blinking slowly. “...no. I’m going to university.”

Atsumu’s elbow slips and he jerks upright quickly, shifting to cross his legs and face him completely. “No way! What’re you going to university for?”

Sakusa sighs and pushes himself up on his elbows. “Physics-”

“That’s not what I’m talkin’ about!” Atsumu waves a hand. “I meant why? You’re not gonna keep playin’?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes, pushing himself fully upright. “I’m going to play in the university circuit, Miya.”

“And then yer just gonna fuck off an’ be a scientist or somethin’?” Atsumu glowers. “What a waste-”

“No,” Sakusa interjects, mouth twisting down. “I’m going to finish university and then I’ll try out for a division team.”

“Why are you wasting yer time like that?” Atsumu scoffs, dragging his fingers through his hair. It‘s knotted in the back- probably from all the writhing against Sakusa’s pillows he’d been doing.

Sakusa lets out a sharp puff of breath, blowing a frizzy ringlet away from his face. “My parents asked me to. I can still play and improve without going straight to a division team.”

“Still, you’re a fuckin’ ace. Half the national teams are probably beatin’ down your door-”

“Paying me a compliment, Miya?”

Atsumu’s jaw clicks shut. Sakusa has that smug look on his face again. “No, I’m just sayin’.”

“Sure.” He tilts his head, stretching his neck with a sigh. “You’re joining a division team, then?”

Atsumu nods, watching the muscles of his neck. “Yeah. Not sure what team yet.”

“Your brother too?” Sakusa shifts, twisting at the waist in another careful stretch.

“Nah, ‘Samu isn’t into it like that.” He drops his hands to his lap, picking at the hem of his pants. He and Osamu had worked it out - well, they’d fought it over - but he still isn’t particularly happy that Osamu is giving up on volleyball. “He wants to work for a while. Got a job at a restaurant back home.”

“Hm.” Sakusa’s phone chimes before he can say more, and he leans carefully past Atsumu to grab it from where it had fallen on the sheets. “Komori is coming back,” he says after a moment. “They apparently did a few rounds of karaoke after dinner.”

“Fuck, I missed karoake?” Atsumu wrinkles his nose, rocking back with a sigh. “That woulda been fun.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sakusa says blandly. “Now get out.”

Atsumu huffs a laugh and sits forward, leaning towards him. “Just teasin’.”

Sakusa doesn’t move, staring at him. He looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Get out. I need to take a bath.”

“Alright, alright.” He flashes a grin, leaning forward a bit more. “Gimme a goodnight kiss and I’ll go-”

Sakusa claps a hand against his cheek, shoving him away before standing. He scoops up Atsumu’s shirt between the tips of two fingers, tossing it in his direction. “Out,” he repeats.

Atsumu tugs it on with a laugh and stands, stretching towards the ceiling. “I’m goin’.” He brushes past him, careful not to actually touch him. Sakusa follows him to the door, reaching around him to tug it open as Atsumu stuffs his feet back into his shoes. “Night, Omi-kun~” He flashes him a grin, stepping backwards through the door.

“Goodnight, Miya.”

“Ya know, you could still call me At-”

Sakusa closes the door firmly in his face.

---

Atsumu manages to take a quick shower before the rest of the third years return to their shared room. He’s sitting on his futon when they make it back, rubbing his hair dry with a towel as he scrolls through twitter. The door slams open, the other third years stomping in and kicking off their shoes at the door.

“Oi, thought you were sleepin’,” Osamu greets. He crouches down at the end of his futon by his bag, flipping it open to search for his sleep clothes.

“Changed my mind~” He glances up, arching a brow. “Why’d ya come in here so loud if you thought I was sleepin’?”

“Wanted to wake ya up,” Osamu says nonchalantly.

“Bastard-”

“What happened to your neck?” Suna interrupts. He’s standing beside his futon, holding his sleep shirt, narrow eyes squinted suspiciously. “You get mauled by a bear?”

Osamu immediately zeroes in on his neck, and Atsumu slaps a hand over the worst of them, the dark, angry marks in the soft hollow of his throat where Sakusa had bitten hard-

“You should see the other guy,” Atsumu says, leering at Suna. The other guy, who Atsumu had absolutely not succeeded in leaving a single mark on, because he’d been too busy getting fucking ravished-

“How much ya pay him?” Osamu tugs his shirt off. “Couldn’ta found someone actually willing to touch ya.”

“I don’t think Omi-kun has a price.” Atsumu sniffs, lifting his nose imperiously.

There is a drawn out silence before Suna, Osamu, and Gin and Kosaku dissolve into laughter.

“Sakusa!” Osamu barks, holding his stomach with both hands in a rare display of loud derision. Suna is literally pointing at Atsumu with one hand, the other delicately curling over his mouth to hide his snickers. “Yer tellin’ me Sakusa Kiyoomi let ya touch ‘im?”

Atsumu huffs, crossing his arms. He’d known ahead of time that they wouldn’t believe him- which was kind of the point. Make it into a joke, and no one would be suspicious and actually believe that he’d spent his night getting ravaged by Sakusa. “Laugh all ya want!”

“Oh, fuck, we will-” Osamu dissolves into another fit of laughter, and Atsumu flops back against his futon in a fake sulk. He rolls to put his back to the rest of the boys as they settle in for bed, playfully mocking Atsumu’s “lie” and developing a list of people Sakusa Kiyoomi was far more likely to allow into his personal space than Atsumu.

No one asks another question about where he’d been. When the lights are off and everyone else has settled in to sleep, Atsumu presses his thumb against the most tender mark on his throat, sighing at the phantom pain.

---

They watch the finals the next day; in the second round of hell day, both Fukorodani and Nekoma had been knocked out, leaving Kamomedai to face off against Karasuno in the last match of nationals.

Inarizaki’s general mood has lifted overnight. Atsumu spent the morning trying to remember why he’d been so pissed the day before, but couldn’t quite remember. Instead he spent the morning harassing Osamu, which had been enough fun to put him back in his usual mood.

They’re looking for seats when they pass Itachiyama. Komori and Sakusa are heading up the group. Sakusa’s shoulders are curved forward, head tucked down; the crowds around them are too thick, Atsumu assumes, for Sakusa to be comfortable.

“Miya-san!” Komori waves, drawing their group to a halt. Atsumu, Osamu, and Suna stop too, the rest of their team pausing behind them.

“Hey,” Atsumu says with a grin, at the same time Osamu lifts a hand in mild greeting; but Komori’s eyes are on Atsumu, eyes squinted shut in a happy grin.

“I heard you’re trying for a division team after graduation, right?” He points at himself. “Me too!”

“Oh?” Atsumu tucks his hands into his pockets, tipping his head to the side enough to reveal the dark, angry marks on his neck that had set in overnight. “That so?”

“Yeah.” He grins, thumbs hooking into the straps of his backpack. “Maybe we’ll end up on the same team.”

“We’ll see.” He cuts his eyes towards Sakusa, who looks grim as usual, his brows furrowed. “You guys staying for the match?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna go watch from the floor though.” Komori flashs him a thumbs up. “See you around, Miya-san!”

“See ya, Komori-kun.” He cuts his eyes in Sakusa’s direction one last time, tongue sliding across his lips before he guides the rest of his team past them. Sakusa’s expression barely changes, but Atsumu optimistically thinks that maybe there was a flicker of the same heat he’d seen the night before in Sakusa’s eyes.

When they make it past the other team, Osamu slings an arm across his shoulders, smirk curling his lips. “Awful cold treatment from yer lover there, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu doesn’t feel bad about the elbow he digs into his brother’s ribs.