Chapter Text
Atsumu never learned how to dance, at least not well. Where his brother is a master of footwork, knowing how to move his body and project grace with ease, Atsumu looks like something far more akin to a dying fish than a prince.
It isn't for lack of trying, but rather an aggressive lack of talent in the area of dance. Sports have always come naturally - soccer, volleyball, sword fighting, hell even golf he was good at. But despite his physical prowess quite often doted upon by many, he cannot dance for shit.
His instructor really tried with him too. At only a few years older than him, Saeko Tanaka was largely sympathetic to his plight as an awkward teenager with gangly limbs that couldn't synchronize their movements to save his life. But all her efforts for naught because rage-filled seventeen-year-old him was never destined to last.
Now twenty-five and built of bronzed, lean muscle, considered to be one of the greatest specimens the human race has to offer, Atsumu still spends any and every social event pacing around near the buffet table, eating the weight of his anxieties in mini cakes and appetizers.
Among the extensive list of things that Atsumu cannot do under almost any circumstances are: dancing, talking politics, making trade deals, and discussing serious topics without assuaging tension with humor.
Which is why balls are hell. Because that's pretty much all you do at them.
The fancy gowns and suits, the crystal chandeliers and the music performed by the kingdom's leading orchestral musicians, everything prim and proper and royal. Atsumu hates every part of parties, can feel his heart sink at the very mention of them, a part of his soul dies every time he's forced to attend one.
In fact, the only part of parties he likes is the part where they all sit down to eat and he can silently play footsies with his personal servant under the table. But some don't even have dinner. They expect you to eat sparingly and spend most of your time chatting. Disgusting, if Atsumu does say so himself.
This is an unfortunate fact of his life, because as a prince and the heir to the throne of an entire kingdom, balls and parties are the way you make connections, the way you form relationships and find allies. Or in this particular instance, find your husband.
Atsumu doesn't understand why it needs to be such a big deal, the introductions of suitors. Most people already know about the princes of other kingdoms - what they look like, where they're from. It's all just an enormous formality, and an embarrassing one at that. Being forced to stand there like a massive douchbag while a bunch of guys kiss your hand and tell you how stunning you look tonight, Atsumu would rather dance, honestly.
But that's the life of a king-to-be, he supposes, bitter though he may be about it. Osamu will never have to deal with this bullshit.
"You might want to stop eating mini cakes and go talk to people...lest you look like a social recluse," a familiar voice washes over him in calming waves, his shoulders un-tense on instinct as he looks to the side and regards his personal servant.
"I don't wanna talk ta people," he says through a mouthful of dense vanilla cake.
If there's one upside to having to attend balls and galas and whatever other bullshit parties his parents arrange, it's that Kiyoomi, his loyal servant as has been the case for both their entire lives, is forced into a suit and made up all perfect and pretty (not that he's not already perfect and pretty on a daily basis). Atsumu commits each and every instance to memory, knowing full-well that said suit is going to be put away never to see the light of day again as soon as humanly possible after the event is over.
"Then maybe you should be preparing to meet your suitors."
"I don'wanna meet my suitors," Atsumu mumbles half-coherently as he pushes an entire mini quiche into his mouth without regard for how unprincely it may seem. "I bet they're all ugly."
"I can assure you that none of them will be ugly," Kiyoomi's voice is characteristically flat. It breeds a familiar fire in the pit of Atsumu's stomach - almost competitive, a fire that licks and sizzles and demands to be fed with reaction. Kiyoomi is always so stoic when they're in public, and Atsumu always intends to crush that facade to dust (though he rarely succeeds.)
"Yer right," he decides on, washing the food down with a gratuitous drink of champagne. "I bet they're all hot. Hotter than you fer sure."
"You should be more subtle about your attempts to bait me."
"What'reya talking about, Omi?" Atsumu bats his eyelashes innocently, mouthing with his lips at the gold-rimmed champagne glass, a childish gesture. "I'm just bein' truthful. I mean, they are all princes. If one of'em's particularly yummy, I might even consider marryin' him."
Kiyoomi snorts at that, it's bitter. His dark eyes, like lovely black holes, voids to get lost in, scan each and every guest as if purposefully avoiding Atsumu's gaze.
"You have to marry one of them anyway. There's no consider about it."
Atsumu resists every screaming urge in his body to kiss Kiyoomi right then and there in the middle of the party, clenching his fist so hard around the neck of the glass he's seconds away from snapping it in half. If they were alone right now, Atsumu would cover every square inch of his pearly, perfect skin in a constellation of kisses, each a reassurance.
But they're not alone. Sadly. So Atsumu's hands stay where they are, digging crescent moons into his palms with blunt nails.
"Aw," he lowers his voice to a whisper. "But I wanted ta marry you."
Kiyoomi's eyes snap to him suddenly for the first time in their conversation, and Atsumu loses his grip on his breath, inhaling sharply through his nose to compensate for the loss.
The prettiest blush is burning on Kiyoomi's pale cheeks, pink-ish red like strawberries and cherry blossoms, and all the other hundreds of sweet comparisons he could make. Kiyoomi is all of them and then some. What Atsumu wouldn't give to be able to love him for the entire world to see.
"You can't say that," Kiyoomi warns, turning back to the crowd - but Atsumu can see the way he digs his thumb against the pulse point on his wrist behind his back. He's always done that to calm himself. No matter the situation or what he's getting riled up about.
"I'm a prince, darlin'. I can say whatever the hell I want-"
"Atsumu-Sama," both Atsumu and Kiyoomi turn their heads in panic, eyes flicking to the source of the voice with almost comical timing. "Yer mother an' father would like ta see ya at the front'a the room shortly."
Oh, it's just Aran.
Aran is a man of great dignity and little drama, something Atsumu and his proclivity toward chaos-breeding can appreciate. The Ojiros, like the Sakusas are one of three families that have served the Miya Royal Family for upwards of seven generations now.
And to be completely honest, Atsumu finds him a source of great comfort (if not quite the nuisance when he just wants to let his devilish side out to play. But no, according to Aran, bribing the chef to replace your brother's toothpaste with heavy cream and mayonnaise is "not a good prank" and "something a grade-schooler would do." Aran wouldn't know a good prank if it hit him in the balls).
"Ah, thanks Aran," Atsumu has never had to plainly state his and Kiyoomi's relationship to Aran. He's sure the man knows by now, but if there's one thing he's good at, it's keeping a secret. "Tell'em I'll be right there."
"Of course, Atsumu-Sama."
Aran leaves with a bow of his head and a barely suppressed smirk that Atsumu can see written plain as day in his eyes - he might be good at keeping a secret, but his discretion is one of the reasons he can so openly tease Atsumu without backlash. There's always a trade-off in life.
It would be something he detests, but the underlying appreciation dulls the harsh sting of embarrassment. Plus, for all the slight jabs he gets from time to time, Aran is a trustworthy confidant.
"Y'should call me that more often," Atsumu doesn't look at his boyfriend, but he can feel the unmediated annoyance radiating off of him in waves. "Atsumu-Sama. I think I could get behind that."
"Literally never going to happen."
"Literally part'a yer job description."
"Right, written right next to the part about fucking my boss," Atsumu gasps slightly at the vulgarity - not that he himself isn't equally ostentatious, but to hear it from a man he knows as being, at most times, extraneously polite is a treat for sure.
Atsumu has long accepted the fact that, the moment they leave Atsumu's private chambers, the real Kiyoomi is hidden behind a wall of manners and decorum, that when the world's eyes are on them they are nothing more than a royal and his servant. Atsumu's bright shining star fades into the background, head bowed, lips shut.
That doesn't mean he has to like it. He lives for the moments when Kiyoomi drops his guard. Those little in-between parts of life when it's finally finally just them. When they're the only two people that matter and Kiyoomi doesn't have to be an obedient accessory and Atsumu doesn't have to be a prince.
Right now is not one of those times.
"You need to see your parents. Go."
"Shouldn'tcha come with me?" Atsumu flutters long eyelashes at him - he knows Kiyoomi is weak for that. Puppy-dog eyes turn him malleable and soft. But sometimes responsibility and sense win out and Atsumu is left to grump in the wake of his boyfriend's disgustingly strong moral compass.
"They're getting you ready to meet your suitors, idiot," Kiyoomi snorts, a barely-there smile tugging on his lips before it's suddenly gone. Blink and you'd miss it. "I'm just a spectator right now." The last part is sad. Atsumu's heart drops with it. He should just give up and go quickly before they send someone less gracious than Aran to track him down.
However, Atsumu has always been a greedy brat - Osamu can attest. He wants the world on a silver platter, and hell if he'll be denied it by anyone.
"Can I at least kiss ya before I go?"
Kiyoomi sends him a warning look.
"No." Atsumu pouts, pleading and desperate - he knows they've only been in this act for a few hours, but a few hours is enough for him to start missing his Omi-Kun. Missing his real voice and his real laugh and his real smile, all currently masked by this vision of a perfect servent, a perfect wallflower to fade into the background.
"Omi, please? No one's lookin'." Kiyoomi doesn't even look a little bit convinced of that.
Okay, maybe there's one person who can deny him.
"No."
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If he's ever been in a situation more mortifying than having someone putting a crown on his head and adjusting his clothing - all things he's perfectly capable of doing himself, by the way - Atsumu has yet to find it.
He feels, simply put, like a douchbag. Who the fuck can't put on a glorified gold hat? His smile is tight, muscles tensed as though he's getting ready to run a triathlon. You'd think that, for a man as self-centered and arrogant as Atsumu Miya, he'd absolutely adore being waited on hand and foot.
But in reality, it makes him feel more like he can't be trusted to take care of himself. Like he's such a baby that he can't even make sure he looks alright. It bruises his pride and takes a sledgehammer to his ego.
But the worst part is the seven men, lined up in front of him as though he's shopping for a new pair of boots instead of looking for a husband. They probably think he's such a dick. Hell, he would think he's such a dick.
The only bright side he can see through his haze of discomfort is that at least they had the decency to clear out the ballroom, sending the guests home and adjourning the party before Atsumu was forced to stand up and get courted in front of the general public. But even that is a far away star in a galaxy of darkness.
"Atsumu Miya," he hopes that no one can see the way he tenses further as Komori gathers the whole room's attention, voice ricocheting off of every shimmering surface. All eyes turn to him, embarrassment burns low in his chest, eating up all usable oxygen. He feels as though he's drowning where he stands.
"These seven suitors have traveled from the far reaches of the continent in hopes of being your husband," Komori says, pre-rehearsed and just as rigid as Atsumu feels. "Over the next fourteen days, they will court you-" gross. "And prove themselves worthy of your hand in marriage." I doubt it.
Atsumu thinks he might actually cut off his left-own arm to get out of his current situation. No arm no hand, no hand no ring, no ring no marriage. Problem solved, right?
But the world has no such mercy.
"Presenting to your highness, Prince Tooru Oikawa, of the great kingdom of Aoba Johsai." Komori's voice is loud, Atsumu shrinks in its presence as Tooru steps forward.
Atsumu remembers his the man from a conference his parents (and by extension him and Osamu) were forced to attend many years ago, but that's the extent of it. Had Komori not done him the favor of announcing his name, Atsumu wouldn't have remembered it off the top of his head. All he can remember is that face - malicious, cruel, and cold.
It's not a bad face, though, that's for sure. Classically handsome while also fitting into all definitions of the word pretty. A graceful nose, sharp jawline, and long eyelashes all contribute to what would certainly be a spellbinding effect if Atsumu didn't have perfection himself to compare it to.
"You look lovely, your highness," Tooru steps up to him, delicately taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles with petal-soft lips.
Atsumu panics.
"Thanks," he chokes out, complimentary words stalling in his mind. "Ya have good-...hair."
Tooru simpers, lips curling up in a smirk that raises the temperature of the room a few degrees.
"I know, right?"
He steps back, borderline malicious smirk replaced with dignity and poise. Scary how he's able to turn it on and off like that. Atsumu can't decide in the moment whether it's hot or terrifying, maybe both. Kiyoomi's like that sometimes. Hot and scary, scary-hot. So hot it's almost scary-
"Tetsuro Kuroo, prince of the kingdom of Nekoma," Komori announces, taking a steak knife to his inner-monologuing mere seconds after Tooru settles back into his spot in line, jolting Atsumu to attention.
His brain goes haywire - Oh wow, so he doesn't even get like, some wait time? No chance to try to calm his breathing to a point where he's not almost passing out from stress? Alright, he sees the game here.
In the seconds preceding Prince Tetsuro's greeting, Atsumu seeks out ink-black eyes, his steady source of comfort. He finds them nestled between the wall and the buffet table. Kiyoomi gives him a silent nod, encouragement to keep going - or rather, not to make a scene by running frantically away in a glittery mess of un-princely-ness.
In all truhtfulness, it's the only thing keeping him up here. Atsumu takes a deep, steadying breath and smiles - or tries to. It probably looks more like someone just stabbed him but that's all semantics.
Now, Tetsuro Kuroo is a name he remembers well. Nekoma and Inarizaki have always had good relations. Which meant a lot of time spent cross-kingdom with a boy Atsumu considers to be something of a player. Not that such fliratations had ever been turned on Atsumu himself before. Tetsuro tended to lean more toward the femimine charms...at least when Atsumu knew him.
"Last time I checked, ya played more fer the other team," Atsumu mumbles under his breath as Tetsuro takes his hand. The Nekoma prince looks up at him through dark lashes, cat-like eyes studying every inch of his face.
"I'd never pass up the chance to bag a hottie like yourself."
A wave of familiarty washes over him, allowing him to genuinely smile, "I see ya still suck."
"Dick," Tetsuro winks at him as he steps back into line and Atsumu barely swallows the laugh that bubbles up in his throat at such an immature joke. There's something almost comforting about a familiar face, even if he knows he's never going to opt for Tetsuro Kuroo as a husband.
Atsumu looks for those eyes again - Kiyoomi isn't smiling. Atsumu wishes he could give him some kind of silent signal, please smile fer me. But he supposes that's not a fair request when you're watching your boyfriend meet seven potential suitors, one of whom will inevitably replace you as his lover.
These are fun times he lives in.
Just as he did before, Komori gives him absolutely no warning before announcing the next candidate, just hops right onto the next one with no regard for Atsumu's skyrocketing stress levels.
He says, "Prince Wakatoshi Ushijima of the kingdom of Shiratorizawa."
And a tiny, fearful swtich is flipped in his brain.
Atsumu remembers his name for sure. He was the subject of great reverence on Atsumu's parents' part. "He's very handsome, Tsumu." "The kingdom'a Shiratorizawa is a strong one, powerful in military might." "Ya know, he's s'posed ta be very intelligent." "I heard he's...well endowed...might wanna consider it." - the last one was from Osamu, no surprise there. But even with all these..."advantages", Atsumu already knows he's not the one.
Not really Atsumu's type anyway. Olive green hair and solemn eyes, lips pressed into a tight, stern line. Some people might say Kiyoomi and him are much alike, but what they don't see is that even in silence, Kiyoomi is terribly dynamic, even when he doesn't particularly want to be.
This man looks like he has the personality of a brick.
Gentle lips meet Atsumu's knuckles and Wakatoshi says simply, "It's a pleasure, your majesty."
Atsumu wishes he could express his thanks for not giving a comment he has to respond to awkwardly, but instead, all that comes out of his idiot mouth is,
"Ditto, dude."
Before you ask, yes, he mentally slaps himself for that one.
Atsumu fiddles with his fingertips as Komori announces the next suitor, trying not to look as on edge as he feels. Why couldn't he have met them in private? Why does it have to be with his parents analyzing his every reaction, his brother staring him down, his boyfriend-
"Shouyou Hinata, Prince of the kingdom of Karasuno," Komori cuts off his thoughts.
The next in the lineup is a redhead with flaming curls abound, bright brown eyes and a smile that's probably powering the lights right now. Atsumu thinks he's going blind honestly - he catalogs the smile as, not bad, and puts it in a mental file of deciding factors.
Shouyou's hands are eager, reaching for Atsumu like a kid in a candy store and pressing a firm kiss to his knuckles. There's nothing gentle about him, it seems. Giving Atsumu a smile that's violently sunny, he chortles,
"You're really pretty, Atsumu-Sama."
And Atsumu can't help but smirk because god, how jealous would Omi be if he heard that. But he takes the compliment in stride, nodding as a means of acknowledgment. Damn, this kid's really laying it on thick. That's okay, Atsumu can work with enthusiasm.
"Thank ya," he says softly, shifting uncomfortably as Shouyou looks up at him and licks his lips. It's cute, kind of charming. Atsumu feels his stomach squirm uncomfortably, as if this is a form of infidelity in and of itself, forced or not.
Look, rationally speaking, he knows he has no choice. But he doesn't have to feel good about going on dates with attractive men when he has a boyfriend waiting for him, and he doesn't have to feel good about having to marry one of them. In fact, more than anything, he feels like shit. Like someone punched him in the stomach then pushed him onto a stage and told him to do a dance.
Shouyou settles back into the lineup and Komori doesn't spare a moment for him to breathe, loudly proclaiaming, "Prince Tobio Kageyama, also from the kingdom of Karasuno," before Atsumu has even gathered his bearings from the stomach-flipping feeling of being hit on.
A man Atsumu's never seen or heard of before steps up to him. All regal movements and graceful strides, he possesses a stoic sort of beauty that Atsumu feels is strikingly familiar, though not quite the same and not quite perfection. Perfection is currently staring at him from across the room, quiet and polite as he's been born to be. Atsumu sometimes wishes he'd be louder.
Tobio is a beautiful man, that is for sure. But Atsumu can't help but be confused - are he and Shoyou brothers? If so they're most certainly not related by blood. Atsumu attempts to dismiss his own confusion as Tobio presses chapped lips to the back of his hand - Kiyoomi would never let him get away with not applying chapstick regularly.
Tobio looks up at him. Harsh and flat he says,
"Hi."
Atsumu crinkles his brow but puts on his best impression of a smile.
"Hi yerself."
Atsumu sighs as Tobio steps back, expression still flatter than a board, and looks at the lineup - only two left. He's fine. He's got this.
"Prince Koutarou Bokuto of the kingdom of Fukurodani," Komori announces the second to last suitor - Atsumu's never heard of him either.
He's heard of Fukurodani as a kingdom, it's impossible to have not as they're incredibly prominent in their economic trades worldwide. But the Fukurodani Royal Family has always been oh so private about their affairs. Atsumu has a great deal of respect for them because of it. (if only because he wishes his own family followed the same tenants for privacy, but alas he was cursed with an overly-social mother and a father who, frankly, doesn't give a shit.)
Atsumu shakes his head as if to erase the bitterness as Koutarou takes his hand.
Koutarou is a man with gorgeous eyes - a nine out of ten if Kiyoomi's are the gold standard - and a smile that could melt solid steel. He presses his lips to Atsumu knuckles and, honestly, he's not incredibly repulsed. Atsumu hopes he's as amiable a man as he seems. Maybe this whole thing will be a great deal easier for him if so.
"You're way hotter than my sisters said you were," is his grand opening line. Atsumu genuinely chuckles.
"Thanks. Does that mean y'were talkin' about me?" Koutarou grins, exposing sharp canines.
"All good things."
Atsumu feels at ease when he steps back in line, something along the lines of at least I won't have problems with that one.
He floats, just a little bit, with the minor comfort, a bit of stress relief. But his heart sinks to the ground when he realizes who's coming up next. None other than the devil's spawn himself, a monstrosity born of Satan's womb, a living, breathing, curse-
"Rintarou Suna, representing the nation of Inarizaki."
Let's get one thing very clear: Atsumu does not, by any means, hate Rintarou Suna. In fact, he's a very viable option, all things considered. For one thing, he's technically considered attractive (not that Atsumu can fathom why). He's also smart (not that Atsumu would deign to admit it), and they have a credible link considering the copious amounts of time they've spent together (unfortunately).
Marrying him would be a strategically solid choice - no political backlash, no possible ulterior motives, no chance to fuck up relations with another country. He's a good friend and a good option.
No, Atsumu Miya doesn't hate Rintarou Suna. He may joke that he does, or that he wouldn't touch the man with a ten-foot pole. But deep down (deep deep down), they're something of best friends. However, this does not stop Atsumu from being repulsed by the idea of being with him for one reason and one reason only: Atsumu is the wrong twin.
Rintarou steps up in front of him, sweeping his torso low and pressing his lips to Atsumu's knuckles.
"If you choose me, I'll murder us both," he mutters softly against Atsumu's skin, looking up at him with hazel eyes that it would be positively knee-buckling, if Atsumu were disgusting and was sexually attracted to creatures hatched from eggs that were bred in a lab specifically dedicated to the destruction of humanity.
Atsumu smiles in a way that probably looks sweet to the rest of the world, pulling his lips up in his best imitation of a gentle, longing gaze.
"If I chose ya, I'd be countin' on it."
Rintarou steps back with a subtle nod and a slight smile, as if they'd had a charming conversation and not an exchange of mutual death wishes - out of the corner of his eye, Atsumu can see Osamu staring straight ahead, eyes glazed over. Guilt burns in his chest, making each breath feel molasses slow. Rintarou never has and never will be his, even if in some twisted world Atsumu wanted him to be.
It must be torture for Osamu. Stupid, unfair, needless torture. Atsumu bites his tongue, clenching it too tightly between his teeth.
"That concludes the introductions," Komori says, obviously scripted and not sounding right in his voice - no one taught that boy to project properly, but that's fine. It's not part of his job description usually anyway. He clears his throat, "Now, regarding you'll be staying," Komori addresses the suitors and Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief. Out of the spotlight at long last.
"You are to stay in the east wing of the castle at all times unless you are summoned. Breakfast is at eight and no later, lunch at noon, dinner at seven. The palace staff are at your disposal and you may do with your leisure time as you wish. However, you are not to have contact with his highness unless you are specifclally called upon..."
Atsumu tunes out after that, allowing his gaze to drift most unsutbly toward Kiyoomi, who stands, rigid and proper as ever.
His face, as per usual, gives nothing away. In fact, the stoicism he manages to maintain makes him seem as though he could be cut from marble, a perfect statue, too pretty to touch. In the moment, Atsumu feels so far away from him. They're in the same room, seeing the same scene, he's not even thirty feet away, and yet Atsumu can barely see him from behind the wall he's put up.
He wants to kiss Kiyoomi then and there, slow and gentle, deep and earnest. He wants to call off this stupid ceremony and marry the love of his life and live like a normal person. He wants to say damn it all to hell, they can be mad if they want, see if I fuckin' care.
But there's no chance of that happening. Not without breeding conesequences Kiyoomi doesn't deserve to suffer through. So he keeps his mouth shut and his feet planted, squashing down his rebellious streak and his high hopes with it.
"Is there anything else you wish to ask of your suitors before we adjourn, your highness," Atsumu's head jerks in Komori's direction - he clearly missed something, but the question is simple enough to answer without context so he thanks the gods for that.
Confused and disoriented from his trip into his own subconscious, he manages a very elqouant, "Huh?" before his brain actually catches up to the situation and he's hastily muttering, "Nah, no. I'm all good." as though he were asked if he wanted a second helping of rice.
"In that case, Kiyoomi-San and Aran-San will show you to your rooms."
Atsumu bristles but keeps his mouth shut, watching as Kiyoomi spares one last fleeting glance in his direction before making away across the room to the side entrance of the ballroom. Professional as ever, even in situations that would have Atsumu losing it like a man insane.
The scuffling of shoes is all that marks their exit, quiet words exchanged between the suitors that Atsumu's not privy to - he breathes a sigh of relief all the same. The knot of stress that had coiled in his stomach all throughout the night loosens some, slowing his heartrate to a normal rhythm.
"We're very proud'a ya, Tsumu," his father steps up behind him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. But Atsumu's mind is elsewhere, eyes trained on Osamu who stands like a statue, just staring.
He thinks it hardly fair. That Atsumu's "birthright" should effect both of them like this. It's just bad luck, really, that Rintarou got chosen as Inarizaki's representative. It could've been any number of children from wealthy families around the kingdom. It could've been the Kita's kid, or that guy Lev who moved from Nekoma.
But the Sunas have always been close to the Inarizaki Royal Family, so when Rintarou's parents offered him up for the spot of Atsumu's husband like a peice of meat, the king and queen had accepted with bright smiles on thier faces.
Atsumu thinks that might be the wickedest part of this all, really.
"Why? S'not like I did anythin'," he responds belatedly, words bitter. "Just stood around an' got my hand kissed."
"We know that this can be stressful, darlin'," his mother's voice is gentle, but it does nothing to assuage Atsumu's tension. "All the pressure ta make the right choice fer yer future loomin' over ya. We know ya will. An' we're right here backin' ya up."
What they don't know is that any choice would be the wrong one. No matter which way he looks, there's no possible way out.
"Mhm."
"If ya need anythin'," his father pats him on the arm. "We're right here fer ya. Just say the word."
"Mhm."
Right, anything he needs, just say the word. The sentiment is nice, one he knows he should appreciate, all things considered. But they can't give him what he needs.
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Atsumu sees him first in the garden roaming among the roses and tulips, not reaching out to touch but staring most intently, as though there are secrets hidden in their petals that he intends to draw out.
He is tentative and careful, tilting his chin just slightly down to look to the center of each flower, then back up again to take in the garden as a whole picture with its neatly manicured shrubs, a maze of carefully crafted colors.
Everything about him is a contrast - skin as pale as snow, curls as black as ink. He is dressed in a suit made for a child, like someone attending a funeral. Atsumu has learned that black is a sad color, a mourning color, and that white is an empty color, deviod and emotionless. He looks sad.
Atsumu can't fathom why he would be, though. It's a beautiful day with a golden sun perched high in a cloudless blue sky and he's standing in the middle of the kingdom's prettiest flower garden. Atsumu couldn't be sad in the garden - even if he wanted to be, watching the bumblebees would inevitably cheer him up. What a mystery this is.
Atsumu is perched on a ladder - not placed there for his spying benefit, if you're wondering. In fact, it belongs to their gardener and his son, the Azumanes. But it's not Atsumu's fault they made the unwise decision to leave it unattended, sitting at the edge of a wall of shrubbary, perfect for a nosy child.
Poking his head around the corner of the shrub wall, Atsumu watches the boy with wide eyes - Atsumu has never seen him before, and he knows everyone on the palace grounds. He knows the Azumanes and the Komoris and the Orjios and the Sakusas. But this kid has never been a part of any of those families, which begs the question, where did he come from?
Atsumu thinks he may be a ghost. He's deathly pale. If he's not a ghost, he's at least sick with something. But when the young prince watches him reach out an gently touch a pink tulip, his hypothesis is shattered into a million peices - ghosts can't touch things.
At least not according to Samu. Though, Atsumu doesn't know when his dummy of a twin brother became an expert on all things supernautral, so he's hestiant to take his word for it.
But if he's not a ghost than what is he doing here? Should Atsumu go fetch his mother and father? No, they're in a meeting, that would stir a kind of trouble he's not particularly in the mood for. Of course...technically he should be doing his studies right now, but like he said, his mother and father are in a meeting. What they don't know can't hurt them-
Atsumu's foot slips without warning - curse his stupid dress shoes. Dignity be darned, he wants real shoes for real kid activities. He'll consult his parents about the matter later. Right now, he has bigger issues to deal with.
The mystery boy snaps his head to the side at the sudden distrubance, and Atsumu gets a clear look at his face. Bouncy, yet neatly trimmed curls frame his emotionless face, twin moles sit just above his right eyebrow. He looks like a statue carved from marble, or maybe a porcelain doll... or maybe a vampire, Atsumu's errant imagination supplies.
His eyes widen in panic as the boy makes quick work of the distence between them, stopping in front of Atsumu, who stares up at him from the ground. He's bigger up close - less like a china doll and more like a vampire - harsh gaze downcast. At this distence, Atsumu can clearly see his eyes, dark and sparkle-less.
"You were spying on me," he says simply, hands folded politely behind his back.
"Was not!" Atsumu scoffs, turning his burning face in the other direction - him, a seven-year-old boy, spying like some immature child. Yeah, right. He's much more dignified than that. "Yer not very interestin' anyway. I dunno what reason I'd have ta spy on ya."
"How did you know I'm not interesting if you weren't spying on me?"
Atsumu's face burns having been caught in a baldfaced lie. He pouts up at mystery-boy. He can already tell he's going to hate this kid's guts. Atsumu hopes he doesn't stick around long. Maybe he's just a lost commoner boy. Yeah, that makes sense.
"Well, this is my house. I can spy on whoever I want here," Atsumu turns his nose up, even from his inferior position splayed out on hard cobblestone. "In fact, yer trust passin'-"
"It's trespassing."
Atsumu huffs, "Whatever. What're ya doin' here anyway. Ya lost?"
The boy's lip curls in a barely-there sneer.
"No," he spits venomously. "I live here too now." Atsumu gasps dramatically - he's never heard such blasphamy in his life. This is his house. He'll be damned if some random stranger gets to live in it without his permission.
"No ya don't! Are ya a dummy? I just toldja this was my house!"
"I'm a servant here," Atsumu wrinkles his nose. Why wasn't he informed of this? Plus, all their servants are adults. Except for Motoya. And Aran. But Aran is like an old person in a kid's body anyway, and Motoya is barely ever around.
"What?"
"Are you deaf or just an idiot? I said I'm a servant here. I work here," work? But he's Atsumu's age. Myabe he means work like how Atsumu has to study. Fractions and synonyms and gross, boring things like those. Atsumu pouts.
"I don't believe ya."
The kid's face gives nothing away, ice cold and stoic, like he couldn't care less if he was talking to Atsumu or a brick wall, all the same to him. Atsumu resents him on the spot, putting on his harshest glare.
"I don't care if you believe me."
"Well I'm a prince," he huffs out, folding his arms where he lays, back flat against the ground. "An' if it's really true that yer a servant, ya gotta help me up." Atsumu extends an arm in demand, closing his eyes as he waits for his request to sink in and a hand to wrap around his. But it never comes.
He cracks one eye open to find the mystery boy staring down at him with an unamused frown as he parrots, "Hm, I don't believe you."
Atsumu gasps with indignation, sticking out his tongue, "Well it's the truth! Which means ya gotta help me up'r else yuh'll get fired!" Atsumu deosn't even know if he himself has the power to do that, but just the threat of it doesn't seem to do much. Mystery boy makes a noncomittal noise in the back of his throat and shrugs.
"Hm. Even if that is the case, I'm still not helping you up."
"Why not?!" Mystery boy turns his back and flicks his nose to the air, haughty for someone who just claimed to serve princes, in Atsumu's opinion.
"Because you're a fool. And you were spying on me. I don't help foolish spies."
Atsumu first grows to hate Kiyoomi Sakusa on that day in the garden. It's a potent kind of hate, the kind you read about in story books that witches have, ugly and mangled. Atsumu hates him for being so arrogant. And he hates him for denying him. And he hates this mystery boy for being a mystery. Under midday sun, Atsumu instantly hates Kiyoomi Sakusa.
The next day over tea, he falls in love with him.