Chapter Text
Miya Atsumu is a liar.
He’s made quite the name out of it, if he’s honest. It’s a name that is different from his twin, and different from Inarizaki. It has a spotlight; it makes people stutter a half-step, or quiet their voices. He likes being made of myth. He likes that his name has prelude and precedent and aftershock. It’s his own, for better or for worse. Miya Atsumu. Ruthless, reckless, lying Miya Atsumu.
He thinks the truth is a paradoxical thing. It is always asked for, and never welcome. When Miya Atsumu tells the truth, it’s important to note that it means something.
“Osamu motherfuckin’ Miya,” Atsumu hisses, kicking his twin’s door open with one hefty black boot. It slams against the wall with a satisfying bang.
Osamu doesn’t look up from the book he’s got open in his lap.
“Osamu,” Atsumu repeats, louder. “Ya fuckin’ prick piece of shit. Look at me.”
“Can’t,” Osamu answers, bored. “Don’t wanna ruin my day with yer face.”
“Holy fuck.”
Osamu is leaning against the arm of his couch, legs spread out on the cushions, as if he has zero culpability in Atsumu’s latest argument with Kita Shinsuke. He’s all apathetic stares and slate-gray hair, Atsumu’s antithesis to a tee.
Atsumu throws his cellphone so it smacks Osamu soundly in the chest and rebounds onto the pages of his book.
“Oi!” Osamu snaps. “What the fuck?”
Atsumu points at the phone.
“You’ve got eyes,” he says. “Use ‘em.”
Osamu looks murderous, but picks up the phone, eyes scanning the screen. When he’s done, his eyebrow quirks up just slightly.
“Don’t see how that’s my problem,” he says, throwing the phone back. Atsumu barely gets his fingers around the shitty throw before the phone smashes to bits on Osamu’s marble floor. “Have ya ever considered not being a fuckin’ idiot?”
“Yer the fucker that shot him!” Atsumu shouts, hands in the air.
Osamu smirks.
“I’m not the one that got photographed.”
Atsumu feels his eye twitch aggressively.
The photo on the phone is a screenshot from a news article that had broken that morning. The dead mayor of Hyogo headlining and, under that, a blurry shot of Atsumu’s golden hair and the line of his jaw, following the mayor into a high-rise skyscraper hours before his death. It’s not enough to indict, or to risk tangling with yakuza leaders over, but it’s enough that Kita had to run interference about it, and therefore, Atsumu was forced to have a serious sit down meeting about not being foolishly caught by cameras before he’s set to murder someone.
“Where the fuck even were you when that was taken?” Atsumu asks, curiosity blurring with his anger. “You were right next to me. I’d put money on it.”
“Yer a horrible gambler.”
“Answer my damn question, scrub.”
“Saw them start rollin’ the window down on that car across the street,” Osamu says, smug. “Ducked into the buildin’ as quick as I could.”
Atsumu feels annoyance bubbling hot under his skin.
“Yer a bastard,” he hisses.
Osamu, for his part, looks mildly affronted.
“Now, why,” he drawls, “is your incompetence my fault?”
Atsumu is going to murder him.
“Ya knew I got photographed, still shot the guy, and didn’t warn me!” He waves the phone around like it’s damning evidence, which, in this case, it sort of is. “That’s shitty. Yer supposed to have my back. Now Kita’s mad.”
“Kita’s always got right to be mad at you.”
“Samu.”
Osamu sighs, and has the grace to relent a bit, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. His book is ignored in his lap.
“If I’d known ya’d been pictured, I’d have told ya,” he says. “I didn’t see a flash. Figured it was too dark to see anything. Plus, I thought you’d make it inside on time.”
Atsumu squints, looking for a lie.
“Ya didn’t know?”
Osamu shakes his head.
“No,” he answers. “Don’t say dumb shit like that. I’ve always got yer back.”
Atsumu waits a beat, but the words ring genuine. Osamu has always been honest as well as he can be, and he wouldn’t lie to Atsumu for no reason. Atsumu sighs, tosses the phone facedown onto the coffee table, and smacks Osamu’s shins until he drops his feet to the floor with a glare. Atsumu collapses onto the couch, head falling back to stare up at the ceiling.
“Hate when Kita’s mad at me,” he grumbles. “I didn’t even do anythin’.”
“I doubt he’s mad.”
“He was mad.”
“Ya just gonna sit and pout about it on my couch all day?”
Atsumu tips his head to offer his twin a stuck out lip.
“Maybe,” he answers huffily. “What’s it to ya?”
“We’ve got another job tonight.” Osamu is back to looking bored. “‘M not gonna deal with ya like this. I’ll submit a photo of ya to a magazine myself.”
“Better my pretty face than yer ugly mug.”
“We have the same fuckin’ face—”
They sit like that for what could be hours. Atsumu, still in his silk pajamas, proverbial wounds fresh and smarting from an early morning lecture. Osamu, rolling his eyes, tempering Atsumu’s moods in a way only he knows how to. The sun comes up, burning into midday, and neither of them move. Atsumu would be lying if he said he wanted to.
“Suna’s going with you.”
“Kita, that’s not even fuckin’ fair—”
“Atsumu, you will not argue with me.”
Atsumu snaps his mouth shut, teeth clamping so hard he’s half convinced they’ll break. Osamu’s hand comes down on the back of his neck. To Kita, it likely looks disciplinary, but Atsumu knows it’s Osamu’s weird way of comforting him.
Across the table, Suna Rintarou drops another magazine out of a handgun, looking horrifically unbothered.
“Kita-san,” Atsumu tries again, jaw clenched. “I know last night was a fuck up, but ‘s not my fault, and I don’t need to be babysat—”
“I should have you sit out for the arrogance,” Kita says, but he almost sounds amused.
Atsumu thinks his hair might fly off his head.
“I’m not bein’ arrogant, I’m just sayin’—”
“Suna is the smartest guy we’ve got,” Kita says. “Daishou can be tricky and Suna is perfectly capable of dealing with him. Don’t act as if he’s only being utilized because you’re throwing yourself a pity party. I’ll debrief you on the plan when you stop whining.”
Osamu’s fingers tighten on Atsumu’s neck, but now it sort of feels like, Ha, he got yer number.
Atsumu clenches one fist and nods.
Kita continues, voice even as always, impossible to read. He tells Atsumu and Osamu to hang back, enjoy the club, let Suna do the talking. Get Daishou a few Negronis—he likes to act as if he’s got the taste for something refined, even if he doesn’t—and then get him into a car. The situation calls for delicacy. Osamu and Atsumu severely lack delicacy. Atsumu can be charming, but not when it comes to Daishou Suguru.
Kita finishes his plan unceremoniously. He doesn’t embellish, or encourage, or bring up Atsumu’s latest mistake. He just lays blank eyes on Atsumu and says, “Rough him up a bit in the car, if you’d like. Just get him home. I trust you to do that for me.”
Then Kita turns on his heel and walks out.
The moment the door swings shut behind him, Atsumu practically melts. He lets his knees buckle into a chair, forehead thumping down onto the table in front of him, narrowly avoiding a gun. He groans into the wood, loudly, for a long minute. Osamu and Suna are quiet, letting it go on, before Atsumu finally runs out of steam and sucks in a breath, cutting himself off.
“Are you done?” comes Suna’s drawl.
“Shut the fuck up,” Atsumu mumbles into the table.
There’s the click of another magazine being unloaded, and Atsumu sighs, pushing himself to sitting. Suna begins filling it with bullets, fingers working deftly. Osamu stands at his side, twirling a knife in his hand. They’re in an armory of sorts, weapons lining the walls that they take down and toss over the table when they gear up for missions. In a few hours, Daishou will swagger into his favorite bar, dripping fake wealth and sleaze, and Atsumu will be there waiting, fist itching to punch his snake-ass looking face.
Atsumu had been the one to tail him for a month. He can say confidently that it had been the most depressing month of his career.
“Remind me why we want him anywhere near our House?” Suna asks the room.
“Kuroo wants him,” Osamu answers. “Some kinda old grudge. I doubt we asked questions.”
“Kita wouldn’t tell us anyway,” Atsumu grumbles.
“Kita tells me plenty,” Suna says.
“Have ya ever considered that yer a disgustin’, ass-kissin’ suck up?” Atsumu asks sweetly.
Suna looks unimpressed.
“Trustworthy,” he corrects. “Are those two things synonymous? I haven’t checked recently.”
“Suck my dick,” Atsumu retorts. “Check that.”
“I’ll have to ask Kita first. You know, given that I’m a ‘disgustin’, ass-kissin’ suck up’.”
“Don’t ask Kita shit about my dick, Rin.”
“Already texted him.”
“I will beat yer ass with my bare hands.”
“Should I tell him that, too?”
“Fuck you.”
“My, lots of dirty talk from Atsumu Miya tonight.”
“When I take over, I’m puttin’ a hit out on yer fuckin’ name. I’m sendin’ that Seijoh prick after ya. I’m sendin’ Ushiwaka after ya.”
“Ooh.” Suna flutters his eyelashes, eyes never widening beyond a lazy droop. “I’ll look forward to that when we’re sixty.”
“Hop off a buildin’, Sunarin.”
“Check your ego, Tsumu.”
Atsumu grumbles, but he stands, beginning to shove knives and guns onto his person via various holsters and belts. The club they’re going to has been bought off probably fifty times over—Atsumu spent half of his month tailing Daishou simultaneously charming his way through the management, all the way to the top. He slid some bills, wrote some checks, made promises he won’t keep. It doesn’t matter, because they won’t be shaken down for weapons, and Atsumu will feel safe in a bar crawling with men just like Daishou.
“I’ve got a strange feelin’ I’m not gonna be doin’ jack shit tonight,” Osamu says.
“Stand there and look pretty,” Suna offers.
“Disgustin’,” Atsumu hisses.
“Are ya gonna wear yer nasty tracksuit to a club?” Osamu shoots back. “Cause that’s disgustin’.”
“Well, because I don’t have a wet rag for a personality, I don’t need fancy fuckin’ clothes to impress people,” Atsumu says, nose in the air.
“A button-up is your idea of fancy?” Suna asks.
“If ya want me in leather and silk, Sunarin, all you’ve gotta do is ask,” Atsumu purrs with a slow smirk. Suna hardly blinks; his nose wrinkling up a bit is the only indicator that the comment got under his skin even a little.
“Disgustin’,” Osamu echoes, but he sounds too used to it to put any fire behind it.
They fall into easy banter after that, and Atsumu does change into a spare pair of clothes he’d tossed into the armory earlier, because he’s not a monster. Gearing up with his twin and best friend has a rhythm to it that is years old. They toss guns back and forth, test their weights; fire off shots at the wall of targets across the room. Atsumu asks Osamu if he can try to shoot an apple off of his head, and Osamu’s only inhibition is that it would be a goddamn miracle if they could find an apple in the House.
Ten PM rolls around, and Atsumu checks himself out in the mirror in the lobby while they wait for the car. Wine red button up and pretty black pants that drape nicely over his shoes. He probably needs to ask Osamu to re-bleach his hair soon, before his roots start showing.
Suna comes up behind him, steps perfectly silent, eyes golden and unimpeachable in the mirror when they meet Atsumu’s.
“For the record,” he says, “I think it’ll be before we’re sixty.”
Atsumu is briefly confused, before he recalls their earlier banter.
When I take over…
I’ll look forward to that when we’re sixty.
Atsumu shrugs, disbelieving.
“Eh.” He cards a hand through his hair. “I didn’t argue with ya cause yer not wrong. Kita’s got no reason to leave the House to me.”
“You trying to have an inferiority complex makes me uncomfortable.” Suna is almost smiling. “Kita sees things you don’t. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.”
“Why are ya sayin’ it?”
Suna cocks his head, a brief pause of consideration, then he shrugs too.
“Goodness of my heart, I suppose.”
Atsumu snorts, and claps him on the shoulder, and drags him outside to a waiting Osamu as their car rolls up. He follows them into the back, all limbs and arguing, and it’s comforting. He thinks about Suna’s ideations about his leadership. It’s not that Atsumu is insecure, or that he thinks Osamu should have the position over himself. It’s just that Kita has always been there. For as long as Atsumu can remember, Kita has been a rock to fall back on. He’s an astounding leader; level-headed, unruffled, sure. Atsumu can’t fathom taking the title.
Even if the thought makes something hungry and hot curl in his gut. Even if he wants his House to be his. Even if he knows, in whatever heart he’s got left, that he could drag Inarizaki into the sky.
He tamps all that down. Atsumu is a selfish bastard to his end, but not when it comes to these people. Not when it comes to Kita.
Still, he’s not lying when he tells Suna, “I’ll give ya a cool position, if it happens before we’re sixty.”
If there’s one thing Atsumu loves, it’s cutting a figure. He saunters his way into an exclusive club with only a nod to the bouncer, pushing through the line out the door like it’s not there. He’s got Suna and Osamu over each shoulder, their eyes heavy-lidded and dangerous. It’s powerful, to retain an image. More powerful, still, when that image is completely unreachable.
All things considered, it’s a clean space. Well-maintained, with low lights and two bars. One closer to the dance floor, and one along the far wall opposite the short entrance hallway.
Atsumu makes for the closest bar immediately.
“Whiskey neat,” Atsumu says, slapping a black card down onto the countertop and interrupting whatever stupid businessman was previously speaking. He jerks a thumb behind him. “And whatever these losers want.”
Osamu smacks him hard upside the head as he steps forward to order for him and Suna. The bartender looks them up and down and wisely decides against arguing, snatching Atsumu’s card to open a tab.
“Throwing money around like he makes it,” Suna says, slipping up to Osamu’s other side.
“Do I not?” Atsumu cuts him a glare. “I reckon I earn my keep.”
“If it’s determined by how many fuckin’ fires ya give us to put out, then sure.” Osamu rolls his eyes. “Consider it earned.”
“I haven’t set somethin’ on fire in years, ya scrub.”
Osamu’s eyes twinkle with mischief.
“I meant, ya know, proverbially,” he says. He leans an elbow against the bar as the bartender slides them their drinks. “But, alright. Let’s play.”
“Bokuto Koutaro’s car,” Suna says, picking it up immediately.
“Yaku’s kitchen,” Osamu adds.
“Ukai’s convenience store.”
“Ushijima Wakatoshi’s desk.”
“Bokuto Koutaro’s car a second time.”
“That one Itachiyama restaurant front.”
“The what?”
The voice is sharp, the question nearly hissed. Atsumu whips his head to the side to find the businessman gone. One seat from Atsumu, a man sits, the mask covering half his face doing nothing to hide the disdain coloring his expression. Atsumu blinks once, then twice.
Then he feels himself smile, slow and sinful.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “If it ain’t Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
Atsumu never meets Sakusa Kiyoomi officially, really. Inarizaki is not friendly with Itachiyama by any means, but neither are they enemies. It’s the mutual distrust that unallied Houses have naturally. They keep to their spaces until otherwise provoked, but there’s always threat. Always danger.
They never have a reason to meet.
But every now and then, Atsumu will catch glimpses of Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa, eyebrows drawn low, scowling through a crowd. Sakusa, gloved hand gripped loosely around a glass, never bringing it to his lips. Sakusa, his broad shoulders slipping through a throng of people, always retreating.
Atsumu covets these glances, you see.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is intoxicating because he is seemingly unknowable. Atsumu is inexplicably drawn to him, for no reason he can really explain. He could try, but it would be useless, because he’s uninterested in the logic of it.
Atsumu wants under Sakusa Kiyoomi’s mask, physically and metaphorically. That’s as honest as he gets.
“That was you?” Sakusa snarls, eyebrows somehow drawing lower.
Atsumu grins and spreads his hands.
“Who else?”
“I was told an incompetent plumber hit a gas line.”
“Eesh.” Atsumu winces. “That one’s a little weak. Surprised ya bought it, Omi-kun.”
Sakusa’s glare could, quite possibly, cut stone.
“Do not,” he bites out, “call me that.”
Sakusa Kiyoomi is pretty, slouched against a bar. He’s got a tight black turtleneck that molds to his skin, and the golden lights above their heads contour him like they were designed for that express purpose. His hair falls in nicely coiffed curls, inky black. His eyes are dark, dark, dark.
Atsumu smiles at him, putting all his charm into it.
“Omi-kun,” he repeats, like it’s song. “Omi-Omi. I think ‘s cute.”
Sakusa looks downright murderous. Atsumu wonders if he should feel fear.
“They warned me about Inarizaki’s hair-brained heir to the House,” Sakusa sneers. “Nothing could have prepared me for such inane levels of incompetency.”
“Did’jya swallow a dictionary before ya came out tonight, Omi-Omi?”
“I would have swallowed arsenic if I’d known you’d be here.”
“Yer so charmin’,” Atsumu coos. “I’m real pleased with my first impression. Say, are the rumors true? Do ya have fangs and claws under the whole getup?”
Sakusa scoffs, and somehow the sound is completely vitriolic instead of petulant and childish. Imbued with disgust.
“That is moronic.”
Atsumu takes a sip of his drink, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of the glass.
“Attitude is pretty damn monstrous,” Atsumu says. “Had me fooled.”
“Spare me, Miya,” Sakusa spits. “Go fuck up whatever business you’re here for instead of me.”
Atsumu waves a hand.
“I’m benched til the end of the night,” he says. “Also, rude. Also, where’s yer drink?”
Sakusa very pointedly does not look at Atsumu anymore.
“I’m glad Inarizaki is finally seeing sense,” he says, ignoring Atsumu’s question. Atsumu leans forward, trying to push into Sakusa’s personal space. He’s not sure what compels him to do it, really. Sakusa is nothing like he’d been expecting. Atsumu had been prepared for perfectly placed words and an unflappable veneer of amiability, as is befitting most yakuza bosses. Instead, he gets an immediate spark of temper, and annoyance. It’s strange, to have someone meet his eyes without a hint of fear or intimidation. Sakusa acts as if Atsumu Miya is just that—Atsumu Miya. Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s infuriating.
It’s thrilling.
Atsumu has completely forgotten about Osamu and Suna behind him. He doesn’t care about them at all. He wants more than a glare out of Sakusa Kiyoomi. He wants spark to flame.
“Nah,” Atsumu says. “They’re givin’ me a break. Thank goodness for it, cause now I can sit here with you.”
“I will not be here any longer than I have to.”
“How long is that?”
Sakusa looks to the dance floor, as if searching for someone. When he comes up empty, he seems to physically tighten.
“As long as Motoya thinks he can avoid me,” Sakusa bites out.
Atsumu chuckles.
“Dragged out by a friend, hm? Didn’t know ya could make those.”
“I’m sure you’re not talking.” Sakusa taps his gloved fingers on the countertop. “You’ve single-handedly offended the greater half of Japan into wanting you dead.”
“None of ‘em are ever gonna get the job done,” Atsumu says with a wink.
“And there has never been a tragedy so great,” Sakusa responds dryly.
It takes Atsumu a moment to register that it’s almost a joke.
He barks a laugh. Leans forward a little more.
“Ya think you could kill me, Omi-Omi?”
Sakusa’s eyes slide to Atsumu’s. They are dark, and unreadable, and it’s like they absorb all the lights of the bar. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a black hole. He is gunmetal; the cool kiss of a barrel to Atsumu’s forehead.
“If you keep talking, Miya,” Sakusa says, looking away. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yet here you are.” Atsumu taps his fingers on the bar too, easy mockery. “Talkin’ right back.”
Atsumu hears his huffed breath, muffled by the mask. Atsumu thinks he’s one step away from a knife in his chest. The image is strangely enticing. Sakusa, mask discarded, staring down at Atsumu like he’s made of stone. His long fingers, wrapped around a knife handle and twisting. After so long watching him from a distance, being this close is like the first drag of a cigarette.
“I’d sooner put a bullet through my brain than call this good conversation.”
“Call it what ya like. Yer still here.”
“Through zero culpability of my own.”
“You could get up whenever ya want.” Atsumu gestures to the dance floor. “I won’t chase ya. I’m not the type.”
Sakusa looks Atsumu up and down. His stare burns.
“I disagree,” he says after a beat. “The pathetic ones always chase.”
“Fine, Omi, I’ll bite,” Atsumu replies. “Is it pathetic to go after what ya want?”
“When it is unrealistic, yes.”
“Yer so certain.”
“And you’re insufferable.”
“See, I’d believe ya, if not for the whole, ‘yer still sittin’ here’ thing.”
Sakusa stands in one fluid movement, long limbs unfolding. He’s tall. He’s probably got a few inches on Atsumu. The narrowness of his waist is completely unfair. Atsumu drags his gaze down, and then up. Sakusa stares at him, expression clearly pissed off. Atsumu smiles prettily at him.
“Keep away from my territory, Miya,” Sakusa says. “I don’t want to hear you cause any more problems for me, or I’ll gut you.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Atsumu replies.
Sakusa raises one eyebrow, then turns on his heel and slips away.
Atsumu is left staring after him, his hand curled around a whiskey glass, wondering where the hell Sakusa Kiyoomi has been all his life. Faintly, he registers Daishou making his entrance, dressed to the nines and looking completely idiotic. And faintly, he registers Suna, striking up sly conversation. It’s all just noise. He thinks that he might hate Sakusa Kiyoomi, but upon further consideration, he’s probably lying.
Watching Suna work is frightening stuff. Daishou knows the Miya twins, but he doesn’t know Suna, so the three of them pretend to be separate parties entirely. Osamu and Atsumu slip off to the dance floor. They stand against the wall. They return to the bar and watch as Suna drags one finger up Daishou’s arm, then pushes another drink at him. Suna’s eyes are chilling and calculated, his words perfectly coaxing. In the end, it’s terribly easy to kidnap Nohebi’s leader.
As the bar begins to empty out, Daishou tries to stand, but his legs give out on him.
Suna catches him, one arm around his waist.
Daishou laughs, a dry sound, and runs one hand along Suna’s chest as he stumbles to straighten himself. It makes Atsumu squeeze a glass so hard he thinks it’ll break. But Osamu is there, calm in the face of it, taking Daishou’s other side.
“Wha—” Daishou slurs, squinting at Osamu. “Who’re you?”
“We’ll get ‘im home safe,” Atsumu tells the bartender, taking his card back and throwing some bills on the counter for good measure. “Have a lovely evenin’.”
Osamu and Suna begin to maneuver Daishou out the door. Atsumu follows, hand on his holster under his shirt.
“Where’re we going?” Daishou asks.
“Hush,” Suna says. “You worry too much.”
They break into the night air, cool on Atsumu’s warm skin. Their car is pulled up to the curb, in a spot clearly marked No Parking. Atsumu slides ahead to open the door. Daishou meets his eyes, and his gaze goes comically wide. He tries to point his finger as if he’s seen a ghost. Atsumu just smiles.
“That’s a—‘s a fucking Miya twin—”
“That’s quite enough,” Suna says, shoving Daishou into the back.
As Osamu and Suna work to climb in, somebody that Atsumu recognizes comes sprinting out of the bar, pulling up short outside. He scans the area with frantic eyes, then narrows in on Atsumu. Sakishima Isumi, if Atsumu’s memory serves.
“Hey!” Sakishima shouts. “You! Miya! Have you seen—”
“Wish I had time to chat,” Atsumu interrupts, bodily shoving a still-fidgeting Osamu fully into the car. He goes with a loud grunt. “Unfortunately, I’ve got business to attend to.”
“Miya, you fucking pri—”
Atsumu swings himself into the car, slams the door, and they peel off.
The car is a damn stretch limousine, all things considered. It’s got the long, L-shaped seat, the mini bar, the divider between the cab and the back. Aran is driving, evidently untrusting of their usual staff with a prisoner like Daishou. Suna is already making quick work of binding Daishou’s hands and shoving a gag in his mouth.
“Hey,” Atsumu says, dangling himself over the divider so he’s up in Aran’s face. “What’s the deal with Sakusa Kiyoomi?”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Osamu snaps from somewhere behind. “Yer a useless piece of shit, Tsumu.”
Atsumu ignores him.
“Aran-san,” he prompts.
Aran cuts him an unamused look.
“Itachiyama’s leader,” he recites, however recalcitrantly. “Came into the position four years ago. Terrifyingly formidable in combat. Nobody has ever gotten the jump on him, or anything like that. He’s not one for diplomacy, so if he needs pleasantries done, he sends his cousin, Motoya Komori.”
“Like a damn Wikipedia page,” Atsumu crows, delighted. “Yer the best, Aran.”
“Help your brother,” Aran chides, but he’s smiling.
Atsumu slithers back into the back of the car, turning to face the mess happening behind him.
Daishou has his hands and ankles tied together with zip ties, and is screaming incoherently into a gag that might be Atsumu’s socks. Why Suna has those, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t question it. He thinks of Daishou’s lingering stares and his possessive hands. He thinks of the years listening to Daishou haunt the underworld with his seedy joints and crimes that can’t quite be proved. All the indictment they’ve got is his snake eyes and wet breath in your ear. Slowly, Aran puts the divider up.
Without warning, Atsumu pulls his arm back and slams his fist into Daishou’s gut.
Daishou doubles over with a muffled shout.
Atsumu grabs him by his greasy haircut, yanking him up roughly by the roots. Atsumu gets hold of the gag and throws it to the floor.
“‘S okay,” Atsumu purrs, grinning. “You can have it back soon. I wanna hear ya while I do this.”
Daishou spits. It lands on Atsumu’s exposed collarbone, wet and warm. Atsumu feels rage lash through him, twining with abject disgust. Not missing a beat, he punches Daishou in the stomach again, keeping his grip on the roots of Daishou’s hair so that he has nowhere to go.
Daishou bites down on his lip, hard, but a sound escapes either way, and Atsumu’s smile stretches.
He cracks his fist across Daishou’s jaw next, then gets him square in the nose. When all Atumu’s fist does is make satisfying contact, he grits his teeth, then throws another punch. He hears something break this time, and Daishou finally screams. Atsumu shakes his fist out, wincing.
“Didn’t know perverts could have such good bones,” he says. “Drinkin’ yer milk every mornin’, Suguru?”
“You’ll pay for this, Miya,” Daishou hisses. “This is an act of war.”
“Can’t find it in m’self to be too scared of a guy gettin’ the shit beat out of him.”
“I’ll have you remember that when I skin your brother in front of you.”
Atsumu yanks his gun out of its holster and fits the barrel to Daishou’s forehead, digging in. Daishou’s eyes blow wide.
“Atsumu,” Osamu snaps.
“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu drawls. “I know, Samu. No blood on the leather.”
Daishou’s mouth drops open.
Atsumu digs the barrel in even harder, and it snaps closed.
“But I don’t like hearin’ my family threatened,” Atsumu says, like they’re making conversation about the weather. “You’ll take care to remember it, Suguru-kun, or we’ll see if there’s no stain some good ol’ bleach can’t fix.”
Then he takes the butt of the gun, slams it into Daishou’s temple, and lets his limp body drop.
He leans back against the seat, flapping his hand at Suna.
“A drink, if ya please,” he says, gesturing to the mini bar. Suna rolls his eyes, but obliges, mumbling about not remembering applying for a maid position. Atsumu ignores him, gently rubbing at his knuckles.
Then Osamu is there, taking Atsumu’s hand. He stretches out Atsumu’s fingers, massages his palm, pushes at his knuckles til they pop softly. He roots around in the freezer and comes out with a plastic bag of ice, and he presses it to Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu accepts it with minimal teasing about Osamu being his mother. He thinks that’s plenty thanks.
“So,” Suna says as he hands Atsumu a glass full of amber liquid. “You gonna tell us about mister tall, dark, and handsome?”
“Handsome,” Osamu snorts. “He looked like someone shit on his donut this mornin’. What the hell did ya say to ‘im?”
Atsumu takes a long drink. It burns.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he murmurs.
The name is heavy on his tongue. It’s got weightiness to it, like a covenant, or a threat. Atsumu thinks a lot about names and what they mean. He thinks Sakusa Kiyoomi sounds a bit untruthful, too. Despite the fact that it is perfectly symmetrical—triple meter, three syllables to three syllables—it has a ledger. It means beauty, he thinks.
“Itachiyama,” Osamu supplies. “Yeah? What business did you have with a guy like that?”
“I can have business with whomever I damn well please,” Atsumu sniffs.
“Did you just use ‘whomever’ correctly?” Suna asks, bemused.
“I’ve never been fuckin’ stupid,” Atsumu says. “Dunno where this got started, but ‘s baseless, and frankly insultin’.”
“Why did Sakusa Kiyoomi storm off like that?” Osamu asks.
“Hell if I know,” Atsumu shrugs. “He’s weird.”
“Weird?”
“He’s an asshole.” Atsumu takes another drink. “He’s got this crazy complex about him… I can’t hardly explain it. Makes ya wanna rip his walls down and sink yer teeth into him.”
“That is kinky as fuck,” Suna says.
“Yer both posturin’ assholes,” Osamu points out. “Somethin’ about matches made in hell.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes as hard as he can manage.
“He’d shoot yer brains out for that, I think,” Atsumu tells them. “He hates me, well and truly. ‘M not exactly sure what I did—”
“Aside from blowing up his store?”
“—but he’s real easy to rile up. I wanna see how far I can get before he snaps and punches me.”
“Kinky,” Suna repeats, scrolling on his phone.
“I’ve heard he’s ice,” Osamu says. “Frosty as hell. Untouchable. ‘S weird if he’s as reactive as you say. That’s not consistent with what I’ve heard.”
The pathetic ones always chase.
Atsumu takes a long, long drink.
“Well,” he replies at last, “ya must’a heard wrong.”
Omi-Omi,
I’ve been told nobody gets the jump on you. Let me know how long it takes you to find this. I wanna know if Sakusa Kiyoomi is all he’s cracked up to be.
Yours,
Atsumu
The next time Atsumu sees Sakusa across a room, he makes a point to go over and say hello. They’re in some glitzy hotel ballroom, packed with CEOs and yakuza bosses and the occasional crossover of the two. There’s a huge Christmas tree on the back wall, framed by gigantic windows and falling snow outside. Atsumu’s in a wine red suit, and he sees Sakusa by the tree in slate black, clean and dark and angular, and he thinks, Ya know, that’s not even fair.
Atsumu is sure Sakusa sees him coming from a mile away. He doesn’t run, and Atsumu figures that has to mean something.
“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu croons, waving. “Long time no see. Hope ya didn’t miss me too bad.”
Sakusa looks him up and down.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Don’t make that face at me,” Atsumu says instead of answering.
(He thinks that two glasses of wine is hardly Sakusa’s business. He’s tipsy, not drunk).
Sakusa lifts one eyebrow. It climbs into the dark curls spilling across his forehead. The two moles above his other eyebrow suddenly make themselves glaringly apparent to Atsumu.
“Pray tell, what face am I making, Miya?” Sakusa asks.
“Just there,” Atsumu points. “When ya say my name, too. Yer fuckin’… appraisin’ me. And ya keep lookin’ at me like yer comin’ up short.”
“Right on the money,” Sakusa says. “Would you like a prize?”
“I’d like ya to quit lyin’ to yerself.”
“I’m done indulging this,” Sakusa says.
“Oh, don’t turn tail and run now,” Atsumu takes a drink of his newly filled wine glass. “I’d call ya a coward for it.”
“I hardly think it’s cowardly to avoid a drunk Miya,” Sakusa scoffs. “Call it self-preservation.”
“You’d be lyin’ to yerself again.”
“You know quite a bit about lying, don’t you, Miya?”
Atsumu grins. It’s all teeth.
There’s something in Sakusa’s eyes. Something that makes them a little bit easier for Atsumu to understand. Maybe it’s a glint Atsumu recognizes from the mirror every day.
“There ya are,” Atsumu drawls. “Omi, I don’t think yer as mean as ya think you are.”
“Just like you’re not funny?” Sakusa asks innocently.
“Ha, ha,” Atsumu deadpans. “No. We’re the same, you and I.”
“Last time I checked, I’m not completely and utterly fucking delusional,” Sakusa says. The words have a new bite to them, like Atsumu has stumbled upon some sort of nerve.
“Oops,” Atsumu says. “Touchy, touchy.”
“Drink your alcohol somewhere else,” Sakusa tells him, looking down his nose. “I’m tired of your pestering.”
“We haven’t even gotten anywhere,” Atsumu whines.
“Because you keep spewing baseless nonsense, Miya.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Atsumu throws his hands in the air. “I know ya better than you’d think.”
“We met last week, in a bar.” Sakusa sounds entirely unamused. “I’d been told you were insane, but this is a whole new level.”
“Intuition. Never wrong.”
“Bullshit.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Bullshit.”
Atsumu smiles, catching Sakusa’s eye. Sakusa’s brows are drawn low again, pinched in displeasure. Atsumu doesn’t understand Osamu’s description. Ice. Sakusa might be mean and prickly and look like he packs a punch, but Atsumu knows he’s under Sakusa’s skin. He has to be. It wasn’t even hard.
“Ya got cigarettes?” Atsumu asks after a long stretch of quiet.
Sakusa’s eyes narrow.
Then he nods.
“Perfect.” Atsumu points to one of the open balcony doors. “Have a smoke with me, Omi.”
“I would rather die,” Sakusa replies, and it sounds like he means it.
“I won’t shove ya off,” Atsumu promises. “Ya look uncomfortable over here, practically sittin’ in the Christmas tree. Let’s get some air.”
Sakusa’s eyes narrow.
“Why would smoking with you make me less uncomfortable?”
“I’m a delight to be around? I ooze sex appeal?”
“Don’t say ‘ooze’, Miya, have some decorum.”
“Ya didn’t deny it.”
“It’s like if someone said grass is blue. Don’t need to deny an objective untruth.”
Atsumu laughs. Throws his head back, lets his shoulders lift, kind of laugh. God, Sakusa Kiyoomi, with his name and his eyes and his reputation. His glare has single-handedly kept anyone else at the party from approaching them. He is intoxicating. Atsumu couldn’t stay away if he wanted to.
“I’ve caught ya in a crowd twice,” Atsumu says, still chuckling a bit. “And I’ve got a feelin’ ya don’t like those. ‘M not gettin’ the full Omi experience, and I want it.”
It’s honest.
Sakusa stares at him. Atsumu wonders what he sees.
Then he walks away.
Atsumu hardly has time to make room for the disappointment before he realizes Sakusa is beelining for an empty balcony. Atsumu looks around, as if Kita will appear and stop him. When Kita does not, Atsumu practically skips after Sakusa.
The air is cold and soft with snow when Atsumu joins Sakusa on the balcony. Sakusa could be a sculpture, standing like he is, already dusted with snowflakes. His black suit carves him out against the deep blue sky like he’s made of obsidian. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an expensive pack of luxury cigarettes, their filters gold and the bodies long and slim. It looks perfect cradled between his gloved fingers.
The party murmurs behind them as Sakusa takes out a lighter—-also sleek and overtly expensive—and flicks the flame to life. Atsumu watches him, completely entranced, as the cigarette smolders to life. Sakusa hooks a finger in his mask and pulls it down below his chin. If he was beautiful before, it’s really cosmically unfair now. His skin is fair, like porcelain. He’s all lines; Cupid’s bow, nose, chin.
Sakusa takes a long drag, eyelids fluttering, and then exhales smoke into the air above them. Atsumu thinks that if he pressed his fingertips to Sakusa’s pale jaw, he’d come away bleeding, or with frostbite. Or, further still, that he wouldn’t be able to touch Sakusa at all, that he would keep missing over and over, trying to grab at something godly.
“Well,” Atsumu says at length, resting his wine glass on the railing. “Share.”
“It is,” Sakusa sneers, “incredibly presumptuous to demand my time and my cigarettes with nothing in return.”
“You’ve read a news article, haven’tchya, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu smiles. “Polite isn’t really my thing.”
Sakusa hands him an unlit cigarette.
“Aw,” Atsumu pouts. “So borin’.”
“Why the hell would we both share mine?”
“More romantic?”
“I could throw you off this balcony and let the snow handle the body.”
Atsumu fits the cigarette between his lips and wiggles it until Sakusa lights it. The flame is the only bright thing in the world. It catches and Atsumu takes a drag, tobacco smoke curling in his lungs. When he exhales, he leans his elbows down onto the stone of the balcony railing, one hand coming up to hold his cigarette.
“I never liked these parties,” Atsumu says at length. “Half of us murder people for a livin’. I don’t want a cocktail with the governor.”
“Nobody in their right mind is letting you near the governor, Miya.”
“Just ya wait, Omi-Omi. My charms’ll get to ya eventually.”
Sakusa looks repulsed.
“My own bullet will get to me before I let that happen.”
“Do you like these stupid fuckin’ things?”
“Haven’t you read a news article, Miya?” Sakusa echoes. “I don’t like much of anything.”
“Ya like sittin’ around like a pretentious prick.”
Sakusa turns his head, that signature withering glare soundly in place. If Atsumu was a lesser man, it would cow him. As it stands, it sort of thrills him. He grins, taking another drag, and doesn’t miss the way Sakusa’s eyes flicker, just for a millisecond, to his lips.
Ah, Atsumu thinks. That’s somethin’.
“You are smoking my cigarette and insulting me,” Sakusa says. “Do you possess a single survival instinct in the empty space behind your eyes?”
“Have ya got anything personable rattlin’ around up in yours?” Atsumu shoots back.
“My job description doesn’t come with ‘personable’.”
“Well, now.” Atsumu tilts his head, like he’s sizing Sakusa up. “I don’t think that’s really true. Ya gotta walk the walk, Omi. Talk the talk. Maybe yer just shit at yer job. Ever considered that?”
Sakusa’s eyes flash.
“I don’t think a second-rate heir who can’t keep a deal under control should be talking to me about competency,” Sakusa snaps.
“Second-rate?” Atsumu repeats. “The fuck does that mean?”
“The underground talks.” Sakusa takes a puff, smug. “Should Miya Osamu inherit Inarizaki instead? It makes one wonder.”
Atsumu feels that land below the belt, swift and ugly.
“Done yer research on me, then, Omi?”
“I don’t even have to leave my bedroom to hear things about you, Miya.”
Atsumu goes quiet, taking a long drag to try and soothe the temper he feels stirring under his skin. The barb about Osamu had likely been a gamble, but one that paid off well. Sakusa couldn’t begin to fathom the way Atsumu wrestles with his love for his twin and his simultaneous fear that Osamu will always win because Osamu has always been the safer choice. It churns in his stomach like bile. He exhales smoke, and it falls off the balcony, and he breathes, tobacco and December air mingling in his lungs.
When he turns his head, Sakusa is watching him. His eyes have an indiscernible look to them. To his credit, he doesn’t look away when Atsumu catches him.
Then, Sakusa smiles.
It’s a thin, mean thing. It’s not friendly at all. Atsumu wants to put his mouth to it.
“Would you look at that?” Sakusa says. “The great Miya Atsumu, insecure.”
Atsumu scoffs, tapping his cigarette against the balcony railing to shake off the ashes.
“‘S not insecurity,” he says. “Ya come after my work, I get annoyed. I don’t like liars.”
It’s funny, because he’s lying, too.
Sakusa asks, “What the hell does that mean?”
Atsumu lifts his eyebrows a bit.
“Just means I’m good at what I do,” he says. “Don’t try and pretend otherwise. Doesn’t look good on ya.”
Sakusa keeps watching him. Atsumu wonders what he’s looking for. He wonders if the cut of his own teeth call to Sakusa; if Sakusa is wondering what it would be like for them to try and rip each other’s throats out. Atsumu doesn’t know who would win in a fight between them. He would love to try. He’d love to put his fist to the perfect slope of Sakusa’s nose.
“I wouldn’t discredit ya like that, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu continues at length. “Yer a force to be reckoned with.”
Sakusa leans down too, elbows to concrete.
They stand like that, braced against the cold, snow falling between them. It’s much too gentle a scene, given the men they are. It shouldn’t work, but it does.
“Well,” Sakusa says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “So are you.”
Sakusa Kiyoomi might be a liar too, but that part is true. Smoke curls above their heads, something sharp purrs under Atsumu’s skin, and Atsumu knows that Sakusa is telling the truth, because they are one in the same.
When they turn to go inside, Atsumu follows after Sakusa. He claps one hand around Sakusa’s shoulder, and in the flash of Sakusa turning around, murder in his eyes, to knock Atsumu’s hand away, Atsumu drops the note into the pocket of Sakusa’s pants.
Sakusa grips Atsumu’s wrist, glove to bone, and pins it against the wall.
“Touch me again and you lose the hand,” he says.
Atsumu looks for indication that he notices the note, and when he sees none, he smiles, broad as can be. His arm smarts where Sakusa has it brutally pinned to the building. The brick is cold and bites into his skin. No heat emanates from Sakusa’s fingers under the glove. Atsumu meets his stare unflinchingly above the mask.
“Be a shame to cause a ruckus at a party like this,” Atsumu croons. “Wouldn’t want to see that pretty face of yers with a bullet through it.”
Sakusa doesn’t let go. He takes a step closer.
“Funny,” he says. “You don’t scare me, Miya.”
Atsumu can tell Sakusa means it. His whole body is held spring-loaded; there’s violence in every inch of it. Violence in his hand on Atsumu, violence in his eyes, violence in the whip of his tone. Still, all it serves to do is make Atsumu want to push. He sticks his chin out, chest up.
“Well, Omi-Omi, maybe I should.”
Sakusa drops Atsumu’s hand, eyebrows pinching in what Atsumu assumes is disgust.
“You don’t,” he says. “I’m not intimidated by drunk man-children who desperately need to learn what toner is.”
“Fuck off,” Atsumu crows.
“Glady,” Sakusa agrees, and then he’s slipping through the balcony doors, into the crowd, and away. Atsumu doesn’t give chase this time. He lets Sakusa walk away, expensive tobacco coating his throat, his hands red with cold, and wonders, honestly, what the hell he thinks he’s getting himself into.