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My dick is getting hard again.
At the thought of you and me holding hands.
— Steve Lacy
Miya Atsumu was a lover.
Contrary to popular belief (and many incorrect personal statements from his peers), he wasn’t (he absolutely was) an asshole or a jerk or a bitch or a scrub or—whatever else Osamu had called him all these years.
He was a lover (a glorified whore, Inunaki had said) and a passionate one at that.
And really, the look of love is quite familiar to Atsumu. This in its sick and twisted way, is true.
To his misery, he has observed that this look begins with fleeting moments, eyes wandering over the other's face eventually staying and staring, admiring in awe. Cheeks reddening here, intense eye contact there. Then, he notices, Person A begins to find excuses for gentle touches to last a little too long on Person B. Where it transforms into flirtatious teasing, a sly joke that evolves into a playful shove and then, maybe, just maybe, interlaced fingers.
Sometimes he even offers to sit in the backseat of Osamu’s pickup truck whenever it’s just them and Suna, just to watch their glances, their oddly intimate elbow touch at the armrest and the quiet conversations only a driver and a beloved passenger could share.
To be perfectly honest (as if it wasn’t obvious before), he’s a hopeless romantic, he could be loud and obnoxious about it but really, he prefers to observe, soak in the scenes of childish crushes and newfound desire with a silent hope it one day would find him.
And, sure maybe he had too much love to give with his fair share of hookups, summer flings, one or two guys that were somewhat boyfriends—he can’t remember the rest. But what’s so wrong about experiencing love in different forms? Even if it wasn’t death ‘till us part or whatever that saying was, both parties enjoyed themselves, immensely, in his incredibly humble opinion. But even then, he wanted to settle down with someone who knew him, who he could piss off constantly but still be overwhelmingly cherished.
(“Yer so gross.” Osamu had said, but Atsumu hadn’t mentioned he had read his super secret diary to know that he felt the same way too. )
Really, when he was a teenager he’d daydream about someone sweeping him off his feet, maybe even carrying him bridal style with shiny eyes saying something like, “My dearest Atsumu, I have awaited centuries for you.”
Instead he was cursed with being infatuated with none other than Sakusa Kiyoomi, who had come back into his life like karma—tall, prickly, and so so, pretty.
-
Miya Atsumu is a lover and maybe a freak too. He's beginning to realize some things at the ripe age of 23.
(He knew he was a freak, but not necessarily in the way that involved gleefully enjoying Sakusa Kiyoomi insulting him. He wonders if he had ever had a severe concussion he can't remember to make him this way.)
“You’re insufferable,” Sakusa’s saying, but it’s fond really, as fond as it can get in Atsumu’s sick and twisted eyes. He’s in the middle of reorganizing his already organized locker—dressed in comfortable clothes that are slightly loose on his lean frame, curls falling over his face messily.
Atsumu wants to kiss him and tell him that changing his curl routine was the best decision he’s ever made. But he shouldn’t know Sakusa changed his hair routine, because he never told him, instead Atsumu had inhaled once in his presence and somehow calculated three product changes in five seconds.
(“New hair mask?” He wanted to say, the exact scent of coconut and papaya had shifted to a sweeter, softer aroma of something like pomegranate and maybe…he had inhaled again…honey? His cover was nearly blown that day when Hinata had politely inquired about why Atsumu was standing so close to Sakusa and sniffing so loudly?)
Brushing away the memory, Atsumu stares at him and he misses his foot three times trying to put on a clean sock. Practice is over—everyone had already piled out and said their tired goodbyes, even Bokuto who had been bouncing off the walls to leave, “Akaaaashi is visiting!” He had shoved in their (Atsumu’s) lonely single faces (just Atsumu’s face). But here they are, he still has one shoe and sock off in the effort of prolonging their conversation as long as possible.
“You sayin’ that is doin’ more for me than it should,” he says back, feigning suave nonchalance despite his heart fluttering.
God he was so fucking weird. A freak. He needed his hands up Sakusa’s shirt and nose in Sakusa’s hair like yesterday.
Sakusa finally stops fidgeting around and slams his locker shut, rolling his eyes but he doesn’t move, just stands there watching as Atsumu ties his shoelaces.
“I’m starving.” Sakusa sighs out, ignoring his previous statement—definitely a secret encoded message screaming “Hurry the fuck up. I’m not leaving without you.” Or at least, that’s what he hopes he means.
“Let’s eat,” he responds automatically, standing to grab his bag, “I know all the good places Omi—yer in for a real treat.”
“I didn’t say I’d go with you,” Sakusa crinkles his nose but follows him anyway, slipping a mask over his face as Atsumu holds the door open for him, “If it’s somewhere weird I’m leaving you there.” Truly a tale as old as time because Sakusa goes with him every single time.
“Yer so heartless—trust and believe ‘n me, yeah?”
“You’re asking way too much of me.” Sakusa mutters, falling into step next to him all tall and indignant. It makes Atsumu stretch his back a little more, posture fixing itself to be slightly taller—a mere millimeter but that matters in situations like this.
He feels like a peacock suddenly, flaunting his feathers, all puffed up and agitated that the one person he’s tried so hard to impress doesn’t even flinch at his sparkling train. Instead Sakusa finds his ocellus—ocelli? He’s getting way too into this metaphor, scenario thing—anyway, Sakusa must find him annoying despite being pretty (in a cool peacock way) and desirable in his, once again, incredibly humble and correct opinion.
He glances at Sakusa, he should know this too. “Hey Omi? Do ya think you’d like me if I was a bird? Like…like a peacock?”
Sakusa inhales and exhales so violently he just has to mumble out a “Nevermind—ya urchin.” And, truly the unanswered thought stings just a little bit as they slow in front of a quaint restaurant. Busy enough to be lively but small enough to be overlooked and somehow quiet—perfect for Sakusa who feels like he needs a hazmat suit in every new place Atsumu introduces him to. He holds the door open replacing his disappointment with a smug look on his face and gestures Sakusa inside who steps in with as much enthusiasm as someone who found peacock shit on their shoe.
Eventually they order and settle into a corner booth that leaves them a little too close and Atsumu’s heart a little too fluttery. He almost offers to find them another place to sit but Sakusa’s already settling in, mask off with hand sanitizer being generously rubbed all over his hands. Atsumu takes the gloop of it offered to him gratefully and once they get their food his mind races with thoughts he’s never had before like, man, why the fuck am I chewin’ so loud? Or did Omi’s foot just touch mine? But they eat and Atsumu’s chopsticks are neatly set aside his empty bowl by the time they speak again.
“Wouldn’t that mean I would be a bird too?” Sakusa asks, still chewing like the slow, careful eater he’s always been. It’s endearing to Atsumu, the man takes every bite with such poise and elegance it nearly feels like he might be a prince somehow. Sakusa’s table manners are those to be regarded with the utmost respect and, as Atsumu leans his head into his palm, watching him with his eyebrows slightly raised, Sakusa’s table manners definitely turn him on.
Freak. His mind echoes, but he takes it like a champion, he’s not ashamed of this. It's impressive to him but maybe it’s because Osamu had once told him he eats like a fat (emphasis on the fat and ugly—wait who are ya calling ugly? We have the same face!) troll underneath a bridge. Creative, real funny. He wonders if Prince Sakusa would be into trolls. He’d definitely be into Prince Sakusa. He’s so deep into his rather questionable thoughts it takes him a moment to realize Sakusa’s talking about his question from earlier.
He hums, “Yeah. You ‘n me—both be peacocks.”
Sakusa’s long slender fingers put down his chopsticks and reach for his drink, but not before carefully grabbing a napkin and using it to hold the cup in his hands. Atsumu watches intently, chin still in his palm, as Sakusa’s Adam’s Apple bobs with every sip, talking in the sight of him swallowing. Every single minuscule movement does not go unnoticed and he silently ponders if this might be as creepy as he feels it is. But hey, a lover he is, an observer, an aspirant, he emphasizes as Sakusa’s lips leave the drink and he suddenly wishes he was a plastic straw being sucked on.
Sakusa flicks his eyes back to him, eyelashes so long he wants to feel them against his fingers. A slight smile plays on his face, and Atsumu’s eyes follow the stretch of those plush, pink lips.
He wants to kiss him. Sakusa can be funny when he wants to be, he’s not an emotionless dominant brooding man like he looks like. In fact, while Atsumu knows Sakusa wants to rip his teeth out every time he speaks to him, they’re friends, they’re friends and they do have fun together despite it all. If anything Atsumu purposefully gets on his nerves because again, what’s a man without a little roughhousing? A little petty comment that makes his arm hair stick up in anger? A little insult that makes him slightly hard? He anticipates everything that Sakusa says with the excitement of an adult on Christmas morning getting a box of condoms as a gift.
“You’d dance for me then? If we’re both peacocks.” Sakusa questions, putting his chopsticks down and mimicking Atsumu’s stance—his chin is in his hand but his cheek is slightly squished and Atsumu wants to put the soft supple skin in between his teeth.
Atsumu shivers a little at the intense eye contact, he’s so gross. “Hell yeah,” he exclaims stupidly, “Have ya seen yerself?”
“Hm.” Sakusa croons, eyebrow raising, “You’re so weird.”
Atsumu nods like it's the most accurate statement he’s ever heard, “And yer so blunt. That’s rude by the way. You’re weird.”
They sit for a little longer just staring until the check is gently placed on their table and Atsumu covers it like he always does—not because Sakusa’s incapable of doing it himself but because…the showing off bird thing starts in his head all over again. He flaunts despite them being on the same professional team together, he flaunts despite nearly tearing each other’s throats out in high school (before they were friends, before Atsumu could comfortably push every button on Sakusa and enjoy it), despite Sakusa knowing Atsumu and Atsumu knowing Sakusa.
It’s dark and definitely time for them to be back at their respective homes as an early practice looms over them the next morning but he wants. He wants so much as Sakusa closes his eyes to fix a mask back over his face as they step outside that he simply has to ask.
“Ya got room for dessert? My place?” He added the last part feeling brave, wanting for Sakusa to invade his apartment (again) like he had invaded his insane mind. He needed him to occupy yet another part of him, to leave his new curl routine scent lingering in places like his fridge. He's so gone, he's drowning in everything Sakusa Kiyoomi has ever been.
And, Sakusa’s eyes flutter like he’s thinking about it but it only takes him a moment before he’s nodding. Atsumu talks the whole way there because if he doesn’t he’s afraid he might lose the bravery he had pulled straight from his ass, “Osamu made some weird shit—he was experimentin’ with chocolate for this dessert thing he wants ta add. Gave it all to me.”
Sakusa follows him into his elevator, arms crossed against his chest, eyeing the dirty floor with disdain, “Isn’t his whole thing just Onigiri?”
Atsumu shrugs, pushing the button for the fourth floor and nodding in thanks when Sakusa produces his hand sanitizer from thin air. “Maybe he’s goin’ through some crisis. We always had sweet tooth’s growin’ up and he’s been missin’ Ma.”
“So he…tried a dessert menu? Instead of just visiting your mother?” Sakusa says slowly, trying to figure out the inner workings of whatever the hell went on in Osamu’s mind.
(Sakusa met his mother a couple times too—they journeyed together, bickering the whole way to his house on various holidays and she loved him. She had called him every compliment underneath the sun until he flushed so red Atsumu had to intervene. She had pulled Atsumu by the ear once, whispering to him furiously in the kitchen. One hand steady on his earlobe and the other wielding a wooden ladle, “That boy better be yer fiancée-y, or yer husband by the time ya come back. Ya hear me?”)
Atsumu laughs not only at Osamu being an idiot but also at the memory of his mother as the elevator dings and opens onto his floor, shoulders shaking, “That’s what I said! I told em—‘Samu why don’tcha take a few days off ‘n go see her. And he went off about some official restaurant business I don't get at all.”
They make it to his front door and he silently thanks yesterday’s Atsumu for being a good responsible young man for finally cleaning his apartment. Most of his evenings after practice are spent spending money on (and oftentimes with) Sakusa. So, he barely has time to shower before he’s passed out on the couch—most days he doesn’t even make it to his bed. Which he should, it was an extremely comfortable bed. He spent a lot of money on it…maybe he should ask Sakusa what he thinks of it. The image of Sakusa laying comfortably in his bed flashes through his eyelids as he swings his door open and they step inside, wordlessly toeing off their shoes.
Freak.
Yeah, freaky, of him to ever conjure up that image because now he’s never gonna let it go. He opens his fridge and takes out the assortment of chocolate desserts Osamu had left for him, setting them on the counter as Sakusa thoroughly washes the (already clean, thank you) plates for them both. It’s domestic and heart wrenching and Atsumu really, really wants to kiss him. He's starting to think this was an incredibly bad idea despite Sakusa being in his apartment as often as they go out to eat—which says a lot about the amount of time they truly spend together.
“Tell me if it tastes bad,” he grins, “I’ll tell em personally.”
Sakusa rolls his eyes, “Even if it did I wouldn’t let you inflate your ego. Osamu’s too nice to me for that.” He takes a bite and not a single crumb falls from where his napkin holds the small pastry over the plate. Atsumu’s eyes roam over Sakusa’s hand and briefly fantasizes about what it must be like to hold it. To feel Sakusa’s fingers interlace with his, so gently and intimately it has his head reeling. He feels a twitch of something, in his stomach—in his chest, and to his complete horror (glee) it’s arousal from the sheer thought of just holding his hand. He's felt this before with his snipping remarks and heated glances but never at such a simple, innocent act.
Fuck. Atsumu pointedly looks away so he could scarf down his own dessert in peace, desperate to focus on something else rather than thinking with his dick. It's unfortunately delicious, he goes for another in the box. Sakusa does the same, all neat and composed and insufferably attractive. Atsumu watches again as he takes another bite but. But. This time—there is a single speck of chocolate frosting on the corner of his mouth. Atsumu wants to lick it off with his tongue.
For some reason he needs to tell Sakusa about this immediately, “Ya have chocolate on yer mouth Omi.”
Sakusa furrows his brows, swallowing, “I’m eating chocolate. There will be chocolate in my mouth, Miya.”
“On.”
“What?”
“It’s on yer mouth. Like on the corner.”
Sakusa stares at him, “Okay?”
He feels stupid. “I can fix that for ya.” Why is he still speaking? Why must he voice every thought in his head? Actually no—small mercy, he doesn’t voice every thought in his head because if he did Sakusa wouldn’t even touch him (in more realistic terms, be near him) with a ten foot pole.
Sakusa puts his dessert down, and sighs the type of sigh that kind of gives the impression he’d rather be milking a cow (gloveless) than be having this conversation with Atsumu, “And how will you do that?”
Atsumu nearly chokes down the chocolate cake, finding the confidence to say what he’s thinking aloud. Peacock, his brain has to say to him, flaunt, freak, peacockpeacockpeacock—
“Well…I could kiss ya. Take it off with my mouth.”
And there. Boom. It's out in the open.
Sakusa’s eyes slightly widen and he feels satisfaction for about three and a half seconds for catching the grand stoic Kiyoomi off guard. But it wears off immediately and he wants to slap his hand over his mouth and find some way to erase Sakusa’s memories and have him forget he ever said that.
He laughs awkwardly, more of a cough—a hack, if you will, and the moment turns somehow more embarrassing than before. “Or not.” He rasps out, stupidly, weirdly, in the freakish way all of his thoughts have been this entire night.
Sakusa leans back against his kitchen counter, hands braced on the tile like it could somehow ground him. It sort of looks like he’s withdrawing from Atsumu completely so he opens his mouth so ready to apologize until Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi beats him at his own game and suprises him instead.
“You could.” Sakusa says, an expression so unreadable Atsumu wonders if he had spoken another language, “You could…if you want to.” The minuscule sliver of chocolate on the corner of his mouth moving as he speaks.
I could? I could if I wanted to? He wants to spin around and do a backflip off of his stove just from the sheer amount of glee that bursts through his bones. He nearly had it in him to let out a giddy scream, a manly…roar? Roar’s fine. A roar at the notation of pressing his lips to Sakusa’s perfect ones and finally, finally, feel his unfairly toned small waist underneath his hands. He wants to look up (for all the two inches he has on him in height) at Sakusa and slightly lift his heels off the floor and kiss and kiss and kiss.
Atsumu is a lover. His heart is singing as he closes the distance between them and smiles so brightly the apple of Sakusa’s cheeks color such a beautiful pink. Sakusa slides down the counter slightly, so they’re noses are aligned and touching—he’s still gripping the tile so tight his knuckles are white with force.
Atsumu takes the chance to settle his hands on Sakusa’s hips, squeezing lightly, “You scared?” And they’re so close, they’ve never been this close—practically on top of each other, breathing into each other's mouths. Atsumu’s eyes are rampant across his entire face, they settle on those moles on his forehead he’s so kissing later, on the lighter ones dusting his nose, on the chocolate still there begging to be licked off, on Sakusa’s eyes whose pupils are blown so wide his eyes are nearly pitch black.
Sakusa lets out an incredulous laugh, perfect mouth coming to curl in something so dangerously close to a pout, “Fuck no. Are you going to kiss me or not, Miya?”
And, simply because Sakusa had asked so kindly, so sweetly—he gives him what he asks for. Or technically what Atsumu had asked for originally but who's keeping track of the technicalities anyway? Sakusa’s eyes are already fluttering shut, and Atsumu’s hands are sliding from his waist up to cradle his face. There’s soft skin underneath his hand and he leans in with a cautious peck, his mouth barely brushing Sakusa’s just in case he regrets ever saying anything. Atsumu’s bold, suave? Definitely. In his humble opinion (once again) but he’s a lover, he wants Sakusa to want it as much as him, to be comfortable with whatever Atsumu does. He’ll take whatever man will give him—even if it’s just a small, innocent kiss.
Sakusa doesn’t let him get away with that though, his hands are off the counter and suddenly gripping fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him in for another kiss, this time a real one. Their mouths smash together and Atsumu is surprised for only a second before he composes himself and kisses back, his mouth filling with the taste of the leftover chocolatey sweetness. His hands come to rest back on Sakusa’s hips, and he tilts his head and deepens their kiss. Atsumu pulls away (his ego rightfully inflated as Sakusa chases his lips with an annoyed noise) just to kiss the corner of his mouth, tongue brushing the chocolate that had started this all.
“Got it.” He says, hands sliding up Sakusa’s shirt to feel more warm, soft, soft, skin. Sakusa narrows his eyes at him and shivers at the sensation, his hands now buried in Atsumu’s hair.
“Got what?”
Perfectly composed Sakusa Kiyoomi and his wonderfully neat eating habits, thank ya for messing up.
“The chocolate, Omi.”
Somehow this is what spurs them back into action as they kiss messily and stumble around to his couch and Sakusa’s back hits the cushions and suddenly (finally) Atsumu is on top of him, hands braced on the sides of Sakusa’s head. His eyes are wide with wonder and they stare at each other for a moment before Sakusa covers his mouth with his hand and starts laughing. He’s heard him laugh before, he's been the one to make him laugh on more than one occasion, a sight he daydreams about sometimes. It's a melodic laugh, all pretty and delicate like him (Sakusa would argue that he is not delicate as a grown man) but Atsumu stares, starstruck at the sight before him.
“What—what's so funny?’
Sakusa reaches up to cup his face, slightly squishing his cheeks in between his hands, “Took you long enough. Idiot.”
Atsumu leans down and kisses him again, hard enough to draw a delightful noise from Sakusa—who's now arching into him so obscenely Atsumu thanks every star in the sky for his unwavering confidence in his abilities to successfully woo a guy. I should ask him out on a date, he thinks idly as Sakusa’s hands pry off his shirt with fervor. He wonders if Sakusa’s free again after practice tomorrow as his jeans are being unbuttoned. And, as his hands travel down the expanse of Sakusa’s body, he glances up at him, practically glowing on his couch, panting slightly.
Miya Atsumu is so in love.
-
“What?”
Atsumu chews his gum obnoxiously, savoring the fact he could practically hear Osamu’s teeth grinding in irritation on the other end of the line.
“Did ya ever ask out Sunarin?”
Osamu groans, the sounds of shuffling and a door slamming ring out through his phone and Atsumu grins at the fact he knows he’s got him worked up enough to leave the restaurant unattended. Atsumu (again) hadn’t mentioned he had read Osamu’s super secret diary (to know that 1. He was also a lover and 2. He's had a crush on Suna since highschool) but they did place bets to see which one of them would be (seriously) cuffed up first. Anyone could see Osamu was pining like a motherfucker over a man who had the posture of a Macaroni (Suna, if that wasn’t already clear enough). It was just a battle of who settled down first.
“Hell no. I’ve been trying ya scrub…Why?”
“Hm.” Atsumu says, giggling like a school girl, “I win.”
“Ya serious? Shit…” He hears Osamu’s deep sigh of regret and he just laughs even harder, “I’ll send you the money I owe ya. Fuck you. Stop laughing. Yer ugly anyway. How the hell did ya ask Kiyoomi out?”
“First off, get my boyfriend's first name out of yer weird mouth. Omi loves me—”
“Yeah right.”
“—but I was gonna ask ya if you could make those desserts for me. Again?”
Osamu hums and a door creaks open, he's silent for a few moments as if he was double checking something, “Yeah. Yeah I got leftovers I could give ya.”
“Cool. I’m gonna eat ‘em out of Omi’s mouth.”
Osamu hangs up on him.