Archive of Our Own ^beta

If he thinks about it hard enough, really, it’s all Komori Motoya’s fault.

Atsumu lolls his head on the back of Osamu’s couch. It’s a nice couch, all things considered, grey and plush and just big enough to fit Atsumu, Washio, and Komori. Osamu and Suna are appropriately disgusting with their legs tangled beneath the kotatsu, and Sakusa has taken the uncomfortable clear plastic chair Osamu spruced up with a fur throw not quite cushy enough to soften the seat. The television is set to a New Year’s countdown show that only Washio has paid attention to in the last half hour, and the sound of Komori chatting animatedly in Sakusa’s direction drifts over Osamu and Suna in their heated game of rummy.

Osamu’s apartment is not where Atsumu had initially planned to spend New Year’s eve. He wanted to pregame at his own place before heading over to one of his usual nightclub haunts, but the lecture he had personally and solely received from the MSBY PR manager before the by-week struck a nerve Atsumu had forgotten he owned - namely, embarrassment - and he had resigned himself to a holiday spent alone in his apartment drinking enough cabernet sauvignon to put a wine-mom out of commission. 

Then Komori had texted like an avenging angel sent just for Atsumu. Their message history was already active enough before Atsumu became the Jackal’s resident Sakusa Kiyoomi handler, because Komori is gifted with all of the Raijin’s event-planning social skills and Atsumu is gifted with knowing a little more Japanese than Adriah Party-boy Tomas. 

The conversation was short and had gone a little something like this:

From: Komori Motoya
u in Osaka for NY eve?

From: Miya Atsumu
unfortunately

From: Komori Motoya
u wanna meet? u know where suna will be and washio is coming back early

From: Komori Motoya
i'll make kiyoomi come, don’t worry

That had been enough to give Atsumu pause. Does Komori think Atsumu worries about Sakusa attending events like a pre-teen hoping their crush shows up at a junior high dance? Sure, Sakusa is tall, dark, and handsome, and he has a nasty potty mouth that makes Atsumu’s stomach do funny things, and he’s probably Atsumu’s type if said type is anything more specific than pretty and vaguely humanoid. Sakusa is also wildly unavailable by way of the entire redwood forest he has permanently shoved up his ass. Not like Atsumu hasn’t tried, in not so many words.

But the vagaries of Komori Motoya’s mind elude Atsumu at the best of times. He shrugs and messages back.

From: Miya Atsumu
i'll make Samu host. he probably owes me for something

All that’s to say there are worse places Atsumu could be than curled up on the couch draining the last of his fourth Sapporo. He crunches up the can and tosses it at the back of Osamu’s head, impressed despite himself when Suna reaches out a hand and blocks the hit. Osamu flips Atsumu off without looking up from his cards.

There’s only one glaring problem with this setup - two, counting the fact that Atsumu is getting bored and a bored Miya only leads to chaos. Atsumu sighs deeply and forlornly.

“What’s wrong, Atsumu?” 

Wow, he must sound truly devastated if Washio actually asked him a question. There’s a lull in conversation when Atsumu answers. “It’s nothin’ major, Tatsuki-kun. Just that this is the first time in forever I won’t get a New Year’s kiss.”

Washio sucks a breath through his teeth and looks resolutely back to the television. Osamu flips him off again. Komori, angel that he is, leans forward on the couch to look at Atsumu, delicately placing a hand on his chest.

“I’m willing to make the sacrifice, Atsumu.”

“Sacrifice?” Atsumu glares at him. He’s rethinking Komori’s divine status the more the night goes on. “Kissin’ me is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, Toya-kun.”

“Don’t indulge him, Komori,” Suna says, laying a down a matched set of cards. “He’s only here in the first place because PR’s on his ass for inappropriate behaviour.”

“Are you slut-shaming me, Sunarin?”

“Yes,” Osamu chimes in. “You’re unrepentant.”

“You can’t go two weeks without showing up in the tabloids.” Oh, now Sakusa’s decided to join the party. Atsumu glowers at him, wishing he was drunk enough for this conversation but unwilling to extricate himself from the sofa.

“I ain’t that bad, Omi-kun.”

“Oh?” Sakusa’s eyebrow almost reaches his hairline. He isn’t wearing a mask - Atsumu had seen tears of pride in Osamu’s eyes when Sakusa showed up bare-faced - and it leaves Atsumu to suffer his absolutely devastating smirk. “Would you like me to pull up some articles to share with the class?”

“Okay, I’m feelin’ a little tag-teamed here.” Atsumu pats Washio on the shoulder. “At least you’re still on my side.”

Washio sighs. “You are a bit over-the-top.”

Atsumu’s smile shatters. He glances around the room at the faces of his enemies. “All of you? We’re professional athletes. We’re in our twenties. We’re s’posed to be makin’ the most of life.”

Osamu scoffs and finally looks up from his cards. Atsumu is vindicated to see his hand is completely bust. “’The most of life’ don’t mean fuckin’ every available body. It’s like you got a virus when you went pro that you can’t go a month without a hookup or you’ll spontaneously combust.”

“Big words there, Samu, sure ya know what they mean?” When Osamu doesn’t rise to the bait, Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest and settles for a pout. “I can go a month without sex. Hell, I could go all year. Fuck you guys and the horses you rode in on.”

“If you’re so confident,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu does not care for the way he’s smiling. “Make it your New Year’s resolution.”

Atsumu pales. Suna and Komori both look up, suddenly fascinated by the direction of the conversation. Washio sighs once again, from deep within his soul. “I can do that,” Atsumu says, sounding unsure to his own ears.

Komori’s smile is beatific. “A year is a long time, Atsumu. That’s very admirable. We’ll all hold you to it, don’t even worry.”

“He’s gonna tap out in two weeks,” Osamu says, brow furrowing as he draws from the deck. 

“Okay, place your bets now, ‘cause you’re all gonna fuckin’ lose.” Atsumu stands with a little less grace than usual courtesy of the insufficient amount of alcohol in his system and points a finger at Sakusa. “You better be ready to eat your words at the end of the year. I expect a cake.”

Sakusa tilts his head. His curl drift slowly to the side in a way that Atsumu could describe if he’d ever paid attention to poetry in high school. Like tree branches, maybe. Or spiderwebs. “You’re going to go dry for a year and the reward you want from me is cake?”

Atsumu's flush can’t be solely blamed on alcohol. He can sense Komori’s burgeoning delight like a storm cloud overhead and turns on his heel. “I need more alcohol,” he announces, before making a tactical egress to the kitchen.

All in all, fuck Komori Motoya. Atsumu doesn't even want that kiss.

Then again, Meian Shugo isn’t exactly innocent when it comes to Atsumu's grievances regarding his perfectly healthy libido.

Atsumu is wide-eyed and wondering when he shows up at the MSBY complex for training camp the summer after he graduates from high school. He had tried to sign his contract months before, but Coach Foster had insisted he at least see the team in action before he made any major life decisions, and Atsumu was secretly relieved.

A staff member checks him in and shows him to the locker room. A few regulars are already on the court, and the sounds of palms hitting leather soothe his jittery nerves. He changes at breakneck speeds and shoves his bag into an empty locker before hightailing it back to the court.

He recognizes Coach Foster in one corner, speedometer in hand as he talks to a trio of players. Atsumu shuffles restlessly. He knows he needs to warm up, but he isn’t sure if there are designated areas, if he’s going to get in the way, if anyone will partner with him for extended stretches -

A truly impressive squeak ekes out of his mouth as a heavy hand claps onto his shoulder. Atsumu looks over, and then up, because the man by his side has at least ten centimeters on him. He’s broad-shouldered and thick all over, hair swept back and eyes lazy, and just old enough that his jaw and cheekbones look chiseled from steel with none of Atsumu's lingering baby fat. His smirk as he looks down at Atsumu is not unkind.

Fuck, he’s hot. Atsumu’s mouth goes a little dry at the size of his hands.

“You Miya?” Hot Stuff says, looking a little like he’s holding back a laugh. Atsumu nods furiously. “Good to see ya. I’m Meian Shugo.”

“Captain,” Atsumu breathes out, apparently reduced to one-word answers by stress and hormones. He’s really making a good impression here, he can just feel it.

“That’s right,” Meian says, squeezing his shoulder. “Let’s go warm up. I’ll help ya stretch.”

He lets go of Atsumu’s shoulder and turns away, heading to an empty corner of the gym, and Atsumu trails after him like a lost puppy. And maybe Atsumu is repenting for something in a past life, because he thought Kita was punishment enough. Does he just have an authority kink? Why is he cursed with captains that turn his brain to mush?

Life, he knows, is about to get extremely frustrating.

Four years has, thankfully, tempered Atsumu’s tolerance for Meian. Gone are the days he desperately rushed to the locker room to take a cold shower after practice because Meian’s white shirt was stuck to his chest from sweat, droplets slowly rolling down his tensed neck. Nowadays, he exists in a quantum state of ‘father figure’ and ‘daddy’, swapping titles every time Atsumu looks at him.

Today is decidedly a ‘estranged parental unit’ day, because Meian clears his throat to gather the attention of the locker room, hands on his hips, and Atsumu's gut sinks in warning. “Alright, Miya, spit it out.”

Atsumu tugs his shirt over his head, only getting stuck for a few seconds. “What are you talkin’ about, cap?”

“We just got off a by-week and you haven’t regaled us with tales of your conquests yet,” Meian says, sounding somewhere between amused and resigned. “Get it out before you explode.”

Atsumu sniffs. “Don’t have any stories. I just hung out with Samu.”

“Really,” Barnes says, slowly and enunciated. “Are you dying on us?”

“I’ll have ya know, my New Year’s resolution is to stop sleepin’ around.” Atsumu glares when the room erupts in snickers. “What? Ask Omi, he suggested it.”

“Don’t involve me.” Sakusa is standing there in just his briefs, not bothering to look at Atsumu, legs as long as Tokyo Tower and wow, Atsumu is already going off the rails after only five days. “My therapist told me to stop engaging with you.”

“Aw, Omi, you talk about me with other people?” 

"Miya." Meian cocks his head, giving Atsumu a once-over. Atsumu’s cheeks warm and he suddenly feels very bare standing here in a compression shirt and underwear. The affectionate smile Meian gives him immediately activates Atsumu’s latent daddy issues. “I, for one, am relieved to hear you’re turning over a new leaf. This’ll be good for ya.”

“Maybe you’ll have time now to fix your receives,” Inunaki calls, and for a moment Atsumu forgets about spending the next year watching the flex of Meian’s back to throw his socks in Inunaki’s face.

A month, as it turns out, is a long time. Long enough to seriously consider and then reject moving to St. Petersburg next season. Long enough to form a habit. Long enough to die of starvation. And long enough to forget that Osamu is Atsumu’s personal demon, biding his time for the next choice opportunity to ruin Atsumu’s day.

It’s this thin grasp on the passage of time that lowers Atsumu’s guard at the counter of Onigiri Miya. It’s three p.m. on an off Tuesday after lunch rush, sunlight streaming through the windows and melting the light dusting of late-season snow that fell overnight. There’s an ikebana arrangement of cherry blossom and camellia on the bar in front of Atsumu, and from the corner of his eye he can the refractions on the hung shadow boxes of his, Suna, and Aran’s pro jerseys. Something soft and jazzy comes through the radio set in the kitchen, and the warmth of it all lulls Atsumu towards drowsiness, head laying on his hands on the bar.

Osamu stands across the bar, dicing tuna with deft fingers. Atsumu watches the blade flash, the little thuds against the cutting board a soothing pattern. He likes days like this, although he’d only admit it to Osamu on pain of death. Bastard can probably read it on his face, anyway.

“How’s the spicy radish?” Osamu asks, not glancing up from his cutting board.

Atsumu narrows his eyes. Unless they’re specifically doing a taste test, Osamu never asks his opinion on food. This is a poor transition into whatever conversation he actually wants to have.

“It’s fine, Samu, just gimme a minute to eat it. You gave me four onigiri and expect me to inhale them.”

“You got such a big mouth, I thought you’d be done already.” Osamu pushes the tuna to the side and grabs a package of yellowtail. “Speakin’ of, you been usin’ that mouth lately?”

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. “Gross, Samu. What kinda segue even is that?”

“Your New Year’s resolution, dumbass. You break it yet?”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Atsumu lifts his head to prop his elbow up on the counter. “Been dry as bone, thank ya very much.”

“Ya feelin’ okay? Do I need to take ya to the hospital yet?”

“I’m not dyin’, asshole, don’t get your hopes up." Atsumu takes a bite of the spicy radish onigiri just to shut Osamu up.

“Wonder what Sakusa thinks,” Osamu says, far too conversationally for Atsumu’s liking. “He came in the other day, ya know.”

“Alright,” Atsumu says around his mouthful. He isn’t tracking this flow and it’s making him uneasy. 

Osamu looks up, grey eyes glinting. “He talks about you a lot. Mainly to bitch, but still.”

“Why are you tellin' me this?”

Shrugging, Osamu goes back to chopping. “Just thought you’d like to know. Seein’ how you been pinin’ after him since first year of high school.”

Atsumu chokes, spitting rice all over the counter. He struggles to catch his breath as Osamu grabs a dishtowel and wipes the bar down. “I don’t pine, Samu.”

“Uh huh,” Osamu says. “Remember the time you had to redo your trig homework durin' the class it was due ‘cause you'd doodled him in the margins?”

“His hair and moles are fun to draw!”

“And Spring Tournament third year when you sulked for two days because he wouldn’t talk to you?”

Atsumu has the distinct feeling he’s fighting a losing battle but soldiers on out of spite. “It was rude as hell and I was pissed off, okay.”

Osamu smirks and it makes Atsumu’s skin crawl. “How about when he got MVP in college and you facetimed me in tears ‘cause you wanted him to come to the Jackals so bad?”

“I didn’t cry,” Atsumu snaps. “I was drunk and it was a real good match to watch.”

“Whatever you wanna think,” Osamu says. “This break from sleepin’ around is good for you. Gives you time to sort through some emotions for once.”

“I’m perfectly in control of my emotions,” Atsumu says, perilously close to a breakdown. He shoves the rest of the onigiri in his mouth as Osamu shakes his head and scoops up his fish to move farther down the bar. Who the fuck does Osamu think he is, anyway? Maybe Sakusa has a nasty spin that leaves Atsumu breathless. And maybe his receiving form is the stuff of wet dreams. And maybe Atsumu likes that he never gets away with anything when Sakusa and his sharp tongue around. And maybe he’s so attractive it breaks Atsumu's heart ever practice.

It doesn’t mean anything at all. Osamu is the source of most bad things in Atsumu’s life, and this idea is no exception.

Atsumu has never been as close to Suna as Osamu is, having preferred instead to antagonize Ginjima during high school and then latching onto Bokuto when he joined the Jackals, but there are a few things he was bound to pick up as a byproduct of the exposure therapy that comes from Suna dating his twin. Atsumu knows Suna is infuriatingly lazy on the surface, but his pride runs deep and ice-cold, almost frightening in intensity when unearthed. He knows Suna’s sharp edges and wicked tongue are a defense mechanism that can be bypassed with time and effort, both of which Atsumu has sacrificed in spades. And he knows Suna has an unerring talent for uncovering someone’s vulnerabilities and then preying upon them with the tenacity and accuracy of a bloodhound.

These past few months, Atsumu is particularly aware of that last quality, because Suna has been poking and prodding at him in a slow and calculated attempt to see what makes him break. Atsumu knows his conviction to his ill-advised New Year’s resolution has spurred Suna’s dangerous curiosity, and now Suna won’t fucking leave him alone about it over DMs and texts.

See: A picture taken on Suna’s phone of a billboard in Tokyo featuring Hyakuzawa in Tom Ford, all long lines and apathetic sneer. And: A video of Alisa Haiba walking Victoria's Secret in a white corset and garters that makes Atsumu’s mouth run dry. Also: Romero in a Calvin Klein spread in Vogue, traditional and familiar, like something straight out of an old copy of Playgirl.

Atsumu leaves all this and more on read, waiting each time for Suna to repent with a picture of a street cat or Komori caught mid-sneeze. He’s feeling invincible in his resolve when Suna pulls out his trump card.

From: Sunarin
seen this yet dude? 👀

Atsumu warily opens the attachment at his table in the Jackals complex kitchen and nearly drops a fork-full of seaweed salad on himself. It’s Sakusa, because of course it is. He’s modeling Maison Bonnet glasses in a black turtleneck, gold clip-ons glinting on his ears as he looks off camera. His eyes are completely unfocused and impassive, and a glow of diffused light softens the knife’s edge of his jaw. Atsumu didn’t know he had a professor kink, but he guesses it’s good to learn something new every day.

His fingers are typing before his brain catches up, and he furiously fires off a text.

From: Miya Atsumu
why are you trying to torment me???

Suna’s response is almost instant.

From: Sunarin
funny that this is what you finally respond to. Samu was right

From: Miya Atsumu
right about what??

From: Miya Atsumu
you better fucking respond or all of twitter will see you in a maid outfit

Atsumu is extremely aware this is a bluff, because Suna has pics of him in cat ears and a collar that have survived transferring over three different phones, one of which Atsumu tossed off of Suna’s balcony. He’s pretty sure Suna has a secure server somewhere crammed full of incriminating photos of Inarizaki and half the V.League. He could annihilate Twitter in one fell swoop, and he deftly calls Atsumu’s bluff by just not saying anything at all.

Atsumu is startled out of trying to set Suna on fire, telepathically, through glaring at his phone, by a tray dropping onto the table across from him. He glances up and immediately frowns. “This ain’t your usual seat, Omi-kun.”

“I’m aware, thanks,” Sakusa says, maneuvering to not touch the table with any part of his arms. “Adriah spilled Gatorade all over my table.”

Atsumu glances around him to see the fiasco of Tomas frantically mopping up with a gym towel, Inunaki standing on top of a chair beside him to supervise. “That’s gonna be sticky and not in a fun way.”

Sakusa wrinkles his nose. The gesture is so cute compared to his usual scowl that it makes Atsumu a little sick to his stomach. “There are no instances in which being sticky is enjoyable.” 

“I can show you at least three instances if you come over this weekend,” Atsumu says, grinning around a mouthful of shredded chicken.

“Disgusting on every account.” Sakusa stabs his chicken with far more force than necessary, looking decidedly down and away from Atsumu. “Besides, I’m not going to help you break your New Year’s resolution. Your downward spiral is how I plan to entertain myself next season.”

“You’re about the only person who thinks I’ll make it that long, Omi.”

Sakusa’s sigh is strained, as though even the thought of his next words physically pains him. “Pride and stubbornness are your fatal flaws. If it’s going to be a blow to your ego, I think you’ll be able to hold out.”

Atsumu groans. “Samu and Suna will be insufferable if I fail. They prolly won’t believe me, anyway.”

“I’ll believe you,” Sakusa says, and for a second he looks so serious that Atsumu’s heart skips a beat. Then it passes away into a smirk. “You’re a shit liar.”

The screeching of chairs on linoleum interrupts anything Atsumu wanted to say, as Tomas and Inunaki drag seats up to Atsumu and Sakusa’s table. “You guys see the Giants-Lions doubleheader this weekend?” Inunaki asks, and Atsumu prepares himself for disaster when Sakusa’s eyes narrow in on the Gatorade-damp towel slung haphazardly over Tomas’s shoulder.

Maybe he'll post that pic of Suna, anyway. PR needs someone to keep 'em on their toes.

Here’s the thing - deep down, Atsumu is keenly aware that his problems are solely his own fault. 

During season, he doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t have the time to consider every bad pass, every cruel joke, every impulse he shouldn’t have indulged. Time heals all wounds, even those self-inflicted. Atsumu is nothing if not forward-thinking.

Summer, though.

Atsumu loses April to a flashback - their finals game, match point for the Adlers. Atsumu is up to serve, and Kageyama watches him from across the net, face tight in an animalistic scowl that has somehow charmed the V.League’s number-one darling Hinata Shouyou. Atsumu can’t stand him in this moment. He knows a jump float to six is the safe choice - the Adlers subbed in a pinch server for Sokolov, and he must be the weak point for receives.

Atsumu glares at Kageyama in the front row, chest tight. He’s tired and he’s frustrated and somehow Kageyama is visibly on his third wind. Atsumu wants him to suffer. He aims for tape. He nets instead.

Afterward, no one blames him. Somehow that makes it worse. Atsumu knows how it feels to be hated, and it isn’t Tomas ruffling his hair or Inunaki slapping him on the ass or Sakusa giving him a single jerky nod. It isn’t Hinata’s tears above a blinding grin. It isn’t Meian draping a heavy arm over his shoulder and murmuring good job and you did what we all would’ve done.

No one hates Atsumu, except himself. It follows him into May, when he relearns how to open his blinds and starts subsisting off of something other than instant miso and room-temperature coffee. It follows him to his summer side job at Onigiri Miya, where his only talent is being able to smile at customers with fake cheer Osamu has never quite mastered. It follows him to Osamu’s apartment, where Suna smacks him on the head with a magazine and reminds him he wasn’t the only one to lose a shot at the championship this season.

And it follows him all the way to a message from Sakusa at three p.m. on a Wednesday after lunch rush at the restaurant. Atsumu nearly drops his phone when he sees the contact.

From: ❤️💰 Omi-kun 📌❤️
I’m so fucking sick of you wallowing. You’re going to stop bothering Osamu and Suna and get food with me tonight.

Atsumu reads the message three times for good measure. Then he barrels into the kitchen, phone held triumphantly over his head like a trophy. “Samu! I gotta leave early tonight!”

“Who’s gonna man the fuckin’ register?” Osamu glares from above one of his industrial rice cookers. “You know what? I can’t stand the sight of you anymore, anyway. Get the fuck outta here.”

“You’re the second-best boss I ever had,” Atsumu croons, ducking out of the kitchen as Osamu throws a spatula at him.

And that’s how he finds himself in his current predicament: ten minutes early to a reservation-only sushi joint in Dotonburi, picking at the sleeves of his button-down and willing his hair not to frizz from the humidity. He’s only catastrophized three times in the past five hours, so he’d reckon he’s doing pretty good.

It’s easy to spot Sakusa coming down the sidewalk three minutes later. It’s not even that he’s tall - the crowds part before him like Moses and the Red Sea, cowed by the dangerous curl of his shoulders and the furrow in his brow. He’s a storm cloud personified, and Atsumu is a man parched.

“It’s not a date,” he whispers, pinching his forearm. “Don’t be a jackass.”

“Why are you talking to yourself?” Sakusa asks as he steps in close. He smells faintly of cedar and petrichor and bergamot; Atsumu could drown in it. “Matsura’s going to be thrilled to know he’s our starting setter this season when you finally lose it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Atsumu says, shoving his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do something life-threatening like grab Sakusa’s bicep where it threatens to burst the seams of his cardigan. “I’ve eaten nothin’ but leftover onigiri for two weeks. I’m starvin’.”

Sakusa pauses, looking Atsumu over with an unreadable edge to his eyes. Atsumu wilts under the pressure. “You’ve lost weight.”

“It’s off-season, Omi, give a man a break.”

“I’m not gonna give you a fucking break when you’re not taking care of yourself,” Sakusa says, gaze turning murderous in a fashion that definitely does not go straight south for Atsumu. “Do you think I want Matsura’s sets? You being starting setter was a not-insignificant reason I signed with the Jackals.”

Atsumu holds up his hands in surrender. “You’re bein’ too sweet, Omi-kun. My heart can’t handle it.”

Sakusa makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a snarl, pointing at the door to the restaurant. “Get the fuck inside.”

Atsumu has seen the speedometer after Sakusa’s spikes. He decides he doesn’t want to get hit - at least, not in the face, or in public. He obligingly opens the door for both of them and takes a deep breath.

It’s not a date, he reminds himself. Sakusa is his teammate and travel buddy and almost-friend (but only at hotels when neither of them can sleep, which is most nights away). Sakusa could have anyone he wants and Atsumu hasn’t even eaten a plain vegetable since the beginning of spring. Sakusa is doing his civic duty following through on a welfare check and Atsumu is the asshole who dragged him out of the sanctity of his apartment.

Atsumu exhales, plasters on a smile, and steps through the door.

Fuck Osamu. Fuck his cozy little restaurant, fuck his cozy little apartment, fuck his cozy little life with Suna at his hip. Atsumu is sick and tired of Suna wandering into Onigiri Miya sleepy-eyed and squinting, waiting for Osamu to grab him and drag him into the supply closet to say good morning for a second time. If Atsumu sees one more artsy Instagram post of those motherfuckers at a kitschy cafe in Nakazakicho, he’s going to wretch all over the register, customers be damned.

Atsumu isn’t bitter. He is unbearably horny, and he also just kind of wants a hug. May and June were acceptable, probably because he saw Sakusa at least once a week and got to imagine for a few hours what it would be like to date someone again. Then Sakusa went back to Tokyo in July to be a good little mommy’s boy, and, well, there’s only so many times Atsumu can Snapchat Aran in a day, and Ginjima’s girlfriend certainly doesn’t want Atsumu crashing in Amagasaki every weekend. 

Atsumu sighs as he scrolls past a picture of Barnes and his newest woman hiking, past Meian and his fiance covered in batter making pancakes, past Kageyama and Hinata road-tripping from Tokyo to Hiroshima. Atsumu isn’t even sure what’s going with those last two, but Hinata’s in the passenger seat freckled and sun-warm and Kageyama is actually smiling without looking like a sleep paralysis demon. Atsumu hates it (”it” being Kageyama; Hinata was crafted from an angel’s tears). 

Fuck it. Atsumu’s been good, hasn’t he? He deserves a little fun. Slouching on the stool behind the register, he glances over his shoulder to make sure Osamu is suitably preoccupied, and he reinstalls Grindr.

It takes approximately four days for Atsumu to decide Grindr is a scourge upon the earth.

Someone offers him a new MacBook in return for pics of his feet covered in mud. Another guy asks him to fart on his face. There’s both a sugar baby and a sugar daddy request, three dudes who read Fifty Shades Darker and decided to skip Fetlife altogether, and a straight girl looking for illustration models. An influx of men old enough to be his grandfather calls him baby. 

And maybe he’s throwing the baby out with the bathwater, because it’s not like there aren’t plenty of socially acceptable dudes messaging him. But no one hits the right spot. He rejects one dude for being too short, another for looking too soft, yet another because he doesn’t like what he sees of his hands in a single grainy profile pic. Atsumu isn’t making the rules; he’s running on pure gut instinct, and his gut apparently has someone special in mind.

Atsumu knows better than to analyze it. The results will inevitably lead to the same conclusion: a man so far out of his league they may as well be on different planets. He knows he’s got it bad. No need to confirm it for the world. 

“You’ve been staring at your phone for five minutes without scrolling,” Suna says, startling Atsumu back into focus where he’s slouched on his loveseat. Suna is curled up beside him, perpetually-cold feet shoved under Atsumu’s thigh, because Atsumu is at least passable as a space heater when Osamu is trapped at the shop doing payroll. Maybe he should add that to his MSBY profile - useful when your boyfriend isn’t home.

Atsumu wonders if Suna could get a MacBook for his feet pics. He highly doubts it - Suna has knives for toes and all ten of them are digging into Atsumu’s flesh. “Just thinkin’,” Atsumu finally says, banishing all thoughts of Suna’s appendages from his forebrain.

“No wonder I smelled smoke.”

“Where’d you get that joke? Your grandpa?” Atsumu closes his phone and tilts his head back to make peace with the water stain on the ceiling. “Do I go for people who are unattainable?”

Suna is silent for a long moment. The television hums along with some English baking show Atsumu only understands 10% of the time. “I thought you were aware that’s your whole shtick.”

Atsumu glances down at Suna. “Whaddaya mean?”

“The school council president, the point guard who was dating the same girl for three years, Aran -” he talks over Atsumu’s sudden sputtering - “Kita, Meian, that girl from your Uniqlo campaign, Sakusa. They were all either straight or completely and obviously uninterested in you.”

“Meian and Aran don’t count,” Atsumu argues, flicking Suna on the knee. “I just thought they were hot. I didn’t try nothin’.”

“You couldn’t talk to Aran for a month without stuttering.”

“It was a difficult time. Hormonally.” Atsumu sighs and watches as a woman on the television drops an entire cake on the ground. “I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Sakusa?” Suna tosses a gum wrapper at Atsumu’s head. “Crazy thought, but hear me out - did you try just, I don’t know, talking to him?”

“Ugh,” Atsumu groans. He picks up the gum wrapper and throws it at the television. “Why did I even both askin’ you. You only ever dated Samu and all you had to do was give him a fuckin’ box of mochi.”

“Only one of us here has a successful love life, so maybe consider taking some pointers. You act like Sakusa is an alien. He’s just some dude, Atsumu.”

Atsumu isn’t convinced; he wrinkles his nose at the television. “I just wanna kiss him,” he admits in a moment of weakness. Suna is the last person he should be vulnerable around, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I ain’t been kissed since December and it’s gettin’ to my head. I don’t even wanna hook up. I just want him to spoon me, like what the hell.”

“Wait.” Suna straightens up, sheathing his dagger-toes. “You’re still doing that? I thought you fucked VC Kanagawa’s middle blocker back in February.”

“What the fuck? No, Sunarin, he smells like sauerkraut and I don’t wanna know why.”

It’s the first week of September, pre-season is shifting into gear, they have a practice game against the Falcons at their home complex in a few hours, and Atsumu only has one thing on his mind.

“What if I’ve forgotten how to give head?” he announces to the bus at large.

There’s a chorus of groans from all over the bus. Beside Atsumu, Sakusa lifts his head off the sterilized window and looks down at his TAG Heuer. Fuck, does Atsumu love to hate a rich boy. “Miya, it’s 5:06 a.m. Think about something else for once, if your tiny monkey brain is capable of it.”

“What’s there to forget?” Barnes calls from the front. He seems uniquely unfazed by the death glare Meian is shooting him and Atsumu respects that in a man. “Just put your mouth on a dick and call it a day.”

“Uninspired, Oliver,” Atsumu says, shaking his head. “No finesse. No delicacy. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Hinata pops his head over the back of the seat in front of them. “Don’t worry, Atsumu-san! You’re talented. It’ll come back to you in no time!”  

A grin breaks over Atsumu’s face. He leans forward until only a few inches separate him from Hinata’s warmth. “Wanna help me practice?”

Hinata taps his chin thoughtfully. “You’re in the home stretch. Are you sure you want to give up your resolution now?”

Sighing through his nose, Atsumu settles back in his seat. “You’re right, Shouyou-kun. ‘Sides, Omi owes me a gift at the end of all this. Wouldn’t want to ruin that surprise.”

“Omi-Omi?” It’s Bokuto’s turn to groundhog upwards, eyes wide and questioning. “I can’t believe you agreed to that.”

“I didn’t.” Sakusa’s eyes, in beautiful contrast, are squeezed shut, like if he tries really hard, he can make them all disappear. It’s cute. “Miya demanded a prize. I was an unfortunate bystander.”

“What’s the prize?” Hinata asks, head cocked like a puppy. Atsumu reaches up to ruffle his hair and is rewarded with a smile for his efforts. Worth it.

“I guess that’s up to Miya,” Sakusa says, shrugging awkwardly beneath his travel pillow.

Atsumu realizes he’s gaping, but Sakusa isn’t even looking, so what does it matter? It’s a good thing Atsumu could never blame Hinata for anything, least of all a well-intentioned question, because Sakusa’s words are going to haunt him for the rest of the year.

Atsumu’s sex life (and lack thereof) is definitely not Ushijima Wakatoshi’s fault, but Atsumu would like it to be.

It’s a hard game against the Adlers early in the season, the only way either team will have it, but time and the past year’s experience have transformed the Jackals into a real pack this go-around. They rip a victory from the Adlers bloody and clawing; Atsumu finds himself across the net from Ushijima after the match, because Hinata always demands to shake hands with Kageyama in the name of destiny and love and other gross things Atsumu would rather not think about.

Atsumu studies his opponent as Ushijima grabs him with one big, calloused hand. Ushijima has a jawline cut from marble and adorable pouty lips. His torso is also shaped approximately like a dorito. Atsumu just knows Ushijima could toss him over his shoulder like a bag of rice and carry him away to do unspeakable things in the away-team locker room.

“Wakatoshi-kun,” Atsumu says, still gripping Ushijima’s hand. “What’re you doin’ tonight?”

Ushijima’s tiny smile is angelic and it breaks Atsumu’s heart just a little. “Getting dinner with Kiyoomi. It’s our routine.”

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu repeats faintly. “That sounds fun. Enjoy yourselves!”

He lets Ushijima go and turns to run a hand over his face. What was he even thinking, trying to proposition Ushijima Wakatoshi - golden boy of the V.League, Olympian, owner of a line-item contract with numbers that would make Atsumu simultaneously cry and cum in his pants, notoriously close-lipped about his private life? Atsumu’s been doing well. It’s already October. He’s almost made it and yet here he is, as usual, sabotaging himself.

“Why were you trying to hang out with Wakatoshi?”

Atsumu startles out of his zombie-walk to the home-team locker room. Sakusa keeps pace alongside him, brow furrowed as he looks Atsumu over. Atsumu forces a grin. “Worried I’m gonna steal your best friend right out from underneath you?”

“You always crash after games,” Sakusa says, eyes unreadable. “What were you going to do, fall asleep at a restaurant mid-bite? That’d really show Wakatoshi a good time.”

“God, Omi, read between the lines for once.” Atsumu tilts his head back and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “I was havin’ a moment of weakness.”

“Oh.” Sakusa is silent for a long moment. “You’re not Wakatoshi’s type.”

Atsumu sighs. “Figures. I ain’t most people’s type.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You wouldn’t be in this mess if people didn’t find you attractive.”

Smiling despite himself, Atsumu holds the door of the locker room open for Sakusa. “You really know how to win a guy’s heart, Omi-kun.”   

Sakusa pauses in the threshold. From inside, Atsumu can hear Hinata laughing alongside their second string setter, and a shirt flies across the room to hit Barnes in the back. Sakusa’s mouth thins and Atsumu can’t tell if he’s scowling or trying to suppress a smirk.

“I’m trying my best,” Sakusa says. Then he turns and steps into the room, leaving Atsumu shell-shocked in the doorway.

Atsumu is exhausted.

November always takes its toll on him. The high of volleyball season beginning again fades, leaving him running full-tilt on a quickly emptying tank of gas. He knows by December he’ll have gotten used to the high-octane life again, but this year comes with the extra weight of missing a major form of stress relief.

His grumpy mood takes a turn for the worse when Coach Foster catches him on the way to the weight room. “Atsumu-kun,” he says, and Atsumu braces for impact - Foster only calls him by his given name when he’s got a particularly thorny problem ready to drop right on Atsumu’s head. The privilege of being the team's logistical heart, or something to that effect.

Atsumu sighs, hand on the doorknob to freedom. “Yeah, Coach?”

Foster glances through the window into the weight room. Sakusa’s already in there, stretching his quads in a way that makes his thighs bulge. Atsumu receives the world’s tiniest dose of serotonin from the sight. “I need you to convince Sakusa to come to the gala next month.”

“That ain’t gonna happen,” Atsumu says, laughing under his breath. “Omi’s contract only requires him to go to the end-of-season banquet. You signed it yourself.”

“I’m aware, Miya,” Foster says, and Atsumu closes his mouth with a snap. “You’re the only one who can convince him, and we need him to meet some potential investors. They’re Waseda alums and they have their eyes on him.”

Atsumu watches Sakusa through the window. He’s stretching his back now, arms contorted in a truly impressive human pretzel. “What makes you think I can get him to come?”

“He likes you best.” Foster steps out of the way for Tomas and Inunaki. “He wouldn’t have requested you as his travel buddy if he didn’t.”

Atsumu’s traitorous mouth falls open once again. That’s breaking news to him - he was operating under the impression Sakusa drew the short straw last season when no one else wanted to room with Atsumu. His entire world shifts a few centimeters to the left. 

Foster claps him on the shoulder with his clipboard. “Just act normal. Sakusa likes that, for whatever reason.” He grins before turning away to flag Meian down.

Atsumu takes a fortifying breath as he faces the weight room door. He can do this. Sakusa is only the most obstinate man Atsumu’s ever had the (dis)pleasure of meeting. Surely Atsumu can wear him down with a few well-placed smiles and encouraging words.

Fuck that. Atsumu’s tired. He pushes into the weight room and marks a course straight for Sakusa.

“Took you long enough,” Sakusa says in lieu of a normal human greeting. He finishes spraying down the nearest weight bench and sits down, eying Atsumu expectantly. “We going to lift or stand here until we grow grey?”

“You’re comin’ to the gala in December,” Atsumu says, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“Absolutely not.” Sakusa arches one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him, beauty marks rising and oh, Atsumu’s exhausted enough that he considers leaning over and kissing them just to throw Sakusa off. “My contract -”

“I know all about the fuckin’ contract,” Atsumu interrupts. “Just do it. For me.”

Sakusa looks him over. Atsumu knows what a striking figure he cuts right now - eyes dark with bags, hair mussed to hell and back, shirt definitely on backwards. To his eternal surprise, Sakusa’s face slowly softens. “I’ll only go if you stay with me the whole night. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“Easy enough,” Atsumu says. Foster told him to get Sakusa to the gala. He said nothing about what happens next.

There’s a pause in which Atsumu watches Sakusa go through every stage of grief in milliseconds. Then Sakusa looks up at him with a pout, dark eyes imploring, and Atsumu is ready to lay it all on the line to give Sakusa whatever the fuck he wants next.

“Do I still have to go to the banquet?”

Atsumu looks down at himself exaggeratedly. “Did I dress like a lawyer today? You’re talkin’ breach of contract, Omi, that’s a hill for you to die on by yourself.” He sighs when Sakusa’s gaze drops to the floor. “What the fuck. I’ll talk to Coach and tell ‘em you’ve been a good boy.”

Sakusa’s ears go startlingly pink and he drops onto his back on the weight bench. “Too much talking. Spot me.”

Atsumu obediently steps behind the bench and tries desperately not to stare down into the inkwells of Sakusa’s eyes.

Atsumu likes his role on the team. He likes being in control, both strategically and tactically. He likes the trust and acceptance that comes from hundreds of hours spent on and off the court with the same eleven guys. He likes the spotlight of being setter.

All of that pales in comparison to the way Inunaki has established himself a position of holiness. The Jackals place absolute and unflagging trust on his shoulders, and he delivers without fail. He’s untouchable. He’s inviolable. Atsumu knows better than to blame anything on him or risk the combined wrath of the team.

That doesn’t stop the resentment simmering in Atsumu’s heart as Inunaki cackles in the threshold of Atsumu and Sakusa’s hotel room. He’s a demon manifest. Atsumu should have known better than to beg him for help.

“I would love to change rooms, really,” Inunaki is saying, wiping wetness from his lashes. “But I’m making Adriah watch The Ring tonight and it’s taken me two years to convince him to do it. I can’t do anything to jeopardize that. You two are big boys, you’ll be fine.”

Atsumu glances away from Inunaki to the computer desk where Sakusa is hunched over, glowering at the bed. The one queen bed, meant for both of them to share. It’s not like this doesn’t happen sometimes; hotels overbook, and they’re all physical people. Atsumu’s shared with Bokuto before and it went fine, barring Bokuto snoring like a wood chipper. 

But this is Sakusa, an anthropomorphized hedgehog with boundaries like the Great Wall. Atsumu is pretty sure they fall generally into the category of friends these days, but right now Sakusa is radiating anxiety and Atsumu feels bad standing within five meters of him. He sighs and hits Inunaki with his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Wan-san, I’ll offer you anything. I’ll do your laundry for a month. I’ll bring you a bento every day. What’ll it take?”

Inunaki grins with all his teeth. “You can’t afford my price, Miya. Besides, there are four other rooms you could switch with. Try them.”

“I did,” Atsumu says. His words tumble out an octave high than usual, but it’s not like he has much dignity left on the team, anyway. “Meian said it would be a good bondin’ activity. Matsura and Ishikawa already got stuck with one bed a few weeks ago. Agawa’s a dickhead, and Bokuto said he wouldn’t have room for his body pillow.”

“Why was I the last person you asked, hmm?”

Atsumu sucks in a breath through his teeth. If he’s being completely honest, he’s a little bit afraid of being indebted to Inunaki. Inunaki is the kind of guy to remember an off-hand comment about wide platforms made in the middle of a game for three years straight. Atsumu knows this from experience; he’d never live this down. He settles for something a little less than truth. “You’re our libero. It’s important that you get a good night’s sleep. I didn’t wanna bother you if I didn’t have to.”

Inunaki’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Sounds fake, but okay. My answer doesn’t change, though. You two better get cozy!”  

“I hope Adriah cries,” Atsumu mumbles as Inunaki waves and slips out the door. He tries to make eye contact with Sakusa and fails. “Omi-kun, would it be better if you shared with someone else?”

Sakusa’s head jerks toward the window. “Do not make me with sleep with someone else.”

“Alright, alright,” Atsumu says, raising his hands in surrender. “Just want you to be as comfortable as possible.”

He doesn’t really expect a reply, but then Sakusa exhales slowly, still staring at the curtains. “I’ve gotten used to rooming with you. I don’t want to change that.”

Atsumu can’t help his smile. “Then we won’t change it, okay? It’s just for tonight. I’ll sleep on top of the covers if that helps.”

“Miya,” Sakusa starts, looking down at the carpet and then at a crack on the ceiling. Atsumu can see his jaw moving fitfully beneath his mask as he worries over his words. “I’ve been told I’m…clingy. When I sleep.”

Atsumu pauses. He was aware of this, tangentially. Sakusa always sleeps with every hotel pillow stuffed between his legs or under his stomach or wrapped up in his arms. It’s endearing and definitely something Atsumu shouldn’t know from staring across the room on sleepless nights like a fucking creep.

“Just try not to drool on me,” Atsumu finally says, scratching at his hair. “Used to hate when Samu did that.”

Sakusa turns to look at him at that, eyebrows raising. “There’s only one of us here who regularly wakes up caked in drool.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, feeling some of the tension in the room drain away. Inunaki’s right. They’ll survive.

Inunaki is not right. The alarm clock is flashing 1:31 a.m. and here Atsumu is, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling with the very concept of sleep laughing at him from the corner of the room. Sakusa’s head lies on his chest, breath fanning down Atsumu’s sternum, and one hand clutches at his shirt above his belly button. A leg is tossed over Atsumu’s thigh, calves pressed together and cold feet digging into Atsumu’s skin. Atsumu tries to move his arm and Sakusa mumbles something incomprehensible under his breath.

Atsumu swallows down a groan of frustration. This is the most he’s been touched in nine months and it’s fucking involuntary. Sakusa would be embarrassed if he could see himself, Atsumu is sure. And Atsumu needs to go straight to horny jail because Sakusa’s weight on top of him is doing real funny things to his lower body that would be absolutely mortifying for Sakusa to know.

The hand on his stomach shifts lower, fingers brushing the waistband on his boxers, and Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck the whole team, Hinata included. Hope they like Matsura’s sets, because Atsumu is going to an early grave.

Atsumu once heard an American acquaintance say that everyone in New Jersey is born with road rage already activated. Atsumu doesn’t know jack shit about Jersey, but he imagines Tokyo folks have the same genetic mutation, because Sakusa drives like he’s one second away from committing vehicular manslaughter.

To be brutally honest, it’s Atsumu’s fault they’re in this zero-sum scenario. He was prepared to take the metro out to Umeda for the gala, but Sakusa called him - called him - at 8:04 this morning already panicking. Atsumu was pretty positive Sakusa didn't wake up early on the weekend for anything other than an act of god, but perhaps a social event ranks that highly in Sakusa’s book.

Atsumu shouldn’t have agreed to Sakusa driving under any circumstances. Atsumu has driven with him exactly once before, when they both had events in Tokyo outside of an exhibition game they were slotted for. Atsumu became a deeply religious man during that six-hour round-trip - specifically, he learned that hell was real and that he was being punished for the sins of a past life.

So to agree today, when he knew Sakusa was already keyed up with enough adrenaline to give a Clydesdale a heart attack, was a mistake of momentous proportions. Now all he can do is white-knuckle the hand-grip for dear life and pray Mount Sakusa doesn’t erupt before they get to the event hall. He’s no longer even distracted by the clean lines of Sakusa’s dark green suit or the leather and lilac of his cologne. His only thought is survival.

He lets go of the hand-grip long enough to text Osamu.

From: Miya Atsumu
i love you. the funeral will be closed-casket. don't let foster attend

He declines Osamu’s immediate call and risks a glance over at Sakusa. The demon himself is mumbling under his breath, hands so tight on the steering wheel that the leather cover crinkles. Atsumu’s pretty sure he’s seen the speedometer tick 70 kilometers. In Umeda.

“Omi?” he tries, like he’s reaching out to a feral dog.

Sakusa’s lip raises in a snarl, and he reaches out to jam a finger on the radio. Heavy metal blasts out; Sakusa’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t change it, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before Atsumu touches any auxiliary part of Sakusa’s Lexus. At least the screaming externalizes Atsumu’s current brain functioning.

By the whim of some capricious trickster god, they make it intact to the parking garage situated catty-corner to the event hall. Sakusa pulls in so close to the wall Atsumu fears for the paint job, but he doesn’t worry about it too much as he rockets out of the passenger seat, doubled over with his hands on his knees. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Sakusa says, stepping around the back of the car to glare at him. “C’mon, we’re going to be late.”

Atsumu offers a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the universe and stumbles after him. They are not late, thanks to Sakusa’s enlightened attitude towards traffic laws, and there’s still space at Barnes and Meian’s high-top when they make their way inside. Atsumu steps up to the table silently, ignoring his teammates’ greetings in favour of downing an untouched glass of champagne in one go.

“Easy, Miya,” Barnes says, chuckling. “You got all night to drink.”

“Oliver, you have no idea what I’ve been through tonight.” Atsumu ignores Sakusa’s pointed side-eye in favour of flagging down a server. He thanks the woman and clutches his fresh glass like a lifeline. 

“At least wait until the opening speech is over to drink anymore,” Meian says. He looks at Sakusa with his brow furrowed; Atsumu wonders if he can fathom even a fraction of Atsumu’s personal hell.

“Yes, dad.” Atsumu reluctantly sets his glass down on the table.

He finds his footing slowly. Four years have turned investor events into a blur for Atsumu, but Sakusa is a live-wire at his elbow, glaring around the room in turns as people come and go on stage. By the time the opening ceremony completes, Sakusa’s shoulders are in the vicinity of his ears.

“Omi-kun, you gotta relax,” Atsumu says, carefully prying a butter knife out of Sakusa’s hand. “Folks are gonna be afraid to come near you.”

“As it should be,” Sakusa hisses, but he lets the knife go, grabbing Atsumu’s wrist instead. “There’s people coming.”

“Yeah, dude, that’s how events work.” Atsumu ignores the way Sakusa’s thumb presses urgently into his palm. “Just make nice for a little while. We’ll leave as soon as it’s safe.”

“I’m not afraid of Foster,” Sakusa says, even as his narrowed eyes jump to said man where’s he’s laughing with the Hornet’s coach across the ballroom. 

“My contract’s up this season, Omi. I gotta be good.”

Sakusa grumbles something under his breath but turns to face the oncoming traffic. Atsumu plasters on a smile and tries not to ache as Sakusa’s fingers leave his wrist. They have more important things to deal with than Atsumu’s year-long journey to becoming touch-starved. Sakusa’s depending on him.

The thing is, Atsumu’s good at running his mouth. It’s just questionable if anything that comes out of him is worth listening to. And it’s not like he even enjoys these events; he appreciates the free booze, but he gets the creeps every time a middle-aged investment banker with a comb-over looks him over a few seconds too long. He’s lucky Meian is a crowd favourite close at hand, because Atsumu is struggling under the heavy burden of schmoozing and Sakusa, true to his word, is doing jack shit to help out as he slouches at Atsumu’s side.

“At least say hello,” Atsumu finally whispers, jabbing at Sakusa’s side. Sakusa flinches and grabs Atsumu’s elbow, grip unrelenting as an older woman approaches them. Atsumu perks up - he recognizes someone, finally. The brand manager of an up-and-coming skincare company that gave Atsumu his first sponsorship. “Nakamura-san!”

Mrs. Nakamura smiles. “Good to see you, Atsumu-kun. This must be Sakusa-kun?”

Sakusa bows stiffly, mouth pressed into a thin line. His fingers flex on the inside of Atsumu’s arm and it makes Atsumu tingle all the way to his fingertips. “Hello.”

Atsumu resists rolling his eyes. He can’t complain if Sakusa follows the letter of the law and not the spirit. He focuses on Mrs. Nakamura instead. “I heard Suna picked up a sponsorship with y’all.”

“He did. He has a good face. Very angular,” she says, tapping a finger against her chin. “I do hope you work consider working with us again next year, though.”

“Well, you know me. I’m good at standin’ around lookin’ pretty.” Atsumu huffs a laugh. “Although Omi here kinda steals my thunder.”

Mrs. Nakamura is silent for a moment, close-lipped smile deepening as her eyes flicker to Sakusa’s death-grip on Atsumu’s elbow. “Cute,” she finally says, nodding. “How long have you - no, that’s inappropriate. Forget I asked.”

Atsumu’s cheeks warm at the unfinished question. He glances quickly over at Sakusa to catch the tail end of a smirk, gone so fast he’s not sure he didn’t imagine it. Sakusa’s thumb rubs a slow circle over the layers of his suit, and even with a centimeter of fabric protecting him, Atsumu feels like he’s been given a third-degree burn. He looks down at the paisley carpet, not trusting himself to speak.

Mrs. Nakamura’s phone thankfully lets out the most god-awful screeching Atsumu’s ever heard outside of a horror movie, and she pulls it out with a sigh. “Our London partner’s calling. Atsumu-kun, send me an email and we’ll get something in the works.” Then she turns and wanders off towards a courtyard door.

“Miya,” Sakusa says, jaw clenching and relaxing in little fits as he watches her leave. “I’m done.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen. He’s not ready. He can’t do this. He still has things he wants to do in this life and they haven’t even made it to the buffet portion of the gala. Taking a deep breath, he steps around to face Sakusa dead-on. “We can leave only if you let me drive.”

Frowning, Sakusa looks him over like he’s examining a specimen in formaldehyde. “Do you even have a license?”

“Of course I do, Omi.” Sure, it may be a year expired, but what Sakusa doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Atsumu risks life and limb to place his hands on Sakusa’s shoulders and give him his best puppy-dog eyes. “Now, don’t get offended, but I’m literally beggin’ you. I didn’t even know I had drivin’ anxiety ‘til I rode with you. Just chill out and lemme take the wheel.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes at him. Atsumu almost wishes Sakusa was wearing a mask so that he didn’t have to face the full intensity of his gaze. Then, by the intervention of some benevolent divinity, Sakusa reaches into his pocket and fishes out his keys, shoving them in Atsumu’s face. “You scratch the car, you pay for it.”

When Atsumu takes the keys, his hand barely even shakes.

Atsumu has never been so excited to have an uneventful ride home. Sakusa spends the first ten minutes griping at Atsumu’s strict adherence to speed limit signs, but he eventually gives up and lolls his head against the seat. Atsumu catches his eyes drooping shut and smiles to himself. Like this, he can almost relax and enjoy driving a car worth an entire year of his salary. 

His blessings continue, because he manages to find street parking directly outside his apartment complex. He takes three times as long as usual to parallel park just to avoid any potentiality where the Lexus gets dinged and Atsumu loses his balls in recompense. Finally he sighs and unbuckles, reaching over to gently shake Sakusa awake.

“We’re at my place, Omi,” he says, his voice shattering the quiet that had consumed them the last half-hour. “You can stay if you’re too tired to drive.”

“’m fine.” Sakusa sits, blinking sleepily, and Atsumu’s heart melts. Sakusa’s eyes focus unsteadily on him, soft and gleaming in the golden streetlight glow. “Thanks, Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat. “You don’t gotta thank me for drivin’, Omi.”

“Not for driving,” Sakusa says, a tiny frown stealing over his face. “I hated that part.”

Atsumu scoffs. “We got here safe and sound. That’s all that matters.”

Sakusa’s frown deepens, and he turns his head to look out the window away from Atsumu. “We’re doing the same thing at the banquet. Tonight was better. With you.”

“Did that hurt you to admit?” Atsumu asks, going for a joke and falling somewhere short when his words hitch halfway through. Here lies Miya Atsumu, aged 24, cause of death: Sakusa Kiyoomi playing nice.

“Of course you’d make this difficult.” Sakusa rolls his eyes and somehow makes it pretty. “Get out of my car. I wanted to go to bed an hour ago.”

It’s not like Atsumu has ever been good at following orders. He sits on his ass and stares at Sakusa’s profile, the way late-night shadows pool beneath his cheekbones and down his throat. The gentle light renders him something ethereal and fleeting. Atsumu wants to reach out his hand and see if it passes through him like smoke. He wants to kiss him until the orange heat of dawn turns him mortal again.

“Miya,” Sakusa says. A warning. An exit sign.

Atsumu rouses himself with a shake of his head. “Night, Omi-kun,” he says, smiling small and genuine. Then he hurries out of the car, into the sobering December chill.

Akaashi Keiji is the last person Atsumu expects to blame for any of his woes in life, least of all the romantic ones, but life is funny like that.

“You need to be honest with him, Miya-san,” Akaashi says, following Atsumu’s gaze across Bokuto’s living room to where Sakusa looks like he’s having an out-of-body experience under an onslaught of Bokuto and Hinata’s yelling. Sakusa’s hoodie is a truly revolting shade of neon green and Atsumu thinks he needs to be punished a little for his crimes against humanity, anyway. “It’s better he finds out from you than one of your teammates, isn’t it?”

Atsumu covers his scowl with his glass of spiked cider. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, Keiji-kun.”

Akaashi smiles just a little, small and teasing. “It’s obvious from the way you look at him, even without Koutarou telling me about how cute you two are.”

“I barely even look at ‘em,” Atsumu says, tearing his eyes away from Sakusa. “’Sides, it ain’t good to mess around with teammates. Why would I fuck everythin’ up just ‘cause I feel some kinda way? It’ll go away.”

Akaashi’s eyebrows raise. He’s pretty, Atsumu decides, in a way that makes him rethink his entire winter skincare regimen. “It’s been going on for at least a year and it hasn’t gone away, has it?”

Atsumu has nothing intelligent to say to that. He fiddles with his glass, looking decidedly away from Akaashi to where Inunaki and Tomas are playing beer pong on the dining room table. Maybe he should play with them, even if Tomas is a monster at pong and Inunaki cheats. Anything to get away from Akaashi and his knowing eyes.

“Keiji! Tsumu!” Bokuto waves furiously at them. “We need your help!”

Atsumu reluctantly follows Akaashi across the living room to the war room established in front of Bokuto’s television. Sakusa makes eye contact with him, eyes dead and pleading for help. Atsumu smirks at him and shakes his head.

Hinata turns to them, hands folded together in prayer. “Akaashi-san, you’re the smartest guy I know. And Atsumu-san is a giant nerd. You’ll definitely know the right answer!”

“Shouyou-kun, I feel like I’m supposed to be offended, but I’ll let it slide in the spirit of Christmas Eve,” Atsumu says, narrowing his eyes at Hinata.

“Being a giant nerd is perfect right now, Tsumu! Hinata and I can’t decide - who would you rather have help in an alien invasion, King Kong or Godzilla?” Bokuto, looking between Akaashi and Atsumu with wide eyes.

Atsumu scoffs. “Easy - neither. You’d want Mothra. She can fly into space and destroy their ships before they even get to Earth.”

Hinata’s face scrunches up in thought. “Omi-san said Mothra, too. You guys are perfectly in-sync, even off the court.”

“Great minds think alike, Omi-kun!” Atsumu fist-bumps the air in front of Sakusa’s chest, knowing better than to wait for reciprocation. 

“I’d rather die than be on your wavelength,” Sakusa mumbles, gaze lifted towards the heavens.

“Too late, dude. I’m already dialed in.” Atsumu puts a finger on each temple and squeezes his eyes shut. “Right now you’re thinkin’ you wanna go outside and get some air.”

When he opens his eyes again, grinning, Sakusa is staring at him with something unreadable in his dark eyes, face hidden by his mask. Bokuto looks between them, mouth quirked up in the obvious effort not to laugh.

Sakusa’s brow furrows as he sighs. “You’re right, unfortunately. Let’s go, Miya,” he says, pushing past Hinata and stalking away toward Bokuto’s patio doors.

“Omi, it’s fuckin’ cold out there!” Atsumu yells after him. When Sakusa just shoots him a look over his shoulder, Atsumu exhales heavily and starts after him.

“Good luck, Miya-san,” Akaashi says from behind him. Atsumu flips him off and receives a breathy laugh in return.

Atsumu follows Sakusa out onto the patio. Bokuto’s backyard is approximately the size of a cracker, and he’s filled most of the space with a volleyball net and a tiny football goal. Sakusa forgoes the cheap folding beach chairs and leans against the deck railing; Atsumu sidles up beside him, shrugging deeper into his jacket.

He was right. It is fucking cold out. Their breaths frost before them, and Atsumu’s fingers are already going numb around the glass he foolishly brought with him. Sakusa stares up at the sky, seemingly unbothered by the chill. Above them, the cloudless sky stretches out into a horizon made toothy and jagged with towering buildings. The moon hangs low and ripe, and through the yellow haze of light pollution, a few stars flash.

“Pretty,” Sakusa mumbles, eyes skyward.

Atsumu watches him, the way the patio light reflects off his curls and sets his eyes to glittering. “Yeah,” he finally says, not looking at the stars at all.

Silence settles between them, heavy and expectant. Atsumu spins the glass in his hands. Akaashi’s words play through his head on repeat, and Suna’s, and even Osamu’s, to his utter dismay. He’s only getting more desperate with time, he realizes. Sakusa is smart. He’ll catch on eventually. Better to rip the band-aid off now, when Atsumu is the one with tentative control over the situation.

“Omi-kun -”

“Miya -”

Atsumu laughs, a nervous huff of breath. “What did Hinata say? ‘Perfectly in-sync?’”

Sakusa’s forehead wrinkles, and Atsumu just knows he’s grimacing beneath his mask. “You first.”

“You sure about that, Omi? You might not want to talk to me after this.”

“I don’t want to talk to you in the first place, but that never stops you.” Sakusa turns to lean his side against the railing, the full weight of his gaze landing on Atsumu. “Spit it out.”

Atsumu holds up one finger and chugs the rest of his cider, then sets the glass decisively down on the railing with a thump that makes Sakusa wince. He can do this. He’s in control, here. “I don’t want this to affect how we play as teammates, but I think you should know that I like you. Liked you for a long time, to be honest, and that doesn’t seem to be changin’.”

Sakusa’s eyes crinkle up - is he smiling? Atsumu keeps his mouth from falling open by force of will alone. “I’m aware, Miya. You’re not exactly the paragon of subtlety.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says smartly. He looks away, down at the football lying in the dead grass. “Well, good. We got that outta the way, then.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I feel?” 

There’s something soft and teasing in Sakusa’s tone that makes Atsumu’s cheeks flush. He leans in subconsciously, eyes roving over Sakusa’s half-hidden face. “Tell me, Omi.”

Oh, Sakusa’s definitely smirking. “Against my better judgment, I like you, too. You’ve grown on me. Like a tapeworm.”

“What a romantic. I’m swoonin’,” Atsumu says. He reaches up slowly, waiting for Sakusa to back away from his hands. When he stays still, Atsumu loops his fingers in the mask and tugs it under Sakusa’s chin. “It’s over for you now, Omi. I got to kiss you.”

Sakusa’s eyes flicker down to Atsumu’s mouth as he speaks, voice a little hushed. “It’s only a week until New Year’s, Atsumu. Don’t you want to wait for your prize?”

“My resolution said nothin’ about kissin’.” Atsumu’s thumb grazes over Sakusa’s cheekbone, skin cold but soft. “No breach of contract here.”

There’s a moment of stasis - somewhere a few blocks over a car alarm echoes, and music thrums from Bokuto’s living room. Sakusa’s breath ghosts over his lips. He smells faintly like the eucalyptus Epsom salts he uses after a game. Then Sakusa grabs the back of Atsumu’s head and tugs him in, kissing him. 

Atsumu grins against his mouth until Sakusa huffs in frustration and changes angles; Atsumu sobers up at the demanding press of his lips. It’s all he can do to not melt into the deck, Sakusa’s short fingernails scratching at his undercut. He digs his hands into the front of Sakusa’s awful hoodie and pulls them flush. Through the sliding glass door Atsumu can vaguely hear Inunaki whooping, but it’s nothing compared to the thunder filling his ears. Sakusa licks at the seam of his mouth and Atsumu opens up, helpless.

By the time Sakusa draws back, Atsumu is panting, eyes glassy. The world returns to orbit around them slowly. “Omi,” he gets out, but no more words come, brain-to-mouth filter still short-circuiting.

Sakusa runs his fingers through Atsumu’s bangs, just once. “Worth the wait?”

Atsumu nods. He realizes he’s still gripping Sakusa’s hoodie for dear life and releases him with a reluctant pat beneath his sternum. Sakusa huffs a laugh under his breath.

The sliding glass door groans open, and Atsumu turns to see Inunaki hanging off the handle, his utter glee spelling nothing but disaster. Tomas leans in behind him, looking vaguely disappointed. “Nice job, boys! Barnes is gonna pissed to know I won the betting pool.”

“You were bettin’ on me? It was that obvious?” Atsumu asks, despair rising in his gut.

“Oh, kiddo,” Inunaki says, shaking his head. “I won’t even tell you the sum. We had to up the ante every month. You really held out, you know?”

Atsumu groans and buries his head in his hands, even as Sakusa snorts beside him. “My dignity will never recover.”

Sakusa peels one of his hands off his face and intertwines their fingers. “You never had any to start with. C’mon, Hinata promised hot chocolate.”

As Atsumu lets himself be led inside by the hand, he thinks - maybe Akaashi was on to something, after all.

Atsumu is nervous. So nervous he told the host at the fancy French restaurant Sakusa took him to that his name was Osamu. So nervous he dropped his fork three times and splashed vinaigrette on his dress shirt. So nervous his balls are sweating despite it being 2°C outside. So nervous he stepped on the back of Sakusa’s patent leather shoes in the threshold of Sakusa’s apartment.

His stomach considers regurgitating his dinner as Sakusa shows him the way to the bathroom and gives a clean toothbrush. There’s only one way being asked to brush his teeth leads, and Atsumu isn’t sure he can survive it.

Sakusa grabs him by the face when they’re both minty-fresh and inspects him like someone checking a carton of eggs at the store. “Why are you sweating? Are you sick?”

And Atsumu - Atsumu giggles. It’s an awful noise, high-pitched and strained, and Atsumu wants to die a little. “Believe it or not, Omi, but I feel like I’m fifteen again. I have no idea what I’m doin’.” 

Sakusa’s mouth quirks up and his grip on Atsumu’s jaw softens until he’s cradling his face. “Do I make you anxious, Atsumu?” he asks, deep voice settling around Atsumu’s neck.

Atsumu raises his hands to hold Sakusa’s wrists. “I ain’t anxious. I got nerves of steel.”

Sakusa laughs at that. “Didn’t I tell you already? You can’t lie for shit.”

“Fine,” Atsumu snaps, turning his head petulantly against Sakusa’s palm to look across Sakusa’s living room. “I don’t even remember the last date I went on and I’m rusty, alright?”

Sakusa pulls back, crossing his arms over his chest. Atsumu forces himself not to trail after him like a puppy. “Are you too nervous for your present, then?”

Atsumu swallows thickly. Sakusa really is going to be the death of him. He shakes his head fervently, cheeks heating up. “I waited a whole fuckin’ year for this, I ain’t gonna chicken out now.”

Sakusa looks him over, dark eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming. “You made it to January 2nd. You’ve been such a good boy all this time, I’ve decided - I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just for tonight.”

“Anything?” Atsumu whispers. He still isn’t sure this isn’t a very vivid, very surreal dream.

Sakusa leans in close, his breath brushing over Atsumu’s ear as he speaks. “Anything you want, Atsumu.”

Atsumu gently pushes him back, hands tight on Sakusa’s shoulders. He takes a deep breath. Kink checklists are probably a step too far for tonight, he decides, and he’s not sure he can last long enough to do anything complicated, anyway. When he grins, it’s shaky but genuine. “Omi, I want you to rail me until I can’t move at practice.”

Sakusa snorts. “We don’t have practice for three days.”

“Exactly,” Atsumu says, gaining some momentum. “Then we’re gonna switch.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little greedy?” Sakusa asks, even as his hands slide around Atsumu’s waist and dip beneath the waistband of his pants. “I said a prize, singular.”

“Pretty positive you said anything.” Atsumu wraps his arms around Sakusa’s neck, playing with the short curls at the base of his skull. “Get ready for a night of demands, Omi.”

“Whatever,” Sakusa says, rolling his eyes, but Atsumu thinks he doesn’t sound that put-out.

And oh, does Sakusa oblige him.

Sakusa’s bed should be listed as the eighth wonder of the world. Atsumu melts back into the 500 thread-count sheets, pillow nearly swallowing him whole. He dreads the moment he has to get up from his cocoon. The world feels anchorless, like he’s drifting in a great black sea with only Sakusa’s warmth beside him as a bearing.

Clarity returns to him in fits and starts; as his neurons finally begin firing again, Atsumu groans.

“What’s wrong?” Sakusa asks, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at Atsumu in a moment of magnanimity. “I can get you some aspirin if your back hurts.”

“Well, maybe that too.” Atsumu reaches over to trail his hand across Sakusa’s hip. “Was just thinkin’ I owe Komori a gift basket for causin’ all this.”

The tenderness on Sakusa’s face vanishes instantly. It’s actually impressive. “I’m never letting you in my bed again if you think Motoya is acceptable pillow talk.”

“Already thinkin’ ‘bout the future, Omi?” Atsumu teases.

“Unfortunately,” Sakusa says with a deep sigh, but there’s something hopelessly fond about it, and he lets Atsumu lean up and kiss the scowl off his face, anyway.