Chapter Text
Miya Atsumu is not left-handed. This is not a problem until the prettiest asshole that he's ever seen signs with the MSBY Black Jackals.
It happens on a Saturday. A day usually reserved for MSBY team-bonding in the shared apartment, unless someone had prior plans to go out. The one day they get a break from all the grueling, grueling practice to show off their glorious skills in board games. By glorious, it just means that they'll play until someone (usually Atsumu) tips the table over and storms out of the room.
Honestly, Atsumu should've been suspicious that the team was complete. Usually, at least some of the team is gone to visit family or something. But nope. Even Meian, who diligently visits his family most Saturdays, is lounging around on the couch, twiddling with his phone.
Weird, Atsumu thinks. His attention is then immediately drawn to Bokuto, who is currently trying to not-so-sneakily drop cards from his impressive deck of twenty-nine UNO cards.
"Hey!" he shouts, pointing an accusing finger at Bokuto.
Bokuto, knowing he's been caught, lets out a loud groan. "Damn! I thought I was being sneaky!"
"UNO!” Shouyou cackles in the midst of the chaos.
Both Atsumu and Bokuto's heads whip towards him. They share a look, eyes narrowed, a keen understanding passing through both of them.
Hinata hushes, sensing danger. "Guys," he says, clutching the red-four card to his chest. "It's just... It's just UNO, guys."
"Tackle?" Bokuto asks, solemn.
Atsumu nods. "Tackle."
"GUYS!" Shouyou screams, scrambling to his feet to run around the room.
Inunaki stares at his three teammates from where he's sitting on the couch with the rest of the team. Sitting might be an overstatement; his upper body is completely on the floor, and he only moves to actually sit when he realizes he might get stepped on by the crushing weight of childish professional athletes.
"Are you gonna stop that?" he asks Meian.
Meian looks up, sighs like he's lived an entire century, and shakes his head. "No."
"Understandable."
In the midst of all their running, they don't notice when the door rattles with the sound of a key being inserted, a vague conversation being held in the hallway.
"Woah!" Shouyou exclaims, nearly slamming headfirst into the door as it opens. Bokuto follows suit, confused with the change of direction, but smart enough to copy.
Atsumu, it seems, does not share the extra braincell needed to swerve.
"Shit!" Atsumu howls, slamming his face, along with his entire body-weight against the door, sending it banging back into the doorframe. At least, almost banging back into the doorframe. From outside, there's a mirror hiss of pain from someone else. A very, familiar voice.
The MSBY Black Jackals all pale in unison, zeroing in on a hand caught between the door frame and the door that Atsumu had just body-slammed shut.
"Holy shit," Tomas whispers.
"Oh my god," Meian follows, the second-palest of them all.
Atsumu, holding the title of palest in the room, slowly shifts his body-weight from the door. The hand retreats from the frame into the hallway.
"That's Coach, isn't it," he whispers, face ashen.
"Yes, it's Coach," Foster says, finally opening the door with a severe look on his face. He cradles a slowly reddening hand to his chest, glaring at the entire room.
"Sorry, Coach," Atsumu mutters, slinking back to join the rest of the Jackals, who have now stood up to pay respects. He sidles next to Inunaki, who snickers once he spots the put-out look on his face.
Coach Foster clears his throat, the wronged expression on his face melting away easily as he clasps his hands behind his back. "I'm sure you all know the occasion today."
Silence. Slowly, the entire team turns to Meian.
"What?" Meian demands. "I don't know either."
They turn back to Coach Foster, who still looks like he's expecting an answer.
Apprehensively, Bokuto starts clapping. He clears his throat, unsure.
"...Happy birthday, to you."
Shouyou, bless his soul, picks up on it immediately. His face lights up like a Christmas Tree and he starts clapping along, singing with all the love he holds for birthday celebrations. "Happy birthday to you!"
Soon enough, the entire team, barring Barnes, who is furiously tapping 'Samson Foster Birthday' into Google Search, and Meian, who is furiously trying to speed-order a birthday cake, is slowly clapping and singing an increasingly energetic Happy Birthday song, all while Coach Foster stands at the door looking dumbstruck.
"Team," Coach Foster starts, looking like he's on the verge of tears. From laughter or disappointment, no one knows. "Team, it's not—"
"HAPPY BIIIIIRTHDAYYYYY," Bokuto suddenly belts, dropping to his knees. One of his hands is clutching at the front of his hoodie, and another is stretched towards the heavens (Read: apartment ceiling) as he delivers an impressive high-note. The rest of the team quiets down to hear it. Atsumu whistles appreciatively.
"Dear Coach Foster..." continues Bokuto, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "Happy birthday... to you."
The team, honest to God, starts clapping for the Happy Birthday song that they started.
"No, I don't know what flavor, yet—" Meian is murmuring into his phone. He pokes Tomas in the shoulder and mouths 'Coach's cake flavor?' with increasing stress in his expression.
"Wait, guys," Barnes starts, holding up his phone. "It's not—"
"It's not my birthday, but you will need that cake. Meian, put the call on hold," Coach Foster finally laughs.
Everyone turns to stare at Bokuto, who is still half-way knelt on the floor in his pose. He stares at everyone back, then slowly gets to his feet. Shouyou snickers. Atsumu nudges his side.
"Okay," Meian says, puzzled, then turns back to the receiver. "One second, please."
Coach Foster ducks back into the hallway, exchanges a brief few words with someone outside, then comes back in. "Meian, order cheesecake."
Meian, though confused, diligently follows orders and relays it back to the receiver. Then he covers the speaker with his hand and asks, "They're asking what to write on the cake."
This time, Coach Foster's mouth splits into a wide beam. "Tell them to write 'Welcome to the team.'"
A chorus of 'Ohhh's spread through the entire room as everyone starts nodding amongst themselves. Everyone except Atsumu and Bokuto, who seem to notice each other's lack of awareness, and shuffle to stand next to each other.
"Who's joining the team?" Atsumu mutters. "When was this announced?"
Bokuto shrugs, helpless. "Dunno."
"You all know who's outside, right?" Coach Foster eggs on, seemingly having forgotten all about the entire fiasco of Atsumu committing domestic violence on his hand.
There's another chorus of confirmation from the team, except for two members. They zero in on Atsumu and Bokuto.
"Oh wait!" Shouyou exclaims. "These two weren't at the last team meeting!"
"Was that the one where you watched some... the college, something, the match?" Atsumu pipes up, memories of last month finally reappearing in his head. "Oh, I know that one. I had to cart 'Samu's diarrheic ass to the hospital."
He's sent nasty looks from everyone in the room. Atsumu shrugs. "Tellin' it like it is."
Bokuto snaps his fingers. "Me too! I remember! It was Akaashi's birthday!"
"Of all meetings to miss," Coach Foster sighs, before shaking his head. "Nevermind, then."
He ducks into the hallway and comes back with a familiar face, more familiar to the youngest members of the team.
"You're from Itachiyama!" Bokuto exclaims, eyes lighting up as he points at the doorway. "I remember you! Sakusa!"
"Hello," Sakusa dips his head in greeting, voice muffled by a facemask. Coach Foster ushers him and his luggage inside, closing the door behind him. "Nice to meet you.”
"Tsumu-san," Shouyou pokes at his shoulder while everyone else goes to greet Sakusa. "You're all red. Are you sick?"
”I’m not sick,” Atsumu chokes, looking remarkably like a tomato as he gapes at Sakusa. “That’s— Sakusa? That germaphobe from the All-Japan Youth Training camp?”
”The same one,” Coach Foster confirms. “It seems you’re already familiar with him. Everyone, meet Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
Sakusa follows Coach’s gaze to Atsumu, then dips his head in greeting. He doesn’t seem to be saying much, only answering questions and going along with whatever the team is asking him.
Atsumu’s throat feels like cotton.
”Yeah,” he says weakly, slowly approaching. “I know him.”
More specifically, Atsumu knew him when they were in high-school, and Sakusa definitely did not look like this in high-school. He’s grown into his lanky stature and his— his everything has filled out. Holy shit. Atsumu might die on the spot.
Coach Foster leaves them to mingle, saying something about a meeting that he has to attend. As soon as he leaves, the Jackals are promptly released from the upstanding citizen image they try—emphasis on try—to keep around their Coach.
“We watched your game last month,” Tomas tells Sakusa appraisingly. “Your spikes are insane, dude.”
“The cut shot!” Shouyou exclaims, jumping up and down, dragging Atsumu to join the excited circle of people. “Oh, man! Bokuto would’ve been so jealous if were there!”
“Would not!” Bokuto denies vehemently. “My cut shots are the best!”
The team eventually migrates to the couch, where Sakusa is cushioned between Shouyou and Bokuto. He answers the team’s questions with grace, but he looks like he’s on the verge of killing himself. His shoulders are drawn together like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.
“What’s with the mask?” Atsumu asks, sipping on a box of apple juice.
Sakusa stares at him blankly. “You called me a germaphobe, earlier. To Coach Foster.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu dismisses. “But yer between Shouyou and Bokkun. Germaphobes don’t like that, do they?”
“Yes, I dislike physical touch,” says Sakusa shortly. “And I have mysophobia, not germaphobia.”
Shouyou and Bokuto swap twin looks of mortification, before scrambling to sit on the floor.
Sakusa blinks like he expected them to just keep squishing him, then dips his head softly. “Thank you.”
“So, physical touch is off-limits?” Meian asks, pulling out a small notepad from who-knows-where.
“Clothed touch is bearable, if necessary,” Sakusa says, brows furrowed as if he still can’t believe they’re trying to accommodate him.
Meian nods, and the rest of the team hums appreciatively. Except Atsumu. He’s being uncharacteristically quiet— eyes boring into their newest member. His gaze is intense and unreadable. Sakusa shifts, narrowing his eyes in apprehension.
In reality, the only thing going through Atsumu’s brain is a continuous chorus of: Holy shit, he’s so hot, what the fuck, this is the same Sakusa, lanky-ass beanpole of a motherfucker Sakusa from Youth Camp? The same one? Impossible, oh-my-god—
“Anything else we need to know?” Barnes asks, beaming at Sakusa.
A blink. Sakusa shifts imperceptibly. It almost seems shy, but not a single muscle on his face moves.
“…I have a list, if you’d like. A Google Docs.”
“We’ll print it and stick it on the fridge,” Inunaki assures, his smile friendly. Meian tucks his notepad into his pocket, looking a little put-out that it wasn’t further needed.
Sakusa politely dips his head again. “Thank you.”
The team adjusts to having Sakusa in the team rather quickly. By the time Meian’s emergency birthday-cake-turned-welcome-cake arrives, they’re all so comfortable you’d think they’ve known Sakusa for years. Meian ushers everyone together for a picture, Sakusa in the middle with the cake. With a timer set, they shuffle into the iconic Jackals pose they use for photoshoots and wait for the flash.
“Hooray!” Shouyou cheers once they’re done. “Cake! Cake! Cake!”
Sakusa sets the plate down and starts evenly distributing slices.
“Dang,” Atsumu whistles, comparing his slice with Bokuto and Inunaki. “Ya sure you ain’t a secret serial killer? These cuts are hella even, Omi-kun.”
The name slips out of him without him noticing, but the rest of the team clocks the way Sakusa’s shoulders stiffen. Atsumu blissfully keeps eating.
“Please do not call me that,” Sakusa says, voice strained.
“Huh?” Atsumu starts, taking a bite of cake. A sizeable crumb falls from the corner of his lips. He doesn’t even notice. “What? Omi-kun.”
Sakusa’s grip on the knife tightens. He stares at the crumb, then back at Atsumu.
“A murder?” Inunaki whispers. “This early? This is a new team record.”
“I thought we’d last like. Two more hours without conflict,” Barnes mopes.
“Yes. That,” Sakusa continues, voice clipped. “Do not call me that.”
Atsumu, too busy staring at the way the moles above Sakusa’s right brow moves when he speaks, responds without thinking. “Huh? Yeah, sure, Omi-Omi.”
Sakusa’s grip tightens. The Hello Kitty themed knife in his hand looks out of place with the murderous aura.
Shouyou eyes the scene warily. Bokuto keeps eating cake next to him, oblivious.
Atsumu seems to register his own actions seconds later. A split second of mortification flashes on his face, before his brain seems to deem it a lost cause, and he just surrenders to the bit he accidentally started.
“Are you angry?” Atsumu asks, batting his lashes with a sneaky grin. “O-mi-kun?”
Sakusa raises the knife.
“Woah!” Inunaki starts, eyes blown out in alarm, until Sakusa just jams the knife deep into a nearby cutting board.
Atsumu stares, long and hard, at how the tip of the knife is entirely buried in Meian’s thick-ass wooden cutting board.
“Call me by my name, Miya,” Sakusa warns, voice low as he rounds the kitchen counter to glare Atsumu down. “Or I’ll make you.”
Without another word, Sakusa disappears into his room, luggage trailing behind him.
He’s taller than me, Atsumu thinks, dizzy. Ah, fuck.
“I was so sure you were a goner,” Shouyou whispers as soon as Sakusa’s door shuts.
“Yeah…” Atsumu responds dreamily, remembering the way Sakusa glared at him with those deep, dark eyes; the parallel moles above his brows dipping down when he scowls.
Meian starts moaning like he lost a child, approaching his favorite cutting board like a kicked puppy. He tries to shuffle the knife out, but it’s too tightly wedged into the wood.
Yeah, Atsumu thinks, sighing helplessly, eyes dragging to Sakusa’s shut door. He’s the one.
He stands up and promptly slips on a stray UNO card.
Here’s the problem, the massive kicker: Sakusa is adorable when he’s annoyed.
All his expressions are micro-expressions, unless it’s when he’s scowling. Happy? The barest brow shift ever. Sad? His face literally doesn’t move. But angry— ho-ly shit. Atsumu could be shot on the spot and die happy.
So, really, the fact that they’ve kind of become sworn enemies is kind of Atsumu’s fault.
Still! That doesn’t stop him from trying to talk to Sakusa at every opportunity he gets. Even if that kind of seems like it’s part of the problem.
”Omi-kun,” Atsumu greets, sliding into the seat on the kitchen next to Sakusa. “Good morning.”
Sakusa, who was previously eating his cornflakes in peace, starts to gain a constipated expression on his face. The two moles above his brow shift down. They’re so cute. The rest of Atsumu’s day is sure to be good now.
“Stop calling me that,” Sakusa sighs, even if all his attempts in the past three months haven’t worked. “I’m serious, Miya.”
Atsumu beams, grabbing a bowl for himself from the stack on the table. He pours the milk in first, then the cereal, even if that’s weird as shit. Sakusa seems to prefer his cereal like that. Maybe they’ll bond if he realizes Atsumu does it too.
He sneaks a look to see if Sakusa notices. He’s still glaring. Figures.
”That’s the dog star, you know,” Atsumu tells him wisely. “Sirius.”
Sakusa looks like he wants to throttle him. But he has his mask off, since he’s eating, so all Atsumu can hear is blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff.
With a deep sigh, Sakusa continues eating his cornflakes. Point for Atsumu. No threats of murder yet! Hooray! He didn’t even move seats! He’s gonna completely wear Sakusa down, just you wait.
Atsumu allows both of them a little grace this early in the morning, and instead starts his morning routine of replying to messages.
Ma 💛: Good morning! Have a beautiful day, I love you!
Beloved Son: love u!!! have a nice day 2!!!!
Parasite: tsumu stop calling about sakusa at 3 am holy shit
Parasite: js man up and fuckin ask him out like a normal person
Parasite: its been 3 months u fuckin coward
Leech: bitch
Leech: im gonna tell sunarin about the ring in ur fuckin closet
Leech: its been 2 years ‘u fuckin coward’
Parasite: DO NOT U SONOFABIT H ASSHOLE TWIN
Leech: doin it
Leech: like rn
Leech: bye bye
Parasite: ???? FUCK U??????
Parasite: DID U ACTUALLY DO IT ILL KILL U
Parasite: HELLO???
Parasite: MIAY ATSUMUJJ U PEICEA OFS HIT
Parasite: STHART ASNWERING?????
blonde miya: can u pretend i told u somethin so samu freaks out dont ask what it is tho its a surprise just pretend
rin: k got it
blonde miya: ty u a real 1
Atsumu sets his phone face-down with a wide grin on his face, spooning cereal into his mouth as he puts it on silent. To his surprise, his cornflakes are still crunchy. Huh. Maybe there is merit to Sakusa’s weird choice of milk before cereal.
”Omi—“ he starts, looking up to bother him.
Sakusa’s already looking. Upon being caught, he whips his head back to his phone, expressionless. But Atsumu’s been on Sakusa-watch long enough to tell what’s different. The tips of his ears are colored a light shade of pink.
Cute, Atsumu thinks, voice sticking to his throat. That’s so cute.
”What’cha all red for, Omi-Omi?” he sings, scooting closer, but making sure to leave just enough so he wouldn’t touch him.
“Nothing,” Sakusa says roughly. He picks up his empty bowl and tucks tail into the kitchen. The faucet starts running. "You look stupid when you smile. Stop doing it."
“Huh.”
The table buzzes. Atsumu turns his phone over, but he has no new messages. Osamu seems to have changed tactics, probably called Sunarin by now.
Atsumu’s eyes drift to the other phone left on the table. It’s Sakusa’s. There’s a new message on the notification bar.
Atsumu stares. Shifts his gaze to the kitchen. Sakusa is bent over the sink—hot damn, by the way—and washing mugs and bowls the rest of the team forgot to wash last night. There’s a calm expression on his face, like what he’s doing brings him great peace. He looks pretty when he’s relaxed. Atsumu is getting sidetracked.
It’s just the notif bar, Atsumu internally defends. He scoots over to peek.
Message from: Wakatoshi-kun
→ Good morning, Sakusa-kun. Have you eaten yet? Have a good day ahead.
What the fuck.
Atsumu slowly slides back to his seat. All of a sudden, his cereal doesn’t look as appetizing anymore. Actually, Atsumu wants to slowly tip all of its contents on the kitchen table. He’s not at the stage where he wants to smash it yet.
Who the— well, not who the fuck. He knows who Wakatoshi is. Ushijima Wakatoshi, from the Adlers, who is apparently Wakatoshi-kun on Sakusa’s phone. The only other known person with a nickname on Sakusa’s phone is his cousin, Komori, and even then his nickname is just the word 'Cousin'! What the fuck! What the fuck!
"Wakatoshi-kun," Atsumu mumbles to himself morosely, thunking his head against the wooden table. "Wakatoshi-kun."
Bokuto enters the dining room, hair flopped down from a fresh shower and too enthusiastic for what might just be the worst day of Atsumu's life.
"Tsum-Tsum!" he roars as soon as he spots Atsumu, making a beeline towards him. Bokuto slams his arm over Atsumu's shoulder. "Good morning, Tsumu!"
"Guh," Atsumu responds miserably. "Terrible morning. Bokkun, I'm gonna jump off the balcony."
Bokuto gives him the most confused expression Atsumu's ever seen. "What's up, bro?"
"Not my luck."
"Good morning," Sakusa says as he enters the kitchen, spotting Bokuto. He's back to being emotionless as ever. "If you're going to use bowls, please use the ones in the drying rack."
"Omi-kun," Atsumu starts.
Sakusa barely spares him a glance and grabs his phone from the table. "I'm going for a run."
Bokuto looks between Atsumu and Sakusa, looking like he's close to a breakthrough. He squints at both of them, uncharacteristically quiet.
"Do you have a crush on Sakusa?" Bokuto asks once the door has shut.
"Yes. Big fat one. But he likes Ushijima," Atsumu bemoans, fists pathetically banging on the kitchen table. If Osamu were here, he'd call it a tantrum and then beat him up. Bokuto is infinitely nicer than Atsumu's ass of a twin brother, so he just pats Atsumu's back sadly.
"Ushijima is hot," Bokuto agrees. "I see the appeal. But I like Akaashi better."
Atsumu stares at him. "Please do not rub your happy, healthy relationship on me. My heart is breaking right now."
"Why?" Bokuto asks. "Are they official? I don't think they are."
"How would you know?" Atsumu wails. He's half sure that his cornflakes aren't crunchy anymore. They're probably soggy and sad, mirroring what he's feeling on the inside right now. In a few hours, Atsumu will just devolve into a sad, soggy mess of a human. Soggy Atsumu.
Bokuto taps a few times on his phone, before showing him Ushijima's Instagram bio. "Single, it says."
Atsumu squints. He now knows that Ushijima's pronouns are He/Him, his star sign is a Leo, his favorite color is purple, and— Bokuto's right. "Huh."
"Mmm," Bokuto nods wisely. "Then just win Sakusa over before they become official. Now that you know his type," He taps at the phone. "It's probably gonna be easier."
Slowly, Atsumu peels himself from the table. There's a wood imprint on his cheek from how long he was moping. A newfound fire sparks in his eyes as he nods.
"Bokkun," Atsumu starts, gripping Bokuto's shoulders. "You're a genius. I could kiss you."
Bokuto beams at him. He has no idea what hell he's just unleashed on the Black Jackals for the next seven months.
In a supermarket, where he's staring at cuts of fatty tuna in a display case, Sakusa sneezes.