#and hehehehehehehehehe…….. they don’t stay together forever oopsies! 🤭🤭🤭🤭

[wttcsms]

wanting was enough (for me, it was enough) ; atsumu miya.

Atsumu Miya’s never been that great of a speaker.

He’s too blunt with his words; tactless, too. He says the wrong thing at the wrong time, and his jokes fall flat more often than they get laughs, and the only reason why he has so many fangirls is because they’re too busy staring at his face and his body to really focus on how he can’t flirt for shit.

It’s never really been a problem; maybe his mouth’s gotten him into more fights than he would’ve gotten involved in had he not said something stupid, and maybe his publicist wouldn’t be stressed out if he knew how to properly convey his thoughts on Twitter without toeing the dangerous line of saying something either controversial or just downright rude, risking his reputation all over 140 characters.

It’s never been a problem then, but it’s a problem now.

Now being the moment where he first meets you.

You’re looking for Bokuto. He can answer honestly, simply. Tell you that Bokuto’s in the locker room, probably showing off whatever patterned boxers he’s gonna be sporting when he gets out of practice (and then, Atsumu would probably make some attempt to be funny — ask you if you prefer guys who wear briefs or boxers, and no matter what you answer, he’ll go damn, I need to go buy some then). He can tell you that he doesn’t know, and then run back to the locker room to warn Bokuto that a (very pretty) businesswoman is looking for him. Then he thinks to himself, are you a businesswoman?

You look the part. Despite the sweltering heat of Japan’s harshest summer, you’re sporting a blazer, and he heard you coming before he even saw you, the click-clack of your heels meeting the freshly waxed court sounding like an omen.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring at you like an idiot before you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Excuse me? Sir? Do you know where I can meet with a Mr. Koutarou Bokuto? I’m supposed to be meeting with him in the next fifteen minutes, although it’s understandable if he isn’t ready yet since I did arrive before our scheduled time.”

He wants to say that no one has ever spoken so formally when in reference of Bokuto and that you really don’t have to call him sir since he’s pretty sure he’s got no more than three years on you, max. He also wants to mention that Mr. Koutarou Bokuto is probably comparing dick sizes with his teammates right now, and most likely forgot about your appointment. He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he looks at you, with your shiny MacBook clutched to your chest and those heels that really don’t do much to bridge the gap in height between you two, and he processes the speed at which you speak, as if you’re being timed on how fast you can talk, and all he can say is:

“Wow, you’re intense.”

And you blink at him, clearly caught off guard, your mouth only able to formulate one word:

“Okay.”

After that, you seemed to recover just fine from his statement, continuing to pester him about the whereabouts of Bokuto. Atsumu thinks you’re a lawyer. He tells you that, and by that time, you seem to anticipate that he says stupid shit because all you do is grin. You don’t even stop to gather your thoughts before explaining to him that no, you’re not a lawyer. Even when you’re done telling him that you’re an accountant working for the JVA, even when you’re done explaining to him just what exactly it is that you do, even when you spot Bokuto and you’re excusing yourself, telling him it was very nice speaking with you, Miya — even after all that, Atsumu still only has one thing to say.

“Wow, you’re intense.” He says it with more conviction this time, like the first time was just a subtle observation but this time — this time he knows it, could list specific examples and even write a thesis about you and your intensity. And you tell him, once again,

“Okay.”

But you say it with a smile on your face this time, like you know something he doesn’t. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about — yet.

But he knows a lot more about you when the two of you are seated in a booth together, pressed up against each other so closely that he can’t even exhale without having his shoulders brush against the fabric of your blazer. (Even when you’re clocked out, you still wear one, like it’s a part of you. He finds out that you wear one all the time in public out of fear that you’re going to run into a boss or some head and that you don’t ever want to make a bad impression. You told him this when he had ketchup stains on his wrinkled, sweaty jersey.) He keeps that cute okay of yours tucked safely in the back of his mind, convinced that it’s something Shakespearean.

You stand out. Not just because you’re wearing nothing but office clothes at a diner close to midnight, and not just because you’re the only girl present, surrounded by nothing but hulking figures clad in sweat-soaked jerseys. You stand out because in a booth full of professional athletes, where winning and being competitive are somewhat required traits for the job, you’re the one with the most intense aura. He notices (because he notices a lot about you, more than he wants to admit) how when you stare at someone, it’s like you’re studying them. How everyone’s scared to talk to you sometimes because they never know how you’re going to break apart and analyze their sentence. You don’t mean to throw back their words in their faces, but you don’t necessarily serve them back stacked up neatly and nicely on a silver platter.

The guys joke around, say that you’re like a robot. You give them a smile in return. He knows that smile (see, because he knows quite a bit about you now). He knows that that’s your fake one, the one you put up for clients. Technically, you didn’t even want to be here, but Atsumu invited — more like begged — you to show up, and for some odd reason, you agreed.

“I can’t believe you’re even friends with this guy,” Meian says to you, nodding to Atsumu. “Is he blackmailing you or somethin’?”

You give a genuine smile this time when you shake your head. “No. It’s something even worse.” When you beckon all his teammates to come closer, you have your elbows on the sticky diner table, leaning forward, whispering conspiratorially.

“I actually like him.”

The guys break out into laughter, and you lean back in your seat, seemingly happy that your joke (he doesn’t want it to be a joke — please don’t be a joke) had such a positive reaction.

He knows that it’s just in your nature, really, to constantly weigh the pros and cons of everything you do. You’re methodical with even the most mundane of tasks, down to making whole entire research papers on the best possible shampoo and conditioner combination for your hair. If you’re that insane when it comes to what you put on your head, you should be even more cautious about what comes out of your mouth. Even your jokes are carefully planned out in your head, with you factoring in the personalities of the people you’re with and figuring out the right time to say it. So, he wonders, what was the thought process you had whenever you told everyone you liked him?

He carries your confession home in the to-go box from the diner. It’s heavy, matching the American theme of burgers containing his weight in meat and fries slick with oil and grease. The two of you are walking together, and he wants to ask you, specifically, what did you mean when you told the team you liked me?

But it’s hardly the time for him to hand you over his own confession. It’s been a long time coming, he knows that much. He knows that you must know that there’s something behind his prolonged eye contact during casual conversations; how he coincidentally just so happens to be the preferred middleman when it comes to you needing to relay information to any members of his team. When he stares at you and you catch him (which happens often because he stares quite a bit), he wonders if you see the deep-rooted longing behind his eyes, a direct window to his subconscious where he buries all his feelings towards you (and at the top of that pile is your okay).

You’re perceptive, and so, when the two of you are truly alone, you pause.

“Atsumu? Is there something you want to talk about?”

You don’t beat around the bush, just like him. It’s funny how when you do it, you’re being efficient, but when he does it, he’s considered an asshole. He thinks it’s because you’re pretty, and therefore, you can get away with everything. He’s pretty sure that if he put on a blazer, he’d get more praise for his efficiency, too.

(In all actuality, people think you’re a bitch, too. He just has a habit of thinking everyone else is singing praises to you, like he does.)

He can’t confess now. Not when the only source of light is a dirty streetlamp and not the glow of the full moon. Not when he’s just got done being the butt of the joke for his teammates the whole entire night. Not when this is quite possibly the most unromantic location known to man because he’s pretty sure there’s a homeless guy staring at the two of you (or, more specifically, Atsumu’s to-go box).

You’re looking at him expectantly, and he swallows hard. He doesn’t say the right thing a lot, you know? Every time he opens up his mouth at a sports conference or during an interview, he knows either his teammates or his family or his fans and enemies alike are going to absolutely rip him to shreds. Verbally inept, he thinks that’s what it’s called, that that’s what he is.

He wants to say: he likes you, with or without the blazer. He thinks your jokes are funny, even when all your calculations and observations fail you and it ends up being misunderstood — that he thinks they’re especially funny when that happens. You’re pretty even after clocking out from a fourteen hour workday. You make him want to make metaphors about you, and write poems, and other dorky, romantic shit that he certainly can’t do — but he wants to, and shouldn’t that count for something at least?

“You’re right, it should count for something, at least.” You’re nodding, with a smile on your face that isn’t just for clients, that isn’t just for whenever his teammates get a laugh out of you — it’s a smile that you reserve especially for him. (He knows this because he’s seen you smile at other people before, and you don’t ever show your teeth around them.)

Oh. So. Looks like he said it out loud. He wonders if you can see the blush that’s creeping up from his neck to behind his ears to the apples of his cheeks. He probably looks very, very stupid right now. Even more stupid than when he fucking gawked at you and said you were a lawyer; definitely more stupid than whenever he had ketchup on his jersey.

But you’re still smiling at him, and he thinks that maybe, you might like very, very stupid.

“So…”

“So?” You cock an eyebrow. Every conversation is like a chess game with you. Sometimes, he can’t tell if you’re on the offense or defense, which makes it incredibly hard to know how best to talk to you.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re very intense.”

“What else d’you think?” You’re not running away, which is a good sign (to him). He’s starting to think that you are surprisingly softer than you let on, if the way you can’t stop smiling is any indication. It’s enough to give him a burst of confidence.

“Atsumu.”

“[Name].” He’s going to do it. He’s going to finally confess, and—

“I like you. As more than a friend.” You beat him to the punch, and he knows that you’ve been planning this out all along. He knows that you added in the clarifying phrase of more than a friend because he would have automatically jumped to the conclusion that there’s no possible way you could possibly feel the same way he does for you, and he can’t even be annoyed at you for stealing his spotlight, for confessing first, because he likes the way it sounds. The way you say his name, the way you confess to him in a slower speed than your normal talking one, as if you want to savor the sentence.

“Okay.” He says it with a smile on his face, the fattest fucking grin plastered on his features ‘til he feels like he’s a caricature of happiness. That okay of yours that he’s been holding onto is finally being handed back to its rightful owner, and for once in his life, Atsumu Miya thinks that maybe he is capable of saying the right thing sometimes.