Actions

Work Header

MSBY's Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi Take a Friendship Test

Work Text:

“I’m gonna win the test,” Atsumu announces after a solid two minutes of silence.

“It’s not a competition,” Hinata sighs, the phrase losing the exasperated edge it had the first five times he used it with Atsumu.

“Yes it is,” Kiyoomi says from the backseat.

“Guys!” Bokuto yells, and Atsumu’s not sure if it’s because he’s excited or because he’s never not yelling, but he shares the sentiment regardless. “I’m excited about this.”

“Me too,” Atsumu decides. “Because I’m gonna win.”

Hinata and Kiyoomi say at the same time:

“It is not a competition.”

“No, you’re not.”

Atsumu turns around on the passenger seat to stick his tongue out at both of them.

“Ooh, can we get some?” Hinata asks when he spots the coffeehouse sign a few meters down the road. It’s not exactly a great idea to supply Hinata Shoyo with caffeine, but Bokuto is already signaling, so Atsumu doesn’t mention it. He’s in a good mood, after all. 

“Miya, what’s that drink I like again?” Kiyoomi leans forward, resting his chin on top of Atsumu’s seat.

“Oh, uh,” Atsumu turns to Bokuto to instruct him. “It’s the passion iced tea, but ya gotta ask for the watermelon mix.”

Kiyoomi hums in agreement before sitting back, and Atsumu does not notice the glance Bokuto throws his way.

“Riiiiight,” Bokuto’s tone is pithy. “Got it.”

“One point for Atsumu-san; he already knows Omi-san’s favorite drink,” Hinata cheers, even though it’s not a competition, and that’s not Kiyoomi’s favorite drink, anyway.

Atsumu snorts. His teammates are very excited to put his and Kiyoomi’s friendship to the test, it seems. 

Hinata and Bokuto filmed their friendship test yesterday, and, although Atsumu couldn’t be there, he hears it involved a lot of crying and trust falls.

He has a strong suspicion his and Kiyoomi’s is going to go pretty differently, though, so essentially, he still has no idea what to expect. He was told it was a silly little parody to put on their YouTube channel because fans looooove their friendship, and really, Atsumu is aware, but there’s a weird feeling unspooling inside his chest because, as he’s about to prove, he knows Kiyoomi, so sue him for being preemptively dreadful.

He leans forward and turns up the music as Bokuto pulls into the drive-thru. Atsumu orders an iced latte that he only marginally likes, solely because he’s going to need all the brain power he can get to beat Sakusa Kiyoomi at the stupid friend game. Which is a competition, by the way. 

The studio they booked for the day is small and perfectly square, four white walls, spotlights on the ceiling and two tripods set up in the middle of the room. Meian lets them in, taking the drinks from Bokuto and setting them down on a table next to the door.

He’s heading this whole thing, the MSBY Friendship Test series on their YouTube channel, because Meian is their aspiring volunteer social media intern, because he has a crush on their PR girl and seems to forget that being an attractive 196cm professional athlete is appealing enough. 

“Welcome, welcome! Sorry I couldn’t get a makeup artist in time,” Meian jokes, looking them up and down, like he’s only half joking. “But I trust you all got your beauty sleep?”

“Atsumu definitely needs it,” Inunaki spouts from where he’s sitting on a desk pushed against a wall, eating an onigiri and wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

Atsumu frowns at him, downing the rest of his coffee.

“What are ya even doing here, anyway?” he asks. Inunaki shrugs. 

“I live nearby,” which is a total lie and everyone knows it, because Tomas lives nearby, and Tomas dragged Inunaki out by the hair last night, prying a pint of beer from his hands when they were halfway out the door, and that was the last Atsumu had seen of either of them until now. Atsumu decides to say nothing. Well, not with his words, at least.

Bokuto makes Atsumu and Kiyoomi play Jankenpon to see who should go up first, even though both of them agreed Atsumu could. Kiyoomi wins, which means he goes first, and Atsumu doesn’t understand how that works because, in his opinion, whoever goes second has an advantage, but Bokuto’s mind works in mysterious ways. And sure, it’s not supposed to be a competition, there’s no prize or winner, but there will be spectators and there’s always pride, so.

As he is wont to do, Miya Atsumu gives it his all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kiyoomi has been told to stand under the three biggest spotlights, in front of the cameras. He looks good like this, but he always does, always natural in the artificial lighting of indoor courts or news studios, like he was made to be on permanent exhibition. Atsumu never fails to notice that, everywhere they go.

He used to think Kiyoomi just woke up like that, fresh and flawless and ready to go out and look good under the lights that make people look bad. Then he started sharing a house with the guy and found out he had to spend at least half an hour every day styling his hair just to give up with a huff in the end. Still looks amazing, though, the bastard, but seeing the process was always refreshingly humanizing. 

Kiyoomi in the mornings is one of Atsumu’s favorite things, really. 

“Atsumu-san, go stand over there!” Hinata pushes him and he doesn’t budge. “You can’t listen.

He places a hand on Hinata’s shoulder, but no words come out. He’s still staring at Kiyoomi looking down at his phone, brows furrowed, bottom lip wet. 

There’s a pinprick of something in his chest, hot and ugly like heartburn, and it knocks the breath out of him for a second. 

Kiyoomi’s often frowning, either in thought, concentration, disapproval or something else, Atsumu’s learned. Atsumu’s usual reaction is to literally, physically smooth it out with his fingers, or, if it’s one of those really hard days, when even the inside of Kiyoomi’s jersey brushing his skin turns into a sensory nightmare for him, Atsumu will make a fool out of himself one way or another — yeah, yeah, it’s not like it’s hard — just to watch Kiyoomi’s lips turn up the slightest bit.

In order to not intervene this time, and the urge is so strong, Atsumu obeys, makes himself walk over there as instructed, two steps to the left by the snack table.

He ignores the new feeling. It’s probably all that shit he had to drink last night, making him feel weird and fuzzy and — doesn’t matter. He ignores it.

“Okay, Omi-san!” Hinata claps his hands once, moving behind the camera. “I think we should start with how you met Atsumu-san.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat. Hinata whips around suddenly, zeroing in on Atsumu and plugging his own ears, telling him to do the same.

Atsumu throws up an okay sign with his hand and nods, doing no such thing.

“Well,” Kiyoomi starts. “A lot of people might not know this, but we were first properly introduced back in high school. We were invited to the All Japan Youth Training Camp in Tokyo on the same year, that’s where we met. I’m confident you couldn’t have been in Japan’s high school volleyball scene, back then, without knowing of him,” he looks at Atsumu, then, with a small smile. Atsumu watches it turn into a smirk. “Or me,” and how he manages to say that while sounding as self-effacing and gracious as ever, Atsumu will never understand. It’s because it’s the truth, he supposes. “Though, I would say we first became… friends a bit after I joined the Black Jackals.”

“Oh! Tell us what Tsum-Tsum was like in high school.”

Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, feeling awfully bashful. He’s not that used to people talking about him like he’s not there, at least not in a way that isn’t flat out insulting, and he didn’t expect to feel so goddamn affected by it. Leave it to him, to get sentimental like this is a high school reunion and that’s not the teammate he sees every single day.

“He was very cocky. But he was very good, too, so…”, Kiyoomi looks at him once again, like he can still see Atsumu’s seventeen year old self on his face, like it helps him remember. Atsumu refuses, no matter how much his brain insists, to link the lack of a grimace on Kiyoomi’s face to any sort of possible fondness he might’ve started fostering for Atsumu as early as high school. Because that would be. Ridiculous, probably. A ridiculous assumption. “I guess that’s alright. I mostly remember him tormenting another school’s first year setter, who, actually, some of you may know now. The Schweiden Adlers’ Kageyama Tobio,” Hinata nods from behind the camera. Kiyoomi pauses, tilting his head the slightest bit. “Also his hair was yellow.”

Atsumu chokes on a grain of rice. He puts the store bought onigiri down.

When no one says anything, Kiyoomi seems to take that as a sign to continue, and Atsumu sends him a telepathic message asking him to please stop tainting his reputation, right after sending Osamu a telepathic message apologizing for eating store bought onigiri.

“One time,” Kiyoomi’s like, and Atsumu wonders if his other teammates who are in the studio right now are actually as stunned as they look. Bokuto, Hinata, Kiyoomi and himself have always been especially close, grouped together even by the media, their fans affectionately dubbing them MSBY’s Four. But out of all of them, he knows he’s the one Kiyoomi’s closest to, the most open with. So he knows that, despite not seeming like it, Kiyoomi can talk a lot, especially if it’s about something embarrassing for Atsumu. Atsumu smiles at that and thinks, I’m gonna win the friendship test, even though it’s not a competition. “He nearly cried because he was homesick.”

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu cringes when his voice breaks because of how high it went, just now. “That’s not even true.”

“Of course it is.”

“Yeah! I was there,” Hinata announces. Then, “I was the cockroach.”

“How many people have you told that to?!” Atsumu demands, but Kiyoomi just smiles wickedly.

And of course he leaves out the part where he came to Atsumu and Hoshiumi-kun actually begging on his knees for their help in chasing off the cockroach. Atsumu makes a mental note to share that bit himself, later. 

Bokuto turns to face Atsumu, shielding his face from Kiyoomi with the script he printed out. He gives Atsumu a wink. Atsumu… doesn’t get it, but he gives Bokuto a thumbs up. He briefly wonders what that was supposed to mean, but before he can prod for answers, Bokuto straightens up and reads the next question.

“What does Atsumu’s friendship mean to you, Omi-kun?”

Atsumu half expects Kiyoomi’s answer to land between Nothing and Well he’s a pain in my ass to be honest, which, yeah, would be honest, but not completely. It’s kind of a weird question, all things considered, and Atsumu guesses it’s even more so for them because they have to see each other every day, at the share house and at practice, which is most likely not the case with the friendships in those videos Atsumu watched.

But Kiyoomi seems unfazed when he answers, “He’s my best friend.”

Well. 

It’s a simple statement, really, and there’s nothing but sincerity in Kiyoomi’s voice, makes Atsumu think it’s a sum of parts that drives Kiyoomi to admit it. Like he’s mentally adding all the tangible ways Atsumu has reshaped his life to accommodate Kiyoomi to all of Kiyoomi’s preferences that he has memorized and getting a best friend as a result.

It’s logical, and it’s factual: they’re close and they enjoy each other’s company, they’re more alike than people think and they have similar priorities that they give too much of themselves to.

But it doesn’t feel like that.

It feels like Atsumu is ten again, when having a best friend was something special, teetering on the edge of magical, and having Kiyoomi as a best friend was nothing short of extraordinary.

“Awww,” someone coos, and Atsumu wonders how it’s possible for him to be in such a wildly different plane of existence than the rest of them, right now.

He doesn’t know what to say. Does he have to reply at all? Should he say it back? Is it awkward, now?

He hasn’t really stopped to classify Kiyoomi, ever, too busy getting to know him and annoying him and making room for him in all the corners of his life, no time to analyze how he felt about Kiyoomi precisely, and it’s a blinding realization. Sure, he’s analyzed Kiyoomi plenty, has reflected on the slightest twitch of his brow, the subtlest of muscle spasms, but that’s what a good setter is supposed to do, and it also makes his life as Kiyoomi’s housemate a whole lot easier, too, silently understanding him, because Kiyoomi’s never been much of an open book until, apparently, right now. But Atsumu hasn’t decided how he feels about all that, barely even understands he can. Probably should.

If he’s looking at it objectively, as he’s certain Kiyoomi is, he supposes Kiyoomi is his best friend, too. In a different way than Osamu is, different even from Suna or Aran. In a way no one else really knows how to be, but a way that, funnily enough, Atsumu resonates with.

He’s never cared much about being pleasant or agreeable or widely liked, but somehow he managed to be someone Kiyoomi can call a best friend.

Atsumu feels his cheeks strain and he realizes he is beaming.

“Miya, your turn,” Kiyoomi decides, and then he walks out of frame.

Staring right at Atsumu, Kiyoomi ignores Bokuto and Hinata’s protests saying they’re not done, swerves Meian with his phone pointed at him recording an Instagram story, and walks towards him.

Reflexively, Atsumu snatches an onigiri from the table and presses it into Kiyoomi’s palm as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, putting some sort of purposeful, artificial distance between them.

“Ume,” Kiyoomi hums in approval after reading the sticker on the plastic wrap, deft fingers peeling it back.

Atsumu nods, swallows. Thinks about a winter, some years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kiyoomi, Hinata, Bokuto and himself had just moved in together, a house five minutes from the station. It had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living space that bled into the kitchen, and a balcony just large enough to fit two of them at a time. They had since upgraded, now older with slightly fatter pockets, but some of Atsumu’s fondest memories are of their time in that little home.

At the end of move in day, they’d sat on the floor, a bottle of sake and a fresh loaf of bread to be shared for good luck. They celebrated well into the night and then, when the cold started to creep in, got in their futons right there, in the middle of the bare room. He still has videos of a tipsy Kiyoomi swaying subtly around the broom in his hands, trying to sweep the floors before succumbing to sleep.

That January left Tokyo covered in the heaviest snowfall it had seen in four years. Kiyoomi, visiting family in the city during their week off, had sent pictures of his snowmen to the group chat.

He arrived in Osaka with blisters from his ice skates and a nasty cold he insisted he had under control.

They hadn’t really been close, yet, back then, but Atsumu thought that shouldn’t matter, and he rarely ever thought things through at all, so that very day, he went to the konbini on a mission, borrowing a page from Kita’s How To Be a Good Teammate handbook. It was the first time he remembers thinking maybe he and Kiyoomi weren’t so different, after all.

He returned to find Kiyoomi under the kotatsu, reading. Atsumu had extended the plastic bag and watched as Kiyoomi fished out the container of umeboshi, ignoring everything else inside. He’d paused, and Atsumu felt, for a terrifying second, like he had made a mistake, crossed an invisible line, missed all the gaps between teammate and roommate and friend

But then Kiyoomi was lifting the edge of the futon in an invitation, giving Atsumu the smallest of smiles and a sniffle.

There, in the house Atsumu would come to know as home, with the people he would eventually call his best friends, he learned that Sakusa Kiyoomi’s favorite food is umeboshi.

He also learned Kiyoomi is stubborn and proud, he’s dismissive of his own afflictions because he hates to be pitied but gets mad when other people don’t manage their health properly. He’s fastidious and particular and too blunt, he eats the last mochi if he wants to and won’t understand if you try to explain why that’s rude because somebody has to eat the last one, anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What are you smiling about?” Bokuto asks, which means everyone hears it.

Atsumu finds himself still leaning against the wall, except now he’s got the scrutinizing gazes of his teammates plastering him to it.

“Uh,” he replies lamely. “Just wondering if it’s my turn yet.”

Bokuto offers him a hesitant nod and Atsumu can’t help but think it’s been granted so gallantly only because he hasn’t been hiding his inner turmoil very well. He walks over to stand in front of the camera regardless.

“Sho-kun, come help me out.”

Hinata cocks his head curiously and smiles, hand on the tripod, looking all professional. 

Hinata Shoyo is a goddamn force of nature, constantly, but in a way that allows him to be serene in his intensity. He’s bright, he’s bubbly, he never really stopped tanning after Brazil and if Atsumu had a crush on him when he first tried out for the team, then no one could blame him. He’s sure half the V. League still does.

The really hilarious thing is, Hinata joined right around the time Kiyoomi did, and where Sho-kun was expansive and gregarious, Sakusa was cautious and unceremonious. If you had told Atsumu three years ago that he and Kiyoomi would become the closest of friends out of everyone else, he probably would’ve laughed at you. 

Funny how life works. 

“Can I start with my first impression of him?” Atsumu asks, mostly because he doesn’t know how he’s going to work himself up to answering what his friendship means to him. 

It’s taken Atsumu half his life to even begin to form a filter, to learn to think before he speaks, and he’ll be the first to admit he wasn’t taking this thing seriously at all, but now he feels like he’s been one-upped and he hasn’t even had his turn yet. It feels serious in the most ridiculous way, like if he says the wrong thing, it’ll actually have altered the course of his and Kiyoomi’s friendship thus far. 

Usually, Atsumu prides himself in his ability to improvise, in acing interviews with minimal preparation, just dialing up the charm and winging it because really, how can he screw up talking about volleyball? But this is different, staggeringly so, and he struggles to find his footing as his mouth shapes around words he’s too used to keeping behind his teeth.

Truth be told, he barely remembers the first time he ever saw Kiyoomi.

Atsumu could talk, instead, about how brilliantly Kiyoomi had played volleyball, even back then. About how Atsumu had hardly had the chance to set for him, in some cruel twist of fate. He could talk about how that had made him a little sad, how he somehow knew that, together, they would’ve been unstoppable, every time, how he boarded the train back to Hyogo unable to make peace with such a small fact. How he whined about it to Osamu for days. How he looked at Kiyoomi in his MSBY jersey for the first time and thought, madly, fate had listened.

The first memory he has of Kiyoomi is not a scene, or a moment, but a first draft, his brain’s attempt at knowing this person who wouldn’t let him in easily. Like Kiyoomi knew it’d matter, getting to know Atsumu. 

He thinks of a high school kid from Tokyo, slender and dignified the way a teenage boy never is. How he’d hop on the court mere minutes after rolling out of bed, smelling like toothpaste, shoelaces still undone. How he’d visibly itch to be the first in and last out, like he was hungry the way Atsumu was. He thinks of not being allowed to high five him, of only finding out he knew Atsumu’s name because he asked him to chase off a gross insect on their last night together. 

Atsumu takes a deep breath. 

“My first impression of him was that he was funny.”

His words seem to swallow up everyone else’s rather instantly.

“…Funny,” Meian tries.

“Don’t think that’s the first word I’d use to describe Sakkun.”

“Oh, because yer jokes make ya the authority on funny, Wan-san,” Atsumu bites out with a little too much vigor. Inunaki throws his hands up in mock surrender.

“Woah, there. I was just saying, Kiyoomi is not, like… the funny guy,” Inunaki says, two fingers up in air quotation marks.

“Yeah, no offense, Omi-kun,” Bokuto starts, and Kiyoomi shakes his head earnestly. “But if anything I’d say Sho is the funny guy of the group.”

“Or you!” Hinata supplies.

“Well, if ya ask me, and ya did,” Atsumu interrupts. “Omi-Omi is plenty funny. I think he’s goddamn hilarious.”

“You do?” And of course there’s no accusation in his tone, barely any inflection at all with how softly Kiyoomi asks it.

“Yeah, ‘course. Ya got a quick wit, I like that,” You keep up with me, Atsumu wants to say. He says, instead: “I laugh so hard when ya make fun of Motoya-kun for his crush on—”, he stops himself when Kiyoomi’s eyes widen in a warning, “for his crush. Or when ya do yer impression of—“

“Okay, we get it,” Kiyoomi interjects but it’s with a smile that Atsumu mirrors.

Huh. 

He hadn’t noticed how much of Kiyoomi Atsumu has just for him. How all his examples are inside jokes, how everyone was surprised at his answer, just now. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Anyway,” he makes a point of looking into the camera. “Sakusa Kiyoomi is funny. He’s also one hell of a player, and a dog person.”

A high pitched snicker resounds. “Does he enjoy nice walks on the beach, as well?”

“Wan-san, can ya please shut yer fuckin’ trap—”

Don’t swear on camera—“

“Ajinomoto Center Training Camp, 2014,” Atsumu holds up a hand and restarts. “Was when we first met. Our first interaction there was pretty funny.”

“Miya,” a quiet warning from Kiyoomi that only serves to egg him on.  

“Picture this,” Atsumu makes an arc with his hands. “Me, tall, devastatingly handsome, in a big city by myself. Just super excited to get my volley on, really, get to know all those monsters that were invited too,” he then gestures to Kiyoomi, who watches him curiously. “Cue Sakusa Kiyoomi, taller, a top-three-ace, made-in-Tokyo superstar, face screwed up like he just sucked on some limes,” Kiyoomi scoffs, and it only serves to rev up Atsumu even more. “He was not there to make friends.”

“Can’t resist an audience,” he hears Meian whisper to someone, but it sounds a little fond, like he’s talking about a son or a pet. Atsumu will take it.

“Anyway, I try comin’ up to him, right? Because ya know me, I’m a nice guy—well, not really, but I am a very nice setter, so I want to know my spikers, want to, dare I say, like ‘em. But Omi-kun didn’t make that very easy. In fact, the first proper interaction we had there was the night where he actually got down on the floor—“

Atsumu—“

“—And begged me to save him from a tiny lil’ cockroach in his room. I’m pretty sure we had every single person on that floor tryin’ to kill it, at one point,” he continues. “He told ya all I almost cried because I missed home. Well, Omi-Omi was ready to set fire to the whole place and probably all of us, his cousin included, because of an insect.”

Hinata’s jaw has been suspended for the past five minutes in sheer glee. He never gets sick of that story.

“Maybe Sakusa just had a crush on you and wanted to get you alone,” Inunaki supplies uselessly, as always. Atsumu’s chest rattles with laughter. “To woo you, like, Save me oh big strong Miya-k—” 

No.”

Atsumu looks at the source of the voice, the almost robotic, booming exclamation. Kiyoomi’s standing very stiff, very red, very visibly angry, and Atsumu hopes it’s at Inunaki, though he prepares himself to take the brunt of it because, well, he usually does. Kiyoomi kind of has a double standard for Atsumu, truth be told; he feels like he can get away with things most people can’t when it comes to him. Atsumu tries to not let it get to his head. He’s sure it just boils down to him being that annoying and persistent at the very beginning of their friendship and successfully wearing down Kiyoomi’s resistance, but he does gloat about it nonetheless, even if it means he takes the blame for a lot of their antics because the rest of the team knows Kiyoomi can’t stay mad at Atsumu.

He glances at Inunaki, who grins, swinging his crossed ankles back and forth in his seat. 

Atsumu sighs before continuing. 

“Nah, ‘course not. I mean, ya heard the guy,” he tells the camera. “My yellow hair just wasn’t cuttin’ it for him. Pretty sure the only yellow he had eyes for was the one on the Mikasa balls,” Atsumu hears a collective groan break out in the room. He scoffs and continues, “Speakin’ of, do ya know why they have that specific striped stitching pattern?”

“Oh no,” Bokuto laments, quietly. “Here we go.”

“We had a good run,” Meian whispers back as Atsumu rambles on. “Two hours without volleyball facts.”

“—visibility on the court, ‘cause ya can clearly spot it when the trajectory changes if it touches the block, thanks to the colors and stripes, and, oh, don’t get me started on the outer shell, so cushiony—”

“Maybe you should pause the recording? Just for now, you know, to conserve storage,” Hinata suggests, sagely.

Bokuto presses his lips into a thin line, grips Hinata’s shoulder, and goes, “Already did, bro. Already did.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A good two (ten) minutes later, Atsumu stops to catch his breath and someone hands him a water bottle. It’s probably so he can’t talk anymore but he accepts it gladly. 

“Okay, now…” Bokuto says immediately, like he was just too kind to cut Atsumu off sooner, but really, really wanted to do it. “You’re gonna stare into each other’s eyes for three minutes.”

Atsumu blinks. He hears Kiyoomi take a sharp breath beside him.

Being still for three whole minutes is actually quite an ambitious request to make of Atsumu. 

He’s seen this in the videos. He doesn’t get it, got pretty bored himself when this part of the test came around while he was watching them. Well, except for the ones where the two people were clearly in love with each other, that was entertaining as hell. But whatever, anything for his teammates, and the crown as The Best Friend.

“Oh-kay,” Atsumu says, turning to the side. He stares at the strong column of Kiyoomi’s throat, the pale skin there dotted with moles, long, corded muscles working as he speaks. Oh, Atsumu realizes, he’s speaking.

“Miya. Did you hear me?” Kiyoomi asks as he shuffles to face Atsumu. The fronts of their shoes are touching, their height difference suddenly enhanced.

“What was that, Omi-Omi?”

“I said you better get ready to lose,” he keeps his voice low. “Motoya and I had staring contests all the time when we were kids, I always won.”

Atsumu’s eyes fly to Hinata, who’s already staring at them. 

“Guys,” Hinata sounds like he’s talking to two toddlers, which, well. Osamu always did say Atsumu’s mental age dropped in the middle of a game, and this is kind of the same. “You’re not meant to actually stare at each other for three whole minutes. Please,” he goes, “blink.”

A little after Atsumu went pro, Hinata went to Brazil. Atsumu would see his posts on Instagram and occasionally got news about him from Bokuto. He remembers thinking he could never be that far away from his family for such a long time, his love for beach volleyball be damned. 

Atsumu doesn’t know how Hinata ended up being the voice of reason in their midst — well, besides Atsumu; he demands his fair share of credit for consistently maintaining the structural integrity of their house — but he guesses it has something to do with moving to a foreign country with an insane language barrier all by himself. Whatever the reason is, he’s grateful for Hinata.

So he’ll play nice and stare into Kiyoomi’s eyes and blink when he feels the need to. For Shoyo.

“Aaand,” Bokuto calls out, “Go!”

Which means someone’s timing them, so Kiyoomi and Atsumu lock eyes.

Under so much light, Atsumu can clearly see the dark ring around Kiyoomi’s irises, thicker than most people’s, and the patch of slightly lighter brown inside. He watches as Kiyoomi’s pupils dilate. 

In post production, there’s probably going to be some instrumental royalty free music playing right about now, while the camera switches back and forth between both of their faces. 

But in the cramped, square studio, there’s just the sounds of them living. The squeaking of sneakers, a muted conversation between Meian and Inunaki, and someone coughing in the background. Atsumu listens to Kiyoomi breathe.

The corners of Atsumu’s lips keep twitching up and he feels like a child, an overwhelming need to let out a laugh, for some reason, so he bites his lip to stay quiet. Kiyoomi’s gaze instantly drops to Atsumu’s mouth, like he was so intensely focused that that tiny movement disrupted his concentration entirely. 

“My eyes are up here, Omi-kun,” he teases, voice barely more than a whisper. He ignores the anxiety crawling up the back of his neck. 

The thing is, Atsumu loves attention. Mostly, though, he thrives under large amounts of it, gets more performance anxiety when the crowd at his games is small and intimate than when it’s big and bustling. So having Kiyoomi’s white-hot unrelenting stare exclusively fixed on him is overwhelming, to say the least. 

Still, once it’s gone, Atsumu finds that he misses it.

At his taunt, Kiyoomi’s eyes shoot back up to meet his. Atsumu smiles, and, despite the rapidly spreading blush across Kiyoomi’s cheeks, he retributes it, huffing out a laugh.

He’s pretty, Atsumu’s brain supplies uselessly, but for the first time ever, it prompts him to do something about it.

“I need to do your brows again soon,” Kiyoomi whispers as he strokes the patch of skin between Atsumu’s eyebrows, his touch feather light.

Kiyoomi doesn’t like to touch people very much. Atsumu knows that. But Kiyoomi touches him, kind of a lot, and Atsumu likes it. He always likes it, is a pretty touchy guy himself, but it makes him happy that Kiyoomi feels okay to do it with him, too.

They don’t talk about it, ever, but Atsumu finds that they just naturally gravitate towards each other and fall right outside each other’s boundaries, not really needing to put it into words. Atsumu doesn’t think about how he’s not that way with any of his other best friends. Because it’s Omi, right? That’s where it starts and that’s where it ends, for him.

Kiyoomi’s finger continues its path, running down the slope of Atsumu’s nose and stopping at the tip. Atsumu keeps staring into Kiyoomi’s eyes, even as they wander.

Even though he makes no actual sound, Atsumu hears Kiyoomi’s lips pop twice, then, and he knows — although he cannot believe — that Sakusa Kiyoomi just said the word boop.

Sakusa Kiyoomi just booped his nose.

Atsumu is so glad they’re getting this on camera. 

He’s never going to let him live this down, because whenever Kiyoomi acts lame like that no one ever believes Atsumu, and he wants to look around to see if anyone else caught that. Kiyoomi’s so screwed, Atsumu is never going to stop talking about this, Hey, remember when we were in our twenties and ya booped my nose. Yeah I know I’m like 90 now and my memory’s shit but that’s like the only thing I haven’t forgotten. 

Kiyoomi drops his hand.

He looks so good, inconsolably so, a thought that Atsumu keeps having over and over and over again like it’s supposed to surprise him, every time. Round, half-lidded eyes and upturned nose, fair skin and moles, a bite that gives him a permanent pout, untamed hair falling over well groomed eyebrows.

Atsumu runs his eyes quickly over Kiyoomi’s face, locks on his Adam’s apple, watches it bob as he swallows. He yearns for Kiyoomi’s fingers back on him but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want that. It’s weird, being this close, physically and metaphorically. Kind of scary, all of a sudden.

It’s too much, and not enough, and their silence is too loud and the distance between them stretches too far even though the toes of their shoes are touching and they’re standing under the same lightbulb.

Atsumu feels himself leaning in, closing the maddening centimeters between them one by one, engulfing himself in the heat radiating off of Kiyoomi. He gets close enough to almost go cross-eyed, looking at him. 

“Omi…” it leaves his lips in a breath without his consent, too soft but undeniably there.

He thinks, terrifyingly, that Kiyoomi knows what he means, what he wants to say with just those three letters. The nickname Kiyoomi hated so much at first but that he now uses for all his social media handles or whenever he writes on the magnetic whiteboard stuck to the fridge, went to the shop, call if you need anything - omi

Kiyoomi’s face doesn’t change at the sound of his own name, and the small smile on his lips is prompting Atsumu to say something, to say it, to put it into words that hold the potential to blow both of them to pieces, and how unfair is it that that’s going to be his responsibility, his fault, except not really, because Bokuto’s phone emits a loud jolly tune and Atsumu realizes their three minutes are up.

It’s sobering and a little dizzying, to be ripped from a moment like that. Atsumu realizes he’s grinding his teeth once his jaw starts painfully locking with the force of it. He takes a deep, choppy breath.

He’s not looking at Kiyoomi when he says, “Can we, uh. Can we take a quick break?”

“Sure,” Bokuto relents, and Atsumu rolls his tensed shoulders. “Let’s take five.”

“Ooh, Bo-san, spoken like a true director!”

“Yo,” it’s muttered, unconcerned. Atsumu feels the breathy words ruffle the hairs at the very front of his head. “You alright?”

He doesn’t know what that was, just now, or what he might have done or said had he been granted just ten more seconds of eye contact. It’s terrifying and he wonders if it’s the desired effect that’s supposed to have, the whole staring thing. 

He could chalk it up to that. He might not want to.

Atsumu nods anyway, swallowing around a lump in his throat. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Kiyoomi asks, voice irritatingly clear.

“Yes,” just to command his muscles to do something that isn’t fight or flight. He takes the water bottle and downs half of it in one gulp.

Atsumu stays rooted to that spot for much longer after Kiyoomi walks away without another word.

It’s frustrating, because three minutes ago, that wouldn’t have meant anything, wouldn’t have sent Atsumu’s mind reeling with the fear that things have changed, now, that Kiyoomi felt it too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Atsumu pushes his hair back with a sweaty palm as he fishes his phone from his pocket, noticing Meian mentioned him in his story. And even if he hadn’t gotten the notification, he would’ve been made aware of it by his brother, who sent him the story one minute after it was posted with a straightforward LMAOOOOOO as commentary. Little freak probably has Meian's post notifications on or something.

It’s a boomerang of him and Kiyoomi staring at each other, taken with that stupid filter that zooms in with a saxophone tune in the background and exploding pink hearts on the screen. Atsumu scoffs.

Meian is such a fucking millennial.

He locks his phone and glances at his teammates. Kiyoomi is looking over all their footage so far with Hinata by his side, mask on his chin once again. Bokuto is holding an onigiri and a strawberry mochi, one in each hand, and sharing them with Inunaki, alternating bites.

Before he can think himself into an even deeper hole, Hinata beckons him over and he goes, closing the distance with four long strides.

“Tsumu,” and he places a large hand right between Atsumu’s shoulder blades, “right now you two are going to compliment each other, okay?”

Atsumu swallows thickly, forcing himself to put on a loose smile. 

“Like I could ever say no to this face,” he pinches one of Hinata’s cheeks and watches both of them color quickly. He takes a deep breath, puffing out his chest. “Omi-Omi, since yer gonna have the most to say, I think ya should go first.”

Kiyoomi snorts, hanging his head. Atsumu makes a… distressingly clear sound that he didn’t even know he was able to make. 

Mortifying, is what this entire day has been.

“Should I just,” Kiyoomi asks, looking to the side at Bokuto. He brings his hands together and Kiyoomi sighs, taking a step closer to Atsumu. 

“We’re running late on schedule because someone had to gush about volleyballs for half an hour, so...” Meian says, a ballpoint pen tucked behind his ear. Atsumu resists the urge to scoff at his captain. “Let’s do like five compliments each, alright?”

“That might be hard,” Kiyoomi teases, but when Atsumu looks at him he’s already typing something out on his phone. 

Atsumu laughs and shoots back, “I bet. Too much to choose from.”

He quickly opens his notes app and jots down:

 

  • good spikes
  • good serves
  • good receives

 

He glances at Kiyoomi again. He wishes, more than ever, he could read his mind right now. He looks back down at his phone. 

 

  • pretty 
  • fuck are these too superficial
  • he doesn’t try to please people 
  • funny but i already said that
  • do i even have five compliments 
  • i like him so much how is this hard

 

“I’m all don—“

“I’ll go first,” Atsumu blurts out, startling Kiyoomi. He doesn’t know why he does it. He supposes he hopes the shock of sending himself into motion will bring his neurons back to life or something. 

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu clears his throat. “Ya are… a very good volleyball player.”

Fuck. What the fuck.

“Thank you, Atsumu,” says Kiyoomi, visibly suppressing a smile. 

“Right, yeah, no problem. Also,” he holds up a finger, begging all divine beings that might possibly be watching to strike him with a lightning of inspiration. Or just regular lightning, that works, too. “Yer pretty.”

Atsumu feels almost undeserving of the blush that spreads across Kiyoomi’s nose and cheeks. How it’s so easy to get him flustered, every time, and how Atsumu used to do it a lot more in the beginning, would derive genuine joy from riling Kiyoomi up. 

But now he thinks Kiyoomi really ought to believe him when he says it. 

“Ya don’t feel the need to please people, and ya never brownnose. I like that.”

Kiyoomi frowns a little. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It is. I also like that ya don’t sugarcoat stuff.”

“You’re just making me sound like an asshole,” Kiyoomi says but there’s no real heat behind the accusation. 

Atsumu sighs, running a hand through the front of his hair and pushing up the strands sticking to his forehead.

“Okay, well, ya try it, then,” it’s a diversion technique because this is going bad fast, and Kiyoomi indulges him because he knows he’s going to do a lot better than Atsumu. It’s not that there aren’t enough nice things to compliment Kiyoomi on, more like there are too many that Atsumu shouldn’t have ever noticed. As a friend. 

Kiyoomi straightens up, squaring his shoulders after a brief shimmy. He retains a lot of stress in his shoulders, Atsumu has learned. He wonders if there’s anything about this moment that could be making Kiyoomi tense, or if it’s just a coincidence.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says on an exhale, reading off his phone. “You’re hardworking. You’re ambitious. You’re committed,” Atsumu has no idea what face he’s making, right now. “You’re family oriented. You’re trustworthy.”

He looks up to find Atsumu’s eyes, zeroes in on them as if he’s programmed to. It’s terribly silent in the room right now, and Atsumu feels like he’s about to burst at the seams. 

“That’s five,” Kiyoomi comments. 

Trustworthy. Atsumu doesn’t think that’s something anyone has ever called him before, not even the people that love him most in this life. 

Then, it clicks. 

“Ya trust me,” and it’s in the moment it leaves his lips that Atsumu actually realizes it. It dawns on him for the first time ever and he immediately cherishes it, holds it like the precious thing he knows it is. “Ya touch me and ya share yer stuff with me and ya like to analyze tosses before ya spike them but. Not mine,” he puts his pointer finger on Kiyoomi’s sternum, “Ya trust me.”

And in his defense, that should be rather obvious; it’s imperative that a setter cultivates a relationship of trust with his spikers. But as is the case with everything else in Atsumu’s life, it’s different with Kiyoomi.

Atsumu doesn’t think he’s ever been in love before, not really.

There were definitely crushes, numerous, simultaneous, and a distinct tenderness for his high school captain that very clearly surpassed mere admiration.

He thinks about Aran explaining to him the difference between platonic and romantic love when Atsumu confessed to him in middle school because he was the only one who accepted the Sanrio stickers Atsumu had bought for all his friends.

He thinks about Suna telling him his type was hard to get clean freaks in a way that was supposed to offend but mostly accuse, and how Atsumu had masked his confusion with a huff, unwilling to ask what he meant by that.

He thinks about Kiyoomi saying I’m not very good at making friends, and Atsumu nodding, because the guy was nitpicky and fussy and had probably never minced words in his life, and, well, because Atsumu related. He marvels at the absurdity of it now, because he loves Kiyoomi, and getting there was easy, imperceptible, inevitable.

This is his a-ha moment, he guesses, and the timing’s inconvenient but it’s not a monumental shift, more like something that has always been, such an unquestionable, inescapable truth that Atsumu hadn’t even bothered acknowledging it until now.

Atsumu loves Kiyoomi.

He thinks he should’ve spotted the signs a long time ago, and if it had been unrequited then maybe he would have, maybe he would’ve thrown himself into it headfirst, because there was nothing to lose and no one to catch him and that's how Atsumu’s used to living. To loving.

But in the same second that he knows he loves Kiyoomi, he also knows Kiyoomi loves him, too. And even though it changes nothing, it also kind of changes everything.

“Ya love me,” because, well.

“How is that a compliment,” Inunaki states, like an asshole.

Kiyoomi smiles, private, unperturbed, goes, “Unfortunately.”

I’m in love with you, Atsumu wants to say. Thinks he probably says it with his face, somehow. 

He surges forward and holds Kiyoomi’s cheeks in his hands, watching as Kiyoomi’s eyes widen and grow impossibly rounder. And even though Kiyoomi’s taller, Atsumu plants a big fat kiss dead center in the middle of his forehead, hoping the cameras don’t pick up the way his heels lift of the floor to reach. 

Sure enough, Kiyoomi’s blushing when Atsumu comes back down. 

“What was that for,” it’s not a question, because he knows the answer, and his hand comes up to hold one of Atsumu’s wrists for a second too long before Kiyoomi pries his hand off the side of his face. 

“Guys,” Bokuto’s like, voice wavering on the sidelines like he’s about to cry. “This might sound crazy, but… How about we do some trust falls?”

“No!” Atsumu and Kiyoomi yell in unison, and then the tears come rolling down his face. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The drive home is quiet. The sky is bright but gray and the pitter-patter of rain on the hood of the car almost lulls Atsumu to sleep.

Somehow, Atsumu feels more tired than he does after playing an entire match, probably because he ran out of adrenaline ages ago. He glances sideways at Kiyoomi, who is leaning against the door, temple pressed to the window.

In a wildly anticlimactic fit of bravery, Atsumu had offered Hinata shotgun. He now rides in the back, where Kiyoomi is, where the music plays a little bit louder, and where Meian inexplicably managed to fit a 140cm foldable tripod between two 190cm athletes.

Atsumu sighs, looping his arm around the tripod when Bokuto makes a curve and tugging it closer to him like it’s an anchor.

He thinks that he should be aching with the need to fill this silence but refreshingly, he’s not. Atsumu knows there’s nothing to say, and there’s no discomfort. There’s just them. 

Miles away, Hinata suggests they make napolitan for dinner. Bokuto tells him they can finally use their own — Kiyoomi’s home grown — tomatoes for the sauce. 

Bokuto parks on their street and Kiyoomi stirs awake, blinking quickly. Atsumu finally stores the tripod in the trunk before tuning into their conversation. 

“Did ya guys notice Wan-san was wearing the same clothes as last night?” he interrupts, because this topic is way more fun. 

“Huh,” Hinata touches his chin. “I did not.”

“Are we the gayest team in the V. League,” Kiyoomi asks in a way that isn’t a question at all but more like a statement. A derogatory one, at that. 

“The Adlers are pretty gay,” Bokuto opens their front door, already toeing off his shoes. He holds it for the rest of them. 

“I’ll make a Twitter poll to settle this.”

“Everyone’s just gonna vote for us,” Kiyoomi complains. “Your followers hate you.”

Atsumu gasps, clutching his chest in fake offense. 

“Come on, Sho-chan, help me with dinner,” Bokuto chirps, dragging Hinata to the kitchen after an elaborate high five. 

Atsumu steps out of his sneakers in the genkan, trading them for someone’s Pikachu slippers. He puts them on and kicks at the small tile of artificial turf slotted into the corner.

A few months ago, Bokuto had brought it home along with the suggestion (read: plea) that they get a pet rabbit to make use of it. And not just any rabbit, but the rabbit Bokuto’s sister’s girlfriend was selling for 4000 yen.

In its defense, it was a very cute rabbit, with pretty dark brown fur. Bokuto had pictures. Hinata suggested they call it Japan, not after their home country, but after the Schweiden Adler’s opposite Ushijima Wakatoshi, and that’s when Atsumu had stopped listening.

Point is, Bokuto got taken to a pet café and Hinata named the stray cat that hangs behind the 7/11 instead, so. Crisis averted, and now they have a grass welcome mat.

“Hey, Omi?”

Kiyoomi is lining up all of their shoes when he hums, “Hm?”

“Wanna do my brows right now?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Don’t cry,” Kiyoomi says, pressing a teardrop into Atsumu’s cheek. Atsumu cracks an eye open.

“Can’t help it. Yer too mean to me.”

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue and plucks a few hairs in quick succession, making Atsumu’s eyes water even more. He shifts on the couch, squinting under the light of Kiyoomi’s nerdy headlamp.

He gingerly maneuvers Atsumu’s head in his lap, probably to stop Atsumu from moving so much so Kiyoomi can properly inflict his torture.

Closing his eyes, Atsumu waves his hand in a broad, completely vague gesture. “What did ya even get that thing for, anyway?”

Kiyoomi pauses, says, “Emergencies,” like it’s obvious, and plucks two more hairs. Atsumu cries a little. 

“This hurts so much, I have no idea why I keep letting ya do this to me, holy sh—“

“Shh,” Kiyoomi shushes him, rubbing a thumb over the spot he’d been working on. He goes, “You like it.”

Atsumu thinks he might as well.

On the other side of the house, their teammates are chatting, chopping the vegetables for their food. Right here, right now, Atsumu bites the bullet.

“What did ya mean by ‘unfortunately’?”

“Hm?” Kiyoomi asks, dabbing Atsumu’s forehead with a drenched cotton ball. He takes a deep breath. 

“During the thing. I said ya loved me and ya said. ‘Yeah, unfortunately'.”

Kiyoomi hesitates. “Are you upset?”

“No!” Atsumu scrambles to reassure him, gripping the wrist above his face. He softens his hold almost immediately. “No, never. It’s just that ya didn’t deny it.”

Another pause. “Why would I?”

“I dunno. Do ya?” Atsumu looks at him, thinks he’s never not looking at him, thinks this whole friendship test thing is absolutely pointless and he most definitely failed it because he’s finding it impossible to be just friends with Sakusa Kiyoomi, so. He sees it when Kiyoomi takes a deep breath before meeting Atsumu’s eyes. 

“Are you asking me if I like you?”

“That depends, are ya gonna keep answering me with more questions?”

Kiyoomi laughs a little but it can’t mask the fact that he is nervous. Atsumu feels dizzy and considers pushing himself up off Kiyoomi’s lap so they can at least talk face to face, but the entire moment feels so fragile that he doesn’t dare move at all. 

“No. I’m sorry. I just… I thought you knew,” his hand is moving again, softly over Atsumu’s hairline. 

“Knew what?” Kiyoomi flicks his forehead. 

“That I liked you.”

“That ya liked me.”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Atsumu stops for a moment. “Okay.”

He hadn’t known, actually. At all.

Did Kiyoomi expect him to do something about it? All this time? 

How long?

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, and then he dabs more toner on Atsumu’s skin. 

Atsumu feels like laughing. He feels like screaming, and jumping, and serving a volleyball and kissing Kiyoomi and scolding him for not telling him sooner and then kissing him again.

“Omi,” Kiyoomi doesn’t look at him. 

“Don’t,” he says, softly. Atsumu stiffens.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t… say my name like that,” my name, not that stupid nickname. “Like you pity me. It’s fine, I already know you—”

“Like ya too. I like ya, too.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes before they meet Atsumu’s. All his movements have stilled, and Atsumu realizes he’s still holding his wrist.

“...You do?”

“What the fuck,” Hinata says too loudly and Kiyoomi jumps a little, starting to turn his head around. “Uh. Bokuto! What the fuck…is up with these peppers, am I right?”

“Right, Shoyo! Sooo crazy…” Bokuto yells back. Then, “Get back here,” in what he probably considers a whisper. 

Atsumu tries to listen but all he hears is the shoji sliding closed. They remembered he likes peppers in his napolitan, at least.

“I like ya so much, Omi,” he reaches up to push a curl back. “Sorry I’ve been a jerk about it.”

Kiyoomi laughs and Atsumu feels like he can breathe again.

“You weren’t a jerk, just…” Kiyoomi pauses, probably searching for the right word. “Really dumb.”

Atsumu snorts. “Ouch, but I guess I deserve it.”

“You do,” Kiyoomi agrees, tracing his nose again. Atsumu knows it’s a little crooked at the very top, between his eyes. He wonders if Kiyoomi’s ever noticed it before. “How long?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I dunno. Probably since ya joined the team, or actually,” he feels his smile widen. “That one winter right after. What about ya?”

Kiyoomi looks to the floor. Atsumu waits, but he’s not a patient guy, and really, this confession feels like it’s been a long time coming, so sue him for asking how long, Omi how long, Kiyoomi how long, Omi-Omi how long have you been head over heels in love with me until Kiyoomi presses a pillow against Atsumu’s face. 

“High school,” Kiyoomi replies, finally. He sounds a little bit defeated, like he has never admitted it to anyone before, himself included. It’s terribly amusing. “I’ve liked you since high school.”

Atsumu manages to free himself only to cackle, like he’s not grateful at all that his life has been spared. 

“Stop that,” Kiyoomi warns, voice completely devoid of any authority. 

“Was it my hair, Omi-kun, or my volleyball skills, or—wait, was Inunaki right?”

“Stop or we’re breaking up,” Kiyoomi pinches his side and he yelps.

“So does this mean we’re together now?” Atsumu wastes no time in asking, looking up at Kiyoomi.

He thinks the question should be awkward without the proper build-up, no romance behind it and tainted with poorly concealed urgency. But it’s not, it’s easy and sweet and they both understand it’s tardy, ripened with the pining they’d been doing on their own. Atsumu hopes, wildly, that it’s the last thing they do without each other. 

Their eyes meet and for a moment there’s nothing but silence. Then Kiyoomi slips his hand under Atsumu’s shirt, hot palm atop his heart.

Omi-kun, second base already—“

“Shut up, Atsumu.”

Atsumu licks his lips, “Make me.”

Kiyoomi smiles, small, wickedly delicious, slides his hand up to wrap loosely around Atsumu’s throat. He’s sure Kiyoomi can feel his pulse thundering at the tips of his fingers.

“Well, not like that—“

“Shut up,” and Kiyoomi’s leaning down, eyelids fluttering, soft breath fanning Atsumu’s eyelashes when he gets close enough.

Atsumu shuts his eyes when his teeth meet a pair of lips, his own too wide around his smile to make the kiss pleasant at all. 

It’s the best kiss Atsumu’s ever had in his life. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In forty eight hours, their video has amassed 100k views. Bokuto pouts about it for a while — he and Atsumu have a little friendly competition going on for their fans' predilection — but soon joins the rest of the team to rave about the easy promo. 

They have a field day in the comment section. 

 

@tsumusjersey: this is just miya and sakusa falling in love for eight minutes straight

@SHOYOLICI0US: i want what they have

@bokutots: Sakusa Kiyoomi has got to be one of the prettiest men in the world  

@MSBYIST: 7:02 atsumu said u love me right??? we all heard it??

@msbysfour: god i’m so single

@srin96: why does the internet have to make everything gay? i act just like that with my libero and we’re straight. 

 

There’s a clip of it that’s already viral on TikTok, and Atsumu’s phone hasn’t stopped pinging all day, his follower count going up on every single social media app he’s on. 

Kiyoomi walks into the bathroom where Atsumu is brushing his teeth and reading the comments on their video. He mumbles something Atsumu doesn’t understand. 

“What was that, baby?” He tests it out, thinks it’s easier to get away with it in the early hours of the day. Kiyoomi doesn’t protest. 

“I said,” Kiyoomi comes up from behind him, hooking his chin over Atsumu’s shoulder and sliding an arm across his torso. “We have to make it official.”

Atsumu stops scrolling. He holds Kiyoomi closer to him. 

“What, like post a picture together?”

“Mhm. Give them something to talk about.”

They take a mirror selfie just like that, Kiyoomi wrapped around Atsumu and the toothbrush hanging off the side of his mouth. Kiyoomi is kissing his cheek and Atsumu is grinning. 

Osamu texts him almost instantly, goes, thx for the update ASSHOLE. Atsumu sends back fifteen kissy emojis. 

“I guess this means we both failed the friendship test,” Kiyoomi says against his lips. 

“Hmm. Actually,” Atsumu pulls always. “I think I definitely won the test.”

“No,” Kiyoomi untangles them for good. Atsumu panics a little. He’s still getting used to having this whenever he wants it. “If there’s a winner, it’s me.” 

“Kiyoomi. It’s me. Because,” he gestures up and down. “I got you. So like. I win. Get it?”

“I get it, and you’re not cute. I won because you couldn’t think of five compliments to give me and you totally fumbled the last section of the test.”

“Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi,” and oh, he left the bathroom. “Omi-Omi!”

“I can’t hear you!” he shouts back from somewhere, thankfully far enough that he can’t see the ridiculous grin on Atsumu’s face. 

I definitely won the test, Atsumu decides, and then he takes off after his boyfriend.