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i wanna share your address

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The ringing of the doorbell stirs Atsumu from his sleep, but it is the warm skin pressed against his that jolts him awake.

He is greeted by the sight of Sakusa prone and curled against him, half his torso sprawled on Atsumu’s chest and one arm draped over Atsumu’s hip, all six feet of mole-riddled skin stark and vaguely luminescent against the darkness of the room.

The drizzle from two hours ago has now become a full-on rainstorm, its barrage too loud to be relaxing as the overcast Osaka sky casts shadows in Sakusa’s bedroom and shrouds the skyline out of view. 

Atsumu reaches out a hand to part the locks on Sakusa’s forehead in a move to nudge him awake but his fingers stay still, opting to thumb the moles on his forehead. 

Atsumu thinks this is why their set-up works so well: for all of Atsumu’s endless urge to move, there is Sakusa’s undercurrent of stillness.

And it isn’t the passive, muted kind of stillness either. Sure, it’s calm and quiet, the way it permeates in the graceful rise and fall of Sakusa’s chest, in the flutter of his eyelids that tells him Sakusa is slowly waking up. 

To Atsumu, though, Sakusa is a stillness that sets off a chain reaction: the eye of the storm, the calmest on land yet the most dangerous on sea. He sees it in the form of a swift, steady flick of his wrist before a ball spinning out of trajectory, or a spine arching as it chases a high—

Or a hand slung over Atsumu’s hip, jerking as thunder rolls and lightning cracks.

It is a full-body lurch that Atsumu feels when the movement shifts their bodies closer, and it takes all of him to bite back the bubbling laughter in his chest—alongside something else he cannot identify—as Sakusa opens his eyes with a glare. Atsumu’s laughter settles as an impish grin and a whisper. “Someone’s at the door.”

Sakusa only grunts and plants his face down the pillow, right beside the crook of Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu finds himself cataloging more details as the drowsiness fizzes out of his system: Curly hair fanned out against the sheets. Patches of skin, bare and pale, haphazardly framed by the blanket that skewed with his body—a leg tangled with Atsumu’s, a foot dangling off the bed, a knee peeking out of the covers, and the goddamned arm on Atsumu’s hip. 

“Hey, Omi-kun, it’s yer apartment. Get up.”

A muffled huff then a sluggish move to lie on his back follow after. “If you make me leave bed and I find out that it’s just one of your packages, I swear to god, Miya.”

The threat is left hanging, though, as Sakusa shoots out a hand, fumbling over the nightstand on his side of the bed until the lamp floods the room with light. Atsumu props himself up on his elbows while Sakusa slips on his joggers, still droopy from sleep. “Hey, can you make—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Atsumu interjects, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll make us tea.”

He takes a moment to admire his work—a string of hickeys scattered all-over Sakusa’s torso—before Sakusa dons an old Itachiyama shirt discarded on the floor and looks at him pointedly. “Then go.”

Atsumu makes a face at him but sits up anyway, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. “You’re such a grumpy baby.” The scowl in Sakusa’s face only deepens as Atsumu passes by him with a slap on his butt and a cheeky grin.

They walk out the door side by side, with Sakusa heading straight for the door and Atsumu beelining for the kitchen. 

Practiced hands move towards the second cupboard, fingers grabbing the tea bags and the mugs and setting water in the kettle to boil, the movements perfected by habit. He steeps Sakusa’s tea first to give it time to cool down, because while Sakusa Kiyoomi can smash a spike with unworldly force, Mr. I-Have-A-Sensitive-Tongue cannot drink anything too hot. 

(Atsumu knows this because he once handed Sakusa a cup of tea fresh out of the kettle, which led to at least ten minutes of Sakusa sticking his tongue out in pain. He has since vowed to never make the same mistake again—mostly because Sakusa forced him to.)

He is on his phone, scrolling through news updates and various texts from Samu when Sakusa closes the door, now carrying a cardboard box with both hands and sporting a scowl that lets Atsumu know that the package is indeed his. He sets the box on the kotatsu with a thump before walking to the kitchen. 

Silence settles in as they stand on the kitchen side-by-side with the mugs on their hands and the tap of the rain against the window as their company. “The rain’s getting pretty strong,” Sakusa comments. 

“Yeah. They stopped the trains already, too, so I might have to stay the night. Is that okay?”

Sakusa’s eyebrows furrow as he takes a slow sip from his tea. “Yeah, that’s fine. But I thought Osamu-san was picking you up. Isn’t that the reason you stayed behind?” 

“Well, no, that’s not the only reason I stayed behind.” Sakusa grunts as he catches the playful smile and the unsubtle tease laced in Atsumu’s quip. The reason is making Atsumu’s back sting, even more so after his shower, and Atsumu makes a mental note to wear longer compression shorts for the next few days.

Atsumu laughs at the scoff Sakusa lets out. “Samu’s stranded in his Kyoto branch, too, so he can’t pick me up.” Atsumu sighs and watches the raindrops trail in lazy lines outside the window. “Ma’s probably sad about this. She was really looking forward to us visiting home again.”

When he turns toward Sakusa, dark eyes meet his gaze. It’s that stillness yet again, unreadable past the shadows angling over his face. 

With Sakusa, the silence can say so much more than words. If Atsumu stops and really listens, he reckons he can hear the faint rumbling of the sky and the soft howling of the wind before the inevitable downpour.

But Atsumu is not the type to stop and smell the flowers, his feet always raring to move—to run—to the next milestone, the next goalpost, and frankly, he does not have the mental or physical energy to unpack Sakusa’s intricacies right now.

Or maybe he’s just not prepared for what he might discover.

But it’s getting hard to ignore with the rain trapping him in a room that screamed of nothing but Sakusa, leaving him with no exit routes.


A raucous cheer from the TV breaks him out of his reverie. Turns out they hadn’t turned it off since the EJP and Red Falcons match ended half an hour ago. In his defense, it is difficult to care about turning off the TV when the tension wrapped around them like a vice grip the moment Atsumu stayed behind with the lame excuse of “Samu will come by and pick me up, ya guys go ahead.” The rest of MSBY has left since then, the only sign of their visit evidenced by the takeout packages filling the garbage bin to the brim. 

Their team hang-outs have occurred far too many times to keep count, yet it still surprises him that Sakusa allows them to crash in his place to watch that week’s V. League game or some random movie. At first he thought it was out of politeness or forced obligation, given that he is the only member who has his own apartment while everyone camped in the MSBY sharehouse. 

But sometimes Atsumu catches him smiling amidst the chaos that is the MSBY team, the grin often hidden by a pizza slice or a cup, and he thinks maybe Sakusa does want them around. 

Then, a stray thought: I hope he wants me around.

His gaze then gravitates towards the cardboard box atop the kotatsu. It’s Atsumu’s latest online purchase sent once again to Sakusa’s address, unassuming in its shade of beige yet... looming, somehow.

Are my packages intrusive somehow? Are they actually annoying him? 

Like clockwork, Atsumu moves just before a thought can take root in his head—or, at least, he moves as much as he can within Sakusa’s apartment. He sets his now empty mug down the sink and begins his approach to the kotatsu when it hits.

His mug. He has his own mug in Sakusa’s apartment. 

He hears Sakusa’s footsteps behind him and watches as he settles on the kotatsu, the half-empty mug in his hands. Atsumu sits on the other end, their feet bumping against each other as they scramble for heat under the futon.

Over the pitter-patter of the rain, the box atop the kotatsu clamors for Atsumu’s attention once again.

They both stare at the box until Sakusa’s voice breaks through the silence. “Are you really going to keep writing my place as your shipping address, Miya? It’s getting confusing. I’m beginning to mistake my things for yours.” 

Something about that snags on Atsumu’s subconscious, furrowing his eyebrows slightly as he sinks in contemplation, but the thought flickers away before he can mull it over. So Atsumu pouts instead. “Come on, it’s not that confusing. Yer place is big, anyway.”

“There’s no reason for your packages to be sent to my apartment.” Sakusa squints at him, but he inches closer and inspects the package closely anyway.

Out of habit, Atsumu scoots and reaches for the nearest cabinet, opening a drawer and fumbling for the cutter that he knows is always there, because a) Sakusa always puts things back where they should be, and b) he has been burned about misplacing the cutter before. 

Sakusa then holds out a hand and grabs the cutter from Atsumu’s hand that he, too, knows is there. Like clockwork.

“I already told ya, I don’t want Bokkun or Shou-kun snooping around my packages. Remember last Christmas?” Atsumu rambles.

Atsumu has seen this many times before, the steps now ingrained in his memory, but he still chooses to watch every time—watches as Sakusa’s bony fingers drag the cutter along the seams, as the tape gives under the blade, the cut widening as he goes. 

Sakusa moves to every corner and proceeds to do the same thing: caresses and prods and cuts and opens until the lid topples free. 

“Honestly, that’s on you for being careless. You know you all share the same space. Why are you going to leave their Christmas gifts in the lobby?”

“It’s not just that!” Atsumu blurts out, taking the cutter from Sakusa’s hand and shoving it back to its rightful place in the drawer. “What about the snacks I bought that they ate because they thought it was for the whole team, huh?”

The box opens, and what comes after that is a show-and-tell at Atsumu’s expense.

Heat rises to Atsumu’s cheeks as Sakusa pulls out a ridiculously large plastic bag of umeboshi, enough to last him a month or so, perhaps even longer given Sakusa’s self-imposed food restrictions.  There is a tug in his gut as shock—and what seems to be… awe?—paints Sakusa’s face. 

“See? If I had sent the package to the sharehouse, they would’ve gobbled that up, and there’ll be nothin’ left for ya, Omi-kun.”

The look fades and Sakusa schools his face to indifference almost immediately. “That doesn’t excuse all the other packages that aren’t food, though.”

“Oh, come on. Ya liked the last package that came to yer doorstep, didn’t ya?” A flush immediately colors the tips of Sakusa’s ears to Atsumu’s glee. He had watched Sakusa do the same routine then—cutting through every piece of tape and opening the box with care—only to pull out a long, black dildo, much to Sakusa’s chagrin. “Because I definitely don’t want anyone in the team to see that. Jeez, can ya imagine if Coach saw that?”

Sakusa only scowls before undoing the folds of the box, the next phase in Sakusa’s routine. “Then that’s on you, not me. Change your shipping address.”

“If I changed my shipping address then, ya wouldn’t have benefitted from that package, Omi-omi,” Atsumu responds in a sing-songy voice to tease. 

Sakusa does not even indulge him with a response—although the blush creeping down to his neck is enough of a response—as he continues flattening out the cardboard. It’s easier to store that way, he told Atsumu the first time he did it. Which is, consequently, also the first time Atsumu even dared to have the courier send his package to Sakusa’s flat instead.

Now there is a stack of cardboards by the door, waiting for Sakusa’s next trip to the garbage collection area.


This set-up has been going on since their first win of the season. Sakusa, in his first V. League match, secured MSBY’s first win with Atsumu’s toss, the adrenaline propelling Atsumu to grab Sakusa in a hug before pulling the rest of MSBY with them. 

It began at the izakaya with Atsumu pulling Sakusa aside to apologize for invading his personal space. It continued with Sakusa running his lips down the column of Atsumu’s throat, bodies stumbling towards Sakusa’s apartment in an invitation to take up more space, more time. 

It’s the end of the season now, and Atsumu knows the contents of Sakusa’s cupboards without even looking. He knows of the moles and the dimples on his back and the dip in Sakusa’s hips, and he knows that the number of times he’s written Sakusa’s place as his shipping address is definitely way too many times for teammates who fuck on the side.


His eyes keep flickering at the flattened cardboard, laid out in the kotatsu like a puzzle completely done and undone before his eyes and he is just now beginning to understand the picture.

There, on the bond paper hastily taped on the cardboard, is his name, Miya Atsumu, with Sakusa’s address below it. 

Right below that, on the dotted line reserved for the hands who opened the door and received the package, is Sakusa’s tiny signature. 

And there, taped on the pile of cardboards, are several papers with the same set of words—evidence of the many times Sakusa has opened the door and set the week’s newest package on his kotatsu with no fail. 

The realization sticks, and the storm moves inside Sakusa’s apartment, further trapping him in.

The calm before the storm has passed. The typhoon has landed. It has no plans of stopping, not even for the man who stopped for no one and for nothing.

This time, the world forces Atsumu’s hand. This time, Atsumu stops and looks. Actually looks.

The heavy winds that bend trees sideways and open doors after a single text asking if he can come over, always answered with a yes, you can.

The clap of thunder that shakes walls and stadiums with a spike driven with precision and full trust in his tosses—in him. 

The lightning that strikes through the night and lightens the sky—or perhaps a room with porcelain skin on obsidian eyes or the flash of teeth on rare smiles.

The torrent of rain that consumes and gets into everything, sudden and rapid and intense in its downpour for the guy who, so focused on running, had missed all the warning signs. 

Sakusa is everywhere, like water filling the inside of his shoes, weighing down his clothes, building and building and building, and Atsumu belatedly realizes that he is in too deep. 

It takes him a while to reach a conclusion, but when he does, it surges like a flash flood that sweeps Atsumu off his feet, spilling out in waves.

“I wanna share your address, Omi.” 

The silence between them stretches like the sizzle of static—a lightning gathering momentum before the crackle.

Atsumu stares back, heady from the rush of emotions. “I want the real thing.”

The recoil lapses and the moment passes; there’s only a burst of light that washes the sky aglow, lightning cracking open the rainclouds with a heavy sigh and a slow smile. 

“About time, Atsumu. I thought I was going to have to court you or something.”

Atsumu blinks, uncomprehending and stumbling over his own thoughts. “Ya called me Atsumu.” 

Sakusa huffs a soundless laugh, settling his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his palm. “That’s your takeaway from what I said?”

“Of course not! It’s just…” His mind is still reeling from the realization of his own feelings, still processing the fact that holy shit he—likes—loves—has feelings for Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“...I didn’t think ya’d say yes,” Atsumu blurts out, suddenly feeling shy. Miya Atsumu. Shy.

Sakusa quirks an eyebrow upward and tilts his head slightly, and Atsumu’s heart lurches. “There’s a cabinet half full with your clothes, and you already have a handful of clothes in hangers in my closet. How did that not click?”

“Don’t make fun of me! I thought that was a normal fuck buddies thing.”

Sakusa’s face turns grim immediately, and Atsumu catches him mouth fuck buddies with a distasteful snarl. “What made you see sense, then, if the... everything else in this apartment weren’t enough to clue you in?”

Atsumu knows he should have taken offense at the jab on his denseness. Instead, though, his own body betrays him with the blush in his cheeks and the flicker of his pupils toward the goddamned cardboard on the kotatsu. 

“Huh,” is all Sakusa says. “That’s… interesting.”

Sakusa picks at a spot on the cardboard and drops a bomb in the most nonchalant way possible. “I thought you already realized it when I saw that you bought me umeboshi, but apparently I’m in love with an idiot.”

“Hey, foul! I’m not—” The words register late in Atsumu’s head, suspending his voice and his movements. Sakusa’s dark eyes bore into his, unwavering, as his heart pounds in his chest. 

This is too much to absorb in one afternoon.

A smile, the softest one he’s ever seen from Sakusa, breaks through the building chaos in his head. “You don’t have to say it back right now. I’m not pressuring you into anything. Take your time, Atsumu.” Sakusa—no, Kiyoomi —lifts his hand and cradles his cheek. Atsumu finds himself melting against his touch, at the soft roll of his lips as he mouths his given name. Atsumu wonders if Kiyoomi has practiced saying it before, then realizes that maybe he did , because apparently he’s been too dumb to notice that the guy he’s fucking has been in love with him for quite some time now. 

“I’ve waited. I can wait some more. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Atsumu already knows, deep down, that he feels the same way. Probably has for quite some time now, even. 

But there is still so much to sort through, so much to unpack, that saying it back right now feels like an injustice. 

And Sakusa deserves so much more than that.

Atsumu raises his hand to cradle Kiyoomi’s, running his index finger to feel every knobby joint and every callus that has held him through several nights. “Okay,” he whispers. 

Just give me time. I’ll make it worth it, he wants to say. Instead, he says, “I do like ya, though. In… that way.” 

Kiyoomi snorts and pinches Atsumu’s cheek. “I mean, I sure hope you do, because what else are you moving in with me for?”

When Kiyoomi makes a move to stand up, Atsumu tugs his hand back down. “So we’re datin’ now, right? As in, you’re my boyfriend now?”

The incredulous look in Kiyoomi’s face is enough to make Atsumu want to retreat. “Yes? Do I have to clarify what you meant when you said you want to share my address? Did I misread it and you’re actually just looking for a roommate?”

“What? No, no!” Atsumu flounders, arms waving frantically in the air. “I do want it. The movin’ in, the dating, the whole boyfriend thing.”

He sees Kiyoomi bite down on the quirk of his lips as he stares back. “Okay, then. Should we start moving your things tomorrow?” 

It’s that stillness again, ever so certain and steadfast, setting off a chain of changes and Atsumu is in it for the ride, poised and ready with his wandering feet.

This is why they work.

“I’d like that, Omi.”

With one last stroke against his cheekbones and one soft grin, Kiyoomi takes his mug and stands up, walking towards the kitchen counter. He hears the clatter of keys before Kiyoomi calls his name, a flash of metal flying across the room in a beautiful arch and falling right into Atsumu’s palms like a perfect set.

It’s his keys, but heavier. Atsumu looks closely and freezes when he sees a new key in the fold. He’d seen it several times before from afar—on sluggish hands after a tiring practice, on trembling fingers as Atsumu nipped and licked on Kiyoomi’s nape, bodies flushed from alcohol and arousal that first night.

“How do you already have a duplicate?” Atsumu can see Kiyoomi blush from across the apartment, can see him try to hide it by lifting the mug to his face. “Everyone has duplicates of their keys.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow in mocking disbelief and watches the blush on Kiyoomi’s cheeks deepen tenfold. “Shut it or I’m taking it back.” Atsumu chortles and shakes his head, making a move of hiding the keys in his palms and pressing them against his chest. “No take backs, Omi-omi!”

Atsumu can hear Kiyoomi’s muffled laughter in the background of his own, the sound warming his heart in ways the kotatsu can’t even dream of. (Take that, kotatsu!) 

“Oh, and Atsumu?” Atsumu raises his head and meets Kiyoomi’s gaze, expectant. “Don’t forget to update your courier and change your permanent address then.”

Atsumu looks around and sees the pieces of him that have been there for quite some time now: the extra fuzzy slippers reserved just for him, the mug he’s been using since the first night (now chipped from use), the second toothbrush by the sink, the cardboard boxes stacked by the door, glaring like a beacon call Atsumu has now answered after so long.

Atsumu closes his fingers around his keys, the metal kissing his skin.

A permanent address, huh?

That sounds nice.