Atsumu groans, his eyes fluttering open. “Omi? Top of the mornin’ to ya. What is it?”
“There’s, like, twenty fucking jars of umeboshi on the floor.”
“Oh…yeah. They’re for you!”
Why indeed. Allow Atsumu to walk you through his rationale. You see, from the moment he laid eyes on one scowling, masked up, curly haired Sakusa Kiyoomi, it was over for him.
He’d never been one for relationships as his focus was solely on volleyball. So it comes with no surprise to anyone, much less himself, that he doesn’t know how to flirt. Like, at all.
He recalls how Samu flirted with Suna (by inviting him over in the guise of video games and then plying him with an inordinate amount of his cooking) and decides it’s his best bet. Someone said food is the way to a man’s dick. Or something.
On the second day of camp, he saunters over to Kiyoomi like they’ve been friends forever and asks, “Omi-kun, what’s yer favorite dish?”
Kiyoomi glances at him for a fraction of a second before deciding to answer, “Why?”
“Be curious somewhere else. Preferably far away from me, Miya.”
“Do I look like I care?” he asks, scowling at him. With his brows furrowed and his lips pursed, Atsumu sorta kinda definitely wants to make out with him.
“No, but that’s never stopped me.”
Kiyoomi sighs, seemingly already exhausted by the conversation. “Umeboshi.”
“Like umeboshi gohan or umeboshi onigiri?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “I eat straight umeboshi too, but yeah, anything with umeboshi.”
Atsumu’s quiet from then on, a plan evolving in his brain. Later that night, he sneaks out of camp, goes to the nearest konbini, and buys twenty jars of umeboshi.
He’s used up all his allowance for the rest of camp, left with just enough to get back home.
“Why? ‘Cause I like ya, Omi-kun.”
Kiyoomi, bless his adorable little face, gasps, mouth parting slightly and eyes widening in surprise. So cute.
“Did you think about how I’m supposed to take them all back home with me?”
“Err, no, guess not,” he says, scratching his head. “Shit, m’sorry, Omi-kun. I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly. Maybe Motoya—“
“I think…I think you need to walk me to my train station and help me carry some of it. Motoya’s going to be walking a bit ahead.”
Atsumu is about to point out how red Kiyoomi’s gotten, worried the boy might not be feeling well, when he realizes what’s happening.
His heart twitters in his chest, on the verge of soaring, a giant smile plastered on his lips.
“I’d like that, Omi. I’d like that a lot.”
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