Chapter Text
Atsumu pulls away long enough from his kissing partner to declare “I really don’t like you.”
Kiyoomi huffs. “It would surprise me if you did.”
The girl that Atsumu stopped kissing five seconds ago chuckles. “You’re so weird.”
“No, but like, I mean,” Atsumu starts and goes back at it, lands a trail of kisses on the blonde’s neck while moving closer to her, “I don’t get why ya wouldn’t give me the single room just fer tonight.”
“We’ve been over this, Miya, you had it last time,” Kiyoomi responds from the other side of the booth, wholly unfazed. “Don’t act as if we didn’t talk about it back at the hotel. Is that alright, Takeo?” The guy with piercings and a shaved head that Kiyoomi’s giving a neck massage to nods fervently. “That’s good,” he murmurs. His fingers cart through the bristly hair at the nape of his neck.
Atsumu still isn’t done. He pulls off again, a string of spit connecting his lips to the girl’s. The bass of a new song thumps in the background, beats in time with his accelerated heartbeat. He raises his voice so Kiyoomi can hear him over the volume. “Oh c’mon, she lives, like, so far away, it’ll be such a pain to get there and back.”
“No.” When he works out a particularly stubborn kink, Takeo lets out a contented noise between a sigh and a groan. Kiyoomi starts humming quietly to the song playing over the speakers. The top portion of his face that’s visible above his mask is even and pale as ever in the half-dimmed atmosphere of the upholstered booth. His hands wander across muscular shoulders.
“I hate it as much as you do that we hafta sleep in double rooms, but can’t ya just let me have this today?” Atsumu looks downright desperate, shirt rumpled and hair messy, lipstick marks smeared around his mouth and trailing down his neck. The strobing lights of the dance floor occasionally catch on his hair, light it up in green and yellow. He kicks Kiyoomi’s shin under the table. “I gave ya the perfect set for that last cut-shot ya did. I know ya bragged ‘bout it later on TV. An’ I know it’s yer turn ta have the single room tonight, but please? I called ya an asshole only, like, seven times this week.” Atsumu dives back into devouring the woman. She giggles and grips the back of his head to pull him closer. Atsumu gladly complies.
“I counted, it was six.” Kiyoomi’s hand trails further. Pale, bony fingers curl around a thick bicep. “It’s still a no.”
Atsumu turns around again and has already opened his mouth when the woman he’s with gets up, swaying a bit on her feet. “I really want to have sex right now,” she announces. “So please stop talking to your teammate?”
Atsumu stands up too and points a finger at him. “Ye’re a dick.”
Kiyoomi sneaks a hand down his acquaintance’s waist and sidles up closer to him. “I’ll text you the bus schedule,” he mumbles and starts peppering close-mouthed kisses to the side of Takeo’s throat.
“Ye’re a smug dick, fuck you, Omi-Omi.” The woman tugs insistently at his arm and Atsumu lets himself get pulled with, shoots one last withering glare over his shoulder. “Have fun in yer stupid one-person-hotel-room, ya dick.”
“You said dick twice!” he calls after him.
“God, he’s finally gone,” Takeo says. “But I guess that’s our cue to leave?” he adds while he turns around and lays a hand on Kiyoomi’s chest.
He freezes.
Kiyoomi reels back, lets out something akin to a hiss. He has his fingers clamped around the offending wrist in an instant, grips it in an iron hold and slams it onto the table with a resounding thunk. “Oh no,” he snaps, “you don’t get to touch me yet.”
Takeo’s eyes grow wide. For a moment, the only sound between them is the loud chatter and singing in the background of the bar. He licks his lips. “Sorry?”
Kiyoomi considers him from half-lidded eyes. “I told you how this was going to go when you came up to me,” voice sharp and cold like an icicle. “We talk, briefly, and you don’t try to get close to me. I bring you back, we both take a thorough shower and then and only then I might allow you to touch me. Notice how we aren’t at that part yet?”
Takeo gulps. His pupils have dilated. “So let’s go.” He adjusts his leather jacket and also his pants. “Your place or mine?”
“I’d like to say yours just to fuck with Miya, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”
“Oh I intend to.”
As Kiyoomi marches out of the bar and Takeo trails after him, the entire team sighs in their periphery. Deeply.
“Right,” Bokuto begins. “I’m in a room with Tsumu, so his bed will stay empty. Inunaki, you’re scheduled to have the single room, but now that Omi-Omi’s gonna be in there, do you want Atsumu’s bed or Kiyoomi’s in Meian’s room?”
Inunaki considers the two shots in his hands. He looks up at Barnes for guidance. “Left or right?”
Barnes shrugs. “Left.”
Inunaki knocks back the left shot. He chases it with the other. He burps. “Meian.”
Hinata stumbles up to them, freshly back from the dance floor, shirt buttons suspiciously ripped-off and two phone numbers scribbled onto his bare chest. “I hope they have fun!” His bright smile could illuminate the entire night sky. “So what’s the verdict?”
“We hate them,” the rest of the team declares in unison.
Neither Kiyoomi nor Atsumu make a secret out of their respective romantic endeavors. Actually, it would not be very fair to call them romantic considering that there isn’t much romance involved. Whoring around would be more accurate, as coach Foster once called it.
And the team would be fine with it, really, totally, freedom of choice and do with your body what you like and “go get it Tsumu!” and all that – they would be fine with it if it wasn’t for the room assignments and the resulting drama.
“Team bonding,” the manager had called it when she first announced that they’d be sharing rooms on away games from now on, “a pain in the ass,” everyone else. There’s usually eleven of them, and only six rooms. Of course, the team could afford to get each of them their own room, but that wouldn’t promote “team spirit” and “conflict solving strategies”, now would it?
“We’re not doing that shit,” literally everyone on the team had said when they first heard about it. And then, the manager said “we know you like to go out after the game, we’ll provide all your food and drinks on these nights for free”.
It does help with team bonding. You bond alright when you have to deal with snoring (from Bokuto), stinky socks (from Hinata), terrible bathroom etiquette (from everyone but Kiyoomi) and similar horrors (Inunaki’s body pillow of Genos from One Punch Man). And you bond very well when you get shit-faced drunk together. Yes, the team bonding aspect is a total success. Improving team spirit? Sure, the rest of the team has started cheering on Atsumu and Kiyoomi lately, hoping they disappear out of the establishment and their line of sight faster.
Unfortunately, most of the “conflict” comes from those two themselves and most of the “solving” involves them hurling insults at each other before aggressively making out with their respective partners. The big “strategy” is to fuck someone silly.
It’s working pretty well.
///
Then, Meian divorces his wife.
He slides into the booth next to Atsumu and Kiyoomi with sweaty palms and a nervous smile. And that would be a fine thing for him to do, normal, totally okay, if just Kiyoomi and Atsumu weren’t … occupied again.
Atsumu leans back from the girl he’s been heatedly making out with to look at Meian.
Kiyoomi currently sits on the other side of the booth with some scrawny guy’s legs thrown over his lap, half-way listening to unfettered complaining about an ex-stepmother.
The two look at each other. Atsumu furrows his brows. Kiyoomi holds up one finger, then two, blinks slowly. Atsumu’s eyes widen. Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. Atsumu lifts both.
“Okay, time to go,” Atsumu says to the indignant woman with vigorously ruffled hair and pats her on the back while she gets up. “I’ll be done here in a sec, would ya mind waitin’ at the bar fer me?”
Kiyoomi’s guy protests when he’s thrown out of the booth. “But I haven’t even gotten some action with you yet!”
Kiyoomi blinks. “I guess you won’t. Don’t be too sad, find someone else. I’ll do the same.”
And Meian sits there, hands clamped together in his lap.
Kiyoomi and Atsumu turn to their captain in sync, lean across the table like hawks that have spotted a rabbit.
“Hello Meian,” Kiyoomi begins. “Sorry about the marriage.”
Atsumu sets an elbow down between two half-empty baskets of fries and props his grinning face on it. “I’m guessin’ ye’re in dire need of some meaningless sex, so ya wanna consult the pros?”
Kiyoomi hits the back of his head. “That’s disgusting, Miya.” Atsumu yelps.
Meian sighs. “It is, but I do need a distraction, and you two certainly seem …” He waves around in the air ambiguously, “…adequately distracted on these nights out. Women, men, doesn’t matter. A man might be better considering … recent developments.”
“Alright, that’s easier,” Atsumu says.
Kiyoomi looks Meian up and down, examines the tight button-up he’s wearing, his slacks that are too formal for this kind of establishment, the uneven smile on his face. “First, you’ll need staggering amounts of self-confidence and an embarrassing lack of dignity.”
“A drink usually helps,” Atsumu adds. “Open the top two buttons of your shirt.”
Kiyoomi promptly frowns. “Oh, ah. Maybe only the first one. Roll up your sleeves.”
“Oh yeah,” Atsumu agrees with a shit-eating grin. “Show ’em these muscles, captain.”
Kiyoomi nods sagely. “See that femboy over there, with the neon crop top and wonky eyeliner? He’s been eyeing that waiter all night, and you look a bit like him, same stature, similar bone structure. You have better hair. Actually, you could … hm.”
“Yeah.” Atsumu reaches out and tousles it a bit so it’s not totally slicked back. “There we go, that’s better. Ya go up to him, give ‘im a compliment, if he seems responsive, you’ll talk about how ya like goin’ to the gym but love pizza, like, so much, some completely braindead shit like that.”
“Don’t mention the divorce, don’t mention the kids, the depression neither.”
“But I don’t particularly like pizza,” Meian protests, shirt unbuttoned, hair mussed, internally somewhere between scared and amazed, “when it comes to Italian food, I’m much more of a risotto kind of guy.”
“I … Meian, I promise ya, he’s not goin’ ta care. He just wants some dick, and ye’re gonna help ‘im with that.”
“Are you two really tag-teaming me into a hook-up right now?”
“I ain’t hearin’ ya complainin’, captain.”
Kiyoomi squints. “It’s important that you clear up your conceptions about what you both expect from the night.”
“Are you a top?”
“Doesn’t matter. My wife pegged me sometimes.” He promptly turns cherry red. “Why did I say that.”
“I promise you, we don’t care,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu is in the middle of arranging the collar of his captain’s shirt so it’s falling open a bit wider but also stretches across his considerable pecs. “Ye’re not the flirtin’ type and probably a bit rusty, so just stick to braindead shit. And fer the love of god, take off that ring.” He snatches it off his open palm, scans him up and down again and finally nods. “Well then, go get ‘im, tiger.”
“Wait.” Kiyoomi elbows Atsumu in the side.
“Right.” He reaches out with a hand and lays it on Meian’s wrist. Peers earnestly into his eyes. “One last thing.”
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. “It is crucial that you go home with him if you want to avoid complications. Don’t bring him back to the hotel. It can get ugly.”
“It’s very, very crucial,” Atsumu adds.
Meian wets his lips nervously. “But … you always fight over who gets to go back to the hotel. It’s carnage, it’s ridiculous, and everyone on the team wants to strangle you the whole way through.”
“We are assholes,” Kiyoomi says, “so we don’t have a problem with telling them to leave.”
“It’s better in yer own room,” Atsumu adds, “You know where ya are, where you’ll be, there’s always someone around, ya can take a shower before an’ after and you don’t hafta worry ‘bout bein’ back before the bus departs in the morning.”
“So why should I do the opposite of that and make my own life harder?”
Atsumu smiles. “Cuz ye’re not an asshole. And leavin’ is easier than gettin’ a fucked out twink out of the room, a drunk one at that.” He pats his hand. “Go have fun.”
“This is just a scheme, you’re scheming,” Meian accuses. “I haven’t worked out the logistics in my head yet, but this is a … a devious maneuver so there’s an extra bed and you don’t have to fight over who gets to go back to the hotel because you both will.”
“True,” Atsumu says.
“But you also want to fuck someone right now,” Kiyoomi adds.
“So go get ‘im, tiger.”
They observe the exchange closely. Grimace as Meian stutters. Take in a sharp breath when his giant hand lands on a skinny shoulder. Whistle as he puts the other on the strip of skin beneath the hem of a pink crop top. Kiyoomi and Atsumu fist-bump when the other guy pulls him up and in for a kiss. “You take the single room, an’ I’ll go tell Hinata that he’s sleepin’ in Meian’s bed tonight.”
Kiyoomi is still watching the pair and winces when the other guy grabs a handful of ass on the way out. His hand is disconcertingly small against the sheer mass of the athlete’s body. “I do hope he has fun.”
Atsumu waves him off. “Ah, I’m sure he will. I’ll fuck off now, that guy with the blue hair over there has been tryin’ ta catch yer eye for the past half hour.”
Kiyoomi hums and tapes a sip of his drink. “Good luck to you too, or whatever.”
Atsumu winks at his as he sidles out of the booth. “Don’t need luck, my good looks have it all sorted.”
“Why do I bother talking to you?” Kiyoomi calls after him, “I hope you get an STD!”
What Atsumu does get is pinned against the wall in the hallway later that night, barely keeping up with his partner’s diligent mouth. He’s already feeling blissfully disheveled, and oh, how nice it’ll feel to fall into that soft and ready bed, no worries or thoughts about Kiyoomi on his mind, none at all, for once he doesn’t have to think about the other man.
Nope, no Omi-Omi in his head, only … Hiroshi? Was that his name? He has nice hands, thick fingers. Atsumu wonders how they’ll feel inside him. He grips his hips a bit tighter and grinds down on the bulge poking his thigh. “We hafta … mmh … move…” he gets out, sounds half muffled by the lips on his.
Another pair stumbles around the corner. Atsumu sees them freeze in his periphery and lazily turns his head. “Oh don’t mind us, we were just–“
It’s Kiyoomi.
“Hi, Omi-kun,” Atsumu mutters and promptly gasps as his companion moves lower and mouths at his collarbones. Oh! Those are teeth. Sharp flickers of pleasure spark deep in his gut. His lids fall shut as he gets lost in the haze.
“Miya.” Kiyoomi is a bit breathless, too.
Atsumu pops open an eye and bites his lip, trying to control his breathing enough to gasp out “So we meet.”
“I wish we didn’t.”
Atsumu shortly loses sight of him when the bulky guy Kiyoomi’s with possessively wraps his arms around him and slots a leg between his thighs. “C’mon baby, let’s go. Can’t wait to have you inside me.” He starts nibbling at his jawline.
Hajime … Hachiro? Haru? in front of Atsumu growls. “And I,” he murmurs, “can’t wait to suck your dick.”
Atsumu’s and Kiyoomi’s gazes meet across the corridor. A spark of wicked acknowledgement passes between them.
Two doors slam shut.