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In the solar system, a system named by humans after their sun, “sol”, which is a derivative of the Latin word “solis”, meaning sun, obviously, there exist more than two-hundred-and-fifty-some moons, the largest of which is called Ganymede, presumably named after the Ganymede who existed in Greek mythology of old as a homosexual concubine of Zeus, generally another conquested victim of the cruel god.
Those were some things Kiyoomi knew.
He also knew that on the moon Ganymede, which was officially declared a colony in the year 3707, not the first but perhaps the most unique, a neutral territory, there is a high density of organized crime, and also homosexuals, which have no technical correlation, but he did find that particular fact rather amusing. On Ganymede, there is a bar, unremarkable from the outside, just another facet on the crowded streets of the city, which is called Sauter de la Lune . Underneath the main sign, which hangs crooked from the entrance in metal-wrought, rusted letters, there are various translations, in many different languages, of the same name.
Most just called it Tsuki , or, the bar. ‘ I’m heading to the bar ’, they’d say, ‘ you coming ?’. ‘ He’s down at the bar ’ or ‘ someone just punched so-and-so at the bar, right in the face, there’s blood all over the floor next to the backrooms ’.
Typical.
‘ Hey, Omi-Omi, fancy seein’ you here . Thought ya were above the bar ?’
He scoffed.
Also typical.
Kiyoomi knew a lot of things. Facts were a cold-hard comfort, collectible and easily accessible in the back of Kiyoomi’s head. He relied on many of these facts in his everyday life, while doing his job, and also while not, although that, however, was an uncommon occurrence for him. Facts kept him grounded, kept him alive, gave him an advantage in many situations.
It was important for him to know things. Vital, even.
Among the most pertinent of things he knew—Kiyoomi knew that Miya Atsumu was a massive fucking dickhead.
♄
Atsumu was a frequent consumer and enjoyer of the luxuries Tsuki had to offer.
For one, there was the scenery.
The bar was made up of ancient structures that had been generously rescued and resuscitated (read: smuggled and blasphemed) decades prior, from countries on Earth that no longer existed physically, only metaphorically. The inside was an Italian cathedral, Basilica Firenze Santa Croce , smaller in its age due to several missing components, but no less grand, Atsumu thought. The ceilings were tall, spires rising above the buildings next to it like a threat, with stone buttresses—a word that Atsumu thoroughly enjoyed, and everyone around him at any given moment did not —and elaborate carvings. The gold details were mostly scraped off due to necessity, but there was a massive cross, which was generally intact but for the fact that it was upside-down.
Christianity was a dead religion, save for a few isolated cults living on remote, scattered bits of the solar system. And no good Christian would be lurking around those parts, anyway.
Where once were headstones and graves dedicated to great minds and long-dead saints, various marble statues had been brought in their stead, placed rather haphazardly throughout the bar, surprisingly upkept. The place may be frequented by criminals, but they were organized criminals. They knew not to fuck with the art, which was maybe a product of fear—the owners of Tsuki had a strong hold.
The most impressive piece, which Atsumu would be loathe to admit aloud, was the literal fucking David. An exact replica of the statue remained, unassuming, in some rich fucker’s museum, but the one in that mangy bar was the real deal, huge and lovingly carved and small-dicked and confoundingly attractive. The David loomed over the inhabitants of the bar, ever watchful, and Atsumu often found himself unintentionally meeting his stern gaze. Or staring at his crotch. It was so small .
Michelangelo’s sculpture was a recent addition, very recent, because Atsumu was familiar with the person who’d acquired it.
Sakusa Kiyoomi.
An infamous ranger, but, more importantly, the bane of Atsumu’s existence.
He was infamous for a reason, like Atsumu, but unlike him in every other sense. Whereas Atsumu was a member of the Black Jackals, which came with its own benefits, and specialized in very niche areas, Sakusa was a jack of all trades, master of… some. He was known for completing any job given to him, and he’d take the oddest or most gruesome ones if it suited his interests.
Hence the statue.
Atsumu was an enjoyer of the bar’s luxuries. He was an enjoyer of the scenery. He enjoyed the people, too, because it was a safe-zone, where they came to either get sloshed, get laid, or get a job, and because he was also looking for any of these things at any given time, he often got lucky. The people of Ganymede were fascinating, the people of the bar even more so.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was not something Atsumu enjoyed.
He was fascinating, sure, because he was fucking weird, and fucking rude.
But Atsumu couldn’t say he’d ever managed to get past his prickly exterior, no matter how interesting he could have proved to be beyond it—although, he had a feeling that the insides of Sakusa Kiyoomi were empty and cold and dead.
He watched as the man in question made his way through the crowded bar, picking his feet up with distaste and giving everyone as much space as possible—or rather, everyone gave him as much space as possible. He’d been known to draw a gun on anyone who dared to so much as brush against him as he passed, even in the safe-zone of Tsuki . He’d also been known to never miss a target.
He wasn’t a frequent enjoyer of the bar. Sakusa was a ranger in every sense, never in one place for too long, often found on his sleek, well-kept ship, drifting through space and time. He only came to Tsuki for one thing, really—job offers. Seldom was he in town for much else, and the infrequent visits could always be counted on to leave a bad aftertaste in Atsumu’s mouth. The air around Sakusa was sour, infectious and not easily forgotten. He loomed in the back of his head, an intrusive thought.
Atsumu was sat in the midst of his usual group, at his usual table in the back of the cathedral, next to a statue that was unnamed, unremarkable except for the fact that they all agreed he was really fucking hot. He nursed his beer as Hinata chattered next to him, waving his arms around as he recounted his latest duel with Kageyama—or maybe it was sex? Atsumu could never tell with those two. Bokuto met every exclamation with his own, louder, and although Atsumu could spew bullshit with the rest of them, he always grew oppressively quiet in the presence of such outgoing characters, unable to join in so carelessly unless he was drunk. For now, he was content to sit back, get buzzed, and eye Sakusa’s behavior with amusement.
He had swished into the bar, through the second entrance marked by huge wooden doors, with black skirts billowing around him and a leather jacket that hung from his frame in tattered folds. His limbs always seemed slightly too long for his body, bony elbows sticking out awkwardly and hands shoved into pockets. Sakusa’s posture was terrible, slouchy and shifty and surely his back must have been constantly aching.
Atsumu snorted into his drink. Yet somehow…
He watched as his dark eyes scanned the room, eyebrows furrowed into a glare so fierce he could feel it on his skin, racking up goosebumps on the flesh of his arms and the back of his neck. It was a proximity thing, surely, because his gaze had locked onto one of the residents of Atsumu’s table. Komori. Sakusa’s cousin.
When Osamu had come back from Jigoku several years early on Sakusa Kiyoomi ’s ship, a vessel which was virtually untouchable and likened to an elusive spirit, with two boyfriends by his side and a stupid fucking dopey grin on his face, prideful, Atsumu hadn’t been sure whether to punch him or hug him tight and never let go.
He’d opted for both.
Six months later, and he was still torn between anger and relief, constantly. Whenever he looked at his brother, he was reminded of what he’d done to “save” Atsumu, as if Atsumu couldn’t have handled himself in the same way Sunarin had—although, from the sounds of it, Osamu had helped him out quite a bit in there, too. But Atsumu had a reputation—one that Osamu himself had knowingly utilized in prison—and he still didn’t think his being trans would have undermined his own abilities in any way. In fact, Osamu was probably in more danger than he would have been, what with his pacifist views and fundamentally gentle soul. He was a stubborn, knuckleheaded ass, sure, but Osamu was the kinder twin. Atsumu was aware of that.
So yeah, he had reason to be mad. Especially when it was all his own fault for getting bagged in the first place.
And he had another reason to be mad. Because Osamu’s newfound relationship had meant two additional faces to their group, at first, but then, because he was dating Sakusa’s fucking cousin , that meant Sakusa himself, whenever he’d dare to drop by the bar, would sit with them. Because Sakusa was a prickly bitch and his only friend was Komori.
Atsumu liked Komori, and he liked Sunarin, too. They were both smart and funny in their own ways, good for banter, and he was not at all jealous of their relationship with his brother.
He watched over the rim of his bottle as Sakusa shuffled over to their table in his massive chunky boots—so unnecessary, he already towered over everyone—and settled down onto an empty stool, crossing his legs in a grand gesture and looking around menacingly, a warning, if anyone dared watch.
Fortunately, the only empty stool happened to be next to Komori.
Unfortunately, Atsumu was the poor soul on the other side of the stool, in the corner he had been utilizing fully to avoid any sort of unwanted conversational chatter, instead choosing to slowly sip at his drink and watch the drops of condensation race down the sides of the glass.
Well, no use in delaying the inevitable.
“Hey, Omi-Omi, long time no see!”
He was forced to raise his voice to be heard over the room’s rowdiness, the chattering of thieves and murderers and yakuza and maybe even some mafia.
He didn’t even bother to look at him, and Atsumu tightened his grip around the neck of his beer. “Lookin’ for a job, finally? Thought ya were out of commission for a sec, there, thought someone might’ve actually managed to rid the world of ya. Or maybe yer here for somethin’ else…”
He peeled his lips back into some semblance of a grin, edging on feral, inappropriate for a neutral space such as Tsuki . It was a challenge.
Finally, Sakusa had the decency to roll his eyes, tilting his head a little to glower at him. The rings in his ears glinted, rows of silver, in the dim lighting sourced from hundreds of candles half-melted and scattered throughout the cathedral. “Shut up, Miya, I’m not interested in your stupidity tonight.”
Atsumu jutted out his bottom lip in a mock pout. “So mean, Omi, ya hurt my feelings.”
“He’s looking for a job,” Komori supplied, leaning in towards Atsumu, around Sakusa, with a conspirer’s smile. “Rangers. Always so mysterious.”
“That so?” Atsumu arched a brow. He liked Komori. “In that case, I might know somethin’.”
“If it’s Jackals business, I’m not interested,” Sakusa folded his arms, letting long curls drop into his face, obscuring the dotted moles above his left eyebrow. His nails were painted a hideous bright chartreuse color, chipping at the edges from where he’d probably picked at it—as he was doing just then, seemingly unconscious of the action. “Stop trying to recruit me to your little gang. You’re too desperate. I’m not interested.”
It was Black Jackals business. Of course it was Black Jackals business—Atsumu worked for them, he was known for his work for them. They were one of the strongest Yakuza groups in the solar system, and Atsumu wasn’t merely exaggerating out of pride. The term “Yakuza” had once meant something rather different, he knew, where now it referred to their lot, but it held no less weight.
What he couldn’t understand was Sakusa’s complete aversion to any sort of affiliation with them, despite Meian’s numerous and generous attempts at offering him a place amongst their highest ranking members—Atsumu included.
“Meian’s orders, it’s not up t’me,” Atsumu yawned. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t be talkin’ to yer rude ass in the first place.”
“Am I supposed to believe that? You just amuse yourself by annoying the shit out of me, like a fucking child.”
“Yer brutal tonight, Omi,” He grinned delightedly. “What crawled up yer ass and died?”
“You.”
He could have sworn a faint blush colored the tips of Sakusa’s ears, “Oh, ya wish —"
He was interrupted by a particularly loud ‘Hey, hey, hey!’ from one Bokuto Koutarou, which could only mean one of two things—actually, one of three.
“Hey, Kuroo!” Komori called, and both Atsumu and Sakusa followed his line of sight.
Kuroo was one of these three things.
She hovered behind Bokuto, resting her hands on the top of his spiky head, smiling a smile that promised illegal activity and obscure, poorly timed jokes. One of the owners of the bar, but more importantly, one of Bokuto’s partners.
This was more important to remark because it meant that there was always a strong likelihood of anyone and everyone around them bearing unfortunate witness to an intense display of affection. It varied partner-by-partner, and Kuroo was the worst. That is, the most likely to encourage such displays. As Atsumu watched, their hands slowly entwined around Bokuto’s broad shoulders, and Kuroo pressed a lazy kiss to the high point of his boyfriend’s ear.
Atsumu always felt rather alone around them, with their easy, unlabeled affection, unapologetic closeness and comfortable sense of being.
Next to him, Sakusa made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and for once Atsumu had to agree.
Kuroo’s eyes darted around the table, catlike, and landed on the pair with a flash of grim delight. “How did y’all manage to get the two biggest assholes in the galaxy to sit next to each other so nicely?”
Sakusa scoffed, and Atsumu snorted. “Omi’s way meaner than me, I don’t know what yer talkin’ about, Tetsu! ‘Sides, we’re playin’ nice tonight cause our interests are aligned, y’know.”
He had been looking for a job, unaffiliated with the Jackals. For a little extra cash. Maybe because he was bored.
Sakusa’s eyes skittered over to regard him, a mixture of surprise and annoyance, and Kuroo pursed his lips in thought. “What, you boys got a gig?”
“I was hoping you had one,” Sakusa crossed and uncrossed his arms, fidgeting with something in one of his pockets.
She shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Where’s Akaashi?”
“Office. They know as much as I do, Sakusa, I dunno why you always want to talk to them and not me.”
“S’cause they both communicate like fuckin’ droids,” Atsumu yawned. He had only been down here for jobs, and with any sort of hope for that thoroughly killed, he was quickly losing interest, mind drifting off towards the red bean mochi that he’d bought for himself as a special treat the day prior. He summoned his worst-best robot-impression-voice. “ Beep boop, let us commit murder and do calculus .”
The corner of Sakusa’s eye twitched. Not that he was watching.
“You sound fucking dumb,” He hissed.
Kuroo cackled.
“If neither of you have any useful information, I’ll be on my way,” Sakusa stood up abruptly, social battery apparently depleted.
“Hold on, Sakusa, I didn’t say that ,” Kuroo held up a hand. “You want useful information?”
He stopped, arching a single brow, a silent question. Atsumu perked up a bit, dragging himself back from where he’d been dangling an arm out of his chair, watching it sway softly under the influence of manufactured gravity.
“Well, c’mon, then, assholes, follow me.”
Kuroo led them through the crowded hall, dodging fists and drinks and clouds of multi-colored smoke. The din was enough to set Atsumu on edge, and he had a feeling Sakusa was worse off, what with his complete aversion to crowds and people actually having fun. Hopefully he didn’t slip into an even worse mood as the evening progressed. Kuroo might withhold information if she felt they were being rude or dismissive (more so than usual).
The office was Atsumu’s fourth favorite place in the galaxy.
It was a hoarder’s wet dream, filled to the brim with objects from every century, art and science and writing, furniture from different cultures, falling apart at the seams or lovingly overstuffed. The floor was covered in thick carpets, tapestries and paintings and sketches adorned the walls, lamps and candles were scattered haphazardly over any available flat surface. An obscene amount of books was stacked in every corner, and a colorful glow was cast over the entire space from the stained glass windows, permanently lit by neon signs which glowed on the ramshackle storefronts of outside’s streets.
Atsumu flopped onto one of the armchairs in the center of the room, across from Kuroo, who crossed his ankles elegantly on the couch. Sakusa remained standing, hovering by the door, as if threatening to leave as soon as Kuroo’s information was acquired.
“You two know what’s coming up this month, I presume?”
Atsumu frowns, thinking, “Valentine’s day?”
Sakusa huffed a soft, appalled sort of laugh. “Miya, your stupidity is almost impressive.”
“Thanks, O great Omi-Omi! I’m honored t’have impressed ya. They install a new settin’ on yer emotions panel? Thought ya only had ‘prickly’ and ‘bitchy’, not ‘sadistically amused’.”
“If you two can’t behave for five fucking minutes we’re going to have much bigger shit to deal with on this job,” Kuroo interrupted, pointedly.
They both shut up at the mention of a job, Atsumu turning his best innocent-kicked-puppy impression on him, which never really seemed to work but he had spent much of his free time perfecting it in his mirror and was fully intent on utilizing it whenever possible.
“It’s the convention,” Sakusa grumbled. “February.”
Oh.
He’d forgotten. Well, not really forgotten, but he hadn’t been thinking about it at that particular moment in time, and anything he was not actively trying to focus on tended to melt into the soupy mess of thoughts that constantly bubbled in his brain.
“Yes,” Kuroo sighed. “A concentration of the galaxy’s highest-ranking crime lords in one place. One huge target with billions of potential ammo pointed right at it.”
“But…” Sakusa mused. “Nobody knows where to aim.”
“Or when,” Atsumu added.
The secrecy of the convention, essentially the deadliest business meeting in existence, held every new year, was enforced by human lives. Those attending the meeting could kill almost anyone orbiting the sun at whim—and they had, over and over, generating millions of enemies, most of which couldn’t lift a finger in retribution, as they had nowhere to look.
Kuroo, however, was smiling. “Is that so?”
Sakusa narrowed his eyes at the expression. “What do you know?”
“What does Kenma know?” She corrected, and, as if summoned by mere mention, a small figure shuffled into the room. Behind a stack of Jenga-d chairs in the far corner, a door slammed shut.
“Fuckin’ everything,” Atsumu grumbled, eyeing the man in question as he settled onto the back of Kuroo’s couch, folding his legs in a complicated pretzel. He was wearing pajamas, the bottoms of which were tucked into knee-high striped socks, and his bleached long hair was pulled back haphazardly.
Immediately, one of Kuroo’s hands found its way to his thigh, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his sweatpants as if it was the only natural thing to do.
“I have a location,” Kenma said. Or rather—he thought, without moving his mouth to speak. It was a complicated setup, the way Kenma communicated. A microscopic speaker was installed somewhere under all that hair, along with technology that even Suna could barely comprehend—Atsumu was completely at a loss, of course—which allowed him to speak without really talking . It was simulated to sound like him, too, so the whole effect was like reverse ventriloquism. Atsumu always found it a bit eerie, especially coupled with Kenma’s unmoving, all-perceiving stare. He was a polarizing character. Hinata was in love with him, of course. “And an approximate time.”
Atsumu whistled appreciatively. “Yer a genius.”
Kenma shrugged.
“So what do you need us for?” Sakusa interjected.
“We’re going to leak the information,” Kuroo said. “With Keiji’s help.”
Atsumu waited, and the pause in between felt tense with anticipation and surprise—his own. An orchestrated information leak wasn’t crazy, for the partners, but at that scale?
“Only to a few key players, of course,” He added. “Kenma and Keiji have it all planned out—who goes where goes when and what, you know. When these certain individuals are informed, they’ll be out for blood. But these folks in particular are the type to hire for murder.”
Sakusa cleared his throat. “And you think they’ll want us?”
“I know they will,” Her easy smirk grew as she spoke. “You two may be the biggest assholes in the galaxy, but you’re also some of the best.”
“Assholes?”
“Killers.”
Atsumu wasn’t sure if that was a compliment.
“You’re up-and-coming, fresh young faces. Atsumu, you’re affiliated with MSBY, but it’s a small organization, and everyone knows you’ll agree to contracts separate from them, these days. Especially for higher paying jobs.”
He nodded in affirmation.
“And Sakusa. You’re difficult to reach, but you’re a ranger. Unbiased, willing to do anything for the right price.”
“Almost anything,” Sakusa corrected. “I have standards. Unlike some.”
Atsumu couldn’t help but feel that that was a pointed jab.
“You two have built up quite the rep, in the past few years. We have faith in your abilities. They’ll come to you.”
“Okay,” Atsumu said, sliding lower into his armchair and letting his hands fold together on his stomach. He could feel Sakusa behind him, drawing ever closer. “Okay. When is it?”
“Soon,” Kenma was picking at his nails intently, not bothering to look up as he spoke. “Sometime next week. We’re working on an exact time.”
“Which,” Kuroo added. “We will know within the next couple of days. All you have to do is wait for us to contact you.”
Atsumu nodded and shot a lazy thumbs-up in the couple’s direction.
Sakusa was more hesitant. “I have to stay here?”
“Yes. Is that a problem for you?”
He considered. “…no.”
“Excellent!” Kuroo clasped her hands together, looking positively mischievous.
“So…” Atsumu dared ask, straightening up in his seat. “Where is it?”
Kenma finally looked up from his hands, eyes flashing in the low, multicolored light of the office.
“Saturn.”
♄
They were stuck together for an indefinite amount of time.
Kuroo made it clear that he wanted them to work together. Kenma was planning something, which he was not willing to disclose, and Kiyoomi could not quite figure out, but it required communication with Atsumu, as well as Kuroo, Akaashi, and Kenma. Kiyoomi had a sneaking suspicion that Bokuto would be hanging around, too. He was always hovering near his partners, despite his Black Jackals affiliation.
But, he supposed, there was a reason Kuroo hadn’t chosen Bokuto. He wasn’t like Kiyoomi, or even Atsumu—he wasn’t a killer. And as much as Kiyoomi hated to admit it, Atsumu was good. He was talented at what he did, and he knew he could get the job—any job—done.
But what he didn’t understand was why Kiyoomi had to be any part of some bigger, group-oriented bullshit. He worked alone.
He would be sticking around, of course, because of the pay. Anything affiliated with big names, at the highest security business meeting in the galaxy, was bound to promise those who could complete the job an early retirement. Plus, Kiyoomi may be a ranger, but he was mildly indebted to Akaashi. So.
So Kiyoomi was stuck with Atsumu for at least the next week.
“They ain’t tellin’ us all of it,” Atsumu mused in his typical low drawl, kicking at a crack in the cement with the toe of his worn boot.
They were standing outside of the bar, leaning against the brick wall of the alley that ran between it and the ramshackle apartment complex next door, under the cover of a sheet metal awning, hiding from the rain. It poured down from the artificial atmosphere, pounding against roofs and windows and the small surface above their heads.
It was almost always raining, on Ganymede. An abundance of moisture on the planet itself led to an imbalance in the small colony. Nobody had bothered to fix it, as long as Kiyoomi had been alive and visiting.
Kiyoomi pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, tugging his mask down and lighting it as he stuck it in his mouth. Cool air seeped over newly exposed skin. It was a familiar routine, comforting. He could feel Atsumu watching the movement.
“Obviously,” He took a long drag.
“Why d’ya think, though? What’re they plannin’?”
“Hell if I know,” He murmured, tightening his fingers around the small paper cigarette. His nail polish was chipped almost to oblivion. He should probably repaint it.
“Take a guess, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu stopped poking at the crack in the sidewalk, sinking back into the brick wall and closing his eyes as his head tilted up, towards the rickety metal, which shivered under the onslaught of rain. “Yer supposed t’be the smart one.”
“Liar,” He exhaled in wry amusement. Drops of rainwater fell from the tips of the awning, splashing onto the puddles that riddled the ground, gathering in potholes and splintering cracks. Smoke clouds were tattered to pieces as they drifted hazily into the path of the storm.
He shrugged, grinning. “I tried.”
There was a pause, a lull. It was a bit awkward. They had never gone so long without exchanging insults, and neither one of them had drawn a gun or a knife on the other all evening. The small peace felt wrong, almost uncomfortable, the feeling seeping under Kiyoomi’s flesh, displacing.
“If ya want…” Atsumu paused, clearing his throat. “If ya want, ya can stay at my apartment. I got an extra bedroom, it’s clean. I know ya got yer ship, or whatever, but that’s out at the docks, ain’t it? Cause Kuroo got us meetin’ here every day, now, and I live like ten minutes out. Your ship’d be, what, a half hour? Forty-five?”
Atsumu’s face betrayed just as much surprise at his own offer as Kiyoomi felt. “What, are you going to try and take me out as I sleep? Slit my throat with one of your knives so you can hog all the job’s pay for yourself?”
He regretted the words as soon as visible anger melted over Atsumu’s features, eyes narrowing, and mouth twisting cruelly. “Ya got me, Omi-Omi. My mighty plan has been foiled by yer intellect, once again.”
Kiyoomi sighed. “I was… joking.”
He hadn’t been.
“So was I.”
Atsumu left, walking through the heavy rainfall, pulling his hood over his bleach-blond hair as he went. His heels kicked up the puddles of rainwater, soaking the dark-wash of his worn jeans even darker. He favored his left leg. By his gait, Kiyoomi could tell he had a knife in each boot, and strapped to his thigh, under his long overcoat. Not to mention the countless ones on his hips, torso, and arms.
Blades were his specialty. He cut deep and precise.
Kiyoomi worked with guns. He preferred to maintain a certain measure of distance from the lives he took.
Plus, blood was a difficult stain to bleach out.
♄
The meeting with Kuroo the following evening was fruitless. There was no updated time, and Kuroo, Kenma, and Akaashi were masters of dodging a direct question.
Atsumu had spent most of the day in limbo. His brain couldn’t decide if he was on the job or in between; he woke up early and stayed in bed late, cleaned his apartment and then watched television for hours. He went grocery shopping and bought a mix of vegetables and various bread items, and sat, munching, on his kitchen counter. He was angry. At Sakusa. More so than usual.
The meeting didn’t resolve shit. Sakusa was mostly quiet, ignoring Atsumu’s usual barbs. He leaned against the far wall, fidgeting with newly painted yellow nails. Not a single question was answered, although more were raised. Kuroo kept dropping hints about “working together” and “sportsmanship”. Akaashi, point blank, told them to get their shit together.
Atsumu’s only comfort was the look on Sakusa’s face when he’d shown up, dripping wet and panting, looking like an angry kitten in the entrance to the bar. His long trench coat had done nothing to spare him from the wet, windy planet.
There was no public transportation on Ganymede. If you had to be somewhere, you took your own ship, or hoverbike, or even board. And Sakusa only had his massive, sleek and shiny vehicle, which wouldn’t fit anywhere in the cramped city.
They said nothing to each other as they left, parting ways under the gray sky, winding further and further from one another through the narrow, dingy streets of the moon’s busy colony.
♄
Something about Miya Atsumu was different from anyone Kiyoomi had met.
It was unnerving.
He watched him throughout the first official meeting of their new, half-baked job. He was unpredictable, bouncing from loud and obnoxious to almost mute, friendly and witty to angry and defensive. He did small things big, and big things small.
To anyone else, he supposed, Atsumu was a mystery. Unpredictable, a wild card. Prone to lashing out with fists and knives, or equally cutting jabs of the tongue. Sometimes he was all veiled words and hidden irony, and sometimes he took others’ words at face value, spit harsh truths as if they were rolling from his mouth unbidden. Difficult to manage, to discern. Someone to be avoided.
Secretly, ever so, Kiyoomi thought that Miya Atsumu made sense .
♄
That night, after Atsumu had re-watched his favorite episodes of Cowboy Bebop , scrolled through his phone for a horrendous amount of time, eaten his last black sesame bun, and gone to bed, there was a knock on his front door.
He answered half-asleep, wearing nothing but boxers and miss-matched socks, scratching the back of his head absently, and almost yelped at the sight he beheld before him.
Sakusa stood on his doormat, curls soaking the fabric below, black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He had his mask on, as usual, but the features he could see looked rather… constipated.
Atsumu’s eyes flicked from his face, to the duffel bag, and back. “Awfully presumptuous of ya, Omi-Omi.”
He shuffled his feet. “Miya. I’m s—I didn’t mean what I said. Yesterday.”
“That an apology?”
“…yes. I know… I know you wouldn’t have slit my throat as I slept.”
“Oh?” He folded his arms, relishing the sight of Sakusa before him, made uncomfortable and wet—not like that, of course.
He nodded, curls bouncing. “I would have woken up before you got the chance, and shot you in your leg or foot so you couldn’t escape.”
Atsumu couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from the back of his throat, unexpected. He was probably supposed to be annoyed “Keep lyin’ to yerself, Omi.”
He stepped back, opening the door wider. Sakusa took in his partial nudity, doing a quick double take, roaming over his stomach, his thighs. His chest. He wondered if he was looking at the scars there, faded with time but still visible in their surgical perfection. He wondered if he was looking at the piercing in his left nipple, or the one in his bellybutton. Or maybe he was looking at the tattoo that began at his ribs and snaked down, along the line of his hip and beneath the waistband of his boxers. He wondered, and it was all he could do to fight the blush that threatened to spread. “Get yer sorry ass in here.”
Atsumu wondered too, for a brief moment, as the door shut with a soft click, if he was looking at the other scars.
Sakusa entered Atsumu’s apartment as if he was attending his own funeral.
“Light’n up, Omi-Omi, yer the one that chose to come here in the middle of the fuckin’ night.”
Sakusa was slipping off his heavy boots in the genkan. Without the extra platform, he was only a couple inches taller than Atsumu, the difference barely noticeable now. “It’s ten-fifty-two.”
“Shaddup,” He grumbled. Atsumu walked down his short hallway, gesturing a lazy hand behind him as Sakusa followed. “That’s the kitchen. Livin’ room. My room. Bathroom. Here’s yer guest room, all ready for ya.”
Sakusa shuffled into the small space, gripping his duffel bag like a lifeline, scanning around with narrowed eyes. It was pretty sparse, with just a single bed, a nightstand, and a drawer. A window let in a bit of light from the alley outside. Sakusa ran a single finger over each surface, eyebrows drifting farther and farther into his curly mop of hair as he apparently failed to find any hint of dust.
Atsumu scoffed. “Ya doubt me?”
“A little.”
“Fuck you. I’m the one bein’ generous here, if ya wanna leave right now and trek back to the docks in this downpour, I’d be happy to let ya.”
“It’s fine. I-” He stuttered a bit, glancing down at the shag carpet beneath his feet, and dropped his bag down, letting the strap slip from his shoulder. It landed with a resonating thud. “Thanks.”
“What was that, Omi?” Atsumu grinned, leaning forward from where he was slumped against the doorframe. “Couldn’t quite hear ya, there.”
“Fuck you .”
“Only if ya say please.”
“Good night, Miya,” He said, pointedly, and Atsumu laughed, slinking out of the room.
“Night night, Omi. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
The door clicked shut, soft, and Atsumu was left standing alone in his hallway,
still smiling.
♄
He woke up at his usual time, early in the morning. It was natural, and he needed no alarm to motivate his rise. Sakusa was still asleep– or, if not, then he was completely silent in the guest room, with the door closed.
He didn’t open it until about an hour or two later, when Atsumu had showered and was making breakfast in the kitchen, humming softly to himself as he worked.
A lock clicked, and he looked up to see Sakusa standing in the living room.
He was in a pair of sweatpants, hanging loose off his hips, and a tank top that dangled from his broad shoulders, showcasing dozens of swirling, nonsensical tattoos, which were scattered across the expanse of pale skin like constellations. His hair was a mess, frizzy and standing up at funny angles, and his eyes were barely open, puffy and red with sleep. His lips were full, jutted into a pout.
His lips. His mouth. He wasn’t wearing a mask.
He had a piercing, silver, a ring, right in the center of his bottom lip.
Something molten was building up inside the pit of Atsumu’s stomach. He recognized the usual envy at the sight of his narrow hips, defined muscles, large hands and feet, strong jaw. But– it melted into something else, something unknown that glued his eyes to Sakusa’s sleepy appearance with invisible but unyielding force.
Sakusa was beautiful, he realized.
“Do you really only have one bathroom?” He groaned, scrubbing at the bird's nest he called hair with spindly fingers.
And the moment broke, shattered.
“Yeah, gotta problem, Omi? I wiped down the shower after usin’ it, y’know,” His voice was a little hoarse.
“It’s fine,” He yawned, stretching his long arms above his head as he shuffled back towards the guest room. The hem of his shirt rode up, because of course it did, and Atsumu tore his eyes away, determinately not watching the dip of his spine, or the band of his boxers.
He focused on cooking an extra omelet.
In the bathroom, the shower turned on.
♄
Kiyoomi was trying to get the previous night’s image of Atsumu out of his head, with little success.
He had gotten little to no sleep, at the fault of nobody but himself. The guest room was clean and comfortable, the sheets smelled like laundry detergent and, ever so faintly, Atsumu. He was being nice, and Kiyoomi didn’t know why.
Kiyoomi didn’t really know why he had shown up on Atsumu’s doorstep that night, either. It was a moment of weakness. A moment of anxiety-driven action. He hadn’t been able to scrape away at the unsettling feeling of not arguing with Atsumu, or talking at all. He hadn’t gotten the image of Atsumu retreating into the darkness and misty rain, the very opposite direction of Kiyoomi’s own path, not looking back.
Kiyoomi knew that everyone left. It was logical. Everyone left, or they died. No relationship was permanent. It was best to stay away from most people, for that reason, among others. Kiyoomi’s only close relationship was with Motoya, and he would fight tooth and nail to keep him close, to keep him well. It was harrowing, to worry so much about the inevitable.
But somehow, Atsumu’s presence had always seemed immoveable. As if he would forever be there, buzzing like an irritating insect in Kiyoomi’s ear. His ego was easily punctured but never permanently maimed, and he couldn’t be driven away by any willful force.
They weren’t close. Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s relationship was nonexistent, and if anything hovered between them, it was animosity, thick and roping. They’d only known each other for a couple of years.
But somehow, Atsumu’s presence was always so there .
When he’d stepped into the living room the next morning, seen Atsumu once again shirtless, in only a pair of pants and a dishcloth around his shoulders as he scraped at something in a pan, Kiyoomi felt bottomed out. Hollow, like something was carving away at his insides. And then Atsumu had looked up, met his eyes with his heavy-lidded, warm gold ones, he felt full. Sated.
It was unnerving.
He wished he hadn’t come.
♄
He was suspicious, at first, when Atsumu told him to sit at the kitchen counter and placed breakfast in front of him, and he had only been a little offended at the look he had sent towards the omelet and rice. But his eyes had lit up, ever so slightly, when he tried it, so Atsumu counted that as a win.
“Told ya,” He said, smug. “I’ve been cookin’ just as long as Samu, ‘cept he’s lame and he went and made a fuckin’ career outta it, ‘stead of beatin’ people up with me. Which is much cooler, y’know.”
Sakusa daintily slurped miso soup from his spoon, humming what could have been agreement, or dissent. Maybe both. He was meticulous with everything, and eating was no exception. Every bite was carefully chosen, after thorough inspection, placed into his waiting mouth with unhurried assurance. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin as if it was habit.
“Omi,” Atsumu continued, shoveling the last bit of egg into his mouth with his chopsticks. “Ya kinda got, like, posh vibes. Like, I see ya in some fancy mansion on one of the satellites, sippin’ tea and orderin’ butlers around.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His face shuttered. “You don’t know shit.”
Atsumu whistled. “Rude. And after I’ve fed ya a home-cooked meal, too…”
“ Itadakimasu ,” Sakusa snarled, sarcasm lacing the word. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut your fat fucking mouth, for once.”
He blinked, stunned. “Did you just… what the fuck is your problem? I’m makin’ conversation , you know, what humans do? Not sure if ya got that in yer droid-fuckin’-programmin’, Sakusa, but ya could at least try to act normal.”
Sakusa stood up, suddenly, stepping back from the counter, legs of the stool below scraping against the hardwood floor. Atsumu tried not to flinch at the harsh noise. His face was twisted up, ugly and mean. As ugly as was possible, for him. “Oh, please, Miya. What do you know about normal ?”
Atsumu stood, too, not wanting to feel so small before Sakusa’s towering form. His head and chest pounded hot, blood pumping. Was this what he had been missing, with the tentative peace they kept mistakenly stumbling into; the rage that forced his mouth open, spewed red-hot words right at Sakusa’s ugly-beautiful face? “What the fuck is that s’posed to mean?”
“You think I don’t know how– how wrong you are?” Rather than leaning forward, intimidating, like he would in a fight, he was slowly, infinitesimally, backing towards the hall, back to the guest room, to their shared bathroom. “You’re an asshole , Miya, you don’t make friendly conversation . You make everyone around you uncomfortable. You’re as far from normal as it gets.”
The feeling rose in the back of his throat, a lump of hot coal. “Oh, fuck you, Sakusa Kiyoomi! You fuckin’ hypocrite. If I’m an asshole you’re my real fuckin’ twin, fuck! At least people talk to me! At least I have friends !”
Sakusa stood stock still, for a moment. If Atsumu were to look closer, just a little, past his own blinding anger, he would notice the tiny shivering, the tremors that ran up and down his body. He didn’t. “Do you?”
♄
The meeting was even more awkward than the previous evening, and it was obvious that Kenma knew something had happened between them. It was just him and Akaashi– Kuroo and Bokuto were out doing something important– or maybe they were getting smashed and making out on rooftops again. Either was likely, and neither would be known.
“We have an exact time,” Kenma said quietly, as soon as Atsumu sat down. Sakusa was already there, hovering by the exit, as per usual.
He had stormed out of Atsumu’s apartment after their argument, despite the pounding rain outside and the fact that his ship was almost an hour away from it. He hadn’t heard a word from him all day, after those last two, and he didn’t exactly feel like trying to pick up the conversation, anyway.
“It’s in four days,” Kenma continued.
Atsumu tried to feel shocked at the small amount of time they were being given to prepare.
“I’m leaking the information tomorrow. If they have too much time with it, it’s more likely to reach unwanted ears. Three days should be perfect,” Akaashi added. The two were twined together on the couch, lithe, like a pair of cats. Kenma seemed to be falling asleep as they spoke– he was practically purring. “You two should be prepared to receive business. And you should be… on speaking terms. Communication is key , here. You’re not children, we expect you to get over any petty squabbles.”
“Yes, Akaashi,” Atsumu mumbled. Three days. He supposed it made sense– those receiving the leak would feel pressure in the short time given to act quickly, just enough time to contact Atsumu, or Sakusa, who were already reputable inthe field, not enough to find any lesser known sources.
“Akaashi,” Sakusa said. “You’re not actually expecting us to kill any of the Heads, right?”
Atsumu blinked. He’d been thinking the same, when he’d first heard the beginnings of the plan, but the worry had sunk to the back of his head, as he was currently preoccupied with… other things.
Akaashi smiled, just a little, as if they had been waiting for one of them to ask that question. “What do you mean?”
Sakusa paused, and Atsumu snatched the opportunity in the silence of anticipation. “That’d cause absolute fuckin’ chaos. Those motherfuckers control everything . They’re basically gods.”
Sakusa huffed quietly. Atsumu ignored him.
“Obviously we’re not going to kill them yet,” Kenma yawned.
‘ We ,’ Atsumu mouthed silently, furrowing his brows. ‘ Yet .’
“This part will require a…delicate touch,” Akaashi said, lacing their fingers together thoughtfully. “I will be contacting those that are targeted.”
“You mean–” Sakusa started, sounding truly surprised.
“Yes. Anyone who can afford either of you is going to be powerful, almost as powerful as the Heads. Not easy to take out, even for them. If I tell them who, exactly, is targeting them… chances are they’ll be willing to pay even more.”
“And,” Kenma added. “We’ll be in. On their good sides. They’ll favor us, for telling them when their lives are in danger. Because, you know. You two are scary.”
His eyes were full of mirth. Atsumu did not feel any sort of humor. “You two are scarier.”
Akaashi shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Atsumu felt very, very, small, all of a sudden.
The meeting was thus adjourned, with no additional information to be provided, and he walked a few paces behind Sakusa as they left the office, giving him space to fume. Not that much space. He wasn’t feeling very generous.
“Sakusa,” He called, just as he stepped out of the door. He turned around as if it was the last thing he wanted to do, mask back up, glare fully engaged. He was wearing a giant black jacket, and the hood was pulled up over his head, shadowing his eyes. “Ya left yer shit at my house.”
“Right.”
The walk to Atsumu’s apartment, although short, was painfully quiet and uncomfortable. Even the rain was light, just a drizzle, as if the clouds were holding their breath, waiting for something. The streets were quiet with dusk, and neither of them spoke.
The silence lasted until they stepped into Atsumu’s apartment, toeing off their shoes, when Atsumu murmured ‘ Tadaima ’ and flicked on a lamp-- another habit. He wondered if Sakusa did the same, whenever he stepped onto his ship– Yamar ā ja . Named after the Hindu god of death and justice. Fitting, he’d always thought.
Sakusa retreated into the guest bedroom without a word, and when he returned, he was holding his bag.
The sight gripped at Atsumu’s throat, strangely painful. He cleared it. “Omi.”
He regarded him, from the end of the hall. He stood just before the genkan, still, hands shoved in his pockets. Outside, an alarm blared, faint, but noticeable.
“Omi–” He started again, but was interrupted–
“I’m sorry,” Sakusa blurted, rapid pace, as if the words had escaped without his explicit permission. Atsumu blinked, startled, and Sakusa’s expression mirrored the feeling.
“I, uh… me, too.”
Because what else was there to say?
Sakusa’s large hands tightened around the strap of his duffel bag, rings gleaming on each finger. His hood was falling off his head, sliding down slowly, revealing more and more dark hair, dark eyes, dark brows, the two moles set like a colon on his forehead. A pause. An invitation to continue, if you dare. “I should have thanked you. For letting me stay… last night.”
Something in the words made Atsumu blush, although he couldn’t fathom just what it was. “S’not a problem, Omi-Omi.”
“And I’m sorry. For… getting upset. You couldn’t have known.”
“Known what?” He held his breath. He wasn’t sure if that had been an opportunity to ask, or to shut up.
Sakusa sighed, tilting his head back. The hood fell off completely. The lamp cast warm light over his face. He looked tired. “I need a fucking cigarette.”
♄
They found themselves on Atsumu’s balcony, under yet another awning. The wrought iron was rusting, falling apart in places, beat down over time by unrelenting moisture. Several potted plants flourished in the weather, taking up the majority of the balcony with frilly green leaves. Two lawn chairs sat on opposite ends of the cramped space, barely a foot apart. As they sat in each respective chair, their knees brushed. Neither bothered to pull away.
It was quaint, to put it mildly. Kiyoomi didn’t care.
He fumbled with the lighter, trying to quell the tremors in his hands, the rest of his body. His nerves buzzed, tense and on edge under his skin– it felt taut.
Without a word, Atsumu leaned forward, gently pulling the lighter from Kiyoomi’s grasp. He let him. His hands were warm, smaller than his own, callused, and when he flicked the lighter on, easy, the flame sparked orange, caught on the cigarette that dangled from Kiyoomi’s lips. He inhaled. The lighter turned off. Atsumu stayed, leaning forward, watching, intent.
He found, suddenly, that he couldn’t meet Atsumu’s gaze if he tried. He focused, instead, on the drizzle that caught on the broad, waxy leaves of one of Atsumu’s ferns.
“My father is one of the Heads,” Kiyoomi began, and he was so close that he felt Atsumu’s involuntary reaction to that statement, even without looking at him. “You said… I seem posh, or rich, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. I was.”
In the alley below, there was a streak of white. A stray cat, darting through the pathway, avoiding puddles, leaping over fallen bricks and discarded trash. Kiyoomi watched it until it disappeared around the corner.
“They disowned me. My parents. Nothing borne from prejudice, of course,” He scoffed, feeling the old anger simmering where once was a roiling boil. Old wounds. “They don’t have anything against homosexuals , per say. They just didn’t want their son to be one.”
He inhaled, smoke clogging his lungs. He liked to imagine, sometimes, that everything inside, under his flesh, above his bones, was ash. Burnt to a crisp by rage and by cigarettes. “They wanted an heir. To continue their line. I’m an only child, you see.”
He looked at Atsumu, finally, and was somehow unsurprised to find him so close, to find his eyes shining. He was a selfish bastard, but he was not incapable of empathy. He felt everything big, bigger than Kiyoomi could fathom. “Can I tell you a secret, Atsumu?”
He chewed his bottom lip, waiting.
“I hope, someday, that one of us is hired to take them out. And I–” Embarrassingly, the words stuck to his tongue and teeth, heavy. “I hope it’s me. Sometimes.”
Atsumu put his hand over Kiyoomi’s, the one that rested on his thigh. He squeezed. The calluses on his palm were thick, he had scars all over his knuckles, fingers, wrists. Kiyoomi didn’t remember seeing him wash his hands, when they’d gotten home.
He couldn’t find it in himself to care.
“Tell me something, now. It’s only fair.”
Atsumu chuckled. “Is that how that works?”
“Yes.”
He hummed thoughtfully, thumb rubbing the back of Kiyoomi’s hand, sending tiny shocks up his arm, up his spine. “Okay. So ya’ve seen me shirtless, yeah?”
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, trying not to smile at his easy charm. Atsumu was capable of making people feel better without even trying. By being dumb, of course. “Unfortunately.”
“Kay, then, y’know the scars on my chest?”
“I know you’re trans, Atsumu, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m not oblivious.”
Atsumu huffed. “It’s not! I know yer smart, Omi-Omi, just not as smart as me.”
“You’re lying, right now. Out of your ass.”
“Shh, Omi, let me tell my story. The scars above my chest, not the ones below.”
Kiyoomi recalled seeing something like that, although he had been otherwise distracted at the time by the amount of skin invading his vision. He remembered uneven, pink lines, sharp and jagged, but faint. He nodded in affirmation.
“Top surgery is fuckin’ expensive. All private owned bullshit, right?”
Kiyoomi nodded again. He knew.
“I couldn’t afford it until I started workin’ for the Jackals, when I was nineteen. So, uh, when I was younger, and a little dumber, I guess, I tried to do it myself.”
Kiyoomi inhaled, sharp. He hadn’t been expecting that. He’d been expecting a stupid anecdote, not an actual, heartfelt story about Atsumu’s life. He supposed it was, in fact, only fair.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Omi, yer so cute. I survived, ‘cause I’m big and tough. But, uh… Osamu. Found me, y’know, in the bathroom. Blood fuckin’ everywhere, one of ma’s old kitchen knives– may she rest in piece– like, covered in it. Couldn’t get the stains outta the shower curtain, had to buy a replacement.”
Kiyoomi tried not to picture it, but it was hard not to imagine a younger Atsumu like that, in so much pain he tried to cut off the source, on his own. With a fucking kitchen knife. His own chest ached. He flipped his hand, palm up, twining his fingers through Atsumu’s.
“Probably why he’s so protective now, why he took that figurative fuckin’ bullet and went to prison for me. Fuckin’ dumbass.”
He sounded fond.
Kiyoomi didn’t think there was much to say, and Atsumu didn’t seem to want him to say anything, anyway. He studied his face, his nose, slightly crooked from being punched one too many times, his eyes, always heavy-lidded, thick eyebrows. His bottom lip was ever so slightly fuller than his top. His eyelashes were long, cast shadows over his cheekbones, his cheeks were just a little rounder than Kiyoomi’s, and when he smiled, dimples popped up in each.
Kiyoomi had never… noticed someone, like this.
“Well,” Atsumu breathed, and Kiyoomi realized he was looking right back at him. “Look at us. Fuckin’... Kuroo would be proud.”
At the remembrance of Kuroo, Kiyoomi snapped out of the daze he’d inexplicably fallen into. He leaned back, slightly. His cigarette was all ash, and he sighed, stubbing it out on the tray on the railing next to him, flicking it into its own discarded remains. “Shut up, Atsumu.”
“ You shut up.”
“Nice one.”
“ You nice one.”
Kiyoomi slept in the guest bedroom that night, as well. He didn’t dream, but the sleep was heavy and comforting.
♄
“I’ve been in contact with certain individuals. Expect to receive any offers within the next thirty-or-so hours.”
Kuroo explained to them that they probably had until the following morning before said “individuals” would be attempting to reach out to either Kiyoomi or Atsumu. Which left them in yet another twilight zone of uncertainty. At least, in this one, it was bordering on purgatory, and less so the fiery pits of hell, because Sakusa was talking to Atsumu, and Atsumu was talking back, and no voices, or concerns, were raised. Not really.
They found themselves on the balcony yet again, the following evening.
That morning had been a repeat of the previous, without all the dramatics, yelling, and storming out angrily with slamming doors and stomping boots. He woke up late, while Atsumu was again cooking breakfast for two– pancakes. Which Sakusa was delighted by.
(“Bet ya don’t got anythin’ like this on yer fancy ship, Omi. Home-cooked meals are a fuckin’ luxury, a fuckin’ commodity these days. The kids don’t know what they’re missin’.”
“You sound like an old man.”
“Hey! I’m youthful, Omi-Omi, I’m fuckin’ spry .”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
…
“You’re right, though, Atsumu.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t have food like this, on my ship. It’s a lot of instant meals. It gets… tiring, after weeks out there.”)
He’d finally taken to calling Atsumu by his given name. Atsumu wondered what it had taken to get there– for him to trust Sakusa, or for Sakusa to trust him, enough for that easy and simple intimacy of a first-name basis.
During the day, before Kiyoomi could retreat to the guest room, Atsumu snagged the long sleeve of his green sweater, tugging gently, leading him to the couch. He agreed to watch one episode of one show, which then turned into a lengthy competition, naturally, wherein they argued the merits of their favorite pieces of media. Ironically, they found that they could agree on the importance of Cowboy Bebop in popular culture. Sakusa, the fucking hipster, liked psychological anime movies, and what, at the time, had been considered “foreign films”. Every one of his choices had been depressing as hell, and admittedly very good.
Atsumu liked things with explosions and cool fight scenes.
(Sakusa sat, curled up, on the far end up Atsumu’s ancient couch, legs tucked underneath himself and arms folded stubbornly. He wasn't wearing a mask, yet again, which was distracting as hell, and Atsumu kept zoning out at the sight of his mouth, his jaw, his throat, the tip of his nose, which was pointy. The lip ring that often caught his attention, and held it. He had moles on every inch of skin that Atsumu could see. He wondered how far they went.
Somehow, as each new show turned on, they seemed to get closer and closer. Or maybe it was Atsumu, maybe Sakusa had a gravitational pull, nothing artificial like so many manufactured, too-human, warped attempts at mimicking the intentions of a metaphorical creator. Maybe he drew everything closer to himself, so natural it was inhuman, or perhaps he just affected Atsumu, they, together, were like two polarizing magnets, opposites attract, right?
Except, Atsumu knew, they weren't opposites. That lazy hypothesis could be shut down by science, because of course it was science, they attracted one another because they saw themselves reflected back when they stared too long or too intensively into the soul that sat across from them on that overstuffed, overworked couch.
Science couldn’t explain the way Atsumu’s skin felt like it was on fire when Sakusa’s thigh brushed his own, when his shoulder pressed against Atsumu’s, when he sighed and Atsumu felt the breath so close to his cheek. Sakusa smelled like laundry detergent, like cigarettes, and, ever so faintly, like Atsumu himself,
familiar.)
That night, on the balcony, Atsumu tried his second-ever cigarette.
The first didn’t count, because he’d been young, stupid, and had coughed so hard he vowed to never pick one up again. They were hard to come by anyway, as the general population condemned the act of inhaling shit that would give you cancer for little-to-no reward. Weed was better, not by much, but it gave you a good high. Atsumu could understand weed. He had never understood the smoking of tobacco, until he saw Sakusa do it.
Something about the way Sakusa smoked made Atsumu want to inhale the ash and cinder directly out of his lungs, into his own. The way his eyelids fluttered as he inhaled, the way his mouth parted as he exhaled, the way his fingers wrapped loosely around the thin paper.
“Why do ya do that, Omi?” He blurted, fixated on the way his dark eyes danced, reflecting the tiny orange flame.
“Hm?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
He exhaled. The air tasted of flame. Atsumu leaned into it. “Habit, I suppose.”
“That’s…”
“Addiction? Maybe… maybe not. It’s only addiction if you can’t quit. I’ve never tried.”
Atsumu huffed a humorless laugh. “Cancer’d be a lame way to go.”
“You think?” He raised a brow, regarding him. “You think either of us will live long enough to be taken out by disease?”
Atsumu shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. If anyone in the business s’gonna live long enough to be shittin’ in diapers again, it’ll be us. We’re the best. Kuroo said it herself.”
Sakusa took that in ponderous silence.
“Atsumu.”
Once he’d started saying his name, it was like he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to, at least. He said it like a swear, like an oath, something to relish off the tip of his tongue, savoring the taste of the syllables. At - su - mu .
“Yeah, Omi?”
“Look at me.”
He couldn’t remember ever looking away.
Sakusa’s gaze was heavy with intent as he gripped his jaw between his fingers, not forceful, per say, but not entirely gentle. Atsumu swallowed, deep, trying not to let his eyes flutter shut of their own accord. Sakusa’s hand was big, big enough to easily wrap around his throat, which should have been threatening but was not, had a different connotation, at least in Atsumu’s brain, which was failing by the minute.
Sakusa pried his mouth open with his index finger and thumb, slipping the very tips in, not enough. His chest felt concave, like it was about to implode. In the dim light of the balcony, Sakusa’s pupils were dilated, black with something unrecognizable.
He leaned forward.
Pulled the cigarette out of his own mouth with his free hand, his left hand,
and stuck it in Atsumu’s waiting, open mouth.
He inhaled automatically, mostly out of shock, or disappointment– of what, he wasn’t entirely sure.
The smoke clogged his lungs, thick and heady, and Sakusa rubbed along the corner of his mouth with his thumb, gaze still fixated on where the trifecta of lips and cigarette and hand met in an unholy trinity. Atsumu’s head felt like it was floating away from his pitiful human body, and when Sakusa pulled back, taking the cigarette with him, he made a noise, caught between a rasping cough and a whine, which came out embarrassingly loud and needy.
He cleared his throat, leaning back into the lawn chair, which creaked loudly under his weight, interrupted the silence that had fallen over the balcony. One of Atsumu’s neighbors was in a screaming match over the phone, something about cheating, about failed democracy, about poor quality chocolates. It was almost loud enough to be heard over the ever-present storm, over the wild beating of Atsumu’s frenzied heart.
♄
Kiyoomi had never wanted to kiss anyone before.
Not to say he hadn’t ever done it– he wasn’t inexperienced. Most people, Atsumu included, probably assumed that he was a prude. That he was incapable of feeling urges – the urge to have sex, the urge to… be with someone.
He supposed they would be partially right. He never felt anything more than a faint desire, in brief hookups with faceless, nameless strangers. Never had he wanted more. He knew how a relationship like that would end, anyway.
But now, he looked at Atsumu’s dumb face, the stupid crinkled laugh lines around his eyes, the tugging at the corners of his lips, and he wanted to do something drastic. He wanted to cup his head between his hands and suck on his mouth until it turned red and swollen, he wanted to taste.
The urge was consuming him. He wondered if this was how normal people felt, overcome with need.
It was nauseating.
Kiyoomi was awake, in bed, alone, mentally berating himself for what he’d done on the balcony. He’d had his chance, he realized, and he’d decimated it, stuck his cigarette in between Atsumu’s teeth, instead of his tongue.
It must’ve been early, early in the morning, and he still hadn’t gotten any sleep, hadn’t been able to get Atsumu out of his head.
Atsumu had looked at him like… nothing he’d ever seen. His pupils had been blown, his eyelids heavy and glossed, mouth open. Kiyoomi thought, now, he might’ve known what that expression meant. It meant nothing good, surely, but he wanted to see it again. He wanted to take advantage of it. If Atsumu would let him.
And he thought, maybe, that Atsumu would .
Something evil and cruel had surely possessed him– some sort of succubus, a mischievous spirit– nothing else could have explained just what motivated him to slide out of Atsumu’s guest bed, to ease open the door, to pad down the hallway, barefoot, in his pajama pants and hoodie.
He didn’t even knock. He felt… unreal. Unmade.
Kiyoomi walked into Atsumu’s bedroom and shut the door behind himself.
Atsumu wasn’t asleep. He sat up, barely visible in the dark, and flicked on the lamp that sat on his bedside table, illuminating the situation ever-so-slightly, bathing Atsumu’s form in warm light.
For fuck’s sake , Kiyoomi thought. Does this man even own any shirts ?
“Omi?” Atsumu whispered.
Kiyoomi said nothing, drifting forward, towards the foot of the bed. Slowly, he sat, tucking his legs underneath himself. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Atsumu leaned forward, squinting blearily. His blond hair stuck out in different directions.
“Omi,” Atsumu repeated, scooting forward. “What’s up?”
He sighed. “Atsumu.”
“Yeah, Omi-Omi? What’s up? Yer kinda freakin’ me out, honestly.”
Kiyoomi laughed. “I can leave.”
“No, no, I don’t want that. I just want you to… tell me,” He pulled himself out of the sheets, settling down on top of them, mimicking Kiyoomi’s position, so that they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye.
“I want to kiss you,” Kiyoomi blurted. “But I don’t know how.”
Atsumu blinked, jaw dropping open. He resisted the urge to stick his fingers in it. “Ya– huh?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Ya haven’t– kissed anyone before?”
He rolled his eyes. “Obviously I have. Just… I’ve never. With someone I actually– care about.”
Atsumu’s eyes widened, almost comically. “Ya– fuckin’ hell, Omi, ya can’t just drop that on a man. Jeez. My heart can’t handle this right now, fuck.”
Kiyoomi glared, making to stand up, to leave the situation, but Atsumu reached out, grabbing his wrist, holding him there. “No, wait, listen.”
He waited. Atsumu opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again. His brows furrowed in concentration. Kiyoomi felt entirely impatient.
“I– Omi, I– fuck it–”
And he leaned forward, tugging Kiyoomi towards him, wrapping his other hand around the back of his neck, underneath his mess of hair. His eyes closed, without thinking, and then Atsumu was kissing him .
His lips were chapped, it was kind of sloppy, and Kiyoomi immediately wanted more .
He shuddered, grabbing at Atsumu’s back, his bare chest, pulling him into his lap. Everything felt hazy, warm, easy, as if this was what they were supposed to be doing all along. Atsumu kissed like he talked, unpredictable and scattered, biting and sucking and licking into Kiyoomi’s mouth, and it was so fucking good , why had it taken them so long to get to this point?
Atsumu tugged on Kiyoomi’s hair, pulling his head back, pressing kisses to the line of his jaw, his throat. He bit, too, a haphazard, unintentional sort of thing that he knew would leave dark, bruising marks. The thought was not as unappealing as it should have been.
Atsumu pulled back suddenly, gasping. Letting go of Kiyoomi’s wrist, he instead placed his palm on Kiyoomi’s forehead, pushing the hair back, so it was completely out of his face. “Omi-Omi.”
“What,” It was supposed to be nonchalant, maybe slightly harried, but it came out breathy and weak.
“I care about you too.”
♄
In the morning, they woke, entwined in a deadly embrace.
Normally, such cuddling wouldn’t be considered deadly, but, well, Atsumu’s heart was sure to give out at any moment at the sight and sensation of being wrapped in Sakusa’s arms. His head was buried in the man’s chest like a comfortable flesh cave– arguably the worst description ever, in the entirety of modern thought– and Atsumu thought that he would, in fact, rather die than move away from being Sakusa Kiyoomi’s little spoon.
Light, sunlight, was coming in from the window. It wasn’t raining.
Sakusa’s bare torso was warm, his legs were warm where they were pressed against Atsumu’s thighs and shins, his chin was sharp against the top of Atsumu’s head but not uncomfortable enough to warrant an adjustment of position. Atsumu felt the sudden urge to cry.
Sakusa shifted, stretching, running his hands along Atsumu’s back, tracing his spine, the dips of bones and muscle and scar tissue.
“Mm,” He said, eloquently.
“Mornin’, Omi,” Atsumu whispered.
Sakusa stilled, pulling away slightly to look down at Atsumu, lips pulled into a tiny, pouty frown. He was slightly cross-eyed with the effort. Atsumu almost melted into a puddle. “Well…”
Sakusa cleared his throat, still rough with sleep. “This is embarrassing.”
“Only a little. If ya move, I’ll kill ya.”
“You could try.”
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he tightened his grip, pulling Atsumu closer to him, like a lifeline.
Atsumu yawned, rubbing his face into Sakusa’s chest sleepily. “I should probably get up.”
“Probably.”
“’m hungry, and the potential client’s’ll be in contact soon.”
“You’re right.”
“I kinda wanna ignore all my responsibilities and stay here forever. Between your tits, Omi, y’know, they’re all soft and pillowy. S’like… nice. And ya smell good.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sakusa said. Sighed. Shoved his nose into Atsumu’s hair. Inhaled. “I kind of want to, as well. Stay here. Until we start to rot.”
“We wouldn’t rot,” Atsumu shook his head, slightly. He felt warm and tingly and stupid all over. He felt light, and right, and all the other words that rhymed, he was a goddamn poet, he could write stanzas about Sakusa Kiyoomi, how he was an asshole, how he was smart, how he was elusive, how he was fleeting, yet always there. How he was beautiful, and awkward as hell, wore dumb clothing and the sight of it always made Atsumu’s heart do dangerous stunts. How he was so, so, familiar . So comfortable. So easy to fall into. “We’re too cool to rot.”
“Shut up,” Sakusa said again. His face was pink, the tips of his ears, nose, cheekbones.
Atsumu kissed him.
♄
Kiyoomi was contacted first. By a name he vaguely recognized, but didn’t particularly care about enough to want to know more. He was more concerned with the potential target: Nicollas Romero. He was, in fact, one of the most powerful people in the galaxy. He knew there’d be big names involved, important faces, but the reality of the situation only seemed to sink in as he stared at the screen before him, at his inbox, with a discreet offer in the form of a vaguely-worded but nonetheless straightforward letter.
Atsumu got his job an hour or so later. Someone wanted him to kill Oikawa Tooru.
Neither of them would actually be doing it, of course. But the look on Atsumu’s face was still floating around Sakusa’s head, the number of zeroes, the big, fancy names that held almost tangible weight everywhere in existence. These men were powerful, dangerous, not to be crossed.
And they were, twenty-four hours later, in touch.
With Kuroo, specifically. He pulled so many strings it could be considered knitting, and thus, Kiyoomi and Atsumu were set with the biggest jobs of their lives, at the hires of Romero and Oikawa.
They would both remark, later, at the simplicity of the tasks. Killing was easy, too easy, for both Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu. Whether it be by gun or knife, the fragility of a human life was all too facile to let slip away from bloodied fingers. Especially ones so dipped in crimson as their own.
What was hard, for both Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu, was life. People. Keeping things alive was always so difficult , even the waxy ferns on Atsumu’s balcony, and especially the singular dead potted plant in Kiyoomi’s ship, which was honestly not his brightest moment, but he had tried his best to keep it. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d done what he’d always done best– let things die, let things fester and rot.
As he’d absently watched the life slide out of the eyes of the man who had hired him for his own revenge, maybe even for a real, justified reason, he’d thought, maybe, he’d like to retire.
Kiyoomi knew everyone left. Every relationship ended. It was logical, really, and Kiyoomi only dealt with facts and logic.
But something about Miya Atsumu made him throw all that out of the fucking metaphorical window, and leap straight into his literal actual arms.
Something about Miya Atsumu made Kiyoomi want to try, for once, to foster life. To water and feed and give sunlight, to nourish, to not let disease or war or famine or any natural disasters slip away with the fragility of a human soul, of fleeting existence.
Sometimes they’ll go months without seeing each other. Sometimes they will get out of all their responsibilities and spend whole days in a row in bed, trying to make each other come undone over, and over, and over.
Kiyoomi will spend a lot of time unraveling the mysteries of Miya Atsumu. It’s one of his favorite hobbies, because it never seems to come to fruition. Miya Atsumu is too faceted, dimensional, everything and everything. He’s always doing things , saying things that surprise Kiyoomi so much it becomes predictable. It is that… that Atsumu-ness that had Kiyoomi addicted faster and stronger than nicotine. And he knew it was an addiction, because he would have quit, if he could. Maybe.
(He stopped smoking cigarettes a month after he and Atsumu first got together.)
Kiyoomi knows a lot of things.
He knows that Atsumu is warm in the mornings, he runs hot, and he does own shirts, and after a while, Kiyoomi takes to stealing most of them and wearing them around the house, because he knows that when Atsumu sees him, he’ll want to absolutely destroy him. In a good way. He knows every story behind every scar on Atsumu’s body, and Atsumu his, and he knows Atsumu’s favorite onigiri filling and his second-favorite pastry shop. He knows what Atsumu smells like, what he tastes like, what he sounds like at every hour of the day. When he’s angry, when he’s happy, when he’s anxious, when he’s sad.
When he looks at Atsumu, he feels as if he knows absolutely nothing, not how to live, not how to breathe, not how to love or talk or laugh right, it’s all going to be a little wrong, they’re all just a little wrong, but somehow, it still feels all right.
Because Sakusa Kiyoomi does know, somehow, he’s in love with Miya Atsumu and everything he does and is.
He just hasn’t quite figured out how to tell him,
Yet.
sat·ur·nine
/ˈsadərˌnīn/
adjective
- cold and steady in mood : slow to act or change
- of a gloomy or surly disposition
- having a sardonic aspect