𝐓𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮, 𝐈 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰. — Atsumu Miya.
• tooth-rotting fluff, hints of tsundere atsumu, implied artist!reader (it's pretty on the nose, honestly), slight angst if you squint, wc (0.9k)
• cross posted on ao3 under the username 'hcneyy_dew"
Subtleties aren't Atsumu Miya's strongest suit.
For an individual with a presence as imposing as his, (or rather, to word it better), for a person of his notoriety, you'd guess the opposite - yet, you're almost certain right now, seated upon the cold, marble-tiled floor of your University’s Art Studio, that it's Atsumu Miya knocking. In spite of how it's barely about six in the morning, and, typically, due to long nights spent practicing in the university’s volleyball gym, he wouldn't be awake at such an odd hour.
Subtleties aren't Atsumu Miya's strongest suit.
And right now, standing at the door with his bottle-blonde shock of hair disheveled, eyes sporting eyebags that could only be described as heliotropic, brandishing a bottle of the turpentine from the brand you preferred you had complained earlier about finishing too quick, he was anything but subtle.
“Is it alright?”
Normally, Atsumu would be considered quite an obnoxious being due to the tone he'd possess whilst engaging in conversation with anyone. Yet, with you, it's as if he's enunciating each vowel, each syllable carefully enough to keep your attention to him, whilst, simultaneously, proclaiming so in a tone that was loud enough to keep him awake.
“Tsumu.” You whisper - carefully enough to lull him to sleep with that goddamned mellifluous voice of yours, yet sternly enough to always, always maintain his interest.
It's rather pitiful just how much of an effect your mere presence has on the athlete, despite him professing the opposite.
He raises an eyebrow as his name catches his exhausted mind, stepping closer to where you stood. “If it's not okay, I could get ‘ya a different brand - no, really, (Y/N), it's not that big of a deal.”
Atsumu’s usual brashness was evident in the way he stood, barely able to hide the exhaustion in his posture. It was clear in the way he fidgeted with the bottle of turpentine, unsure whether to approach or not.
To say you were overwhelmed would be considered the understatement of the year. Rather - it would be better off considered the understatement of the century, in light of the view before Atsumu - how you stood, frozen in place as if your feet were attached to the floor you stood on.
The thing is, the specific brand of turpentine you use is available exclusively at the local arts and crafts store - which is an approximate thirty minute drive from campus.
You're not sure what an appropriate response would be. Yet again, you're not sure if any response - in any dialect would suffice to drown out the sound of your heart thumping against your chest.
Your hands tremble as you hold the bottle, your breath catching slightly. His gaze locks with yours, and your heart skips a beat.
Affection isn't Atsumu Miya's strongest suit.
And you'd think you know him well enough to agree with such a statement, but the truth was, Atsumu Miya, with all his flaws, was madly, deeply, and irrevocably infatuated with you.
All you can do is stare upon the bottle of translucent liquid you held, alternating between heeding the crystalline substance and the gaze of the man that stood in front of you.
Affection isn't Atsumu Miya's strongest suit. It isn't supposed to be.
Yet, with you suddenly rushing toward where he stood (granted, mere steps away from you), and enveloping him into your embrace, it was as if your bodies had mended together - maintaining a position that felt so right, so utterly natural, that being devoid of the warmth of Atsumu's body, even if it meant for the slightest second, would feel alarmingly out of place.
Your breath slows as you hold him, the warmth of his body comforting. The world outside fades as you find solace and utter comfort in his arms.
“I love you, Tsumu.” You state, taking in deep, slow breaths to calm yourself - and him, too.
But with all he's done for you, despite the gravity of how he feels for you, Atsumu can't say it back.
Why can't he say it back?
Despite the fact that you, the pinnacle of perfection, stood before him, your body perfectly aligning with his, saying exactly the words he's longed to hear, he hesitates, his eyes searching yours as if looking for the right words, but they never come.
Bringing his hands to your lips, you press a soft kiss to his calloused fingertips, his palm cupping the curve of your face right after.
The two of you are breathing in unison. It's a symphony of sharp inhales and rather prolonged, heavy exhales as the two of you attempt to possess some control over your emotions. It's rather automatic, too, as if this was how you were always meant to breathe - to the hymn of Atsumu's heart beating soundly against your ear.
“I know.” The athlete finally says, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head - but not before adding a small “And I love you, too.”
His words come out in a rush, as if they’ve been on the tip of his tongue for too long. It’s quiet, almost swallowed by the moment.
It couldn't have been a decibel above a whisper, yet, you manage to heed it. You manage to heed and grasp the sheer weight his words possessed.
Truth was, Atsumu had known he had loved you for years now. Not when he had first run into you at the University’s first-year orientation after years of seeing one another. It wasn't when you had first painted him - no, it had been when, in the third grade, you had guided him in making his first acrylic paint portrait. While it might have turned out rather horrendous, for eight-year-old Atsumu Miya, everything seemed to fall into place with the sight of your face smeared in red paint.
Subtleties aren't Atsumu Miya's strongest suit.
Yet, loving you is probably what he's best at.
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