Work Header

Sakusa Kiyoomi Is Gay

Work Text:

A seven-step revelation:



It starts like most things with Hinata by his side, and Bokuto on his lap, and Bokuto’s big mouth making sure their movie nights are nothing but a series of philosophical debates on who would top in a one night stand between Saitama and Goku—nothing Atsumu is above partaking in.

“How do you think Sakusa has sex?” 

A normal person might have questioned why this thought has struck him now of all times since they’ve been talking about ways to kill cockroaches for the better part of an hour (dorm struggles) but having been friends with them for the last two years, Atsumu has learned that no amount of sex talk was too much or too far, and no tangent too vague to lead to it. Sex, who was having it with who and how, was the lifeblood of the self-proclaimed Naruto-Five, of which only Adriah was getting laid consistently enough to have new gossip. 

“Probably with his genitals,” Atsumu replies, threading his fingers through Bokuto’s hair where his head lays on his legs.

Bokuto turns to look at him, clearly not a conversation he’s interested in dropping. “Yeah, but how? If he can’t bear to touch anyone, how does he fuck?”

“He can’t bear to touch you,” Atsumu points out but he pauses the show anyway since the rest of the group seems equally miffed by the prospect of Sakusa as a creature who fucks. (Though they’ll gladly debate Goku—who has not canonically kissed a person—wearing a butt-plug for One Punch Daddy.)

“You think he wears a mask during?” Hinata wonders. 

“Gloves?” Adriah piles on, “Imagine getting fingered with surgical gloves.”

“I’d develop a latex fetish,” Hinata giggles. “But hey, what’s one more, right?” No matter how many sexual things Hinata says in the privacy of their boy-nights, Atsumu never stops getting whiplash at his capacity for filth. He looks so innocent on the outside and that’s his favorite role to play, especially in the bedroom, where: “You’ve never played serial killer comes to rape me, Atsumu-san?” happens. Nope, he has not. Hinata, who’s the baby of the media, apparently has. 

“He probably keeps his clothes on during, and just like, rubs around on top of you,” Bokuto demonstrates with his hands.

“Frotting?” Adriah says.

At the same time as Shion’s “Yiffing?”

Bokuto strains his neck to look at him. “Did you just use a furry word?”

Shion stutters out broken excuses, “I mean, is that not... isn’t it called, it’s what they do, okay?”

“I don’t think Sakusa is a furry,” Hinata laughs, “Though he could be one of those cat boys.”

“I don’t think Sakusa is,” Bokuto drawls, squinting pointedly at Shion, who kicks him in the neck. “I knew there was some fucked up fetish shit with you making us call you Wan-san. Is that what, your fursona?” Bokuto taunts.

“What?” Shion gawks, “No! What? You did that on your own. No.”

“You seem to know a lot about this too, Bokuto-san,” Hinata points out. 

And now all attention is on Bokuto. “Yeah,” Atsumu laughs, “What’s your furpersona?”

“Oh piss off. Can we go back to shitting on Sakusa using hand sanitizer as lube?” Bokuto recovers. 

Adriah, Shion, and Hinata all have visceral reactions to that image. Atsumu, who has on more than one occasion put hand-sanitizer near his ass (for disinfectant reasons, ok, have you never thought of disinfecting your asshole?) thinks perhaps it might work, depending on the sanitizer, the really gooey ones maybe. 

“He makes you disinfect your dick before you put it in him,” Bokuto shrugs.

Atsumu’s mind does that record scratch because... “Dick?”

“Someone might have to bite the bullet and sleep with him,” Bokuto says, “For research.”

“Hold up a second,” Atsumu interjects, “Sakusa likes dick?”

“For science,” Shion seconds.

Adriah looks at Atsumu. “You’re the only one here interested in men.”

“Yeah, take one for the team, Tsum-Tsum."

Atsumu is this close to throwing him off. “How do you know Sakusa is gay?” he asks again.

“I saw his tinder profile,” Bokuto explains, “He was looking for men. I think that makes him pretty gay.”

“What were you doing on the male side of tinder?” 

“Sizing up the competition.”

“But,” Atsumu sighs, “But you see how that’s... not gonna work, right? You see that.”

“Yes, asshole. But gay men are always more attractive than straight men in these things so if I can match up with them, then I’m set. It’s forward-thinking.”




“What will you do when you find him?” Adriah asks the following weekend when it’s the two of them eating dinner and Atsumu has the phone face-up on the table, one finger swiping through pictures of hot men holding fish.

Adriah has been supportive of his newfound Tinder addiction, a tad too supportive, Atsumu thinks. He even offered to swipe for a bit after seeing Atsumu massage his wrist for the third time. Excavating his old account had been easy. Atsumu hasn’t slept with anyone in months, dates are practically a thing of the past, but it’s always good to have some extra validation on days where a stranger saying he’d jizz all over your face is the pick-me-up you need to go on living. 

“Swipe right,” Atsumu says, “If I swipe left I won’t know what he swiped.”

“But would you want to know? What if he swiped left and it’s a no match.” Oof. “Or worse, what if he swiped right and now you’re in the same team as someone who basically said they’d bone you?”

Atsumu hadn’t thought that far but would be a big, fat liar if he didn’t acknowledge the interested twitch in his pants at the possibility of... boning, as this weirdo phrased it, someone of Sakusa’s standards, who as far as Atsumu knows has also not been on many dates lately. 

“I’ll get back to you on that,” he skirts.

Adriah looks positively bemused. “Do you like him?”


“You just need him to like you?” Adriah volleys back.

Atsumu brushes his question aside for a relevant one. “What if he swiped left to avoid this dilemma and I swipe right but don’t get a match, and then my self-esteem is demolished?” 

“Or what if he hates you and your self-esteem should be demolished ‘cause he’d never swipe right on you anyway?”

Atsumu opens and closes his mouth a few times. “Is that necessary?” he deadpans. Adriah shrugs. “You’d swipe right on me if you were gay, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m your best friend,” Adriah says, “So of course, I would not.”

“Fuck you mean?”

“Dude, I know you. I know what you do with guys who swipe right on you. I’ve seen the conversations—unfortunately,” he whispers to the ceiling fan brokenly before bringing his eyes back to Atsumu’s offended squawk. “I know too much.”

“Fuck off,” Atsumu sputters, “Like I’d fuck a beanpole with a bowl cut and a small dick.” 

“See! I’ll let you know this haircut was voted trendiest of the year.”

“Strange that it’s the haircut you’re defending,” Atsumu smirks.

Adriah shrugs. “It’s not my fault your dick pic collection has warped your sense of reality. I’m very much average.” 

“Women love average,” Atsumu whistles. He slides his phone across the table for Adriah to glance at the screen.  “Just on appearances, just looking at me, objectively,” he emphasizes, “Would you? Be serious.”

“Sorry so many of my pictures are from TV, I don’t take pictures of myself?!!” Adriah reads from the screen. “You’re telling me you get matches with this? God, the gays have truly strayed from the path of god.” He analyzes the profile, swiping through Atsumu’s pictures from TV—close-ups of him serving and setting and smirking as a pro volleyball player on a division one team (lest you forget)—before coming back with a consensus.

“You’re a douche.”

“You don’t even have a bio!” Atsumu bellows, “Your profile consists of three spreads from your ‘modeling days’ and the tongue emoji. You’re the reason society canceled men!”

“Did I ask if you’d swipe right on me? No. Because I already know the answer. It would—”

“—be yes,” they say at the same time. 

“Yes,” Atsumu adds. Moreover, “Because I’d want to—”

“—break me,” Adriah completes easily. “I know. I know you. I know your evil ways and that’s why I would never swipe right on your ass. I pity the people who do and get ignored. We done here?”

Atsumu breaks into a grin. “You’d love me and you know it,” he taunts, “You’d want to break me first.”

Adriah laughs. Atsumu sees him pick up the phone and start swiping. “You’re right. This is why I can’t be gay. I’d be too fucking competitive. I need control. I need to be the hot one in a relationship, you know?” Atsumu nods. “Though with Sakusa, you really have no shot at that,” Adriah brings up randomly. 

As per the manual of survival alongside a hot teammate written by Adlers’ setter, Tobio Kageyama, Atsumu disregards the Sakusa part and dives only into what’s left of the sentence. “Huh? I’m so hot. I was so hot in high school and I’ve only grown hotter. Not all guys are shallow like you.”

“Sakusa’s like me,” Adriah insists. He picks at his food and talks with his mouth full, waving his chopsticks in explanation. “About control, I mean. He’s wound up so damn tight, I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be.”

No, he’s not, Atsumu thinks of defending, because out of all of them, and their melancholic bouts and miseries, Sakusa is the most prone to go along with whatever the team decides. He might seem prickly but he’s never difficult. Atsumu appreciates that about him. He won’t speak it out loud but it doesn’t go unnoticed that on days where his phone is nothing but unanswered notifications, being around Sakusa is refreshing.

“Why are you all so obsessed with him?” he asks instead. 

“Who’s phone am I swiping again?”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one bringing him up every chance I get.” 

Osamu says it’s normal to shit-talk. Everyone vents and bonding activities often involve lashing out against one mutually-hated person. Shared rage is a lubricant. The idea of it doesn’t sit well with Atsumu and not just because he was the target of his last team’s “bonding,” something he never thought he minded until he graduated and succumbed to his first anxiety attack only to realize he had no one to call. With his new team, he’s anything but isolated. Perhaps he’s matured. Kita says that much, says he’s grown as a person, says he’s proud. Or perhaps he came into the team, desperate for connection and loved them on sight with all the voids he had in him.

“You do,” Adriah accuses, “You talk about him constantly, maybe not to whine but you’re always talking about him. If he’s in the room, it’s pretty much guaranteed that’s where your eyes will be. Sometimes when I need to find him, I look at you first and then follow what you’re staring at like a lovesick puppy—”

“Alright, enough,” Atsumu cuts him off. “I worry about him. I don’t need to worry about you because you follow me around and tell me everything.”

Adriah rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Here. Worry about this.”

He lays the phone on the table and skids it across. Atsumu doesn’t look down to confirm. “No,” he mutters in disbelief, “How the fuck?” He had the phone for minutes! Atsumu has been swiping for days now, during breaks, before bed, watching movies, walking home, in the bus rides. 

“Narrow the distance, dumbass. You go through the gays in a one-mile radius pretty quick.” He stares at Atsumu. “Let’s see it then.”




Sakusa’s profile is stupidly simple. The picture that greets Atsumu every time he clicks on the app, stupidly attractive. Nothing fancy like he’d imagined. No black and white photography or screenshots of a match shot in HD. At no point does Sakusa flaunt the fact that he’s a volleyball player. He doesn’t need to—unlike Atsumu’s flashy ass. (In his defense, how many selling points does Atsumu really have? He’s certainly no talker, and according to his friend group, no looker either. What is he then, just a fuck-er?) 

“I like volleyball and art. Tokyo born and raised, I’ll show you all the hole in the wall places if you take me out for coffee.” Sakusa’s bio flaunts. 

The main photo is of him smiling, eyes crinkled on the sides, long curls fanning his cheeks, taken from before he’d cut it “for convenience,” blushing when Atsumu was the first to notice and compliment how it made him look pretty.

“Pretty?” Sakusa had repeated, red in the face and kind of fussed.

“Cool,” Atsumu had quickly corrected, “You look cool, Omi-kun. It suits you.”  

Atsumu’s first thought staring at him like this, happy, is whoever took the photo must have really loved him, and Sakusa them. It has that air about it, the filtered gaze of a lover, keen on cherishing you only in the most flattering of lights, and god does the light flatter his every feature. 

Atsumu aches, realizing with embarrassment he’s jealous of a person he can’t see and has never met—that might not exist at all. He’s jealous of the idea that Sakusa does this with someone. He’s not a perpetually-grumpy robot. There are people in the world he deems worthy of his giggles and those people don’t include Atsumu, who wouldn’t be included anyway because they’re not exactly close. 

The second picture shocks him; Sakusa holds a dog. A real-life, actual dog. He’s in the city, somewhere green and lush, cheesing big at the camera, as the dog licks him in the mouth. Atsumu flinches on sight. Almost swipes left, trying to zoom in. Almost dies, thinking he swiped left.

He wracks his brain but can’t remember anything about Sakusa liking dogs or having dogs, if he’s ever spoken about his family, details Atsumu knows about everyone else in his team. It’s his job to know, to care, to control factors beyond the court that will affect how his hitters perform. He has waved at Adriah’s parents over FaceTime, sends gifts to Hinata’s sister. He knows Bokuto can’t drink milk without sprinting for the bathroom, that Shion needs music before bed and matches. He’s obsessed with them and they win because of it. 

But Sakusa is a mystery. A man-dating, dog-loving mystery, whom Atsumu has been playing with for years—behind closed doors, calling him his soft spot, without once having made him truly smile. Atsumu has failed him. 




A week in, Atsumu has yet to swipe and doesn’t trust Tinder not to glitch and reshuffle his prospects. He wakes up every morning in a cold sweat that when he opens the app, Sakusa will be gone, possibly forever, never to come back again, gone for good, into the deep void of the web, Atsumu would cry.

“Do it, you pussy ass coward,” Adriah texts the group chat. 

The rest of the Naruto-Five agree because they have not seen how surreal Sakusa’s profile is, that he’s secretly a beautiful nymph, a dark-haired angel, who deserves someone equally magical, who knows the city and has hiked mount Kilimanjaro, or some shit. Atsumu’s one claim to fame is something Sakusa does on top of sampling coffee beans from Tanzania and appreciating art beyond standing in front of it for two minutes nodding. Atsumu can name one artist, Picasso, and that’s because Osamu would often joke his face looked like a Picasso painting. To this day, Atsumu doesn’t know if that’s a compliment—they have the same face! With his profile, created by some perfect-profile-creating-organization, Sakusa probably gets ninety-five percent of gay men to swipe right. He’s hot in an unassuming way, you know? Smart-sounding, and well-traveled, and fit like a god—who wouldn’t want a piece of him? Atsumu would be lost in the crowd if he even makes it past the gates—and anyway, if Sakusa liked him, he wouldn’t need Tinder. Atsumu doesn’t—like him or need Tinder—he’s just curious, that’s all. It’s nice to be liked back—not back, just liked, liked in general. It would be nice for Sakusa to like him. Not back though, cause he does not like Sakusa. 

(He sends all that in a voice recording.)

“Right,” Adriah says, not bothering to address the specifics of Atsumu’s 3 minute and 56 seconds long concerns.

“Do you want to die not knowing?” Hinata asks.

“Do I wanna die knowing I’m not his type???” Atsumu shoots back.

“Do you want to die?” Shion types, “Because if you don’t swipe, I’ll kill you. I didn’t spend five hours listening to that nonsensical rant for you to back out now. I NEED CLOSURE.” 

“Also,” he adds, “Tell your brother he’s my favorite.”

“Be brave, Tsumu,” Bokuto sends along a series of emojis. “We promise not to make fun of you or tell Samu if he doesn’t match back.”

“I don’t,” Shion writes.

“I can’t promise that,” Adriah says. 

“I already told him,” comes Hinata’s nail in the coffin. 

Atsumu types out “WHEN?” before backspacing and muting the conversation instead. 

Needless to say, he does not do it. He does spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the profile and thinking about doing it though, which has to count for something, right? 

Practice Sakusa doesn’t smile or giggle. He doesn’t look flirtatiously at the camera or relax his shoulders in a way that shows off how broad they are compared to his tiny waist. He doesn’t have fairy dust on his cheeks. No sparkles in his eyes. He’s the same stiff, petulant goof Atsumu has been practicing with for years, who mopes, and sighs, and walks circles around the gym, mouthing to himself, forgetting he doesn’t have a mask on.

Practice Sakusa calls him “Miya,” then “Atsumu,” then “Tsumu,” then “Tsum,” as the day goes on. He starts conversations in the middle, skipping all context, and rarely looks the right direction when you call out his name. He runs into doorways and does that annoying thing when he walks next to you where he’s mostly walking into you. Can’t sit in chairs without crossing one leg underneath. Can’t talk in interviews without relying on Atsumu to finish his thoughts. He’s not charming; he’s Sakusa. 

“The point of dating apps is to sell yourself, genius,” Adriah says. He’s funneling a bag of chips directly into his mouth, hands uninvolved. “If I was the real me, no one would fuck me.”

Atsumu eyes the orange dust all over his face. “Noted.” Adriah sucks his fingers in his mouth and points a saliva-coated middle one in Atsumu’s direction. 

“Isn’t he... too different though?” Atsumu asks. Too perfect was his original thought, but they’d laugh at him.

Shion and Hinata huddle over his phone, reading through the cursed profile. Atsumu has it memorized but won’t let go, feels oddly protective of how much time they have with it. Besides, knowing them, they might try to get it over it with so it doesn’t become a month-long adventure, like Atsumu wanting to change his hairstyle, and Atsumu wanting to sabotage Osamu’s career so they keep playing together. Maybe he should have kept this part of Sakusa to himself (and every gay man in Japan and Bokuto Koutarou). 

“So he likes coffee?” Shion rolls his eyes. “You knew that. You get him coffee every morning.”

“From the food truck,” Atsumu rants, “That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is,” Hinata says, leaning back on his chair. “Are you mad because you know him or because you don’t know him? Or because you kind of know him, or because you want to know him more, or are you not mad at all?” 

“I’m not. I’m whatever,” Atsumu locks the phone, “I’m whatevering.”

He doesn’t know how to tell them he feels lied to—when it makes no sense—or that it matters because it shouldn’t. He has no words for what he wants, some days to have never known this, others to have known it sooner. Bokuto knew and didn’t tell him. He said he thought out of everyone, Sakusa would have come to Atsumu first. “Gays of a feather, right!!!” But he didn’t, even though he knows Atsumu is gay. Whatever, Atsumu’s whatevering.




New plan. Forget swiping right. Atsumu will swipe left and live in ignorance. If he swipes left, he’ll never know what Sakusa swiped and he can pretend none of this happened. More importantly, this way, if Sakusa did swipe left, it won’t matter, because they’d be even. They don’t want to bone each other. Everything is cool and normal. Just how it should be. And if Sakusa swiped right?

“Can you help me stretch?” Sakusa startles him. 

“Sure,” Atsumu agrees, shoving the phone in the pocket of his sweatpants. 

Sakusa looks at the air where it once was. “Am I—interrupting—?”

“No, no,” Atsumu talks over him. “Lead the way, puppy.” 

Great. The profile has incepted him. 

Sakusa walks towards the court. Thankfully, it’s late and most of the team has left for the showers. Sakusa and Atsumu are usually the last two out since Sakusa takes ages to stretch and cool down. Atsumu thinks maybe god is good and Sakusa missed the slip-up or chose to ignore it but when Sakusa stands in front of him, hands lifted above his head, Atsumu hears him mutter, “I like puppies.”

I know, Atsumu shoves down, ignoring how clammy his palms are as they clasp Sakusa’s wrists. “You have any?”

“I have three,” Sakusa says, a hint of pride in his tone. He leans his head to look at Atsumu. The back of his fluffy hair tickling Atsumu’s cheek. “Do you like dogs?”

Atsumu’s busy not comparing Sakusa’s current expression to the one in the pictures to reply. Now that he’s looking at it up close and personal, they’re more similar than he previously deduced. (Almost like they’re the same fucking person!) Sakusa is still very much beautiful with the same deep, black eyes. Oh no. 

“No?” Sakusa frowns.

“Dogs? Dogs. Dogs are great. Dogs are awesome. I’d love to meet your dogs.”

Sakusa reaches his other hand back. Atsumu does not think about holding it against his lips, as he wraps his fingers around Sakusa’s forearm, pushing down on his elbow. Sakusa exhales shakily, probably sore and hurting. He played hard, really well too. He’s been on a roll the past few weeks, keen on “outshining the other hitters in Atsumu’s eyes” so Atsumu can “trust him to get the job done” and not forget he “used to be an ace... the better ace, an MVP, not that it matters, but just keep that in mind, I guess...” 

Atsumu sets to him—he’s fair like that. He sets to all of them when he thinks the moment is right. Statistically, he sets to Hinata and Bokuto more, but that’s because Hinata demands the ball, and Bokuto needs it. In comparison, Sakusa doesn’t have to be showy to be good, seems fine being relied to when no one else gets it done, or so Atsumu had thought until recently.  

“You can meet them,” Sakusa says, “My parents live close by.”

“Tokyo born and raised,” Atsumu blurts. Fuck. Sakusa cocks his head sideways. Ah, fuck. 

“Yeah,” Sakusa softens, almost smiling. Fuck? “I am. You rem—”

“I know from the volleyball school,” Atsumu yells, deleting any progress in terms of having Sakusa sport an expression that’s not utter confusion that borders on distress. “Your high school,” he rambles, “You went to high school in Tokyo, remember?”

“Do I remember?” Sakusa repeats, “My own high school?”

“I remember your high school,” Atsumu says, “You were really good in high school.”

Sakusa’s doing the smiling again. Atsumu wants to grab his face and squeeze his cheeks into a true, Tinder-worthy laugh but that would be cheating.

“Thank you?” Sakusa questions, “You’re good—”

“You’re welcome,” Atsumu interrupts. 

Sakusa blinks at him. “Ok.”

And that is how two normal humans have conversations, folks. Nothing to see here.

“What are your plans for tonight?” Sakusa asks when he’s settled against the floor so Atsumu can help him stretch his legs. “Are you hanging out with the guys?

“I don’t know,” Atsumu says, pushing Sakusa’s foot back. He’s incredibly flexible and it goes down easily. Atsumu has to crouch on top of him, kneeling on his other thigh and practically forcing him into a split. It’s awkward and he’s the only one Sakusa asks to help because he’s never once shied away from the idea of touching another man. “Probably not. Probably watching a movie or something.”

“What... movie?” Sakusa asks, face straining as Atsumu gets to his limit and holds for three breaths. 

Atsumu shrugs, gently returning his leg to the floor. “Haven’t decided.” 

He picks up Sakusa’s other leg and pushes it towards his chest, grateful for Sakusa’s spandex stretching to accommodate his thick thighs because if it were for their flimsy shorts, the curtains would have parted to quite the show. Not that Atsumu’s looking at the space between his pants and his milky skin, how it leads towards his crotch. Tinder... is a curse. Sakusa is now a sexual creature, and Atsumu can’t help wanting to have sex with him. Oh no. 

He’s brought out of his perversion with Sakusa’s hand against his fingers. “Careful with—”

“Your knee. I know,” Atsumu says, pressing on the injury. Sakusa’s hand stays for good measure. “It hurts still?”

Sakusa shakes his head, lying. Atsumu can sense the quivers in his muscles when he helps him bend his knee.

He knows Sakusa’s body well enough to pinpoint when he’s holding back, how he lands unbalanced, favoring one leg, and limps when games stretch too long. Atsumu had been the first by his side when it happened, had seen on approach something was wrong, and caught Sakusa before he hit the floor. He’d been the hand Sakusa clutched, the voice calming him down.

But talking about it now would mean admitting how frazzled Sakusa had been at the thought of never playing again—a realization that hits all pro players eventually: who am I if I can’t do the one thing I love doing? He had told Atsumu this much, doozy from pain meds, with Atsumu sitting next to him on the hospital bed, coaxing him to sleep. They’d spent three days together where it looked like something might have shifted but when Sakusa got back on the court, a brace on his knee, it was business as usual.

“Any suggestions?” Atsumu asks.

Sakusa blinks up at him. “Are you inviting me to watch it with you?”

“You want to?” Atsumu wonders out loud, losing focus and leaning too hard on his thigh.

Sakusa yelps a breathy “ah” that does not sound like a sex noise in this very sexy position that lets Atsumu know what Sakusa’s sexy body is capable of if pushed and rammed the right way. 

“Ou—Tsum, ease up,” he gasps, because not only has Atsumu not corrected himself, but also, they’re pressing in parts Atsumu could tolerate solely through the agony of how unrequited his crush would be if he were to have one. 

“Sorry,” Atsumu backs off, fumbling with his limbs. His face is on fire and so is his groin. 

“Okay,” Sakusa sits up, equally flushed. “I’ll come over around eight? So I can shower and eat.”

“Can’t forget the shower,” Atsumu mutters under his breath before he can help it. He’s afraid when he’s nervous and when he’s afraid, he’s an asshole. It’s the easiest thing to be. 

“We just played for ten hours, don’t you shower?”

Atsumu offers his hand and pulls him off the floor. “I do, I do. I was being a dick.” He reaches out and fluffs Sakusa’s hair so it’s not all matted on the back where the sweat and the grime has made it clump together. 

“Eight is good.”



“Miya Atsumu is the world’s biggest coward send tweet,” Adriah texts him immediately after. Atsumu knows he saw the whole thing because Adriah follows his text with, “Fellas, is it gay to spread your teammate’s legs while you’re softly settled between them?”

“Just do it for me,” Atsumu gives up.


“Come by around ten.”

“Ten?” Atsumu will not subject himself to the mocking that’ll follow, not that Adriah needs his permission or participation. “Why ten, Miya Atsumu?” Adriah double-texts. “Is it a private stretching session? He was awfully tense today. Are you stretching parts of his body you missed during practice?”

“I hope you get herpes,” Atsumu writes back.

Adriah heart-reacts it. “Are you stretching... his asshole, Miya Atsumu?”

“I think you’re his favorite,” Hinata tells him, head hanging off his bed, feet against Atsumu’s no-longer-white wall. He has his shoes on inside, was supposed to go on a run an hour ago, and dropped by to keep him company so Atsumu didn’t have to freak out too much. 

It isn’t exactly smart to have him here while Atsumu’s trying to pick shit off the floor that has been there since their housebreaking party. Housewarming, Meian had screamed the next day, it’s housewarming, not housebreaking! Well, lots of things had broken so they should change the name. 

Atsumu drags the soapy towel along the parts of his room not covered in clothes or stuff he shouldn’t have bought or boxes he has yet to throw out, thinking he’ll return said stuff. He doesn’t need things squeaky clean, just clean enough to be acceptable, which in Sakusa’s standards could be anything from a dump to a hospital ward. Atsumu would be silly to assume he knows anything about this man. When asked to help out the Naruto-Five had said: “Just because you’re Sakusa-whipped, doesn’t mean we all wanna play sexy maid.” Which doesn’t even make sense! They spend so much time in Atsumu’s room, they should contribute to its cleaning. 

 “You’re my favorite,” Hinata quips, smiling at him. “You’re so easily everyone’s favorite.”

Atsumu snorts incredulously. “Boy would my high school teammates disagree with that. What do you need?”

Hinata frowns. “What, I only say nice things when I need you now? That’s bullshit. I’m so nice to you—”

“Yes, yes,” Atsumu rolls his eyes. “You’re an angel. What did you break? Who did you fuck?”

“I’m trying to say,” Hinata flips on his stomach. “You’re so good at knowing how to know us. He loves that about you. Haven’t you noticed how he’s stuck to your side? He doesn’t give a shit about press events but you’re the first question he asks when we have to do them.”

The good old extrovert shield, as Osamu nicknamed it because Osamu had used Atsumu much the same way growing up. Atsumu loves attention, and like a lightning rod, redirects all eyes towards himself. Sakusa has caught on to this loophole and hides behind him. Atsumu doesn’t mind, feels calmer knowing he’s alright. Besides, Sakusa cleans up so well, it’s kind of nice to watch him do stuff and exist.

“He’s like a puppy,” Hinata explains. 

“Who told you?” Atsumu slaps his hand on the bed. Hinata flinches. “He told you?”

“Who told me what?”

“That I...” he starts, trailing off and squinting in suspicion. No need to give the fuckers more blackmail material if they don’t already know. “Nothing, what were you saying?”

“He’s a puppy and you’re his big puppy. I’m Kageyama’s big puppy so I’d know.”

“You’re no one’s big anything,” Atsumu mocks. Hinata punches him in the arm. “So what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” 

Hinata opens his mouth and lets it hang there for a second. “I’m going for a run,” he says, twisting his body and stepping on Atsumu’s wet floor. “You should shower before he comes. Dress better too. Look presentable.”

“Why? It’s not like he hasn’t seen me.”

Hinata sighs all the way to the door and a few steps outside of it too. Atsumu can hear his voice echo through the hallway when he screams, “You will die alone, Tsumu-san.”




Looking presentable is a hard feat to accomplish in sweatpants and t-shirt, and Atsumu’s not gonna change into jeans to hang out on his bed because only psychopaths do that. He picks his best sweatpants, gray, because apparently that does wonders for your bulge, and his tightest t-shirt, white, because apparently that does wonders for your nipples. All in all, looking at the mirror, he’s a solid seven.

He brushes his teeth a few minutes before the clock strikes eight, knowing Sakusa will be right on time. 

He’s not. He’s late. Twenty minutes and counting. Waiting for him to arrive, Atsumu sits upright on his bed and sweats through his meltdown until he’s so drenched he needs a second shower. (The shower gods are ironic.)

He picks up his phone to no texts and fires up a series of SOS signals:

“He stood me up. He ditched me. He forgot. He hates me. Wow this is so embarrassing, guys. Guys, come over so I can pretend I forgot too because it’s not like I fucking care he forgot. Is anyone around? Where did you all go? I hate you all. I do so much for you. Never ask me to do anything again. Hinata’s on a run so he’s forgiven but the rest of you. I know you’re in the building. I can track your locations from the group chat. You’re ignoring me now? Wow, just wow. Delete my number because you’re dead to me. I am never setting for you again—”

There’s a knock on the door just as someone starts typing. Atsumu trips over himself to answer it, half-expecting Adriah or Shion to be there to bully him. There’s just something too good to be true about Sakusa wanting to hang out with him alone. 

Yet there he stands, hair in wet ringlets, lips pink and kind of breathless. His bangs are clipped back and his skin has that dewy, shower glow. In his hands, he clutches a fluffy blanket and a giant bag of healthy-alternative popcorn. From these two facts alone, Atsumu gives himself permission to fall irrevocably in love. 

“No mask?” Atsumu asks to have something to say, despite having practiced a dozen first lines that were much smoother.

He’s at his dumbest near pretty boys he can have—at least on a technicality. 

Sakusa walks past him, purposely brushing against his body. To prove a point, cause there’s room. “It’s just us two,” he says.

He stops in the middle of Atsumu’s cramped place and takes in the mess. Atsumu has half a mind to scream, Ta-da, betcha regret it now, huh!! but holds back. Be confident, Osamu had advised prior to this, you’re always so needy and self-deprecating, it’s no wonder no one wants to deal with your pathetic ass (but Atsumu is supposed to love and share his inheritance with him?) 

“So this is where the action happens,” Sakusa says more to himself. 

“Action?” What action? The action Atsumu’s dick hasn’t gotten since high school? 

Sakusa eyes the polaroids taped to the wall, half from his old team, half misadventures of the Naruto-Five on nights with too much vodka—Hinata making faces, Adriah doing gay shit. “The sleepover crew,” Sakusa says.

“Oh, that,” Atsumu stalls. It’s not like they’ve never invited him. Actually it is. They’ve never invited him, but Atsumu rarely invites anyone. They trickle in, lounge around, bury themselves in the crevices of his life his brother left behind. 

“You didn’t have to make the bed,” Sakusa knows, probably because he did it wrong. “We’re gonna be on it.”

“We are?” 

Sakusa turns towards him. “You wanna sit on the floor?”

“Would you?”

Sakusa looks confused but drops it. Atsumu wonders if he’ll leave, but he doesn’t. He starts setting up his stuff on the floor next to the bed, where Atsumu never did quite vacuumed. Atsumu rushes forward in time to catch Sakusa’s blanket before it can graze the tiles. 

“I’m joking,” he hurries. He’s such a twat. “The bed is fine. Let’s sit on the bed.”

“Why do you do that?” Sakusa mumbles, looking away. 

Atsumu has a feeling he knows what ‘that’ is but doesn’t want to address it. “What?” 

“Why do you keep testing me like you think I might freak out over the smallest things?”

“Won’t you?” Atsumu catches himself—he just did it again. 

Sakusa fidgets with the blanket, curling his fingers around it. 

“I’m not put off by you,” he says, “You’re my friend. We share a team. I don’t care if you touch me. You touch me all the time actually.”

Between ‘friend’ and ‘touch me all the time’ Atsumu’s singular brain cell pinballs all over the reaction map, not knowing whether to scream or scream (but in gay way). 

Sakusa takes the time to settle on Atsumu bed, putting his feet up and curling under his blanket like the most adorable human being Atsumu has ever seen. The brain cell settles on deep and unbearable infatuation.

“I’m not some fucking weirdo like you all seem to think,” Sakusa mutters.

“We don’t think that,” Atsumu interjects. Sakusa gives him a tired look. Atsumu wants to grab his face and make him take that back. He doesn’t but his voice lowers to the soft whispers he reserves for times it’s just them and they know they don’t need to scream to be heard. “We don’t. We think you don’t like us much because we’re weirdos, so we leave you alone.”

It takes saying it out loud to realize just how much they do just that. Sakusa’s always alone. Despite being the second youngest, only a few months older than Hinata, who was passed from room to room his first few weeks with them, the team chipping in to make sure he didn’t feel excluded. But Sakusa had seemed so independent, carried himself with such strength that no one ever questioned he’d be fine.

“Are you gonna sit next to me?” Sakusa asks. “And don’t ask if I want you to. I want you to that’s why I’m asking you too. Stop double-checking everything.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Atsumu sighs. 

He climbs on the bed. Sakusa lifts his blanket and shares some over Atsumu’s legs. He reaches for the remote and drops it on Atsumu’s lap. They’re closer than Atsumu had allowed himself to imagine, and with the sun almost gone, throwing the room in romantic shades of purple, Atsumu recognizes the dangers of what this could lead to. 

“You smell really good,” he says. 

“You smell like you showered with the gym’s generic all-in-one body and hair soap,” Sakusa taunts.

“You’re not wrong,” Atsumu chuckles. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Atsumu snaps his head up. “What—how?”

Sakusa looks sheepish. “What do you mean? You’ve never kissed someone?”

“You have?” 

“I’m a twenty-three-year-old man—”

“Gay man—”

“I’m bi actually. Not that it matters—”

“Was it the person you’re in love with who took all your Tinder pictures?” Atsumu decides to share for reasons beyond what his prefrontal cortex can provide. Monkey-brain said mate has mate, I kill mate’s mate. 

“My what?” Sakusa asks, visibly thrown by the tangent. 

Atsumu takes a steadying breath. If this was going to avalanche out of control, might as well get some answers out of it, though how an in-person rejection is better than a technological one in the privacy of his room he couldn’t tell you. But Sakusa wants to kiss him so obviously he deserves to be punished for having such terrible taste in men.

“Did you swipe right on me on Tinder?” Atsumu asks.

Sakusa’s confusion reaches gaping levels. “You’re on Tinder?”

It only occurs to Atsumu in the silence that follows that catfish exist and that his teammates are capable of incredible evils. 

“Nooo, me? On Tinder? What would I need Tinder for—”

“I’m joking,” Sakusa says, “I definitely swiped left.”


“I was legally obligated to after reading your bio,” Sakusa shrugs.

Atsumu bursts into laughter. “That’s, you’re... funny.”

“Why wouldn’t I be—who do you guys think I am?” Sakusa asks, eyebrows raised. 

He’s so relaxed like this! Atsumu loves to think it’s his presence, the fact that it’s the two of them—they get along so well! 

His phone beeps. “Hold that thought.”

Atsumu looks at the preview. Adriah: “We heard screaming. Do you need us to barge in?”

“Are you standing behind the door?” Atsumu types in response.

The dots appear. Then stop. Then reappear. “Yes.”

“All four of you?”

“Bokuto went to get snacks.”

Atsumu sighs dramatically, tossing the phone aside. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sakusa repeats.

“Haha. Can you?”

“Yeah, can I?”


“Please don’t say can you,” Sakusa stops him.

“Can...I?” Atsumu says instead. 

“Yeah,” Sakusa nods. “Please.”


“Just say yes,” Adriah screams from behind the door, “For fuck’s sake, this is the most painful thing I’ve ever had to witness.”

They both turn towards the door, catching the painful thump that follows Adriah’s explosion, before looking back at each other. 

“You still wanna kiss me?” Atsumu jokes, wincing.

“So much,” Sakusa says.


“Samu says he should have strangled you with the umbrella cord when you were in the womb,” Hinata, this time.

“It’s umbilical,” comes Shion’s muffled reply, “And we’re leaving. We’re making him nervous.”

“What?” Bokuto yells, apparently having just returned. “What’d I miss? Are they fucking already? Is sanitizer involved?”

Atsumu digs his face in his hands and waits for it to be over. It takes grumbling and whining for Shion to wrangle the boys down the hall.

“Right, well,” Atsumu lingers, too mortified to face Sakusa’s reaction.

He has yet to gather the courage when Sakusa’s hand lands on the side of his face, startling him. Atsumu looks up, right as Sakusa leans into him and their lips brush awkwardly, Sakusa’s mouth landing closer to his nose. He crawls on Atsumu’s lap, and they’re kissing properly, tongues sloppy and slick, bodies writhing against each other. Sloppy, Atsumu screeches internally, he’s using the word sloppy in association with Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi is fucking his mouth his tongue. Sakusa Kiyoomi is so into him, he has a freaking boner. Saku—

“Holy shit,” Atsumu pants when Sakusa gives him a moment to breathe air they’re not mouthing off each other. “Holy fuck, ok, ok, ok—”

Sakusa swallows the rest of the ok-s (around ten or so). Even through his closed eyes, Atsumu catches the tail end of an eye roll.

“I have a very big crush on you,” Sakusa admits when they break apart the second time.

His lips are puffy and shiny with spit. He sucks one between his teeth, daring Atsumu to take it back. 

“You do?”

Sakusa groans. “Back to parroting?” 

“Just...” Atsumu hiccups when Sakusa goes for his neck this time. “Trying to understand how this is happening.”

“It could have been happening months ago,” Sakusa mumbles against his pulse. Atsumu opens his mouth—this time it’s Sakusa’s fingers that stop him, Sakusa’s thumb dipping inside his mouth to press against his tongue, almost gagging him. “Let’s stop talking now.”

Atsumu makes a garbled sound of agreement.