Work Text:
Kiyoomi has a problem.
Perhaps surprisingly, it’s not his teammates for once. They’re still problems, of course, in their own ways, but they’re not his concern today.
No, Kiyoomi’s issue is that he’s horny, and he’s having a really fucking hard time getting off.
It’s deeply inconvenient, because other people are disgusting, and while masturbation can be clinically effective, something about it just isn’t scratching the itch. It technically works—it’s not like he can’t actually climax, after all—but his mind tends to wander while he’s doing it, which is simply unacceptable. He wants something he can focus on. He’s never liked doing things halfway, and chasing relief to his sexual frustration is no exception.
It’s after several weeks of these maddening circumstances that he really breaks down his options.
Clearly, the obvious answer is to try to find someone he can focus on, but, well. Like he said. Most people are disgusting. He isn’t willing to engage in such relations with a total stranger, as convenient as it may be.
The non-strangers in his life aren’t any better. He immediately eliminates all of his teammates. They’re too close to his orbit and, probably more importantly, he doesn’t want to. Hinata takes care of himself, which is an appealing trait to Kiyoomi, but he is also Kiyoomi’s best friend on the team, so absolutely not. Iizuna and Wakatoshi are people he cares for and respects deeply, and has harboured feelings for in the past, but, again, they’re too close to his orbit. They matter too much.
Kiyoomi does not like mess. It’s pragmatism, really.
It’s after pursuing these thoughts, tugging at their threads and chasing them down to their logical conclusions, that his mind eventually presents him with Miya Osamu.
These are the facts:
His teammates and friends are too close in his orbit, too difficult to recover from if anything gets messy. Strangers are unacceptable to Kiyoomi.
Osamu, though.
Osamu is safe, Osamu is smart, Osamu is subtle. Osamu is good with his hands.
Osamu is attractive, and he exists close enough to Kiyoomi’s circle to trust, enough that Kiyoomi knows him, understands him, but is not so much in the same orbit that it’s a mess. He is not in his heart, like Wakatoshi and Iizuna, and he is not someone he has to see every day, like his team. But he is not a stranger. And he is considerate, and takes care in what he does.
Kiyoomi thinks he can trust him. Also, he’s really fucking hot, which Kiyoomi assumes will satisfy the wandering thoughts. He’s busy too—running a restaurant is maybe even more work, longer hours, than what the MSBY Black Jackals do, and Kiyoomi has always respected his work ethic, even if he would never say so—so it’s probably mutually beneficial. After all, Kiyoomi doesn’t know Osamu’s personal endeavours or the action going on in his private life, but he assumes Osamu also doesn’t have much time to go out and pick people up, even if his standards are less meticulous than Kiyoomi’s.
He makes the decision to suggest it to Osamu. It’s a quicker decision than people might expect, but he’s always been direct. Once he knows what he wants—what he thinks—he goes for it. He’s never seen any purpose in dallying.
✧
It’s near closing when he arrives at Onigiri Miya.
Normally, Kiyoomi would be in bed by now, or at the very least, ensconced in his own room. It’s a compromise he makes with himself, though; while he dislikes deviating from routine, it’s more important for his purposes that he can be around when nobody else is.
He pushes open the door, glancing up briefly when he hears a bell signalling his arrival.
“Just a sec!” Osamu calls, and then a moment later: “Oh! Sakusa, hey.”
Kiyoomi nods at him, closing the door behind him, eyes scanning the shop. There’s a handful of people still around, about four, but things are mostly quiet.
Good.
“Just you today?” Osamu asks casually when Kiyoomi comes up to the counter.
It’s a fair question. He’d usually only be here in tow of his team, or at least the other three youngest players. Bokuto’s always down for onigiri—and can usually be found shoving multiple in his mouth, if nobody stops him, much to Kiyoomi’s endless disgust, which eventually culminated in his refusal to sit beside anyone but Hinata when it’s just the four of them—so he’s always suggesting they go out to dinner at Onigiri Miya, but Hinata’s also pretty fond of it. Atsumu puts it forward as his dinner suggestion often too, but Kiyoomi’s never quite been sure if that’s him being a good twin and supporting his brother’s business, or if he knows he’ll get a discount or free meal when he’s there.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says with a nod. He pauses. “Is that okay?”
Osamu gives him a funny look. “Yeah, ‘course – you’re always welcome,” he says. “Just a surprise, s’all.”
Kiyoomi nods again, and definitely does not look at the way Osamu’s arms are slightly stretching the fabric of his shirt sleeves.
“What can I get for ya?” Osamu asks. “Ochazuke?”
“Is that a hassle?” Kiyoomi asks.
Osamu shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I want you to be able to eat,” he says easily, as if that’s something to be casual about, something which can be given so freely.
Maybe it can be, in Osamu’s eyes. Kiyoomi has never felt that way outside of the walls of Onigiri Miya, though.
“Thank you,” he says, maybe a little stiffly. Dimly, he wonders if he’s nervous. It’s a ridiculous concept, really, because his proposition is transactional—mutually beneficial, but understandable if rejected—but he examines himself anyway as he moves to one of the booths near the back. It’s the usual one he gets pulled into by his teammates, but it feels a little big when it’s just him. A little empty.
He ignores that, and sorts through his emotional state.
Not nervous, he decides in the end. There’s anticipation prickling, because he’s not someone who enjoys waiting, but nothing strong enough to overwhelm his decision to wait until they’re alone to bring it up.
Satisfied with his conclusions, he looks up, and stills. From his position in the booth, he can see Osamu working – can see Osamu’s arms strain against his sleeves, can see the focus on Osamu’s face, can see the steady precision with which he pours the green tea.
Yes, Kiyoomi thinks. Osamu is good with his hands.
“Here ya go,” Osamu says, brandishing the ochazuke. His grin is warm, but wry – quirked up a little more on the right, something playful in the set of his eyes. He places the bowl down before Kiyoomi more gently than his demeanour would have suggested, and hands Kiyoomi chopsticks and a spoon. They’re all wrapped in a napkin, and Osamu is careful to make sure their skin doesn’t touch.
That burns at Kiyoomi, a raw, blazing thing in his chest.
“Lemme know if ya want anythin’ else, aight?” Osamu says, looking at Kiyoomi expectantly. Kiyoomi nods.
“Thank you,” he says, and Osamu just quirks his lips in response.
“Any time,” he says, then pauses. Looks at Kiyoomi. Grins, quick and sharp, like a knife, or the way he used to move through the air when he spiked, all those years ago. He was less expressive then, Kiyoomi remembers. Smiled less easily, locked up his thoughts behind a bored expression. Or maybe Kiyoomi just didn’t pay enough attention. “Give me yer honest feedback on it, aight?” Osamu says, dragging Kiyoomi back to the present, where Miya Osamu is not seventeen and running alongside his brother, half-sword, half-shield, but twenty-three and standing in front of him, wielding nothing but an earnest question and a lopsided smile. Kiyoomi wonders, briefly, if that’s not just as dangerous. “Last time I didn’t have all the ingredients on hand, so – I hope this one’s better.”
With that—and one last grin, easy in a way Kiyoomi has never been—he heads back into the kitchen.
Kiyoomi stares down at the bowl of ochazuke, and thinks about the last one Osamu made him. The first thing Osamu had ever made him – the time when he first noticed Osamu’s face. Not how it looked, exactly—he’s on a team with Atsumu, after all, and he played them in high school; he knows exactly what the Miya twins look like—but the way it moved. The way his eyes widened in indignation at the idea of Kiyoomi having to remove himself from the equation; the way he furrowed his brow in determination, rummaging through his kitchen to find ingredients to make ochazuke, just to give Kiyoomi something he could eat at his own comfort; the way his lips pulled into a small smile when he placed the bowl in front of Kiyoomi, looking content and self-satisfied, as if all he had given Kiyoomi was a bowl of good food, instead of active consideration. As if he hadn’t gone out of his way to meet Kiyoomi at his boundaries, the ones Kiyoomi had never even expected anyone to think about.
Kiyoomi stares down at the bowl of ochazuke before him, one Osamu tried to make better than the most unexpected display of care anyone had ever shown Kiyoomi, and does not know what to do with the sensation unfurling in his chest.
The bowl is larger than last time – wide and simple, white ceramic with the kanji for Miya painted on the rim, a thin black line running from side to side around the rest of the bowl. The topping is salmon this time, a flaked fillet. He can spot some bubu arare scattered between the strips of shredded nori and the scatterings of sesame seeds. It smells like sencha – his grandmother’s favourite, the tea he associates with warm kitchens and low-hanging lamps, as opposed to the way the brighter lights of his parents’ home spring to mind at the scent of hōjicha. Soy sauce, a little, too.
He unwraps the utensils, laying them neatly across the napkin. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, letting the steam waft up, before saying itadakimasu. He takes the spoon, and scoops up a small amount of rice, a bit of salmon and nori with it, before taking a bite. It’s tasty, which isn’t any surprise – even if Kiyoomi hadn’t had Osamu’s cooking before or observed the care he takes with his work, he’d have expected it. Miya Osamu is a professional, and Kiyoomi has never been one to disrespect someone’s work without cause.
What is a little more surprising is the delicate balance of the dish, even when it’s full of flavours that have been teased out to a slightly sharper taste than Kiyoomi is used to. He likes it. There’s something deft about the dish, more than just the hands that prepared it.
For all that Kiyoomi feels settled in his choice, there’s still something soothing in knowing that Osamu takes care in all that he does. It feels like something slotting into place inside of him, a satisfaction he didn’t even realise he was missing. It’s a kind of reassurance, the way it curls low in his gut, warm like the ochazuke he’s eating so thoughtfully.
They’re the only two left in the shop when Kiyoomi heads up to the counter, bringing his bowl with him.
Osamu glances up, greeting him with a slight smile. “Oh, hey – you didn’t have to bring it up, I’d’ve come gotten it from ya,” he says, reaching out. Kiyoomi puts the bowl in his hands and shrugs.
“It’s fine,” he says. Osamu nods, then takes it over the sink. Kiyoomi watches as he runs the water hot, tests it on his hands, and squirts dishwashing liquid into it, scrubbing it thoroughly. Kiyoomi’s eyes trail over to where the dishwasher is located, and notices its lights are on. He realises Osamu must have set everything else to wash already, and just waited to clean Kiyoomi’s bowl himself. The thought makes Kiyoomi furrow his brow slightly, but he stands at the edge of the counter anyway, waiting.
Osamu notices.
Osamu always notices.
“Is there somethin’ else on yer mind?” he asks, drying the bowl and placing it on the rack to cool down. He turns to face Kiyoomi, stepping to the point of the counter directly opposite him.
“I have a proposition,” Kiyoomi says, clearing his throat.
Osamu raises an eyebrow, leaning forward. “I’m all ears,” he says, resting his forearms on the bench.
Kiyoomi's gaze flicks to the bench—meticulously scrubbed—and the way Osamu's skin presses flush against it, before snapping his gaze back to Osamu's. “I think it would be advantageous to enter a sexual relationship,” he says brusquely. “Purely pragmatically.”
Osamu's arm slips from the bench.
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow.
“Uh,” Osamu says, before shaking his head slightly. It’s strange, Kiyoomi absent-mindedly notes, to watch someone pull themself together. “Wow.”
That doesn’t seem like it needs an answer, or at least isn’t explicitly asking for one, so Kiyoomi chooses to stay silent, just keeping his eyes on Osamu. Who, for his part, looks a little off-kilter, but at least does not have pure confusion writ across his face, nor a gaping mouth.
“Why me?” he asks, which Kiyoomi supposes is a fair question.
“You met my criteria,” Kiyoomi says shortly.
Osamu blinks. “Do I get to know what that is?” he asks. His mouth is twitching a little at the left corner, kind of like he’s amused. Kiyoomi does not like to be laughed at, but he doesn’t think Osamu is laughing at him, exactly. Still, his brow creases slightly.
“You’re attractive,” Kiyoomi says bluntly. Osamu’s eyes widen, but Kiyoomi barrels on. “That’s important, because part of the issue is that I keep getting distracted. You’re not too close for it to be a mess, but you’re close enough that – ” Kiyoomi breaks off, and rephrases it. “I can trust you.”
Because that’s the crux of it, really. Kiyoomi trusts Osamu, at least enough for this.
“You take care in what you do,” Kiyoomi adds. “That’s something I’ve always respected in you.”
Osamu is quiet. It’s a little unnerving, and Kiyoomi is suddenly reminded of all the ways in which he doesn’t know Osamu well.
But he has a steady gaze, and warm eyes, and he looks at Kiyoomi carefully, without flinching, for several long moments before he says yes.
✧
“So,” Osamu says, his eyes focused on the daikon that he’s chopping. “Rules.”
Kiyoomi shifts in his seat. “Yes,” he agrees. His eyes follow the movement of Osamu’s arms as he works – the straining of his muscles against the soft fabric of his sleeve, the fluidity of his wrist, the way he’s all tight, precise motions.
“Whatcha thinking?” Osamu asks. He glances up, startling Kiyoomi a little at the sudden eye contact, and his lips curve slightly when he notices where Kiyoomi had been looking. He doesn’t say anything about it, though; just quirks an eyebrow at him before continuing. “Yer idea, so – any rules in mind?”
Wear less shirts pops into Kiyoomi’s head unbidden before he scowls, disgruntled at himself.
“I haven’t done this before,” Kiyoomi says, a little reluctantly. “Is there anything you think needs to be said?”
Distantly, he’s aware that this is perhaps an unfair turn of events. That Osamu had agreed to his plan, that Osamu had been brought into this at Kiyoomi’s request, so to look to him for guidance at this important moment probably catches him off guard.
Kiyoomi can’t help it, though. There’s something reassuring about Osamu – like his steady warmth can be trusted in. It makes him… not honest, exactly, because he’s always been direct, but truthful. Like he can be open with things. Kiyoomi isn’t stupid; on one level, he knows he needs to be able to trust Osamu because of what they’re doing here, but on the other, he knows that this is essentially a business arrangement, and there’s no real reason to feel open with Osamu.
Still. Something about him draws that out of Kiyoomi anyway. Even if just a little.
To his credit, Osamu doesn’t falter. He hums a little to himself, still chopping, his eyes fixed on his work. He slides the daikon into the dashi he has on simmer, along with some thinly sliced carrot. Then he turns to Kiyoomi, looking thoughtful.
“I guess there’s normally some stuff about expectations,” he offers. “Like, regularity, limits, being in each other’s space… all that.”
“Regularity… I presume whenever we need it and we’re available?” Kiyoomi says. “Given that busy schedules were part of the thrust of this.”
Osamu barks a laugh; it’s a warm sound, a shock of it, like it’s been startled out of his chest. “True enough,” he says easily. “Did ya want a regular appointment too, or just – ” he waves his hand in a vague gesture, “ – whenever an itch particularly needs to be scratched?”
Kiyoomi looks at his hands. There’s benefits to both. “Would a combination be inconvenient to you?”
Osamu shrugs. “Nah, not really. I dunno what day would suit regularly, but it’s more reliable, though being able to call on each other when needed is probably the most useful, right? Why, d’you prefer the mix?”
“I’m not sure,” Kiyoomi says with a frown. “You’re right about reliability, and it should still help stave off the edge…” Pragmatic, says that slightly teasing voice in his head that always sounds like Motoya. That’s the point, he replies mentally, before banishing the thoughts so he can consider the proposition at hand with more focus.
“Well,” Osamu says, taking the dashi off simmer and mixing in his separate bowl of miso, “I know that every fortnight, I’m free on Thursday nights – like, this Thursday, then one in two weeks, and so on. So we don’t need to start it like that right away or anythin’, but there’s that option if ya decide ya want it later?”
It’s remarkably accommodating. Kiyoomi’s cheeks warm, but he nods.
“Thank you,” he says, watching Osamu serve miso soup for them both. “You can too, you know.”
“Hm?”
“If you would like to start something like that. That’s also allowed.”
Osamu turns his head over his shoulder to flash Kiyoomi a grin. “Aw, thanks, Sakusa,” he says.
Kiyoomi ducks his head, but it reminds him of something. He’s frowning a little to himself when Osamu slides him the bowl of miso soup and a little bowl of rice, but it has nothing to do with the food, so he thanks Osamu and picks up the chopsticks he was given.
“You should call me Kiyoomi,” he says, and Osamu drops his chopsticks. “In the – ” Kiyoomi gestures towards where Osamu’s bedroom is located, and Osamu quirks an eyebrow at him. “I think it would be jarring to call me Sakusa there.” He pauses, then adds, “Also all my siblings are called Sakusa, and that’s a little – ” he grimaces, but Osamu makes a noise like he understands.
“Okay, yeah, I get that,” he says. “Probably better than anyone.”
Kiyoomi snorts. “Yes, I can believe that.”
“Okay, so, texting organisation, first names…” Osamu trails off, pondering what else while Kiyoomi’s gaze tracks around Osamu’s kitchen. It’s lived in, worn in a way Kiyoomi’s own space isn’t.
Oh.
“No staying over?” Kiyoomi suggests. He doesn’t really have a particular opinion on this on Osamu’s end, though he’d rather not have to navigate the potentially awkward niceties around inviting someone to stay the night just because it would be rude to send someone home, but he certainly wants a caveat to be able to kick anyone out of his own space when he wants, should they ever end up at his place.
Osamu shrugs. “Sure, sounds good,” he says easily.
Not for the first time, Kiyoomi thinks he made the right choice with who he went to for this.
“Y’want some tea?” Osamu asks, and Kiyoomi starts, realising his eyes have been fixed on Osamu’s arms.
“Sure,” Kiyoomi says. “Do you have sencha?”
“I’ll check,” Osamu says.
Kiyoomi stands and follows him into the kitchen. He’s not particularly inclined towards helpfulness, but he figures Osamu’s doing so much to accommodate him that it’s the least he could do.
“Where are your cups?” he asks, and Osamu points at a cupboard to his left before turning back to his tea shelf.
Kiyoomi peers through Osamu’s cupboard, looking to see if he has any wide-rimmed tea bowls. He’s selected an azure blue one for Osamu, and is about to grab a dark green one for himself when he suddenly feels Osamu behind him.
“Sorry,” Osamu says apologetically.
Kiyoomi should move. He really should. He’s in the way, and he can tell Osamu’s waiting a moment to see if he wants to step to the side.
But Kiyoomi stays put, and there’s a sharp intake of breath from behind him. Then Osamu leans forward, one of his arms reaching over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, past his head. His body emanates warmth, and Kiyoomi has the sense that if he leaned back, there’d be a wall of steady warmth to rest against. That Osamu wouldn’t falter – would hold him up.
He dismisses the thought, instead grabbing the bowl he liked for himself, letting his arm slide into the cupboard beside Osamu’s. He pulls out before Osamu does, and turns on his heel to look carefully at what Osamu was getting.
It’s a teapot, just big enough to brew some for them both. Osamu quirks a smile at him as he takes it out, brushing past Kiyoomi to get some water from the hot water pot in the corner. Humming to himself, he heads back towards the shelf of tea. Kiyoomi follows, watching as he opens a canister and pours some tea leaves into the teapot.
“Give it a few minutes,” Osamu says, placing the teapot between their place settings. Kiyoomi places the green tea bowl beside his plate, then slides the blue one carefully across to Osamu.
Osamu accepts it with a tilt of his head. Their fingers brush on the edge of the porcelain.
Kiyoomi does not flinch.
“Y’know,” Osamu says, once they are settled back into their seats, half a kitchen counter and an entire world between them, no risk of brushing up against each other from their own ends of the galaxy, “you never told me why you want to do this.”
Osamu reaches over to the teapot. Breaches the space between them, like their own form of interstellar travel. Or just moving closer to Kiyoomi. He’s not sure which one feels more impossible.
“I mean, you told me why me,” Osamu clarifies, pulling the teapot close and pouring himself some tea. He slides it towards Kiyoomi. Something mundane, then. Bridging the gap. Just a bench, not a world. “Just not why you wanted to do it. Other than, y’know, pragmatism.” He looks a little amused as he says it, but it’s just like that day in Onigiri Miya – Kiyoomi doesn’t think Osamu’s laughing at him.
Kiyoomi shrugs, taking the teapot and pouring himself some. “Sexual frustration,” he says dryly, and hides a smile in his own tea bowl as Osamu snorts.
“No shit,” Osamu says, laughing in earnest now. “Still. Big leap.”
“I get bored,” Kiyoomi says. “Lose focus when it’s just me, which…” He scrunches up his nose. “I don’t do well with being interrupted, even if it’s by myself,” he says in the end. “It’s even more frustrating than the actual – ” He pauses.
“Horniness?” Osamu offers, which – yeah, that’s it. Kiyoomi nods.
“Yes. So I thought it would be harder to be distracted if there was another person,” Kiyoomi explains, and Osamu nods. “But most people are disgusting.”
That shocks another laugh out of Osamu, even though Kiyoomi is perfectly serious. Well. He supposes they’re not inherently disgusting... but when it comes to naked bodies pressed against his? He feels entitled to be as judgemental as he sees fit.
“Duly noted,” Osamu says. His expression is still a little amused, but he’s suppressing laughter now. There’s still mirth in his eyes, and Kiyoomi gets a distinct sense of being teased, but – he frowns. Again, he doesn’t think he’s being laughed at, exactly. It’s not like Osamu is making light of his reasoning. Just… Kiyoomi’s delivery, maybe.
That’s fine. Kiyoomi can work with that.
“I didn’t want a stranger,” Kiyoomi says, taking another sip of his tea. “And I didn’t want anyone too close in orbit either – not someone I would have to see every day.”
“Like yer team,” Osamu says.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says, before wrinkling his nose. “Though, there’s nobody on the team I’d want to be involved with anyway.”
Osamu’s eyes go a little softer at that. “Hey,” he says, clearing his throat. “Can I try something?”
Kiyoomi eyes him warily, but nods. He’s going to have sex with him eventually. He should probably be willing to let him try things.
Still, Osamu moves slowly—steadily—like he’s not in any rush. It’s strange. Kiyoomi would have thought he might get nervous, at least as Osamu comes closer, but his pulse seems to be steadying.
He puts his hand out. Kiyoomi blinks at it.
“You should hold my hand, I think,” Osamu says.
“Why?” Kiyoomi asks incredulously.
“Exposure therapy,” Osamu says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Kiyoomi stares at him. Then, with a sigh, he places his hand in Osamu’s.
It’s not as silly as Kiyoomi thought. He’s immediately aware of how different their palms feel – Kiyoomi’s the athlete, but his is smoother, and a little narrower. Osamu’s is a little rougher, callus-worn, and his fingers aren’t as long as Kiyoomi’s but they’re definitely thicker.
Kiyoomi imagines them running over his skin, pressing into his sides – pressing into him, wrapping around him, tugging at him and teasing satisfaction out of him. Kiyoomi imagines Miya Osamu’s fingers roaming his body, working to relieve his frustration, and shudders lightly.
“You okay?” Osamu checks, and Kiyoomi’s cheeks flush slightly. There’s no good way to respond to that. Yeah, completely fine. Just horny because you held my hand. Get a fucking grip, Kiyoomi.
He nods instead. “Have your hands always felt like this?” he asks curiously. “Back when you played volleyball?”
Osamu looks thoughtful. “They’re a little rougher now, I reckon – they’re soaked in rice water a lot, probably why the back of my hands are always smooth, like, see – ” He manoeuvres their hands around, flipping his over and pressing the back of his hand to Kiyoomi’s palm. He’s right. It’s surprisingly soft, especially compared to the way his palm feels. “But I also have to do more work now than I did when playing, so I guess there are some things even rice water can’t fix.” He cracks a grin, crooked and charming, pulling a little higher on the right corner of his mouth than the left. “Still, they’ve never been soft – even when I played, I think my hands would’ve been rougher than yours.”
For a fleeting, unprecedented second, Kiyoomi thinks of when they first met – middle school, technically, was the first time they were in the same tournament, but Kiyoomi’s head had been filled with Wakatoshi-kun and seeing things through. That didn’t change in high school—in fact, Iizuna filled his head for a bit during then too—but he remembers Osamu better then. Mostly as the quieter twin, who didn’t laugh as much. The spiker who could set just as easily. Honestly, he’s always been Kiyoomi’s favourite twin, but that’s not a compliment to the teenage boy he used to be so much as it is a mark of Kiyoomi’s annoyance with Atsumu during high school.
Just for a moment, though, Kiyoomi thinks about the boy Osamu used to be, and imagines a world where he’d felt Osamu’s hand – paid enough attention to remember it when they shook for those brief seconds under the net, enough that he could compare it now.
But Kiyoomi at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, was more interested in keeping handshakes brief so that he could move on to the next stage of his post-match rituals than he was in Miya Osamu, with his quiet mouth holding back so many words.
He shakes off the thought, and comes to his gaze resting on Miya Osamu’s mouth – a little less quiet now, but as much uncharted territory for Kiyoomi as ever.
Osamu’s hand comes up to Kiyoomi’s jaw, and Kiyoomi lets it. His thumb brushes over Kiyoomi’s skin, and Kiyoomi breathes in – out – in. Inhales Osamu and all his possibilities. Exhales something like surety.
“Is this okay?” Osamu murmurs, leaning closer, and Kiyoomi sucks in a breath. He nods.
Osamu keeps his eyes locked on Kiyoomi’s until the last second, as if he’s waiting to see if Kiyoomi will change his mind, but Kiyoomi closes his eyes, and lets his lips learn the terrain of Osamu’s mouth – the taste of his kisses, the warmth of his lips.
It’s the first kiss he ever gives Miya Osamu, but it’s not the last.
✧
Kiyoomi: [typing]
Osamu: you’ve been typing for like five minutes, what’s up
Kiyoomi: oh
Kiyoomi: i didn’t think you’d be looking
Osamu: noticed it bc the tv was boring
Osamu: an easy distraction rly
Osamu: so what’s up
Kiyoomi: we just had a practice match
Osamu: mm. didn’t work up enough of a sweat?
Kiyoomi: something like that
Osamu: come over
✧
It’s the first time, technically. Both in terms of what they’re doing and also intent – last time hadn’t gone too far, but also hadn’t been initiated with any real purpose.
Kiyoomi stands in the middle of Osamu’s living room, his sports bag still hanging from his shoulder. Osamu’s apartment isn’t very big – the kitchen, dining area and living room are all one area, separated from each other only by the kitchen island where Osamu prepared the vegetables for the miso soup the other day. There’s an offshoot from the living room which would be generous to call a corridor – more than anything, it’s an entryway, and it leads to the bathroom. On the wall of the living room which runs into that entryway, there’s a door.
Behind it, Kiyoomi knows, is Osamu’s bedroom.
Get a hold of yourself, he thinks to himself in a scolding tone. He’s been in bedrooms before; for god’s sake, he has one. It’s not even the first time he’s been in a bedroom for this purpose, though those experiences have tended to be entirely unsatisfactory.
This will be different, though. He’s certain of it, the same way he’s certain of the impact of his spikes, or that he can trust in his arms to absorb the force of Kageyama’s serves.
He just has to move.
“You all good?” Osamu asks, giving Kiyoomi a once-over. Kiyoomi’s mouth goes dry.
He’d chosen Osamu because of his physical appeal—well, it was a factor—so he has no business being this struck by what he looks like right now, wearing only low-slung sweats, hair tousled and gleaming under the lights. His chest looks warm, and Kiyoomi realises he must have had a shower. His eyes track back to Osamu’s hair, recognising it now as towel-dried, and rest there.
Osamu had been watching him type for minutes before texting, and had been watching television before that. It’s not in Kiyoomi’s nature—not due to any sense of humility, just a lack of experience with any sort of behaviour which would lead him to expect it—to assume he’s a factor in every occurrence, but in this case, he thinks he is.
It’s the most logical explanation: Osamu took a shower because Kiyoomi was coming, even though they hadn’t put it on their rules.
Kiyoomi swallows the lump in his throat.
He’d already recognised Osamu as considerate when making his decision, had known he was such since that first day Osamu made him an ochazuke, but it was one thing to be aware of it from his memories, and another to be faced with it in a moment like this.
It’s not that Kiyoomi’s nervous; it’s just that this is new, and it’s his first chance to see if this idea of his is going to work. Slight trepidation is natural, he thinks.
But as he looks at Miya Osamu, freshly-showered, head tilted to the side as he watches Kiyoomi patiently, he feels the tension drain out of his shoulders.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. “Where can I put this?”
Osamu gestures towards the space between his bedroom door and the television. “I mean, you can really put it anywhere, it’s all fine, but that’ll work.”
Kiyoomi notices that it’s out of the way of where they’ll be walking or standing, but it’s easy to see – close to the bedroom door if he has to make a hasty exit.
Considerate.
He drops it down, sliding it carefully into the gap. When he looks up, Osamu is gazing at him, his lips quirked up at the side. His expression is wry, but not harsh.
“I won’t bite,” Osamu says, and holds out his hand.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him, but takes it. It feels just as warm as last time – rough and work-worn. Familiar.
“Unless you want me to, of course,” Osamu says lightly. Kiyoomi whips his head to clock his expression, and notices the wicked smirk on his face. It pierces the last bubble of uncertainty in his chest, and he rolls his eyes again.
“It’s a miracle you’ve never been muzzled,” he deadpans, and Osamu laughs. The clear sound rings through the air, all the way to the bedroom.
(Afterwards, Osamu makes ochazuke. He starts making it when Kiyoomi is in the shower, and has a bowl ready for Kiyoomi once he steps out into the living room, uncertain about what to do with his hands. With himself.
Osamu just shoots him a quick smile in greeting, then puts the bowl in front of the seat Kiyoomi had sat at last time. There are two umeboshi atop the bed of rice, a vivid red colour that matches the marks Osamu sucked into his collar bone. He’d taken care to only leave traces of himself in places hard to find – a ring of pink around Kiyoomi’s left nipple, a bite mark at the nape of his neck, a few bruises sucked along the line of his clavicle. The memory of every inch of him filling Kiyoomi up, pressing into him with a clever strategy, like he’s already practiced in the art of making Kiyoomi come undone.
“Thanks,” Kiyoomi says, looking down at the ochazuke. At the food Osamu made for him. At the easy way he gave him the next step of what to do – sit down, eat, and savour the warmth of Osamu’s kitchen just as easily as he savours the taste of his food.
It’s good. It’s considerate. It’s odd to know that those hands that were just used for wringing pleasure out of him were then used to create this for him, even without touching any raw ingredients.)
✧
“Say, Omi-san,” Hinata begins. “Do you wanna come out to dinner with us?”
“No,” Kiyoomi says automatically.
Hinata pouts, which does not work on Kiyoomi. Unlike the rest of their team, he is capable of saying no without batting an eyelid at Hinata Shouyou’s pleading expression.
Still.
“Who exactly does ‘us’ constitute?” he asks.
Hinata brightens up, which is unforgivable considering Kiyoomi has still not said anything remotely like a ‘yes’, and beams at him.
“Bokuto-san, Atsumu-san, and me, obviously!” he says. “Maybe Wan-san too…”
“Meian?” Kiyoomi asks, eyeing the way Bokuto is hovering around Meian. It’s a little like a gnat, if a gnat’s main purpose was to shamelessly check you out rather than inconvenience you.
Not really like a gnat at all, he supposes, frowning a little.
“You noticed too, huh?” Atsumu asks, arriving at Hinata’s side. He’s got a volleyball curled up under his right arm, and casually drapes his left one over Hinata’s shoulder. “Bokkun’s not subtle at all.”
“I’m not sure you can say anything about that, Atsumu-san,” Hinata says, gentle mirth staining his voice.
Kiyoomi is less delicate about it. “Didn’t you ask Suna during a televised match if his, and I quote, ‘stupid bendy torso’ could flex far enough to suck his own dick?” he asks flatly.
“I can’t believe you just said dick,” Atsumu says, sounding torn between being amused and being horrified.
Kiyoomi wonders how he’d react if he knew exactly how intimately acquainted Kiyoomi was with Osamu’s dick, and dismisses that thought with a mild shudder. It’s bad enough that the collective members of MSBY Black Jackals and the EJP Raijins have to know about Suna and Atsumu’s sex life; Kiyoomi refuses to emulate their behaviour. His sex life is staying perfectly private.
“Anyway, yeah, that’s right,” Atsumu continues, sounding completely unruffled. He’s so odd. Kiyoomi has seen him flush scarlet from a casual remark from Suna during a match, but here he is, utterly unashamed about the fact that all of his teammates and an opposing team have had to listen to his ridiculous fantasies on the court. While they were waiting for Hinata to serve. Kiyoomi still wishes he had been serving that day. He’s sure serving a ball into either of their heads would have been a more effective deterrent than Washio’s polite yet exasperated request for them to pick up the conversation after the game had finished. Preferably out of their earshot.
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Kiyoomi says, wrinkling his nose. Atsumu just laughs. The sound of Osamu’s laugh floats in Kiyoomi’s memories, unbidden, and he feels the corners of his lips turn a little soft. It’s a similar sound, just a little deeper than Atsumu’s – a little harder won, a little more grounded.
“Anything ya say, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says. “So, ya comin’ with us tonight?”
Kiyoomi ignores him, watching Bokuto closely. He’s gesturing enthusiastically with his hands, the way he so often is, but there’s something brighter about his eyes right now. It’s a lot like the way he looks at Kuroo, Kiyoomi thinks. He blinks. Ah. That makes sense now.
“Kuroo won’t be there, right?” he asks.
Atsumu looks confused, but Hinata recovers quickly.
“Nah, Kuroo-san’s still in Tokyo!” he says cheerfully. “He and Kenma are figuring out… something…” he trails off, looking a little lost, before his smile grows more sure. “Something to do with the JVA partnering with Bouncing Ball! It’s kind of confusing, but Kenma says Kuroo-san will deal with all the numbers, and he’ll let me know when I need to show up, so it’s cool.”
“Good,” Kiyoomi says. Not about the partnership with Bouncing Ball, he doesn’t care about that unless he’s contractually obligated to—or, more likely, Kuroo drags him into it, citing all their years as neighbours at college as a reason to do him a favour, and inevitably wearing him down by being a fucking niusance—but the lack of a certain Tall, Dark and Smirky. “I’m not in the mood to deal with him thirsting too.”
“I can’t believe you said thirsting,” Atsumu says, sounding even more nonplussed about this than ‘dick’, but Hinata beams.
“So you’re coming?” he checks. “Cool! We’re heading over right after practice.”
“Early dinner,” Kiyoomi remarks, raising an eyebrow, but it’s not as if he minds. If they eat dinner early, then he has the rest of the night free to do whatever he wants – laundry, maybe, or finishing the book Iizuna recommended to him. A workout, if he feels like it.
Possibly a different kind, depending on Osamu’s schedule.
Hinata blushes, though Kiyoomi gets the sense that it’s more out of joy than embarrassment. “Yeah, I gotta get back to call Tsutomu,” he says. “He’s got an early morning flight so I can’t be out too late.”
“You two are so cute,” Atsumu teases. “Rin never FaceTimes me to be romantic or shit.”
Kiyoomi snorts, because that’s a blatant lie. He’s sat behind Atsumu on the team bus before, and he knows they’ve had calls just to lightly bicker until Atsumu drifts off to sleep. He’s not sure who Atsumu thinks he’s kidding, but Hinata gives him an indulgent smile.
“Thanks, Atsumu-san!” he says brightly.
The sound of a whistle streams through the air, and Kiyoomi looks over to where Bokuto and Meian are. Bokuto is still chattering away—and Meian seems to be letting him, so perhaps he’s got more hope than Kiyoomi thought—but Inunaki and Barnes are standing by them now, and their coach is beckoning them over.
Back to it, then.
✧
Osamu: didn’t expect to see ya at the store today
Kiyoomi: believe it or not, neither did i
Osamu: ha
Osamu: i can believe it
Osamu: you’ve got a rly determined team there
Kiyoomi: they’re exhausting
Osamu: does that mean you’re wiped out?
Kiyoomi: [typing]
Kiyoomi: [typing]
Kiyoomi: i actually ate a very nutritious dinner
Osamu: smartass
Osamu: i’ll leave my door unlocked
✧
It’s late at night, but Osamu’s apartment is humming with warmth. Humming with life.
Kiyoomi sinks into the comforting fabric of Osamu’s hoodie – freshly laundered, Osamu had assured him, but Kiyoomi’s unsure if he’d have rejected the offer even if it hadn’t been. He’d not bothered going home, having been texting Osamu during the walk away from Onigiri Miya. He’d ended up just spinning around, heading towards Osamu’s apartment, and waving off the others’ questions with a noncommittal shrug. Hinata, by far the most observant, had been in a rush to get back home so he could call Goshiki, but Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu’s expression had been a little too knowing, even through the haze of beer in his eyes.
Whatever. Kiyoomi’s here now, sated and spent, sinking into the warmth of Osamu’s home as he watches him move through the kitchen, deftly handling his chopsticks and the pan. He’s making tamagoyaki, Kiyoomi thinks. Certainly something with eggs.
“Ya want rice too?” Osamu asks. Kiyoomi pauses running his hands through his hair, frowning at the dampness of the curls.
“Yes, please,” he says. He watches Osamu’s hands as he uses his chopsticks to place the egg roll—definitely tamagoyaki—on a sushi mat, then rummages through his cupboards, pulling out two long plates. He dishes some rice onto them each, then grabs two cups from a different cupboard.
“Tea?” he asks.
Kiyoomi nods.
Osamu grins at him. There’s something a little wicked at the edges – dangerous and teasing and languid. Kiyoomi knows whatever Osamu’s going to say next –
“Yeah, might be good for your throat,” Osamu says casually. Too casually. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. Osamu’s way better at pulling off the innocent act than his twin, but Kiyoomi knows the slight shifts of his face too well now for him to get away with it.
It’s a startling thought, but before he can pursue it further, Osamu continues speaking. Much to Kiyoomi’s regret. “Figured it might be a little raw. Hoarse, even.”
“Whose fault is that?” Kiyoomi asks archly, before immediately regretting it. Osamu’s expression shifts a little – his eyes are a little brighter, but his smile goes crooked at the ends. It’s unfairly handsome. So much about Miya Osamu is.
“Maybe we should gag you,” Osamu muses, his tone playful. “Save your voice. And your breath.”
“You make me want to gag you right now,” Kiyoomi mutters, and Osamu’s laugh rings through the air. The sound makes Kiyoomi’s cheeks warm, which he ignores, choosing to focus on the way Osamu cuts through the kitchen, cuts through the tamagoyaki, cuts through Kiyoomi’s thoughts.
He asks questions, and Kiyoomi answers. He moves his hands with a grace Kiyoomi is unfamiliar with seeing in a kitchen, and Kiyoomi watches. He laughs, again and again and again, and Kiyoomi listens. Lets it sink into his skin. His memories. They’re starting to get into the rhythm of this, Kiyoomi thinks. A pattern. He feels comfortable with these rituals they’ve constructed, the way pursuing these benefits has made them more friends than they’d ever been before.
✧
“You’re looking surprisingly relaxed,” Kuroo says, slipping into the seat beside Kiyoomi, which immediately earns him a scowl.
“Why aren’t you being useless over there?” Kiyoomi asks, nodding his head towards where Bokuto is busy telling Meian and Washio a story. Bokuto has one arm wrapped companionably around Washio’s shoulders, and is leaning in close towards Meian, dragging his friend with him. There’s an open spot next to Meian – probably too small for any of the EJP or MSBY players, except maybe Inunaki, but just large enough that Kuroo could slot himself in if he was willing to press himself against Meian’s side. Kiyoomi is unfortunately aware that he is very willing to do so.
Which begs the question. Why isn’t he?
“I saw my favourite apartment neighbour looking at ease in a public setting and figured I had a moral responsibility to work out what was wrong with the world,” Kuroo quips, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.
“We haven’t been neighbours since I graduated university,” Kiyoomi points out.
“Yeah, thanks for moving all the way across the country,” Kuroo grumbles. “Semi’s moved in across the hall now, but after you left and Yukie started doing her travelling doctor gig, the only person around was that fucking snake bastard.”
Kiyoomi ignores this, mostly because he knows that pointing out any begrudging fondness in Kuroo’s voice about his old rival will lead to a very dramatic spiel about why Daishou Suguru is the devil and, frankly, Kiyoomi doesn’t have the patience right now.
“You’re welcome,” he says dryly. “Also, Shirofuku is a nutritionist, not a doctor.”
“Excellent to see that despite all appearances, you haven’t chilled out in the slightest,” Kuroo snarks. Kiyoomi just hums, and takes a sip of his drink. It’s the same beer he’s been nursing for the last half an hour, but Kuroo still eyes it thoughtfully. Eyes him thoughtfully.
“No, you really have, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Or, like – a little, anyway.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kiyoomi says flatly, but then there’s a sudden burst of raucous laughter, and Kiyoomi’s ears prick. Not at the loudest laughter – full-bellied and bright, which means Atsumu – or even the sharp voice that sparked it – Suna’s wicked quips, pitched low and sneaky, all the better for crawling into the space between Atsumu’s ribs.
No, it’s the chuckle that accompanies them both which catches Kiyoomi’s attention. It’s quiet compared to Atsumu’s laugh, and a little subdued in the wake of the sleek edges of Suna’s voice, sharp enough to cut through all the noise around them, but it rings in Kiyoomi’s ears anyway.
Kuroo’s eyes are impossibly knowing as they rest on Kiyoomi, his mouth curling up at the edges in delight. “Oh my god,” he says. Kiyoomi steels himself for a sentence that he’s undoubtedly going to hate. “Miya Osamu?”
Well. He can’t say he hates the sentence. He just hates it coming out of Kuroo’s mouth, in that tone, aimed at him.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Kiyoomi warns him. “Go back to your – what are you two even doing? Competing to seduce? Or competitively seducing?”
Kuroo’s eyes go soft, even as he paints a terrible smirk across his face. Kiyoomi wants to throw a drink at him, but his beer was too expensive to be wasted like that.
“Competitively seducing, I guess,” Kuroo offers, as if it’s not a completely ridiculous phrase. Extremely on brand for him and Bokuto, though, Kiyoomi admits. “It was Bokuto’s idea.”
“Because you were both being useless, or because you were both into him?” Kiyoomi asks.
Kuroo shrugs. “Both,” he says simply. “I dunno. I think we thought about, like, who could get with him first—if we could get with him at all—but like…” He scratches the back of his neck, and his face takes on that expression it gets sometimes, all exasperated fondness and something more sincere than Kiyoomi knows what to do with. It’s an expression with history, full of feeling long entrenched. It’s the face that shows up whenever he thinks about Bokuto, and has for as long as Kiyoomi’s known him beyond the middle blocker who was annoying in high school. “We didn’t really wanna win without each other,” Kuroo finally says.
Kiyoomi snorts. He could have called that.
“So, y’know. Together. Competitive seduction, but as a team?” Kuroo says.
“Both of you make choices that appall me constantly,” Kiyoomi says, but he rolls his eyes with a little more fondness than disgust this time. “Go back and try seduce my captain,” he says, waving his hand at him. He rotates his wrist a little, shaking the ache from his bones, and watches from the side of his eye as Kuroo gets up with a theatrical sigh.
“Thanks for your support,” he says, then claps his hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Incoming, by the way.”
Kiyoomi glances at him in confusion, but he’s already slipping away, melting into the crowd. A few moments later, Kiyoomi sees his awful hair pop up again by the table Bokuto’s still telling stories at, and there’s an easy grin on Kuroo’s face as he slides up against Meian. Kiyoomi observes for approximately three seconds, sees Meian’s eyes go dark and thoughtful as they scan over Kuroo, and he promptly decides he’s too sober to have to watch this.
With a shudder, he turns back to his almost-empty beer, and startles at the presence next to him. After a moment, he relaxes, recognising his companion.
“Hey,” Osamu says, easy as breathing. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya.”
“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi says, then frowns at his glass like it’s personally offending him. He picks it up and tilts it back, feeling the liquid run down the line of his throat.
Osamu’s eyes are on him when he puts the glass down. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips.
Kiyoomi wants to kiss it off his mouth.
“Want another?” he asks, and Kiyoomi doesn’t even hesitate. He nods, keeping his eyes trained on those lips, and sure enough, they stretch wider; more of a proper smile now. Osamu flags down the bartender, asks for two more of whatever he’s been drinkin’, and turns back to Kiyoomi with a raised eyebrow. “So,” he begins. “What was Mr JVA goin’ on about?”
There’s a huff of laughter. Kiyoomi realises, with some surprise, that it came from him. Osamu, if anything, looks even more surprised, his eyes going wide, though he quickly gets it under control.
“He wants to fuck my captain,” Kiyoomi says dryly. “And Bokuto. I think at the same time.”
Osamu’s eyebrows are steadily rising, but all he does is nod, his expression thoughtful. “Good for them,” he says, and Kiyoomi snorts.
“What about you?” he asks, his eyes following the line of Osamu’s arm as he does so – the jean jacket he’s wearing, worn a little where the fabric stretches over his biceps; the dark leather of the watch encircling his wrist; the rhythm of his fingers as they drum against the bar, stark against the wood.
“Hm?”
“Heard you laughing,” Kiyoomi says, which… he could probably have phrased that differently. “Suna and your brother.”
Osamu’s eyes spark in recognition, then he rolls them. “Oh, Suna’s just being a dick,” he says. “‘Tsumu too, but that’s no surprise there. Honestly, I dunno why I bother talkin’ to them at the same time – always a fuckin’ nightmare. Jackasses.”
Kiyoomi eyes him with amusement. The bartender slides their beers to them, and Osamu raises his before Kiyoomi can continue his train of thought.
“Cheers,” he says. He eyes Kiyoomi expectantly, and Kiyoomi sighs, but raises his own glass and clinks it against Osamu’s.
“Cheers,” he repeats dryly. He takes a sip, which quickly turns into a gulp when he notices Osamu’s eyes trained on him over the brim of his own glass. It goes down smooth regardless, and a honey-warmth spreads through his chest. He decides it’s all due to the alcohol.
“So,” Osamu says, and there’s an amused tilt to his voice that makes Kiyoomi raise an eyebrow at him in advance. Undeterred, Osamu continues: “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”
Kiyoomi groans. “You’re the only person in the entire world who has ever called me nice,” Kiyoomi informs him, shaking his head. “And I’m on a team with Hinata and Bokuto, whose personalities are based around making friends through relentless, annoying kindness.”
Osamu laughs, and it’s not the chuckle from before. Nor is it the clear sound that rings in Kiyoomi’s ears sometimes as he walks out of Osamu’s apartment, his mind replaying the night without his permission. No, this one is a little breathless, husky and deep, like it’s been startled out of him while his breath was still caught in his throat.
“The rest of the world’s gotta get on my level, then,” he says. “Anyway, betcha’ve been called loads of things.”
“Well, yes,” Kiyoomi says. “Like difficult.” It’s not self-deprecation, although Kiyoomi can see how it would be on anyone else. It’s just a fact. He isn’t ashamed of it. He’s just never known how to be someone who moves with ease anywhere that isn’t already the site of one of his rituals.
“Clever,” Osamu counters, taking a sip, and Kiyoomi scrunches his nose at him. Osamu chokes a little on his beer at the sight, but quickly recovers.
“Flexible,” Kiyoomi supplies, thinking about how impressed—and slightly freaked out—his teammates had been when he’d so smugly shown them and Motoya how far his wrists could bend for the first time.
“Well, that one’s true,” Osamu says, huffing a tiny laugh, and Kiyoomi immediately grimaces, even as his mind stores the sound in its memory bank for later.
“Shut up,” Kiyoomi says, tilting his head a little. A curl falls towards his eyes, and Osamu moves his hand towards it. Kiyoomi lets him – doesn’t move, stays caught in the moment, Osamu reaching out and Kiyoomi accepting the potential of his touch.
“Pretty,” Osamu says softly, tucking the curl out of Kiyoomi’s eyes. He sounds just as assured as usual, but a little less playful, and it’s completely unfair how it makes heat flood Kiyoomi’s cheeks as he looks at Osamu, with his impossible hair and eyes and grin.
You’re biased is on the tip of Kiyoomi’s tongue, but is he? What reason does Osamu have to say such a thing? Short of pride at his stress relief being attractive—which seems distinctly un-Osamu-like for reasons Kiyoomi can’t quite place, but would wager have to do with Osamu’s clear assurance of the importance of his own opinion when it comes to his own life over other people’s—there’s not really anything that comes to mind.
Maybe he means it, his mind suggests. It makes sense, anyway. Osamu agreed to this, so Kiyoomi’s always known he must have found Kiyoomi at least somewhat attractive, and the way his eyes always track every movement of Kiyoomi’s when they’re in the bedroom had already cemented it.
So he’s not entirely sure why it makes his head spin a little right now.
But it does.
“Sweet talker,” Kiyoomi murmurs, but it’s a little softer than before. Less edges, less exasperated amusement.
Osamu swallows, and Kiyoomi takes another drink of his beer. He’d love for it to just be because of thirst—the consumption kind, not the kind that sends him gasping into Osamu’s pillows when they’re back home—but part of him is aware that it’s good to keep his hands occupied right now, especially as his eyes stay trained on the line of Osamu’s throat as he swallows.
“So if I told ya…” Osamu begins, then pauses to lick his lips. Kiyoomi, horrifyingly, kind of wants to run his own tongue over the trail he left, which – wow. Get it together. “If I told ya that I thought ya played great today, wouldja put that down to sweet talkin’?”
Kiyoomi blinks. Tilts his head, runs his index finger in circles across the back of his other hand. “No,” he says. “Not – not just sweet talking. You don’t say things you don’t mean, I think.” He hums. “So you had fun watching the game?”
It had been an away game against EJP; they’re all holed up in a bar in Shizuoka right now, warmth settling into their skin as an unfamiliar city thrums through their veins. Kiyoomi himself had performed adequately, he thinks. EJP Raijins are one of his three favourite teams to play against—alongside the Schweiden Adlers, because of Wakatoshi-kun mostly, but also Kageyama and Hoshiumi; and the DESEO Hornets, because of Iizuna—because playing against Motoya is almost as invigorating as playing alongside him. The rest of the team are no slouch either, especially not the middle blockers he’s always dragging into chaos. Well, he drags in Washio, Kiyoomi amends. He’s well-aware of Suna’s ability to end up in carnage of his own accord. This is the man who’s stroking Atsumu’s face softly in the corner of the bar right now, after all.
“I always do,” Osamu offers. “Today was particularly good, though – something about playin’ Suna always gets ‘Tsumu’s competitive spirit out. I mean, pretty much anythin’ does, but he always seems especially alive playin’ him or Aran-kun – and then Bokuto and Washio-san, and you and Komori, o’course.” He huffs out a laugh. “Yer face gets all scrunchy and determined when ya serve, didja know that?” he asks. “But when you’re lookin’ at Komori on the other side of the net, it’s like – I dunno, you get all smirky even before ya hit the ball.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi says. He’s not embarrassed, but the tips of his ears go a little pink anyway. He thinks his cheeks are probably warm too, and he wishes his mask wasn’t hanging half off his face right now – drinking access is all well and good, but sometimes he feels like his face is a little too honest. It’s not because he’s ashamed or anything; just the way Osamu’s voice has gone all amused, a little delighted, makes his chest feel tight.
“It’s a good look,” Osamu tells him, looking him right in the eyes. Cocksure, brazen, but sincere. Kiyoomi swallows. He’s unfairly attractive.
The only problem with what they’ve been doing, Kiyoomi thinks, is that now he knows what Osamu tastes like. It’s easier to crave.
He looks at Osamu for a long moment, and Osamu continues looking back. There’s a buzzing in Kiyoomi’s ears. Maybe the static of his heartbeat, thudding fast and hard enough to drown out all the other noise. Something’s building there, right in that moment, and Kiyoomi’s a little afraid of how big it feels. How overwhelming.
“Oi,” someone says, and it cuts through the air between them, making it easier to breathe. It still feels charged, though, like a powder keg primed to explode. It takes Kiyoomi a moment to realise it’s Motoya talking, and he forces himself to get a grip. “I think your brother’s trying to get your attention,” his cousin continues, and it takes Kiyoomi a moment to realise he’s talking to Osamu, not that Kiyoomi’s eldest sibling has somehow popped up in a bar in Shizuoka when he’s meant to be home in Tokyo, battling the cries of his small child in an attempt to sleep.
God, he needs to get a grip.
“Ugh, what does that fucker want,” Osamu mutters, then sighs heavily. “I’ll be back,” he says, and it sounds like don’t go anywhere. Like wait for me, maybe. Kiyoomi has no idea when he started hearing such things in words that sound completely different, but he chalks it up to the alcohol. Maybe a little bit Osamu himself. The presence of him.
“So,” Motoya says, slipping into the seat beside him – not the one Osamu vacated, his beer glass still holding his space, but the other side of Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi does not turn around. He watches Osamu pass through the small group of people dancing, past the tables of tipsy patrons checking him out, all the way to where Atsumu and Suna are waiting. Atsumu’s expression is knowing again, if a little exasperated. Suna looks downright predatory, like a cat who got the cream, and all the neighbourhood’s birds too.
“I thought maybe you just liked him, at first, but that’s not it, is it?” Motoya continues, and Kiyoomi forces himself to look away from the three Inarizaki alums in the corner to face his cousin. Motoya’s expression isn’t teasing – well, it is, but not entirely. Mostly it’s thoughtful. “You’re too comfortable with him for it to just be that.”
Comfortable. Kiyoomi repeats it to himself, runs his tongue over it, lets it slip itself into the cracks of his chest. He’d never have thought of it himself, but he thinks his cousin is right. He’s comfortable around Osamu, in a way he’s not around anyone else. A different kind of bareness than what Motoya, Iizuna and Wakatoshi-kun draw out of him.
“I guess,” he says, because telling Motoya he’s right can sometimes be like poking a bear. Not that Motoya’s dangerous; just sometimes he’s so perceptive and determined that Kiyoomi would rather deal with the bear.
“So, are you – dating?” Motoya asks, right as Kiyoomi lifts his glass to take a sip, making him choke on his beer. Undeterred, Motoya puts down his own beer and grabs a tissue from the travel pack in his pocket, thrusting it at his cousin as he continues. Kiyoomi takes it, scowling. “It didn’t seem right – I can’t figure out how on earth you could be dating without your siblings sniffing it out, especially because nobody on your team is subtle at all and I’d definitely know if Suna did, but I don’t know what else it could be.”
Kiyoomi briefly considers his options. All terrible, really, but Motoya is his best friend at the end of the day. They’re bonded by something much more knowing than blood.
“Not – not dating,” Kiyoomi says.
Motoya raises his eyebrows. “That means it’s something, though, yeah?”
Kiyoomi gives a gusty sigh. “Something,” he agrees. He watches Motoya lift his beer to his lips. Then, flatly, he puts down his own beer and says: “Fucking.”
Motoya simultaneously chokes on his drink and spits some of it out onto his trousers, which is fucking disgusting, but also kind of satisfying. Not that he’s being gross, but that Kiyoomi managed to shock the reaction out of him.
“I hate you,” Motoya says, grabbing a napkin from the bar and wiping his lap with it. Part of Kiyoomi is a little touched that he’s reserving the pocket tissues for Kiyoomi, so that Kiyoomi doesn’t have to use the open stack of bar napkins, but most of him is watching his cousin with a weird mix of disgust and amusement. “But what the fuck, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “It made sense,” he says, and Motoya laughs.
“I can’t believe you came up with this scheme on your own,” he says, shaking his head, and Kiyoomi frowns at him. “It’s just – I can’t imagine him propositioning you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kiyoomi asks archly.
“That you’d never say yes to having a – what, fuck buddy?” Motoya checks. Kiyoomi frowns a little at the description, because he’s never used it to refer to them himself, but nods. “Like, there’s no way you ended up in this without calling all the shots. It was your idea, right?”
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. “Pragmatism.”
Motoya looks at him in disbelief. “Pragmatism,” he echoes. “You know what, that tracks. Still, you should have kept me and Tsukasa up to date, what the fuck, I can’t believe you went and got yourself a friend-with-benefits—who I know, even—and didn’t tell me. Unbelievable, Kiyoomi.”
His voice is full of laughter, though, so Kiyoomi knows he’s not offended. Still, something in his comment catches on the edges of Kiyoomi’s mind, and it takes him a moment to work out what it is, with all the amber-warmth of the beer floating through his head.
“Tsukasa, hm?” he asks. Maybe he’s not the only one keeping things.
Motoya ducks his head. Groans a little. “Just – in my head,” he says. Kiyoomi gives him an incredulous look. “I mean, we’ve gotten closer, I guess, but I don’t – ” He cuts himself off, looks at Kiyoomi hesitantly. “Do you mind?”
Kiyoomi blinks, then realises what Motoya is asking. Once upon a time, Kiyoomi had been unmoved by the announcement of Iizuna’s setting skill, but had been immediately taken with his propensity for self-care and ownership of a lint roller.
Still, that was a long time ago. Iizuna is an important person to Kiyoomi, and always will be, but nothing more.
“Of course not,” Kiyoomi says, wrinkling his nose. “I refuse to third-wheel, though.”
“You could always bring Osamu,” Motoya teases, and Kiyoomi whacks him in the ribs. His cousin just laughs.
“We’re not like that,” Kiyoomi says, and Motoya makes an agreeable humming noise.
“All right,” he says easily. “Anyway, as if you could ever third-wheel. Even if we end up, you know, it’s not like…”
Kiyoomi grimaces, shaking his head. “Please don’t reassure me about how important I am to you both,” he says frankly. “You’ll make me nauseous.”
“More than what’s going on there?” Motoya asks, jerking his thumb backwards.
Against his better judgement, Kiyoomi looks, and wishes he could be more surprised about the sight that meets his eyes: Washio seems to have escaped Bokuto’s hold, and is now talking to Inunaki at the next table over, while Bokuto has pressed himself against Meian’s other side, and Kuroo’s arm is on the table, propping his head up as he says something undoubtedly cheesy, horny and embarrassing to Kiyoomi’s captain. God.
“You’re on par,” Kiyoomi says, and Motoya laughs. “I’m going to the bathroom,” Kiyoomi says. “Can you watch the drinks?” He gestures at his and Osamu’s glasses, and Motoya nods.
Kiyoomi slips through the crowd, scowling a little whenever people try to press up against him, and finally makes his way to the bathroom. All he wants is to wash his hands – some cool water on his skin to calm him down a little.
On his way back to Motoya, though, he hears something that makes his temperature rise again. It’s Atsumu’s voice.
“What exactly’s goin’ on with ya and Omi-kun?”
There’s a pause, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know why he waits.
“None of yer business,” Osamu says. It sounds even to Kiyoomi, but Suna lets out a sharp shock of laughter.
“Oh my god,” he says. “Atsumu, look at him.”
“I know,” Atsumu says, sounding that weird mix of fond, amused and exasperated that Kiyoomi’s always associated with the twins talking about each other. “‘Samu, you’ve been flirtin’ with him all night, I dunno what you’re tryna hide with this none of yer business crap, but – ”
That’s when Kiyoomi walks away. His cheeks feel warm, way warmer than can be explained by the alcohol or the temperature, and he keeps replaying Suna’s laugh in his head – Atsumu’s words – and it just… makes him flush harder. He’s been good friends with Kuroo since he started university, and has known Motoya and his own siblings—menaces that they are—since childhood. He’s very aware of what teasing sounds like.
It’s just the fact that Atsumu and Suna—two of Osamu’s best friends—are teasing Osamu about him. It makes his chest feel funny.
“You look even redder than before,” Motoya comments, but he only slides Kiyoomi’s drink back towards him, nudging the other glass to indicate it’s Osamu’s.
Kiyoomi drains his glass in one go. Motoya’s eyes widen.
The worst part is that Kiyoomi’s not even drunk. He’s a little buzzed, sure, but only in the way that there’s warmth ambling through his bloodstream, fizzing around inside him. It’s not enough to explain the way he wishes Osamu was here with him again, knocking his drink back and letting Kiyoomi’s eyes trail down the beautiful line of his throat – saying something cheeky and charming in that quiet yet assured tone he has, making Kiyoomi flush and roll his eyes in one – pressing his warmth against Kiyoomi’s side, carefully tucking stray curls out of Kiyoomi’s line of vision.
“I’m going to go talk to Washio and Inunaki,” Motoya announces suddenly. Kiyoomi glances at him in confusion. “I’ll, uh. I won’t wait up.”
Kiyoomi opens his mouth to ask for clarification, but then a shadow is cast over the bar, and he turns his head. He finds Osamu standing by his previous seat. There’s something thicker in the air between them, a little like it was before Motoya had interrupted.
“Hey,” Osamu says.
“Hey,” Kiyoomi responds. Behind him, he feels Motoya slip out of his seat, and his heartbeat gets a little quicker.
“I, uh.” Osamu scratches his head. “I think I’m gonna go.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi says. He’s dimly aware of the twinge of disappointment that showed in his voice, but he’s more focused on Osamu right now. The way he brightened up, just a little, at the sound of it.
“Suna offered to put me up, but even if he and ‘Tsumu weren’t…” Osamu trails off, then shakes his head a little, like he’s pulling himself back together. “I have a hotel room.”
He’s looking at Kiyoomi carefully, and it takes a moment, but –
“Oh,” Kiyoomi says again, this time a little more than a breath. I have a hotel room. Motoya’s voice: I won’t wait up.
Osamu has a hotel room, even though Suna offered to put him up, and Motoya offered to put Kiyoomi up. Osamu has a hotel room, and Kiyoomi wants him. He doesn’t just want to get off, from a purely pragmatic point of view, but he wants Osamu, wants him after a night of flirting, wants to taste beer on his tongue, wants to feel Osamu pressed against him, pushing inside him.
He wants it with a sharp, unfamiliar longing.
“I’ve finished my drink,” Kiyoomi says, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
Osamu grins, a bright, wild thing. He grabs his own glass and finishes it in one go. “So have I,” he says. “Look at that.”
“Such synchronised timing,” Kiyoomi deadpans.
“We’re just good at matching like that,” Osamu says, and it’s unfair how Kiyoomi’s brain stutters at the sentence. Unfair.
But then Osamu’s offering his hand, as if Kiyoomi needs help getting off a bar stool.
But then Osamu’s offering his hand, and it feels like an invitation.
Kiyoomi takes it.
✧
The second they get into Osamu’s hotel room, the silence of the night feels like it could swallow them up. Osamu takes off his shoes, and Kiyoomi follows, hyper aware of his every movement as he slots his own pair into the cubby beside Osamu’s. He takes his mask off, having only put it on again as they left the bar, and places it on top of the wooden storage block. Osamu takes off his cap, and runs his hand through his hair.
It falls a little into his face, just over his left eye, and Kiyoomi moves forward on instinct, brushing it back.
His hair is soft. His skin too, at least on his face. Kiyoomi knows that his hands are callused, bearing the mark of years of volleyball followed by years of even harder work chasing his own dreams.
Osamu’s breath hitches, and Kiyoomi feels it on his own skin. Then –
Kiyoomi’s back is against the wall. Osamu crowding him in. Kiyoomi letting him.
Osamu’s lips are hungry on his, but Kiyoomi is pressing back just as earnestly, just as fervently. He wants to lick the beer out of Osamu’s mouth. The want too, curled thick and heavy on their tongues. Kiyoomi tugs at Osamu’s shirt impatiently, pulling it up until Osamu is forced to break their kiss with a huff of laughter. He helps pull off his own shirt, then starts walking backwards towards the bedroom, pulling Kiyoomi with him by the hips. Kiyoomi’s hands are roaming Osamu’s torso, reacquainting themselves with his skin, and he hums contentedly into Osamu’s mouth.
Osamu groans at one particularly firm brush of Kiyoomi’s thumb against his nipple, and that goes straight to Kiyoomi’s dick. Fuck. Osamu sucks harder at Kiyoomi’s neck, leaving a trail of marks – bites, kisses, everything in between. They’re a little more visible than usual, but Kiyoomi doesn’t have it in him to care. He’s too dizzy with want.
He puts his hands around Osamu’s waist, encircling it completely, and it makes Kiyoomi short-circuit a bit. The knowledge that Osamu, with his strong arms and huge shoulders, who can lift Kiyoomi with ease, who could probably hold him up and fuck him against the wall right now if Kiyoomi asked him to, has a waist so narrow that it fits entirely in Kiyoomi’s hands… Fuck.
“Bed,” Osamu says, his voice rough with desire. Kiyoomi is happy to oblige.
“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” Osamu murmurs, pressing the words into Kiyoomi’s skin with kisses and bites, running his tongue over the tender skin a moment later. He sucks the words into Kiyoomi’s collar bone next, and Kiyoomi cries out, pressing up against him.
“Holy fuck, Kiyoomi,” Osamu breathes, and Kiyoomi wants him to say that again – again and again and again, each time punctuated with a thrust of his hips, with the feeling of him inside Kiyoomi, sliding through Kiyoomi, dragging against his walls.
“You’re talking too much,” Kiyoomi pants, which is as close as he’s going to get right now to asking Osamu to hurry up and fuck him, but Osamu seems to get the hint anyway. He shucks off his jeans, pretty much just kicking them off his legs, then leans over Kiyoomi. He lowers his head, and it’s hot, but Kiyoomi is really not in the mood for teasing, Osamu, what the fuck –
Osamu captures the edge of Kiyoomi’s MSBY tracksuit trousers with his teeth, and tugs. Kiyoomi thinks he could explode.
He raises his hips to help, and Osamu’s hands trail up the sides of his legs, making him shiver, before they finally catch on his waistband, pulling alongside his teeth. His nose drags across Kiyoomi’s dick, separated only by the thin fabric of his underwear, and Kiyoomi drops his head back on the pillows with a low whine.
Osamu finally gets them all the way down to his shins and then releases the trousers from his mouth, just pulling them the rest of the way and throwing them to the floor with a growl. While Kiyoomi normally takes more care of his clothes than that, he can’t bring himself to give a fuck right now. Besides. That growl was really fucking hot.
Reaching into the duffel bag beside the bed, Osamu pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom. Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at him, and Osamu shrugs, a little bashful.
“I figured you’d like it better if I was prepared, just in case,” he says, and it makes Kiyoomi shiver. He’s not sure why that makes his head spin a little, but it does. He’s right, of course; Kiyoomi’s pleased—fuck, even a little endeared—at this display of foresight.
“You know me so well,” Kiyoomi says, and it’s meant to be dry—a slightly deadpan comment to pierce how entirely overwhelming everything around them is, but backed up with some honesty, some truth—but it comes out a little more breathless than he’d intended.
Osamu pauses, and looks at him. He’s been looking at Kiyoomi all night, in so many different ways, but somehow this is the gaze that makes him feel most bare.
“Guess I do,” he says softly, then he leans forward, pressing a kiss to Kiyoomi’s lips. It starts a little sweet, but soon gets messy, slick mouths sliding across each other, tongues mingling in a way Kiyoomi could never have guessed he’d ever want, but now can’t bear the idea of stopping. While Osamu licks into his mouth, hot and practiced, Kiyoomi can feel Osamu tugging his underwear down his thighs. He raises his hips again to assist, and Osamu gets it down to just above his knees before he has to break the kiss. He shifts quickly out of the way, then pulls Kiyoomi’s underwear all the way down.
“You too,” Kiyoomi says, eyeing Osamu’s boxers.
Osamu smirks, but hooks his thumbs over his waistband and shoves down, finally baring himself entirely. The only thing he’s still wearing is his watch, and something about the sight of the leather encircling his wrist—just like how Kiyoomi’s hands had encircles his waist earlier, just like how the sight of Osamu after a shower had encircled Kiyoomi’s rib cage, catching his breath in his throat—makes Kiyoomi’s heart throb something frantic.
He climbs back onto the bed, moving towards Kiyoomi, and settling himself between his legs, bracing his arms on the mattress, bracketing Kiyoomi in. He ducks down and kisses Kiyoomi again, just as frantic and messy as before. He starts pulling back, but Kiyoomi chases him as he does, ending up half sitting upright.
“Eager,” Osamu murmurs against his lips. “Easy, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Kiyoomi knows that. He’s not worried about that. He just… wants.
Osamu pushes him back down, and Kiyoomi’s head hits the pillows. He’s about to protest, but then he sees Osamu reaching for the bottle of lube, and shuts up. This is an acceptable reason to stop kissing him.
He watches as Osamu rubs his hands together, pressing the palms and fingers against each other, warming the lube between his skin. It’s all friction and heat, sliding against something slick, and Kiyoomi wants that to be describing them so much that he aches for it.
“Y’ready?” Osamu asks. Kiyoomi starts nodding before he even finishes the question, and he huffs a laugh, but his eyes are dark too. He starts running his finger along the puckered skin of Kiyoomi’s rim, and Kiyoomi appreciates, in some part of himself, that he’s taking care with this.
More of him, however, is impatient, and he musters up his best frown.
“I said I’m ready,” he says. It sounds petulant even to his own ears, but he doesn’t care, not when Osamu swallows and his gaze darkens.
“Bossy,” Osamu says, but his voice is fond, and then he’s pressing a finger into Kiyoomi. Finally.
There’s none of the exploration from the first time Kiyoomi had let him do this—having done it himself at first, partially for vulnerability reasons but also partially for pragmatic ones, like the angles he could get his wrists at—nor the steady care Kiyoomi associates with Osamu during sex. This is more fervent than anything they’ve done before, pumping his finger back and forth, brushing against Kiyoomi’s prostate mercilessly, relentlessly.
It’s still not fast enough, so Kiyoomi huffs, and grabs the lube that Osamu tossed to the side. Osamu’s too busy sucking at the skin of Kiyoomi’s hip to notice what he’s doing; at least, that’s Kiyoomi’s best guess for the strangled moan Osamu lets out against his skin when Kiyoomi slips his own hand down between them, pressing a freshly-coated finger in alongside Osamu’s. The angle’s a little awkward because of Osamu’s head, but Kiyoomi doesn’t want him to move it. He likes the feeling of Osamu’s mouth on him, of the marks he’s leaving all over Kiyoomi’s body. Besides, it’s not like he can’t make the angle work anyway.
“What the fuck, Kiyoomi,” Osamu says, a little breathless, pulling back from Kiyoomi’s skin with a groan. Kiyoomi will allow it, if only because the look on Osamu’s face as he watches his finger work in tandem with Kiyoomi’s makes his head spin.
“You were taking too long,” Kiyoomi says evenly, as if he’s not currently stark naked in a hotel room, fucking himself with both his own finger and the finger of the hottest guy he knows.
Dimly, he wonders when he’d come to that conclusion—compared Osamu against everyone he’s ever met and decided to give him the crown—but that thought soon trails into non-existence when Osamu presses a second finger to the edge of him. Kiyoomi nods – a sharp, terse thing, but all Osamu seems to need, because he just gives Kiyoomi a feral grin then pushes it inside, all the way to the first knuckle.
“Fuck,” Osamu says, looking at their fingers disappearing into Kiyoomi with awe. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, honestly, but Kiyoomi’s not mad about it. He’s had three fingers before, but they’ve always been only his—slightly softer, longer, more flexible but thinner—or only Osamu’s – thicker, rougher, but even better with deft movements, at teasing out the hidden spots. The combination is unexpected, and a little overwhelming, but surprisingly wonderful.
Kiyoomi tries not to think of it as a metaphor.
“Kiyoomi,” Osamu says, and it comes out in a rush. Not the usual inflection he puts into Kiyoomi’s name—a little like he’s savouring it, drawing out the taste of it, as if he doesn’t have an endless supply—but like the syllables are tripping over themselves on the way out of his mouth. “Kiyoomi, are you – ”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says, cutting him off. “Hurry up. I’m waiting.”
Osamu lets out a laugh, an incredulous thing, but there’s a note of affection to it that Kiyoomi hadn’t expected. Fondness despite himself.
“Everyone always says you’re so polite,” Osamu says conversationally as he draws his fingers out of him. He brushes his fingers against Kiyoomi’s throbbing dick, with an expression of innocence that doesn’t fool Kiyoomi in the slightest, then wipes his fingers against the sheets on the far edge of the bed. Which is disgusting. But.
It means his hands are dry as they press into Kiyoomi’s skin, as Osamu lifts one of his legs and drapes it over his shoulder, as Osamu runs one hand over his chest, brushing over his nipple, as the other hand anchors itself firmly onto Kiyoomi’s hip, pressing firm points of heat from each of his fingertips.
It means his hands are unencumbered Osamu, his callus-roughened skin and the steady warmth of his touch, so Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to mind too much.
Osamu tears open the condom sachet with his teeth, then grabs the condom and rolls it over himself. It’s a surprisingly smooth gesture, considering how slowly Kiyoomi is used to him doing it, but he sees the want in Osamu’s eyes, and it makes sense.
“Y’ready, Kiyoomi?” he asks. His voice is a little quieter than the last time he asked, and Kiyoomi wipes his finger against the other pillow case, then throws the pillow to the ground away from their heads. He reaches up and presses his hand against Osamu’s jaw, cupping his face.
“Yes,” he says, a patient answer for once. It doesn’t last long. “Please fuck me already.”
Osamu drops his head and laughs against the column of Kiyoomi’s throat, pressing slowly into Kiyoomi as he does so. His lips brush over one of the marks he’d left earlier, the skin still tender beneath his touch, and Kiyoomi shivers. He can’t focus on it for long, though, because all his thoughts are being torn from his grasp, his mind instead filled with the feeling of being stretched. Everything around him is just Osamu, Osamu, Osamu – he’s entirely surrounded, because Osamu’s lips are on his throat, and Osamu’s shoulder is beneath his leg, and Osamu’s arms are pressing against his sides, and Osamu is inside of him, his cock dragging against Kiyoomi’s walls, pushing in further, deeper.
“You good?” Osamu asks, lifting his head from Kiyoomi’s neck when he’s finally fully sheathed.
Kiyoomi nods. He doesn’t know if he can speak very well right now.
“Maybe the gag really isn’t necessary,” Osamu quips, and it’s frankly unfair how much a ridiculous little comment—it’s barely even a joke; it’s a callback at best—makes Kiyoomi’s heart thud.
“You talk too much,” Kiyoomi says, which is a lie. Well. Osamu does talk a lot, at least when it’s just the two of them, pressed together like this, but Kiyoomi likes it. Still, he can think of better things for that mouth to be doing than running itself, so he weaves his fingers into Osamu’s hair and pulls his head down.
Osamu goes into the kiss easily, thrusting as he does. He grips Kiyoomi’s leg—the one over his shoulder—to keep it from slipping, then draws himself up higher, lifting Kiyoomi slightly off the bed as he does so. And oh, the new angle makes Kiyoomi shudder into Osamu’s mouth, both from the new depth Osamu is managing to hit, but the faster speed he’s moving at from the easier access.
Kiyoomi’s head feels like it’s losing itself in warmth, but he’s more intoxicated on Osamu than he was on the alcohol, and he captures Osamu’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. He nips at the skin of his lips, and is rewarded by Osamu picking up the pace somehow. The rhythm is intense, the most intense Kiyoomi has ever experienced – a deep, explosive jackhammering, like Osamu’s trying to press himself so far into Kiyoomi that he’ll leave a permanent imprint, and the sound of skin slapping against skin, and it should be too overwhelming, but Kiyoomi just wants.
“Hah – fuck, Kiyoomi, fuck,” Osamu murmurs, breaking the kiss to slide his lips against Kiyoomi’s jaw. It’s not even like he’s kissing him there – he’s just moving his mouth mindlessly, his eyes a little glazed, just wanting contact.
Kiyoomi can relate.
Osamu moves his head again, and Kiyoomi’s eyes catch on his left ear. Not the ear, really, so much as the industrial piercing he has there, with dark red ends to match the studs he has in each lobe.
Without warning—without even really thinking about it—Kiyoomi leans forward and catches the end lightly between his teeth. He releases it and exhales, letting his warm breath play over the skin there.
Osamu’s breath hitches, and then suddenly he’s pounding even harder than before, but his pace is erratic, his rhythm interrupted.
“You’re – a – menace,” Osamu says, all breathless laughter even as he punctuates each word with a thrust, but his eyes are darker than Kiyoomi’s ever seen them, and it makes something in his chest flutter. He had no idea industrials were so sensitive, but he fully intends to take advantage of that now.
“That’s my word,” Kiyoomi says. “Thief.”
“Only fair,” Osamu retorts. “Ya took my breath away, so. Fair’s fair.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t even know where to begin with that one, but then Osamu drops his head to Kiyoomi’s shoulder and sinks his teeth in, right in time with a particularly powerful thrust, dragging over the prostate as he does, and suddenly Kiyoomi can’t think of anything as his eyes roll to the back of his head, tearing up a little as they do so. He feels completely fucked out.
It’s their messiest night together yet, maybe because it’s the one that is the least planned, least clinical. It’s a more specific want than general libido, and it’s not what was supposed to happen, but Kiyoomi isn’t thinking about that when Osamu is kissing him against the wall, when they’re drinking each other in with their eyes. When Osamu is bucking against him, when Kiyoomi’s wrists are angling between them, when Osamu is fucking into him. When Kiyoomi’s breath on Osamu’s piercing makes him shiver, when Osamu bites his shoulder, when they lick into each other’s mouths like there’s something hiding in there that only they can find. When Osamu comes, not with a shout, but chanting Kiyoomi’s name against his throat like a litany. When Osamu jacks Kiyoomi off, swallowing Kiyoomi’s broken cry of his name with the same steady surety as his hands catch most of Kiyoomi’s come, only breaking their kiss to reach over to grab the pillow from the ground and tug off its pillowcase, using it to wipe his hand and the bits that splattered across their skin.
His hands are gentle as they clean Kiyoomi's over-sensitive dick, trying not to stimulate him too much, and eventually he gets them all cleaned up, throwing the pillowcase to the floor. Which is gross, but Kiyoomi doesn’t want to say that, because then Osamu might get up to deal with it.
“You should shower,” Osamu says, and Kiyoomi frowns. Not because it’s a bad idea; because Osamu is right, and Kiyoomi knows it. “I’d wipe you, but I won’t be able to get everything, and you’ll hate that in the morning.”
Forget the morning; he hates the idea now. Still, he doesn’t want to get up yet.
“In a bit,” Kiyoomi says, and Osamu smiles. It’s slow, gentle – a little charming, a little warm, spreading across his face like the sun slowly dawning.
Kiyoomi needs to get a grip.
“Okay,” Osamu says, then lays down next to him, propping himself up on one arm. Kiyoomi pushes at him a little until Osamu gets the hint and flops backwards, his head barely on the pillow. Kiyoomi pushes it closer to him, then rests his own head on Osamu’s chest. Which – sweaty, and gross. Major downsides.
But it’s warm, and comfortable. Safe, which is just what his body craves right now. He likes Osamu’s chest, too – likes the valley of his pecs, the way they pillow Kiyoomi’s head.
“You’re so much like a cat sometimes,” Osamu says, amused, but he strokes Kiyoomi’s hair, and Kiyoomi doesn’t think about how domestic it feels.
Osamu helps him shower after, which is new. Afterwards, all toweled up and warm, they tumble into the bed, still with one pillow. Osamu rests his head on one end, and Kiyoomi places his own right beside his, curling into Osamu’s body. Osamu slings an arm around Kiyoomi, even though he always runs hot, and Kiyoomi guesses he knows that Kiyoomi craves that warmth to sleep.
Kiyoomi stays the night, which isn’t normal. But it’s a hotel. And they’re not at home. And they’re tipsy, and tired, and it’s not what’s supposed to happen, but Kiyoomi doesn’t think about it.
And if Osamu makes him food in the morning using the hotel kitchenette, flashing Kiyoomi a smile as he pads out in one of Osamu’s hoodies and not much else, well. It’s just because it’s convenient.
These are all valid reasons, right?
Right.
✧
Something shifts. Their texts get a little more… charged, Kiyoomi thinks. He feels more honest in them. Not that he was ever lying before. But now there’s something more to be honest about.
He doesn’t know how to explain it. Doesn’t know if he wants to, either.
Osamu invites him over one night, and he goes. There’s no quippy back and forth this time, dancing around reasons to invite each other in without saying the words – instead, Osamu just texts him come over, and Kiyoomi doesn’t even think about it before he slips on his shoes, texting back okay.
Osamu makes him food. Osamu makes him onigiri, and Kiyoomi lets him, even though he normally doesn’t like onigiri, because of the touching.
But he trusts Osamu’s hands. He knows he takes care of them, with them.
They eat, and Osamu laughs, and he makes Kiyoomi smile. He teases Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him, and Kiyoomi likes that he’s mean sometimes, that he’s capable of subtlety, that his lips curve into a smirk that tug at the edges of Kiyoomi’s chest, but he didn’t realise it could be this much. He had underestimated Osamu’s words, Osamu’s laugh, Osamu, Osamu, Osamu.
It’s not until the night is over, and Osamu is walking him to the door, that Kiyoomi realises they didn’t do anything with ‘benefits’ all night.
“What’s up?” Osamu asks, clocking the expression on his face.
Kiyoomi looks at him—runs his eyes over the planes of his face, the crooked tilt to his smile, the laugh lines around his eyes that weren’t there a few years ago—and swallows.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just thinking that next time I’ll bring that matcha ice cream you were talking about, so you can try to prove your recipe’s deliciousness.”
Osamu’s eyes sparkle, and he smirks. “There is no try,” he says, leaning against the doorway. “Only do.”
And he looks so handsome—charming and ridiculous, with a smile on his lips, laughter etched into the lines of his eyes—that Kiyoomi has a helpless moment where all he wants is to kiss him.
But he pulls himself together, and snorts instead. “Or fail, in your case,” he snarks, stepping backwards into the night.
“You’ll eat your words, Kiyoomi,” Osamu calls out, and Kiyoomi can’t help the grin that paints itself on his face.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he promises, then turns away to walk home.
He has a terrible feeling that if he didn’t leave right then, he never would have.
✧
Kiyoomi: on a scale of one to ten, how weird is it to spend the night with your fwb without doing anything
Kuroo: define anything
Kuroo: also which end is the weirdest
Kiyoomi: 10
Kiyoomi: anything meaning sex, or anything like it
Kuroo: uh
Kuroo: ok
Kuroo: let me get this straight
Kuroo: you went to your fuck buddy’s for… what, a few hours? and did not fuck. yes?
Kiyoomi: yes
Kuroo: lmao
Kuroo: 10 in terms of fwb
Kiyoomi: what other spectrum is there for this
Kuroo: well
Kuroo: that’s pretty normal behaviour for someone you’ve got feelings for kiyoomi-kun
Kiyoomi: [typing]
Kiyoomi: [typing]
Kuroo: wow don’t hurt yourself there trying to think
Kuroo: just take my word for it dude
Kiyoomi: ugh
Kiyoomi: go back to seducing my captain with your best friend who you also want to fuck
Kiyoomi: please tell me you don’t have a msby kink
Kuroo: the idea of kissing you, dye job miya, chibi-chan or Tall, Married or Mischievous are total turn offs dw
Kiyoomi: thank god
Kuroo: anyway
Kuroo: succeeded with the captain 👉🏽👉🏽
Kiyoomi: what, and now you’re giving up?
Kiyoomi: as if
Kuroo: will you give him flowers for me
Kiyoomi: absolutely not
Kiyoomi: just get bokuto to do it
Kuroo: oh yeah
Kuroo: but what if i want to give bokuto flowers too
Kiyoomi: then come do it yourself?
Kuroo: oh
Kuroo: sometimes you have good ideas
Kiyoomi: idiot
Kuroo: go get your hot onigiri man
Kiyoomi: 🖕
✧
“You seem happy, Omi-Omi!” Bokuto says, bounding over to him.
Kiyoomi looks at him incredulously.
“Not, like, right now specifically, just in general, you seem happier,” Bokuto clarifies.
“Yeah!” Hinata choruses, because Kiyoomi cannot trust anyone. “You’ve even started using emojis!”
Kiyoomi blinks, lost at the logic there, but Bokuto nods seriously.
“Kuroo told me you sent him a middle finger emoji the other day,” Bokuto says thoughtfully. “Which isn’t super surprising for you to send Kuroo, but the fact that it was an emoji at all is – wow! I’ve never seen you use them before until recently.”
Atsumu, clearly listening, smirks. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes.
“Well, he’s probably been talkin’ to someone who uses emojis a lot then, hasn’t he?” Atsumu says, because he is a walking headache. Kiyoomi’s brow furrows, though, as he considers it. It’s true that Osamu uses emojis more than anyone else who Kiyoomi texts regularly – some of his teammates, especially Bokuto and Hinata, use emojis a lot, of course, but Kiyoomi doesn’t text them much. If they need him, they’ll see each other basically every day anyway, and Kiyoomi’s never had much interest in mindless chatter. He texts Motoya, Wakatoshi-kun and Iizuna more than anyone – his siblings sometimes, though his brother tends to FaceTime so that little Ryouta-kun can try mimic Kiyoomi’s grumpy expressions, an inexplicable favourite pastime of his nephew’s. None of them use emojis that frequently, unless Suna or Hoshiumi steal Motoya or Wakatoshi-kun’s phones.
So Atsumu’s probably right. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Who’ve you been talking to recently, Omi-Omi?” Bokuto asks curiously.
“None of your business,” Kiyoomi retorts reflexively, then cringes when Atsumu’s smirk widens, probably remembering when Osamu said the exact same thing to him.
“Y’know, if you’re textin’ someone that much, you probably like hangin’ out with ‘em, right?” Atsumu says, appealing to Hinata rather than Kiyoomi.
“Yeah!” Hinata says enthusiastically. “I pick up stuff from my friends all the time—well, not Tsukki, but that’s just because his habits are so finicky, I dunno how Kageyama deals with it all the time—and Tsutomu most of all.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m always learning new words from Kuroo and ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto says. “Not really words from Yukippe and Konoha, but Yukippe’s got this little wrist thing she does before meals, like – ” He imitates it, and Kiyoomi recognises it as a habit Bokuto has every time he gets ready to serve. “And I’ve started doing it too! It’s like her war cry, she told me once, I dunno, so I guess I picked it up. And Kuroo says I scrunch my nose at him like Konoha… which is so neat! Super cool to pick up things from the people you love, yeah?”
Kiyoomi reels back, and Atsumu looks a little out of his depth.
“Er, yeah, real neat, Bokkun,” Atsumu says, slinging an arm around his shoulder. He leads him towards the net, and Kiyoomi can hear him asking Bokuto to practice some sets with him.
“Hey, Omi-san?” Hinata says, and Kiyoomi peers down at him. “You don’t have to… I mean, love’s a big word, and Bokuto just meant it because he loves all his friends and all, but…” He chews his lower lip thoughtfully, then: “I think Osamu-san is really cool!”
Kiyoomi blinks, but Hinata continues. “He’s good at everything he tries, y’know?” Which, yes. Kiyoomi is very aware. Though he’d argue against Osamu’s skill with emoji combinations, because some of the ones he comes up with should be considered crimes against any being with working eyes. “And it seems to me that he’s been trying to take care of you.”
At that, Kiyoomi’s gaze sharpens, staring at Hinata in confusion. His teammate just shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “I don’t know anything, really,” he says. “I’ve just noticed how you two talk now, and look at each other sometimes, that’s all.”
With that, he leaves Kiyoomi to his thoughts, laughing as he shouts out to Atsumu to set him a ball too.
✧
Atsumu: pining doesn’t suit you omi-kun
Kiyoomi: shut up
✧
Kiyoomi: have you talked to iizuna?
Motoya: kinda. he sent me a playlist lmao
Kiyoomi: wow
Kiyoomi: are you going to talk to him?
Motoya: idk
Motoya: we’ve known each other long enough that it’s kinda tempting not to
Motoya: besides neither of us are u
Kiyoomi: what does that mean?
Motoya: you’ve never been able to rest w/o seeing smth thru, u know?
Motoya: like when u decided u were gonna be able to receive ushiwaka’s serves no matter what
Motoya: most people would have just given up or let the pieces fall where they may
Motoya: not u
Kiyoomi: hm
Motoya: lmao
Motoya: go get that fuck buddy of urs
Kiyoomi: i’ll block you
Motoya: LOL
Motoya: good luck!!!!!!!
✧
Kiyoomi: hey
Osamu: hey
Kiyoomi: are you busy?
Osamu: for you? Never
Kiyoomi: you literally own a business
Kiyoomi: i should change your name in my phone to CEO
Osamu: ew, please don’t
Osamu: anyway nah i’m just at home
Kiyoomi: can you come over?
Osamu: [typing]
Osamu: [typing]
Osamu: sure
✧
It’s the first time they’ve ever been in Kiyoomi’s space, because he is particular about it, and Osamu is not.
Kiyoomi thinks about how he made the first step, but how Osamu has made all the real emotional moves. He thinks it’s probably his turn.
“So, what’s up?” Osamu asks. He’s sitting patiently on the only seat Kiyoomi has in his room, nursing a cup of sencha tea. He’s not sure if Osamu even wants it, or if he just politely accepted it because he could tell Kiyoomi needed something to do with his hands. He’s still wearing his leather jacket, the one he told Kiyoomi he bought after he finally saved up enough to buy a motorcycle.
Kiyoomi doesn’t know if he likes motorcycles, but he thinks he’d be willing to try riding one with Osamu.
“It’s about our arrangement,” Kiyoomi says, which feels like a terrible way to start, but he doesn’t know how else to go about it.
Osamu stiffens slightly, but keeps his posture open, looking at Kiyoomi carefully.
“I think it’s gone well past pragmatism now,” Kiyoomi says bluntly. Osamu frowns.
“Meaning what, exactly?” he asks. There’s a note to his voice that Kiyoomi can’t decipher, but he doesn’t let himself get caught on that. He has to be honest here. Either the pieces will fall where he hopes, or they won’t, but he still has to say it.
Motoya’s right. Kiyoomi has always seen it through, whether it’s learning a new skill or wringing orgasms out of Osamu. Now is not the time to shy away from who he’s always been.
“I started this because my thoughts would wander during sexual stimulation,” Kiyoomi begins. “They don’t wander anymore.”
Osamu’s expression looks conflicted, but Kiyoomi keeps talking. “I think that’s because I’m already thinking about you a lot, even when we’re not sexually involved.” Osamu’s eyes widen, but Kiyoomi plows on. “I can’t be distracted from you when you’re already my focus.”
He takes a deep breath, and looks Osamu in the eyes. He looks shocked, but not unhappy. He doesn’t look particularly anything, actually, but Kiyoomi has to keep talking. He owes it to them both.
“I want you, even when I’m not frustrated,” he says, his voice ringing clearly in the silence of the room.
He stays standing. Waits as Osamu digests this all. Holds his breath.
“Kiyoomi, I – ” Osamu says, then falters. In the back of his mind, Kiyoomi wonders when Osamu started calling him by his first name outside of their trysts. He thinks it probably means something that he can’t pinpoint it. “You sure?”
And it’s the same way he asks Kiyoomi if he’s ready, every time – the same way he’d asked Kiyoomi if he was all good that first time he’d come over for sex specifically – the same way he’d asked Kiyoomi why me, that very first day. Like at all points, he’s thinking about giving Kiyoomi room to breathe. An exit strategy if he needs.
In that moment, Kiyoomi is more sure than ever that he doesn’t.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says, his heart hammering in his ears. “Even if you’ve made me start using emojis, and you have the worst taste in ice cream combinations, and you just – say things, and I have to hear them.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, and Osamu lets out a laugh – a little broken in a few places, but so, so unbearably fond that it almost makes Kiyoomi shy away to hear it. “Even with all that. Yeah. I’m sure. I want you.”
“I really like you,” Osamu confesses, and then he’s standing up, standing in front of Kiyoomi. His eyes are trained on Kiyoomi’s, and Kiyoomi thinks he could drown in them.
“Thank fuck,” Kiyoomi says, and then Osamu is surging forward, pressing his lips against Kiyoomi’s.
It’s chaste, and sweet, and it feels a little like Osamu’s pressing a promise to his mouth, instead of just lips against his.
Kiyoomi wants to sink into it forever.
They kiss for a long while. Osamu’s tea goes cold. Kiyoomi ignores his phone vibrating against the table, instead drawing Osamu closer to him. At some point, he presses his leg between Osamu’s, and the look Osamu gives him is pure affection, with a thread of a slow, coiling heat running through it. They slowly take off their clothes, exploring each other’s bodies with a care and openness they’ve never let themselves use before.
Osamu presses kisses along the line of Kiyoomi’s rib cage, dotting each and every mole they find, murmuring something to them each time. Kiyoomi can’t tell what it is, but it feels like a type of devotion.
He kisses Kiyoomi’s thighs, and Kiyoomi curls his fingers in his hair, tugging lightly on it as Osamu relearns the shape of Kiyoomi’s dick with his lips.
They end up on the bed eventually, pressed up tight against each other, with Osamu’s fingers roaming all over Kiyoomi’s body, Kiyoomi’s mouth latched to Osamu’s right nipple, his fingers to his left.
Osamu presses into Kiyoomi, all slow and steady thrusts, but they make the heat in the pit of Kiyoomi’s stomach coil and build. Everything is rising in him – the relief at everything, the way it’s all clicking into place in the space between his ribs, the arousal and affection he feels for Osamu, twined together into something utterly incomparable.
Nothing they’re doing right now is technically new, Kiyoomi knows. They’ve already done everything, but it’s like… it’s like Osamu is rediscovering him. Kiyoomi doesn’t understand it, exactly, but he’s not complaining, even if Osamu is saying such embarrassing things.
“You’re so fuckin’...” Osamu says, thrusting into him, dropping his head down – but instead of resting on Kiyoomi’s neck, or shoulder, he presses his forehead against Kiyoomi’s, looking him right in the eyes.
“Nice?” Kiyoomi offers dryly, thinking about their conversation at the bar.
“Pretty,” Osamu corrects, kissing his name out of Kiyoomi’s mouth when Kiyoomi tries to object. “Beautiful,” he murmurs against Kiyoomi’s lips, which is just – completely fucking unexpected. Kiyoomi had meant it earlier, when listing off all of Osamu’s crimes that Kiyoomi liked him in spite of. Every day, Osamu says words, and every day, Kiyoomi is forced to hear them.
Beautiful’s a new one, though, and he doesn’t know how to dismiss it, not when Osamu’s got him like this, laid bare and wanting, all for him.
He’s not unduly humble or anything. He’s just not delicate, and the words Osamu uses feel like they’re for something precious. Something breakable.
He thinks about the way Osamu’s hands feel when they hold him. Sometimes fierce and fervent, like he knows Kiyoomi won’t break—Kiyoomi thinks of the time at the hotel with a flush—but sometimes it’s more like this.
Maybe breakable was the wrong word. Maybe it’s more like when you hold something that matters. Even if it’s strong enough for some wear and tear, you want to take care of it anyway, because you cherish it.
Ugh. So fucking sappy. Kiyoomi is going to sue Osamu for infecting him with such a terrible plight like feelings.
✧
It’s 2am, and Osamu is making food. Kiyoomi’s showered, and he’s wearing Osamu’s hoodie. It feels a little like déjà vu, except this time they’re in Kiyoomi’s space, and it’s past midnight, and there are no more rules to keep in mind. The night is quiet, but the kitchen is humming as Osamu moves through it with care. It’s full of banter, and teasing, and that beautifully warm smile on Osamu’s face – the one that makes Kiyoomi feel like he’s been set on fire.
“Are you staying tonight?” Kiyoomi asks, a little hesitantly.
Osamu pauses in his cooking, and turns to look at Kiyoomi front on. His smile is smaller now, but no less sincere – just a little more intimate. The whole night has felt intimate, Kiyoomi thinks.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Osamu says, and Kiyoomi feels something unfurl in his chest. It matches the smile blooming at his lips.