Chapter Text
He’s caught for the first time in Yokohama.
The groupie desperately pressing him against the elevator wall is still thirsty, and not for the drinks they both downed in the past few hours. It’s always like this, after a victory on the road: a local traitor finds their way into Miya Atsumu’s arms in the after-after-after party where he is the only host left. Alcohol from countries he’s never set foot in make their way down his throat, mixed with the sake from the earliest celebration and toppling all his defensive walls with the resulting deluge. He vaguely trusts that the person eventually stumbling into the taxi with him is always the most attractive one of the night - he’s seldom wrong - but not much matters when it’s past 4am and his body is aching for a final release. 4am is also far too late for paparazzi to catch him in any further scandals, so he only endures the silent judgment of hotel receptionists each time he drunkenly wanders through another lobby, the object of his next tryst within grasp.
Tonight, Atsumu lets the young woman ravish him as they literally climb to great heights. He hopes Yuriko is her name, because that’s what his brain is telling his mouth to moan, but she is mumbling his name correctly in between each kiss, so that’s good enough for now.
The elevator dings as its display flashes “23,” prompting him to use the last of his strength to shove them both out the double doors. A vague sense of direction tries to worm its way through the haze - room 2305? No, 2303, just to the right - and he forces a hand between his jeans and where slender fingers are already grabbing at his ass, fishing out the keycard without opening his eyes.
Maneuvering two tangled bodies horizontally soon proves a challenge, however, so he permits one eyelid to lift. Besides the makeup-plastered face in the foreground, a tall shadow looms at the corner of his sight, about twenty steps down the same hallway.
He turns his head slightly to see his teammate and nemesis clad in his pajamas, a few fresh towels stacked above his forearms. Beneath somewhat ruffled black curls, he is completely stone-faced as he watches the intertwined bodies in front of him finally arrive at the right door.
Atsumu flashes him a peace sign and a satisfied smirk - sweet dreams, Omi-kun - before falling backwards into privacy and bliss.
It’s three weeks later when this happens again.
The handsome young salaryman approaches him boldly at his fifth Kanazawa bar of the night, quickly rising in the ranks of Atsumu’s suitors as he prattles on about his own short-lived high school volleyball career, emptying the cups of sake being poured between them with ease. It takes only a few knowing glances across the table at 2:38am for the unspoken agreement to form, and by 3:03 they are devouring each other in the hallway outside yet another one of Atsumu’s hotel rooms, the reckless turbulence of their rendezvous echoing against the walls.
Sakusa’s room is across the hall for this trip, and its door furiously swings open at 3:04.
Before he passes into the darkness of his own room this time, however, Atsumu thinks he sees a flash of something within two black pools.
-*-
“Miya. I need you to help me with something.”
They’re back in Osaka, two days since the narrow victory in Kanazawa and one day since the conflicting - and regrettable - taste of acidic sake and salty cum finally disappears from his tongue. The currently maskless Sakusa Kiyoomi’s approach in the locker room is as forward as Atsumu has ever seen it, so he knows that the wing spiker intends to have a serious conversation that he himself is likely unprepared for.
“What is it, Omi-kun?” He stuffs his practice uniform carelessly into a duffle, not yet facing the large shadow hovering behind. “If ya wanna blackmail me for anythin' ya saw, it won’t work. My reputation is already my reputation. Ask the sports tabloids.”
“It’s...not that.” For once, the rich timbre of Sakusa’s voice is contrary to the skittish words it forms. “I want...need to...learn some things.”
Atsumu shuts his locker before turning, brows knit in bewilderment.
“What ‘things?’ Like how to serve the way I do?” His confusion only heightens at the sight of his teammate’s extremely hesitant expression - one that doesn’t resonate with the handsome features that usually radiate composure. “Ya know I’m always happy to help ya out--”
“No, it’s nothing volleyball-related.”
Atsumu blinks hard twice. “Then…?”
Sakusa bites his bottom lip, the rest of his face scrunching into something uncomfortable, though still bearing its own bizarre type of charm.
“I’m going to ask out Watakoshi-kun next time we play the Adlers, a month from now.”
Ushijima? Atsumu’s brain immediately pulls up the Southpaw Ace’s familiar appearance, as well as a relevant headline from less than a week ago. The words are plastered on the one Japanese pro volleyball gossip website on the planet - Atsumu isn’t browsing through it daily, he swears - announcing that the Adler opposite had broken up with his latest beau after three long years. His high school memories vaguely confirm that Sakusa shares a special camaraderie with the formidable player, but even then, he still feels surprised at the current escalation of emotions displayed on the typically-stoic face.
“O...kay? And...?” He has no choice but to push for elaboration.
Sakusa’s entire stance becomes unsettled, his long legs shifting and reshifting his balance as he looks to the side. A full minute passes before the confession finally sounds.
“The truth is, Miya, I’ve never been in a relationship before, much less...done anything.”
Atsumu finds himself gulping, the foggy direction of their conversation starting to dissipate. “...explain ‘anything.’”
His teammate stares him right in the eyes then, a mixture of annoyance and surrender clouding his irises.
“I think what I’m implying is obvious.”
More recent memories gradually surface in Atsumu’s head, this time of declined high-fives, ignored hugs, and dramatic escapes from press conferences. He has always filed those away in the classified “Sakusa Kiyoomi - DO NOT TOUCH” compartment of his brain, but somehow, he had never considered the way such preferences may influence his teammate’s personal life.
“Right, I just didn’t think yer aversion to being touched by the rest of us also applied...there.” He speaks his thoughts aloud. “So ya’ve never...ever? Not even a kiss from a dare in middle school? Or holdin’ someone’s hand?”
The look Sakusa takes on is almost pitiful. “No…”
“Wow.” Atsumu breathes, somewhat in awe at the discovery. “Well...um…”
“So please. Teach me, Miya.”
At the devastatingly earnest request, Atsumu halts his own marveling with a violent shake of his head.
“Wh--why me?” His finger impulsively points to himself. “I mean, I know we’ve known each other pretty long, but…”
Sakusa grimaces a little, as if recalling something unsavory. “As I’ve seen with my own eyes, you obviously have plenty of experience.”
Oh, right. Atsumu almost cringes while imagining the wild visuals of himself currently frolicking in Sakusa’s mind. “But a lot of people have...experience.”
“And you’re my only damn option, Miya .” The spiker’s voice adopts a tone of frustration. “I don’t form many connections outside of here, and everyone else on this team is in a committed relationship, not having drunk fuckfests every time we travel…who else am I going to ask? Captain Meian? Hinata? Bokuto?”
Right, Akaashi probably wouldn’t appreciate that last one too much. Atsumu cringes again. On reflex, his thoughts begin to race with the pros and cons of this unique proposal, the sheer amount of openness and patience it would require of them both to generate anywhere close to a successful result. Indeed, it is a role perhaps only he can take on. After all, even on the court, he guards the essential gate all plays must pass through on their way to victory. So just as Sakusa Kiyoomi seeks to unlock all these new sensations deep within - this admittedly courageous reinvention of himself - it may again be Atsumu who actually holds all the keys.
At his own gradual acceptance of the whole idea, Atsumu knows he has gone just as nuts as the man in front of him, but he also wonders if that’s why they are even well-matched teammates in the first place.
His eyes meet Sakusa’s with hesitation. “So ya won’t care...if I keep fuckin’ others?”
“I’m perfectly aware that this is not a relationship.” Sakusa’s reaction is one of detachment. “Keep doing whatever the hell you want - just try to not let me see it again.”
Ignoring the dreadful irony of those last words, Atsumu exhales a deep breath through his lips, its force blowing the tips of his bangs upward.
“Look, let’s get this straight. I’m no therapist, so I dun’ feel right about this, but I can’t find a reason to not help ya, either.”
At his reluctant yet affirmative statement, the spiker’s expression brightens.
“In the end, you’re just responsible for showing me, not...curing me.” He assures, as if wanting to push through a final obstacle. “Again, we’ll have no commitments toward each other beyond this agreement.”
“Understood.” Atsumu nods. “Um, exactly how far do ya want me to take these lessons?”
For the first time since their teenage years, he sees a gentle flush upon the familiar shade of pale skin.
“As...as far as you’re comfortable taking me.” The volume of Sakusa’s voice lowers to a practical whisper. “I assume you know...everything there is to know about....what goes on between two men.”
Atsumu finds himself frowning, unsure of how exactly to reconcile the apprehension of a teenager with the face of a 22-year-old. He makes a mental note to never devolve into his more objectionable persona, and to treat his teammate - partner? Friend with benefits? - with as much delicacy as he can manage.
“Maybe I dunno...everything. But I’ll go...as slow and as far as ya wanna go. The decision’ll always be yers.”
Sakusa gives a reluctant nod, showing gratitude despite his silence. At the same moment, another thought occurs to Atsumu.
“And Ushijima?” The name, for whatever reason, now brings a sour taste to his mouth - perhaps , he thinks, because I will have to mention it unnecessarily often from now on. “Ya...ya don’t wanna save any of yer ‘firsts’ for him?”
“He wouldn’t fucking care about that…” Sakusa’s flush from earlier seems to deepen, though his words remain firm. “He has already had two steady boyfriends since high school. I just…the idea of saving yourself is so...18th century, Miya.”
Rendered speechless for a moment, Atsumu feels both pressured and relieved by the concept at once.
“Yer not wrong, I guess...”
“It’s more important that I feel absolutely ready when the time comes, and not just end up like some wallflower, trembling the whole time.” As he speaks, the spiker’s fists start to clench at his sides. “I need...I really need your level of confidence.”
Atsumu feels the pressure side increase a bit in weight. “To be perfectly honest, Omi-kun...that might not be something ya can learn...” He makes a partial admission, omitting the thought of And too much of it is liquid courage. “But...we can try.”
Sakusa nods more resolutely this time, a sense of commitment emanating through every part of his being. Atsumu decides to drink in the sight as the first stage of confidence-building.
“So how...how much do you want for this?” The question sounds abruptly from Sakusa’s lips, as if it had been held back for a long while.
Atsumu is stunned into momentary silence, but recovers just as quickly. “What the fuck, Omi-kun. I’m not gonna charge ya money for this.” He scoffs, knowing that there is no other proper solution. “Just...keep this as our secret. That’s good enough.”
“Okay...tha...thank you.” His teammate sighs in relief. “I appreciate this, Miya.”
“I would say ‘the pleasure is all mine,’ but I honestly hope it’ll at least be kinda nice for ya, too.”
The redness on Sakusa’s face grows even stronger than the two times Ushijima had come up, and Atsumu can’t help but feel somewhat pleased.
“So, how long have ya liked the guy?” He curses his damn curiosity at the very same time he asks.
“Nine...maybe ten years. I don’t remember when exactly it started.”
“Fuuuuck.” He’s almost envious of the dedication, that wholesomeness of a deep-rooted crush Atsumu has never personally experienced. “He better take good care of ya after all this.”
The last statement seems to drive Sakusa into a calm trance, and when there is no response after a few seconds, Atsumu clears his throat.
“Ahem...how and when should we start?”
The question snaps the raven-haired man back to reality, and he briefly mulls to himself before making a decision.
“If you’re free tonight, come to my room at seven.” The proposal is as straightforward as their Captain’s usual orders during practice. “And shower beforehand, please.”
Atsumu swings his duffle over a shoulder. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
“What are you going to teach me first?”
“First?” He catches himself before his imagination wanders too far and starts replacing the heads of recent sexual partners with Sakusa’s. “Um...I guess...just touching is a good start?”
The spiker releases a deep exhale.
“Okay. I’ll try to be ready.”
-*-
He arrives at Sakusa’s doorstep at seven sharp, hair still somewhat damp from the shower he promised. A few remnant droplets accumulate on his shoulder, temporarily darkening the grey cotton fabric that currently envelops his torso - a more neutral color that he hopes will help reduce any sensory strains.
He had used the few hours since their locker room encounter to read up on mysophobia, digesting its causes and consequences with his previous observations of Sakusa in mind. Whereas he might have felt pity in the past, he has gained a more nuanced understanding of the complexities that reside in his teammate’s psychology, and he only feels more motivation to help him prevail.
At the same time, he wonders exactly how much he can share in any victories, or what that even means.
The door swings open after just a few knocks, revealing Sakusa dressed in a simple white t-shirt and black sweatpants. Upon the door frame, his fingers are strangely tapeless, their somewhat bony joints more exposed than ever before. His hair is also tamer than what Atsumu is used to seeing at practices and matches, most of its waves cascading down the left side of his face like a gentle curtain, rather than the wild thickets more suitable for his feral, athletic persona.
“Hi.” Atsumu waves his left hand once.
“Hi.” Sakusa answers placidly before moving aside to widen the entryway. “Come in.”
As soon as Atsumu removes his shoes, Sakusa approaches with a bottle of hand sanitizer, and he openly accepts the dollops that get squeezed into both his palms. Only when the clear gel disappears into the crevices of his fingers does Atsumu actually see a full view of the room, lit by two halfway-dimmed floor lamps. The doors to other spaces are closed, restricting them to the confines of the living room and kitchen. As expected, every element is austere, though not without the presence of some well-placed details: a glass vase in luminescent green, arrays of colorful book spines snugly placed within white shelves, a checkerboard-patterned rug against wood flooring.
Sakusa points to the center of said rug, where a pair of flat, square cushions rest a short distance from each other. Upon the adjacent coffee table are two glasses of water, as well as a few lit tealights.
“Sit there.”
Atsumu paces over and lowers himself onto one of the cushions, calves folding below thighs in a standard kneel.
“This feels like a meditation or a seance, Omi-kun.” He can’t help but snark.
“Well then, you’d better summon some good spirits to help me get over everything.” Sakusa scoffs before following his actions.
The apartment turns silent besides their somewhat synchronized breaths, and Atsumu watches intently as his teammate maneuvers himself until their eyes are at identical levels. Far from the harsh lighting of volleyball courts, and within the serene boundaries of a private room, there is an unquestionable allure to the way Sakusa conducts himself. It’s not that he never thought his teammate was attractive - in fact, he is easily one of the most objectively handsome of their graduating class, having long since grown out of his more awkward years - but his aloofness had always made him unapproachable, and thus unattainable. Now, however, his closeness counters any of Atsumu’s previous assumptions, and all he perceives is that meticulous attention to detail, that more genial way he bites back at Atsumu’s words, that--
“What is it, Miya?”
“Um.” He manages to fabricate a quick excuse from the room’s contents. “No gloves?”
“No, as long as your hands are clean, I want...skin-on-skin.” Sakusa lowers his gaze to his own hands, curling the long fingers slowly for a habitual stretch. “It’s more...realistic, no?”
Atsumu listens to the familiar, gentle crack of the spiker’s joints, a sound that is somehow comforting in this context rather than eerie. “Ok. Whateva’ ya want.”
“Ok.” The soft noises stop, and Sakusa proceeds to roll up the sleeves of his t-shirt, revealing even more of his toned biceps. A long, steady exhale follows.
“I’m ready.”
“Please put out a hand.” Atsumu states firmly, before doing just that himself. He’s careful to not word the phrase as give me, as they are nowhere near that stage yet.
Across from him, the request is obeyed, albeit with an unsteady limb.
“Close your eyes.”
Deeply-sunken lids succumb to gravity, foregoing light and shielding the onyx irises beneath.
He cautiously moves into a first attempt then, extending an index finger towards Sakusa’s open palm. The tip scantily makes contact when the spiker hisses, withdrawing his raised hand in an act of total alarm.
Dark eyes snap open, revealing pupils now dilated in their state of panic. Simultaneously, Sakusa’s angular shoulders begin to rise and fall as he draws sharp breaths, the speed of which is just short of hyperventilation. His other hand moves to softly rub the exact spot Atsumu’s finger had barely touched, as if soothing a brand-new burn.
“Hey.” Atsumu swallows, having understood the more accurate extent of his teammate’s condition. “Sorry, ya alright?”
Thick brows furrow, but their bearer still speaks with conviction. “Yah...I just...need to get used to it.”
“Take however long ya need.” Atsumu tries to maintain his gentlest tone of voice. “Doesn’t have to be tonight, y’know.”
Sakusa nods, and slowly but surely, his hands return to their original place in waiting, while eyes once again shut out the rest of the universe.
Time falls away as they continue to test the boundaries of Sakusa’s endurance, each attempt followed by retreat after retreat. The occasional mark of success pushes them slowly forward - from the brush of a knuckle to a fingertip remaining in place for more than ten seconds - but progress moves at the pace of molasses, and Sakusa’s facial expressions only become more and more agonized with every new failure. A part of Atsumu has the urge to simply hold him and soothe the torment somehow, but he knows that is far from a viable option.
When Sakusa nearly sobs at the sensation of his hand being fully grasped, an idea Atsumu had hidden away resurfaces. It’s a tactic he had dreaded to put into action, as he knows the same sourness he tasted earlier in the day will return - and this time, linger indefinitely.
But Atsumu has little choice, so he hovers over Sakusa’s palm once more.
“Imagine that this hand is Ushijima’s.” He narrates with as much sincerity as he can muster. “These are his fingers danglin’ next to yers. They’re hesitant, because he wants to respect yer space. Ya may not be lettin’ him in right now, but he’s patient. He’ll wait as long as he needs to.”
The faked scenario proves immediately effective, and Sakusa’s stuttered breaths begin to return to their usual, steady cycle, even as Atsumu’s hand completely encloses around his.
“He’s holdin’ yer hand now, thawin’ it in case you feel cold. It also feels powerful, the way Ushijima’s spikes are...like a dependable shield is around yer hand, protectin’ it from any touches ya might not want.”
Beneath Atsumu’s opened eyes, the tealights warm the visual of his own hand joined with Sakusa’s, a painful contradiction to the words he has forced himself to utter. Without warning, his heart clenches with unease, causing his fingers to release what another part of him wishes to continue grasping.
To his surprise, a whine escapes Sakusa as he reaches out - searches - for the suddenly missing warmth.
“Keep--keep your eyes closed.” Shell-shocked over the development, Atsumu almost stumbles in his next command.
He takes more than a few seconds to regroup, struggling with exactly how to continue.
“Please.” The plea that arises from Sakusa is nearly a whimper. “Miya.”
Atsumu knows he’s three steps away from descending into some sort of oblivion, and the tremble in Sakusa’s voice only brings him one step closer. But the impending doom entices him with its uncharted darkness, invites him to savor the pain of the inevitable fall - and so he accepts.
He extends his hand again, this time lowering all five of his fingers into Sakusa’s welcoming right palm.
“Sometimes, Ushijima’ll wanna touch ya like this.”
He drags his digits gently across the fate lines, appraising each bump and valley that form the narrow channels, the blend of soft skin and hard calluses that create unpredictable terrain. Soon, the lethargic voyage reaches Sakusa’s wrists, where the heated vibrations of his artery resemble pulsing magma, threatening to overflow.
Atsumu pauses there.
“He might ask ta...move his hand further up yer arm.”
Sakusa nods in consent.
So he continues, softly tracing the spotting of light bruises along Sakusa’s forearm, rounding his elbow, and up the sinews of muscle exposed by the tucked t-shirt sleeve. At no point does he waver too long, not wanting to accidentally ignite any untrained nerves, but even as he moves across fabric and ducks into the sensitive junction between shoulder and neck, Sakusa’s expression does not shift into discomfort. There is only a subtle swallow of the throat as Atsumu tracks the ascending flow of magma against the jugular, a delicate gasp when his nail beds scrape against a defined jawline, a sound of approval during the skim across dense hairs of an eyebrow.
He arrives at the pair of beauty marks that make Sakusa instantly identifiable despite any mask, their pattern like the spots on a dice, having rolled a certain destiny assigned to the human they imprint upon. Out of strange volition, his fingertips begin to draw figure 8’s around the two blemishes, dancing hypnotic steps that have no end.
“Hmm.” Sakusa exhales audibly at the sensation, lips quicking up in amusement.
Kiyoomi. Atsumu nearly whispers, but does not.
Instead, he ends the makeshift choreography and moves his hand downward, barely brushing against long lashes before conforming its expanse to the roundness of Sakusa’s cheek.
“Sometimes, Ushijima might hold yer face like this...” He murmurs. “If ya just lean into it, his heart’ll probably start racin’.”
Sakusa angles his head then, fitting the supple flesh perfectly -- too perfectly -- within the curve of the palm. The sight makes Atsumu hitch his breath, and he hates that his recent prediction proves all too accurate.
Sometimes, he might wanna kiss ya like this.
It’s unsettling, to slow his own savage pace down to these languid demonstrations of affection. There is no clash of alcohol-flavored mouths, no desperate ripping of clothes, no afterthought filled with apathy. No, in this oblivion of a room, the only thing Atsumu finds himself drunk on is the most innocent, most exquisite of gestures. However, he is also wrapped in the folds of a disguise, unable to worship any semblance of beauty as his true self.
He removes his touch, and the suffocating veil.
“Alright.” He brings both hands back together, one still simmering with the residues of its journey. “How was all that for ya, Omi-kun?”
Sakusa’s eyes finally open, their dazed condition fully visible.
“Really...really nice.” He confides almost dreamily. “I think...I’ve really crossed some sort of threshold.”
Atsumu can’t help but feel a sense of endearment, but the reminder of what depictions must actually exist in Sakusa’s mind deflates him. Before such a reaction materializes, he turns to the glass of water upon the coffee table and drinks it in its entirety.
“We’re just gettin' started.” He states after downing the cool liquid, allowing it to cleanse any sour aftertastes that infuse his throat. “Don’t get too ahead of yerself.”
A satisfied smile emerges on Sakusa’s face then, his eyes crinkling into creases whose mere existence had never been proven before.
“Thank you, Miya.” Similar to when he first made the request in the locker room, Sakusa’s gratitude is sincere. “When you told me to imagine Wakatoshi-kun...something just...shifted in the right direction. It feels as if...I am more ready to be with him than I thought.”
“Right, that’s good.” The straightforward confession burns far worse than his palm, and he wishes he had left just one more gulp of water behind. “Um, gettin’ late - I should go.”
Atsumu lifts himself up before Sakusa can respond, almost tripping over his own feet as he heads for his shoes and the door - the consequence of still-asleep calves. But when he eventually slips on a second sneaker, the part of him already entrapped in oblivion decides to drag the rest of him further.
“Let me know when...I mean, if ya want another session.”
He curses himself almost as soon as the words escape, but his makeshift student does not sense the internal strife.
“I will.” Sakusa merely nods. “See you at practice tomorrow.”
With that, Atsumu finally stumbles his way out of the apartment in an ungraceful display, the shutting of the door nearly a slam when his grip pulls with too much momentum. Before his legs fully recover their ability to travel, he leans against Sakusa’s door and sighs, each thought a wonder as to how many more such lessons he can possibly endure.
As far as you’re comfortable taking me.
He’s certain he will combust partway through.