Sakusa doesn’t know how to ask for touch. Up until this point in his life, it hasn’t been a problem. His parents stopped hugging him around adolescence, and his siblings never felt the need to express affection through physical gestures. It didn’t bother him, not really.
Occasionally, his teammates would pat him on the back, and that was fine. Maybe even nice. Just a quick moment of connection, never skin to skin. Komori likes to throw an arm around his shoulder whenever they’re together, and Sakusa doesn’t mind.
He wouldn’t go so far as to say he likes it, but he doesn’t feel the need to shake the touch off as soon as it happens.
But with Atsumu, he wants.
He craves the other man’s touch like it’s the world’s most addictive drug.
But with Atsumu, he wants.
He craves the other man’s touch like it’s the world’s most addictive drug.
Atsumu is always warm, and the skin on his hands is a bit rough, but everything else is unbelievably soft. The feeling of their palms pressed together when they hold hands soothes something in him he didn’t realize needed soothing.
When they’re in bed together, cuddling or coming down from their highs, skin to skin or with clothes: it’s all indescribably perfect. Atsumu trails his fingers everywhere he can reach, and Sakusa closes his eyes, enjoying the mindless patterns.
Atsumu is never stingy when it comes to touch, regardless of where they are. During games, when thousands of eyes are on them, he’ll lean against Sakusa during huddles or bear hug him when he scores a point.
When they’re alone, he’ll wrap himself around Sakusa while he cooks, nuzzling into his back. On nights when it’s too hot, he’ll press a small part of him against Sakusa, just so he knows that he’s there. Sakusa's never had to ask for touch, because with Atsumu, it’s freely given.
So when Sakusa wants it, he finds himself in a situation he doesn’t know how to navigate. Atsumu is sitting on the couch, scrolling through TikTok, unwinding after a long day. He walks over and sits next to him, drawing the other man’s attention.
Atsumu reaches out, taking his hand and stroking over his knuckles before returning to his screen. It feels nice, but it doesn’t satisfy him the way he needs. He lets go of Atsumu’s hand, shuffling until he can place his head in the setter’s lap.
Atsumu hesitates for just a moment before draping an arm over Sakusa’s shoulders.
It still isn’t right.
With a frustrated huff directed at himself, he reaches for Atsumu’s hand, placing it in his hair and turning his face away so it can’t be seen.
It still isn’t right.
With a frustrated huff directed at himself, he reaches for Atsumu’s hand, placing it in his hair and turning his face away so it can’t be seen.
Atsumu chuckles, carding his fingers through those dark curls, lightly scratching his nails over his scalp, caressing his nape with his thumb. Sakusa lets out a sigh of relief, the tension bleeding out on the exhale. This is what he needed.
He loses track of time, loses track of everything that isn’t Atsumu’s touch. The repetitive motion of Atsumu’s fingers and the warmth of the thigh underneath his head pull Sakusa into the sandman’s clutches. The touch stays with him long after he leaves the waking world.
• • •
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