Chapter Text
Res Ipsa Loquitur - A latin term meaning "the thing speaks for itself"; a doctrine of tort law.
2L Spring
The first time Miya Atsumu met Sakusa Kiyoomi he got his ass handed to him.
The weather had just started to warm up, but the courtroom their teams were competing in was downright frigid. Atsumu had downed several cups of coffee to keep himself alert for their first round, and deeply regretted it as his coach glared at him from the back of the room for twitching as Osamu gave his opening statement.
The opposing team was good – articulate and confident. They had moved smoothly enough through pre-trial motions to put Atsumu’s team on alert. A part of Atsumu was itching to get involved in the case, to attack the story the other team’s opening attorney was, admittedly masterfully, weaving. The other part – the insecure part that he buried under ten layers of charming smiles, purposeful hand movements, and clever turns of phrase – was glad he was able to ease into his first nationals by playing a witness in the first round.
He perked up as Suna retook his seat next to Osamu, and watched Kita pretend to recollect himself as the opening attorney from the other team got up to cross examine him. They had been told that this team had a good chance to win nationals, and they were certainly polished, but Atsumu didn’t see anything particularly special about the cross. It was clean and to the point, but it failed – as every cross had before it – to break Kita’s composure. Suna declined to re-direct, and then it was his turn.
He plastered on an amiable smile as Osamu called him to the witness stand, making a show of straightening his jacket as he walked up.
One of Atsumu’s strengths was reading the judges. At looking at their reactions to his answers and adjusting. Dialing back an explanation here, throwing in a sassy comment there until the judge was smiling every time he met their gaze. Another was coming across as confident without being arrogant, admittedly harder at nationals where his accent and turns of phrase didn’t endear himself to the locals like they did at regionals, but still doable.
Together they made him one of the best expert witnesses in any competition he went to. He’d been assured of this fact throughout his undergraduate mock trial career, and regionals the month before had confirmed that it would remain unchanged in law school. Osamu complained and maintained that the nationals judges would see through him, but it didn’t stop him from coming up with responses to the objections Atsumu’s testimony would inevitably draw.
Atsumu could see Osamu tensing up as they geared up to his tender, preparing to argue the objection they knew was coming. Atsumu had to force himself not to react when the dark-haired closing attorney declined to object. And again when he didn’t object to one of their more outrageous conclusions.
By the end of his direct the other attorney hadn’t objected a single time, and Atsumu was confident he’d won the expert battle the case packet had set up. When Osamu sat down the dark-haired attorney took a long moment to glance over his notes, before standing up and looking at Atsumu for the first time that trial.
He was so pretty Atsumu missed his first question. He laughed it off, apologizing, and forced himself to stare at a point behind the other man’s head instead of his doe eyes, artfully styled hair, or absolutely adorable moles just above his eyebrow. The question came slowly and evenly, in a neutral tone.
Atsumu relaxed into the first few questions, recognizing the soft balls for what they were. When the trap closed around him he just stared at the calm attorney who had just taken the loose ends from his direct and strangled him with them. He tried to brush it off, started to explain it away and realized he’d dug himself deeper into the hole when he saw Osamu’s wide eyes and the small uptick of the other attorney’s lips.
Osamu asked to re-direct. He never asked for a re-direct. He never needed to re-direct. Re-direct was for cleaning up the damage caused on cross, and Atsumu never let there be damage to clean up.
Atsumu sat back down at counsel table feeling like he’d been sucker-punched. He stared blankly at his notepad as Osamu rested their case and the infuriatingly good crossing attorney made a Rule 50 motion so well-reasoned the judge looked like he might forget himself and actually grant it.
When they got up for a small recess Osamu was so stunned he didn’t even whisper-yell like he usually did.
“What the actual fuck was that?” Atsumu shrugged, not trusting himself to speak. Kita rejoined them at their table, handing out water bottles.
“Was he on their team last year?”
Kita shook his head, “Not as far as I know. I think he’s a 2L.”
Osamu furrowed his brow as he took a sip of his water, “I don’t remember him from undergrad. His team might not have made it to nationals.”
“Or he could’ve started in law school.”
Atsumu shot Kita a disbelieving look and broke his silence, “If he started in law school I’m quitting right now because that much talent is not fair.”
Kita shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe he’s not a good closer.”
He was a very good closer. Logical and persuasive without any of the dramatics or flashy performance Atsumu favored. Thankfully for his ego he wasn’t the best Atsumu had ever seen, and he thought he could definitely beat him if they went head to head, but the other man was good enough to put their chances of winning the round six feet underground.
One day later and a check-in with their coach revealed that Sakusa Kiyoomi and his team had swept all ballots in their round, from which there was little to no chance of recovery. Atsumu and his team packed their bags without making the break, and he comforted himself with knowing that Sakusa’s team had lost in the semifinals.
3L Fall
The next time Miya Atsumu sees Sakusa Kiyoomi they are not competing.
Atsumu’s school is hosting the Tournament of Champions, meaning that their team cannot compete. Instead, they’re stuck keeping time and running the tab room under their coach’s stern gaze.
Atsumu rushes into the tab room to get his room assignment two minutes before the 8:30am start time, a McDonald’s hash brown crammed in his mouth and three large ice coffees balanced in his arms. He stretches over the table to hand Suna his coffee and in the process squeezes the cup cradled in the crook of his arm slightly too hard. The lid pops off and his slightly wrinkled dress shirt is doused in sugary caffeine.
By the time Suna and Osamu are done laughing over his misfortune he is two minutes late and his shirt is clinging wetly to his chest. He debates trying to cover it up with his suit jacket but decides the risk to the more expensive fabric isn’t worth it and accepts his fate.
Thankfully the judges meeting has run long and the bench is empty when Atsumu takes his place. He takes a sip of his half-empty coffee and has stuffed the rest of his slightly cold hash brown in his mouth when he glances up at the teams and makes eye contact with Sakusa Kiyoomi.
His first thought is that Sakusa has somehow become even more attractive in the last six months. The second is that the courtroom they are in, like all courtrooms, is absolutely freezing and you can probably see his nipples through his wet shirt. Sakusa raises an eyebrow while his co-counsel giggles softly and Atsumu glares until the judge finally comes in and they have to break eye contact.
Sakusa has gotten even better, his closings starting to gain some of the passion that earns nines and tens instead of sevens and eights, and his crosses are all perfect tens. Atsumu rants to his team about it over beer every night of the tournament and avoids Sakusa when he sees him in the halls.
He doesn’t want to talk to him until he has redeemed himself and thoroughly crushed the other man.
(And he can get a word out without either insulting his trial skills or propositioning him)
3L Spring
Atsumu’s team makes the break.
It’s announced at a banquet Suna has dubbed “the most awkward cocktail party in existence”, where nobody actually eats the horrible food, and instead sips at a drink before escaping to the nearest fast food place as soon as the placements are announced. Atsumu does not see Sakusa at the banquet.
He sees him at the Wendy’s next to the hotel while he and Osamu are competing to see who can fit the most fries in their mouth at once. Atsumu is still in his suit, which is in danger of getting ketchup dripped onto it at any moment, while Sakusa’s team has changed into comfier clothes. Atsumu thinks it is incredibly unfair that the dark-haired man manages to look even more attractive in sweats and a faded t-shirt than he does in a tailored suit. The ketchup does drip onto his shirt while Atsumu stares at the way the shirt stretches across Sakusa’s chest.
Sakusa gets into line to order and Atsumu makes a strategic retreat before any more of his clothes get ruined.
He sees Sakusa again the next morning. This time they are both wearing suits – Atsumu’s neatly pressed this time – and are both attorneys.
Osamu is much more careful than Atsumu on the witness stand and plays a convincing defendant. He gives Sakusa less to work with, and keeps it close enough that Atsumu can pull their case together in his closing,
Sakusa’s closing scores better, but Atsumu’s team wins three of the five ballots and moves on to the semifinals. After the judge has finished comments Atsumu straightens his suit and marches to where Sakusa is packing up their trial box. He forgets his carefully practiced speech – that he definitely didn’t practice more than his actual closing – for a moment when he meets the other man’s eyes, but muscle memory kicks in.
“Hey, your closings are getting really good.” He sticks his hand out.
Sakusa’s mouth twists and he quirks an eyebrow. He studies Atsumu for a long moment before nodding once, pointedly ignoring his outstretched hand. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself on the stand this time.”
Atsumu can feel a blush creeping up his neck, and he knows he should reign back his temper and be polite, but “Wow, you’re an asshole.” He can’t.
Sakusa raises both eyebrows and huffs out a laugh. He fishes a face mask out of one of the inner pockets of his suit jacket and slips it on. His voice is slightly muffled when he responds. “Good luck, scumbag.” Then he grabs his trial box and walks out, leaving Atsumu to stew.
They lose in the finals.
Five Years Later
Miya Atsumu thought that nationals would be the last time he ever saw Sakusa Kiyoomi.
They went to law schools on opposite ends of the country, only brought to the same area by trial competitions. Atsumu took a job at a large corporate firm on their litigation team straight out of law school. Sakusa went to work at the State Attorney’s Office – which Atsumu definitely didn’t find out by stalking Sakusa’s teammates’ social media through Osamu’s account. There was absolutely no reason to believe they would ever encounter one another again.
Which is why when Atsumu came into work one morning and found Sakusa setting up in the office next to his he decided to lock himself in his office with the blinds drawn and call Osamu in a blind panic.
“I’m going to have to quit my job, ‘Samu.”
“Don’t do that. Who’ll pay my student loans?” Atsumu frantically lowers the volume on his phone, moving as far away from the wall he now – god forbid – shares with Sakusa, as he can get.
“You got a full-ride scholarship, dumbass. It’s not my fault you decided to open a restaurant instead of actually making money.” He furiously whispers into the receiver.
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, wait. Sakusa’s here.”
“Sakusa. Like the star of your wet dreams, Sakusa?”
Atsumu regrets ever telling Osamu that he found Sakusa attractive. “Like my mortal enemy, Sakusa.”
“Right, and he’s where?”
“In the office next to mine.” By now Atsumu has scrolled through his email and confirmed that the vacant position on the litigation team has been filled.
“Okay? So wait in your office until he leaves.”
“He’s not here for a meeting. I think he works here now.” Atsumu frowned at his phone as Osamu burst into laughter. “You got it all out now?”
“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“First, I’m telling Suna you said that. Second, you can shove an onigiri up your ass, you douche.”
“This is what you get for selling your soul to big law. Let me know if you manage to talk to him without insulting him.” Osamu hung up before Atsumu could respond.
Atsumu busies himself with the urgent paperwork sitting on top of his desk, making calls to a few clients, clearing out his inbox, and organizing his desk drawers until he has run out of things he can do without leaving his office. He’s contemplating making a dash to the coffee machine when there’s a soft knock on his office door.
He calls for them to come in, hurriedly grabbing a pen and starting to doodle on the nearest legal pad in an attempt to seem busy.
Samson Foster pokes his head through the door first and waves before moving fully into the office. He bypasses the expensive leather chairs sitting on the other side of his desk – the ones the firm had provided when he moved into the office – in favor of the couch he had jammed into the corner of the room. It had been secondhand when Osamu found it for their shared apartment their 1L year, and eight years later the faded upholstery, complete with a seventy’s print and several questionable stains, looked distinctly out of place. Atsumu had brought the couch with him to his new job, insisting to Osamu that it added character to his new office. A choice he was now regretting as he watched the senior partner settle into the old behemoth.
“Mr. Foster, what can I do for you?”
The older man laughed jovially and waved him off. “How many times have I told you to call me Samson? Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you met our new hire. He’s going to be working on the litigation team with you so I put him next door. Figured you could help him get acquainted with the office.”
Atsumu swallowed down his grimace and plastered on a wide grin – the one he reserved for clients that refused to take his advice and interns that thought they were above basic research because they went to a prestigious school. “Of course! I was actually just going to invite them to lunch with me.”
Samson clapped his hands and tried to extract himself from the couch. “Wonderful! I’m sure you’ll get along great.” He finally dragged himself from the sofa’s clutches and slipped out of Atsumu’s office.
He dropped his head in his hands and groaned before straightening back up and checking his appearance in his phone camera.
He straightened his hair and checked to make sure nothing had spilled on his dress shirt. He fiddled with his tie before deciding to leave it slightly loose and grabbed the blazer he kept hanging behind his door. Before he could talk himself out of it he marched to the office next door and knocked briskly.
He stared at the shiny new name plate, which he had failed to register was there for the past two weeks, until Sakusa’s voice called for him to come in.
Sakusa had been at the firm for less than a morning and his office was already more put together than Atsumu’s. He had replaced the standard issue leather client chairs with a pair of plush armchairs Atsumu wanted to sink into. His diplomas and bar certifications were hung neatly in a sleek gallery wall along with a few framed photographs and obligatory lawyer quotes. A new lamp sat in the corner, giving off a warm comforting glow, in contrast to the neon fluorescent lights all the offices cam with. Sakusa’s desk was neat and orderly, a minimalist pen cup and desk calendar arranged in the corner next to an industrial sized pump bottle of hand sanitizer. Atsumu could see a wax melter perched on one of the bookshelves, but it wasn’t quite able to cover up the sharp scent of heavy cleaners that permeated the room.
Sakusa was in the process of cleaning off his computer when Atsumu came in, running a Lysol wipe across his monitor and keyboard, taking care to scrub in between each of the keys. He finished by wiping off the mouse and tossing the wipe into an already overflowing trash can next to his desk.
He seemed slightly startled when he saw Atsumu hovering awkwardly in the doorway, but quickly schooled his features into an impassive mask.
“Miya. Is there something I can do for you?”
“You can stop calling me Miya.” Sakusa raised an eyebrow and Atsumu scrambled to recover. “I mean, call me Atsumu, everybody does. After all, we’re co-workers now, right Omi?”
Sakusa’s eye twitched and his lips twisted in a familiar scowl. “I would prefer if you didn’t call me that.”
Atsumu grinned, settling into a familiar groove. “But Omi, everybody has a nickname here. And besides, we’re old friends.”
Sakusa scoffed. “Is that what we are?”
“Yep!” Atsumu sank into one of the armchairs and was pleased to find they were as comfortable as they looked. He had a feeling he would be spending a lot of time in them. “We go way back.”
“You called me an asshole.”
“And it’s true! But I love you anyways Omi.” Atsumu gave him his brightest smile, the one he used on clerks and legal assistants he needed to stay in the good graces of. “That’s why I’m taking you out to lunch. Aren’t I the nicest?”
Sakusa scowled and leaned back in his desk chair. “You are without a doubt, the most unpleasant person I have met in this office yet.”
Atsumu winked and tried not to focus on Sakusa’s curls and how they might look after he ran his hands through them. “Then you haven’t met the employment division yet. I’ll introduce you after lunch, Omi.”
Sakusa bit his lip and dear god Atsumu was going to have dreams about it. “I’m not going to get out of this, am I?”
“Glad you accepted your fate Omi-Omi. Now come on, I know this great onigiri place.”