Work Text:
The creak of the wooden floors is the first thing that alarms Kiyoomi that he has an unwanted visitor. Yes, he’s in his sheriff’s office, and yes, anyone can walk in at any time, but that doesn’t mean they are not unwanted.
The twangy accent with its cheerful tilt is the second thing that alarms Kiyoomi that his guest is not only unwanted but banned from visiting him.
The obnoxiously tall hat with its large halo of a brim is the third and final thing that indicates to Kiyoomi that not only is the man who is banned from his office inside his office but that he is definitely in here for non-emergency reasons.
“Get out, Miya.”
Miya chuckles. He buries his hands deep into his jean pockets and smiles at Kiyoomi. “I can’t see the good ol’ town sheriff? What if I had an emergency Omi-Omi?”
“You clearly don’t. Get out,” Kiyoomi replies, shuffling through his papers.
Not taking the hint, Miya sits down on the leather chair across from Kiyoomi. Thank god there is a desk separating the two of them, or Kiyoomi would not hesitate to strangle him here and now. “I know there is nothing on those papers. Nothing happens here.”
He’s right, nothing really does happen in this old town.
It sits in the middle of the country with a backdrop of desert mountains and orange, sandy dunes. There is one main street. The business signs are caked in layers of dirt, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone here knows where everything is. It's the small stage of the play of Kiyoomi’s life. He grew up in the small white house on the hill. He visited his grandparents in the nearby town that was 20 miles away. Was. It’s deserted now, only a graveyard of empty buildings.
Not only has the setting of his life stayed constant, but so have the characters. He’s known Miya and his brother since they were all in diapers. His cousin, Motoya, is his one and only friend. There aren't many others, but they are simply just citizens he has to protect from dangers he’s never seen.
It’s melancholy, really. How his entire existence has been confined to the town of blistering sun.
But the true sadness, he supposes, is that the man in front of him (the man who has been filed away as intolerable since the day Kiyoomi learned what annoying meant) keeps insisting that one day his cowboy charms will melt Kiyoomi’s frozen heart.
Changing the subject, Kiyoomi asks, “How’s Osamu doing? Restaurant holding up?”
Miya rolls his eyes, irritated at Kiyoomi’s question. “Why is it that Osamu gets his first-name privileges, but I’m reduced to Miya?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“The name’s Atsumu, you know this.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Miya groans, tilting his brim to cover his eyes. He pretends to sulk in the chair, even going as far as bringing his caked boots to rest on Kiyoomi’s desk. A plume of dust flies from his boots to the desk, and Kiyoomi grimaces. Their 2-inch heel is campy, and the sight of them makes Kiyoomi’s head throb. There’s no way he’s wrangling any cattle with those things.
“You’ve known me since the day you were born and you still treat me this way,” Miya sighs.
“Don’t you have some work to do?” Kiyoomi asks, desperate to change the subject.
Miya adjusts his hat properly again and his pointed gaze pierces Kiyoomi’s own. Honey eyes compliment the dinky wooden furniture of Kiyoomi’s office, and the golden glow of the sun poking through the curtains ignites them in an enticing way. Kiyoomi gulps.
“Finished this morning, all to see you. But I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. You never bother to give me the time of day.” Miya stands from his chair, dusting something invisible off his jeans. “See you tonight, Sakusa.”
Miya turns on his heel, and when he opens the door, he doesn’t close it all the way. Signature Miya. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but keeps the door cracked open.
Kiyoomi sighs and pulls the papers he’s holding to his face. The sight of pouty lips and piercing eyes leaves his heart racing. The issue has never been that Miya was an insufferable rancher with too much bark and so little bite, but that he was undoubtedly attractive . Worst of all, everyone in town knew it.
Miya just had to choose the one person in town unwilling to admit it.
—
When the flaming sun finally dips under the horizon, Kiyoomi makes his leave, thanking his secretary on the way out. She’s petite with bobbed blonde hair, and when he waves, she jumps in her seat before returning a pleasant farewell.
Kiyoomi takes the familiar dirt street to the local saloon. He grimaces when the wind picks up, throwing sand in his eyes. When the wind only gets more aggressive, he turns into his cousin’s general store.
The chime of the front door alerts his cousin, who comes out of the back room. “Hello, welco-. Oh, hi Kiyo.”
“Not excited to see me, Motoya?”
Motoya laughs. “No, nothing like that. Surprised to see you is all.”
“I was heading to the saloon, but the wind picked up and kicked sand in my eyes,” Kiyoomi explains.
“Bummer. Want to head to the saloon with me in like 15 minutes? Rintarou starts his shift soon.”
Kiyoomi fake gags. “Gross, I don’t need to see you two act all lovey-dovey.”
“You were heading there anyway!”
“Not anymore,” Kiyoomi says.
Motoya walks over to Kiyoomi’s position perched against the grocery shelves. “Don’t act like Rin and I are going to stop you from visiting Atsumu.”
“I don’t visit the saloon for Atsumu!” Kiyoomi protests. He huffs and diverts his eyes to a spot on the ceiling.
Motoya hums. “Are you finally calling him by his first name?”
Realizing his mistake, Kiyoomi abruptly leaves the general store. “No!” he yells, slamming the door behind him. Motoya always tells him not to do that, but the door has survived many slammings. How much can one more do?
He doesn’t care that the wind throws scratchy sand at his cheek.
Sunset leaves Main Street with a ghostly draft, chilling Kiyoomi until he escapes into the warmth of the saloon. Red velvet embroiders tacky decor, but at least it’s clean. Every piece of wood shines under the dim chandeliers from above, courtesy of the better twin, Osamu.
The bar creates a horseshoe at the back of the saloon, all chairs facing the taps that Rintarou fills with eerie swiftness. There are a few patrons scattered amongst the bar and some in the booths lining the wall. Rintarou rolls around on a pair of roller skates, dropping off concerning amounts of alcohol at each table.
When he takes a seat at the left corner of the bar, a seat that provides him with an overarching view of the entire saloon, Rintarou rolls up behind him. “Shot of whiskey?” He asks, despite knowing Kiyoomi’s answer. Kiyoomi just nods, and Rintarou races away.
Kiyoomi looks around some more, reveling in the saloon’s calming atmosphere. Before Miya arrives, it’s always like this, quiet with zaps of liveliness coming from bursts of laughter from the customers around him.
However, when Miya opens the saloon doors with enough force for them to slam against the wall (there are permanent dents in the plaster) and lets out a triumphant whoop, all hell breaks loose.
“Omi!” He yells, immediately finding his place next to the sheriff. It’s better that he does this than go to the jukebox. His music taste is nothing short of atrocious.
“Good evening, Miya,” Kiyoomi greets.
Miya takes his nightly seat and rests his chin on his hand. “You’re just so polite, Omi. It’s no wonder that I’m swooning.”
Polite is a word on the very bottom of the list describing Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi diverts his attention from the brunette, focusing on the shot of whiskey placed in front of him. “Thanks, Suna.”
He downs it in one sip.
Miya chuckles and leans into Kiyoomi’s side. “Rough day?” He whispers.
Kiyoomi nods. “Yeah, this insufferable rancher came in today, totally distracted me,” he replies.
“So I’m a distraction, huh?”
“An unpleasant one.”
Kiyoomi can see Miya lean back out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe you’re not so nice. Really, you should be thanking me.”
“Thank you for what exactly?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Making your days less boring. I cannot imagine sitting in an office doing nothing all day.” Miya takes a sip of the water Suna had placed in front of him, and maybe it’s the warm flicker igniting his eyes, but Kiyoomi can’t fight off a smile.
“I suppose you’re a bit fun,” Kiyoomi admits. “And, I’m sorry you know. For being rude.”
Miya chokes on his water, throwing wild eyes Kiyoomi’s way. “Is the Sakusa Kiyoomi apologizing to me?”
“Nevermind. I take it back.”
Miya slams his glass onto the counter. “No no no,” he smiles, the dimples carving into his cheeks. “I’m just really happy, that’s all.”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at him. “And why would you be happy?”
Miya exhales out of his nose, his grin spreading even wider. “I think you know the answer to that, Kiyoomi.”
Kiyoomi. Not Omi, not Sakusa, just Kiyoomi. Heat races across Kiyoomi’s cheeks and he can’t help but bite his lip to prevent smiling like a fool. He must be far gone if Miya using his name sends his heart spiraling.
“I think I do, Atsumu.”
Atsumu laughs, bubbly and excited. Maybe saying his given name has the same effect that it did on Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi stands from the barstool and holds out his hand. “Wanna dance with me? I’m pretty sure you haven’t chosen your daily song on the jukebox.”
Atsumu looks from Kiyoomi’s hand to his face surprised and nods fervently.
And if that song turned into three more until eventually, Osamu had to kick them both out so he could close, Kiyoomi would never admit it.