Chapter Text
It is a well-established fact that Miya Atsumu is a jerk.
The whole Spring Interhigh gymnasium witnessed it when he glared at two girls in the audience who dared cheer for him while he was serving. The whole All-Japan Youth Camp realized it when he gave that saccharine sweet and totally fake smile to Kageyama Tobio and called him a “goody two-shoes.”
Miya Atsumu smiles easily but insincerely. He compliments and insults people with ease. He goes from touting a devil-may-care attitude to an almost cold intensity in a blink of an eye.
Sakusa Kiyoomi never quite developed the fascination that many hold for him. His existence was the only thorn in Kiyoomi’s side when he signed with the MSBY Black Jackals.
Kiyoomi watches Atsumu as he jokes and teases with their newest recruit, Hinata Shouyou, Karasuno’s big star who fell off the map after high school. Atsumu likes to fool people into thinking he’s charming and friendly, but Kiyoomi knows that’s not all there is to him. He’s caught the dispassionate and calculating glances he threw Hinata’s way, like he was figuring out the best way to pick him apart and find out what makes him tick.
As if feeling his stare, Atsumu turns his head and meets his gaze. They look at each other for a moment before looking away.
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Maybe things would be different between him and Atsumu if not for that disastrous encounter after Kiyoomi’s first official practice with the team.
The high from playing volleyball was starting to fade off, letting him feel just how filthy he was. He felt the familiar urge to wash his hands. He stood frozen by his locker, wondering if the showers were clean, feeling high-strung after having to socialize with so many loud strangers. With more exposure to them, it would get better, but he wasn’t there yet.
So it didn’t help when Atsumu slapped a hand on his shoulder and gripped it in greeting. The setter barely got out a “Yo—” out before Kiyoomi was jerking back, shoving the hand away from him with his forearm.
Kiyoomi glared at him. “Back away from me.”
Atsumu looked stunned for a second before his features rearranged into a scowl. “Jeez, alright. No need to be so prickly.” He stalked off, shoulders stiff.
It’s been pretty frosty between them since then. It wasn’t that they hated each other. They just recognized each other as jerks they’d rather not deal with. So long as it didn’t affect their performance on the court, Kiyoomi didn’t see a problem with it.
Fortunately — or unfortunately — they did work well together on the court. Atsumu’s sets were perfect to hit, and the sound the ball makes when Kiyoomi slams it to the ground with a spin is extremely satisfying. Kiyoomi doesn’t get exclamations of “nice kill,” or any other praise that Atsumu heaps on the other spikers — instead they exchange raised brows and smirks.
It feels like some kind of war.