Archive of Our Own

Miya Atsumu understands desire. Desire curls around his fingers, his thighs, his neck. It purrs, it covers his mouth, begs to be let in. When he swallows it down, it burns, but he takes it every time. Like it’s communion, maybe; like he’s damned without it. This means he also understands a lack of desire. That doesn’t feel like much of anything, really. Apathy doesn’t require prose, or poetics. It just is; it doesn’t sit or settle, it’s empty, empty, empty. Desire is notable to Atsumu because he feels it so rarely. 

When desire comes, it tries to be his god. He commands it, puts a foot on its neck, and conquers it. 

He meets Sakusa Kiyoomi at nationals. 

Inarizaki wins their first game. He’s tired, he thinks he rolled his ankle, and Osamu is talking in his ear about two separate occasions where their quick attack didn’t connect how he wanted it to and how they can address the issue next time. Atsumu hadn’t slept last night. Not really on account of anything. He doesn’t sleep much anymore at all, really. 

His team settles into the bleachers to watch other matches while they have a break. Itachiyama versus Shiratorizawa. Atsumu has only heard shadowed, frightening rumors about Itachiyama. 

Watching the game, they live up to it. 

The libero moves like water. He practically glides across the court. He smiles quick, encourages easy. It clearly settles their entire defense, which is air-tight. They’ve got a fantastic setter. He’s got the kind of quick eyes that make Atsumu a little shifty. 

And then, of course, there’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

And Sakusa Kiyoomi is remarkable. 

Atsumu had once been obsessed with Greek mythology. Medusa, Titans, Aegeus. He thinks that Sakusa has that same golden, unreal sort of quality to him that legend does. He’s the kind of man that Atsumu could pour over, annotate, devote his entire life to. He’s beautiful, even from a distance. He’s Hercules, unflinching in front of a Hydra, sword gleaming. His serve is like thunder. His spikes rip through blocks, shatter against the court like they want to break through the floor. The number one spiker in the nation, people said. Sakusa approaches the ball, jumps for it, and hits it in such a way that it seems to slip past the blockers entirely. An absolutely irretrievable cross-court hit. Atsumu sits back in his seat like he’s been shot. 

Yeah, Atsumu gets it. 

And then there’s the low hum of desire; quiet in the back of his mind, yes, but it’s there. 

Atsumu turns to his brother and says, “I’m gonna set for him one day. Mark my words.”

And his brother snarks, “Shut up, ‘Tsumu.”

So there’s a correction in order, Atsumu figures. He sort of falls in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi at nationals. 

And if Atsumu Miya sometimes feels a bit like dying, he doesn’t think that’s anyone’s business. It’s not that he’s immensely depressed, or anything. He plays volleyball, has good friends, eats as much as he should. All things considered, he’s doing fine. He insists on it, in fact. He sort of feels like a bleach-blond Bellerophon, roaming the earth in search of something beloved; something that does not exist. He finds temporary fixes. Volleyball, namely. 

No, it’s not that he wants to die, per se. He’s just never really felt like he does a lot of living. 

He does set for Sakusa Kiyoomi, because damn it if he’s not a man of his word. 

The first practice of the MSBY Jackals 2018 roster. He’s seen Sakusa startlingly up close a few times prior— quick, stolen conversations in hallways; knocking his elbow after a game—, but it really doesn’t hold a candle to being on the same court as him. 

“Miya,” he reprimands, voice deep and smooth. “Surely you’ve figured out I like them higher than that.” 

“Miya,” he demands, loading at the ten foot line. “Give it to me.” 

“Miya,” he snaps in the locker room. “Wash your hands.”

“Miya,” he says, constantly. “Shut up.”

Okay. So it’s not exactly the lovely, charming first practice Atsumu would have liked to have. Sakusa is particular, and anti-social, and unafraid of pissing Atsumu off. He’s also completely intoxicating. Atsumu throws him set after set, and he hits them every time, in beautiful lines that arch like Cupid’s arrows. They aim to kill. Atsumu wants to see his cold stare morph into something human. He wants to be the thing that makes it happen. Atsumu calls him Omi, and Sakusa protests, but allows it, and Atsumu figures that must mean something. 

Their third practice together, Atsumu throws Sakusa a set so good, he feels it in his whole body. He swears he sees something in Sakusa’s eyes spark and crackle, before he slams it to the very back corner of the court with a monstrous boom. 

Sakusa turns to him. Atsumu almost gasps. There’s a smile fixed to his face, so small it’s almost imperceptible. Tiny, smug, and pleased, aimed at Atsumu. 

“Nice kill,” Atsumu says. “Beautiful kill, Omi. Yer really something ta watch.” 

Sakusa flicks a few stray curls out of his face with the back of his hand. 

He says, “Thank you.” 

Atsumu smirks at him. 

“I see that face,” he croons. “Ya liked that set. Ya can tell me I’m good every now and again, Omi-Omi. Won’t kill ya, I promise.”

And instead of scowling, or gagging, or walking away entirely, Sakusa pauses. 

This time, he says, “Perfect set, Atsumu.” 

And God. Atsumu wants. 

The desire comes on quick and fast and completely inescapably. Sakusa is Daphne, a beautiful nymph, prone to sneering and cool, crisp words. Atsumu is Apollo, a god of sun and music, supposedly unreachable, bleeding out around an Eros arrow in his heart. He lives on a volleyball court with Sakusa Kiyoomi for years. He follows Sakusa, dogs his every step. Sakusa wears his permanent nasty glare and black face mask, and Atsumu wrestles the thing under his skin. He scrubs his hands all the time because Sakusa likes it, yes. He also scrubs his hands all the time because the feeling lives there, too. It’s like DNA. It’s under his fingernails. 

He reckons he tamps it down well enough. As long as Sakusa doesn’t figure out that he makes Atsumu’s heart stutter into finally beating, it’s all fine. 

Onigiri Miya after practice on Friday nights with Bokuto, Hinata, and Sakusa. It has, to Atsumu’s immense delight, become a thing. 

And if he loves it for the sole purpose of annoying his brother, well. That’s for him to know.

Practice wraps up in a timely manner, because with Meian, of course it does. Fridays are often devoted to two things; watching tapes and scrimmaging. It’s a well-deserved day of ease, a day to breathe and play and laugh. Atsumu always takes it seriously as death, naturally, that’s the beauty of it. He tosses Sakusa one last pretty, pretty set, and Sakusa rises to it like gravity is of no concern to him. The ball hits the back line of the other side of the court with a vicious sound. It’s Pavlovic, the way it makes Atsumu smile. 

“Omi-Omi,” he coos, and Sakusa cuts him a bored stare, already beginning to walk towards the locker room that the team is dispersing to. “That was one mean hit.” 

Sakusa blinks. 

“I know,” he says, and then, as he ducks under the net, “Good set. Faster next time.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes, following. 

“So demandin’, Omi. That was a damn good set, and ya know it.”

“Can’t keep up?” Sakusa challenges. 

Atsumu leans over Sakusa to push the locker room door open for him. For just a brief moment, his body is a cage, a shield, something to hem Sakusa in; attempt to contain him. He feels desire’s hot press at his lips, and he opens to it. Sakusa meets his stare in a flash of dark eyes, and then he is turning away and moving through the open door. 

Atsumu smirks to himself. Point. 

“I’ll show ya how well I can keep up,” Atsumu says, dogging Sakusa’s steps. “Gotta let me, Omi.”

“Quit flirting!” Hinata shouts, bounding between them. “It’s time for onigiri!” 

“Woo!” Bokuto affirms from across the room. 

Atsumu hums and gives it up, moving to pack his things, but he doesn’t miss the look on Sakusa’s face. He likes the pink dusting Sakusa’s cheeks. He likes the tiny sneer, fixed to Sakusa’s lips. Sakusa settles his black mask over the lower half of his face, shielding his little human pieces, and Atsumu thinks he could be put to mythic. He’s Narcissus, maybe, too beautiful to be true, his reflection glimmering in the water. 

Atsumu snags a shower and washes meticulously, because he knows it makes Sakusa happy. He grabs Bokuto and Hinata and forces them under the spray as well. They change, say their goodbyes, and leave the gym, four still-damp heads walking in tandem. 

“Say, Tsum-Tsum.” Bokuto almost bounces as he walks, like there’s air in his shoes. “You excited for our next Adlers game in…” 

“Two months,” Sakusa supplies, bored. 

“Two months!” Bokuto shouts. “Are you excited?”

“I am!” Hinata exclaims. “I’m going to kick Kageyama’s ass. He’s not gonna know what hit him.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you, Shou—“

“I recall Kageyama slamming a spike in your face last year,” Sakusa pipes up, aiming the comment at Hinata. 

Hinata damn near hisses. 

“Whatever! That was a— it was just a stupid fluke, I was having a bad day! But I won’t be this time. I’m going to wipe the floor with his idiot face.”

“Lotta pent up aggression there, Shou-kun,” Atsumu observes. “You don’t think you oughta just kiss ‘im or somethin’?” 

Sakusa coughs. Surprise, maybe. A laugh, if Atsumu is lucky. Bokuto throws his head back boisterously, gripping the strap of his backpack for support. 

Hinata gags, loudly. Atsumu doesn’t miss the flush of his ears.

They take Bokuto’s car, some blacked out sports model, with just enough room in the back for two oversized professional volleyball players. Atsumu climbs into the back with Hinata without a word, leaving the more spacious (and likely more sanitary) passenger seat for Sakusa. 

The drive into the city isn’t long. Bokuto and Hinata sing along to music. Atsumu watches Sakusa watching the scenery. 

When the four of them walk in, aiming for their usual booth, Osamu Miya meets them halfway. Suna Rintaro trails behind him, hands in his pockets, looking bored as always. Atsumu flutters his fingers at the pair of them, simultaneously yanking a pack of wet wipes out of his jacket pocket and tossing them to Sakusa. 

“There ya are,” he sings to his brother and friend. “Missed ya.”

Osamu’s nose wrinkles beyond what a human face should be capable of. 

“Ew,” he says. “Whaddya want?” 

Atsumu waits for Sakusa to sanitize his part of the booth before slipping in after him. Their bodies are warm next to each other. The closeness of him almost makes Atsumu sick. 

He grins up at his twin. 

“Read my mind,” he hums. 

Osamu rolls his eyes so hard that Atsumu thinks they should fall out. 

“Can we have a giant plate of rice balls?” Hinata asks, no menu in sight. “On top of the usual stuff, of course.”

“We worked up a sweat today,” Bokuto adds. “I was real busy kicking Hinata’s ass!” 

“I’m pretty sure you lost,” Sakusa mutters. 

“That he did!” Atsumu snaps his fingers. “Lost gloriously, if ‘m honest.”

Bokuto glares at him. 

“It was a close game! I hit a crazy cut shot on you.” 

Atsumu sticks his tongue out. 

“I was blockin’ with Hinata.” 

“Okay, ouch!” Hinata nearly upends the drinks that a server has set in front of them. “My blocking is good now!” 

“Tomas and I don’t think so,” Bokuto says. 

“Tomas!” Hinata gasps, scandalized. 

Atsumu crooks a finger at Suna, who looks like he would rather die than oblige, but he takes a few steps closer. 

“Can I get a bottled water?” Atsumu asks, jerking his head to Sakusa. 

“Can he not order himself?” Suna replies. 

“Of course I can,” Sakusa snaps, but Atsumu can tell the venom is more directed at him than Suna.

“Of course he can,” Atsumu agrees with a beatific smile, spreading his hands placatingly. “‘M a nice guy, Sunarin. Some would even say ‘gentleman’.”

Suna snorts. 

“Nobody calls you that,” Sakusa says. 

“Your mother does!” Atsumu sing-songs, waving his pointer fingers in the air, and the whole table makes various disagreeable noises at him, and Atsumu figures that maybe he’s found another thing that doesn’t feel quite like dying. 

Osamu does read his mind after all. The food is nostalgic, the sodas are sweet, and Sakusa Kiyoomi smells like a clean, misty morning. It’s just his body wash and shampoo, Atsumu knows. It is completely ruining his life. Sakusa glares at Atsumu when he makes lewd jokes, and Atsumu wants to rip his mask off and his gloves off and his shirt off and drag him down from divinity. Atsumu is some stupid, feeble human, staring at a god. Sakusa is Zeus, appearing in a golden sun shower, a crown in his hair, his whole visage completely searing and impossible. Atsumu is going to pay for this. He’s not going to survive it. He knows it. 

They’re almost done with dinner when Sakusa leans a little closer, his voice next to Atsumu’s ear, and says, “Thank you for the water, by the way.” 

Atsumu smiles and says, “Of course, Omi.” 

And he might be out of his mind, but he thinks the corners of Sakusa’s eyes wrinkle in a smile when he echoes, “Of course.” 

And the desire chokes him, burns his throat, makes it hard to breathe. 

He’s already paying for it. 

Atsumu asks Sakusa out for boba tea. It’s casual— “I wanna pick yer brain about the Adlers game, Omi, let’s go out”— and completely without pressure, but Sakusa agrees. And then later, in the locker room, Atsumu is washing his hands, and Sakusa slinks up behind him, much closer than usual, and murmurs, “Let me pick you up.”

Atsumu is too winded to say something witty. He just nods, and Sakusa walks away, and he tries not to faint. 

Saturday morning comes in a flash of warm dawn and the first sprigs of blooming cherry trees. Atsumu showers, changes, and dusts himself with cologne. In the mirror, he examines his own face. Normal, objectively handsome, his hair better toned since his yellow high school days. To anyone else, he knows he looks the same as always. But he sees the thing burrowed under his skin, flushed dark, dark red. He thinks of Sakusa Kiyoomi, flashes of his bare chest— porcelain, dotted with freckles like stars— in the locker room, or his small, imperceptible smirks— a little mean, maybe even fond, if Atsumu wants to fool himself—, and the desire coats his tongue. He can see himself struggling to swallow it down, but he does. He is Dionysus, drunk, slamming a hand on the table and asking for another glass, another stare, another piece of Sakura Kiyoomi. It’s obvious, he thinks. It’s written all over his body. He lov—

His phone dings. 

Omi-Omi 

I’m here. 

Atsumu feels himself smile. There’s no one around to perform for, and he’s smiling. 

Really, it’s under control. 

He practically skips out of his apartment, down the hall, and down the stairs. He’s not really sure what he’s expecting when he finally breaks into the open air outside his apartment— a plain black SUV, maybe, or something cool with green stripes. Sakusa had asked to pick him up, after all. Atsumu has no idea why. 

It’s because of this that the last thing Atsumu is expecting when he steps outside is Sakusa Kiyoomi standing in front of a motorcycle. 

He’s got a helmet tucked under his arm, his face mask nowhere to be seen. Atsumu’s mouth drops open. He’s not even going to pretend it doesn’t. He’s gaping, fully, at Sakusa Kiyoomi, standing in front of a fucking motorcycle. It burrows in his stomach, makes something stir and shift. 

God, Atsumu thinks. He’s really going to kill me. 

Sakusa lifts one clean eyebrow. 

“Problem, Miya?” 

Okay, Atsumu thinks. Now he’s trying to. 

It’s a Suzuki, Atsumu thinks. Sleek and black, like a wasp. Sakusa is fully blacked out as well: an expensive looking leather jacket zipped to hide his pale throat, black pants that fall and drape exactly where they should. They are the same kind of creature. Atsumu’s throat goes dry. 

“Kiyoomi,” he says, a slight rasp to the words. “What the fuck?” 

The corner of Sakusa’s lip tips up. 

“It never seemed necessary to mention,” he says. “And you never asked.”

It’s their second season together, and Atsumu has never asked why he never sees Sakusa drive a car anywhere. 

Atsumu is still gaping. 

Sakusa gestures to the bike with his free hand. 

“There’s another helmet on the back,” he says, pointing. “Are you coming?” 

“Hold on.” Atsumu throws his hands in the air. “This is… this ‘s a lot to unpack here, Omi. Ya see, ya can’t just show up with one of the coolest damn things I’ve ever seen in my life, actin’ like it’s a normal fuckin’ Saturday. This is so not like ya, it’s the last thing I woulda expected, I mean really, Kiyoomi, what the fu—“ 

“Miya,” Sakusa interrupts. “Shut up.”

Atsumu shuts up. 

He puts the spare helmet on and tucks himself behind Sakusa on the bike. His touch is almost fleeting when he wraps his arms around Sakusa’s middle, warmth bleeding through him at the contact. He’s sure when he pulls away, his clothes will be stained a deep, deep red. Sakusa adjusts them both, one hand going to Atsumu’s arm. Finger meets fragile wrist, and Sakusa tugs, pulling Atsumu closer, encouraging his hold tighter. In the next second, Sakusa is revving the engine and kicking off. 

“Don’t fall off, idiot,” he throws over his shoulder. 

“Couldn’t if I tried,” Atsumu tries to purr, but then the bike lurches with speed, and he yelps.

Sakusa laughs, so he figures it’s something. 

See, it’s one thing completely that, conceptually, Skausa Kiyoomi with a motorcycle is fucking hot. Atsumu can hardly contain himself. Sakusa’s powerful legs, straddling the bike, flexing when they turn. Sakusa’s shoulders, straining at his clean-cut jacket. The ridge of Sakusa’s spine, clad in leather, pressed against Atsumu’s chest like it was shaped for it. The easy confidence of his hands, his features hidden by black mask, his chuckle that catches on the wind and burrows into Atsumu’s ears like a parasite. He takes a sharp turn and presses three fingers to Atsumu’s thigh, pushing gently, and Atsumu nearly blacks out. Yes, that is all one thing entirely. 

The other side of it is that Atsumu wonders what it would be like if they went tumbling, metal over skulls, to the pavement. 

Alright. It sounds more morbid than he means. 

Really, he’s thinking about Hero and Leander, doomed to towers and a river between them. He thinks that Sakusa is Hero, a beautiful princess, clad in ribbons and silk and peony perfume, watching Atsumu from a great height. Atsumu thinks he is Leander, waiting every night for a flicker of torchlight, throwing himself into the water and swimming with all his might to get to the other tower. He thinks that maybe the bike is the storm, winking out the candle, plunging Atsumu into darkness. He wonders what happens if the road breaks his ribs and fractures his lungs; would Sakusa would dunk himself in the river, too? He wonders if they will both hold their heads underwater, eyes open, because one without the other is a worse fate than drowning. 

The motorcycle dips and hums and purrs and flies, and Atsumu feels something in his chest, something stubborn and bright and nauseating. He wonders what it would be like to die. More importantly, he wonders why Sakusa makes that feel further and further away. 

Maybe no one has to die, he thinks. Maybe it’s not always a tragedy.

It’s a stupid thought. But Sakusa briefly runs one gloved finger along the hand Atsumu has pressed to his chest, and Atsumu thinks he can allow it for today. 

The boba tea shop isn’t unreasonably busy when they park the bike outside. Atsumu’s knees almost buckle when his feet hit solid ground again, and Sakusa has to reach out and steady him. His helmet rests on the bike seat, and his curls are perfectly tousled, one of the only soft things about him. His eyes are onyx; they swallow everything up like a black hole. Atsumu is victim to it. He atomizes himself in Sakusa’s stare.  

“God, Miya,” Sakusa says blankly. “It’s like you’ve never been on a motorcycle before.” 

And then he turns on his heel and makes for the shop. 

Atsumu shouts, “Now you know damn well–”, and gives chase. 

Because doesn’t he always?

They find a two-person table by the windows so that Sakusa can keep an eye on his motorcycle. Sakusa orders a classic milk tea, and Atsumu gets a green tea with lemonade and fruity boba, and he thinks he earns a record breaking eye roll for it. 

“The sugar content,” Sakusa sneers. 

“The self-fulfillment content,” Atsumu coos back. 

Atsumu does pick Sakusa’s brain about the Adlers match, because he isn’t lying when he says he only really has a mind for volleyball. He asks questions like: Are ya scared of old Ushiwaka-kun? and Would ya say that Kageyama kid is better than me? and If I sent ya every toss, would ya give me twenty-five points? And Sakusa’s answers are along the lines of: People do not scare me, and No, I really wouldn’t, and Yes, Miya, yes, and Atsumu is so hopelessly, hopelessly overwhelmed with the feeling of it all. He’s doomed, well and truly. He doesn’t see a use in putting words to it. He doesn’t understand how four letters and one syllable can encompass everything that sears through his mind when Sakusa Kiyoomi gently bites his straw and holds Atsumu’s gaze like a challenge and smiles, just a little bit, just enough to be real, around a sigh. It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s not worth saying. 

He’s going to die with it. Hand over mouth, head underwater, he’s going to die with it. He’s sure of that much. 

He doesn’t think there’s anyone to blame for his inability to allow himself to be ruled by something. 

That is to say, there’s no specific event that dictates the way he views every emotion as something that he will lose to, as something that will own him, and ruin him. 

Inarizaki had raised him cold and cunning. Warm arms to fall back into, sure. Long days with his twin’s smile looming in his peripheral vision. A crowd that screamed his name, obeyed his hands. But there was also the leering, the heckling, the cool arch of a brow when Atsumu fucked up. No room for remorse or coddling. Just stern instruction: again, again, again. 

His brother had been a complicated thing, too. Osamu understood him better than anyone in the world, and somehow was the most alien thing Atsumu had ever come close to. Osamu pushed him. Osamu picked him up. Osamu mocked him. Osamu called him a coward, and Atsumu screamed it right back. Brotherhood was like that, he supposed. Eteocles and Polynices, all flesh and bone, all love and tragedy, ripping apart the world in the name of a burial ground. 

Atsumu loves Inarizaki, really, and he loves Osamu. It’s just that he has never had something clean cut. Nothing that came without a cool kiss of steel to his throat; he could never have something all to himself, not really. 

He takes desire when it comes like it’s morphine. He does not allow it to become anything bigger than that. He wouldn’t know how to hold it. 

Boba tea becomes a thing, too. Sakusa picks him up, holds him close, lets him throw his laughter away on the wind. Atsumu always pays, as if it’s something more than it is. One day, his credit card kisses the table top, familiar now, and Sakusa asks, 

“Why do you do that?” 

Atsumu raises his eyebrows, then wiggles them. 

“So specific, Omi-Omi,” he teases. “Why do I always look so effortlessly handsome, ya mean? Why do I attract so many stares? ‘S a burden, I tell ya—“ 

“Shut up, Miya,” Sakusa interrupts, pointing to the card laid between them. “Why do you always pay?” 

Atsumu considers him. He is beautiful; eyebrows knit together, mouth pinched, like it’s genuinely confusing. As if Atsumu’s blind and senseless devotion is anything new.

“Well,” Atsumu says carefully. “Why do ya let me call you ‘Omi-Omi’?”

Sakusa squints. 

They’re dancing around something. Ariadne in exile, hands twisting to the sky, body twirling like ribbon, like a story made to be remembered and passed down and learned from. 

“Because you wouldn’t stop,” Sakusa answers at length. 

“No,” Atsumu chuckles. “That’s not it.” 

Sakusa’s eyes flash. 

“It’s presumptuous to act like you know what I’m thinking.” 

“Because I do.” Atsumu walks his fingers across the table top and flattens his hand right next to Sakusa’s, palms down over the bamboo wood. Their pinkies brush, in one held breath. “Ya like me, Omi. Ya like my sets. That’s why.” 

Sakusa just watches him. Atsumu is choking, he thinks. The feeling has a fist around his heart. 

“You pay because you like me,” Sakusa says. 

“Bingo,” Atsumu agrees, falling back into his seat. The loss of Sakusa’s hand is like a physical wound. Atsumu dips his chin, a small smirk playing across his face. “Like I’ve said before. A gentleman.”

“You like me,” Sakusa repeats. 

As if Atsumu doesn’t spend every waking minute fighting it. 

“I like ya,” he affirms. “Nothing else to it.” 

Sakusa says, “Okay.” 

And Atsumu returns, “Okay.” 

And then Sakusa smiles, and Atsumu doesn’t know what he’s just agreed to, but he’d sign any contract blind and deaf if it meant he’d feel the warmth of Sakusa’s smile for another second. 

Atsumu thinks that he holds himself to the standard of his reputation far more harshly than the rest of the world. You see, when desire comes to pry at his lips and hum in his ear, all lover and paramour and mistress, he is convinced that if he surrenders to it, he will lose. It’s about control. It’s about his fist, clenched tightly around the one thing that has always been his; his heart, his mind, his skin. It’s about unrepentant, irreverent, impossible Miya Atsumu. When other hands come to grab and take, he pushes them away. When he desires— for volleyball, for happiness, for Sakusa— he is afraid that giving in will feel like dying. 

And he’s said it before. He doesn’t really want to die. He just doesn’t feel like he does a lot of living. 

There are exceptions. He feels like living on a volleyball court. He feels like living when he makes his friends laugh. He feels like living on a motorcycle with Sakusa.

Sakusa says over his shoulder, engine firing, “I think you’re kind of suicidal, Miya.” 

And Atsumu says into his neck, “You can call me by my name, ya know?”

And Sakusa is quiet. Just wind, wind, wind. 

And then he says, “You don’t have to be, Atsumu.”

Atsumu wonders if the letting go wouldn’t be dying at all. 

Two days before the Adlers game, they arrive at their hotel in Tokyo around 6pm. Coach Foster speaks to the front desk worker, distributes keys, and vanishes with a barked, “Practice in an hour. Do not be late, or I will murder you,” and they all salute. The gym is a ten minute walk, and Inunaki elbows Atsumu in the stomach and says,

“No jacking off up there, Tsum-Tsum.” 

Atsumu hits him upside the head. 

“Saw ya drooling all over yerself on the bus there, my dear Shi-kun.” He mimes groping himself, making a big show of it. “Kept moanin’ somethin’ that sounded suspiciously like, ‘oh— Miy—“ 

“I’m sure your filthy ass was listening, you sly dog.” 

“Hard not to, callin’ my name and whatnot.” 

Inunaki raises his hands in the air. 

“Don’t get mad at me because you wish it was someone else doing it,” he says, with a suggestive look to Sakusa. 

Atsumu turns, ready to apologize more than anything, because it feels like a crossed line. But Sakusa is already looking at him, gaze level and just a little bit amused. It is obsidian black. A brand. It doesn’t knock the breath out of Atsumu’s lungs. It really doesn’t. 

Sakusa drags his eyes up and down; slow, painful. Atsumu feels it as if it can bruise. 

Then Sakusa smirks. It is utterly sinful.  

“Yeah,” he says, low. “He wishes.” 

And Atsumu has got to be fucking stupid, because he doesn’t have anything witty to say in response then, either. 

All he can think is a breathless, Damn right. 

Inunaki giggles. 

“No hickeys where the uniforms will show them, boys!”

Sakusa gives his suitcase a hard shove, and it rolls against the marble floor of the lobby and smacks Inunaki in the shins. 

Practice isn’t long. It’s mainly to familiarize them with the gym, the space, the court. It’s the Adlers home territory, after all. Atsumu rips serves down the court, serves that float and tear and weave and destroy. He listens for Bokuto’s booming tone, or Barnes’ warm expectant one. Most of all, he watches Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi, sharp as knifepoint. Sakusa Kiyoomi, with a body like marble. Thighs corded with muscle, abs that peak out of his jersey when he throws himself into the air to spike. The crisp line of his throat, bared to the ceiling when he lifts his head to watch for sets he knows will be there. His smile, more so just a cut of his teeth, pointed at Atsumu after every point. Atsumu really, really, lov– 

The lights cover Atsumu. He wonders if the thing he feels dripping down his skin is technicolor, or sweat, or desire. 

Sakusa’s serve decimates the other side of the court and goes spiraling off with a wicked spin. He smiles after it, fingertips hardly brushing the floor, settled in a dramatic crouch, and his eyes go right to Atsumu.

Yeah. Atsumu figures it’s a bit of all three. 

He and Sakusa always share a room. Their first time traveling after Sakusa joined, they’d stuck Sakusa with Bokuto. It had lasted all of twenty minutes before Sakusa texted Atsumu, Switch him. Now. 

To this day, Atsumu isn’t sure what made Sakusa choose him. But he’d made sure it stuck. 

He and Sakusa move around in relative quiet when they get back from practice. They leave the room dimly lit: only one switched on lamp and curtains pulled open to reveal watery moonlight. Atsumu lets Sakusa have the shower first, as always. When he’s done, he emerges in a gentle fog of steam and misty shampoo, toweling off his hair. He’s wearing shorts and a white T-shirt speckled with water, so domestic it makes Atsumu’s heart clench. 

Atsumu throws himself into the shower with a rushed goodbye before he does something he’ll regret. 

When he emerges from his shower, the lamp has been switched off. Sakusa is settled in his bed, leaning up against the pillows, scrolling on his phone. Atsumu struts out with just a towel slung around his waist, because he wants Sakusa’s attention. He craves it like it’s heroin, something you can get addicted to. He wants a reaction.

He gets it. 

Sakusa looks up, and immediately, the careful disdain always held in his expression goes slack.

“Miya,” he snaps, voice thin. “Put a shirt on.”

“Omi,” Atsumu hums back. “Make me.” 

“Insufferable,” Sakusa snarls, burying his face back in his phone. His cheeks are dusted pink. “Utterly fucking ridiculous.” 

“Don’t hurt yerself over there,” Atsumu calls as he turns away to change. “Need ya for the game, Omi-Omi.” 

“I’m perfectly fine. You are a plague, Miya.” 

“Did I lose first name privileges?” 

“Yes.” The answer is emphatic. “Yes.” 

Atsumu makes his way to his own bed, tugging on a shirt. They’re separated by just two nightstands. Atsumu hates the distance between them. Hates it because he knows how necessary it is. He’ll shatter if he strays any closer. He’ll split himself open on the looks that he keeps catching Sakusa throw his way. 

Sakusa is ethereal, haloed in the dim LED of his phone screen. His curls are damp and dark as ink. His face is carved out in swooping hollows, pale and cool. The collarbone peaking out of his t-shirt is a ridge Atsumu wants to press his lips to. Sakusa is pearl, perfection; Atsumu wants to turn him carmine red and gentle purple. 

He doesn’t need the embellishment, really. 

Atsumu wants. It’s all he ever does. He wants, and wants, and wants. 

Sakusa looks up and meets Atsumu’s stare in the darkness between them. There’s something in his eyes. Something new, maybe. Something open, unfettered. He clicks his phone off. There’s just moonlight, spilling between them, weak and pale. 

“Miy—“ Sakusa starts, and then he bites the word off. “Atsumu. Come here.” 

Atsumu almost blacks out. 

There’s a quiet sort of command in Sakusa’s voice. Atsumu’s feet move before his mind does, always attuned to his spiker. He moves around his bed and settles carefully at Sakusa’s feet. He feels as if he can only breathe so tenderly, or it’ll scare Sakusa away. Sakusa just watches him, luminous in the dark. 

“Yes, Omi?” Atsumu prompts. He’s going for charming, but it comes out a little too breathless. 

“Do you ever sleep?” Sakusa asks quietly. 

It’s not exactly the question Atsumu was expecting. 

He’s caught off guard. He’s Achilles, only a fingerprint of space on his heel where his mother held him above a river. Sakusa presses just there with a razor blade, perfectly placed. Atsumu is falling to the ground, beginning to bleed, painfully vulnerable. 

“No,” Atsumu answers honestly. “Not really.”

“I’ve noticed.” Sakusa smooths the pillow next to him, then the duvet that he’s sitting on top of, before he peels half of it back. It’s almost surgical in its care. 

Atsumu clears his throat. 

“Now don’t go and tell me I’ve been playin’ like shit, Omi. That’d piss me off.” 

“Miya,” Sakusa huffs. “Shut up.”

Atsumu raises both hands in surrender, gesturing for Sakusa to go on. 

“I… notice things. I’m not stupid.” Sakusa’s eyes are so impossibly dark. “I know you’re not sleeping. I don’t know why, but…” he grimaces, looking pained. “Sleep here. Is what I’m trying to say.” 

Atsumu blinks at him. 

And then blinks again. 

Sakusa’s ears go red. 

“I’ve heard it helps,” he mutters. “God forbid I try to be helpful.” 

Atsumu physically presses a hand to his heart. There’s something in him slipping away. It’s a steady fall, pushed a little bit more every day by Sakusa’s patient, perfect hands. He’s clawing for purchase, gasping for air, swallowing mouthful after mouthful and trying to pretend it’s not consuming him. 

“If ya wanted me in your bed,” Atsumu manages weakly, “ya coulda just asked.” 

Sakusa scoffs, standing and stomping across the room to his suitcase. 

“Forget it,” he says. “I meant it when I said you are the worst—“

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu stops him. “Thank you.” 

Sakusa swallows. In profile, he seems untouchable. His throat bobs. Atsumu wonders if he wrestles things down, too. If everything burns; if it all feels like fire, if it’s all the same to him anyways. 

“I mean it,” Atsumu presses, raw as he gets. 

“I know,” Sakusa acquiesces. 

They go to bed tucked side-by-side. Atsumu jokingly offers to build a pillow wall, and Sakusa threatens it, but doesn’t follow through, and Atsumu thinks that means something. Sakusa is Psyche, the most beautiful thing in the entire world, meant to be worshipped and devoted to. Atsumu is Eros, a beautiful and haughty god, stealing into the room to lay beside Sakusa in the dark. Their arms brush, just slightly, and it’s enough. It’s worth any curse. It’s worth any damnation. 

When Sakusa’s pinky brushes his own under the covers, Atsumu doesn’t think he can find a single piece of his soul that isn’t choked with desire. 

When Sakusa rolls onto his side and Atsumu sees his eyes wide, wide open, he imagines himself on a motorcycle, clinging to something that makes him feel a little less like dying. 

And when Sakusa slides one cool hand against Atsumu’s cheek… 

And when Atsumu curls his fingers in the collar of Sakusa’s shirt… 

And when Sakusa pulls their lips together, just a soft brush in the dark, all fluttering lashes and sighed breath and shaky, stuttering heartbeat… 

Atsumu lets go. 

It doesn’t kill him. It doesn’t trample him, or strangle him, or force all of the air out of his lungs. Instead, it comes sort of like breathing. Atsumu thinks that this desire has ruled him longer than he would like to admit. He bows to it, and it’s not like losing. Sakusa tugs him closer in the dark. Atsumu gets his hands in Sakusa’s soft curls; pulls Sakusa’s body over his own like it’s a home. He— they both— have waited so long. When their bodies meet, it is just like when a wave comes to shore. It is like gravity. Atsumu lets go, and he hasn’t lost anything at all. 

He has another exception. He feels like living when he’s kissing Sakusa. More than that. He feels alive when he’s kissing Sakusa. 

They win the game against the Adlers. Later in the locker room, Atsumu and Sakusa change side-by-side, and Inunaki points at the matching hickeys on their chests and screams, “Pay the fuck up, Bokuto Koutaro!” and Atsumu just laughs. He takes Sakusa’s hand. Atsumu is Andromeda, out over a storm tossed ocean, unknown and unsure and draped in chains. Sakusa is some sort of Perseus, slaying a dragon, gathering Atsumu up into his arms and promising something like safety. 

Hey, Atsumu thinks. If Sakusa is Perseus, the Suzuki must be the pegasus. 

And because it’s all metaphor, because it’s all achingly Grecian, he doesn’t need to say the word “love”, really. It’s a big word, after all. But Atsumu thinks it, every single time, as Sakusa flies them into dawn. 

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu asks a few weeks later over boba tea. “How long have ya wanted ta kiss me, really?” 

Sakusa rolls his eyes. He’s smiling. 

“Miya,” he says. “Shut up.”

Atsumu kisses him. He's never understood anything better.