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Sakusa Kiyoomi woke up in a completely foul mood today. He was awoken by skull aching pounding at his door that he swears could have echoed throughout the whole apartment block and maybe even broken his door if there was any more enthusiasm in that knock.
Opening the door, he tried his best to hide his obvious distain for the loud awakening out of politeness to the small redhead.
“Omi-kun!” a small scowl tugged on Sakusa’s mouth upon hearing the nickname that has been altered and passed around from Miya as Hinata went on “we’re all going out to the gym early for conditioning and stretches, Foster says everyone has to go”. Sakusa already regretted his past decisions of staying in the apartment complex with almost all his team, minus the older members with families. Due to obligation he muttered an agreement and hastily shut the door to escape the break in his usual morning tranquillity.
That gave him an hour to wake up, become generally more agreeable and look somewhat socially acceptable, but looking in his bathroom mirror, he was fucked. His hair had decided to literally defy gravity, his curls spraying around the crown of his head in a heap of tangled mess, only fixable if he did a full shower- hair wash routine which sadly takes 40 minutes including styling and diffusing.
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Walking out of his apartment, into the apartment lobby, hair still dripping as he decided to give up on the diffusing, opting for a gel cast and airdry instead, by the looks of it, Hinata and Bokuto must have already left, which leaft Miya stood by the exit sporting a smug look in Sakusa’s direction, staring for a weirdly large amount of time.
“Good mornin’ to ya too Omi Omi.” Miya greeted as Sakusa walked past him to his car parked out front.
“What do you want Miya.”
“Why d’ya think I want something?”
“When do you not?” Sakusa sighs glancing backwards, already gaining a headache from the obnoxious blonde behind him.
“Okay, ya got me. So basically, I have no way to get to practice. They left me. I’m so truly heartbroken, I even saw them get into the car ya know”.
Great, already annoying as shit. “And what do you want me to do about that. Get an Uber”
“But Omii, Yer already going, I’m clean too, see” he stretches his arm out trying to waft the scent of sickly sweet citrus body wash towards the dark haired man. “just take me with ya, I’ll be quiet”.
And that is how Kiyoomi ended up in a car with Miya Atsumu, blasting 2000’s western pop music at 7 o’clock in the morning. Inconsiderate cunt.
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Coach Foster’s new regime would not be that difficult if it weren’t for the fact he could not escape the blonde. He and Atsumu were paired up once again due to no one wanting to deal with their antics, and put in the corner of the room.
“Omi, we have’ta, look im sorry, I’ll put yer stupid medical gloves on if ya so desperately insist, but paired stretching means helping each other, it’s literally in the name”
To Kiyoomi’s distain, Miya was right. It would have been fine if he was paired with anyone else, difficult, but fine. However, with Miya, whenever he touched him, his stomach turned. It made him sick, maybe that was what true hatred felt like.
Miya, with the gloves on, began pushing Kiyoomi’s upper back downwards. Discomfort turned within him, the burning of Miya’s hands against the grooves of his spine only increased as the seconds wore on. His hands were well past his feet at this point, but the subtle pain acted as a slight distraction to the burning.
The next stretch was worse, Miya’s torso was flush against him, the outline of toned muscles pressed against his own, reaching from behind him to push his knees down from each side. The gloves weren’t providing any relief from the even stronger burning sensation of his bare skin against the pressure being given by the setter. The silence of the latter did not help either, usually the bickering between them would distract Kiyoomi, but today, there was nothing. After an excruciatingly long 30 seconds, Kiyoomi turned around to see a flushed Atsumu Miya, an expression of disgust lay over his pink cheeks, water dripped from his neck which had been transferred from Kiyoomi’s still wet hair. Fuck, he definitely should not have skipped diffusing.
Miya snapped his head away from Kiyoomi, his face changing to confusion? Or anger? “Finish by ya’self. I can’t do this anymore”
Watching Atsumu walk off, the burning subsided, leaving piling frustration. Miya Atsumu just has to be a cunt about everything, Kiyoomi had to have found that worse than him, yet Miya was just too fucking childish and rude to put up with a tiny bit of fucking water. Fuck him then.
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