Chapter Text
“That was brutal!”
Kiyoomi tears his eyes off the court to look sideways. Motoya takes a long sip of coke through his straw, gaze sparkling with interest.
“The Green Rockets have been doing poorly all season long. You literally destroyed them last week. I wouldn’t call it brutal, I would call it predictable.”
“Wow. Now, that was brutal,” Motoya snickers in his drink.
He empties it and Kiyoomi’s eyes trail back to the court where the Black Jackals are roaring like a bunch of heathens, regrouping in a celebration dance that involves signature claws and beaming grins for the public.
Some grins are brighter than others. Kiyoomi scoffs, reclining against the railing with a slight shake of the head.
Seeing some eighteen years old guys acting like delirious kids after a victory during high-school was already something that had Kiyoomi stare but some things never change and twenty-one doesn’t seem to be the age you stop acting like a furious gremlin when you just won an important game.
Atsumu should be used to it, though. He’s been with the Black Jackals for more than two years. Two years of success and lording over the entire league. Kiyoomi would know, he keeps tabs. As a future professional player himself.
He keeps tabs on all teams. Because he likes to know about his potential future opponents and teammates’ strengths and weaknesses. It's only to help him pick teams to try-out for when he’s done with college.
Kiyoomi doesn’t want to rely on the certain fact that he’ll be scouted by a club the moment he steps out of campus. Anything could happen between now and that day. He needs to be prepared. Tokyo isn’t his only option. There are many teams Kiyoomi needs to learn about. Not teams made of bad buzzing Green Hornets maybe, but — and Kiyoomi can’t even believe he’s thinking that — teams that fake having claws and fangs like wild jackals when they score...
“So… Still sure you’re not joining tonight?” Motoya’s voice drags Kiyoomi back to the present and the loud gymnasium.
Kiyoomi snorts at that, redirecting his gaze toward his cousin after realizing on whom it was glued while he was lost in his little reverie. It’s only because Atsumu is blond. His stupid mop of hair is a real eye-catcher.
“You know my exam on Monday wasn’t cancelled when you asked for the fifth time and it’s not cancelled now that you’re asking for the sixth one,” Kiyoomi tells him, cocking an eyebrow.
“Aight, aight. It’s just sad! The one time I could drag Rintarou along with me,” Motoya deplores.
“Isn’t he visiting some relatives?” Kiyoomi asks with a frown.
“He is but he said he could hang out for a drink if I was begging hard enough.”
Kiyoomi can’t help but do a double take at that. They’re talking about Motoya’s teammate, right? Kiyoomi knows they hit it off, but he had no idea to which extent.
“Are you two dating or something?” he ends up blurting out, louder than expected.
“Holy hell, Kiyo! Why don’t you repeat that louder so Miya can hear you and report it to his brother. I mean maybe you want me dead… or worse?”
There’s no hint of panic in Motoya’s words and he sounds like he’s joking so Kiyoomi shrugs.
“I don’t inherit shit if you die, we’re just cousins. You can live another day,” he says.
“Aw, sweet. You successfully turned that simple fact into an insult,” Motoya says before bumping his hip against his cousin’s. “I’d ruffle your hair if I wasn’t too scared of losing a hand,” he adds before hovering a hand over Kiyoomi’s head, without touching. “Can we talk about your bangs by the way? My poor aunt must be desperate. They do look lush but damn—”
“Shut up, Motoya. They're not that long,” Kiyoomi swats his hand away before he can really reach for it.
He’s lying. His hair did get too long. It’s not just longer than in high-school, but he’s not walking around with a mane either. It just happens to fall over his shoulders and… Kiyoomi simply had other things to do than go to the hairdresser over the last year.
“If you say so. Anyway, it was nice seeing you, but I’ll get going now. You should too, if you’re going to study for that test,” Motoya says before slurping the last of his coke loudly.
Kiyoomi makes a face before waving a hand at his cousin.
"Go get your man," he tells Motoya and receives a middle finger coupled to a bright smile.
Motoya doesn’t stall or answer that, swallowed by the swarming crowd that gets moving in the tiers after the end of the match.
Kiyoomi shouldn’t linger either, but he still finds himself turning back toward the court, reclining against the railing again.
Like a beacon, the mop of fair hair attracts his attention again. The Jackals are done interacting with the crowd and getting a word from the defeated Hornets' coach. It doesn’t take long and they’re soon moving to line up and bow to each other.
Kiyoomi really should take his leave himself.
However, just as he thinks about it, a loud wolf-whistle rings in his ears, making him tense over the railing, hands clutching the metallic bar tightly. Kiyoomi flashes his most murderous glare in the direction of where the obnoxious sound came from before another horrendous whistle comes assaulting his delicate ears, both coming from the court.
“Omi-kun!” follows immediately and Kiyoomi suffers whiplash from how fast he looks back.
Atsumu is walking backward on the court so he can follow his team in the opposite direction from Kiyoomi but his eyes are glued to him nonetheless.
There’s a bright smile on his face and self-satisfaction in his gaze.
Kiyoomi feels his hands prick over the railing so he loosens his grip.
Atsumu waves at him now that he got his attention and Kiyoomi can almost hear Atsumu asking for him to stay.
A very bad idea. The game is over; Kiyoomi saw what he had to see in order to keep tabs on the league. He has an assignment due on Thursday, an exam on—
He stays.
He didn’t stay the last time, because Kiyoomi always thought it was a bad idea to stay. Yet he came back faster to see the next game than he had the last. He might as well stop pretending, especially if his cousin is not around to tease him about it.
He won’t stay long, though, he promises himself.
This is all very silly and doesn’t need to be dragged on. Kiyoomi doesn’t want to indulge in his own whimsical fantasies and he surely doesn’t plan into indulging Atsumu’s monstrous ego. He has more important things to focus on, at least for this last year of college.
Kiyoomi is a major in Sport Management, not the Black Jackals’ — or worse, Miya Atsumu’s — personal fanboy.
That’s it, he should really go, he realizes as he sees the journalists flooding the side of the court just a few meters away from Kiyoomi’s vantage point. They all want to get a word from today’s champions.
Naturally they point mics and cameras toward the heroes of the game. Bokuto spiked a sick combo at the end of a third set the Jackals were already leading gloriously. But the ball had to come from a particularly bold set.
Atsumu should answer the journalists’ questions about it more than anyone.
That’s why Kiyoomi finds himself frozen in place when he sees the famous setter jog past the cameras and attention he so loves basking in to go straight for the bleachers.
Straight for Kiyoomi.
Atsumu goes to a smooth halt just below him, craning his neck to look up at him with a beaming grin. And Kiyoomi knows he just made a critical mistake.
A year. One last year of watching from up close while he studies hard. One. He went through three other years without a hitch, and he couldn’t walk away today.
Problem is, now that the Jackals’ game is over, another one’s about to play. A far more thrilling one, if Kiyoomi is honest. More dangerous too. It doesn’t have to be as impactful on his future, though. Or does it...
"Omi-kun! Fancy seein' ya here! Like what you saw?"
It really is too late to back out.
Kiyoomi still grips one of his backpack handles, releasing the railing, as if to show he’s on his way out.
"Good game Miya,” he drawls, playing fair. “Especially that third set when you missed that receive."
Almost fair.
"Wow, someone's a fan!” Atsumu immediately snickers, wriggling his eyebrows.
“In your dreams. I just came to analyse the team’s plays. I’m still prospecting my post-college possibilities,” Kiyoomi answers, a little irked by the fact that he has to talk loud enough for Miya to hear… effectively making him loud enough for many persons around to hear.
There’s a lot of noise around them, with people leaving the stadium and the post-game tumult, but Miya Atsumu is the star setter of MSBY Black Jackals and more than a few pairs of eyes are on them.
Atsumu actually seems to catch on that fast because suddenly he’s moving again and before Kiyoomi can say a thing, the idiot is climbing on top of the commentators’ tables.
And sure the speakers are not sitting there any longer but that’s still absolutely inappropriate.
His captain calls him out from the court, Atsumu turns around just a short second to give him a sheepish grin — as if he doesn’t love the attention on him — then he’s back at looking at Kiyoomi.
And they’re a lot closer now. Still, Kiyoomi bends over the railing when he speaks — a lot lower now.
“The fuck are you doing, Miya?”
“Oh, y’know. Just thought I would be graceful and not ask ya in front of a bunch of cameras,” Atsumu starts and Kiyoomi feels his face heating up.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks a little too fast.
“Was just wonderin’ what’s there to analyse that ya couldn’t analyse the five last times you've seen us play just this season...”
Fuck.
Touché. Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow into slits.
Atsumu knows Kiyoomi’s is full of shit more than Kiyoomi knows it himself. A lot more than he’s willing to admit. It’s almost like the cat’s out of the bag. And Atsumu has no qualms about stepping into the breach.
Kiyoomi can’t even say he’s wrong, because he did attend all these five games before today. And sure, Kiyoomi was always pretty dedicated and always makes sure to be thorough about everything he does but… even for him, that’s overdoing it.
“Thought so,” Atsumu teases shamelessly. “How about goin' out for a drink so you can trash all my plays, then, uh? I think ya did plenty analyse already and probably need to vent. You’ll get frustrated if ya don’t."
Sakusa considers it for a moment. Then a moment longer, just to piss Atsumu off. Because the cat is well out of the bag doesn’t mean Kiyoomi can’t keep playing. If not for his pride, at least for the thrill of shutting Atsumu up. Because there’s nothing more delightful than putting Miya Atsumu back into place.
Seconds tick by and Kiyoomi wonders just how much he played himself by over-extending his stay. He can’t deny he’s been wanting to for a long time, but still. He does think about the college year ahead of him, the many more games he could attend and analyze until he runs out of reasons and the serious academic work that’s waiting ahead of him.
"I should study for my upcoming exams."
Kiyoomi doesn’t seem convinced for one second.
He was never really good at lying to himself so there’s no use in trying to. Kiyoomi doesn’t think he doesn’t want to go out for a drink. He’s just trying to be smart. But all he ends up doing is being a smartass.
Atsumu might be the end of him. Or his series of top grades.
"One beer, Omi-kun. I can help ya study."
Kiyoomi can’t help but scoff at the bold statement.
"I plan on getting that degree, Miya,” he says, a smirk slowly curling on his lips.
Atsumu opens his big mouth in a perfectly staged outraged O.
"My poor feelings, Omi! One beer. On me. I'll make it worthy of yer precious time," he drags the precious on, dramatically.
Kiyoomi was a fool. And suddenly, the thrill of that little game catches up on him. Atsumu is really serious, although they haven’t had a private conversation together in almost a solid year, barely exchanged a dozen emails. Seems like he’s been playing the same game as Kiyoomi without consulting with him and Kiyoomi feels a little too dizzy thinking about it.
He’s not trying to tease when he speaks next:
"Don't you have an interview or something?"
It’s stupid, Kiyoomi never backed down in front of a challenge, but the sudden realization that he might really get alone with Atsumu is unsettling.
A little voice at the back of his head tells him not to be silly, that he didn’t indeed come to see five of the Jackals’ games just to analyze plays he could have watched on TV.
Atsumu won’t stop grinning, giving the little voice all the more reason to get louder.
"Nah. The boys can handle it. There’s nothin’ ahead for me but a shower and getting a drink with an old friend."
"Fuck,” Kiyoomi curses under his breath.
He’s going to lose to him and they're barely halfway through warmups. Atsumu tilts his head to the side, in a silent interrogation.
Lost fair and square.
“Ok Miya, you win."
“Hell yeah, I do,” Atsumu beams and Kiyoomi grips the handle of his bag tighter. “Not gonna lie, I think I’m getting used to it,” he says with a shrug and a smug wink.
Kiyoomi gapes, ready to roast him to the ground but Atsumu is already climbing off the table. Kiyoomi can’t miss the genuine happiness on his face when he politely denies a journalist and heads for the double doors under the tiers that surely lead to the locker rooms.
His Sport Industry professor’s disappointed face flashes before Kiyoomi’s eyes. Atsumu will pay for that.
“Getting used to it, my ass.”
"We're goin' left."
Kiyoomi jolts, grateful his backpack is secured over his shoulder or else he might have dropped it.
He swirls around, coming face to face with Atsumu who's coming out of the gymnasium with a bright grin and a duffel bag thrown over his own shoulder. He’s unsurprisingly dressed up with a nice black shirt and a pair of matching fitted jeans tucked into a pair of leather boots. Kiyoomi has seen Atsumu confidently wear overly dressed up outfits for the most mundane events enough times to not get self-conscious over his own gray sweater and definitely mismatched burgundy long basketball shorts.
“We’re going where?” Kiyoomi asks, his puzzlement sounding derogatory despite himself.
“The bar down the street on the right is the bar everyone’s headin’ to after the game,” Atsumu explains with ease.
“I can manage a crowd,” Kiyoomi grumbles fast.
There it goes… He’s already looking lame because he’s the notorious closed off guy. That’s precious quite—
“Oh nah! I mean, I did think about your comfort, obviously, but we’re mainly goin’ to another bar ‘cause I don’t want to share ya with the rest of ‘em.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes widen abruptly. This isn’t going according to plan at all! They were a lot smoother in the gymnasium. They were subtle. Tip-toeing. He had time to think about smart comebacks and ways to torment Atsumu a thousand times before having to show his true colors.
They weren’t flirting shamelessly. What’s going through this idiot’s mind, breaking rules they never set anyway?
Kiyoomi can’t drop all pretense if he can’t even start to pretend just a little.
“They’d be all over the collegiate volleyball league MVP, after all,” Atsumu adds, interrupting the absolute shit-storm that became Kiyoomi’s thoughts in seconds.
And Kiyoomi can’t help but feel his face being submerged by the most uncomfortable wave of warmth when he realizes maybe Atsumu wasn’t flirting. Maybe he was just teasing him again and Kiyoomi played himself.
“Seriously, ya really had to go and earn the only title I can’t? Did it to piss me off, didn’t ya?” Atsumu continues nonchalantly, not waiting for Kiyoomi to come back from his internal crisis to head up the street.
Kiyoomi eventually moves nonetheless, lost in his own head.
It has to be flirting to some degree. But then again, Kiyoomi is pretty aware Atsumu grew to be the biggest flirt in the league. Possibly. He’s not sure. Is he?
“Oi, I’m not keeping ya hostage, ya know,” Atsumu tells him and Kiyoomi almost bumps into him.
Atsumu stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Kiyoomi almost ran into him.
It’s mortifying.
“As if you could,” Kiyoomi answers quickly. “I’m going willingly. For educational purposes,” he adds and passes by Atsumu.
Atsumu has the grace not to comment on that, but rushes to walk in front of Kiyoomi again, flashing an obnoxious knowing smile over his shoulder.
It’s flirting.
Definitely. Has to be.
Kiyoomi really engaged in a game he’s barely ready to play. But as he doubles the pace to catch up with Atsumu, he thinks he never backed down from a good challenge and that it’s a game he has always unknowingly craved to play.
They don’t have to walk far and Kiyoomi doesn’t speak again until they get to the bar and Atsumu pushes the door open for him.
The place is one of the two only businesses open down a deadend that connects to the main artery they came from and it’s not really crowded at the moment.
There’s a couple of older men sitting on stools outside. They’re playing a game of cards on top of a high table and drinking some sake.
The inside of the bar, as Kiyoomi soon finds out, is narrow and cosy, with a million pictures on the walls. Various pictures of people partying, rock bands and concerts that obviously took place in this very bar, at the far end of the sole public room where stands a small stage that is empty at the moment.
There’s a drum, a mic stand and a stool... and then, there's Atsumu in Kiyoomi’s field of vision the next moment.
“Gonna grab the beer I promised. Unless you want something else?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
Kiyoomi notices Atsumu took the time to style his hair after his shower but it’s not properly set and a few strands fall out of place loosely when he does that.
Why the hell does he notice and focus on that is concerning Kiyoomi. The game won’t be fair if he gets distracted this early on. He needs to relax a little.
“Beer is fine,” he answers.
“Then go sit over—”
“Do you mind if I go out for a smoke first?” Kiyoomi asks a little abruptly.
Atsumu startles at that, eyes going wide.
“If you go out for what? You smokin’ now, Omi-kun?” he asks, jaw dropping consequently.
Kiyoomi doesn’t like the way his cheeks heat up at Atsumu’s baffled tone. He knows it’s a bad habit…
“I try not to,” he corrects quickly.
“By going out and lighting a cigarette?” Atsumu presses on, eyebrows still arched up too high for Kiyoomi’s comfort.
He rolls his eyes, hunching on himself.
“I’ll try harder after this one,” he grumbles and before Atsumu can even answer the initial question, Kiyoomi storms out.
If Atsumu does mind isn’t Kiyoomi’s problem anymore, he needs that cigarette now that he got that kind of reaction. It’s the snake biting its own tail, but Kiyoomi never heard of smoking as a good and virtuous habit.
It’s his only scratch on a perfect body hygiene record in twenty-one years. One he really plans to get rid of once he’s over college, assignment deadlines and the collegiate championship.
Kiyoomi fiddles with his backpack the moment he’s stormed out of the bar, searching for the pack he keeps in the front pocket at almost all times.
He doesn’t smoke too often, although it’s already too often for an athlete of his stature but it helps with the stress and finding himself alone with Miya Atsumu whom he's had his eyes on for such a long time and having him flirt unabashedly with Kiyoomi isn’t good for his peace of mind.
He tucks a cigarette between his lips a minute later, rummaging in the same pocket relentlessly for his lighter.
It’s not there, and his too-long bangs falling in his face as Kiyoomi searches for it don’t help. Just his luck.
“Need some help young man?”
Kiyoomi stiffens, head whipping up to look at one of the two men on the stools. He frankly forgot about them until now but one is grinning at him while holding out a lighter and Kiyoomi feels grateful.
He nods curtly, stepping toward the guy with the cigarette hanging from his mouth then bends when the man cracks the lighter and a small flame licks the air between them.
Kiyoomi’s hands fly to his face so he can cup the cigarette and light it.
He’s barely inhaling — with relief — his second puff when Atsumu reappears.
“There you are, Omi-kun! Thought you had run away,” he tells him.
Kiyoomi turns around, balancing his backpack on his shoulder and pushing his bangs out of his face. Atsumu is standing just outside the bar, holding two pints of beer. The way both glasses are covered in a sheer coat of watery pearls tells Kiyoomi they’re both extra fresh and he suddenly craves for a sip.
If Motoya could see him now, a cigarette dangling from his lips, about to down a pint of beer in an alternative rock bar, his hair growing too long would be the last thing Kiyoomi would hear about.
“Were you hoping, Miya?”
“As if. Here’s to me being glad ya didn’t run away,” Atsumu says, raising one of the glasses as if he’s cheering.
He doesn’t drink from it yet, observing Kiyoomi who drags another puff.
“And here’s to this being yer last cigarette ever?” he adds, raising the other glass.
Kiyoomi kicks the ground with the tip of his ankle high sneakers, averting his gaze.
“C’mon. I don’t wanna be an ass, but what did ya expect? I’m surprised you of all people would pick up on that stuff,” Atsumu comments, visibly thinking about the best wording and settling for that poor choice in the end.
Kiyoomi can see he’s trying not to be judgemental but the stuff sounds a lot like nasty shit.
“Me of all people? We meet twice a year, Miya,” Kiyoomi reminds him, trying not to sulk.
“Maybe you’re not the only one who pays extra attention,” Atsumu answers a little too fast.
Kiyoomi’s cigarette almost falls off his lips when he gapes.
“We’ve been to training camps together!” Atsumu supplies even faster then throws one of the glasses in Kiyoomi’s face.
If he wasn’t sure he’s reading a little too much into it, Kiyoomi would think Atsumu just lost ground on him and they’re actually playing fair. But there’s no way. Atsumu is probably just upset from discovering Kiyoomi smokes that stuff for whatever reason.
He can’t see himself teasing Atsumu about this slip-up at all, because if he’s misread the room, Atsumu might not just make fun of him… He might be weirded out.
Kiyoomi reaches for the glass and an awkward silence settles over them. He inhales another drag, careful to turn away when he exhales to avoid incommodating Atsumu.
“Anyway. Yer quitting, right?” Atsumu eventually asks when the silence stretches enough to become uncomfortable.
It would get on Kiyoomi’s nerves that he’s being pushy about it if there wasn’t real concern behind what sounds a lot more gentle than Atsumu’s previous taunts.
He heaves a sigh then drags on the cig one last time before moving to the standing ashtray near the bar entrance to crush what’s left of the butt.
When he turns around, Atsumu is doing that thing again, head tilted, eyes slightly too wide…
The game will never be fair.
But at least, Kiyoomi can bring back the fun atmosphere they started with. Even if it means bringing back the annoying side of Atsumu.
“I plan to, before I make it pro, if that’s what is bothering you. But for now, you’ll have to let me live my edgy workaholic and stressed out college student fantasy and shut the hell up, Miya.”
Atsumu stares for a moment, then his lips curl at the corner in a lopsided smile.
“How prickly,” Kiyoomi thinks he hears him say before Atsumu turns on his heel to retreat inside the bar.
Surprisingly, there’s a matching sideways grin on Kiyoomi’s lips when he follows him there.
They sit at a wooden table that’s been carved into over and over, probably by the same drunk college students every Friday night. There are phone numbers and silly inscriptions written down with sharpies as well. The surface is slightly shining from old patina, the telltale of years of beers spilled and wiped down with cheap detergent. Kiyoomi wonders how he ended up sitting at the exact place he should be sitting on saturdays night if he was a normal college student and hadn’t meticulously avoided such places for the last couple of years.
Then Atsumu sits down in front of him, dropping two glass coasters on the table in between them and a small stack of napkins and Kiyoomi thinks he’s sitting exactly where he should.
“Tables are still clean at this hour but I can ask for some hydroalcoholic gel if you wanna wipe it anyway,” Atsumu says, casual about it.
Kiyoomi carefully places his glass on top of his designated coaster and shakes his head.
“I have mine,” he says, a little shocked.
He remembers sitting at a table away from Atsumu in a bland cafeteria years ago, when they were teens and he remembers Atsumu handing over his spare napkins after seeing Kiyoomi drop a massive spurt of hydroalcoholic gel on the table before his tray could even make it to the surface.
“Figured,” Atsumu says, pushing the napkins toward him just as Kiyoomi fishes in the front pocket of his packback, this time for the gel.
Exactly like he did years ago — except they’re facing now, and Kiyoomi has dealt with some of his issues enough since then — he simply lets a few droplets fall onto the surface before wiping it, like a normal person concerned by the hygiene policy of an unknown bar would and not like the heavily anxious teenager he used to be.
It strikes Kiyoomi that he's absolutely sitting where he should be, folding his arms over the now clean wood and grabbing his glass to play with its edge.
Atsumu seems to have been waiting for Kiyoomi to be all set to be his usual self again, because the moment Kiyoomi's eyes meet Atsumu's, his face is sliced by his signature knowing grin.
Kiyoomi finds it familiar only because Miya Atsumu smiles way too much all the goddamn time while playing and the ball goes to him as much during a match which inevitably…
Kiyoomi starts to wonder how he doesn't start cringing every time he comes up with such pathetic excuses.
He's been staring at Atsumu so hard, just like Atsumu is doing with him now. Contrary to Kiyoomi, though, Atsumu doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut when something is on his mind.
Somewhere in the distance, Kiyoomi thinks he can hear the starting whistle of a game and Atsumu gets to serve first.
“So, tell me, Mister I educate my ass in a bar on a Saturday Night, what’s the real reason you keep comin’ to all our games?”
Kiyoomi has no other choice but to spew exactly the kind of cringy excuses he's been making up in his mind but he can save his pride and back teeth with a clean receive and the most honest of his dishonest pretexts:
“This one happened to be in Tokyo.”
The ball clearly bounces back… weakly, and Kiyoomi realizes a second too late that he gifted Atsumu a supreme opportunity.
Chance ball.
“This one, yeah. Unlike the four previous ones.”
Damn setter and his ten perfect fingers who can play the ball any twisted way he wants it.
Kiyoomi's angle of attack was wrong from the start but he can't change strategy until the point is won.
“I’m very thorough," he says, giving Atsumu as little ammo as possible.
If he has to score this one, let it be without any glory.
“So am I, Omi-kun. So am I," Atsumu says before taking a sip of his beer and Kiyoomi has no idea what he means. "Ya know you’re gettin’ scouted, though. The entire league will be on yer ass very soon.”
The ball falls on Kiyoomi's side of the court. There's no point in picking it up and dragging that rally. The sooner they move on, the sooner he can stop pretending he's there for his career prospects.
“Will it?” he asks, bracing himself for the next serve.
“Don’t get smug. I remember how you play, captain.”
This time, it's Kiyoomi's turn to grin, and the receive is so satisfying he takes the time to drink a long gulp of fresh beer before delivering his own blow.
“Oh, that’s what it is about. You can’t get over that one defeat back in high-school, can you?”
“That’s not what it is about,” Atsumu snorts before he barks a laugh, loud and clear.
Of course, it isn't, but at least Kiyoomi doesn't have the impression he's a middle schooler playing against a professional player anymore.
Unfortunately, Atsumu is thorough and a professional indeed. A professional volleyball player and he has skills as impressive when it comes to dissecting people. Kiyoomi's seen him do it at camps when they were younger, and he probably perfected the art since then.
So am I, Omi-kun.
He definitely did.
Maybe Kiyoomi should stop playing this game in his mind and focus on the man on the other side of the table instead of the fictional net in his head or he'll be left behind.
It's a little unnerving… Kiyoomi doesn't have half the experience Atsumu has with other human beings. With relationships of any kind.
“This is about you stalkin’ my team. But I do still remember you snatchin’ the victory away from me the year I made it captain of my team, yeah.”
Instead of analyzing the play, Kiyoomi tries analyzing the words, absent-mindedly turning his glass on the coaster over and over.
This is mere baiting.
“I’m not stalking your team,” Kiyoomi answers carelessly.
Oh no.
“Yer stalkin’ someone, then,” Atsumu asserts instead of asking.
Kiyoomi resists the urge to sigh and throw his face into his hands, he really does. But the way his shoulders sag gives him away anyway.
There were two ways to go up against Atsumu tonight, one being to pretend Kiyoomi’s got this and is unaffected, the other being to step all over his denial and give in so they could have fun both ways. As of now, Atsumu is surely having a good time while Kiyoomi is cornered.
It shows in the way Atsumu inclines his head slowly, like a silent nudge. Drop all pretense, Omi-kun, he can hear him say.
And then what? Kiyoomi would flirt with Atsumu at the risk of not being flirted with?
He’s being ridiculous but also realizes how much that would affect him. He’d need more than a pack of cigarettes to get over it.
“Why is it so hard to believe I want to know where I’m going to set foot next year?”
“So, you admit you’ve got your eyes on us,” Atsumu pushes, hands folding in front of his face so he can rest his chin on it.
“The Black Jackals aren’t the only team I stalked,” Kiyoomi admits genuinely.
It’s not even so he can shut Atsumu up, it’s the plain truth. He did stop stalking all other teams a long time ago, though.
“Right. You sure were gonna try out for the Hornets. You play too well to aim under the Falcons or the Adlers,” Atsumu almost scoffs when he says that.
“How pretentious,” Kiyoomi can’t help but smile a little.
“I didn’t even mention us!” Atsumu immediately bats his comment away.
“You beat the Falcons and the Adlers in your last two consecutives games. I got the subtext,” Kiyoomi says with a roll of the eyes, lips still pulled up in a smile.
Atsumu’s mouth opens, all teasing vibe vanishing, which makes Kiyoomi get self-conscious, for valid reasons.
“You have been payin’ attention, have ya?”
There’s not an ounce of mocking tone in there but Kiyoomi feels the sudden urge to hide into a hole. He looks down, bangs falling over his face conveniently.
Atsumu can be so open and genuine all so easily… Kiyoomi would be a tad jealous if he didn’t find it so endearing. When his eyes shift back up and settle over Atsumu’s face, he considers it.
Surrendering.
It might be worth the trouble if he gets to spend just one evening with that side of Atsumu far away from the flashy outbursts he’s used to get and witness around the court.
“I have,” Kiyoomi admits, raising his glass in a hurry and adding just before he drinks from it: “I’ve always paid attention to you.”
Since that first training camp. Since they met.
Since forever, as long as Kiyoomi can remember.
He lowers his glass to the sound of Atsumu’s nervous chuckle, which is new enough to make Kiyoomi wonder if he mistepped with this one.
“I’d say coach Foster is gonna be thrilled to hear how much you love the team,” Atsumu says, rubbing the back of his head and Kiyoomi’s guts stir unpleasantly. “But I’ll pretend yer talkin’ about me and keep that to myself.”
The disagreeable feeling dissipates as fast as it came.
Kiyoomi blinks a few times, waiting for the joke to come or for Atsumu to boast but it doesn’t come. So when he busies himself with his own glass and Kiyoomi realizes Atsumu is hiding just like Kiyoomi himself did a moment before…
“I—” Kiyoomi starts, gaping.
He can’t even say another word before he has to hide behind his fist, shoulders shaking while he poorly tries to suppress a chuckle.
Atsumu’s nose and cheekbones are faintly turning pink.
The ball drops right over the edge of the net, dangling there as they exchange a glance worthy of some mushy shoujo plot.
Atsumu might know what he’s doing better but he can’t really get an advantage on Kiyoomi if they’re both oblivious to how the other feels. If anything, that reaction gives Kiyoomi the upper hand. Not that there’s anything to be proud of when Atsumu basically is the one who worked for Kiyoomi to get there.
The ball ends up tilting and falling on Kiyoomi’s side of the net but they’re even when he answers:
“I was. Talking about you. I thought you were full of yourself enough to get that.”
Atsumu almost spits back his mouthful of beer, producing the ugliest sound when he holds it back, covering his mouth with his hand and choking around the liquid he gulps with difficulty.
It’s disgusting but it sounds like victory to Kiyoomi.
“Something tells me sociology isn’t a class you attend,” Atsumu says the moment he’s regained some composure.
His grin is tentative.
“What does that mean?” Kiyoomi inquires warily, eyes narrowing.
The grin turns blatantly smug again.
“That means yer fuckin’ rude, Omi-Omi.”
“Oh,” he muses for one second before actually laughing — followed by Atsumu immediately. “Yeah, I guess I am. I’d still be if I attended sociology, though. I’m not known for being a smooth criminal unlike certain people.”
“It's okay, ya can say my name after going through all the trouble of bein’ so sweet to me,” Atsumu banters with an obnoxious wink.
Kiyoomi feels his stomach do something weird and can’t for the life of him refrain from blurting out the next words.
“I didn’t mean to offend you but you’ve been driving me up a wall since…”
“We met?” Atsumu supplies when Kiyoomi realizes what he’s doing and his words falter.
“I was going to say since you jumped on the referees’ table but kinda. Your existence is the bane of mine,” Kiyoomi nods, hiding his embarrassment for opening up behind a fake air of gravity.
“Yer giving me so much importance and expect me to believe you attended a single one of our games to only assess the team, Omi-kun? I’ve known you more straightforward than that before we were even friends.”
“Because we’re friends now?”
The question is so genuine and spontaneous that it is ridiculous.
“Oof. That headshot was brutal.”
Wow. Now, that was brutal.
Motoya’s words echo at the back of Kiyoomi’s mind, his heart clenching.
He is an absolute lost cause.
“I just never... “ Kiyoomi doesn’t even know what to say that wouldn’t sound like him being an asshole and it’s not even on purpose.
It’s not like he has many friends. He doesn’t have many friends at all. It’s simply not something he really considers. Apart from Motoya, Kiyoomi has Wakatoshi-kun, Iizuna-san, the regulars on his college team… Most of these people have been gravitating around him for the last few years.
And so have been Atsumu. At camps, at tournaments, through occasional emails.
Kiyoomi isn't that dense, is he?
“I’m enrolling in sociology classes starting Monday,” Kiyoomi ends up groaning.
It’s not clear if Atsumu pities him or finds him endearing but Kiyoomi considers punching him in the face for a second.
“It’s fine, Omi-kun. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” Atsumu eventually says.
A bunch of speakers displayed around the bar suddenly go off at the same time, some indie rock music filling the space at a reasonable level. Kiyoomi’s head perks up, eyebrow arching.
“Oh right, the night’s still young, they’re just startin’,” Atsumu explains, looking up too, as if they both could see the music notes float above their heads.
Kiyoomi stops looking to study Atsumu more thoroughly. He seems to appreciate the song that’s playing, a serene expression taking place on his features for a moment.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I just speak before I think pretty often.”
Golden eyes flick back to Kiyoomi.
“That makes two of us, Omi.”
Kiyoomi exhales what sounds like the beginning of laughter to himself and raises his now more than half empty glass.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“To what?”
Atsumu raises his glass without waiting for the answer, anyway.
“To being too blunt,” Kiyoomi shrugs.
“To bein’ both jerks,” Atsumu nods.
“I never said that,” Kiyoomi protests.
But he’s enjoying himself.
“Clearly shouldav’ too,” Atsumu sing-songs.
And Kiyoomi can’t, no matter how hard he tries, not look at the lopsided smile playing on the rim of Atsumu’s glass.