Work Text:
Atsumu hesitates, his fist inches from the door.
It trembles violently in the air in front of him. Water drips from his skin, dotting the doormat underneath his feet, and his teeth chatter hard enough that his jaw aches.
Atsumu has half a mind to turn back around and head home. It’s better than dripping on his boyfriend’s pristine doorstep. He’s always careful about arriving in top condition: freshly showered, clothes laundered and pressed, bouquet of flowers ready to present to Sakusa’s unamused, yet admittedly pleased face.
All his hard work, thoroughly destroyed by an unexpected storm. He frowns at the sad stalk of ruined flowers clenched in his other fist.
The florist had spruced up a custom bouquet for him, insisting that it symbolizes devotion and commitment—something that Atsumu has been trying hard to manifest since the start of their relationship months ago.
It’s not that Sakusa has ever done anything to warrant Atsumu’s worries.
It’s just that... Atsumu fears that Sakusa is going to wake up one day and realize he doesn’t actually want to be with Atsumu, what with his spotty temper and his sharp attitude and his over-thinking brain. And now, with Atsumu dripping wet and shivering pathetically all because he didn’t have the hindsight to check the weather? Atsumu wouldn’t even blame the man if he turned him away.
The thought—the possibility—makes his heart seize painfully in his chest.
Before Atsumu can even think to send off a text for a hasty reschedule, the door pulls open, and he startles back.
Sakusa stares at him. His mouth, which had opened to offer some kind of dig on his lateness, snaps shut.
Atsumu cringes as he waits for the shock on Sakusa’s face to morph into disgust. He must look especially pathetic, soaked to the bone and his hair falling limply into his eyes.
“Hi, Omi-kun,” he offers weakly, just as a hard shiver wracks through his body.
Sakusa’s hand tightens around the door frame. For one devastating moment, Atsumu thinks the man is actually going to turn him away.
Instead, Sakusa pulls him in, and he sloshes over the threshold.
“S-sorry,” mutters Atsumu, watching Sakusa flick the lock behind him.
“Why are you apologizing?” Sakusa frowns at him as he pushes at his soaked coat. “Take this off.”
He’s so cold that he forgets how to unclench his fist, and Sakusa has to physically pry the pathetic flower remnants from his hand.
“’m late,” Atsumu says lamely. Rain drips from his lashes and the point of his nose. “And ‘m all wet.”
“That’s kind of how water works,” Sakusa reminds him, placing the ruined bouquet on the entryway table instead of in the trash where it belongs. He winces when his hands return to Atsumu’s skin. “You’re freezing.”
The coat is peeled off of him with a disgusting squelch. Sakusa balls it up in his hands and quickly disappears down the hall, dripping all over his spotless floor as he goes.
Atsumu shrinks. Guilt wells up inside of him, clawing at his chest. “Omi-kun… maybe I should—”
A towel lands on his face.
Atsumu squawks, his hands bumping into Sakusa’s chest as he splutters indignantly. The firm hands squishing his cheeks over the soft towel feel surprisingly nice, though, so he lets himself succumb to the ministrations.
“Maybe you should what?” prompts Sakusa. He pulls the towel back up, revealing Atsumu’s hesitant gaze.
Atsumu’s hands tighten around the man’s shirt, suddenly unwilling to go. “Sorry about the rain,” he murmurs instead. If it’s selfish of him to want to stay, he isn’t called out for it.
Sakusa studies him carefully, settling the towel around Atsumu’s shoulders. “Having a god complex doesn’t mean you can actually control the weather, you know.”
Atsumu gapes at him before he catches the smirk tugging at Sakusa’s lips. “Have you no sympathy?” he cries.
“I have a shower,” Sakusa retorts. “Use it.”
Atsumu grumbles, but he relents. It’s habit how he tips his chin up for a greeting kiss, but he stops himself when he realizes his lips must be just as freezing. He tugs Sakusa’s hand up to press a kiss to his covered wrist instead.
Sakusa uses the hand to nudge Atsumu towards the bathroom. “Go shower,” he urges again, but it’s softer this time. Atsumu goes. “Leave the door unlocked.”
Atsumu turns to cock an intrigued brow. “Oh? So ya can join me?”
Sakusa sighs, long-suffering. “So I can leave you some clean clothes.”
“Oh.” Atsumu’s brow sinks.
When he steps into the shower, he lets out a weary sigh. The hot water is instantly relieving against his chilled skin, and he spends a few solid minutes standing motionlessly underneath the spray.
There’s a knock on the door just as he’s massaging shampoo into his hair.
“Come in,” he calls, and he tracks Sakusa’s blurry figure through the shower curtain.
“I’m leaving these for you,” Sakusa says, placing another indiscernible blob of color onto the counter.
Atsumu hums his gratitude. “I see I’ve finally convinced ya to start using the good stuff.”
Sakusa makes a questioning noise, and Atsumu holds out the bottle of expensive shampoo—the same one he has at home—and gives it a wiggle against the curtain.
“I haven’t used them,” says Sakusa to Atsumu’s surprise. He takes the hamper with the dirty clothes, presumably to wash, while Atsumu frowns at the myriad of products lining the carefully organized shower shelves.
Sakusa is so particular about what he puts on his body—even going as far as labeling every bottle with his name and its exact order of usage—that it surprises Atsumu that his own products have made it into the actual shower instead of being redirected to the dumpster outside.
He’s placing the shampoo back on the shelf, next to the matching conditioner and body wash, when he sees it.
Atsumu’s name, written in Sakusa’s perfect scrawl.
He stills. His eyes flicker to the other two products. Atsumu, it reads. Atsumu.
Sakusa continues to shuffle around the bathroom, blissfully unaware of the growing ache in Atsumu’s chest as the realization settles.
Sakusa… bought these for Atsumu, despite the fact that he rarely ever showers here.
And Sakusa keeps them here for him, without Atsumu ever showing him or telling him to.
Which means he actually listened all those times Atsumu had complained about how expensive they are, how elusive they are to find, and how his wallet continues to suffer because he likes the way they smell and—Sakusa actually—
The realization leaves him breathless. His hand shoots out to brace himself against the wall, a harsh slap against the tile, and he sees Sakusa’s head snap up at the sound.
Sakusa stills at the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says weakly. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but he’s grateful that Sakusa can’t see it through the curtain. “I’m good, Omi-kun.”
He takes a deep breath and pushes himself back up into the spray. Still, Sakusa hesitates.
“Keep starin’ at me like that and I’m gonna invite ya in again,” Atsumu warns.
Sakusa unfreezes with a dip of his head that tells Atsumu he’s rolling his eyes especially hard. “I’ll be outside,” he says, pulling the hamper with him.
By the time Atsumu finishes his shower, he’s able to wrestle his expression into something less lovesick and more neutral.
The air smells faintly of cleaning detergent when he bypasses the entryway. Atsumu stands lamely in the hallway for a moment, enveloped in Sakusa’s softest sweater, warmest joggers (which he had to cuff about four times), and thickest winter socks.
Sakusa appears after a soft call of his name, wielding a blanket that he immediately wraps around Atsumu.
“The heater is broken,” he explains apologetically as he leads them to the living room. He tries to guide Atsumu to the couch, but Atsumu clings to him where he stands.
“I’ll be more careful next time,” Atsumu croaks. “I promise.”
Sakusa’s eyebrows knit together. His hand hovers between them for a moment before he gently tips Atsumu’s chin up. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” he murmurs, scanning carefully over Atsumu’s face.
Atsumu releases a shaky sigh, pressing his cheek into the warm palm. He tries not to relish at the touch, but he fails miserably. “‘Course.”
Sakusa doesn’t seem to believe him, but he doesn’t press on, which Atsumu is thankful for. Instead, he swipes a thumb over the soft angle of Atsumu’s cheekbone, contemplative.
Atsumu’s breath catches as Sakusa slowly leans down. His lashes lower, waiting patiently.
But then Atsumu’s eyes catch on the vase by the windowsill.
They break apart when Atsumu gives a pained groan, burying his face in his hands.
“Why’d ya keep ‘em?” he whines, embarrassment stinging at the back of his neck. He peeks at the sad bouquet again through his fingers, more bald core than flourishing petals.
Sakusa looks confused, even after his eyes flicker to what Atsumu is grimacing at. “You got them for me.”
“I can get ya better ones.”
“They’re fine,” Sakusa insists, like a liar.
Atsumu scowls at the offending thing, displayed in one of Sakusa’s nice vases as if it isn’t a physical manifestation of Atsumu’s crumbling pride.
He’s already plotting different ways for it to accidentally fall into the trash—or maybe a quick trip down the garbage disposal if he’s desperate enough. Sakusa, seeming to know his exact train of thought, tightens the blanket around him as if that could stop his vindictive hands.
“I’ll be right back,” Sakusa says, though it sounds like a warning.
Atsumu drags his eyes away from the horrendous flowers and feels a small reprieve when his gaze lands on the array of succulents situated lovingly against the window. Atsumu had gifted these, not for any special occasion, but because they seemed like ample companions to Sakusa’s existing plants.
Looking at it now, Atsumu realizes that Sakusa’s place seems a lot more filled—certainly more than it had than when they first got together. It actually looks lived in now, with pictures along the walls and trinkets propped up on every available shelf.
Atsumu takes his time studying the new additions to the apartment. Though, they’re not really new, he supposes. He just never took the opportunity to look before, since their busy schedules means that Atsumu comes over late and is up and headed home before the sun rises.
His eyes catch on the photos perched on the TV shelves. They’re from various dates, Atsumu remembers, because he’d been the one who begged to take them.
One of them is a blown-up photo from a photo-booth strip. Atsumu has his full tongue out for the camera, and Sakusa has a hand tugging down his mask enough to reveal the barest tip of pink poking out from between his lips.
Atsumu knows that the original is in Sakusa’s bedroom, pinned to the little calendar he keeps by his desk. It contains the last three photos of the sequence: Atsumu catching Sakusa’s expression, Atsumu being shocked at the appearance of Sakusa’s tongue, and finally, Atsumu trying to jump Sakusa’s bones right there in the booth.
“Omi-kun?” he calls. His hands fumble with the hem of the borrowed sweater. “Did ya always have these here?”
There’s some clinking in the kitchen before Sakusa returns with a cup of tea in his hands.
“The pictures?” Sakusa asks as he sets the tea down on the table, and Atsumu nods. “Yes. Since we took them.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow. “But… that was months ago.” His voice comes out smaller than he intends, and Sakusa, tidying up the couch, doesn’t quite catch it.
One of Atsumu’s spare MSBY sweaters is folded neatly at the arm. Suddenly, Atsumu can’t speak.
He swallows thickly. He looks to the window, where his gifted succulents sit healthy and thriving, to the little basket on the shelf, full of movie stubs from countless opening weekends that Atsumu had dragged him to, to the tiny stuffed fox that Atsumu had won from that rigged claw machine game, clinging to the lamp, and then back to the array of photos displayed proudly on the shelves.
All these little things, accumulated so slowly and placed so carefully—Atsumu never batted an eye.
The aroma in the air pulls his gaze to the tea.
It smells like Atsumu's favorite—the one that can only be found in that obscure corner store four train stops away. It’s even held in the wonky mug that Sakusa absolutely hates but has kept because Atsumu likes the way it fits in his palms.
“Holy shit,” Atsumu breathes. Sakusa pauses, then rounds the couch carefully. “Ya… ya have feelings for me,” he realizes, a little dumbly.
“We’re…” Sakusa squints at him. “… dating.”
“Ya have strong feelings for me.”
Sakusa stares. Atsumu gapes.
For the life of him, he can’t stop. He only just accepted the fact that his boyfriend tolerates him enough to keep stock of his shower supplies—and now, discovering he actually enjoys having Atsumu there? And keeps reminders of him all over his place? Chaotic Atsumu, in his carefully organized home?
Sakusa’s lips curl deeper into a scowl the longer Atsumu gapes at him. “Is this supposed to be news?”
It’s only when Atsumu sees the embarrassed flush on Sakusa’s face that he realizes how his words might have sounded. As if Atsumu could ever be anything other than completely enamored with the man before him.
Still, the words won’t leave his throat—shocked as he is—and Sakusa misunderstands his silence.
“If that bothers you—” Sakusa starts, but the words falter in his throat.
He turns away, and Atsumu panics. The blanket falls from his shoulders as he latches onto the man, stopping him from moving any farther. His own heart thumps so hard in his chest that he’s sure Sakusa can feel it against his back.
“Why would that bother me?” Atsumu rasps, because the idea is ridiculous. Incomprehensible. He drops his forehead against Sakusa’s back as he clutches at the fabric of his shirt. His voice falls to a mere whisper, afraid that if he speaks any louder, his voice will break. “I… I love you, ya know.”
Atsumu’s next breath rattles in his chest, but he holds firm.
He’d been afraid to come back one day to find the small space he’d carved out for himself suddenly closed off for good. Shut forever. And it took him until just now for him to realize, it’s not him, desperately clawing out a space to fit.
It’s Sakusa—with his carefully built walls and hard lines and unreadable emotions—letting Atsumu into his life. And his home. And his heart.
It’s Sakusa.
Atsumu realizes too late that Sakusa is stiff in his arms, entirely unmoving. Atsumu flinches and takes a worried step back, but Sakusa whirls around to close that distance again.
His hands are firm, desperate as he brings their faces close, but the eyes fixed on Atsumu are softer than he’s ever seen them before.
There’s a question caught in Sakusa’s throat, struggling to be asked.
Atsumu hears it regardless. The words claw at his chest, his throat, ready to burst free.
“I love you, Kiyoomi,” he whispers again, and Sakusa’s breath shudders in his chest.
Atsumu doesn’t know how he ever doubted his place in Sakusa’s life. Not when the answer had been so obvious.
It’s in the way that Sakusa keeps a drawer just for Atsumu, full of the softest and warmest clothes he owns. The way that Sakusa has memorized all of Atsumu’s favorite methods of winding down, down to the exact tea. The way that he’s looking at Atsumu, like he’s afraid to miss a single second of this moment—this perfect, perfect moment.
Atsumu stands, surrounded by the obvious declaration masquerading as small mementos, and he knows.
Sakusa loves Atsumu—spotty temper and sharp attitude and over-thinking brain and all—and Atsumu knows.
He belongs right here, with Sakusa’s lips pressing desperately to his, with their hearts pounding in their chests in the same staccato beat, and with their words as soft as the rain against the window.