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“What the hell is this?” Sakusa Kiyoomi barges into Hinata’s room shaking his phone in his hand. His curls get in his eyes all deflated from when he was squashing them against his pillow five minutes ago.
“Good morning, Omi-san!” Hinata answers. Kiyoomi has given up trying to figure out how someone’s face can be this bright at eight in the fucking morning after a night of drinking. He barely managed to get out of bed himself. “I thought you deserved to see.”
“Why?” What Kiyoomi deserved was some peace and quiet.
He shuffles over to Hinata’s bed and lies down. Contrary to popular belief—or not, Kiyoomi doesn’t know—Hinata is the cleanest and most organized member of the MSBY Black Jackals after him. His room is never messy, he only eats in the kitchen and cleans up after himself. He is also only a few months younger than Kiyoomi and—you would have to threaten his life before he admitted this out loud—his “closest” “friend” in the team. Whatever. Kiyoomi is considering taking back the title, since it’s not reciprocated and Hinata couldn’t care less about his mental well-being.
Kiyoomi had woken up to a text from Hinata consisting of the link to someone’s Instagram account and one single smiley cat emoji. The username was uswk_behind, which told Kiyoomi absolutely nothing. He had clicked on it, scrolled for all of four seconds through a collection of pictures of Ushijima Wakatoshi that looked like they’d been taken by a lover, and then he’d thrown his sheets across the room, brushed his teeth in a rush, and stomped over to Hinata’s, hangover pushed to the back of his mind in light of more pressing issues.
“Because last night you said you—”
“Stop talking,” Kiyoomi interrupts, but Hinata is a brat who doesn’t listen to other people.
“—wanted to suck his dick.”
“I never said that.”
“I can read between the lines!”
Tragic. If Hinata can read between the lines, everyone can read between the lines. The problem is, in-between-line literacy or not, Kiyoomi is teammates with the most aggravating professional volleyball players in the country. He wouldn’t be surprised if, during their next match against the Schweiden Adlers, Atsumu proceeded to push his tongue against the inside of his cheek—yes, mimicking a blowjob—every time Wakatoshi so much as looked in Kiyoomi’s direction. Fuck, Bokuto would nonchalantly greet Wakatoshi something like, “Ushiwaka! Long time no see! Omi wants to suck your dick! Let’s have a good match!” because that’s the type of despicable human being he is.
In retrospect, it’s all Komori’s fault.
Not even seven hours earlier Kiyoomi sat on Bokuto’s couch surrounded by already mostly drunk and irritatingly loud select members of both the MSBY Black Jackals and EJP Raijin, playing a drinking game on an app created in the darkest pits of hell.
When the phone was passed to Kiyoomi, he looked at it the way he would stare at a pile of dirty dishes or at people who sneeze and forget to cover their mouths. The game was the reason the image of Suna licking Bokuto’s nipple existed in his brain. It had been like a car crash. He hadn’t been able to look away. It was also the reason he was halfway drunk out of his mind already, because you drink if you don’t do what the app says, and Kiyoomi refused to put his mouth anywhere near the zipper of anyone’s jeans. He refused to put his mouth anywhere.
He breathed out, tapped the screen, and frowned even harder at the phone when he read the mission.
“What?” Komori said, leaning into his space, then barking out a laugh and falling backwards with the force of it.
“Tell the room the name of your longest crush. Or down your drink,” Kiyoomi read like he was declaring someone dead in the ER.
This is why it’s all Komori’s fault, because it was his stupid phone the app was downloaded on, and it was his stupid idea to play it, and because if he hadn’t been present, Kiyoomi could’ve easily just lied. But Komori had to go ahead and be his cousin, which meant he knew the answer, and he was not known for being merciful.
Komori flapped a hand in his direction. “Out with it, c’mon.”
Kiyoomi would’ve downed his drink if Hinata hadn’t just refilled his cup to the brim. But Hinata had done exactly that, and Kiyoomi didn’t feel like being taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Ushijima Wakatoshi.”
Atsumu proceeded to do an admirable imitation of a hyena, and Bokuto’s eyes were suddenly triple their usual size—horror movie stuff. Kiyoomi didn’t get what was so funny.
“Ushijima… Wakatoshi? As in, Ushiwaka? The Ushiwaka?” Hinata asked. Kiyoomi was about to ask him how many other Ushijima Wakatoshis he knew when Komori cut in.
“Kiyoomi voted for Ushiwaka as sexiest Miyagi high school ace for two consecutive years.”
“There was a vote?” Hinata and Bokuto asked at the same time.
“For every prefecture, yes.”
“Did he win?”
“No,” Kiyoomi said. “He was runner-up both times. Beat by Iwaizumi Hajime.”
“Aww. Were ya upset about it?”
“No.” It was true. Komori had shown him a picture of Iwaizumi Hajime’s smile found somewhere in Aoba Johsai’s setter’s social media, and Kiyoomi had admitted defeat gracefully. “I have eyes.”
“You know, now that you say that, it makes sense,” Hinata said as he rubbed his chin with his fingers. “Kageyama says Ushiwaka takes good care of himself, and that he has, like, routines. And if you think about it, that’s what you’re all about, right, Omi-san?”
Kiyoomi glared.
“Kiyoomi’s liked him since the day he caught him washing his hands back in middle school,” added Komori. Kiyoomi was sure the stupid app from hell didn’t say anything about your cousin having to be all up in your business, nevermind airing it out to the entire world.
“Shut up, Komori,” he said. He thought he heard Atsumu mumble something that sounded like the bar is on the floor, so he flipped him off. He was glad Komori didn’t go to college with him, because then he’d be talking about how Kiyoomi was practically salivating when his college team played—and got their asses handed to them by—the Schweiden Adlers, or some other exaggeration of the sort. Kiyoomi has always had perfect control of his saliva, thank you very much.
Truthfully, he couldn’t deny that he’d fallen in admiration at first sight when he met Ushijima Wakatoshi. He was hard work turned into excellence personified. Kiyoomi had never wanted anyone else’s attention that badly. With Wakatoshi, it wasn’t really about winning or losing, even though it was, to a certain extent. More than that, it was about getting good enough to be recognized as a rival, good enough to pose a real challenge and keep posing it.
Suddenly, Kiyoomi needed to get better. He needed to become the best.
It would’ve remained admiration if Komori hadn’t texted him a link to vote for the sexiest high school ace along with the single eyeball emoji, because it had made Kiyoomi realize that oh, he had opinions regarding Ushijima Wakatoshi. He had opinions that had nothing to do with Wakatoshi being an excellent player and everything to do with how his back arched when he was about to spike, the muscles of his thighs and arms coiling and releasing under his uniform, the set of his jaw, the way they were the same height but Wakatoshi was visibly stronger. So Kiyoomi voted. Out of boredom. He was voting out of boredom, he told Komori.
It was fine, because Kiyoomi had his shit together. He graduated and went to college, and was never going to have to dig one of Wakatoshi’s spikes ever again. Except he joined his college volleyball team, and ended up standing across the net from Ushijima Wakatoshi, Schweiden Adlers opposite hitter.
“You were doing that thing again,” Komori told him on the phone after their first match.
“What thing.”
“Your face gets all bright when you play against him. I’ve only ever seen you make that face at dogs and new volleyball shoes. And Osamu’s food.”
The day after the Adlers wiped the floor with Kiyoomi’s team in his second year, Komori sent him a magazine in the mail with twenty-year-old world-class ace Ushijima Wakatoshi on the front cover, very much shirtless and very much oiled up and very much looking like something Kiyoomi wouldn’t mind having in his mouth—after a thorough shower. Kiyoomi dug a hole in the ground and buried his “admiration only” conviction. It wasn’t admiration only if Kiyoomi wanted to put his mouth everywhere on him. The magazine read Nation’s Cannon Ushijima Wakatoshi Shares his Top 10 Ways to Chill Out! What the fuck did Wakatoshi know about chilling out? More importantly, was this the chilling out that was often accompanied with Netflix? Kiyoomi felt insane.
Now, Sakusa Kiyoomi, 22, is the MSBY Black Jackals’ outside hitter, and can trace the decision to play professionally back to the way he felt the first time he scored a service ace off Wakatoshi, and then further back to the way he felt the first time Wakatoshi scored a service ace off him.
“I can’t believe it started with washing hands and ended with you wanting to suck Ushiwaka’s dick,” Atsumu said, dragging him out of his reverie.
“I never said that.”
“Omi wants to suck Ushiwaka’s dick?” Bokuto yells, as if he hadn’t been sitting right there the whole time. He’s good at a lot of things, but following conversations that aren’t about him isn’t one of them.
Kiyoomi doesn’t remember anything else, because he decided that downing his drink was a better option than remaining present for whatever the hell happened next, alcohol poisoning or not.
Now, lying on Hinata’s bed, he shudders and flips over, unlocking his phone to stare at the Instagram profile once more.
He knows Wakatoshi is handsome. Has always known, in fact. That is not the issue. The issue is, the page is crafted in a very specific way that leaves you hovering somewhere in between desperation to be married to Wakatoshi and to live with him in a beach house with a dog, and desperation to, to quote Hinata—and Atsumu and Bokuto—suck the life out of him through his dick.
“How the fuck.”
“Did they manage to make you wanna exist in an eternal honeymoon phase with Ushiwaka through only a few pictures? Crazy, right? Apparently the owner’s picky. Only chooses the best of all the pics sent to them.”
Kiyoomi isn’t stupid. Only people who spend most of their lives with Wakatoshi have the chance to take pictures like these. These are intimate. And the only people who spend most of their lives around Wakatoshi are his teammates. Which means—
“Does Kageyama run this account,” he doesn’t ask, he states.
Fortunately for Kiyoomi—and for everyone else, because Hinata is a boy magnet who has the world wrapped around his finger, and if he was any more powerful everybody would stand even less of a chance—Hinata can’t lie.
“Um, no. No? That's—no. Why would—” the kid tries for about two seconds, bless him. Then he pouts. So cute. “Only for a few years. Him and Hoshiumi. It was started during Ushiwaka’s Shiratorizawa days, though, you’ll see if you scroll to the earlier ones.”
The earlier ones are certainly of lower quality, and they don’t look like attempts at seducing the viewer, more like regular attempts at showing that Ushijima Wakatoshi exists off the court. Ushiwaka Behind the Scenes, just like the username states. Japan’s future cannon doesn’t sublimate into smoke upon walking out the gym, or something.
“Which means someone in Shiratorizawa runs it.”
“Stop asking! I’m not answering any more questions. Tendou runs it, now stop asking!” says Hinata, as if he’s gonna get chewed out for telling secrets. As if anyone has the ability to get mad at him.
“Fine.”
It’s not fine. Kiyoomi spends the entire morning committing every minuscule detail of every post-high school picture to memory. When Komori asks him if he woke up okay, Kiyoomi sends him a screenshot of the Instagram page and the middle finger emoji. Komori responds with an audio message of him laughing his high-pitched laugh.
+++++
uswk_behind picture #7 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi stands on a balcony and holds a small potted plant in one hand while the other one lifts one leaf to stare at it against the sun. He’s completely naked except for the towel wrapped around his waist.
How Kiyoomi feels: thirsty
Annotations: Ushijima Wakatoshi’s body is fucking cut. Kiyoomi will buy him the Amazon forest worth of tiny potted plants and then politely ask him to let him suck him off.
+++++
Kiyoomi realizes he’s hit rock bottom when he finds himself standing in the middle of his hotel room at one in the morning, thumb hovering over Miya Atsumu’s contact on his phone. No one should ever be standing in the middle of their hotel room at one in the morning with their thumb hovering over Miya Atsumu’s contact on their phone. But having to spend multiple days in close proximity to Ushijima Wakatoshi because the season started while aware of the fact that an Instagram account full of what Hinata’s sister would call “boyfriend pics” of him exists out there is enough to make a man hit rock bottom. So Kiyoomi taps Atsumu’s name on his phone screen and sends a text to the one person he never in his life wanted to be indebted to.
Sakusa:
need help. room 816. please
The “please” is sent reluctantly.
Atsumu:
m in bed so no. whats in it for me
Sakusa:
onigiri miya full weekend 30% discount coupon
Atsumu:
samu will get me one for free
Sakusa:
no he wont
Five minutes later Kiyoomi is letting Atsumu into his room. He walks in holding an open bag of seaweed salt chips that he’s chewing with his mouth open because he’s an animal. Kiyoomi is sure he only opened it to aggravate him.
“You got eight minutes. The show where people get stuck in glue’s about to start.”
“Right.” Kiyoomi can already feel his incoming headache. “Right. Atsumu.”
“That’s my name.”
“You’re dating a prodigy who’s incapable of noticing anything that’s not volleyball related.”
“You forgot bratty and kinda dumb,” Atsumu says, but his eyes light up the way they always do whenever anyone brings up Kageyama Tobio. Add that to the half-chewed food that Kiyoomi can see inside his mouth and you get a truly disgusting picture. “What of it?”
“Right. Um, how.”
“How am I dating my boyfriend?”
“Yes. How.”
Kiyoomi didn’t want to talk to Atsumu about this because Atsumu is an idiot but he’s not dumb, which means he’ll figure it out. Yes, that makes perfect sense, and it’s also part of the reason why it had to be Atsumu: every other Jackals member is an idiot and dumb. At least the ones Kiyoomi is willing to bother with his own problems. No way would he ever ask Inunaki for dating advice.
“Holy fuckin’ hell, Omi. Holy shit, is this about Ushiwaka?”
See. An idiot, but not dumb.
“Forget I asked.”
“Adlers’ joint Instagram got ya good, huh?
“You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“‘Bout the Instagram? Tobio told me. Someone in Shiratorizawa messaged him directly to ask him to join their little paparazzi congregation. I don’t think Ushiwaka even knows the account exists.”
Kiyoomi believes that. Sometimes it seems like Wakatoshi blocks out everything non-volleyball related from his mind. Just like Kageyama. That’s the main reason Kiyoomi needed it to be Atsumu.
“It’s like I need to be looking at it all the time,” Kiyoomi says. “Like the episode of Black Mirror with the screens.”
“You watch Black Mirror?”
“No. But I watched the episode with the screens.”
Atsumu frowns.
“Whatever. How am I dating Tobio, yeah? That’s your question?”
“I guess.”
“I dunno. I just made a move and then another one and another one until he got it.” Atsumu throws another chip into his mouth. Kiyoomi lets himself fall back against his pillow. “I’d love to stay and watch you frown at the ceiling, but your time’s up.” Atsumu stands up and throws his empty bag of chips into the hotel provided minuscule trash can under the desk. “Y'know, Kiyoomi? If your boy toy doesn’t notice anything outside of volleyball, that means you gotta make him notice, hm? Night!”
The door bangs shut behind Atsumu and his wiggly eyebrows.
Kiyoomi checks his watch and the TV guide. The channel for the glue show isn’t available at this hotel. And Atsumu spent a total of four minutes in his room, not eight. Asshole.
+++++
uswk_behind picture #19 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi stands in front of a stove. On his left hand he holds a pan where he’s making tamagoyaki. On his right hand he holds a carton of some type of plant based milk, which he’s frowning at. He wears an apron over a faded Shiratorizawa jersey that stretches tight over his biceps; his, but visibly not his size anymore. His hair is dripping wet.
How Kiyoomi feels: divorced
Annotations: Kiyoomi wants his name dropped, meaning he wants to be married. He wants Wakatoshi in the imaginary kitchen of his imaginary apartment like this, permanently. His head is a loop of I’ll do better, and please, baby, don’t make me sleep on the couch and we can still fix this. He looks at this picture and longs for something he never had as if he did have it and lost it. Fuck!
+++++
Everything is still Komori’s fault, but Kiyoomi is willing to let him off the hook for a day and put one hundred percent of the blame on Miya Atsumu.
The season is coming to a close, and Kiyoomi’s attempts at making Wakatoshi notice consisted of passing him bottles of water at joint V.League events. Both the Jackals and the Adlers lose in the quarter-finals, which means the Jackals are stuck in Tokyo for another four days. Defeat is bitter and its wound fresh, and no member of either team feels like tuning in for the finals, so they decide to, in Hoshiumi’s words, “hang.”
That’s how Kiyoomi finds himself under the sakura trees of a quiet street in Shibuya, far away from the crowd, ten minutes before their agreed meetup time. As soon as he texts his team’s group chat he gets a call from Atsumu.
“So here’s what happened. Tobio got food poisoning and I’m stuck makin’ sure he doesn’t dehydrate and die. But I can’t cook for shit so I asked Shouyou for help.”
It’s a big fat lie and Kiyoomi knows it is because they all ate the same thing last night, and Hinata might be the best cook in the team but he’s not better than takeout. Kiyoomi is going to kill Atsumu.
“Atsumu. When I’m done with you Osamu won’t be able to find your body.”
“That’s hot, but I’m taken. Also, Akaashi got the day off, so Bokkun’s not coming either.”
Across the street, a figure towers over everyone else. Ushijima Wakatoshi in all his 193 centimeter, fall clothing clad glory waits for the red light to change. His jeans aren’t skin-tight but they’re skinny. Kiyoomi’s mouth waters. Fuck it, killing Atsumu would end his misery too quickly, Kiyoomi is going to drag out his suffering.
“Atsumu.”
“Don’t fuck this up, mkay? If you don’t get laid it means you fucked it up. Bye!”
Kiyoomi gets to glare at his phone for all of three seconds and then Wakatoshi is standing right there and Kiyoomi has no choice but to look into those green eyes.
“Sakusa.”
“Wakatoshi-kun,” he says as he pulls his facemask down.
Wakatoshi’s scarf matches his eyes. It’s all very fucked up. Kiyoomi wants to go home and get in bed and miserably scroll through uswk_behind until he dies.
“Will your team be here soon? Hoshiumi will not be coming. There is a movie marathon on TV that he said he absolutely cannot miss.”
“Which movies?”
“Lord of the Rings.”
Kiyoomi would’ve believed it if Hoshiumi had said he refuses to miss a marathon of the Powerpuff Girls. This, though, is total bullshit. There’s no way Hoshiumi has the ability to focus on a movie for over 90 minutes, nevermind several movies that last two decades each.
“Right. Kageyama got food poisoning, Miya and Hinata are taking care of him, and Bokuto-san is on a date. So.”
Wakatoshi stares at a spot somewhere over Kiyoomi’s head.
“Have you been here long?”
“A few minutes.” Wakatoshi also arrived a few minutes early because he’s the perfect man.
“You have petals in your hair. There are… a lot of them.”
Kiyoomi frowns harder. It’s all Atsumu’s fault. He breathes out all the fight left in him, then bows his head. “Do you mind?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what happens while Wakatoshi’s fingers are untangling cherry blossom petals out of his hair. He can’t see and he can’t think and if Wakatoshi accidentally pulled harder they would have a problem, because Kiyoomi has several fantasies about Ushijima Wakatoshi pulling on his hair, all of them involving way less clothing and way more walls around them. But Wakatoshi doesn’t, he’s gentle, and when he’s done he doesn’t step away and this is the closest to him Kiyoomi has ever stood. He smells like aftershave. Kiyoomi is going to disintegrate into dust if he doesn’t get to sit in this man’s lap like, yesterday.
“Will you let me mess up your professional athlete diet for a day?” he finds a more primitive part of himself asking.
Wakatoshi’s eyes flash across different spots of his face, his eyes, his hair again, somewhere to the left of his nose, his mouth, and then they kind of linger before moving back up to his eyes. When he says yes, it sounds like it slipped from in between his lips without permission.
“Good. Do you like boba?”
Wakatoshi reaches up again, removing another petal that he missed before, Kiyoomi imagines. His fingers go around Kiyoomi’s ear before he pulls back.
“I have never had it.”
“Okay. We’re getting boba.”
Kiyoomi pulls his face mask back over his nose and mouth and curls his fingers into the sleeve of Wakatoshi’s coat, fingertips brushing against his wrist. Then he starts walking, Ushijima Wakatoshi letting Kiyoomi pull him down the quieter streets of Shibuya.
+++++
uswk_behind picture #14 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi sits on a couch in somebody’s living room wearing the smallest jogging shorts ever worn in the history of mankind. He’s flushed, his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs spread. There’s so much skin, Wakatoshi’s face relaxed, raising an eyebrow at whoever’s sitting on the other end of the couch, so much skin, strong jawline, jogging clothes, so much skin...
How Kiyoomi feels: like a 15th century Englishman staring at a woman’s uncovered ankle.
Annotations: Somebody needs to get Wakatoshi clothes that fit. For Kiyoomi and everyone else’s peace of mind. Kiyoomi can visualize the shift of muscle under those tiny shorts. He would sit next to Wakatoshi, legs touching, and place his hand high on one of his thighs. Press down with his fingers into golden skin, just a little, just to feel the strength of it. Slide the tips of his fingers under the hem of those—criminally, distressingly—small shorts, and then further and further up with each passing minute.
+++++
Kiyoomi was expecting this to be tortuous. He was expecting to spend the day looking at the man of his dreams—wet and not—like something just far enough to be out of reach.
Instead, Wakatoshi tastes his boba like it requires one hundred percent of his concentration, and Kiyoomi can’t hold back his close-mouthed laugh because Japan’s cannon is almost two meters tall and approaches a beverage the way any other human would approach a venomous snake.
Instead, there’s Wakatoshi looking up at him with wide eyes and declaring solemnly, “You have dimples.”
And then there’s color on his cheeks, the tips of his ears red, the back of his neck just the same, and Kiyoomi temporarily loses three of his senses from how much he wants to press his mouth against the flushed skin, feel the warmth of it against his lips.
“Mhm, what about them?”
“Nothing,” Wakatoshi blurts out way too fast. “Only an observation.”
Why did Kiyoomi ever think this could be complicated, when Wakatoshi has always been the most evident, the clearest and simplest truth he’s ever known? He drinks in the image of an embarrassed and blushing Ushijima Wakatoshi and it tastes delicious on his tongue. He wants to know if all that pink goes down his chest, if he bruises as easily as he blushes.
“I see.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what possesses him. Maybe the part of his brain that remained in 10,000BC living in a cave. Maybe the part of him that made a habit of working towards the things he wants until he has them in his hands.
He leans forward on the table, closer to Wakatoshi than he was earlier under the sakura trees, looks at him through his eyelashes. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. Only an observation.”
+++++
uswk_behind picture # 20 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi is flat on his back on a sofa, his head propped up by a cushion. He’s wearing a bathrobe so mediocrely tied it falls open all the way down to his navel. On his naked chest, literally nestled in between his pecs, a black dog so tiny he could probably hold it on the tip of one single finger. His hands curl around the dog making it look even more microscopic. His hair is messy again, like the dog fell asleep on him before he got to dry it after his shower.
How Kiyoomi feels: violently jealous
Annotations: What does Hirugami Sachirou’s dog have that Kiyoomi doesn’t that gives it the privilege to fall asleep on Wakatoshi’s chest? Many things. Kiyoomi doesn’t think about it. He has, however, compiled a list of things he would be willing to do if it meant he could put his face anywhere near Ushijima Wakatoshi’s tits. Not to be crass, it’s just what they are. Kiyoomi has watched 100 Ways to Die. Asphyxiation by motorboating the strongest spiker in the country seems like a good way to go.
+++++
“Do you mind?” Wakatoshi stops dead in his tracks, eyes trained on a pink Hello Kitty claw machine that he manages to make look minuscule. Inside there are only fist-sized balls that Kiyoomi assumes contain Sanrio characters. He shakes his head. “If I run into one, I always play.”
Kiyoomi used to imagine Wakatoshi’s apartment as something clean and minimalistic. Now, for only a second, he imagines it full of claw machine prizes.
“Claw machine tradition?” he asks as Wakatoshi inserts the coin and the machine lights up.
Kiyoomi could pull out his phone and take a picture of Ushijima Wakatoshi playing with a pink Hello Kitty claw machine and sell it to Tendou for a fortune and never have to work a day in his life again. He could do that.
“Sort of. I always play because,” Wakatoshi wraps his—big, thick, ugh — fingers around the joystick and fiddles with it for all of four seconds. Then he presses down on the button next to it. “I always win.”
Kiyoomi watches the claw descend, close perfectly around one of the balls, and pull it out, and he thinks it shouldn’t be hot. If he asked his team about it—he would never—they’d say it’s hot, but that’s because every last member of the Black Jackals is fucking weird. Kiyoomi knows it shouldn’t be hot.
Maybe he’s conditioned to find it soul-crushingly sexy when Wakatoshi wins. Maybe he’s seen his eyes all bright and alive and victorious too many times from across the court. Maybe it's the way his fingers curled around the joystick. Kiyoomi doesn’t know. Point is, it’s hot.
Wakatoshi gets on one knee to retrieve the ball and twists it open. Out of it comes a phone charm with the Sanrio character that looks like a very bored penguin.
“Badtz-Maru,” Wakatoshi says, frowning at it.
Kiyoomi is, frankly, at a loss for words.
“You’re a fan.” He was going to finish that sentence with of Hello Kitty but the words got stuck somewhere in his windpipe.
“I was given a flyer with toy sales while walking down the street once.”
“And you read it.”
“From start to finish.” Wakatoshi frowns at the penguin some more before offering it to Kiyoomi. “Do you want it? He reminds me of you.”
Kiyoomi stupidly, embarrassingly, feels heat crawling up the back of his neck. He is two seconds away from answering that yes, he does want to get married and move in together and adopt a dog, and let Wakatoshi make him breakfast and slide his hand down the front of Wakatoshi’s sweatpants while he’s at it.
Instead, he accepts a phone charm of a character he couldn’t give less of a fuck about because his mind is clouded by dick lust and hypothetical domesticity.
+++++
uskw_behind picture #2 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi is at the beach, the lower half of his body submerged in salt water. He’s wearing a half-soaked white tank top that sticks to his chest. He’s tan. His eyes look six times brighter than they usually do, and he’s smiling a real smile, probably not at the camera, but at the person behind it. His hair is all messed up and wind-tangled.
How Kiyoomi feels: despondent. Miserable. Terminally in distress.
Annotations: Ushijima Wakatoshi looks golden and delicious like the inside of a Twix bar. Kiyoomi couldn’t give less of a fuck about how he probably tastes like a mix of sunscreen, sea salt, and sweat, he wants to swallow him whole. His barely-there smile and olive eyes and wind-tousled hair make Kiyoomi feel like a shoujo manga’s main character. He wants to be the reason Wakatoshi’s hair is all over the place. He knows Iwaizumi Hajime took the picture. Kiyoomi, in an attempt to preserve at least some portion of healthy brain tissue, refuses to think about both of them together in similar states of sun-kissed beach enjoyment.
+++++
Kiyoomi brought Ushijima Wakatoshi to watch the view—read: freeze to death with him—from the rooftop of Mori Tower, but Wakatoshi doesn’t seem affected by the cold because, again, perfect specimen, so it’s really just Kiyoomi freezing his ass off. Tokyo stretches out below them making Kiyoomi feel gigantic. This is what he used to feel like back in high school when his name and Wakatoshi’s were used in the same sentence. Top three, best in the country. People used to say even their backs were intimidating. The world is much larger now, but not from up here. Up here, they’re higher than everyone else. Up here, they’re the strongest again.
Kiyoomi thinks about all of this with his teeth chattering. When Wakatoshi puts his palm flat on Kiyoomi’s waist and pushes him to the front to block the wind for him, Kiyoomi’s body temperature goes from Antarctic to feverish in point three seconds. He continues watching the miniature busy city around them without registering a single detail because this is the closest he’s ever come to being plastered against the wall of corded muscle that is Ushijima Wakatoshi.
“Sakusa.” He turns around. Big mistake. Wakatoshi is all green eyes and wind-tangled hair and broad shoulders. His hand lingers on Kiyoomi’s waist. Kiyoomi’s brain empties itself of all knowledge that doesn’t include the image of those big hands on his hips as he throws his legs over those shoulders and lets Wakatoshi bend him in— “Can I ask you something?”
A question. Those require answers. Kiyoomi hasn’t forgotten about that just because he’s thinking horny thoughts.
“Yes.”
Wakatoshi examines him for a short moment.
“How did you get so good?”
Of course he’s thinking about volleyball while Kiyoomi fantasizes about getting plowed into next year. Of course he’s doing that.
“I got lucky, too,” he says. “Lucky to meet people better than me.”
“I see,” Wakatoshi nods at him. Kiyoomi wants more time, another reason to stay like this, back to the city, eyes on Wakatoshi. He wants to know more about what Wakatoshi thinks of when he’s with him.
“Can I ask you something?” is what Kiyoomi ends up going with. Wakatoshi nods at him. “Which end of a taiyaki do you eat first?”
A millisecond of an eyebrow raise, a barely-there tug at the corner of his lips.
“The head.” Fitting, Kiyoomi thinks. “You?”
“The tail.”
Wakatoshi seems interested in the way the wind keeps blowing Kiyoomi’s curls into his eyes.
“Are you a romantic then, Sakusa?” he asks, still not looking away.
“Allegedly.” He’s not a romantic, he just likes the head better so he leaves it for last, and whoever came up with taiyaki personality types fucked him over for life.
Kiyoomi wants to say something smart, something provocative, something like, “why, wanna find out?” but then Wakatoshi’s thumb swipes over the curve of his ribs and, once more, every thought in his head dissipates and is replaced by the all-consuming need to get fucked into a mattress.
+++++
uswk_behind picture #11 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi is on his hands and knees in what seems to be a locker room. He is wearing nothing but his uniform’s shorts and the dry-fit muscle tee some of them wear under their jerseys. The floor is covered in what seems to be rainbow colored candy.
How Kiyoomi feels: like his fingers are going to fall off
Annotations: the bottom line is, it really isn’t fair. The shorts Wakatoshi is wearing are regular volleyball shorts, but the position he’s in makes them ride up his thighs. Kiyoomi can see the tight black shorts—boxers?—he’s wearing under. If he wasn’t wearing those, he’d be able to see at least a portion of the slope of his ass. Kiyoomi is perfectly okay, by the way, no need to ask. The presence of the undershorts isn’t the only problem. It’s that the shoulders to waist to hips to ass ratio is absolutely ridiculous. The black muscle shirt hugs Wakatoshi’s torso tight, making it clear how his back arches just slightly before the swell of his ass starts. There’s—a lot of it, and probably all toned muscle like the rest of him, but that’s not the most pressing issue. It’s that tiny arch that’s driving Kiyoomi to his breaking point. Yes, he is a bottom. Yes, he wants Ushijima Wakatoshi on all fours, back arched and ass in the air for him to finger into oblivion. He exists.
+++++
Kiyoomi is not a romantic, but he still takes Wakatoshi all the way to Odaiba to watch the sunset. He's surprised that Wakatoshi hasn’t been here before, since it’s sort of a tourist spot and all three younger Adlers are tourists in Tokyo.
“We don’t go out much. We go to Hoshiumi’s for video games or movies. Kageyama’s for skin care and talking. They come to mine if they want food.”
Lots of information to unpack, Kiyoomi thinks. The Adlers play video games. They, apparently, do skin care and talk. Kiyoomi can’t imagine a single conversation topic that might keep them entertained, volleyball excluded. It doesn’t even matter because the Adlers have a system and Kiyoomi will never be able to set up a system with his team because they have nothing in common. They’re lucky they have Hinata to be the glue that holds them together.
“What if you’re hungry and you want to watch a movie.”
“I’ll cook and then bring the food to Hoshiumi’s place.”
Kiyoomi imagines Wakatoshi getting on the train holding multiple containers full of food, and decides he wouldn't put it past him. The train isn’t necessary, as Kiyoomi ends up finding out, since the three youngest Adlers live on different floors of the same building, and it’s not even dorming, they moved out of the dorm and decided to get apartments in the same building because they, apparently, enjoy each other’s company. Kiyoomi couldn’t have expected it. He guesses he underestimated the strength of the bonds created by being far from home and also crazy for volleyball.
“You like your team,” he says. Dumb way to formulate a question, he realizes too late.
“They are remarkable players. I have learned a lot from them too. Hoshiumi calls us the dream team, and I think I agree.”
If Bokuto called their team the dream team, Kiyoomi would have to disagree on principle. The Adlers seem to have settled into a type of comfortable, cozy domesticity which Kiyoomi knows the Jackals will never have. And that’s okay. He wouldn’t mind a system, but he likes his team. He’ll only ever tell them that if he’s drunk, bribed, or being tortured, though.
Kiyoomi turns them right along the path they can watch Rainbow Bridge from, which is also not crowded. He knows his crowd-less sightseeing spots. It’s also too windy for there to be many people loitering around, so he pulls his mask down and leaves it under his chin.
“Did you know your previous and current teammates run an Instagram account where they only post candids of you?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know why he says that. Maybe he wants to know if Wakatoshi knows how many lives are being ruined because of him. Wakatoshi blinks up at the pinks and reds of golden hour.
“I’m aware of it.”
“And you don’t mind it.”
“No. I trust them not to post anything career-compromising. They seem to have fun with it, so I don’t mind.”
So they don’t even consult with him before posting. Right. Ushijima Wakatoshi likes his teammates enough to let them do anything as long as it doesn’t interfere with the things he cares about. The “anything” in question is run an account that might as well be named uswk_thirsttrap . It's fine.
“Who would’ve thought you’d be a people pleaser.”
Wakatoshi turns to look at him. He looks amused. His eyebrows are expressive, Kiyoomi writes down into the imaginary notepad where he’s keeping track of every single thing he’s learning about Wakatoshi today.
“I’m a people pleaser?”
“I’m just saying. It’s not surprising that everyone in Shiratorizawa had a crush on you.”
“A crush,” he frowns, like it never even occurred to him. Kiyoomi wants to laugh. He played against Shiratorizawa several times and has not forgotten the way everyone across the net would pretty much go into a trance when Wakatoshi was hanging in mid-air before a spike. “I believe they just thought of me as the easiest way to win.”
“I had a crush on my ex-captain, Wakatoshi-kun. I know what it looks like.”
Funnily enough, that seems to catch his attention.
“Iizuna? Or a different year?”
“Iizuna-san.”
“Interesting.”
They watch the sunset quietly. Wakatoshi’s head is tilted up, the wind running through his hair, pulling on his coat and scarf. He doesn’t look like he minds it, more like he’s at home within it. Kiyoomi thinks fate was right to repeatedly make him into an eagle. Unreachable, riding the wind, looking down at his prey with bright eyes. They watch in comfortable silence until the pinks and oranges fade and all that’s left is dark blue.
“I want to go there,” Wakatoshi points at the artificial beach below them, specifically at the wooden platform that makes its way at least twenty meters into the sea. It’s empty now, maybe because of how cold it is. “Will you come with me?”
Kiyoomi is sure that the wind is even stronger there. He’s also sure that he’d go anywhere with Wakatoshi if he asked.
“Lead the way.”
He’s also sure that he’s astral projecting into a parallel dimension, because Ushijima Wakatoshi wraps his—again, big, thick—fingers around Kiyoomi’s wrist and pulls him along. His skin is warm. If Kiyoomi thinks about it too much he will turn into a pile of salt on the ground. Instead, he screeches like a wounded animal inside his head and lets Wakatoshi pull him down the walkway towards his demise.
The wind on the narrow part of the platform is absolutely brutal. It makes Kiyoomi want to curl into himself like a turtle and just stay there. He hisses as soon as they step on it and clenches his fists, and Wakatoshi, unfazed, keeps walking, slides his fingers down until he’s opening Kiyoomi’s fist and threading their fingers together.
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what the fuck is happening. He stopped knowing as soon as the sun set. He’s freezing and burning up and no longer in control of any of the things that are going on. Ushijima Wakatoshi is holding his hand and dragging him twenty meters into the ocean. Kiyoomi is letting him. Would he jump if Wakatoshi told him to? No he would not, and that knowledge is the only thing keeping him steady on his feet.
When they get to the end of the platform, the wide part, the wind just—stops. It’s suddenly all void around them, except it’s not. Wakatoshi rests both of his elbows on the wooden railing, still very much holding Kiyoomi’s hand, and Kiyoomi thinks this is the clearest he has ever seen Rainbow Bridge. The city looks small across it. There’s only water around them, water and the distant city lights and the colors of the bridge and the space blue of the sky. They’re in the middle of everything. He’s holding Wakatoshi’s hand, listening to the water lapping against the wooden structure, and they’re in the middle of everything.
“Kiyoomi.”
That's a first name. Kiyoomi doesn't freak out at the sound of his name because that would be absurd and ridiculous. Instead, he turns to the side.
“Wakatoshi-kun.”
Again, big mistake. He’s way too close, his cheeks are pink and he’s the most beautiful man Kiyoomi has ever seen in his life. It makes him feel like he’s gonna be sick. He almost prefers looking at Wakatoshi and wanting to get railed against the nearest surface than looking at Wakatoshi and feeling like… this. And then—
“Your eyelashes are pretty. They’re long. And curly. And I like the way they frame your eyes.”
Silence. Head rush. God dammit, stomach in knots, pulse spike. Fuck.
Kiyoomi removes their linked hands from the railing, lets them drop to their sides but doesn’t let go.
“You made me freeze half to death just to tell me that,” he says, stepping closer.
“Sorry. I have been thinking about it since I met you in Shibuya. Then I saw your dimples and forgot. Then you put your mask back on and I remembered.”
“Right.” There is nothing tethering Kiyoomi to the ground anymore. He’ll float away any moment now. Komori is going to have to organize a search party. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“About your eyelashes?”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. Then there are fingers on his chin, and Wakatoshi is huffing out a laugh and saying, “Sorry. Wanted to see you make that face again.”
Wakatoshi kisses him with all the gentleness in the universe. Kiyoomi, who’s had his forearms bruised for days because of him before, thinks he’s lucky to experience the other end of the spectrum. His lips are soft and his fingers calloused, barely there over the skin of Kiyoomi’s jaw. There are no tip toes and there is no leaning down, there’s only meeting in the middle, in the middle between them and in the middle of everything.
Kiyoomi presses closer, slots their lips together and Wakatoshi is still all softness around him. He pulls away.
Wakatoshi’s lips are parted, his eyes half-lidded, his cheeks dusted pink again. All softness.
“You don’t have to be so careful with me,” Kiyoomi says.
Then there are fingers on the side of his neck, on his jaw once more, Wakatoshi’s lips on his again, more insistent, more demanding, pressing closer until Kiyoomi wraps his arms around him under his coat, one around his waist, the other sliding up his back, all the way up over shifting muscle. Kiyoomi’s lips part under the pressure. He’s in the middle of everything, completely surrounded, and everything is Wakatoshi.
Kiyoomi is being kissed out of his mind and he’d be totally fine with staying like this for the rest of the night, but then Wakatoshi tangles his fingers in his curls and the primitive, uncivilized being that exists inside Kiyoomi rears his head and suddenly he needs Ushijima Wakatoshi on top of him in the nearest warm place and on the nearest flat surface.
He might’ve made some type of sound, because Wakatoshi pulls away and now his lips are spit-slick and it’s doing terrible things to Kiyoomi’s brain chemistry. He’s trying to come up with a way to subtly say that he needs to get Wakatoshi naked. How can he be subtle about this?
“I want to invite you over, but I am fairly sure I live an hour away across the city,” Wakatoshi tells him.
Kiyoomi doesn’t care. It’s good enough. If he has to go back to his hotel room by himself he’ll stay awake all night thinking about how he could be having an orgasm courtesy of Ushijima Wakatoshi but isn’t. He also doesn’t want to fuck in a hotel room. Too noncommittal.
“Invite me over anyway.”
“Okay.” Wakatoshi steps close again. His lips almost brush against Kiyoomi’s when he speaks. “Would you like to come over?”
“Yes.”
+++++
uswk_behind picture #6 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi wears purple gloves, a tight black T-shirt, shorts, and a backwards cap. He’s bent over and wiping a kitchen counter.
How Kiyoomi feels: catered to
Annotations: Kiyoomi thinks it’s very hot and sexy when a man who is hot and sexy cleans. It’s not a secret that he likes cleanliness. He mostly just doesn’t like sharing things or spaces with strangers, like soaking in water they’ve soaked in, or having them breathe in his face, or sharing bottles of water. He has no problem with people if he knows them and their habits. So he’s never been grossed out by the boy he first met washing his hands for twenty full seconds. Still, there’s the calmness he feels at watching someone else clean, and then there’s the pit in his stomach at the fact that it’s Ushijima Wakatoshi looking fresh out of high school, the way he looked in that magazine Komori sent him back in college. Young and strong and soap-soaked. Kiyoomi wants to feel up those shoulders, maybe sink his teeth into one of those biceps, sit back, relax, and watch him.
+++++
Ushijima Wakatoshi has always been like a mountain in Kiyoomi and many others’ eyes. Kiyoomi has beat him before, and it changes nothing. He remains big, strong, immovable, imposing. Unfazed.
Which is why it’s quickly driving Kiyoomi crazy how responsive and sensitive he is to being touched and kissed literally anywhere. Kiyoomi breathes against his neck and he shivers. He sucks on his tongue and he whines. He bruises as easy as he blushes. The muscles of his stomach spasm, his thighs shake, it’s so much, too much, Kiyoomi could get drunk on the power. Every last bit of sanity he has left is being dismantled with every arch of Wakatoshi’s spine.
Taking Ushijima Wakatoshi apart with his mouth and hands is effectively ruining Kiyoomi for absolutely everyone else because nothing will ever be like this. Nothing will ever feel like making a moaning mess of the steadiest, most inevitable force he’s ever known.
Wakatoshi is big and thick everywhere, and Kiyoomi means everywhere. There’s absolutely no way Kiyoomi can fit the entirety of that big, beautiful dick into his mouth, and no force of nature can stop him from trying. He swallows it down about halfway and his lips are already stretched so good. Can he cum just from sucking cock? He hopes not. He wants to cum sitting on it, so maybe they can try that another day.
Kiyoomi is too distracted by the weight of dick on his tongue to care about the spit all over his face. He is not, however, too distracted to pay attention to the way Wakatoshi curses under his breath, starting low and ending higher-pitched, all breathy and needy. Kiyoomi has never heard him curse before. Maybe he will cum from just sucking cock after all.
When Wakatoshi pulls on his hair, the caveman inside Kiyoomi’s brain moans around a mouthful of dick, and Wakatoshi’s hips buck off the bed and Kiyoomi has to make a veritable effort not to choke on it and die.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Wakatoshi pants. Kiyoomi pulls away because he has something to say, and he also wants to catch his breath. He looks up at Wakatoshi all spread out, flushed and sweat-slick, chest heaving. Kiyoomi will never be able to play a match against this man again without popping a boner. Whatever. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.
Kiyoomi presses the tip of Wakatoshi’s cock against his lower lip and speaks like he’s speaking into a microphone. He’ll never be able to do a press conference again without popping a boner either. “I have a question for you.”
Wakatoshi’s thighs almost clamp closed around Kiyoomi’s head. Imagine that. Modern day guillotine, a million times hotter. “God dammit, Kiyoomi.”
“Do you want to cum like this first. Because I want to ride you, but I’m assuming it’ll take a while to stretch me open enough to fit this,” he kisses the underside of the head. Every muscle in Wakatoshi’s torso clenches tight and then unclenches. “And I’d also assume you have good stamina, but just in case, I don’t feel like waiting two hours for you to get it up again. TLDR, what’s your post-orgasm recovery time.”
Wakatoshi kind of coughs out a laugh. He throws his head back, untangles his fingers from the sheets and runs them through his hair. For one brief second, Kiyoomi’s head clears and he remembers that he wants to join this man in holy matrimony and not just fuck his brains out. Right.
“That won’t be a problem, Kiyoomi.”
“Was hoping you’d say that.”
Kiyoomi puts his mouth back on Ushijima Wakatoshi’s cock and makes him cum all over his stomach, thighs shaking where Kiyoomi is holding them apart. He doesn’t cum loud, but he cums long. Kiyoomi has never seen him this not in control of his own body and he thinks if he gets any harder he might just stay like that forever.
He crawls up to kiss a trail down Wakatoshi’s jawline as he waits for him to stop shaking. When his eyes focus again, darker than Kiyoomi has ever seen them, he wipes the corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth with his thumb, then leaves it pressed against his bottom lip. It’s good and sore, Kiyoomi thinks before swiping his tongue against the finger and kissing it.
“How do you want me?” Wakatoshi asks. Kiyoomi is the owner of the universe. He will never in his life take shit from anybody who has never had Ushijima Wakatoshi ask them that quesiton.
Such a people pleaser, Kiyoomi can’t believe it. Genuinely, every way. Kiyoomi wants him every possible way.
“On your back, later.” He rolls off Wakatoshi, wraps an arm around him and pulls him on top of him. Wakatoshi is heavy. Kiyoomi is strong. They’re good together. “Like this for now.”
Ushijima Wakatoshi’s fingers are slick and big and they stretch Kiyoomi out so fucking good. One finger has Kiyoomi squirming for more. Two fingers have him leaking all over his stomach. Three fingers and he’s slack-jawed, can barely keep his eyes open.
Wakatoshi leans over him, kisses his parted lips. “Can I ask you something?”
He’s such an asshole for doing this when he can see Kiyoomi barely holding himself together. Kiyoomi should’ve known he’d give as good as Kiyoomi gave him.
“No,” Kiyoomi’s panting punctuates his sentences. “Unless,” Wakatoshi curls his fingers and whatever Kiyoomi was saying blends into a moan. “Unless you’re not expecting an answer. I’m ready, you know.”
“Sure?” he curls his fingers again and Kiyoomi’s dick twitches. There's the shadow of satisfaction on Wakatoshi’s face, is Kiyoomi being made fun of by the man who’s three fingers deep in his ass currently?
He sits up, dislodging Wakatoshi’s fingers, and kisses him slow because today has been a learning experience, and if there’s anything Kiyoomi has learned, it’s that Ushijima Wakatoshi melts on his fingers like butter. Five seconds later Kiyoomi has him flat on his back again and is straddling his thighs and scrambling to put a condom on him.
Actually sitting on Ushijima Wakatoshi’s cock is easier fantasized about than done, that’s how big he is. It takes him a while, but the drag of it is slow and delicious, and Kiyoomi can feel him everywhere inside until he bottoms out and exhales. He’s stuffed so full it’s like he can feel it in the back of his throat. He can’t explain it, just… yeah. That.
He could just sit here and roll his hips in circles, he thinks, and the head of Wakatoshi’s cock would still rub against him just right, he’s so big that it’d be inevitable. Kiyoomi needs to empty his brain because if he keeps up this train of thought he’s going to spill all over Wakatoshi’s stomach in three seconds flat.
“Is something wrong?”
“You feel good,” Kiyoomi says. He feels way better than good, it’s just his dick has displaced all convenient knowledge from Kiyoomi’s brain, so he only has access to about a tenth of his vocabulary. He needs time. Mostly because he doesn’t want this to be over in under a minute, but also because he’s impatient and doesn’t want to accidentally hurt himself. “Give me one minute.”
“Take your time,” Wakatoshi says, but his voice sounds strained, and, right. Big dick, narrow space. Kiyoomi is probably squeezing him good. He looks over at Wakatoshi who is clenching his teeth tight, and it’s all so ridiculous that Kiyoomi slumps forward and kind of snorts against the skin of his neck.
“This is your fault.”
“Sorry,” Wakatoshi says, but he’s shaking with quiet laughter and, once more, Kiyoomi is reminded that he wants to make breakfast for him for the rest of his life. He needs to get it together.
Kiyoomi kisses Wakatoshi’s cheek and then sits up and starts actually fucking himself on his cock. He loses track of time. Wakatoshi’s skin is golden and sweat-slick, there’s a darkening bruise shaped like Kiyoomi’s teeth somewhere on his shoulder, the green of his eyes is almost invisible from his blown pupils. Hissing when Kiyoomi presses a thumb against his nipple, hands warm on Kiyoomi’s hips, his abs still clenching whenever Kiyoomi grinds his hips down, he’s alive. He’s buzzing under Kiyoomi’s fingertips and Kiyoomi feels like he’s on top of the world.
Then Wakatoshi sits up and wraps his arms around him, all muscle, and the angle changes and Kiyoomi is so close and still so full but he can barely move like this. “I got you, lean back,” Wakatoshi says, so Kiyoomi does, and suddenly Wakatoshi’s cock is hitting him just right and he barely manages to hold on for five more seconds before he’s covering the both of them in streaks of cum.
He doesn’t know what does it. Maybe Kiyoomi clenching around him, maybe the slow grind that follows, maybe Kiyoomi’s teeth on his chest again, maybe the way Kiyoomi looks right now—wrecked, he imagines. He doesn’t know, but watching Ushijima Wakatoshi cum for the second time in a single night might send Kiyoomi spiraling on a power trip.
Wakatoshi pulls him down with him when he falls back against the pillows. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and basks in the feeling of having gotten dicked down good.
+++++
uswk_behind picture #17 stored in the hard drive of Kiyoomi’s brain:
Ushijima Wakatoshi is sleeping. That’s it. He’s on his chest, head pillowed on one stretched arm, his other arm curled towards his chest. A white blanket can be seen toward the edges of the picture. There is, however, no shirt in sight.
How Kiyoomi feels: like he’s intruding
Annotations: Wakatoshi isn’t a hugely expressive person in the first place, so Kiyoomi can’t really say that he has never seen his face completely void of emotion like this, because he has. More than that, he looks vulnerable. Not the mountain that everyone wants to climb—hah—just a man in his early twenties. His lower lip specifically catches Kiyoomi’s attention. Kiyoomi is not gay, he just wants to fall asleep licking and kissing at it. But he’s not gay. Don’t message him about it.
+++++
“Will you let me mess up your professional athlete sleep schedule for a day?”
Kiyoomi crawls over Wakatoshi, lets his head hover over his, the tips of their noses almost touching.
“It’s almost midnight.” Wakatoshi’s voice is raspy. Kiyoomi decides not to produce a single thought about it. “You should’ve asked back at Odaiba.”
Kiyoomi bites at that swollen bottom lip again, kisses up that jawline as Wakatoshi slides his hands up his back. Kiyoomi nips at the lobe of his ear. “Go shower,” he says quietly, then pulls away, and Wakatoshi tries to chase after his lips for a second before realizing that no, Kiyoomi isn’t going to ride him into next week, and he really is expected to get up and shower and get dressed. The whole thing shows on his face, clear as day for Kiyoomi to read.
Wakatoshi ends up giving Kiyoomi a 3-pack of brand new boxer briefs because Kiyoomi refuses to wear his own again after showering, and informs him that he can keep them. Because he has about 60 packs, because he did an underwear commercial that’s coming out sometime next month which he shouldn’t even be talking to Kiyoomi about.
Kiyoomi decides that when it does come out he will go on a pilgrimage to the Himalayas. He doesn’t need his face while his gaze makes its way down Wakatoshi’s underwear-clad ass to be seen in public by absolutely anyone, ever. It’s simple self-preservation.
He looks at the wind rustling the leaves from the window while he waits for Wakatoshi to finish getting dressed.
“Can I borrow a scarf?”
“Of course. I only have two, so you can wear the one I had earlier, since the other one is from the team’s merch line. I must have dropped it in the living room.”
Kiyoomi picks it up from the back of the couch and walks back into the bedroom, where Wakatoshi is putting on a white wool sweater over his naked torso. He hooks the scarf around Wakatoshi’s neck and pulls him in, plants a kiss to the side of his mouth.
“Give me the team one.”
Kiyoomi stands in front of the mirror as he wraps the Schweiden Adlers team scarf around his neck. He never wears his own team’s scarf, which kind of makes him want to take a picture with the Adlers one just to see how outraged his teammates would be. Then he remembers his teammates aren’t normal. Bokuto and Hinata would think it’s cool. Atsumu would do the math and wiggle his eyebrows at him.
Kiyoomi looks up to see Wakatoshi watching him through the mirror.
“What is it.”
“Nothing. It suits you. You make it look good.”
They leave after midnight. The place where Kiyoomi wants to go isn’t far, but he would’ve preferred to ride a bike there. He was not, however, going to get on a bike after having Ushijima Wakatoshi’s cock in his ass. So they walk, which also means he gets to hold Wakatoshi’s hand on the way there. He’s not over the moon about it. Anything but that.
Speaking of, the moon is big and bright tonight, and the buildings in Asakusa are not tall enough to block it from view. Sensoji is completely empty, and it’s been so long since the last time Kiyoomi saw it like this that it manages to impress him. All the little tents that surround it are closed, and the absent multitudes allow them to look down the narrow roads. There’s a stillness, a silence to it that, Kiyoomi knows, can never be experienced in broad daylight. There’s only the red of the temple against the darkness, the lanterns lighting the way. Kiyoomi lets go of Wakatoshi’s hand and leaves him to walk around. Wakatoshi takes slow steps, watches the temple, the pagoda to the left, and Kiyoomi watches him. He fits right in, he thinks. Quiet and imposing and powerful. The object of admiration of so many. When Kiyoomi gets lost in his thoughts and loses sight of him, Wakatoshi finds him first.
“Your hair is everywhere,” he says, running his fingers through it. Of course it is. Wakatoshi doesn’t have the four separate hair products that Kiyoomi uses to make it look decent at his place. “It makes you look like you’re back in high school.” He places his hands on Kiyoomi’s shoulders, rubs his thumbs on the sides of his neck. “Do you come here often?”
“No. It’s been a while.” Kiyoomi grabs one of those hands again and starts walking. “There’s something else I want to show you.”
Kiyoomi pulls him in between the temple and the pagoda, under the lanterns that spell out Okuyama Omairimachi. It’s true that the area’s charm are the little stores that line the alleys selling anything and everything. At night, the stores close their roll down doors, but the metal is painted with different scenes on the outside, making it more colorful when it’s dark outside. The designs on the metal doors imitate old Japanese art. The colors are more vibrant, but what’s painted is the same: sakura trees, birds, koi fish, women with umbrellas. The colors, the scenes, the middle of the night, the moonlight, it all makes it seem almost fairytale-like.
“How do you know this place?” Wakatoshi lags behind, but doesn’t let go of Kiyoomi’s hand. He looks side to side, seemingly wanting to dedicate a few seconds to each door they pass.
“I don’t like crowds. But I do like the city. I figured out how to make it work.”
“I see.” Wakatoshi stops walking and pulls on his hand. “When do you go back to Osaka?”
“In three days.”
There’s only the sound of their footsteps in the low lighting, only them in the dark surrounded by color, only them in the middle of everything.
“I want to ask you to spend them with me. If you’d like. I do realize you have a family home here, and a hotel room that’s paid for. And that you might want your space.”
He looks really serious, like he’s really thinking about this and really weighing the pros and cons. So careful. So fucking adorable. So entirely everything Kiyoomi wants.
Kiyoomi doesn’t care about his hotel room or about his family home. Ushijima Wakatoshi can’t be found in either of those. Now that the 10,000B.C. primitive man that lives in his head is satiated, Kiyoomi can say he wants this, and not just because his mouth waters every time he thinks about Wakatoshi thrusting into it. He wants to share the same space and do… something. Anything. Kiyoomi can go pick up his bags at the hotel tomorrow. He’d go right now if the trains weren’t closed. Maybe he’ll ask Wakatoshi to come with him.
He squeezes Wakatoshi’s hand and starts walking again.
“Ask me anyway.”
Wakatoshi stops lagging behind. Two strides and he’s beside Kiyoomi, shoulder to shoulder.
“Would you like to stay with me until you have to go back to Osaka?”
Kiyoomi looks at him for a fraction of a second before turning back to the alley.
“Yes.”