Chapter Text
Sakusa Kiyoomi isn’t one to take risks.
Does he sometimes show up to the bus stop without having checked the timetable ahead of time? Sure!
Does he sometimes (once a semester as per their negotiation) let Motoya take him to a new place to eat? He does!
But stepping foot into a smelly locker room full of jocks without a face mask? That’s a risk nobody should ever have to take.
He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder when they pass by some members of the rugby team, all sweaty and gross from practice. He not-so-subtly hugs the wall to let them through, and Akaashi patiently waits for him, his notebook under his arm.
Once the players are gone in a brouhaha of rowdy laughter and unnecessarily loud voices, Akaashi meets his eyes. “All good there, Kiyo?”
No, nothing was good, because why the hell did they even have to interview jocks for? This wasn’t the nineties, who even cares about sports anymore when there are literal robots labs on campus?
But he knows Akaashi doesn’t want to be here any more than he does, this is solely Oikawa’s fault. Whoever decided he should be editor in chief was clearly a charmed administrator who’s never had to be on the receiving end of Oikawa’s meddling, so Kiyoomi breathes out and calmly responds, “All good.”
Akaashi doesn’t believe him, if the way his eyes turn pitiful is any indication, but he swivels around and quietly leads them out onto the fields. The sun is shining low, Kiyoomi shields his eyes from it, and for the first time in his life wishes he owned a cap, even a NY branded one, so he could at least hide behind it.
“Tooru said we had to start with the American football captain and co-captain.” Akaashi says, flipping through his notebook, pages after pages filled with notes passing by. Even in those messy notes, there was a delicacy proper to Akaashi. “Bokuto Koutarou and Miya Atsumu.” He squints at Kiyoomi. “Ever heard of them?”
“I think the Miya one rings a bell, but I thought he was the one who opened that restaurant?”
“Maybe he cooks in his spare time?” The editor wonders, shrugging one shoulder as his eyes now scan the football field. He seems to find what he’s looking for quick enough and then he’s gesturing to a group of people huddling by the goalposts.
“Tooru showed me their instagrams, they’re over here, come on.”
Kiyoomi follows but he really wishes he could turn around and go get a coffee or something instead. He doesn’t have that much experience interacting with jocks and, granted, the few times he had to it wasn’t that bad, but he really can’t help expecting the worst.
They reach the team right as a mountain of a guy with grey hair is clapping his hands, cheerfully beaming at the others. “Alright guys, that’s it for today, thank you for such a good practice! See you all Monday!”
A chorus of thanks answers him in nearly perfect synchronization as Akaashi and Kiyoomi wait by the sideline; when the group disperses, people do confused double takes at the two strangers standing there. Kiyoomi keeps his eyes on a random tree not to send daggers their way. Breathe in, breathe out.
Akaashi leans into his side as he points at the two players left on the field, talking over a notepad. “The blond is Miya, vice captain, the other one is Bokuto.”
“Got it.” He says with a nod, even though he’s pretty sure he’ll have forgotten their names by the time they’re done with this interview.
Akaashi takes a few steps forward before he politely speaks up, “Hi guys.”
The two athletes turn around, curiosity etched onto their faces and Kiyoomi confusedly witnesses first hand how Akaashi stops dead in his tracks, hand dropping by his side as he freezes.
Uh.
Yeah, the two guys are hot, if you can look past the way their shirts are disgustingly drenched, their faces flushed and straight up dripping with sweat and— yeah no, ew, what was wrong with Keiji?
In front of the speechless, probably awe-stuck looking Akaashi, the blond one (here we go he already forgot their names) raises an eyebrow.
His lips are quick to twist in a cheeky smirk that looks almost natural on him. “Sorry love, we don’t really have time fer groupies right now.”
Okay well, all Kiyoomi’s efforts not to assume these people were going to be self-centered dickheads are down the drain.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The blond’s eyes flick over to Kiyoomi’s at the simple, totally legitimate question. The player sees the unimpressed glare sent his way and his smirk blooms in full force, interest apparently piqued. An asshole then.
“Oh no, sorry.” Akaashi says, steering the conversation away after a pointed look to his friend. “We’re here for the school’s newsletter, for the interview?” He lifts his notebook as if that would clear things up. “Your coach must have told you we were coming today.”
Bokuto’s face lights up. “Oh yes!” He throws his arms out, startling Kiyoomi out of his staring contest with the stupid blond. A contest he was totally winning by the way. “Yes, yes, sorry, I thought we were supposed to meet at six?”
“It’s a quarter past six.” Akaashi says, tone still gentle, and thank god it’s him handling it all because Kiyoomi would have been a lot less cordial.
“Oh shoot, really?” Bokuto glances at his wrist, only to find it bare, and when he looks back up Kiyoomi has to admit he does look candid in his surprise. “I’m so sorry, we didn’t realize practice ran late. I hope you didn’t wait long?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Kiyoomi answers matter-of-factly when he notices the blush creeping up Akaashi’s neck. They couldn’t be stuck here all night, the sun was going to be setting soon and he needed pictures. “Can we get a move on?”
Bokuto finally looks away from Akaashi’s face, as if he just now realized the soft spoken student wasn’t alone. “Yes, of course, right, sorry.” He extends a dirt and sweat covered hand to Kiyoomi. “I’m Bokuto Koutarou, it’s nice to meet you.”
Sakusa blinks at the offering before looking back at Bokuto with a frown he hopes isn’t too rude. “Your hand’s dirty.” The captain’s face falls while Kiyoomi tries his hardest not to acknowledge the other player staring at him. “But it’s nice to meet you too, I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
The other two introduce themselves and then Kiyoomi is taking a hold of his camera, fiddling with the settings while Akaashi walks them through how this is going to go. “I’m going to ask you a dozen questions and I’ll voice record the whole thing on my phone, if there’s anything you don’t want me to put in the article, tell me right away, okay?”
Two agreements fill the air, and Kiyoomi knows the blond is still watching him without having to check.
—
“So, you’re one of the writers?” Bokuto asks an hour later, looking over Akaashi’s shoulder to take a peek at the interview’s notes after he was given permission.
Keiji pushes his glasses up his nose, eyes stuck a second too long on Bokuto’s jaw. “Yeah.”
“What do you write? Oh! I love the little ‘fun fact of the day’ section, did you know that the tomato is technically a fruit?”
Akaashi chuckles, and it’s weird to see him so smitten. “It is really fun. Hinata takes care of that section, he’s a really energetic first year. I think he plays volleyball?”
Kiyoomi tunes them out, Bokuto is leaning in really close and Kiyoomi can’t tell if it’s because he’s oblivious to Akaashi’s clear infatuation or because he has fun toying with it. The team captain doesn’t seem harmful, he seems to be an actually nice person — compared to other players with ugly bleached hair for example — but Kiyoomi stays on his toes. It wouldn’t be the first time Akaashi gets blinded by kindness and a broad chest.
“Bo’s not playin’ with yer friend, ya know.” Cocky-Ugly-Blond’s voice is right in his ear, making Sakusa jump and clutch his chest. “Bo’s just a little dense when it comes to people liking him.”
Kiyoomi takes a step to the side, putting some distance between them, and the player only smiles lopsidedly in return. After he gets over the way the guy’s arm felt when it brushed his shoulder (yep, hard, the guy definitely flexed) he registers the blond’s words. “Really?” He glances back at them, sees Akaashi honest to god stuttering. “I don’t quite believe that.”
“Ya’ll see.” The blond promises, he won’t take his fucking eyes off Kiyoomi and Kiyoomi can’t tell if the way Miya has been winking at him through the lens for the past half-hour was a turn-on or an ick. He’s confusing.
Sakusa isn’t one to get flustered easily, especially when the guy obviously flirting is such a jerk, but there’s something about Atsumu.
And, alright, that something could very well be the way his thighs look in those very tight pants, or the habit the blond has of licking his lips every five seconds when he’s panting after a run but still, Kiyoomi hates feeling so weak to a smug smile.
“Let me guess,” The star-player says. “Yer not a very big fan of football.”
“Oh, I love football.”
“Ya sure don’t look it.”
“That’s because what you’re playing isn’t football.”
“Ooooh.” The smirk in Miya’s voice is evident but Kiyoomi can’t bear to look at him, so he needlessly stares at his camera’s screen. “Are ya one of those people who call soccer ‘football’?”
“You mean like ninety percent of the world?” Kiyoomi answers, deadpan and fidgeting with settings, pretending to be engrossed in his pictures.
“Nah that can’t be all there is, there’s gotta be another reason yer lookin’ so grumpy.” He says, as if Kiyoomi hadn’t responded at all. “Is it the uniforms? They’re too sexy fer ya?” Kiyoomi takes a deep, not at all as calming as it should be, breath. “Can’t keep yer eyes on the ball?”
Kiyoomi mentally declares it official: Miya Atsumu was an insufferable little shit. Of course Oikawa’s briefing didn’t mention that, maybe because on the Oikawa scale Atsumu is lovely? Either way it means that now Kiyoomi has to fight every instinct he ever had to be the biggest asshole on the planet.
Sometimes he doesn’t fight very hard.
“No offense Miya, but your sport is for pussies who are too scared to play rugby.”
He actually means it with all the offense he can muster, sorry Bokuto.
When he turns to the blond he finds his lips parted in what looks like pleased surprise, eyebrows disappearing under his sweaty hair. Of course he’d be into assholes. Kiyoomi was known to be an asshole after all, just ask Motoya.
He flicks Atsumu’s shoulder pad, faking a pout. “What do you have all this protection for, uh? Scared the big mean boys are going to hurt you?” He scoffs. “That’s cute.”
Before he even seems to think it through, Miya blurts, “Yer cute.”
Distraught by the honesty, Kiyoomi almost stammers, “What?”
“What?” Atsumu says at the same time, blinking out of it. “I mean, yeah. Okay. Good talk, Omi.”
Then he walks off to Akaashi, careful to keep his eyes away.
And, what the hell just happened?
Also, “Who the fuck is Omi?”
—
Despite his best efforts, Kiyoomi thinks of subtle smirks and bulging football pants all the way back to campus. He’s considering asking Oikawa for the athletes’ socials, just to check their feeds and do his job right of course, but when he sees the mischievous face that greets them as they walk in, he decides against it.
“So?” Oikawa comes sauntering over to Kiyoomi as he sits down, buzzing as he leans a hip against the photographer’s designated desk. “How was it?”
Oh, Oikawa played them, didn’t he?
So that's what Iwaizumi meant when he said to be careful.
Instead of a lie, Kiyoomi answers with one truth, “You have the worst taste in friends.”
“And yet you and I are besties.” Tooru grins at Kiyoomi’s scoff. “So I take it you’re not a big fan of Atsu?”
Akaashi pipes up from his desk opposite Kiyoomi’s. “Oh I think he’s a fan of some parts of Atsumu.”
Kiyoomi glares so hard Akaashi shifts on his chair to subtly hide behind his monitor.
“Oh?” Oikawa is downright gleeful at the news. “Which parts?”
“Take a look at his pictures.” Akaashi simply answers, a smile in his voice.
Oikawa immediately goes for Kiyoomi’s mouse with an excited squeal— his hand gets slapped away.
“Don’t touch that.”
That just makes Oikawa’s smile grow interested. “Oh my, what are you hiding?”
“Nothing, God only knows where your hands have been.” After a beat, he adds, “God and Iwaizumi.”
And so what if Kiyoomi had taken a criminal amount of pictures focused on Atsumu’s thighs exclusively? What else was he supposed to photograph? His nasty smirk? His sweaty hair? His thighs were his only attributes, Kiyoomi was just doing the world a favor.
“You’ll see the pictures when I’m done editing them.” Kiyoomi says, maybe a little too affected. “Like always.”
“I knew it.” Oikawa gloats, simmering with joy. “You love brats, if I wasn’t happily married—”
“You’re not.”
“—I’m sure you would be all over me.”
Tooru might have thought it to be fun, to get Kiyoomi and Atsumu to meet, but he doesn’t even know the half of it.
Oikawa and Kiyoomi weren’t best friends, even if someone would love to disagree, therefore he doesn’t know that Kiyoomi doesn’t love whiny brats (sorry Tooru), he loves strong, cocky ones who need to be taken down a notch but fight it until they can’t.
Atsumu doesn’t seem the type to enjoy having his ego bruised over and over again, yet the way he blurted his thoughts and blushed as he walked away earlier— Okay, Kiyoomi kind of really liked that.
There’s no reason for his nosy chief editor to know that though.
“Why don’t you ask Keiji for his notes?” Kiyoomi changes the subject and sees the top of Akaashi’s head shrinking down in shame behind his computer. “If you can read them, that is.”
“What do you mean?” Oikawa seems torn between confusion and amusement. “Keiji has the best handwriting here.”
“Yeah.” Kiyoomi snarks. “When he’s not trembling, that is.”
The chief editor looks in between them, something akin to awe painting his happy features, “What happened?”
Refocusing on his keyboard, Kiyoomi quietly redirects, “Bokuto Koutarou happened.”
Two could play this game.
Oikawa gleefully gasps, “Keiji?”
The writer shakes his head once, nearly dislodging his glasses with the force of it, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
At the unusually flustered tone, Oikawa looks between them for a stunned minute.
Oikawa loves gossip, but there’s a reason he’s been made editor in chief besides all the ass-kissing: he settles for nothing less than quality. That’s why he breaches the silence by wondering aloud, “Do you guys want me to reassign the interview? Because if it’s really that bad—”
They sync up to protest a strong, “No!”
Gods.
At Oikawa’s knowing look, Kiyoomi shrugs, “I just mean— it’s fine, he’s annoying but I can work with him. I’m a professional.”
Oikawa’s smile is pure mockery. “Uh, huh.”
Okay maybe Oikawa could be considered a very good friend, not a best one though.
“Yeah, we don’t need to be reassigned.” Akaashi agrees, voice too light. “We’re fine.”
“More than fine, we’re great.”
“Yes, we’re great, yes.”
Oikawa is bemused for all of five seconds before he bursts out laughing.
—
“Heya sweetheart, how ya doin’ today?”
In the whole wide world, there was only one person crazy enough to talk like this to a moody, coffee-less Kiyoomi standing alone in the cold.
Of course when Sakusa looks up, Miya Atsumu is standing in front of him.
And fuck him for looking so handsome, honestly. Who looks this good with so many layers on? It’s as if the green scarf wrapped around his neck only accentuates the roundness of his cheeks, his beanie calling attention to the soft looking hair falling into his pretty lashes, his puffy black jacket making him downright huggable.
Kiyoomi only had the urge to hug one person in his life, and it was when his five year old niece sleepily asked for cuddles after she had had a nightmare.
There was no way Atsumu of all people was that cute. No way in hell.
How unfair.
“What on earth did you just call me?”
Atsumu cocks his head, smile growing, nose red. “Uh? Sweetheart?”
“What makes you think you can call me that?” Not that Kiyoomi hated it or anything, but he can’t very well tell Miya that.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend ya.” The blond shrugs but he seems genuine, the wind picks up and he shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. “I just think yer a sweetheart.”
Sorry, what now?
Sakusa blinks. Then he points to himself— the Six-Foot Dick with an impassible face where curls are flying because of the wind. “You think I look like a sweetheart?”
Atsumu shrugs again, shoulders climbing higher— is he blushing? Maybe it’s the cold. “Yeah, ya do. So deal with it.” Before Kiyoomi can argue a whole lot more and not deal with it at all, he tacks on. “Anyway, I saw ya as I was walkin’ ta class and came over to ask: what are ya doing next Friday night?”
Kiyoomi is still trying to wrap his mind around the whole sweetheart thing, so he’s wary when he answers. “Why?”
“Can’t ya just answer the question? Man, yer difficult.” Kiyoomi only raises an eyebrow, Atsumu’s frown eases with an eye roll. “Oikawa’s havin’ a party, was wonderin’ if ya were gonna be there.”
Oh right, Oikawa’s end of semester party. Kiyoomi was planning to go, he always had a great time with everybody there, but if Atsumu will be there, it’s a whole other story.
A very interesting story.
“Why do you care?” Kiyoomi asks, a little harsh, but he can spot Motoya’s class walking out of the Science Building, which means his cousin will be here soon and if he sees him with Atsumu he’ll be an absolute menace. So Kiyoomi quickly changes his tune and tone, “Uh, I mean, yeah I’ll be there.”
The sudden change of mood leaves Atsumu squinting at him, utterly confused. “Okay, well, no need to invite ya I guess. I’ll see ya there?”
Kiyoomi looks back at him with a snort. “No thanks, I’ll pass.”
That gets Atsumu to smirk, the masochist weirdo. He observes Sakusa’s face for a second, eyes darting between his brows, probably his moles, his lips and cheeks before he chuckles to himself— a real weirdo.
“Man yer such a jerk. I love that about ya, Omi.”
And with that Atsumu is walking away, leaving behind a Sakusa so dumbfounded he’s almost repulsed. Almost.
So, Atsumu does like them mean?
Kiyoomi yells at his back, “What is wrong with you?”
The only response he gets is a middle finger.
Classy.
Kiyoomi hides a smile in his jacket.
Thankfully, Miya disappears across the square just in time for Motoya to find his cousin, “Hey Kiyo, do you—” Unfortunately, not in time for Kiyoomi to school his expression.
Motoya stops dead in his tracks, cocks his head, “Why are you smiling like that? Are you okay? And why are you so red?” He tilts his head the other way. “Are you feverish?”
Oh lord, was it that obvious?
Motoya lifts a hand, presumably to get a feel of Kiyoomi’s forehead, but the latter bends backwards to avoid contact, “What? No! I’m fine.”
“You’re proper red Kiyo, like, worryingly so—”
“It’s from the cold.” Since when did Kiyoomi’s voice go that high? “I’ve been freezing my ass off waiting for you for the past ten minutes, let’s go get some food.”
“But—”
“My treat.”
That gets Motoya to stop protesting, eyes sparkling with interest instead. Crazy what Motoya could do for some good food; Kiyoomi is scared he’ll end up dating the first chef he meets someday, so easily charmed.
They end up going to one of their usual places, they have their weekly chat where Motoya yaps and yaps while Kiyoomi hums and offers limited but wise advice and purposely forgets to mention Miya Atsumu; except when they’re done Motoya doesn’t stop talking, and instead follows his cousin back to the dorms. “Let me study at yours.”
“You have your own room.”
“It’s uh— a little messy.”
Kiyoomi stops to give him a look. “Messy enough that you can’t use your own desk and leave me alone?”
Motoya sucks air between his teeth, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “Worse than that.”
Kiyoomi frowns, tentatively asks, “Worse than first year?”
He remembers all too well that time he had paid a surprise visit to his cousin during their first year, the state he had found his place in after weeks of studying and surviving off microwavable meals— he suppresses a shiver.
At the way Motoya bites his lips, Kiyoomi gives in, for safety reasons. “You’re staying for one hour.”
What’s an hour, one might think, it couldn’t be that bad, right? Well, turns out it could be that bad, because Kiyoomi forgot that he was supposed to be editing pictures this afternoon.
Damn his giant monitor.
“Who’s that?” Motoya asks, leaning on Kiyoomi’s shoulder instead of studying like he said he would.
Kiyoomi sighs, trying to make Atsumu’s tan pop without it looking orange.
“The bane of my existence.”
“Hm.” His cousin purses his lips. “The bane of your existence has got nice thighs.”
Yes. Kiyoomi knows that, he doesn’t need nor wish for a reminder.
He squeezes his eyes shut and Motoya takes the opportunity to grab his mouse and zoom out of the ankles Kiyoomi was currently editing. Kiyoomi clicks his tongue but is ignored, wonderful.
“Oh,” Motoya’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “he’s hot hot.”
“No.” Kiyoomi grabs his mouse back. “He’s cocky and bratty and annoying.”
Motoya looks at him like he’s stupid, “Yeah, so? Still hot.”
And isn’t that the very root of all of Kiyoomi’s problems? Yeah, Atsumu might be a tease and arrogant and he might play a stupid sport— he’s still insanely hot. That’s just an objective statement.
But what’s more, he’s kind of exactly Kiyoomi’s type.
And his cousin, after years spent together and witness of Kiyoomi’s gay awakening through that one guy on Game Of Thrones, sees right through him. “And don’t act like you’re not into those things— cocky, bratty and annoying? What? You’re gonna tell me you’d rather have self-conscious, docile and friendly?” Motoya scoffs. “Be for real Kiyo, you just described your exact type.”
And wait until his cousin realizes Atsumu has a quick tongue and a tendency to push too far.
“Can you just— not?”
“Not what?” Motoya smirks. “Read you like an open book?”
Kiyoomi goes for distraction, “I’m still not convinced you know how to read.”
“Hey!” His cousin pouts. “You know dyslexia is no joke—”
“How about you try and spell ‘unconsciously” for me?”
Motoya pushes him off his chair.
—
In retrospect, maybe he shouldn't have made an enemy out of Motoya. So what if his cousin couldn’t spell words? It wasn't his fault, he had other qualities! Like, easily making friends for example! So easily, in fact, that he finds out who Atsumu is very quickly.
How would Kiyoomi know? Because he wakes up to unwanted texts on his phone the very next morning.
One from his cousin at two am, saying ‘I approve’ — as if Kiyoomi would need his approval for anything with the way he dresses.
And other texts, much more mortifying texts, from an unknown number:
02:10am: hi sweetheart!!
02:10am: the bane of ur existence here <33333
02:11am: ur cousin gave me ur number
02:11am: I didn’t even ask for it lol
02:15am: pls don’t block me
When he sits down for coffee with Akaashi two hours later, his friend immediately clocks that something is wrong and gently asks about it. Kiyoomi stays silent as he opens up the cursed text conversation and simply slides his phone over to the other side of the table.
“Oh.” Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Is this—”
“Yes.” Kiyoomi couldn't bear to hear his name right now. Not with the way it made his stomach swoop every single time. Maybe he was sick, yeah, that had to be it, let it be a gastroenteritis please, anything but a crush on Miya Atsumu.
“Ah.” Akaashi looks like he’s fighting a smile. “And— Are you going to answer him?”
“Well, obviously I’m going to.” Kiyoomi says, no need to lie when his attraction was bigger than the moon. “Why do you think I’m showing you this? Help me answer.”
Akaashi leans back in his chair. “Why are you asking me?”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
“You’ve seen me flirt, right?” Said writer checks, disbelieving. “Why would you want my help?”
That’s a very good point. “Mmh.”
“Why don’t you ask Motoya for help?”
“Because he’ll never let me live this down.”
“Yeah…” Akaashi toys with a sugar packet on the table, grimacing slightly. “I think this ship has already sailed.”
Right. They had a group chat that his cousin had flooded with messages clowning Kiyoomi just this morning.
Kiyoomi kind of hates it when Akaashi is right, but unfortunately, his friend is right a lot. That’s why Kiyoomi needs dumber friends, whatever happened to Kageyama? Kiyoomi should call him.
And so with the help of absolutely no one, Kiyoomi texts back:
you (08:46pm): Who is this?
He never claimed to be good at this whole flirting thing.
Yet Kiyoomi barely has the time to put his phone down before it buzzes.
Miya (08:47pm): hey u didnt block me!!
Miya (08:47pm): Samu owes me ten bucks
Who’s Samu? Absolutely no idea. But of course Miya would act as if Kiyoomi’s cold text was reason for celebration and an invitation for a one-sided discussion. Miya’s next text is a very silly tiktok of a black kitten waking up, looking immensely disgruntled.
Miya (08:48pm): this u lol
Kiyoomi sighs at his phone and buries his face in his hands when he feels his stomach swooping again.
His phone keeps on buzzing.
—
To be fair, Kiyoomi only changes outfit twice before heading to Oikawa’s party that awaited Friday night. Which is more than he usually cares, but also not as pathetic as it could be when you see how vastly thoughts of Atsumu occupy his mind ever since they started texting.
That evening he ignores the blond’s many texts requesting a fit check and tells him he’ll have to be patient and see for himself. It results in Atsumu withholding his own fitcheck (that nobody asked for) and a lot of offensive emojis, but it’s all worth it for the way the athlete’s head whips around as Kiyoomi walks past him an hour later.
He knew wearing his hair up was a good idea; no matter that the idea was Motoya’s. He’s following Akaashi through the crowded living room, turning just long enough to throw a smirk Miya’s way where the blond stopped mid-conversation, mouth wide open, before Kiyoomi disappears in the kitchen.
Kiyoomi busies himself with making drinks and catching up with his friends until the someone he is waiting for comes up to their circle, throwing an arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Someone with very ugly hair that Kiyoomi wants to touch, with an arrogant smile Kiyoomi yearns to turn into a gaping mouth, with an attitude Kiyoomi needs to break.
Gosh.
He opens slightly wider eyes at his own thoughts, at the mere intensity of them, and takes a big gulp of his drink.
“So, guys,” Atsumu nods to Akaashi and Kiyoomi. “How’s the article goin’? Done singin’ my praises?” He turns to Kiyoomi, like the latter knew he would. “I can always give ya more material if ya need. Just say the word.”
Obedient, isn’t he?
Kiyoomi stares at his own drink in disgust, what is happening to his brain?
“How thoughtful of you.” Kiyoomi flatly says, before Akaashi can hope to speak. By the look of it though, it seems like the writer is happy to just watch them. “I’m surprised.”
Miya’s half-smile is tainted by malice as he answers, “That I’m such a sweetheart?”
“That you’re capable of thinking about anybody other than yourself.”
Iwaizumi and Daichi exchange a look at the cold tone, but Atsumu doesn't seem deterred, no, Atsumu preens at the attention.
“Trust me Omi, I spend plenty of time thinkin’ about ya.”
Oh, he thinks.
“Ew.” He says.
“Did I miss something here?” Suga speaks up, amused, pointing between the two of them. “Do you two know each other?”
“Yeah. Omi’s like— obsessed with me.” Atsumu says, gesturing with his drink, nearly spilling half. “Came all the way to the football field to meet me, and then he just wouldn’t stop taking pictures of me.”
A few people giggle, Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I worry how your brain works.”
“Aw.” Atsumu clutches a hand to his heart, face softening. “So ya worry about me?”
He’d roll his eyes again, but then he’d miss the way Atsumu is batting his eyelashes. “In your dreams, probably.”
Of course Atsumu immediately responds with: “Oh ya do a lot more than worry about me in my dreams.”
God damn. Is this what Motoya is babbling about when he talks about rizz? Now he kind of understand Motoya’s obsession with that Suna guy.
“Atsumu.” Iwaizumi groans, pushing his arm off his shoulders. “Gross.” Yeah, gross, sure, totally Kiyoomi’s thoughts too.
The blond cackles, “What?”
“Don’t flirt right in my ear, go get a room.”
Kiyoomi takes another sip. “I don’t think there’s a door frame big enough for Miya’s head to fit through in this entire house.”
Atsumu ignores their friends' lamentations to raise an eyebrow at Kiyoomi. “Wanna find out?”
Hopefully, Kiyoomi can blame his blush on the drinks and the heat of the room. He hides behind his cup as he asks, “My god Miya, you’re quite desperate, aren’t you?”
Atsumu looks a little bit too eager and honest as he quietly says, “Ya have no idea.”
And again, fuck him for being so perfect, honestly. If an Atsumu bundled up in a scarf is cute and an Atsumu running drills down the sidelines is attractive, this Atsumu is Kiyoomi’s fucking downfall.
This Atsumu, cocky as ever in his element here, but made endearingly too honest and a tiny bit shy of his endeavors by a few too many drinks. This Atsumu, who’s wearing a black shirt stretched by his massive shoulders, a shirt that he definitely spent meticulous time cropping with the way it hits just under his belly button, at the edge of indecency— everytime he lifts his arm to take a sip, Kiyoomi’s eyes snap to the happy trail there.
Oh, so Atsumu was a natural brunette, good to know.
When the shirt falls back down and Kiyoomi’s eyes take a second to travel back up, he can tell by Miya’s look that he’s been caught.
And yet another big gulp for Kiyoomi.
“You guys are disgusting.” Iwaizumi complains, stuck in between them.
But honestly, Iwaizumi is the last of Kiyoomi’s preoccupations right now.
A hot guy, generally speaking, can already be a challenge for Kiyoomi to work around, but a hot guy like Atsumu, with biceps so big they’re filling his sleeves and eyelashes so long Kiyoomi just knows they would catch overwhelmed tears— then suddenly Kiyoomi has a big problem.
“I think it’s cute.” Daichi says.
Cute isn’t the best word to describe Kiyoomi’s intentions right now.
Giggling over his first drink already, Akaashi corrects, “I think it’s hilarious.”
Yeah, maybe that's more accurate.
By some kind of karmic fate, Akaashi’s giggling is cut short by a deep voice and a bright smile. “Hey hey hey guys!”
Here, serves him right.
Look at Akaashi, losing all of his basic functional skills. Kiyoomi would point a finger and laugh if that didn’t make him a big ass hypocrite.
“Bo!” Atsumu grins back, going for a ridiculous and overly complicated handshake that Kiyoomi should not think is kinda hot.
Kiyoomi wants to take another giant sip, but realizes that this is the issue of giant sips— they empty your cup too quickly. He takes advantage of Atsumu being distracted to go make himself another drink, and maybe try and gain some composure on the way, if he finds any spare on the counter or something.
He’s looking for a tequila bottle that isn’t empty when a body slides to his right. Akaashi hisses, “Make me one too, please.”
With a nod, Kiyoomi complies. He waits a beat, checks over his shoulder to make sure the players are not too close, before speaking up, “That’s an awfully tight white shirt Bokuto is wearing, isn’t it?”
Under his breath, Akaashi sounds in shock as he says, “I think his nipples are pierced.”
Kiyoomi purses his lips, “Really?”
“It might be wishful thinking on my part, I don’t know. I was distracted.” Akaashi shakes his head. “I need another drink.”
“You don’t say.” Kiyoomi mutters back, ignoring the glare that earns him and fixing his friend a poor excuse of a cocktail. “Are you actually going to make a move tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Akaashi answers, a tiny bit whiny. “Are you?”
“Oh yeah.” Kiyoomi answers in a heartbeat, sure of himself. Atsumu is wearing some kind of athletic, tiny shorts, he doesn’t even want to try and fight it at this point.
“Figured.” Akaashi mumbles as he accepts the glass Kiyoomi holds out for him. “I think you’re the sole reason Atsumu is wearing shorts in december.”
“Shit, I hope so.” Kiyoomi really does. He raises his cup in cheers. “Let’s go for it together tonight.”
Akaashi raises his drink, “Thanks.”
“You’re welco…” Kiyoomi’s voice trails off as he watches Akaashi tilts his head back, swallowing and swallowing until the whole thing is gone, putting his cup down with an exhale.
He looks ready, emboldened by the three generous shots of tequila Kiyoomi poured in there. Alas, Akaashi makes the mistake of glancing at Bokuto, who’s picking up a stray napkin, mid-squat.
He whirls around with a plea, “Okay, I need another. Please.”
Kiyoomi grabs the vodka this time. “Sure thing.”
“How’s my hair?”
Kiyoomi pauses momentarily, passing a hand through his friend’s hair. “You’re good.” He picks at his collar. “Adjust your shirt.”
Akaashi does so and Kiyoomi asks, “How are my curls?”
Akaashi gently grabs his chin to guide his face left, then right, before he concludes. “Beautiful.”
At Akaashi’s friendly touch, he thinks he can feel Atsumu’s eyes on them. Kiyoomi allows himself a little smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re as red as a tomato though.” And the little smile is gone. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
Since when was he a blusher? And why does everybody seem to notice so quickly? He pushes Akaashi’s hand away.
Thrusting a fresh cup in his hands, Kiyoomi frowns and quips, “I hope you choke on his nipple piercings.”
But Akaashi’s little affronted noise is cut short by the ‘shut it’ Kiyoomi lets out at Atsumu approaching them.
Honestly, don’t ask Kiyoomi how he ends up talking to Atsumu all night, because he doesn’t know. This definitely wasn’t in his ‘letting Miya get more desperate before giving in’ plan. All he knows is that talking to Atsumu is delightful, hearing his witty remarks, seeing him getting more and more flustered every time Kiyoomi takes a step closer is addictive.
Before long, everybody is in the living room dancing or outside smoking, and Kiyoomi’s fingertips tingle with the knowledge that Atsumu, him and a few stragglers are the only people left in the kitchen.
It would be so easy to reach out, to brush the blush high on tan cheeks, to stroke his neck, pretending to adjust that damn cropped shirt.
Kiyoomi is half listening to Atsumu ramble about his last game (what the hell is a bootleg?), half watching the way he licks his lips every time Kiyoomi glances at them, as if he’s keeping them ready, all wet and parted for Kiyoomi to just dive into.
What a good boy he makes, so accommodating.
“Are ya listenin’ ta me, Omi?” The blond asks, which is an understandable question to ask with a teasing smirk when Kiyoomi definitely hasn't heard a word Atsumu said in the past minute.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Oh and what should I call ya instead?” Atsumu raises an eyebrow, but he shifts on his feet as he mocks, “Mister Sakusa?”
Look at him, trying to pass it off as a joke, testing the waters as if he wasn’t a hundred percent serious about this. Kiyoomi tries to imagine it, Atsumu calling him sir, the way Atsumu’s accent would shape around the word, how it would sound in his mouth, breathless and begging.
“For you sir would work just fine.”
Oh wait.
Did he just say that outloud?
By the way Atsumu is staring at him, mouth hanging open, yeah, he probably said that outloud.
Shit.
“I mean,” He takes a stuttering breath in, damn these drinks were strong. Who would have thought? “You can call me Kiyoomi, anything is better than—”
“Sir it is then.”
Kiyoomi’s curls bounce as his head snaps up, “Uh?”
“What?” Oh, Atsumu is loving this. He inches closer, blinking his freaking eyelashes. “Ya don't like it?”
Kiyoomi’s brain is on autopilot, a bad one, one that will get them all to crash and burn in a wonderful mess.
“I’ll like it better when you mean it.”
It’s Atsumu’s turn to draw in a wobbly breath, then his mouth seems to be stuck in that beautiful ‘o’ shape, one Kiyoomi yearns to kiss off his mouth until it melts into hums and groans; or better yet, he yearns to fill it full.
“Fuck.” Atsumu chuckles, but it sounds off, and he drops his face to his feet.
Kiyoomi is scared he took it a little too far, he softly asks, “What?”
“Nothin’, it’s just— fuck, yer hot.” Atsumu curses, making Kiyoomi’s stomach catch on a low, burning fire.
“Hot and a sweetheart?” Kiyoomi smiles. “Aren’t I the whole package?”
Atsumu chuckles. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Yeah?” Kiyoomi can’t look away from his mouth. “And what else are you thinking about?”
They were both incredibly good at reading each other, Kiyoomi realizes tonight, as Atsumu seems to know exactly what to say when Kiyoomi gives a subtle opening.
Atsumu has got to know Kiyoomi enjoys control, but not when it’s so easily handed, and Kiyoomi has an inkling the blond enjoys pushing and pushing until he gets punished hard enough to have no choice but to be happy to take it.
Just the thought of big, broad, confident Atsumu reduced to a begging, sobbing mess is enough to have Kiyoomi shifting, his boxers slowly but surely growing tighter by the minute as they get closer and closer with each jab.
Apparently in search of the upper hand, always ready to push, push, push, Atsumu smirks as he taunts, “I’m thinkin’ ya want to kiss me so bad it makes ya look stupid, sir.”
Yes, pushing.
And yet Kiyoomi is fine being stupid for Atsumu if he calls him like that and looks at him like this.
He smirks right back. “Ah, it’s not exactly kissing that’s on my mind.”
Atsumu swallows at that, throat moving. His attention strays to the last people exiting the kitchen, leaving it wonderfully empty for the both of them. Perfect timing.
“But I sure wouldn’t mind kissing you.” Kiyoomi gets impossibly closer. “Maybe that ought to finally shut your big mouth up.”
Atsumu’s eyes dart to the side, unable to keep eye-contact, as he takes a sip, “Bold of ya to assume I’d get quiet if ya shoved yer tongue in my mouth.”
God he hopes Atsumu is loud.
“I think it’s worth a try.”
And he gets to watch first hand how Atsumu’s chest grows with excitement, how his hands twitch as his eyes dance all over Kiyoomi’s face.
Kiyoomi has a growing, hopeful suspicion that Atsumu would get off on getting degraded, it’s in the way he seems to like Kiyoomi the best when he’s mean, how eager he paints himself to be, no matter how ridiculous he might look in front of their friends.
It’s hard to tell though, because Kiyoomi couldn’t really call Atsumu a slut and then play it off if the blond got furious or offended, right? It would be rude, even for Kiyoomi’s standards.
But shallower risks? That, Kiyoomi was willing to take for once, especially with the alcohol coursing through his veins right now.
He makes sure to go slow as he cages Atsumu against the fridge, leaving him plenty occasion to step away or stop Kiyoomi. But Atsumu only leans back against the metal door, accommodating Kiyoomi’s presence earnestly.
They don’t talk, but when Kiyoomi sets his cup down on the counter behind him and reaches for Atsumu’s to do the same, the blond hurries to give it over, hand nearly trembling.
Kiyoomi fights a half-smile as he observes the skilled fingers fidgeting. He makes sure their hands brush as he takes the cup and doesn’t miss the athlete’s little noise of surprise.
He very lightly presses his hips into Atsumu’s, and makes his intention clear as he leans in, eyes locked on Atsumu’s bottom lip. Atsumu, perfect boy that he is, tries to meet him halfway, eyes fluttering shut, lips beautifully parted—
“Shit, Miya.” Kiyoomi mutters in the little space between them, going for mocking. He pulls away with a smirk and gives the blond a disdainful once over, clicking his tongue. “Look at yourself.”
Atsumu furiously blinks, eyes casted down in shame, yet his lower body is pressing harder and harder into Kiyoomi’s.
“You think I want you so bad I look stupid?” Kiyoomi whispers, big honey eyes blinking up at him, a beautiful mix of ashamed and turned on. “Well, I think you want me so bad it makes you look easy.”
Atsumu’s hands bunch in the bottom of his cropped shirt. His happy trail is on display, grazing against Kiyoomi’s pants.
“Are you?” He doubles down. “Are you easy Miya, or is this just for me?”
For the first time, Atsumu stammers, “I-I—”
“See?” Kiyoomi cocks his head. “You’re out of words, and my tongue isn’t even in your mouth.” He looks at said mouth for a split second. “Not yet at least.”
Atsumu finds his voice again to ask, somehow half-annoyed and half-begging, “What are ya waitin’ for then?”
Kiyoomi frowns, eyes still transfixed on that red mouth. He clicks his tongue again, “You’re going to have to be nicer if you don’t want me to walk out right the fuck now.”
Immediately, Kiyoomi can see how Atsumu valiantly fights his own attitude, inner battle fierce.
“That’s it.” Kiyoomi coos. The blond takes a deep breath, uncurls his fingers from his shirt and bites his lips, as if to keep more provocation in.
“Good.” Atsumu’s shoulders fall at Kiyoomi’s praise. “Now ask me again.”
Voice barely audible, Atsumu asks, “Would you finally kiss me, Omi?”
“Oh come on.” Kiyoomi tilts his head left, Atsumu follows the movement, baring his neck. “We both know you can do better than this. Be good, Miya.”
“Atsumu.” He corrects in a breath.
“Not until you earn it, no.”
Hips jumping, Atsumu’s hand shoots out to grab onto Kiyoomi’s wrist. “Fuck, okay— Fuck, please, kiss me, please.”
Kiyoomi presses his hips further in that heat, nearly lining them up. “Please who?”
There’s a mischievous gleam in Atsumu’s eyes still— Kiyoomi swears to god, if the blond uses that stupid nickname one more time, he is walking out, no matter what his dick has to say.
Thankfully, Atsumu says, “Please, sir.”
Smiling to himself, Kiyoomi strokes Atsumu’s cheek with a knuckle, watching it redden under his touch. “Here we go. Was it that hard?”
Even as he’s drooling for it, Atsumus snarks, “Not as hard as yer dick.”
And— shit. Kiyoomi’s fingers go from a tender touch to a harsh grab of Atsumu’s jaw, “You fucking brat.”
They both twitch against each other at the insult, boxers tight, and this time Kiyoomi leans in with real intention—
Except there's a sudden noise behind them, and Atsumu jumps with a yelp, hurryingly taking a step to the side and nearly falling face first onto the tiles in the process.
He catches himself at the last minute, mid-fall, his face coincidently level with Kiyoomi’s crotch. And while he’s down there, he honest to god licks his lips.
Leaning back against the counter, Kiyoomi fights a smile he can’t even hope to control, “My, my, Miya.” Atsumu’s eyes fly up and Kiyoomi loses all common sense at the hunger he sees there. Taking risks, was it? “You’re a real cockslut, aren’t you?”
And you know what’s unfair? How stupid alcohol makes Kiyoomi.
Because that noise they heard earlier? Yeah, that was someone walking into the kitchen.
And you know what’s even more unfair-er? That he only gets a glimpse of Atsumu’s amazing reaction because very suddenly, there’s a hand fisting Kiyoomi’s collar so hard he knocks his head back into the cupboard behind him. Ouch.
“What the fuck did ya just call my brother?”