Thread by @xingexoy

#SakuAtsuWeek2023 @sktsweek || day 4 - confession || food!

“7 out of 10,” Kiyoomi says.

“No, 6 out of 10,” Atsumu retorts. “It was overpriced.”

“It was?”

Atsumu nods, face dead-set as he points at the table. “6 out of 10, rich boy.”

“We’re professional athletes, Miya.”

“No excuses.” Atsumu takes out his phone and opens a shared document, muttering as he types out the information.

+ Good service
+ Food was okay (too much salt!!)
+ expensiveeeeee

“Data computed,” Atsumu says in the best clipped and monotone voice he can.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and the two begin to make their way out of the restaurant.

Atsumu isn’t sure how this little arrangement of theirs became so consistent. It started with him inviting Kiyoomi to Onigiri Miya and, one umeboshi onigiri later, he was sold.

Atsumu thought it would’ve just been an off-chance that Kiyoomi joined in the first place—hell, Atsumu was surprised he even agreed—but no later than a week, Kiyoomi had asked, “Do you have any other restaurant recommendations?

With wide eyes, Atsumu nodded stupidly, and said,

“There’s a Hawaiian place nearby.”

It shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Sakusa Kiyoomi eating every other Tuesday with a certain Miya Atsumu was surprising.

But it’s not like Atsumu was complaining.

There are a total of two things that Atsumu loves about this arrangement: food and company.

Food is food and Atsumu has been around it his entire life. With a mother who’s meals were always warm and a brother who stays in the kitchen like it's his own room,

it was always a constant he never had to worry about.

Company is something Atsumu especially enjoys. Depending on who he’s with, he’s either talking so much his food has gone cold or no words are exchanged but empty bowls and stuffed tummies encompass the entirety of time.

With Kiyoomi, it’s everything Atsumu expects—

They would find a restaurant, often by Atsumu’s recommendation, and order. Atsumu usually makes passing comments on what he thinks of the menu. It often consists of “What kinda thing is that?”

“Shit, Omi, look how good—nevermind, what’s with the price?”

After placing their order, conversation would s start with the day’s practice before slowly delving further into whatever happened to Atsumu that morning.

Sometimes Kiyoomi would make a comment or a snarky jab, but it was almost always a nod or well-placed hum.

Food would be placed on the table, Atsumu would take a picture and send it to Osamu with a drooling emoji (and a middle finger sent back),

and conversation would come to a halt. Kiyoomi would wipe down his utensils and Atsumu would begin taking a bite out of everything he could possibly see.

In the end, there’s not much to it.

—but it’s also different.

As Tuesday’s start to pile up, Atsumu begins to notice a few things.

Before practice, they would find a restaurant. Usually it was Atsumu searching for one right as he's about to put his bag in the lockers, but this time, Kiyoomi brings his own suggestions.

“We should try this place.”

Atsumu is met with a picture of blue wallpaper and large tables. The room is spacious and the next image shows a bowl of rice and meat glazed in a shiny brown sauce topped with green onions and sesame seeds.

A tall glass of pretty pink liquid accompanies the meal and the droplets of condensation make the color all the more shinier.

“Holy shit,” Atsumu beams. “Of course we’re gonna try this place, are you kiddin’?”

Kiyoomi nods, eyebrows raised like he was secretly pleased.

Atsumu will prod about that later.

Another thing Atsumu has noticed is how he himself has been acting. He catches himself wiping down the tables and chairs after he had seen Kiyoomi stiffly do it. A few people were staring and Atsumu took it in himself to take his own wet wipe.

“I’ll do it, Omi-kun. My ma said I should start cleanin’ around myself more so…” Atsumu says with a smile. Thing is, a voice in his head is asking why he’s lying. His mother never said that. Sure she wants things to be clean, but never what Atsumu described.

But seeing Kiyoomi’s shoulders relax and the wrinkle between his brows abate, Atsumu tells himself that this is okay. Seeing Kiyoomi feel better is okay, good, and he doesn’t need to know why.

Overall these changes aren’t so bad.

They aren’t glaring so it’s not like Atsumu has anything to worry about.

Except he does.

Because the number one thing he’s noticed is the way Kiyoomi slips in his food for Atsumu to eat.

At first Atsumu thought he was just imagining the extra ball of takoyaki situated at his plate. Then it was an extra slice of bread from an Italian restaurant they went to. It wasn’t big, yet it wasn’t small either;

it was just enough for Atsumu to realize that something was amiss.

Then came an entire bowl of soup.

“How come yer not takin’ it?” Atsumu asks. Steam danced and floated above a creamy soup base, bits of green herbs and thin slices of carrots littered on top.

As tempting as it looked, Atsumu looked at it, confused.

“It’s yours.”

Atsumu furrows his brows. “No? I ordered the pasta?”

“Yes, and I ordered you soup.”

Atsumu did mention it, but on the basis that he simply likes talking to himself.

The last thing he ever expected was for Kiyoomi to openly order it, then openly tell him it was for Atsumu.

“Why?” The question leaves him without realizing, but he’s too curious to take it back. Kiyoomi clears his throat and takes a forkful of pasta,

moving too slowly and too deliberately, as if he had practiced multiple times on end and it warrants an even bigger curiosity in Atsumu. Oh, and a little side note: Kiyoomi’s cheeks are pink.

“Why are you blushin’?” Atsumu asks.

“Miya, I will leave right now if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

“Mm…” Atsumu smiles. “No you won’t.”

Kiyoomi tries to glare but it falls short and into the pasta he’s eating. He stabs the chicken and the plate shakes and Atsumu may or may not be trying to stifle a laugh.

It’s fun, easy, comfortable company. Atsumu knows what this is. He knows it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long on Kiyoomi when he passes by; he knows it in the way that when Tuesday rolls around, he can’t help but wonder what if Wednesday, Thursday, and everyday?

He knows that on a scale of 1 to 10 Kiyoomi surpasses those two digits no matter how many times Atsumu would calculate and recalculate the numbers.

“I still think it was a 7,” Kiyoomi says as they step into the pavement.

Ice crunches from their shoes and Atsumu buries his hands in his jacket.

“It’s a 6, Omi-kun. There’s a very delicate balance between food and price since ya want people to eat it, but ya also shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

Atsumu talks even though his lips are chattering and his lungs are filled with the harsh winter air. His shoulders are hunched and his feet wobble a couple centimeters off balance every time the wind slaps against his back, but he still puts one foot out the other, looks up,

and laughs when Kiyoomi replies back. Every shiver threatens to make his limbs fall off but there’s something warm welling up in the crevices of his body like honey and… this is okay. This is good.

It reminds Atsumu of spicy tonkotsu that pinpricks a set of heat that

keeps him wanting to know more. It reminds him of burning hot pieces of garlic bread where the herbs get stuck in between hands and fingernails. It reminds him of soup that’s not too thick or thin with potatoes that leave him full and warm. He’s reminded of—

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu whispers. “I think I like you. I think I really do.”

Kiyoomi stills for a mere second, a moment in time and the wind seems to, too. It stalls as if waiting for Kiyoomi’s answer.

Atsumu waits for something to hear asides from the wind starting to pick up pace.

He tries to glance at Kiyoomi’s expression and wonders if he got all of this wrong and if he loves a bit too easily, a bit too much.

But when he feels a warm palm slide into his, slender and long fingers going in-between his own, then maybe it’s not too much.

Or maybe it is, but Kiyoomi accepts it, anyway.

“Cold. 9 out of 10,” Kiyoomi says.

Atsumu looks at their hands clasped then back up to Kiyoomi. “The food?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “The confession.”

Atsumu’s hand is tugged back and Kiyoomi turns to face him.

Gloved hands rise onto his cheeks and curly hair grazes Atsumu’s forehead.

Then something soft grazes the corner of his lips. The quiet press of lips leaves Atsumu shivering.

“I don’t know much,” Kiyoomi murmurs. “But I can try. For you I can.”

And even though the wind has picked up and the two begin to run with hands intertwined, Atsumu smiles anyway.

—

+ Super soft kiss!!
+ Omi found new restaurant (go Friday)
+ Omi’s jacket is soft (steal when he’s not looking)

★

I would always eat somewhere new every other Tuesday with a friend and we have our own little document with what we think :>