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ktsumu · 6 months

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WHEN WE WERE THIEVES

pairing: atsumu miya x gn!reader wc: 5.7k

when the case is that your romantic partner was once your literal partner in crime, it’s a fact that it would be shameful if you didn’t know all of their oldest hiding spots. even more shameful is them not expecting you to know, already.

It was the first summer after you turned nine when you met him for the first time, surrounded by cardboard moving boxes and loud trucks.

Actually, you met two of him.

Across the street of your quaint culdesac dream sat a clunky moving truck, close by to a far less clunky car that sat idly in the driveway, doors swung open wide as two boys did literally anything but help unload. They intrigued you from your window—partially because they seemed to fade into each other after they crossed, their matching outfits doing you no favours in telling them apart.

(Eventually, one fell, and you learned the name of the boy who stood victorious was Osamu, by the way the one on the ground wailed.)

The boy on the ground, you found, was Atsumu; at least, it was the name muttered by ‘Osamu’ as he desperately tried to get the former to stop crying before his parents came back outside.

From the comfort of your window, you watched them. By the time they finally stopped playing a twisted version of two-player tag and fell onto the grass, it was dark out, and you were dozing off on your windowsill and pressing your face into the screen that barred you from the outdoors. When your mother came up to make sure you were asleep, she wasn’t mad when she found you awake.

“If you want to play with them, you can just ask,” she suggested. “You don’t just have to watch them.”

You only shrugged, eyes heavy as you listened to them complain about mosquitoes.

“They’re kinda weird.”

With a snorting laugh, your mother had already guided you towards your bed. You only heard one part of her goodnight, your eyes shutting almost immediately after hitting the mattress.

“Huh.” She patted your side, tucking you in tightly. “You’ll fit right in, then.”

And fit in, you did.

The next morning, you had woken up with a new quest: befriend the strangers across the street.

Clumsily, toaster waffles were carefully crafted before being drenched in syrup on a plate; a few steps away from repulsive now, unbelievably attractive then. And then, with your newfound determination and encouragement, you walked across the street when you heard their sneakers scuffing on the pavement.

Naturally, their two-person game of badminton slowed to a stop, the birdie bouncing twice off of the hot asphalt when they saw you coming with your plate. In their direction, no less.

When you reached them and the silence wasn’t seeming to find an end, you huffed.

“Hi. I wanted to bring you waffles and welcome you to the street. I live in the house behind me.”

They stood in shock, so you only extended the plate out in front of you.

“Now,” you begin. “Which one of you is Atsumu, and which one is Osamu?”

The twins only smiled, a mischievous grin being shared between them as they looked at one another, a plot dwelling in the heat of the summer air. For the next two months, Osamu called himself Atsumu.

After the great waffle introduction, you got to know the Miya twins. And shockingly, you could tell them apart after they confessed to swapping identities when you were around just to screw you over. Confessed after much interrogation from you, of course.

In school, they jumped right into your classes, never being allowed to sit next to each other for the first week. Osamu was placed with a boy he’d seemed to befriend, and Atsumu was placed right beside you. And whether that was a blessing or a curse, your little brain couldn’t decide. “Stop copying me!” you hissed under your breath, glancing at the teacher as you nudged his arm. “She’s gonna know you did the same thing as me, idiot!” “Well, what if you copied me?” “I didn’t!” “She ain’t know that, does she?”

With a look of sheer betrayal, you hmph’d, turning back to your own piece of construction paper, layered with other pieces of construction paper. Made from different colours was a shooting star, a bright smile drawn dead in the centre of it. “This is why Osamu’s the nicer twin,” you grumbled, watching his eyes flicker between his paper and your own as he began to replicate the eyes you drew. “He wouldn’t copy me.”

And suddenly, something flashed across Atsumu’s face. “Wh—!? Fine, fine! Stop, don’t worry, watch.”

Side-eyeing his page from where you sat, you watched him grab a marker and draw a massive, obvious frown on his star. Now, yours was smiling, and his star looked mortifyingly sad.

“There,” he mumbled. “Now yours is the only one that’s smilin.’ Is that better?”

When you lifted your head from where it sat bowed, quitting your pouting for just a moment, you couldn’t help but smile, covering your mouth as you let out a blithe, immature giggle.

And Atsumu smiled.

When the art exhibit came around at the end of that month, both of your paintings were hung up side-by-side, and the teacher only mentioned the uncanny similarity once before it became history. For the rest of the year, all of your projects looked the exact same; one was smiling, and one wasn’t. They didn’t need names on them to tell whose was whose.

After the great copycat debacle, you and Atsumu discovered that the two of you could get away with a lot more than just snubbing your art teacher.

By the beginning of middle school, test answers were hidden in crinkled gum wrappers, scraped onto desks with a coin for the three of you to pull off. A holy trinity had been formed with Osamu for the sole purpose of selling premade lunches for inflated prices, the money going to popsicles at the convenience store down the street. And when they didn’t have volleyball practice, all three of you would go looking for the mythical and elaborate ‘candy stash’ the Twins’ parents didn’t want them to know about.

“How are you even sure there is one?” you would ask, following them sheepishly through a door you didn’t know existed in their home.

And they’d cough, swatting dust out of their hair and sharing a look you couldn’t get in on.

“Trust me, we know,” they’d say.

The house would get scoured — the highs, through a creaky attic door which Osamu would throw open. The twins would bicker as they searched the entire attic, and you’d lie and tell them a car just pulled into the driveway when you thought you saw a spider crawl out into the house.

And the lows of the basement, where you would hold the flashlight, leading them into the darkest corners with a proud smile as you heard them murmuring behind you. Of course, this search would always turn up nothing. Because, in hindsight, none of you think their parents were up for venturing into uncomfortable places like the three of you were.

But it was an adventure for the day, and almost always ended up with you sleeping over in one of their beds as they took the floor.

“Is it because your mom told you to?” you’d deadpan, smiling lopsidedly as they’d scoff.

“No,” Atsumu would say defensively, “it’s ‘cause I’m a gentleman.”

“We both are, stupid.”

“Yeah, but who’s the one sleeping on the floor? Mm.”

That night, you were woken up by a fervent and rough shaking of the arm, and you cracked an eye open with an annoyed groan. You lifted your hands and rubbed your eyes as a hand clasped over your mouth, causing you to shoot up in bed.

“Wh—!” you yelled into his palm, shoving him off of you when you realized who it was. “What is wrong with you!?” you whisper-yelled. “Shhh!” he shushed, “I found it!”

“Huh? Found what?”

“The stash!” Atsumu’s face was bright, his straight smile wide and full of pure, unadulterated happiness. When you’re thirteen, it’s the little things that make you feel tall. “Come on, wanna show you.” You grabbed his arm to keep him from leaving. “Shouldn’t we wake up ‘Samu?”

Atsumu really should’ve, but he shook his head. “His feet are too loud, he’ll wake up our parents.”

“But you’re even louder—“

“Quit yappin’ and just follow me, will ya?” he pleaded, his smug grin returning after you swung your feet over the side of the bed.

Because even if Atsumu was louder, and that the concept of his parents finding you two awake this late was terrifying, you’d follow him off of a cliff blind. He knew it, too.

He guided you through the hallway, checking corners like his own home was booby-trapped after dark. His hand gripping yours, you made it to the kitchen, and a chair was already placed awkwardly in front of the counter.

“Get up,” he told you.

“Are you crazy? No! I’ll fall!”

“No you won’t,” Atsumu guaranteed you, shaking his head as he held out his hands again. “I’ll make sure of it. C’mon, get up!”

And, as you always did, you believed him, taking his hands as he helped you up onto the kitchen counter.

From the granite countertops, you felt like you were on top of the house—Atsumu looked small as ever, and he was considered kinda tall for his age.

“Hurry up,” he beckons, “check the far left cupboard over the fridge.”

“Jesus, ‘Tsumu, how’d you even manage that one?” you whispered, opening the door as he asked. And, sure enough, the search had come to an end right then and there. Boxes of leftover Halloween candy lined the cabinet—far more than you were expecting.

“See? It exists,” he gloated.

You grinned down at him, looking down at the hands that steadied you by the legs. “Yeah, it does,” you admitted. “And it was just in the kitchen.”

Atsumu shrugged. “Sometimes, the best place to hide treasure is where most would think to look.”

“That’s kinda smart of you to stay.”

“Imma pretend you didn’t just insult me for no reason. Grab a box and let’s get outta here!”

“Grab a box?” you asked, half hissing. “Would that not make us thieves? That’s a punishable thing.”

Atsumu’s crooked smile gleamed back up at you, bathed in the stream of moonlight that came through the wall of windows in the living room.

“So let’s be thieves. We’re already cheats, y’know.”

So you were. You grabbed (stole) the biggest box of Twix you’ve ever seen to date, and gripped his arms as he helped you down to meet him back on the floor. You gave him a grin that he’d never quite seen before — it was carefree and exhilarating, it sent a surge through his veins — and he would be the only one to see it.

That night, the two of you became thieves. More importantly, you became something much more to Atsumu.

When the three of you neighbourhood kids hit high school, the attention the twins got was a different kind of absurd.

The summer between your final year of junior high and your first year of high school was a rather lonely one — you saw Osamu more than you did Atsumu, and even then you barely saw the guy. Osamu found a troupe of new friends, and Atsumu’s talent as a setter landed him in a new camp every month, so it seemed.

You still texted him a lot, sent pictures from your bedroom window taunting him about his absence, but he and his brother were a rare sight; it was even rarer to see them together.

But when school rolled around, you could at least see what the craze was about. Not that you were included in that.

A lot had changed in three months. For starters, they came back tan and with arms like no other guys in the class had. Osamu had been working on their grandfather’s farm all summer, and Atsumu had been training nonstop. It was safe to say he knew his work paid off, too, judging by the way he’d shamelessly flirt with every person who looked in his general direction.

And they grew, too. They’d always been a little bit taller than you, but now you could see it from a distance. It almost made you glad that Atsumu wasn’t around, because you knew for sure you’d never hear the end of it the second he noticed you were a little bit shorter than him and ‘Samu, even more so than before.

Just like you were in elementary school again, the three of you took the same classes. Different levels, of course—but the content was similar enough to meet up at lunch to complain about them.

It was a war and a half to drag Atsumu and Osamu away from their designated seat at the table of kings (also known as: the volleyball team’s table), but it didn’t take long after you reminded them that getting behind on their grades could take them off the team.

“Why are we even here?” Atsumu whined, groaning as he rested his chin in his hand.

“Uh, to make sure you pass English?” you reminded him with a scoff. “Why? Sad you can’t tend to your fifteen girlfriends?”

“Ha? Fifteen?” he asked in amazement. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Shaddup,” Osamu drawled. “You’re both annoying.”

“Says you, dickhead,” Atsumu grit, which earned a smack to the back of his head.

Watching them both act just like they always had despite the way things were changing made you laugh, shaking your head as you looked down at your textbook, flipping open your notebook.

“You two haven’t changed that much at all,” you said, mostly to yourself.

But Atsumu looked up, a small smile growing on his face just from seeing yours alone, his eyes focused on the way your eyelashes brushed against your cheeks when you glanced back down.

And Osamu watched his brother, eyes narrowing as he watched him fall.

Truthfully, though, the boys weren’t the only ones who came back from summer looking different. You did, too.

You’d grown into yourself — your clothes that you bought the summer before fit you better, your eyes were brighter. And the twins weren’t the only ones who had attracted wandering eyes; in fact, people had even gone up and asked the twins if you were talking to anybody, to which Osamu told them to ask you themselves. Atsumu told them to fuck off.

And if you had noticed how the twins changed? Atsumu had noticed how you did tenfold.

“You’re such a shithead,” Osamu complained, slugging his bag onto the ground when they got home. “That’s our best friend, freak. Did ya like them when they slept over every night, too?”

“I don’t like them!” Atsumu protested, shoving past Osamu as he grabbed a drink from the fridge. “What even makes ya say that?”

Osamu blinked, dumbfounded. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe the fact that I was trying to do my goddamn bio homework, but couldn’t, because I was too busy gaggin’ at the sight of your goo-goo eyes!”

“My eyes are normal!”

“Not when you’re around them, they aren’t.”

Atsumu grunted in frustration, crossing his arms as he sat at the counter. “So what? Even if I did like them—which I don’t—what’s the issue?”

“You’re a child,” Osamu insulted. “And they're leagues ahead of ya. Besides, you’ve got girls hangin’ off your damn arms, pick one of them and move on.”

Atsumu stuck out his tongue, obviously not above childish cruelty even at sixteen.

Osamu was right; Atsumu was one of the few that had all of their classmates’ attention. But the problem was, he didn’t need ten pairs of eyes on him — he only ever wanted one.

By second year, it was decided unanimously by all of Atsumu’s friends (including Osamu) that there was no chance of him ever getting over you.

Between classes, he was at your hip. During lunch, he was at your hip, asking if you wanted to come sit with the team with him and Osamu. When he walked by your classes with a hall pass, he’d walk extra slow, hoping that maybe you’d spare a passing glance and notice him there; just a glance was enough.

And after careful deliberation with the lunch table, it was officially decided that you were totally off-limits to your high school’s class.

“Stop,” Atsumu would groan, covering his face as Suna snickered under his breath. “I don’t like them!”

“No, you don’t. You love them.”

“I do not!”

Suna just scoffed, turning to Osamu with a nudge. “Watch this—Kita!”

Their team captain turned from his spot walking by, offering a gentle smile as he set his tray down on the table and sat. He nodded to them all, picking up his chopsticks as Suna folded his hands in front of him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You know about the ban on Y/N in our class, right?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he answered, making Osamu and Suna laugh as Atsumu’s jaw fell open. “Aran told me.”

“See? Everyone knows,” Osamu told his brother, beginning to eat his homemade lunch. “I mean, it ain’t like you try to hide it.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed. If he was gonna be honest with himself, it’d been a couple of years since he started thinking you could maybe be more than just his best friend. But more importantly, why was it just then people were thinking he was so ‘obvious’ about it?

Instead of fighting, Atsumu lowered his head, insulting his brother and pest of a friend under his breath as he picked at his onigiri.

But as soon as he felt familiar hands rest on his shoulders, he perked right up.

“Hey!” you greeted, peeking over his shoulder. “You look like someone just killed your dog.”

“Me? ‘Course not!” he reassured, turning halfway to face you as his mood did a one-eighty. “You’re comin’ to our game tonight, right?”

“Of course!” you told him, smiling at the rest of the table as they watched you with…unusually eager eyes. “Wouldn’t miss it. Oh! I was also gonna ask if you wanted to review for math afterwards? Your place?”

“I—yeah! For sure!”

“Great!” you chimed. “Cya later. Bye guys!”

The table synced with Atsumu in a collective and oddly dainty ‘goodbye’, watching you leave before erupting with snorts and boyish laughs.

“‘For sure!’” Suna mimicked, making doe eyes at Osamu as they began to jokingly make kissy lips at each other, gripping each other’s arms.

And when Atsumu turned to Kita to ask for help, he was chuckling, too.

The first time you kissed Atsumu Miya, it was your first year of university and it had no witnesses; not even the two of you.

Getting out of high school didn’t mean that you got out of the pitiful drinking games that it entailed, and you didn’t fully grasp this until you went to your first party, only to get called over to a circle of people on sofas by—the one and only—Atsumu himself.

“Hey!” he called. “You came!”

He was surrounded by people you didn’t know, probably from his classes, and all you could do was offer a laugh. “I almost didn’t.”

“That’s lame.”

“You’re lame. What’s new?”

“Agh, you suck.”

Atsumu stood up from where he sat, heading over to you and extending a hand. “Come, sit. We’re gonna play ‘Seven Minutes with the Bottle’.”

Your brows raised. “I can only imagine what that game is.”

“It’s seven minutes in heaven mixed with spin the bottle,” Atsumu explained, as if you weren’t being sarcastic in the first place. You didn’t chastise him for it, you just smiled and cursed yourself when your chest went warm at his honest and eager grin. “Come play!”

“I’m not sure.”

“Please? It’s fun, I promise—one round, ‘kay?”

You don’t wanna say you felt some pressure, but you sort of did; Atsumu has the type of eyes that beg you no matter what he’s thinking, slightly squinted at the corners and a gleaming brown. You caved quicker than you’d like to admit.

(Atsumu says today that he was begging you, because he had hoped that damn bottle would land on you every time he spun it, and he hoped you had a lucky hand.)

“Okay,” you said, relenting as you sat down in his old seat; he took the arm of the couch. “Sure.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

The game started fast, with each person taking a spin. It went around clockwise, each person twice as eager as the one before, amused by middle school games. Atsumu kept looking at you the whole time, kept stealing glances; you thought it was chance.

“My turn?” Atsumu asked, acting like he hadn’t just spent the last half hour counting down the seconds until it was his time to go. “Well, if ya insist.”

Atsumu reached out in the middle of the circle, taking the body of the bottle and spinning it, his lips pursing in anticipation. You didn’t even realize that the nose was pointing at you, you were so focused on the way every joint, muscle and vein waved beneath his skin. Golden skin.

“Oh,” he breathed, looking up to meet your eyes. He was pink under the Christmas lights that were strung across the room. “You.”

“Oh,” you mimicked. “We don’t have to.”

“Screw that!” the person beside you said. “Play the game, guys.”

“We’re just friends, though—“

“Are you related?”

“What? Christ, no, do we look related—?”

“Get in the closet, Atsumu.”

You rest a hand on his arm, which Atsumu thought would be the end of him for sure, but you told him something far more dangerous: “It’s okay, let’s just do it.”

Atsumu wasn’t sure you knew what you were doing, which was confirmed when the two of you found your way into the dark, humid closet and shut the door, a phone with a timer sitting in between you; you told him you two could talk.

“Yes,” he said as a cover, nodding as if he wasn’t just thinking about how close you sounded — he hated that he couldn’t really see you, he told you a year later. He wanted to see you. “We should. We can.”

“Okay.”

“…Do you like the party?”

“I can’t talk,” he admitted.

Silence filled the small space, the dim glow of the screen telling you it’d only been thirty seconds. It felt more like thirty minutes—you could hear Atsumu breathing.

You cleared your throat. “You…can’t?”

“What if we just — what if we tried? To kiss, I mean. Just so we don’t walk out like pussies, y’know? Like, just to say we did it. Or we could say we did—“

“Or we can tell them it’s none of their business what we did.”

You remember muffling the laughter under your breath when you heard him begin to backtrack, almost able to watch him nod. “Oh, for sure. Duh. Let’s do that.”

“Atsumu,”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Kiss?”

“Yeah,” you told him. “We’ll make fun of ourselves later. Let’s just—“

And suddenly, you were not just you, but you were you and him.

He was in front of you, like he crawled to get there, a hand holding him up and the other on the back of your neck. You knew that Atsumu was a ‘good kisser’, some of your old classmates could attest to that — but nothing beats when it’s real.

You knew his hands, the lines of his palms, the rough pads of his fingers; but you didn’t know them when he threaded his fingers through your hair, inching closer to you. You knew his lips (he never shut up, he still doesn’t) but not when he kissed you like he did — you’d never seen him willingly stay silent until that point.

(To this day, Atsumu brags about how he swept you away with your first kiss. You deny it every time.)

Atsumu moved closer, enough to stay in front of you without the support of his hand, and he moved it to your hip. His thumb smoothed over your skin, staying right where it was, content with just breathing you in until—

The phone on the ground went off, a shitty ringtone blaring through the closet as Atsumu pulled back, giving you your space back as he scrambled to shut it off. And once it was, it was just the two of you again, breathing somehow.

Atsumu spoke first. “So.”

“So.”

“What—how was it? Like, was that bad? I didn’t think it was bad, well—it wasn’t awful.”

You were glad that it was dark, because he wasn’t able to see how flushed you were. He was glad you couldn’t see him, either.

“Yeah, it was alright.”

“Yeah, totally.”

It was unreal. So unreal that, even after leaving the party and that stupid game, you and Atsumu kept doing it. Because friends can sometimes make good kisses, you guess.

(“How was that?” the guy from earlier, the one who sat beside you asked, his brows raised. You sat down beside Atsumu again.

“We just talked.”

“Yeah, we just talked.”

“Okay…lame. Who’s next?”)

You and Atsumu have been together for five years now.

A week after the party, Atsumu banged on your dorm room door and kissed you so hard that it knocked the wind out of you. Two weeks later, he went home and told his friends that he did it — he finally asked you out, and the years of their pestering had finally done something.

(“Jesus, ‘Tsumu, way to drag it out.”

“Is that all ya have to say?”

“Well? You’re slow.”)

Regardless, life has been better since the party. You kept your best friend, but you unlocked new benefits — and the benefits just keep getting better.

But, your real favourite part about being Atsumu’s girlfriend, is having a guaranteed invite to the annual Miya's Thanksgiving dinner — where you get their mom’s signature dishes and snack onigiri made from a professional.

Laying in Atsumu’s bed, the one he used to give you when you were twelve, you sit with your laptop perched on his nightstand, watching a movie as you wait patiently for him and Osamu to get back from the store. He begged you to go with them, but there was no way you were going out in the cold of November if you had the option to stay swaddled up in one of his blankets.

Plus, Osamu teased him so he stopped.

(“Wow, you can’t be separated for more than twenty minutes. How nauseating.”

“Wh—? Okay, fine. Bye! See ya in a bit, doll!”)

The movie’s about halfway done, people walk their dogs along the sidewalk outdoors. Your parents don’t live across the street anymore, but the house hasn’t changed — the paint is still the same and you can see the subtle chip in the doorframe. It brings memories back, ones you can hardly believe because of where you’re at now.

To think that your now-boyfriend (boyfriend, what a crazy word) was the boy that you offered a waffle to when you were kids feels surreal. Atsumu once was the boy you’d ignore and when you were mad until he showed up knocking at your window; now, he is the one you kiss before you go to sleep. You share a bed. You picked your side first.

The movie begins to lag and you groan, hurriedly clicking your space bar and cursing it when it doesn’t do anything. You shut the laptop, instead just heading to the kitchen.

Because if you can’t watch a movie, you might as well steal some of the food prep Osamu made, knowing he made extra because he knew you’d steal some.

When you get there, you check through the fridge first — most of the food there is for Thanksgiving, the things you wouldn’t dare eat yet. Normally Osamu has food prep going, yes, but you also forgot that the whole reason he and Atsumu went out is because he had nothing to make the said prep with.

So, you sigh, defeated.

Shutting the fridge, you pause, pursing your lips and looking up to the far left cabinet over where you stand. Few people in the world know what glory lies behind that door; you are one of them.

Much taller and much more sure of yourself, you climb up onto the kitchen counter, reaching up to the cabinet and opening the door. Nothing has changed since you were young, so it seems, because there are still boxes on boxes of chocolate hidden over the fridge, even is no longer anyone to hide it from.

(Well, maybe you need it hidden.)

You grab the first box you see, the only one that’s opened out of the stash, and carefully make your way back down to the ground. You quietly return the stool back to its original place, looking up when the door opens and the twins enter with bags in hand.

“Hey!” you greet with a smile, watching them enter with rosy cheeks and exhausted looks. “How was it?”

Osamu scoffs a bitter laugh. “How do you think a grocery store is two days before Thanksgiving?”

You snicker. “Okay, point proven.”

Atsumu sighs a breath of relief, unzipping his jacket and tossing it over one of the stools as he goes to get around the island — probably to kiss you, or something. He’s like that.

But he watches you reach for the box of chocolates, and for a passing moment, he chuckles.

Then, he turns white as a ghost.

“Stop!” he shouts, making you jump as you pause with the box. “Don’t open that,”

“Huh? It’s already open.”

“No, I mean — can I see that?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No way, I got it first.”

“C’mon, there’s like eighty bars in there. You’re not gonna have all eighty.”

“Watch me,” you taunt, nodding to Osamu. “You both are too stressed out about dinner. I think we all deserve a chocolate bar, don’t we?”

Atsumu takes a step toward you. “Wait, don’t—!”

You shake the box gently, dumping out a pile of them as you look through the kinds, wondering which one you’ll have. There’s the basics, the classics, some special Halloween editions.

Something else catches your eye.

A small, black velvet box rests on the island in the puddle of sugar, and you furrow your eyebrows at it in suspicion.

“Holy fuck,” Atsumu whispers to himself. You don’t hear him.

You pick it up, looking it over. “Woah, that’s new. We must’ve got a special box or something.”

Osamu narrows his eyes, glancing at Atsumu before walking over to get a closer look. “What do you mean ‘special box’?”

“Like a special edition, or something. They probably gave out costume rings in some of the—“

You open the box, and a hand flies up over your mouth as you set the box right back down on the counter. You may be confused, but one thing is for sure; that’s not a costume ring.

It gleams under the overhead lights, and Osamu’s eyes are wide. You freeze, not really sure of what you just uncovered, until you look at your boyfriend.

Until you look at your boyfriend, and he doesn’t look shocked at all.

“‘Tsumu, why do you look like this isn’t crazy?” you ask, eyes wide as he just leans on the island, dropping his head in defeat. “Atsumu?”

Osamu glances between the two of you, before it clicks in his head and he’s taking a step back, his hands on his hips.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles.

Atsumu sighs, standing up straight again, and turning to you with a lopsided, barely-there grin.

“It’s not crazy to me,” he tells you, “because I know where the ring came from.”

“What? Where?”

Atsumu smiles weakly. “I bought it.”

Your eyebrows furrow, glancing back to the absolute diamond on the counter, your head tilting as it practically blinds you where you stand. Osamu stands off to the side with a dumb smile on his face, and you just look between them.

“You bought it?”

“Yeah.”

“For—,” Holy fuck.

Your hands fly up to clasp over your mouth, your eyes going wide before they go glassy; you watch Atsumu through a layer of water as he slowly takes the box from the counter, turning towards you again.

Atsumu huffs. “It was supposed to be later,”

“Atsumu!”

“Shoulda known you’d go rummaging back through that cupboard.”

( Osamu chimes in: “Wait, you guys found that?” )

“Atsumu,” is all you can say. Words feel foreign.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna re-do it, okay? That works, right?”

“Yeah, yeah! Right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He glances up to that stupid fucking cupboard, slowly dropping to one knee as his eyes well — just because it wouldn’t have been fair if you were the only one who cried. He kneels on the very spot he once held you up on top of the counter, making sure you didn’t fall.

“Back when we were thieves, we kinda swore we’d be partners in crime,” he starts, and it makes you choke out a laugh. “I know neither of us ever failed to keep our end of the bargain, and I know that promises don’t need nothin’ to seal them and yadah-yadah-yadah…”

Atsumu takes the ring out of the box, looking back up to you.

“I wanted something to say ‘forever.’ This ain’t bad, no?”

You sniffle, shaking your head with a laugh of disbelief. The tears come faster than you can stop them.

You cross your arms. “Did you steal this, too?”

He nods, grinning ear-to-ear. “Yeah, so you’re gonna need to answer a question for me before I get put in the slammer.”

“That means we’re gonna have a jail ceremony.”

“Welp, that’s what happens to thieves.”

Atsumu sighs shakily, taking your hand in his; he runs his thumb over the knuckle of your ring finger, his eyes softening as he holds you. His eyes are brown, but it is not just him, twenty-something and the love of your life.

It’s him, twelve or so years old and making sure you don’t fall off the counter in the middle of the night.

“I have to actually say it for it count, right?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Okay, okay. Y/N,”

“Atsumu.”

He takes a breath. “Will you mar—“

You don’t wait for him to finish. Instead, you lunge forwards, dropping to your knees and wrapping your arms around his neck, stealing the air right out of his lungs before he could even finish his sentence.

He’s not mad about it, either. He smiles against your lips.

You’ll be stealing from him for the rest of your life, and he’s pretty okay with that.

#atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #hq atsumu #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu!! fluff #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #kit writes

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