Chapter Text
Objectively, Kiyoomi has a good life.
He pays his taxes. He’s cordial with his colleagues. He calls his parents once a week, however stiff those conversations may be. He gives money to charity, helps old ladies cross the street, has a separate bin for recycling, etc. And on top of all that, he has a well-paying job where he gets to do what he loves everyday; any normal person would agree he has absolutely nothing to complain about.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which way you view it), ‘any normal person’ has never met Miya Atsumu, and therefore cannot comment on anything. Ever.
To describe Miya and his subsequent (negative) effect on Kiyoomi’s sanity is an impossible task. In short, he is someone who sets volleyballs for Kiyoomi to spike. Granted, he does have some value when it comes to that, making it quite literally the only thing concerning Miya that Kiyoomi does not have any major problem with.
Everything else is, of course, fair game.
There are a lot of things Kiyoomi finds to be unreasonably annoying about Miya; he’d probably die before he listed each one out in detail. There’s his hair, never toned properly, always a single lighting change away from being piss-yellow. There’s his smile, so cocky and self assured no matter the situation that Kiyoomi’s constantly half tempted to put a fist through it. There’s his tendency to barge into Kiyoomi’s room unannounced to show him something stupid on his phone before walking out, not closing the door behind him. There’s the way he lounges around Kiyoomi’s apartment like he owns it, dirty feet sprawled over his coffee table. The way he never cleans up after himself. The way his voice is always a few decibels louder than deemed socially acceptable. The way he drinks up attention; loitering around cameras, signing autographs, accepting fan gifts, offering to take selfies.
Oh god, the selfies. Miya takes at least one a day, and Kiyoomi swears he does it with the sole purpose of being irritating. It’s like he’s physically incapable of keeping his fucking tongue in his mouth; every photo has him winking, or throwing up a peace sign, or something equally as juvenile. He posts them, too, and for some reason it makes his fans go batshit insane. Sometimes, when Kiyoomi’s so bored he thinks he might pass out (and only then), he goes through the comments they leave, curious.
He usually lasts a minute before clicking out, though, his stomach not nearly strong enough to handle all the things people are so open about wanting. Most of it’s just horny teenage girls pleading for Miya to give them a chance despite the age gap, all ‘he knows what he’s doing’ and ‘ohmygosh I need him so bad’ and ‘Sakusa doesn’t know what to do with all that’.
Well. That last one Kiyoomi only saw once, months ago now, but it’s stuck with him for obvious reasons. He still doesn’t understand why someone would ever say something like that. In what world would he ever, ever find himself in a situation where he has to ‘do’ something with ‘all that’ of Miya’s? The answer is none, not in any single universe would Kiyoomi even want to be near Miya in the context the fans have deluded themselves into believing is their reality.
Despite what Miya might try to tell you, Kiyoomi is not stupid. He knows a 一 disgustingly large 一 part of the MSBY Jackal’s fanbase is of the belief that he and Miya are, for lack of a better term, fucking. It’s preposterous, but you can’t stop people from thinking what they want, so he’s learnt to let it be. It’s become yet another passive part of his life; another inconvenience that would not exist if Osamu simply ate Miya in the womb like Kiyoomi so desperately wishes he had.
Which brings Kiyoomi back to his original point.
He’s been with MSBY for a little over six months now, and over that time his tolerance for Miya has slowly risen. The things that drove him crazy in the first week only receive an exasperated sigh now, and he’s able to have conversations with Miya that most would deem semi-civil. Sometimes, he even finds himself thinking they might become friends at some point in the distant future, but then Miya will do or say something that brings them right back to square one and negates all their progress.
Take right now as an example.
By now, it’s common knowledge how much Kiyoomi values his sleep. He’s gone on multiple tangents about its importance to health, and practically everyone on his team knows that if he doesn’t get his eight hours in, he'll be irritable and grumpy the next day. Everyone except Miya, it seems, since it is currently two in the morning and he won’t shut the fuck up.
Their apartments are right next to each other, so it was inevitable they’d end up sharing a wall. The fact that it’s their bedroom wall has got to be some kind of joke from the universe; cosmic karma for all the times Kiyoomi’s complained about Miya’s snoring.
Yet he wishes it was snoring keeping him up instead of whatever this is. Snoring is constant and, if gone on for long enough, easy to regard as brown noise or tune out completely. This is something else entirely; it keeps changing how long it goes on for, how high or low it is, where in the room it seems to come from. Because of this, Kiyoomi doesn’t know when to expect it and keeps getting lulled into a false sense of security before it comes again, waking him from whatever microsleep he’d managed to fall into.
Kiyoomi throws a pillow over his face and lets out a low groan. His whole body is hot, slick with sweat and begging for rest. Miya’s been keeping him awake for at least a half hour with no sign of stopping. Seriously, what is he even doing?!
The sound comes again, higher and more drawn out this time, and Kiyoomi’s patience is spread even thinner. A tiny part of him, shoved all the way in the back of his mind, recognises it for what it probably is, but the thought of Miya doing that is so revolting Kiyoomi refuses to acknowledge the possibility. Instead, he draws his blanket up to his chin and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that if he一
“Ah. . . Atsumu!”
Okay. Yep, definitely a moan. Fucking great. Amazing. Exactly what Kiyoomi wants to be hearing at. . . two thirty am, mere hours before a practice match with the man who’s currently being praised to the heavens by some girl he likely doesn’t know the name of.
It’s no secret that Miya is. . . promiscuous. All the information Kiyoomi has about Miya’s sexual encounters he has learnt against his will, most of it coming from the man himself. More often than not he’ll be covered in markings, hickeys and bruises peeking out the collar of a shirt, half hidden by clothing. He’s always boasting about how quickly he made this girl come and that guy beg, and it’s gotten to a point where he seems to be having sex once a week minimum.
One time, Kiyoomi was lining up to serve and Miya bent down in a way that made his shorts ride up, revealing bite marks where his thighs met the curve of his ass, and Kiyoomi was hit with the sudden realisation that there’s a person out there who had a desire to bite Miya’s ass, and Miya let them. Probably liked it, too, judging by the sheer amount of bites littering his skin. Indents of teeth pressed into tan muscle, deep enough to leave a prominent mark, deep enough to hurt. A lot. Maybe even draw blood.
But Miya likes it like that, doesn’t he? He wants to be put in his place, needs it, which is why he’s so boisterous all the time; he’s waiting for someone, for Kiyoomi一
No, no. No. No. Kiyoomi is not thinking of Miya like that, no fucking way. He’s fallen into this trap more than a few times before, brought himself to orgasm with the thought of teaching Miya how to be good, but then morning comes and he’ll interact with Miya and be reminded of all the reasons it wouldn’t work, the main one being Miya’s entire personality.
The girl in Miya’s room whines again, something about being close, Atsumu I’m so close, keep going. Kiyoomi notices a distinct lack of Miya’s own voice, unsure how to react when he realises it’s probably because his mouth is occupied.
Kiyoomi turns onto his back when he feels warmth start to settle low in his stomach. His heart beats rapidly in his throat as he listens to the girl’s moans get louder and more frequent, Miya’s name like honey on her tongue. Kiyoomi grimaces at the sound of her orgasm, a firm reminder of his lack of attraction towards women.
After that, there’s silence. Blissful, uninterrupted silence. And Kiyoomi thinks that’s it. It’s over. He can finally go to sleep and forget any of this ever happened.
Kiyoomi’s chest loosens as he breathes out, relieved. Facing Miya is something he’ll agonise over tomorrow, a bridge he does not yet have to cross. The promise of sleep is too sweet for Kiyoomi to focus on anything other than falling into it anyways, and that is exactly what he plans on doing.
But then Miya says, “I needta come, please. . . I’ll do anythin’ for it,” and Kiyoomi’s world tilts on its axis.
His heart stops beating completely before returning at ten times its normal speed, a hummingbird trying to escape the confines of his chest, so prominent Kiyoomi can feel it in his eyelids. His dick hardens at the whine in Miya’s voice, straining against his pyjama pants and demanding to be touched. Any chance of falling asleep is gone, cruelly ripped away and replaced with horniness that swallows him like a wave. Touch yourself, his body tells him, you know you want to.
For a brief second Kiyoomi seriously considers it, but then the reality of his situation hits and he realises what a horrible idea that is. Getting worked up over hearing someone have sex is normal; masturbating because of it is anything but. It would blur far too many lines for Kiyoomi’s liking and end up doing way more harm than good, so he decides not to give in to the urge no matter how strong it gets.
Kiyoomi forces himself to take a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. It calms him by the tiniest margins; takes a bit of his attention away from the fact that he’s currently turned on because of Miya. His body wants nothing more than to grind into something, someone, and to deny himself so greatly feels like hell. Worse than hell, actually.
Because try as Kiyoomi might, he cannot stop himself from imagining what Miya must look like to be making those sounds, which in hindsight is a terrible fucking idea. He must make such a pretty sight, eyes rolled back and lips parted in a silent gasp, voice hoarse from how much he’s been babbling一
Kiyoomi’s hips involuntarily jerk up, a desperate attempt to get some friction. There’s a wet patch at the front of his pants, physical proof of how affected he is. By Miya, no less. The thought alone is enough to revolt Kiyoomi, make him question both his life choices and lucidity.
Miya chooses that moment to whimper, absolutely beautiful, and Kiyoomi’s resolve breaks, shattering into pieces onto the floor. Without thinking, he raises a hand and smacks it against the wall that connects them with the same force he uses whilst spiking, palm stinging with pain.
It’s so loud even Kiyoomi flinches in surprise, eyes widening with the realisation of what he’s done. All the noise in Miya’s bedroom ceases completely, plunging the both of them into oppressive silence, and Kiyoomi would relish in it if not for the alarm bells going off in his head.
He holds his breath in his throat, waiting for. . . he doesn’t know. A reaction from Miya, probably. A sign that this isn’t all part of some elaborate fever dream.
One, two, three seconds pass with nothing at all. Not a single sign of life from a man who’d been thrumming with it mere moments ago. Well, Kiyoomi supposed it’s for the better. Maybe Miya’s been successfully intimidated, and he’ll learn how to shut up for once. Maybe he’ll even send that girl home for fear of being further found out. Maybe once she’s gone Miya will realise he’s still in the mood and take care of it himself, a hand thrown over his mouth as he jerks himself off, biting down on his fingers to be quiet for Kiyoomi, to be good for him.
The possibilities are endless, really.
There’s no response for so long that Kiyoomi genuinely starts to think Miya’s given up on getting laid. This is, of course, an extremely stupid thought, seeing as it’s Miya and the man would be more likely to give up volleyball than sex.
A low sort of shuffling sound from Miya’s room, then, “Omi?”
And fuck, fuck. Fuck. Miya’s voice is all low and scratchy and wrecked, scratching parts of Kiyoomi’s brain he hadn’t known existed. The nickname 一 something Kiyoomi has criticised and complained about more times than he can remember 一 makes it sound like Kiyoomi’s the reason for Miya being in that state, and isn’t that a thought? Being the one in charge of Miya’s pleasure, holding what is essentially the world in his hands. . .
“Be quiet,” he says weakly, with absolutely no bite. The amount of precome leaking from his dick would be a cause for worry if it weren’t accompanied by slightly foggy vision and an inescapable fantasy of making Miya cry on his cock.
If Miya responds coherently, Kiyoomi doesn’t catch it; he’s too focused on keeping his hands at his sides, enclosed into fists so tight his nails bite into his palm. Eventually, Miya’s sounds start back up, and Kiyoomi can’t help but let out a humourless chuckle.
This is going to be a long, long night.
“Jesus christ, ya look like shit. Who died?”
Kiyoomi looks up at Miya from his spot on the locker room bench with the worst glare he can muster. They’ve just finished a grueling two hour practice match, and Kiyoomi’s done it on practically no sleep, too, so he is not in the mood to be bothered. Especially not by the sole reason for the bags under his eyes.
“Not you, sadly,” he replies as he runs a hand through his hair. It comes away soaked with sweat, and Kiyoomi grimaces at the way his palm glistens with it. He’s been meaning to get up off this bench for a minute now, but his thighs burn so much he’s not sure he’d be able to manage it.
Miya does not take the glaringly obvious hint to fuck off. He clutches his heart and gasps dramatically, leaning over. “Ouch, Omi, I was jus’ tryna see if ya were okay. No needta get yer panties up in a bunch over it.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he focuses all his attention on making sure his gym bag has everything in it before standing up, wincing at the way his muscles ache in protest. Like this he’s taller than Miya, meaning he has to tilt his chin up to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes. Miya does so with a cockiness that’s textbook for him, but the knowledge that he’s the type of guy who whimpers negates any and all of his overconfidence.
Last night, Miya and the girl he’d been with went for so long Kiyoomi ended up going for a run at the ass crack of dawn. By the time he returned home, it was to the sight of her leaving Miya’s apartment, his oversized hoodie thrown over her lithe body.
She was pretty, Kiyoomi noticed. Pale skin, long black hair. Red lipstick smudged around her mouth, presumably kissed off by Miya. A self satisfied smirk on her face, like she’d just accomplished something she previously thought impossible. While leaving, she caught Kiyoomi’s eye and had the audacity to wink, which made Kiyoomi very happy that Miya gravitated towards one night stands; it was unlikely either of them would ever see that girl again.
Kiyoomi goes to leave the locker room, but Miya stops him before he reaches the door by grabbing his wrist, though he lets go at the look Kiyoomi gives him. “Seriously though, is everythin’ alright? Ya’ve been off all day, ‘specially when you fumbled that receive earlier. . .”
“I wouldn’t have fumbled it if you served the ball properly,” Kiyoomi immediately quips back, the retort second nature. It makes Miya smirk, which only serves to piss him off that much more. “Besides,” he continues, “you were the one who kept me up all last night, so it’s your fault.”
Something flashes in Miya’s eyes, something Kiyoomi doesn’t recognise, but it’s quickly replaced by his typical arrogant expression. “Eavesdroppin’ now, are we?”
Kiyoomi scoffs, disbelieving. He’s suddenly extremely grateful for the decision he made last night; if he masturbated to this, there’s no way in hell he would’ve forgiven himself. Miya Atsumu is the bane of his existence, plain as that. Nothing more, nothing less.
“More like being forced to hear your bullshit,” says Kiyoomi, taking a step back to put some space between him and Miya. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more desperate to get his dick wet than you.”
Miya crosses his arms over his chest, forearms flexing with the movement. Kiyoomi tears his gaze away as soon as he realises he’s staring. “Ya didn’t seem to care too much ‘bout that last night.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kiyoomi asks, irrationally fearful about Miya finding out how he reacted. If he knew Kiyoomi popped a boner over his moans, there’s no telling what he’d do.
Miya shrugs casually, though there’s a hint of tension in his shoulders. “Jus’ that ya didn’t say anythin’, so ya must’ve not been too bothered.”
Is. . . is he being serious? He’s got to be kidding, right? “I quite literally told you to be quiet. It’s not my fault you were too busy begging that girl to let you come to hear me.”
That gets a proper reaction out of Miya. His arms fall to his sides, entire body relaxing before visibly tensing again. His eyes widen like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t have, flushed face paling. He’s the one to take a step back this time, shoes squeaking against the floor. “Ya heard that?” he whispers.
“I heard everything, Miya,” Kiyoomi says. The insinuation in his tone makes Miya cough, and Kiyoomi derives a twisted kind of pleasure out of watching the arrogance bleed out of him.
“Oh. Well,” Miya starts, before clearing his throat and starting again. He runs a sheepish hand along the nape of his neck, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I guess I should apologise for that, huh?”
Kiyoomi recognises that he’s currently being presented with two options. The first is to embarrass Miya a little bit more before leaving and letting this whole thing blow over, completely forgotten by tomorrow; add it to the long list of things he and Miya do not mention, alongside the time Miya got chlamydia from a fanboy and Kiyoomi had to drive him to the doctor.
Or, he can do something completely different. Something that’s unlike him, something that’ll alter the chemical makeup of their relationship, whatever it may be defined as. Something like looking Miya straight in the honey brown eyes and saying, “No.”
Miya does this weird thing where he half inhales, half hiccups. “Whaddya mean, ‘no’?” He’s trembling all over, constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I mean exactly that. What you want in the bedroom is none of my business, and I’m not asking you to apologise for it. If you want to be edged till you cry and called a good boy when you come, who am I to judge you for it? What I want is for you to be a little quieter the next time you bring someone over for that, or better yet, don’t do it at all. Go to theirs. Get a hotel room. Become celibate. I don’t care as long as I get my sleep. Does that make sense?”
By the time he’s finished speaking, Miya looks like he’s been repeatedly slapped in the face. His cheeks are the brightest red Kiyoomi’s ever seen them, ripe cherries in the summer sun. Eventually he nods, and it’s a slow thing. “Okay,” he murmurs, looking anywhere but Kiyoomi’s face. “Yeah, I’ll一okay.”
“Good,” smiles Kiyoomi, more than ready to escape this weirdly electrified air. Whatever experimental thing he’d been trying to do has failed abysmally; Miya is sweaty and jittery in all the wrong, not sexy ways.
He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulders and moves to go out the door, brushing Miya’s arm as he does so. The bare skin there is hot, burning with exertion after hours of volleyball.
Just before Kiyoomi leaves, Miya calls out his name. Kiyoomi turns to face him, an eyebrow raised in expectation. “What?” he prompts.
“Actually, I. . . I ain’t gonna stop bringin’ people over jus’ ‘cause it’s whatcha want, okay? I like to have sex in my own bed, so yer jus’ gonna hafta get used to the sounds I make. Buy earplugs or whatever. Who knows,” he says, walking up to Kiyoomi and placing a hand on his shoulder. He leans in until his lips are an inch away from his ear, causing a full body shiver to rack Kiyoomi, “now that I know I have an audience, maybe I’ll work harder to give ya a show.”
If there’s one thing to know about Miya, it’s that he always stays true to his word; it’s a little more than a week later when Miya makes good on his promise and gives Kiyoomi a show.
Kiyoomi’s own bed shakes with the force of the thrusts coming from Miya’s room. The sound of his headboard banging against the wall is worse than anything Kiyoomi’s ever heard, so loud the earplugs he bought (not because Miya told him to) have been rendered useless. Kiyoomi hasn’t so much as looked at them in the ten minutes since he took them off, the cheap plastic left to rot on his nightstand.
Of course, nothing is as bad as the sounds Miya makes. Kiyoomi’s sure he’s doing it on purpose; that he planned it that way. Tomorrow’s a rest day for the entire team, so Kiyoomi technically isn’t allowed to complain about how the lack of sleep will negatively affect his athletic performance. It’s an uncharacteristically smart move on Miya’s part.
“Harder, c’mon. . . shit, yeah一like that, nghh!”
And there’s Kiyoomi’s biggest problem. In his defence, he was genuinely surprised when he got hard. He’d played last week’s erection off as a fluke, but that’s evidently not the case; some miniscule, rebellious part of Kiyoomi must be physically attracted to Miya.
Acknowledging it fills Kiyoomi with both nausea and disbelief. One of the things he hates most about his sexuality is his lack of control over it; there is no worse person on this earth to lust over than Miya Atsumu. He is loud, and brash, and cocky, and unhygienic, and an all around terrible guy for Kiyoomi to want in his bed.
They just don’t fit in the way Kiyoomi needs to fully let go, so there’s really no use in entertaining the idea at all. At best, it’s a lazy fantasy he lives in when he needs to get off. At worst. . . well, he doesn’t want to think about that.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m close. . . yes, yes! There, more一perfect, hah.”
At this rate, Kiyoomi’s going to die of blue balls before he makes it to thirty. Listening to Miya will only increase the chance of that happening, so Kiyoomi forces himself out of bed, hissing through his teeth when the shift in position makes his cock rub against his underwear.
Is this hell? If not, it sure feels like it. The thought of there being an existence worse than this one is the only thing preventing Kiyoomi from ending it all.
It’s a very awkward thing to walk anywhere with a raging erection. Kiyoomi finds he’s waddling towards his bathroom more than anything, legs spread in an attempt to prevent his cock from receiving any stimulation. He strips clinically, refusing to look at himself in the mirror before stepping under his showerhead and setting the water as cold as it can go.
Freezing showers are, Kiyoomi’s learnt, the most effective way to quell his arousal. He hates that he knows that about himself, hates that he knows it because of Miya even more.
The trick is to not give himself any time to prepare or adjust. Without much fanfare, Kiyoomi steps under the spray, groaning when the ice water hits his back. After about half a minute, the numbing cold fades to mild discomfort, and a deep breath leaves him.
He rests his forehead against the cool tile as he waits to go completely soft. It takes a while, and by the time it does happen there’s only one thought on the forefront of Kiyoomi’s mind: he’s going to kill Miya. With his bare hands. Slowly. Very slow.
Either that, or he’s got to fuck him. Whichever comes first.
Things really come to a head two weeks after that very first incident.
It’s quite literally the middle of the day, so Kiyoomi’s been operating under the assumption that there’s still a few hours before he has to worry about Miya and his escapades. How wrong he is would be funny if it weren’t so soul-crushing.
He’s reading on his couch when he hears something bang into his front door. Fear fills him as his head snaps up, eyes darting around his living room, searching for the best thing to use as a weapon. It doesn’t take long for Kiyoomi to decide on a frying pan, left on his counter to dry after breakfast this morning.
He grabs it and tiptoes towards his door, mostly ready to commit murder at noon on a Saturday. He opens it and. . . oh. Okay.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
Miya had been using the door as back support while making out with the person pushing him against it, so when it opens he stumbles back, feet losing their footing. With the way Kiyoomi’s standing it looks like Miya might fall back into him, so he steps aside and lets his teammate fall to the ground, ass first. The guy he’d been kissing looks at Kiyoomi like he just chopped off his dick.
Good.
Miya blinks up at Kiyoomi, lashes wet. His mouth is open and red from kisses, a string of spit connecting his lips before breaking when they form around, “Omi? What. . . why would ya. . .?”
“Wrong apartment, Miya,” Kiyoomi forces out, frying pan still clutched in his hand. Miya looks at it briefly before his surprise melts into amusement, canine teeth biting his lips as he smiles.
He gets up, and Kiyoomi notices the way his shirt is rucked up, like someone’s hand was just under it. He makes a point of completely averting his eyes from it. Miya dusts himself off and leans in, so close Kiyoomi can taste the faint alcohol on his breath. Disgusting. “I knew that,” he breathes out, which Kiyoomi seriously doubts.
“Just get out,” Kiyoomi demands, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He starts to close the door before Miya’s fully out of his apartment, which earns him a petulant squawk. This is what you’re attracted to? Something rational within him asks. This is what gets you off?
Unfortunately.
Miya and his partner leave with little more coaxing, though not without Miya turning his head over his shoulder to wink at Kiyoomi, which definitely does not send butterflies to his stomach.
Kiyoomi doesn’t even wait for Miya’s door to click shut before he’s grabbing his keys and heading out, not knowing exactly where he’s going, only knowing he’ll be there well into tonight.
“I think I’m going to move out.”
Motoya chuckles into the speaker. “Yeah, right. Who left their plate out this time?”
Kiyoomi huffs. “I’m being serious. Do you know anyone who’s renting?”
A beat of silence, like Motoya’s checking to see if Kiyoomi’s being serious. “Okay, you’ve officially intrigued me. What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I’m just not satisfied with my current living situation.” The lie is obvious to Kiyoomi’s own ears, but damn it if he isn’t going to see it through now.
“Kiyoomi, you love that apartment. You spent two months researching every little thing about it. It’s close to the gym and that convenience store you love that sells all those fancy cleaning supplies. I’m not an idiot, now tell me what really happened.”
Oh, fuck him. How does Kiyoomi say I need to move out because I’m too horny for my neighbour without sounding like a deranged lunatic? “You know how I live next to one of my teammates?”
“Oh my god, wait, is this about that Atsumu guy? Onigiri Miya’s brother? It is, isn’t it? I fucking knew there was something going on一”
Kiyoomi hangs up on him.
When Kiyoomi first moved in, before he realised how annoying Miya was, he'd given him a key to his apartment. Explained that it was only for emergencies; letting in repairmen and the like.
He should've known Miya would use it more than sparingly.
“Honey, I’m home!” is all the warning Kiyoomi’s given before the door to his bedroom opens, revealing a Miya who’s certainly had better days.
His hair is disheveled, and in desperate need of some purple shampoo (when is it not?). Exhaustion paints itself on his features, giving him the worst posture Kiyoomi’s ever seen. Miya’s arms and legs are fully covered by clothing, and Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder whether it’s because he wants to cover something specific up.
“I’m not your honey,” he says, looking back to his phone. “And this isn’t your home. Go away."
Miya smirks. "If ya want that so bad, then make me."
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes as his bed dips with a new weight, and no words could describe the horror Kiyoomi feels to see Miya lying on his bed. In his outside clothes. “What the hell?” he says, to which Miya groans.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, I’m jus' so tired. Practice today killed, and I had a long night last night.”
“I’m aware.” Kiyoomi’s this close to saying he had a long night, too.
The angle they’re at means Miya has to crane his neck up to make eye contact with Kiyoomi. “Ah, right. I keep forgettin’ ‘bout that.”
“Do you, now?” Kiyoomi teases, relishing in the blush that appears on Miya’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t have guessed that, seeing how loud you are.”
“Hey!” Miya splutters. “Whatever happened to not judgin’ a guy for his preferences?”
Kiyoomi shrugs, not trusting himself to respond appropriately.
“Eh, it doesn’t matter anyways,” Miya sighs, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He stretches his neck, hissing when the movement tugs at his sore muscles. “I’m done with allat, so ya can stop yer bitchin’ ‘bout it.”
“Done with what, having sex? Good luck with that.” Kiyoomi gives him a week at most before he cracks and goes out to some seedy bar, flashing his status and smile to bring someone home with him.
Miya shakes his head with a laugh. “No. No fuckin’ way could I do that. I dunno how people do it, but serious props to ‘em 一 goin’ celibate ain’t somethin’ I ever plan on doin’.”
“So what’s the problem? You don’t seem to have a lack of. . . willing participants.”
“Okay, Omi, there’s no need to make it sound like I’m torturin’ ‘em. It’s jus’ sex, y’know? Nah, the problem is I can never find the right person for it.”
Kiyoomi looks at him like he just confessed to murder. His ears must not be working right. Miya Atsumu, confessing he wants a relationship? Kiyoomi’s being pranked right now. “I would never have taken you as a romantic relationship type of guy,” he says, truthfully.
Miya looks at him, confused. “Wha一 oh, no. I don’t mean that.” He waves his hand, dismissing the idea entirely. “Ya know I ain’t good at long-term, Omi. Volleyball’s too important for me to put anythin’ above it.”
That, Kiyoomi can agree with.
“I think I wanna find someone but, like, jus’ for sex. Like in the movies, y’know? A fuckbuddy. No strings attached typa thing.”
“Miya, I am not having this conversation with you,” Kiyoomi says, partly because it makes him feel nauseous, and partly because continuing down this path will inevitably have him imagining what kind of things Miya wants to do with said fuckbuddy, which won’t be good for anyone.
“Why not, Omi-omi? I thought we were close.”
“Not this close.”
“Ah, so ya agree that we’re close, then? Ya agree we’re friends?”
“Why do you insist on twisting everything I say?”
“‘Cause ya make it too easy. Ya seriously gotta try harder than that if ya wanna beat me, Omi.”
Kiyoomi closes his eyes, giving up on pretending to scroll on his phone. “Why are you in my room, Miya? Can you not see I’m busy?”
“Fine, fine,” Miya says, standing up and holding up his palms in mock surrender. “I’ll leave ya to it, then. But jus’ know that next time ya wanna come to my apartment to ask for somethin’, I ain’t gonna be as nice as I usually am.”
“Oh, I think I’ll manage.” Even as he says it, Kiyoomi’s getting up to go show Miya out. For all intents and purposes Miya is a guest in his home, and he was not raised to let one leave without being there to close the door behind them.
It’s a short walk to the front door, barely ten seconds long, and of course Miya can’t walk in silence for that long. “If ya think of someone who’d be a good fuckbuddy, send ‘em my way, yeah?”
Kiyoomi blinks, throat going dry. Me, his mind supplies. Me me me. I’d be great. I’d treat you so well, you know that? “Excuse me?”
Miya shrugs, hands in his pockets. The picture of casual nonchalance. “Ya know more people than I do. Plus, that way I’d know they’re not a serial killer or somethin’ creepy like that. I ain’t picky ‘bout gender or looks, jus’ make sure they ain’t hideous.”
“I. . . Miya, I’m not going to find you someone to fuck, are you insane?”
Miya rolls his eyes, like he can’t believe what Kiyoomi’s saying. “Obviously that’s not what I’m suggestin’. I’m jus’ saying that if someone crosses yer mind that’d be a good fit for me, text me their info.”
Kiyoomi rests his weight on the doorframe, knuckles white with how hard he clutches it. “And what type of person, exactly, would be a good fit for you?” Stop that. Stop it. This is dangerous, you know it’s dangerous.
Miya looks up to the side, seriously considering it. He bites his cheek in thought, and Kiyoomi watches it, transfixed, wondering whether Miya has an oral fixation. “Hmm, I dunno. I have different types for girls and guys. Which one ya wanna know?”
Don’t say it, don't say it, don't say it. Don’t. Say. It. “The guy.” Damn it.
“Ah, that’s easy. I like guys who know how to be rough with me, put me in my place or whatever it is. But not, like, crazy 一 I ain’t into gettin’ slapped around. I like when. . . okay, this is embarrassin’. . . I like when they’re nice with their words but mean with their actions, y’know? Like, they’ll tell me I’m good but then refuse to fuck me unless I beg for it, shit like that. Oh, and they hafta understand that it wouldn’t be a relationship 一 I don’t want no dates or nothin’. Jus’ sex.” Miya starts rambling towards the end, his syllables blurring together, so by the time he’s finished he’s breathing a little faster, unnoticeable unless you look for it. Which, apparently, Kiyoomi is.
“So, yeah.” Miya’s pink all over, picking an invisible piece of lint from his shirt. “If ya know someone like that, let me know, ‘kay? Think ‘bout it.”
Kiyoomi’s silent, his thoughts whirling. Miya must take that as a rejection because he nods, almost to himself, before turning his back to leave.
Kiyoomi lets him go without a word.
Later that night, when Kiyoomi’s changing his sheets and trying to ignore how they smell faintly of Miya’s cologne, he can do nothing but ‘think ‘bout it’.
The type of guy Miya described himself to be is exactly what Kiyoomi desires in the bedroom, and it’s seriously messing with him. He keeps telling himself that this is Miya, but even that stopped working a while ago. The truth is, becoming fuckbuddies with Miya sounds good, enticing in ways it definitely shouldn’t be.
Kiyoomi wonders whether Miya would agree to it, if he mustered the nerve to proposition him. Kiyoomi could give him exactly what he needs, and do it better than anyone else Miya’s ever had at that. He thinks about what it would be like to break Miya into pieces and shivers, far too into the mental image than he’d like.
Damn it. He’s really going to do this, isn’t he?
Yeah. Yeah, he is.
Without giving himself the time to think his plan through, Kiyoomi’s leaving his apartment and knocking on Miya’s door, so loud it can’t possibly be deemed polite. Miya opens it after a minute, barefoot and in his pyjamas, clearly woken up by this. He rubs his eyes, squinting at Kiyoomi like he doesn't believe he’s really there. “Omi? It’s the middle of the night. What’re you doin' ‘ere?”
Kiyoomi’s panting despite not being physically exerted. “Me,” he says.
Miya is 一 understandably 一 confused. “Huh?”
Kiyoomi swallows his nerves, refusing to back down now. That would be quitting, and Sakusa Kiyoomi is not a quitter. “Me,” he repeats, more coherent. “I’ll be your fuckbuddy.”
All the sleep leaves Miya. His jaw might as well touch the floor with how far it drops. “Huh?”
“I’m serious,” Kiyoomi says, watching as the realisation hits Miya. His eyes widen, a choked wheeze slipping past his plump lips. He looks good like that. “I’ll be your fuckbuddy,” he says again, just to be clear.
Kiyoomi turns on his heel, ignoring the way Miya protests and calls for him to come back, before slamming his own apartment door shut behind him.
No turning back now.