sakuatsu holding hands https://twitter.com/iitachiyama/status/1325081518625214464

At the beginning of their relationship, Atsumu doesn’t hold Sakusa’s hand. Perhaps he refrains out of respect, or out of fear of rejection; ultimately, Sakusa is the one who physically reaches out to Atsumu first.

The first touch opens Pandora’s box.

Sakusa becomes the willing

victim to Atsumu’s touches.

/Nice serve/, Atsumu says. His fingertips graze Sakusa’s shoulder. Static electricity reverberates under his skin and through his entire body, stemming from the shoulder that Atsumu touched. Sakusa goes to sleep that night freshly showered but the

static remains. It lulls him to sleep.

Atsumu and Sakusa are forced to navigate the crowd of a full stadium. Their teammates wait for them outside—/join us for dinner/, they’d said, /to celebrate our win/, they’d said. Sakusa is a fool.

Atsumu’s eyes flicker towards the crowd

in front of them, then meet with Sakusa’s eyes, widening a little.

“Omi.” Atsumu murmurs, holding his gaze. It turns soft. Ew.

In the peripherals of Sakusa’s vision, Atsumu links their pinkies and Sakusa lets it happen. He even smiles under his mask. Just a little.

Atsumu, a man so finely tuned towards everything to do with Sakusa Kiyoomi, catches this. His eyes soften with affection.

Sakusa pretends he doesn’t notice and blames the sparks running through his nervous system on /the touch, the touch/.

The crowd goes easily ignored and they are out the door in record time. Dinner is lovely.

Later, when the electrical currents that run under Sakusa’s skin no longer sing incessantly at Atsumu’s little touches, Atsumu asks Sakusa if he can kiss him.

Sakusa blinks. He asked. How polite of him. In his head, it’s just barely enough out of character to be hilarious.

The idea of kissing someone else should be terrifying to him, Sakusa muses internally. Regular human contact makes his skin crawl, so why doesn’t the idea of kissing one Miya Atsumu sound so bad? Connecting lips, possibly even swapping spit... it should disgust him.

Sakusa wonders if Atsumu’s lips are soft.

/Should, should, should/, Sakusa thinks a little deliriously, /when was the last time I wanted/?

He wants to kiss Atsumu. He’s /going/ to kiss Atsumu.

“Omi?” Atsumu breathes, entirely in Sakusa’s personal space now.

Sakusa nods, a

warm haze washing through him as he takes off his face mask.

“I’ll make it quick, since it’s late and you’ve gotta get home,” Atsumu mumbles. They are too close for Sakusa to see, but there’s definitely a smile on Atsumu’s lips as he says this.

They’re literally standing in

front of Sakusa’s apartment door, but okay.

“We’re already here, though,” Sakusa replies, eyes falling shut as he leans in.

Atsumu meets him halfway.

The warmth that erupts from where their lips connect feels like a bolt of lightning. Sakusa, lucky man

that he is, is invigorated by this, as if being struck with lightning were not a death sentence, but a source of power that he is delightedly swimming in.

When they both finally resurface for air—bless athlete lung capacity and stamina—Sakusa takes Atsumu by the hand,

effectively anchoring the other man in place.

“We don’t have to be quick,” Sakusa says simply. A suggestion. A permission.

Atsumu follows him inside.

Much, /much/ later, the last thought Sakusa has before the call of exhaustion pulls him under is this:

Atsumu’s lips /are/ soft.

// end

oh god what have I done I was supposed to sleep hours ago