unknown - sakuatsu

babyboy

Kiyoomi is never going to drink again, he swears this to himself knowing it's a lie. He'll probably allow himself to get goaded into it by the team at some point or another in the future, but for now, he's going to pretend he's never drinking again for the sake of his pounding headache and desert-dry throat.

God, he hates being hungover.

It's like someone decided to combine the worst parts of being sick with the shame of knowing you did it to yourself and said, "Have fun with this, asshole." All he can manage the motivation to do is lay on the couch with a blanket over his head, watching a tv show he doesn't care about on mute with close captioning on. Or, to put it more succinctly, he feels like shit.

He can't even remember what happened last night. He remembers going over to Hinata's with too much alcohol and a shitton of sour gummy worms, he remembers Atsumu (reluctantly and with much protest) agreeing to stay sober, he remembers Hinata getting snot all over his jacket. And then it gets all fuzzy. The more he tries to sort out what happened, the more it makes his head hurt.

So he settles for staring mindlessly at whatever show he has on - he can't even remember what it's called - not tired enough to sleep but too tired to do anything but be a vegetable. But the worst part of it all is that he's cold. His apartment heating is broken and won't go above seventy, and he's chronically freezing anyway, so it probably wouldn't make much of a difference.

Plus he just got left on read (kind of) by an idiot who he hates - he honestly doesn't know why he even keeps this stranger around. But he's too interesting to let go of, a useful pastime for when Kiyoomi has nothing better to do. All of his current contacts are either his sister or Komori (which, let me tell you, are not the most fun people to talk to when they know all your chronic issues).

He's still wallowing in self-hatred and regret when he hears the click of his front door sound - his first thought is, oh shit, I'm about to get murdered. But his body doesn't seem to get the sentiment as it barely moves a muscle. He doesn't have the energy to flee. Sweet death can take him. He'll welcome it as an old friend-

But then he hears, "Hey, Omi," in as soft and sweet a tone as he's ever heard on Atsumu. It's the same voice he used when Kiyoomi got a cold for the first time in his life, the same voice he used when Kiyoomi twisted his ankle during practice. It's the 'I'm about to coddle you until you're at death's door' voice. Kiyoomi hates that he likes it.

"I came over ta check on ya," Kiyoomi wants to say something like damn right you did, because it was Atsumu's fault in the first place they even went over to Hinata's. But all he musters is a tortured grunt that sounds pathetic even to his own ears. "I brought asprin an' blankets. An' that one movie ya hate."

"Why would you bring it if I hate it," Kiyoomi's attempt at a response is half-baked and muffled, his face smushed against the couch cushions - god, he regrets even opening his mouth. A shiver of discomfort wracks his body, as if merely the act of speaking is too much to handle. An afflicted whine pitches from the back of his throat.

"Because I love it an' ya love me."

Kiyoomi groans. Atsumu makes an ugh sort of sound.

"An' I brought one ya like, don't worry ya big fuckin' baby."

There's a sound of shuffling, the brief unzipping of Atsumu's backpack that's too loud for his ears, apparently - Kiyoomi pulls his blanket tighter around his head to drown out the noise Atsumu seems incapable of not making.

Then the couch beside him is dipping, and callused fingers are lifting the edge of his blanket just lsightly to give the setter a better view of Kiyoomi's face - as per usual, Atsumu is blinding. Blindingly beautiful, blindingly annoying, blindingly bright, like someone dropped the sun itself in Kiyoomi's lap and expected it not to burn him up. His cheeks heat with a blush and he hides his face further against the couch.