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moonjuicewiththepresident · 2 months ago

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whatsername/can't stop

Being the part-owner of a small business had its perks. Atsumu took full advantage of it.

Free coffee whenever he wants, trying new pastry ideas (courtesy of Osamu), making his own schedule, you name it.

Being alone with your thoughts for hours on end was, decidedly, not a perk. In between customers, which were far and few between, especially with how early it was into the shop opening, Atsumu would clean, restock, everything he was supposed to be doing. When he ran out of menial tasks to do, however, he would sit at the counter, staring out the window onto the street, watching people go by, watching as the world turned around him.

Opening up a coffee shop with his brother was fun. It was expensive, yes, and definitely had taken a toll on their relationship at the beginning, with arguments about the stupidest shit making Atsumu reconsider signing the lease to the building (many croissants were thrown those days). But it was fun. They got to spend their days together, albeit for a few hour, while their shifts overlapped because they, quite frankly, didn’t have the money to hire another employee.

It was fun. He kept telling himself that. Atsumu had no other choice but to keep telling himself that.

Was it what he had envisioned for himself in his childhood? No. Was it something he was passionate about? Hell no. Working food service was hell on earth, and Atsumu would argue to the ends of the earth that it was harder and more taxing than restaurant food service. Not that regular food service jobs weren’t hard, it’s just that a McChicken thrown at you is usually a softer blow than a piping hot latte with “11 shots of caramel instead of 15” (it’s funny if you laugh and don’t think too hard about it, right?)

But whatever.

He was happy.

Osamu was happy, happy when Atsumu agreed to help open the shop, happy when he cooked, happy when people came through the door.

Most of their business came from their regulars, who had enough love triangles and relationship drama to fill a season of Love Island. Atsumu rarely had many joys, but the gossip and drama around everyone in that small strip of city spiced up his lonely days, enough so that Osamu and he had nearly decided to come up with a whiteboard and red string, trying to tie everything and every relationship together. Many relationships, failed and successful, many left pining and unrequited. Everyone told the twins everything, and the twins told no one but each other.

So it was fun. Everything was fine.

The days passed, and more and more new faces popped in, and more and more faces left.

And it continued that way, up until mid April.

It was almost cliche, how the day was. Like, almost hilarious.

It was sunny, but not hot, like you could wear a jacket and be slightly on the edge of sweating, but not uncomfortable to anyone used to the weather in their town. At least, that’s how Hinata described it to Atsumu, before he took his usual order.

“Same as always, shrimpy?” Atsumu asked, eyebrow raised as he punched the order into the register.

“Yup,” Hinata bounced on the balls of his feet, popping the ‘p’. “Two large iced peanut butter and mocha lattes with oat milk and an ube glazed donut.”

Atsumu shook his head, grinning. “Y’know, that caffeine is gonna kill ya, kid, if the sugar doesn’t get ya first.”

The redhead’s grin widened. “As long as I’m writing, that’s all that matters.”

He snorted.

Atsumu knew the kid was a writer on his way to getting his book published. Hinata sat in the corner damn near every day from nine to noon, sipping on his more-sugar-than-coffee coffee and tapping away at an old MacBook covered in Pokemon stickers. Atsumu had once asked what he was writing, and the redhead lit up, delving into a spiel about wizards and knights and dragons, something that Atsumu chalked up to a fantasy book with so much lore he was surprised Hinata’s head didn’t explode with all the information and world-building. Atsumu didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t a fan of fantasy, not with the way the kid’s eyes shone as he explained the plot, like no one had ever asked him about it before.

“Yer gonna burn yerself out one day, kid,” Atsumu said, grabbing the pastry from the case. “Take it easy, have a life while you still can.”

Hinata peered at him from over the espresso machine. “Says you, you’re always here and doin’ the same thing.”

He snorted. “That’s because I have no friends and therefore no life. You,” Atsumu jabbed a finger at Hinata. “On the other hand, are young, there’s no excuse to be here doin’ nothing and sitting in this ol’ place.” He gestured at the store.

Hinata pulled a face. “Dude, you’re twenty-five, how is that old?”

“Not the point.”

Hinata pulls that face again, but (thankfully) goes quiet as Atsumu makes his drinks. “Did you hear about next door?”

“Ya mean the space that can never keep a business goin?” Atsumu asks. “Yeah, I know it. Is there another victim movin’ in?”

The storefront to the left of the shop, the one Hinata’s apartment was above could notoriously never keep full. Businesses went in and out, with fronts never lasting more than a couple of months. In the two years the Miya brothers had rented out the space, they’d seen a smoke shop, travel advisor office, hair salon, sex shop and ice cream parlor (Samu was particularly sad to see that one go).

Truly, Atsumu was terrible at paying attention these days. He hadn’t noticed anyone moving shit in, but usually, by the end of his shifts, he was too exhausted to notice his surroundings. Osamu always joked about being terrified of driving on the same road as Atsumu, and while he’d like to argue, it was kind of scary the way he’d blink and he’d be in his apartment after work.

So no, he had not noticed construction or anything else.

He was tired, sue him.

“Yeah,” Hinata laughed. “But this time,” He leaned over the counter, grinning wide. “I heard this time, it’s a tattoo shop.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “Kid, ya have no tattoos or piercings, why are ya excited about this?”

“‘Cause we don’t have any shops near us!” He exclaimed. “Besides, don’t you ever want to get a tattoo?”

“Not really.”

“You’re no fun.” Hinata pouted.

“And that’s why ya love me,” Atsumu said in a sing-song voice, sliding his iced drinks across the counter. “Now here, caffeine goblin, consume.”

Hinata frowned. “You’re weird.”

“Never said I wasn’t, scrub.”

With more people coming in, and Atsumu rushing around by himself, he forgot about the conversation. Well, kind of.

Atsumu never considered getting a tattoo. Not that he was one of those purists where everything had to have meaning, no, he’d get something if it was funny enough, but it wasn’t like he was craving a tattoo or nothin’. He liked the look of them well enough, especially on his partners. He loved the flow, and it fascinated him how truly in the skin the tattoo was. He loved tracing his fingers up and down the lines, gliding across the contours of the lines that curved with the body.

But nothing particular came in mind when it came to getting a tattoo, and while he loved to make irresponsible changes to his body (the shitty bleach job did not count, however much Osamu would argue otherwise), that was a little… too permanent.

So the conversation floated to the back of his mind, where it stayed until thirty minutes after two that same day.

Hinata was long gone, and the lunch rush over, but Atsumu was stuck there, at least until he was off in half an hour. Osamu was in the back, presumably making more pastries to go in the case.

It was quiet. His fingers drummed against the counter Atsumu leaned on, humming along to whatever american pop punk album Osamu had decided on for the hour. The sunlight streamed in through the large windows in the front, and Atsumu stared out them longingly. People walked by, chatting with one another, most of which Atsumu recognized.

It wasn’t until a stranger paused in front that Atsumu was dragged out of his thoughts.

With the sun shining through the windows, it was hard to make anything out about the man, more just a blob than anything, but he was able to make out pale skin peeking out from above the collar of a black jacket and what must’ve been a black surgical mask strung over his face. Atsumu squinted, trying to get a better look, when the blob started moving towards the door.

Of course, Osamu chose that moment to emerge from the back.

“Heya, idiot, where’d ya put the mochi flour?” Osamu peeked his head out from the doorway to the kitchen.

“I didn’t touch yer shit, Samu,” Atsumu barked. “It’s back there in yer mess of a kitchen.”

“My mess of a kitchen? You,” Osamu pointed at him. “Were the one who was supposed to clean as you go, ‘Tsumu, it’s a goddamn mess back there.”

He rolled his eyes. Yeah, it probably was a mess back there, but Atsumu would love to see Osamu open by himself, that’d be fuckin’ hilarious. Osamu always wanted to close, and Atsumu was always left to open. It worked out better that way, with Osamu’s sleeping habits being horrific, and Atsumu being semi-friendly in the morning.

He had only just started coming up with an insult back when a voice came from behind.

“There’s two of you.”

Atsumu turned around and startled back at the man at the register. “Jeez,” He said, pointedly ignoring Osamu’s laughter. “Ya scared the shit out of me, man.”

The man shrugged. “Sorry.” Dark eyes squinted at him from below the brim of a baseball cap. “Are you two twins?”

Atsumu stared right back. “Uh, yeah…” He thought it’d be obvious. “Yeah, I’m stuck with that moron for life.” Osamu let out an undignified cry from the back. He cleared his throat, trying to suppress a grin. “So what can I get ya?”

He scanned the menu, craning his neck to look over Atsumu’s head, and his hoodie slipped down, revealing a sliver of black ink on pale skin.

Atsumu furrowed his brow, letting his eyes wander to where the man’s hands were, thumbs tucked into the pocket of his black hoodie. Twin tattoos sat on his hands, a panther and a tiger, curled towards each other, climbing down his wrists, towards the letters on his knuckles, reading ‘STAR DUST’ in hollow traditional lettering.

His sleeves were pulled down halfway over the cats on his arms, but if he had hand tattoos, Atsumu reckoned his arms were filled with art as well.

“Excuse me?” The man’s voice snapped Atsumu out of his (admittedly) rather creepy staring.

“Sorry,” He awkwardly laughed, shaking his head. “Got lost for a minute, what did ya decide on?”

“A large iced…” He squinted at the sign again. “Taro and vanilla latte, coconut milk, and two extra shots of espresso.”

Atsumu snorted. “Caffeine problem?”

“Comes with the job.” He said curtly.

Atsumu slid down the bar, grabbing the cold cup. “And what job would that be, sweetheart,” (Atsumu cringed to himself, WHY would he use that name?!) “With all those tattoos? Ya gotta be either rich or stupid.”

It was the man’s turn to snort. “Definitely not rich.”

An awkward pause.

Atsumu cleared his throat, clearly he didn’t want to talk about his job.

“Well, ya might be interested to know, I heard someone’s gonna open up a shop next door,” He jerked his head to the left. “No idea if it’s good or not, but worth checkin’ them out.”

“I’d hope they’re good.” He said dryly, and Atsumu laughed.

“I reckon they’re good enough to open their own shop, yer right. Ya should still check them out, small businesses and whatever,” He waved flippantly. “I dunno how that shit works, really, not into that kinda thing.”

Dark eyes studied him. “You don’t have any tattoos?”

“Nah,” Atsumu shook his head, sliding the drink across the counter, and leaned on it. “Why, ya think I’d look pretty with one?” He grinned at the man, waggling his eyebrows.

He grabbed the drink, sighing with such disdain Atsumu had to suppress a laugh. “What a weird thing to ask a customer.” He said cooly.

“Aw,” Atsumu whined, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It was funny, c’mon!”

The bell jingled, the door slammed, and it was quiet again.

Damn.

“Samu,” He shouted. “I’m funny, right?”

“Fuck no, ya moron!”

Kiyoomi, so far, was not a fan of Kobe.

He knew that as they signed the lease to the shop, he knew it as they started painting the walls a deep green (Motoya and he argued about wall colors and decor for a while, all while Rinarou laughed at them from afar), and he knew it as he left the Fox Burrow, the coffee shop they would be sharing a wall with.

That man was… annoying. In the few minutes Kiyoomi was in the cosy coffee shop, the piss-colored-bleach-blonde managed to press a concerning number of Kiyoomi’s buttons.

Don’t get him wrong, Kiyoomi loved his tattoos, and he didn’t normally mind people commenting on them, but then that would get them to asking about them, then he would have to explain that no, he didn’t pay thousands of dollars for them, he either traded or got them for free, and then he would have to explain that yes, he is a tattoo artist and that opens up a can of worms that Kiyoomi is never excited to talk about.

Because whenever Kiyoomi would mention his profession, the other person’s eyes would light up, and start explaining all of their ideas, asking his prices and cringing when they heard his hourly rate, all while standing in the frozen section of a grocery store while Kiyoomi is just trying to buy frozen pizza.

He digresses.

He now lies, or wears a lot of long sleeves and pants and masks (it doesn’t every quite cover the traditional dagger on his left temple, an impulsive tattoo from when he graduated his apprenticeship that effectively killed his chance at getting another job) to cover the tattoos and piercings that Motoya had given him when his cousin was first taking clients in his apprenticeship.

Kobe’s weather is making it hard, though. It was warm for mid-April, as he was told by locals who were nosy enough to come visit them while they were getting the shop set up.

His breath was hot, almost suffocating under his mask as he walked back over to the shop, where Rintarou and Motoya were attempting to hang a vintage neon sign in the window that Kiyoomi insisted was a fire hazard. When he had tried to argue, however, Motoya pushed back, urging that ‘the vibes had to be right’.

And the “vibes”, as Motoya described them as, was a cosy, vintage shop. His cousin had spent a long time searching for furniture, either at consignment shops or Facebook marketplace while Kiyoomi and Rintarou had spent months, close to a year outlining and painting flash to put up on the walls, even before they had announced to the shitty shop in Kyoto that they were leaving.

He had at one point wished that they were going for a cleaner, more minimalistic decor, but once they signed the lease on the small storefront with dark wood flooring in a small strip of downtown, Kiyoomi changed his mind.

When it came to the “vibes” (God, Kiyoomi was well aware of how stupid that sounded, he’s sick of it too) Motoya knew best. Kiyoomi learned, and Rin was never one to argue with his husband on that.

It was a joint decision, opening up their own shop.

They were all stuck in a shitty street shop in Kyoto, with only each other to trust. Kiyoomi often had to lock up his tool chest when he wasn’t there to watch it, out of (rational) fear that another artist would steal his supplies. He had caught the owner too many times skimping on their paychecks, and the man still owed Motoya a large sum of money that he was sure would never see his bank account.

Frankly, Kiyoomi was surprised they made it out without Rin breaking anyone’s nose. And, frankly, between all the obscenities and threats thrown from both parties, Kiyoomi was surprised no one had called the cops on them.

He savored the blast of air conditioner as he opened the door, hearing the quiet chatter of the two up on the ladder in the window.

“What’d you get?” Motoya asked. Kiyoomi caught a glance of his cousin on the third rung, doing something with the wires that made Kiyoomi look away, choosing peace over yelling at the brunet about fire hazards again.

“Coffee.”

Rin snorted. “Yeah, no shit,” He nudged Motoya. “A little higher on the left, babe, it’s still crooked,” He muttered. “What kind of coffee, asshole?”

Kiyoomi hummed, peering at his cup. “Taro and vanilla latte, I think.”

“Fancy.”

“Is it good?”

Both eyes turned to him.

He rolled his eyes, pulling down his mask and taking a sip from the straw. “Huh.” Kiyoomi frowned.

“That bad?” Rin snickered at him. “How much did you pay for that?”

Kiyoomi shook his head. “It’s… it’s actually very good. Not too sweet.”

Damnit.

He grimaced.

That meant he would actually have to go back and talk to the blond.

He wasn’t lying when he said the caffeine addiction came with the job. While Motoya wasn’t that bad, Rintarou and Kiyoomi couldn’t say the same. Kiyoomi had to have at least two RedBulls in the morning to function.

“Isn’t that good news?” Motoya asked. “That means we have good coffee next door!” Kiyoomi glared and his eyes widened. “Right?” He asked uncertainly.

On one hand, his cousin was right. Good coffee next door was dangerous for the three of them. Their old shop used to have a convenience store nearby that the trio would walk to buy (with what little money they had) energy drinks a couple times a day, and considering none of them had health insurance for heart attacks (worst part of the job. No fucking benefits), it was playing a dangerous game. Motoya loved coffee, Kiyoomi loved caffeine, and Rin just loved feeling jittery to the point of unbearable productivity. Apparently.

Don’t ask Kiyoomi, Rin was still an enigma to him.

Kiyoomi sighed. “The man running the counter was irritating.” Rintarou snorted and he shot him a glare. “More so than you, somehow.”

“You wound me, Sakusa.”

Motoya, who was very used to ignoring their bickering, just hummed, climbing down the ladder. “To be fair, Kiyo, were you nice to them?”

Rin actually laughed out loud at that.

“I have half a mind not to fling my goddamn coffee at you, Suna,” Kiyoomi seethed, jabbing a finger at him. “How Motoya puts up with you is beyond me.”

“His impossibly good looks.” Motoya crooned.

“My huge dick.” Adds Rintarou helpfully.

Kiyoomi considers prison time.

In his late teens and early twenties, Kiyoomi had developed pretty bad habits.

Some of which, like smoking, he had kicked, but others, like his horrendous work-life balance and his ability to bury himself in work instead of facing his actual feelings, he had definitely not gotten rid of.

His apprenticeship was hard.

No sob stories or anything, but it sucked. According to most artists that Kiyoomi had talked to before landing his spot, every apprenticeship sucked.

Long hours, bitch work, constant moving and constant working effectively killed his social life at eighteen. His only friend was his cousin, Motoya, who forced him out every Sunday on his day off to get lunch. Even then, he felt dead most days, just going through motions, hardly feeling joy with his art anymore.

When talking to his mentor and shop owner, he was told it was normal, and he just had to push through the hard times, and burnout wasn’t real, he was just being lazy about work.

So he did.

He pushed.

He worked his ass off. Kiyoomi drew every day, practiced his lines, cleaned the shop top to bottom every day, everything a good little apprentice should do.

And pushed.

The passion was slipping away.

He kept pushing, pushing until he broke down one afternoon.

He remembers it clear as day.

It was November, almost a year after he started his apprenticeship and almost to his “graduation” day. Everyone knew he was quiet, more reserved than most artists in the shop, but he hadn’t said a word all day. His exhaustion was clear, the bags under his eyes a deep purple, almost the color of a bruise. It must’ve been a Monday, because the day before, Motoya had commented on how tired he looked, with a glint of worry in his eyes that Kiyoomi didn’t have a snappy comeback to.

To this day, he can’t even remember what had set him off.

All he knew was that he was sitting at his usual spot, the only good rolling chair at the front desk, doing his stupid fucking worksheets of tracing lines and circles that he had to complete every day before appointments. He had transitioned on to real skin (or as you would call them, people) at that point, and he couldn’t be prouder of himself.

Motoya had texted him, asking how he was doing, and Kiyoomi unlocked his phone to respond.

And then Kiyoomi was hyperventilating, spots dotting over his vision, and tears and snot dripping down his face. He distantly could hear someone, one of the artists, Moriko, asking if he was okay, but he couldn’t respond.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe, he was going to die, and oh my god, everyone was looking at him-

Crack!

A stinging pain erupted in Kiyoomi’s left cheek, a high pitched ring echoing in his ears.

“Sakusa!” His mentor barked, and he dragged his eyes up to his face. “Snap out of it!”

His breathing stilled.

Kiyoomi blinked back tears, feeling raw embarrassment thrumming in his body.

“God,” The man in charge of Kiyoomi’s education, his career, ran his fingers through his greying hair, sighing in frustration. “Useless fucking apprentices, what a goddamn pussy.”

And all Kiyoomi felt in that moment was rage.

Anger clouded his mind, clouded his judgement as he stood, pushing past the accumulation of people gathered around him (too much pity, too much judgement, too much, they’re all looking at you), clouded his mind as his hands shook, packing his bag and grabbing his keys.

“Where the fuck are you going?” His mentor snorted.

And rage clouded his judgement as he spat out a response, slamming the glass door (that he had spent an hour, an hour cleaning that morning, having to re-do the entire goddamn shop front windows countless times because he had missed spots) behind him.

The anger dissipated, though, as he screamed into his steering wheel, as he drove home, radio firmly turned off, to his shitty apartment that he could barely afford.

And panic once again took hold of his mind as he collapsed into his bed.

He remembered how his hands shook as he typed Motoya’s name into his phone, how unsteady he felt as he called his cousin, body wracked with sobs.

And he cried to his cousin about how he had ruined the chance to pursue his dreams, his passion. And then the panic receded as Motoya asked, hesitation clear in his voice, asked “Do you even love this anymore?”.

He didn’t.

And that scared him.

He didn’t leave his apartment for a while. How long, Kiyoomi didn’t know, but knew it was at least three seasons long of some trashy TV show about housewives of some random city in America.

And when he finally felt like a human being those days later, he knew what he had to do.

He showed up at his shop, hands and knees, begging for his apprenticeship back.

Because it was what he knew.

And he was scared.

And lonely.

And he had no fucking future. So he begged, and he got it back, and he worked.

And worked.

And graduated. Albeit a few months later than agreed on, due to Kiyoomi’s “tantrum incident”. Not his words.

But he did it.

And Kiyoomi was so goddamn proud of himself.

He ignored how sad Motoya’s eyes looked when he told him the news, when he talked about his future at that shop.

And he blew off the attempts from Motoya to get him to go to therapy, to talk to someone.

Because if he kept working, and kept pushing, he would be okay. If he threw himself into work, he wouldn’t have to think, he wouldn’t have to breathe.

He eventually moved out of that old shop, where he met Rin, where Motoya started piercing (his cousin promised it wasn’t to keep a closer eye on Kiyoomi, but the artist knew the truth), where everything happened that caused them to move to the small strip of shops in a small part of Kobe where Kiyoomi was forced to just sit and think.

He took a drag from his cigarette (the ones he had promised Rin and Motoya to throw away weeks ago, he was making those motherfuckers stretch), leaning against the wall behind the shop, pointedly not looking at the dumpster, because if he looked at it, his mind would race about the biohazards, the bacteria, gross things that were growing, multiplying inside.

It was quiet out, almost midnight.

Honestly, the two weeks in between appointments was probably the longest break he’d ever taken in his career. He didn’t know what to do with himself, with all the time.

Yes, things were busy trying to get the shop open and decorated, and getting all the liscenses and certifications done, but even that was dwindling, every day inching them closer to their “grand opening”.

Kiyoomi was never one to just sit around and do nothing. He quite literally did not know how to do nothing. Even on his days off, he’s drawing for appointments, responding for emails.

Rin and Motoya were inside, organizing and sterilizing jewelry, sitting criss crossed on the hardwood floor, giggling like they were at a slumber party.

Kiyoomi loved them, though he would never admit it that to either of them, but it was hard to be around them sometimes, to see the two so deeply in love that they never noticed anyone else around them. Especially when Kiyoomi was right fucking there.

Not that he was jealous. No, Rin was not his type, and he was very happy for Motoya, hell, was best man at their wedding.

But it sucked to be in the same room as his only friends and for said friends to act like he wasn’t even there.

He threw the cigarette butt on the ground, long dead, and stamped the embers out with his heel.

The creak of a door sounded.

A man emerged from the door next to theirs and tossed a trash bag over the side of the dumpster, landing with a squelch that made Kiyoomi cringe.

He turned to go back inside, but stopped, like he had just noticed Kiyoomi standing there. His eyes flicked down to the ground, at Kiyoomi’s feet where the butt was.

“Ya got a light?” His voice was low and tired.

Kiyoomi nodded.

“Ya need another?”

Kiyoomi snorted. “Yeah.”

The man fished a pack out of his pocket, fingers plucking two cigarettes out from the red cardboard. He shuffled next to Kiyoomi, offering one of them to him.

Kiyoomi lit them both, taking a drag off his own.

“Ya were gettin’ a drink earlier, right?”

Kiyoomi nodded. “Good coffee.”

He hummed, pushing back his dark hair with one hand. “‘Tsumu’s good at coffee, yeah. He always has fun makin’ the combos on the board.”

A silence fell over the two.

Kiyoomi cleared his throat. “And what is it you do?” He asked. Not that he was really interested, just felt a little too assholish to not say anything.

He chuckled dryly. “Don’t sound so excited.” Taking a hit, exhaling the next breath. “I make all the bullshit in the cases.” He looked pointedly at Kiyoomi. “The ones ya didn’t order.”

He grimaced. “They didn’t look good.”

The man (Kiyoomi really should’ve asked his name by now) full on laughed at that. “‘Tsumu was right, ya really are kind of an asshole, eh?”

“So I’ve been told,” Kiyoomi shrugged. “Not a fan of super sweet things.”

He stamped on his cigarette.

“Y’know, next time, ask Atsumu to make ya somethin’ special,” He put out his own on the damp asphalt. “Makes him happy.”

Kiyoomi frowned, about to ask what the hell he meant, but he had already pulled his door open.

“Kiyo, what are you doing- oh!” Motoya stuck his head out the back door, blinking at the two men. “Hello!”

He paused, looking back at Kiyoomi. “We’re all just tryin’ to live out here. And we care ‘bout each other.” Dark grey eyes studied him. “Don’t go fuckin’ things up around here.”

The door shut with a metallic thud.

And it was quiet again, but he could feel the weight of Rin and Motoya’s eyes on him.

“Okay,” Rintarou said slowly. “Why was a man giving you riddles in the back alley?”

Kiyoomi shook his head, pushing himself off the brick.

He took one last look up, past the buzzing orange lamps illuminating their alley.

“Let’s just lock up for the night. We could all use the rest.”

#sakuatsu #haikyu #hq #skts #miya atsumu #sunakomo #suna rintarou #komori motoya #sakusa kiyoomi #whatsername

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