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Atsumu thinks he’s a pretty good barista.
He’s great at the register, his bright smile and easy banter raking in tips. He has all of his regulars’ orders memorized — he knows that Asahi likes one and a half pumps of vanilla syrup in his latte but always pays for two. Mohawk Tora gets an extra shot in his regular Americano every Thursday (“I need it to stay up in chem lab, man,” he’d confided once), and Blonde- Streaks Tora gets some sort of custom mocha latte with a bunch of extras. Tadashi always gets two hot chocolates whenever he shows up with a sullen blonde (Tsukki, he calls him. Atsumu calls him Tsukk-on-my-balls). Tsutomu always tips extra when he does latte art on his cappuccino.
Once a day, a harried-looking guy named Keiji comes in and gets seven black coffees, presumably for his colleagues. Atsumu slips him an extra blueberry muffin whenever he can. “On the house, Keiji-kun,” he’d said the first time he did it. Keiji tried protesting but ended up accepting it without complaint after the fourth time. In return, he tells Atsumu gossip (“Horror stories, more like,” he’d said, drawing out a rare laugh from Keiji) about his coworkers that make him thank the gods that he doesn’t work there. Atsumu figures after the nth blueberry muffin that they're friends now.
Part of being a good barista is spotting the customers you want to be regulars and making them feel special. And if Atsumu develops a crush or two along the way, that’s his business and his business alone.
Atsumu notices him the moment he walks in. It’d be impossible not to — the man is tall (so, so tall), wearing a mask and a huge, padded parka jacket zipped right up to his chin, and to top it all off, he takes off a beanie to reveal the most beautiful fucking set of curls Atsumu has ever seen. He doesn’t seem to care that more than a few heads are turned his way, instead heading straight to the register to order.
Atsumu watches, transfixed, as Tall Dark and Handsome orders his drink and curses whichever deity decided that he had to clean dirty dishes while fucking Yaku gets to take Sexy Curls’ order.
A voice rings out from behind him, snapping him out of his daze.
“Miya-kun, could you go wipe down the tables by the windows?”
Atsumu redirects his ire toward his manager instead.
“’Course I can, Eita-kun!” Atsumu replies, seething.
Sex On Legs walks over to the other end of the counter, and Atsumu has half a mind to elbow Yaku out of the way and make his drink himself and possibly do something mortifying, like putting his number with a cheeky CALL ME ;) on the cup. Instead, he scrubs down table 12 with a vengeance, as if it had insulted both him and his mother, occasionally sneaking unsubtle glances at Hot Stuff.
By the time Gay Awakening Part Four leaves, Atsumu has cleaned three tables and made a group of teenagers move seats (he might have been glaring daggers at Semi the whole time, but Semi had made him leave the register the one time Atsumu didn’t want to, so really he deserved it).
At least the tabletops are shining like new. His mother would be proud.
He walks back to the counter, unwrapping his apron. “I'm taking a break now, Eita-kun,” he calls over his shoulder, ducking under the counter and slipping into the kitchen.
Atsumu sighs heavily to announce his presence, but is only met with silence. He sighs again, to which finally Hanamaki looks up from his very-important ball of dough and says, “Atsumu-kun, do you need something?”
Atsumu gasps, scandalized, and walks across the room to flop onto Kenma’s back.
“ Kyanma, Hana-kun’s being mean to me,” he whines, burying his face into Kenma’s shoulder.
“Get off me, you freak,” Kenma grumbles, pulling off his gloves and reaching up to scratch at the nape of Atsumu’s neck as if he was a huge, blonde cat. “Why are you bothering Takahiro.”
Atsumu chooses to ignore the last bit, and groans, “I just saw the hottest man on the planet and I’m probably never going to see him again.”
Kenma hums. “Is that all?”
“Is that all? Is that all?! Kenma, I just told you I saw the love of my life and all you have to say is ‘ is that all’ ?”
Kenma shrugs. Across the room, Hanamaki — who had gone back to rolling out his dough instead of listening to Atsumu’s very real and very important worries — snickers under his breath. Atsumu rounds on him.
“ What?”
Hanamaki clears his throat, barely suppressing his laughter.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just — you say that at least once a month, Atsumu-kun.”
Atsumu sighs, flopping onto the stool beside him. He’s feeling very floppy today.
“Yeah, but this one’s different— hey, don’t fuckin’ laugh, Hana-kun, it really is different this time!”
Kenma leans back against the countertop. “Hmm, but he’s right, though. You’ll probably forget about him by next week, ’Tsumu, just like the rest of them.”
“I don’t forget about all of them!” Atsumu protests. He gesticulates around his face vaguely. “I remember the—the girl with the—y’know, the one with the hair.”
Kenma reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Sure you do. Want some banana bread? Semi-san made some last shift.”
☕️
Atsumu thought that was the last of it.
He’d almost forgotten about Sexy Adonis. So, when he walked in again a week later, Atsumu might have spilled the latte he was trying to make a swan on from shock.
He scrambles to clean it up and shoves Yaku away from the register — because of course Yaku is at the register again — just as Sexiest Man Alive reaches the counter. Atsumu turns to him with a bright (and slightly breathless) smile.
“Hi, welcome to Café Musubi! May I take your order?”
Horny Thought Generator looks him up and down. Atsumu notices he’s wearing the mask again today. His skin is milky pale, a stark contrast to the ink-black curls falling onto his forehead. His shoulders are broad and waist tapered, defined by the belt around his midsection. And his hands — holy fuck, his hands. Long, slender fingers, red from the cold, currently gripping his wallet. They’re probably going to be listed as the cause of Atsumu’s untimely demise. He has twin moles sitting right above his right eyebrow, framed by his stupidly perfect hair, because clearly he’s been created straight out of Atsumu’s fantasies. It’s like he’s launched six consecutive horny arrows right at Atsumu’s chest. Total knockout.
Apparently having finished whatever inspection he’d been doing and deeming Atsumu worthy, Greek God IRL finally says, “Caramel macchiato, please. Extra hot. To go.”
Of fucking course he has a voice that sounds like liquid sex. Low, raspy, and smooth, just like the fucking caramel macchiato he was ordering. Atsumu can picture his obituary already. Miya Atsumu. 22. Loving brother and son. Death By Drool-Worthy Stranger.
“Caramel macchiato, extra hot,” Atsumu parrots dutifully, reaching for a to-go cup. “What’s your name?”
Wet Dream Material narrows his eyes at him.
“Oh—for the order, I mean,” Atsumu says. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Yaku muffling a laugh into his fist. Fucking Yaku.
“Sakusa,” the man says, after a pause.
Sakusa. Of course the bastard has to have a pretty fucking name, too.
Sakusa pays and goes to stand by the pickup counter, leaving Atsumu with an empty cup in his hand and no thoughts in his head but hot hot hot Sakusa Sakusa pretty Sakusa fuck.
“You were wrong!” Atsumu announces, marching into the kitchen twenty minutes later.
Yaku and Hanamaki look up from where they’d been huddled over Yaku’s phone, playing Angry Birds or whatever it is that evil coworkers do when they're not making his life hell.
“What?”
“You were wrong,” Atsumu says, pointing an accusatory finger at Hanamaki. “You said that I wouldn’t see Hottest Man Ever again, and you were wrong, Hana-kun, because he just came in and I took his order.”
“What’s he talking about?” Yaku asks, looking between Atsumu and Hanamaki.
“Some hot guy he saw last week,” Hanamaki answers, turning to Atsumu. “You said that yourself, Atsumu-kun.”
“Oh.” Atsumu blinks. “But you said I’ll probably forget about him.”
“No, that was Kenma.”
Something finally dawns upon Yaku, because he turns to Atsumu with a grin that he really does not like the look of.
“ Oh, the guy for whom you nearly ran me over to get to the register? Is he Atsumu’s L.O.M.L. for the month?”
Atsumu grimaces. “Don’t say internet slang out loud, Yakkun,” he says, as if he doesn’t do the same thing to annoy his brother. “And he’s not my L.O.M.L. for the month, what the hell. Is this what y’all think of me?”
“’Course not, babe,” Hanamaki says, a moment too soon for Atsumu’s liking. “ So,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’. “What’s he like?”
“He’s tall—like taller than me— and he has moles and curly hair and he wears a mask and—did I mention he has the nicest fuckin’ hair I’ve ever seen? He’s the hottest man alive, Hana-kun, I swear.”
Hanamaki hums noncommittally. “Did you say he wears a mask?”
“Yeah, why?”
Hanamaki and Yaku share a look, making identical tsk -ing sounds.
“ Why?”
“It’s nothing, Atsumu, it’s just that—”
“What if he’s ugly?” Hanamaki interrupts.
“Don’t be crass, Hana-kun. But yeah, what if he’s ugly?”
“He’s not fuckin’ ugly, Yakkun,” Atsumu flares. “Your mum’s ugly.”
Hanamaki smacks the back of Atsumu’s neck (“Don’t be fucking rude, Atsumu-kun.” “ He started it! ”) just as the back door creaks open to reveal a startled looking Kenma in the middle of taking off his coat. Atsumu leaps up at the sight.
“ Kyanma, help, these two are ruining my life,'' he complains, pushing Kenma towards Yaku and Hanamaki, who have identical smug looks on their faces. Bastards.
“I’m going to regret asking this,” Kenma mumbles. “What is going on?”
“Atsumu here,” Yaku supplies, “Just served the hottie from last week.”
“And?”
“And, he wears a mask. So, Thing 1 and Thing 2 here think he’s secretly ugly,” Atsumu adds, miffed. Kenma looks between the three incredulously.
“Well,” Kenma says after a long moment. “The chances of him being ugly should be pretty low, considering everything else about him is supposed to be attractive. At least that’s what I think.”
Atsumu hoots in victory. “This is why I like Kenma more than both of you,” he crows.
☕️
“And then they said that he’s probably ugly! Can you believe that, Keiji-kun? I saw him with my own two eyes, he was fucking hot!”
“Mmm, yeah,” Keiji says, paying more attention to the coffee he’s sipping than to Atsumu.
It's become somewhat of a routine for them — Keiji comes in around closing time every Friday, and Atsumu makes him a coffee and bitches about his week. Occasionally, Kenma joins them and the conversation turns to Kenma’s annoyingly perfect promoter boyfriend. And judging from the way Kenma describes him, Atsumu would've thought Kuroo was fictional if he hadn't already met him.
“ Keiji-kun,” Atsumu whines now, tucking the rag he was wiping down the countertop with into his apron. “Are you listenin’?”
“ Mmm, yes, I am. Did you use a different kind of bean?” Atsumu nods affirmative. “It’s really good, Atsumu-san. And about your mystery man—”
“Sakusa.”
“Yes, Sakusa-san. Don’t you think Yaku-san and Hanamaki-san had a point?”
“What d’you mean?”
“You don’t know what he looks like under the mask, Atsumu-san. He could look very different from how you imagine him. It’s just like this one time when Bokuto-san and I went to a comic convention, and we—”
Atsumu zones out as Keiji launches into an anecdote — no doubt revolving around his boss, Bokuto (who Keiji thinks hung the moon and stars; seriously, he should just ask the man out already, no-dating-coworkers rule be damned). He wipes down cups mindlessly, catching a few words here and there from Keiji’s spiel.
Oh god, what if he is ugly?
“ —So he said to me, ‘doesn’t that Saitama by the water fountain look awfully familiar?’ And Komi-san didn’t think—”
Am I being maskfished?
“—And then Bokuto-san ripped that man’s cape in half. He had to pay for the whole thing,” he chuckles fondly, finishing up his stupid story about his stupid boss who doesn’t wear a stupid fucking mask all the time so Keiji actually knows what his stupid face looks like.
“Atsumu-san. Atsumu-san, are you okay? Your knuckles are turning white.”
Atsumu could only stare at him blankly. He peels off his fingers from the cup he’s gripping, and sighs mournfully, dropping his head into his hands.
“It’s just — what if everyone’s right? What if he’s actually ugly? Not to be dramatic or anything, but if that happens I’d be fucking devastated.”
Keiji pats his hand reassuringly. “There’s no need to worry, Atsumu-san. I’m sure he’s a very attractive man.”
☕️
“Oi, ‘Tsumu, your guy is here,” Yaku says, poking Atsumu’s back as he rummages for the cinnamon container in the bottom cupboards.
“He’s not my guy, Yakkun,” Atsumu grumbles, dusting off his ass as he rises off the floor. He glances over as he’s washing his hands to see that yes, Sakusa is here, unwinding a green scarf from around his neck, looking as fuckable as ever.
A voice that sounds suspiciously like Hanamaki swims into his head, saying yeah, but what if he’s ugly?
Atsumu shakes the thought away and turns to take Sakusa’s order.
Sakusa greets him with a curt nod and a “Caramel macchiato, extra hot. To go, please.”
“Sure thing,” Atsumu says, reaching for a cup. “For Sakusa, yeah?”
“Yes.” Sakusa holds out his card.
“Great, I’ll go get…” Atsumu trails off, because his eyes land on Sakusa’s hands. Sakusa’s hands, which are clad in the sexiest pair of leather gloves on the planet. Every single thought about whether or not he’s ugly pours straight out of his head and down the drain. Atsumu is this close to combusting on the spot.
“Hello? Are you listening… uh,” Sakusa waves a hand in front of Atsumu’s face, squinting at his name tag, “Miya?”
“Oh, fuck, sorry. I’ll go get that for you,” Atsumu replies, gathering his wits and dashing away to make his order. His hands are a little unsteady as he froths the milk, and it feels unnervingly like he’s being watched. When he looks over his shoulder, Sakusa is staring at him, eyes dark and intense.
Atsumu looks away immediately, before he does something stupid like actually making a move on a customer in a sudden surge of overconfidence.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t flirt a little, right?
“Here ya go,” he hands Sakusa his cup with a great flourish, a teasing smirk spreading over his face. “Anything else I can get for ya?” My number, perhaps?
Sakusa blinks, unmoved.
“No.”
He turns and heads out the door, leaving Atsumu speechless.
“Miya-kun,” Semi calls. “Could you go get another tray of croissants from the kitchen?”
Atsumu walks into the kitchen and looks up to see Hanamaki standing halfway out the back door, decidedly not working. Instead , he’s sucking face with his equally awful boyfriend, Matsukawa.
Atsumu watches, horrified, as Hanamaki extricates himself from Matsukawa’s arms with a lazy, “I gotta go, babe.”
“See you later, sugar tits.” Matsukawa smacks his ass and walks away.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Hanamaki says, turning back into the kitchen to see Atsumu slumped onto a stool with his head in his hands. At the other end of the room, Kenma looks up for a moment before turning back to his pile of chocolate, disinterested.
“Atsumu-kun, you okay?”
“Just because you're all loved up with yer boyfriend doesn’t mean the rest of us are so lucky, Hana-kun!” Atsumu wails. “Do you have to shove it in our faces?!”
“What… are you talking about?”
“Mask guy came in just now,” Yaku supplies, because of course he walks in at the worst possible time.
“ Oh,” Hanamaki says, drawing the word out. “ It’s okay, Atsumu-kun. We told you he’s probably ugly anyway.”
“His name is Sakusa and he’s not ugly, Hana-kun! It’s like you want me to cry!”
☕️
The thing is, Atsumu is hot, and he knows it.
He knows all it takes is a half-lidded smile and a wink from him to make anyone blush, from the college girl who studies at the back of the café every day, to the middle-aged mothers coming in for their post-Pilates smoothies.
Atsumu knows he’s hot, and he’s determined to make Sakusa acknowledge it.
So, the next time Sakusa walks into the café, Atsumu is prepared. He’s standing behind the register, marker poised over a to-go cup, craning his neck to the side in a way that he knows shows his already sharp-as-hell jaw off. Totally nonchalant.
“Hi, welcome to Café Musubi! Sakusa-san, isn’t it?” Atsumu says, as if he hadn’t spent the past two days practicing these two lines just in case Sakusa walked in. And it paid off, too. Atsumu had perfected it; every word, every inflection in his voice oozing just the right amount of friendliness and sex appeal. “May I take your order?”
Sakusa nods. “Caramel macchiato, extra hot, to go.”
Atsumu reaches for a to-go cup, when Sakusa speaks up again.
“And for you, Yacchan?”
Yacchan? Who the hell is Yacchan?
Atsumu finally turns his head enough to see the woman by Sakusa’s side, grabbing onto his elbow. She’s tiny, not even coming up to Sakusa’s shoulder, with blonde hair drawn up into a bun that doesn’t do much to add to her height. She’s bundled up in a green scarf—is that the same fucking scarf Sakusa was wearing last time?— gazing up at Sakusa, all big brown eyes and flushed cheeks. She’s adorable, and Atsumu hates it.
He can’t even bring himself to be surprised, because of course Sakusa has an infuriatingly perfect, cute, blonde girlfriend.
Yacchan finally says, “Oh, just a vanilla latte for me, thank you.”
“Of course, I’ll get that for you right away,” Atsumu grits out.
Sakusa and Yacchan go to stand by the pickup station. Sakusa rests his head on top of hers as she shows him something on her phone. Yacchan laughs when he turns to whisper something in her ear. Atsumu is fuming.
As he’s frothing the milk for Yacchan’s stupid vanilla latte, Yaku sidles up to him, snickering.
“At least we know he’s into blondes, right?”
“Shut up, Yakkun!”
Done with making their drinks, Atsumu hands them to Yacchan and walks off into the kitchen without sparing them a second glance. And if he thrust their drinks into her hands a little too hard, then that’s between him and the coffee gods.
☕️
Atsumu’s least favorite time to work is the closing shift.
He doesn’t enjoy cleaning up for the next day, the late-night stragglers who stumble in twenty seconds before closing time are almost always drunk, and he hates to admit it, but he’s lost the café keys entrusted to him on more than one occasion.
And yet every Friday, without fail, he finds himself wiping down the counters, tending to the last few customers, and locking up the café (taking extra care to ensure that the keys are safely in his bag). At least he has Keiji to keep him company.
It’s been five days since Sakusa last came in, and Keiji is running late. As Atsumu busies himself with giving the display case a final wipe, the door jingles open, and two women walk in. He looks up to see Yacchan from the other day walking hand in hand with another girl.
Atsumu watches as Yacchan whispers something into the other girl’s ear before dissolving into giggles. The other girl—a short brunette with a strange bowlcut wearing a metallic-looking jacket—pulls Yacchan closer and kisses her.
Well. Isn’t this great? Not only does Sakusa have a stupidly perfect girlfriend, but said girlfriend is also cheating on him. Isn’t this just perfect?
The two girls approach the counter and Atsumu greets them with a stiff, practiced smile.
“Hi, I’ll have an iced white mocha, and—” Yacchan interrupts Bowlcut Girl by poking her in the arm, pouting.
“Babe, it’s the middle of winter. You’ll get sick!”
Bowlcut Girl laughs. “S’okay, Hitoka-chan, I’ll be fine. You know I don’t get sick.”
Atsumu watches the exchange, wide-eyed. Hitoka-chan? Babe?
Bowlcut Girl turns back to Atsumu with a laugh, and says, “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll have an iced white mocha, and Hitoka-chan will have a vanilla latte. To go, please.” Atsumu gives her an awkward, tight-lipped smile and reaches for the to-go cups.
Fuck it, he decides. I’m gonna ask. Mama didn’t raise a bitch.
“So,” he says, while tamping the ground coffee, “Wasn’t your name Yacchan? That’s what Sakusa called you, right?”
Yacchan’s face clouded over in confusion for a moment, and then something seemed to dawn upon her.
“Oh right, you remembered! Miya… Atsumu-san, isn’t it?” she says, squinting at his name tag. She holds her hand out. “Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself before! I’m Yachi Hitoka, and this is my girlfriend, Maiko. It’s nice to meet you!”
“Just Atsumu is fine,” he says, shaking her hand dubiously. Bowlcut Girl (Maiko, he reminds himself) gives him a nod.
“Anyways,” Yachi continues, “Sakusa-kun is a really good friend of mine! He really likes this café, so he brought me by, and he was right. The vanilla latte you made me last time was delicious, Atsumu-san!”
“Oh, thanks,” Atsumu mumbles, sheepishly playing with the hair on the back of his neck. “I, uh—I thought you were dating Sakusa-san.”
Yachi blinks at him. Maiko stares at him for a full seven seconds before bursting into laughter. Inwardly, Atsumu is mortified. But he likes to think that none of his internal trip to the afterlife shows on his face.
“You thought,” Maiko says in between giggles, “You thought Hitoka was dating Sakusa? Oh, this is too good.” She wipes away a mock tear.
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” Atsumu can feel his face get redder by the second.
“Atsumu-san, Sakusa-kun is—he’s gay,” Yachi tells him, still looking a little shellshocked.
“Oh.” Atsumu nods stiffly, turning to make their coffees. He goes through the familiar motions in a daze, echoes of he’s gay he’s gay he’s gay bouncing through his head.
“Enjoy,” he says as he hands their drinks over. Yachi waves goodbye as they head out the door, little bells chiming after them.
Atsumu slumps down against the counter, boneless, like a puppet released from its strings, and that, unfortunately, is how Keiji finds him fifteen minutes later.
He’s so out of it that Keiji asks if he has a fever, even reaching across the counter to smack a palm against his forehead and claiming that his cheeks are really red are you sure you’re not coming down with something Atsumu-san do you need me to buy you soup?
Ten minutes and several no, Keiji-kun ’s later, Keiji is convinced that Atsumu has the flu and is reciting strange and disturbing facts about pigeons and how some guy named Hoshiumi at his office once ignored a cough and then had to be on sick leave for two months. Atsumu doesn’t know why, he just nods and takes it all in.
“Keiji-kun,” he finally says, when Keiji’s trailed off and is sipping his cortado.
“Yes, Atsumu-san?”
He hesitates. “He’s… gay. Sakusa is gay.”
Keiji blinks. “Oh? How’d you find that out?”
“His girlfriend told me.”
Keiji almost chokes on his coffee. “His what?”
☕️
The next time Sakusa walks in, it’s been three days since the Yachi Incident—not that Atsumu was counting—and he’s mentally prepared himself enough that a faint skip in his heartbeat is all that marks the state of his nerves.
This time, Sakusa walks in with a shorter brown-haired man who’s talking animatedly, and save for the occasional nod, there’s little indication that Sakusa is even listening.
A little voice in his head whispers, what if that’s his boyfriend? Atsumu dismisses the thought and turns to greet the two men.
“Hi, welcome to Café Musubi. What can I get for you today?”
“Caramel macchiato, extra hot, to go,” Sakusa drawls in that impossibly sexy voice of his.
“I’ll have a matcha latte! And which one of your,” the brunette man—he has really strange eyebrows, Atsumu notices; they almost look like caterpillars—gestures to the display case, “many baked goods would you recommend?”
“Oh, um — I’d recommend the lemon poppyseed muffins, they’re real good. Kenma makes ‘em fresh every day.”
“Great, we’ll have two of those! That’s all, right, Kiyoomi?” Caterpillar Eyebrows asks.
Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Yes, Motoya.”
“Sorry ‘bout my cousin,” Caterpillar Eyebrows—Motoya, Atsumu reminds himself—whispers conspiratorially. “He might seem standoffish, but he’s really a sweetheart. Isn’t that right, Kiyoomi-kun?” He wiggles his eyebrows at Sakusa. Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief at the words ‘ my cousin’.
“Shut up, Motoya,” Sakusa grumbles, seemingly annoyed, but the soft pink tinge at the tips of his ears gives him away. Motoya moves away from the counter with a laugh and goes to stand by the pickup counter.
Atsumu turns to Sakusa, a lopsided grin playing on his face.
“Kiyoomi, huh? That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks,” Sakusa replies, unimpressed. “What’s the total?”
Atsumu rings him up and reaches for his marker to add something to Sakusa’s cup.
Omi :)
Satisfied, he goes to prepare their order, taking extra care to make Sakusa’s drink good.
“Caramel macchiato, matcha latte, and two lemon poppyseed muffins for Omi!” Atsumu calls.
Sakusa walks up to fetch their order.
“Who the hell is Omi?”
“You!” Atsumu chirps brightly. “See, Sakusa and Kiyoomi are a mouthful to say, so I shortened ‘em for ya.”
Sakusa’s brows furrow in a scowl. Atsumu pushes his drink forward.
“Enjoy your drink, Omi-Omi,” he says with a wink.
Their fingertips brush as Sakusa takes it, and Atsumu pretends his heart doesn’t jolt at the contact.
☕️
“Oh, Omi-kun, good morning! Havin’ your usual today?”
“Yes,” Sakusa replies, eyebrows only slightly down-turned at the nickname. Atsumu takes it as a win when he doesn’t tell him to fuck off and call him Sakusa-san. As Atsumu reaches for a to-go cup, he holds out a hand to stop him.
“Actually, I’d like to… have it here. And can I have the—the muffin you recommended last time? Lemon poppyseed, was it?”
Atsumu blinks at him, stunned. Sakusa wants to have his coffee here ? In the café?
“Miya. Miya, are you listening?” Sakusa’s voice breaks through his reverie.
“Oh, right, yeah. Have a seat and I’ll bring ‘em out to you.”
Sakusa moves to claim a table by the windows, taking off his coat and pulling out a journal and pen from his pocket.
Atsumu turns to make his drink. Yaku says he’s fucking whipped, man when he sees him making a rosette on top of Sakusa’s macchiato. Atsumu smacks him half-heartedly.
Once he’s sure it’s perfect, he heads over to where Sakusa is sitting, tray balanced precariously on his arm. Sakusa turns to him, and Atsumu nearly drops the fucking tray on his head from shock, because Sakusa took his mask off.
He has a sharp, angular nose, unbelievably high cheekbones, and soft-looking rosy lips that are just begging to be kissed. Every thought Atsumu has ever had about him being a mask fisher flies straight out of his head because fuck, the man is hotter than he could’ve ever imagined. He looks like he’d been reverently carved from marble by one of the old masters he’d vaguely heard about in art classes at school.
Sakusa is softly tapping his pen against the table. His fingertips are stained black with ink. Atsumu sneaks a glance at the page open on his journal — there’s a sketch of a tower covered in an intricate pattern of flowers and vines.
“Here you go,” he says finally, placing his coffee on the table. His voice cracks a little at the last syllable. Sakusa thanks him with a nod.
Atsumu stutters out an “Enjoy your coffee,” before Sakusa realizes he’s staring and books it to the kitchen.
“He’s here again,” he announces, still slightly breathless. “Sakusa. He’s here, and he took off his mask, and he’s fucking hot .”
Kenma looks up from where he’s balancing two trays of cherry tarts in his arms. He’s got flour smeared across his cheek.
“Yeah, we know, ‘Tsumu,” he says, placing the tarts inside the oven.
“Wh-what the hell do you mean , ya knew?” Atsumu sputters in disbelief.
“Yaku came in and told us like fifteen minutes ago. Hiro and I went and got a good look at him. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, ‘Tsumu, we were like three feet away from you.”
“Mhmm,” Hanamaki says. “He is hot. We also saw you have a whole meltdown in the three seconds you were in front of him. Real cute, Atsumu-kun.”
“Shut up, Hana-kun,” Atsumu grumbles, dropping down onto the stool.
“So, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna ask Sakusa out, or—” Kenma is interrupted by Semi walking into the kitchen.
“We need one of you outs—oh, what’s going on here? Who’s Sakusa?” Semi asks, looking between the three.
“One of the people outside,” Hanamaki answers.
Semi turns to Atsumu with a frown. “Miya-kun, you better not be thinking about asking out a customer again.”
“Wow, since when do you care about being proper and professional, Eita-kun?” Atsumu asks with a small laugh.
Semi blinks. “I don’t. I just remember the last time you asked someone out and then moped for two weeks when you got rejected and I don’t want that to happen again.”
He turns to leave. “We need one of you outside at the register, so be quick,” he calls over his shoulder, walking out.
Hanamaki lets out a low whistle. “ Damn. He didn’t have to bring up Hinata like that. That’s cold.”
Atsumu drops his head into his hands and groans. Kenma pats his back consolingly.
Finally, Atsumu heads back outside and sees Sakusa still in his seat by the windows. He sneaks glances at him in between serving customers and finds him sketching in his journal, occasionally pausing to take a sip of his coffee.
Once, he catches Atsumu’s eye, lips quirked up into a soft smile, and Atsumu nearly trips over thin air, because of-fucking-course he has dimples.
☕️
Once turns into twice, thrice, five times, until it becomes a routine for Sakusa to have his coffee at the café. Twice a week he comes in, takes the same seat by the windows, and has his extra-hot caramel macchiato and lemon poppyseed muffin. Gradually, he starts to reciprocate Atsumu’s enthusiasm and even starts up conversations himself.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is twenty-one, is the first thing that Atsumu learns about him. He studies architecture at the local university. Some days, he spends hours sketching the inside of the café, the view of the street, even the backs of other patrons’ heads. Other days, he simply reads, tucked away in his little corner at the back of the café. Some days he lingers by the counter, talking to Atsumu as he makes his coffee. His humor is the sardonic, deadpan kind that hits Atsumu like a punch and steals his breath away between bursts of laughter.
He has the nicest hands Atsumu has ever seen. Pale, slender fingers, often covered in ink marks from drawing the most beautiful sketches — he’s talented. And his moles — they don’t end at the twin marks on his brow; they’re dotted over his neck, his arms, those magic fingers. He does something with his wrist every time he picks a pencil up, some sort of graceful twist that steals Atsumu’s breath just as easily as his quick wit, only with a lot more uncomfortable longing wedged between his ribs.
Every new thing Atsumu learns about him he stores away in a little box in his head for safekeeping.
“I’ve been a barista for two years, Omi,” Atsumu says now, leaning back against the counter. “I can tell you what kinda customer anybody is from one look.”
It’s the mid-afternoon lull, and they’re the only ones in the café. Yaku’s gone to take a break, and Kenma and Hanamaki are doing whatever the hell bakers do in the kitchen. Sakusa’s sitting on one of the barstools by the counter, looking at Atsumu over the lip of his coffee cup.
“Really? Prove it, then.”
Atsumu chuckles. “Alright, Omi-kun. Whatever ya say.”
He moves to stand beside Sakusa on the other side of the counter and points to a man outside the café. He’s talking on the phone, gesticulating wildly, obviously upset about something.
“See, that guy. He’d insist that only one person is allowed to make his drink ‘cause everyone else gets it wrong,” he says, shaking his head slightly.
“Her, on the other hand,” he points to a young girl, carrying a huge book bag and waving to her friend across the street. “She’d be very easy-going. She’ll order the same thing every time, say please and thank you , and tip well. Those are the best kinds of customers.”
“What about her?” Sakusa points to a woman walking with a screaming child in tow.
“Ah, she’d be the worst. She’d show up at 7:50 even though it says on the door that we open at 8, and stare through the window at ya until ya let her in. And then she’ll say you fucked up her drink even though you didn’t, make you remake it, and be satisfied the second time even though it’s the exact fucking same.”
Sakusa raises his eyebrows, and Atsumu smiles sheepishly.
“Sorry, we get a lot of those in here, clearly.”
Sakusa laughs softly, and asks, “What about me?”
“What?”
“What’d you think, the first time you saw me?”
Atsumu flushes as all the nicknames he had given him come rushing back. He scrambles to think of something slightly less embarrassing than telling Sakusa he’d named him Horny Thought Generator in his head.
“I, uh—well, the first time I saw you, I thought you’d be very particular about your order. You seemed like the kinda guy to order 12 espresso shots, actually.”
Sakusa hums. “Is that all you thought?
Oh fuck, Atsumu thinks. It’s now or never, I guess.
“And,” he gulps. “I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”
“Really?”
Sakusa leans in closer. Atsumu hopes his heartbeat isn’t as embarrassingly loud as it feels.
“Y-yeah, I did.”
“You know,” Sakusa says, “I’m surprised you didn’t put your number on my cup that first day. I kept coming back hoping you would.”
“I thought about it,” Atsumu replies, feeling his cheeks grow increasingly warm. “But I was afraid I’d scare you away.”
Sakusa smiles softly, reaching over to trace his jaw with one of his insane, magical fingers. His gaze flickers from Atsumu’s eyes to his lips as his hand drops to cup his face, thumb running over his cheekbone, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“Is this okay?”
Atsumu could only nod yes.
He just has time to suck in a nervous breath and let his eyes flutter closed before Sakusa leans in, his lips ghosting over Atsumu’s for a moment before kissing him in earnest. His lips taste like caramel and mango-flavored lip balm. The kiss is short and sweet, barely lasting a few seconds before Sakusa pulls back, smiling against his mouth. Atsumu feels whole .
“I’m not going anywhere, Atsumu.”