Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Winter Hunting Festival.  

There’s actually no hunting involved, not in this day and age anyway. There is an impressive selection of meats; roasted lambs and fine cuts of poultry, mouthwatering pork and perfectly-seasoned mutton.

The festival is really only organized to brighten to moods of the nobility— one last dazzling event full of shining jewels, expensive dresses, sparkling champagne, fancy food, a night of bubbling laughter and mindless mingling—  as the end of winter creeps upon them. 

If Atsumu wanted to put on expensive silks and smooth satins that hardly keep him warm just to eat tender roasted lamb and get drunk off of fruity wine, he’d do in the privacy of his own home, with Osamu as his only company.

But, unfortunately, attending such garishly showy events is pretty much his job as the Crown Prince. He really does regret rubbing in his status of oldest (by eleven whole minutes!!) in Osamu’s face when they were kids.

After spending way too long greeting nobles and listening to a never-ending loop of ‘Greetings, Your Royal Highness’ and ‘So handsome today, Your Royal Highness’, Atsumu finally manages to escape. He spots Osamu— in his silvery ensemble, dark pants and thick winter boots, shimmering silver top and cozy fur cape— near the refreshments table. He has his leather gloves pulled off as he shamelessly shovels some snacks into his mouth. 

Typical. 

But also the perfect tactic to make sure no one tries to talk to you, why didn’t Atsumu think of it first?

Atsumu considers escaping to the garden. Surely there’d be no one there and he’d be able to breathe for a moment or two. 

Being the Crown Prince comes with a lot of hidden responsibilities. Like little fine print at the bottom of a page; essential t’s that need crossing and i’s that require dotting with uttermost flawlessness.

Perfection is not so much an expectation as it is a prerequisite. Just like fish cannot survive without water, and humans without air; the Crown Prince cannot survive as the Crown Prince without executing perfection. 

A tall order. Daunting. Stifling, sometimes. But Atsumu likes to think he handles all that pressure with grace. What Atsumu doesn’t really think about but still acknowledges in his heart is that there’s Osamu by his side too.

Osamu who was robbed— or perhaps freed— of Atsumu’s crown by a paltry eleven minutes but has never once shown Atsumu any contempt for such a thing. Osamu who pushes Atsumu to do better. Osamu who helps Atsumu even when he doesn’t have the energy to ask. Osamu who makes Atsumu food late at night, even though they could ask the night chefs to make it instead. Osamu who suffers alongside Atsumu, in training and endless studying, even though he technically doesn’t need to. 

Osamu who’s always there to dot the i’s if Atsumu only manages to cross the t’s.  

Osamu who is currently neglecting all his princely duties to shamelessly flirt with Akaashi Keiji in front of an elaborate fruit bouquet.  

Atsumu watches, disgusted as his brother offers the young duke a piece of honey melon on a flagged toothpick. Disgusting. Revolting, even.

He decides he will be escaping to the garden, to avoid seeing Osamu make eyes at his painfully obvious crush. 

After sending Osamu one last unseen glare, Atsumu spins on his heels and expertly weaves through the crowd, seamlessly excluding himself from the scene.

There’s a reason why the garden is empty currently. For one, all the amenities of the event as indoors, inside the extravagant ballroom. That’s where the food is, where the booze is, where all the important people are. That’s where all the fun is.

Meanwhile, outside, here in the garden illuminated by only the moonlight and a few stray lanterns, it’s colder than the ninth circle of hell. 

Without any mingling bodies to produce heat or any enclosed walls to trap it, the garden’s low temperature quickly gets to Atsumu. His body heat escapes quickly, his flimsy silk clothes doing nothing to help entrap any warmth. Soon enough his fingers and toes feel numb, his ears and nose chilly and likely red.

Atsumu groans, trudging through snow-covered paths. The snow crunches under his boots, icy and crisp. 

Why did he think this was a good idea? He should head back now. Before Aran notices he’s missing and then has to come out here and look for him. And before his fingers freeze over and fall off, he decides, rubbing his cold and numb hands together. 

And Atsumu’s about to go back, to turn around and briskly head inside to the ballroom again, when he notices him. 

A few metres away, standing in front of the camellias and looking as enchanting as ever— Kageyama Tobio.

His bangs blow in the chilly night wind, fluttering before softly falling against his forehead, half-melting snowflakes clinging to his dark locks. He wears a deep navy coat with a silky white button-up top,  all long legs and that slim waistline decorated with silver satin, wrapped tightly with a perfect bow. Embroidered patterns line his cuffs and a sapphire brooch rests at the dip of his neck, around a band of smooth fabric, matching the exact colour of Tobio’s eyes. 

Eyes that meet Atsumu’s. There it is, that piercing gaze that sends all of high society into either a state of unadulterated fear or unavoidable interest. Kageyama Tobio…the only son of the Kageyama House, perhaps the wealthiest merchants in the country. Their son who radiates beauty and elegance, but has a harsh resting face and a harsher glare.

If this were a romance novel— like those raunchy ones Aran secretly likes to read— Tobio would be the villainess, all sharp eyes and ice-cold beauty, the kind of face that is difficult to approach but impossible to ignore. 

An unapproachable beauty.

“Tobio-kun!” 

Well, to people other than Atsumu, perhaps. Opposite to those who can do nothing but watch from afar, Atsumu can do nothing but approach Tobio. It is as if it is written in his DNA, or perhaps up in the stars. Something divine that Atsumu has no place in refusing.

Tobio remains silent, even as Atsumu waves and jogs over to him with a bright smile, waiting until Atsumu is standing in front of him.

“Your Royal Highness,” Tobio nods his head, silky bangs falling forward as he does so. His face shows no change in emotion but Atsumu can see, under the glow of the sparse fairy lights, that flicker in Tobio’s eyes, the slightest crinkling around his lower lashline, the way his lashes flutter as he adjusts his focus.

“What’s with all the formality?” Atsumu leans in closer, arms crossed over his chest and a playful smirk stretched across his lips. “It’s just the two of us here, y’know?” 

Tobio glances around the secluded garden corner. “And?” he asks, looking back at Atsumu. His eyes still sparkle, just like the sapphire brooch around his neck, a glimmering jewel in the cold night. Eyes that look at Atsumu and Atsumu alone.

Atsumu’s fingers twitch around his bicep as he resists the urge to cup Tobio’s face. To push back his bangs. To trace the curve of his cheek. To feel how cold Tobio’s skin is from the chilly night air. 

“Wanna get out of here?” 

The cold is no bother at all. Not when Tobio’s excited nod of agreement warms Atsumu from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes. 

If you asked Atsumu his favourite colour, he’d immediately picture a sunset.

Navy and deep indigo bleeding into shades of cornflower blue and cool lavender. The peaches and corals that would extend their touch outwards, merging into pink-stained tints of strawberry and cherry, anchored by a glowing sphere of marigold in the centre of it all. 

In short, he can’t pick just one colour. It seems meaningless to do so when colours exist in a spectrum, when they blend with each other, harmonizing and embellishing one another. The world is made up of countless combinations of different shades, hues, and tints— how can you pick just one?

“Red. I like red.”

“...Were you even listening to a thing I said?” 

“You said you couldn’t pick a favourite colour. I can. It’s red.”

Atsumu lets out a sigh; poetic language is wasted upon Tobio, truly. 

“Why red?” Atsumu asks, staring out at the sky; the sun dips closer to the horizon with every passing minute.

“You said something about strawberries and I got hungry,” Tobio shrugs. 

“Wow,” Atsumu glances over at the younger boy, “Have you ever had an abstract thought? Ever? Or does your brain only know how to operate in the moment?” He pushes a finger into Tobio’s shoulder, nudging him lightly.

“Red is a good colour,” Tobio nods his head, ignoring Atsumu’s teases— willfully or unintentionally, Atsumu doesn’t know. “Strawberries, apples, mapo tofu, spicy ramen powder…” 

“Do you have a second stomach up there or something?” Atsumu knocks his knuckles against Tobio’s forehead. They walk, pressed side by side, through the snowy garden grounds. Their shoulders bump into each other with every other step, and every once in a while Atsumu’s fingers brush over Tobio’s, feathering over the other boy’s soft skin. 

This is the perfect moment, Atsumu realizes. 

Walking next to each other, the hushed crunch of snow and ice beneath their boots, the pale sunlight shining through snow-dusted evergreens, bouncing a halo of warmth around Tobio’s dark hair. Alone in this wintery garden, no one else to witness—  except for the fluttering finches dancing up in the tree branches—as they go through that familiar dance, teasing remarks and soft smiles, quiet laughter and lingering gazes. 

It’s the perfect moment to confess. No better moment could possibly exist, Atsumu is sure.

In this picturesque scene, as if it’s straight out of one of Aran’s romance novels, Atsumu would confess and Tobio would stare, awed and blushing, and reciprocate, and then they’d kiss and hold hands and do all those billion other little things that Atsumu fantasizes about. 

Or, it wouldn’t be the predictable climax at all but instead the worst day of Atsumu’s life also known as the day Tobio Rejected Him and Atsumu Ruined Their Friendship Forever.

Before he can start overthinking everything— his word choice, his tone, the way he’s angling his arm and neck— Atsumu takes in a deep breath and forces the words out.

“Tobio-kun, I like y—”

Atsumu— so focused on Tobio, nothing else but his dear Tobio— pays little, practically zero actually, attention to where he’s stepping. 

And where he’s stepping is nowhere good. Atsumu feels himself slip, his foot not landing on a solid surface as expected but continuing downward in a way that shifts all weight, and then he’s falling. His choked gasp is drowned out by the crackling sound of ice and snow falling away beneath him, his vision is a blur of the greyish-white sky and the dark earthy shades of the evergreen trees and bare branches and then— 

A sharp tug on his left wrist and Atsumu manages to make eye contact with Tobio for one second. He sees the panicked look etched on Tobio’s usually impassive face. 

Atsumu wants to kiss him so badly.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Atsumu announces, the adrenaline pumping through his veins taking over. Stupid adrenaline, however, didn’t stop to consider that the only thing holding Atsumu upright and saving his butt from colliding with the icy snow, is Tobio’s grip on his wrist and frankly impressive arm strength. 

That grip that disappears in an instant after those words leave Atsumu’s mouth.

“ Ow… ” Atsumu mutters, both ego and ass bruised.

“Sorry! You—” Tobio’s mouth forms that worried, wobbly frown, and he reaches down to help Atsumu up. 

Atsumu doesn’t let him. 

Instead, he pulls Tobio down with him, the other boy’s chest pressed against Atsumu’s. 

“W-what are you…?”

“Can I kiss you now, Tobio-kun?” Atsumu all but pleads, his cold fingers reaching up to cup Tobio’s face. “Or do you not want to kiss me?”

“I—I want to,” Tobio mumbles, eyes refusing to meet Atsumu’s.

Normally, Atsumu would tease him for being so innocent and bashful but there are more pressing matters at hand; namely, putting his lips on Tobio’s.

Tobio’s lips are cold, expectedly, but softer than Atsumu would’ve imagined. Soft, with the subtlest hint of sweetness, like marshmallows, Atsumu thinks. They gently press back against Atsumu’s lips, hesitant but excited. Atsumu’s fingers wind themselves in Tobio’s silken locks, pulling at the bits near the nape of the other boy’s neck, as he deepens their kiss.

Eventually, they break away, ther hot breath mingling in the cold night air as little foggy plumes. Tobio’s face is a splendid shade of red, his cheeks all rosey and glowing, and— ahhh. Atsumu suddenly sees the appeal of the colour red. Yeah, red is a pretty nice colour. 

“We should go back…” Tobio suggests, making absolutely no move to get off of Atsumu.

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees, his fingers brushing back a few stray bangs on Tobio’s flushed face, more than content just to lay there like this.

They do get up, once the snow has thoroughly seeped into Astumu’s clothes, leaving his backside cold and numb. Their chilled pinkies link together, as they exit the darkened garden. And even though Atsumu’s numbed hand can barely feel Tobio’s slender pinky wrapped around his own, he feels a rush of excitement and warmth rushing through him.

It feels like a promise, a secret between just him and Tobio. 

Atsumu is, undeniably, a mess when he returns to the ball. Unpresentable, in a way no Crown Prince ever should be, if the exasperated look Aran gives him is any indication.

Atsumu doesn't care though. Not when Tobio is shooting him not-so-subtle glances across the ballroom, the pinkness still lingering on his face, casting a warm glow across his cheeks. Not when he can still taste Tobio’s lips on his, feel Tobio’s heartbeat thumping against his own. 

Suddenly, all these tedious events seem a little bit more bearable. In fact, Atsumu is almost looking forward to the next one. 

That is, if a certain unapproachable beauty will also be attending.