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Honestly, Kiyoomi should have seen it coming. It was simply one of those days that in perfect accordance to Murphy’s law, everything went horribly wrong. It’s almost like a chain reaction. One little thing goes wrong in the morning and suddenly everything gets thrown off track, with no chance of salvaging the rest of the day.
The first strike was waking up tired even after his carefully scheduled 8 hours of sleep, joints aching and body stiff. It’s something that comes with his hypermobility; Kiyoomi knows and has come to reluctantly accept that, though experience does nothing to quell his discontent regarding his predicament.
And it definitely does nothing to make getting out of bed any easier. Kiyoomi takes almost thrice the time he usually needs to get ready. He tries to hurry as much as he can, but his limbs won’t cooperate and the cold weather only makes everything worse. Kiyoomi wants nothing more than to crawl back into the warm soft covers and sleep the day and the pain off.
Too bad he is a professional athlete close to tournament season. Besides, his own sense of responsibility and guilt would never let him waste a whole day like that. Frankly, perfectionism can kindly go fuck itself.
Kiyoomi chances a glance at the clock seeing that practice already started fifteen minutes ago and briefly reconsiders saying ‘fuck it’ and actually taking the day off, but in the end he grabs his bag and keys, leaving. His hair is still a mess and he didn’t have time to eat breakfast, but it’s fine, whatever. He just needs to get to the gym right now.
Well, that was the plan anyway. Except he doesn’t get there. Not immediately at least. No, instead his car decides to fucking break down halfway to his destination and he is unmoving in the middle of the road, blocking traffic and with no idea what to do or how to contact help, because of course he forgot his fucking phone at home in his rush.
He is so late and he can’t call anyone and everything hurts and he is not appropriately dressed for the freezing air and there are horns blaring, people screaming, it all feels like too much and he’s pretty sure his on his way to a panic attack.
After a few minutes of standing next to his car just sinking deeper and deeper into the helplessness and anxiety the situation is causing him, Kiyoomi feels a light tap on his shoulder. He turns to face the person and is met with concerned eyes and slight frown. They’re saying something, talking to him he realizes, but his ears are ringing. When did that start?
Kiyoomi tries to calm himself down, slow his breathing, focus. He can’t have a meltdown here and now. It would only make things more difficult. He needs to hold on at the very least until he can find a solution. Eventually, he collects himself and the person offers him with an understanding smile.
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” he manages with a shaky exhale.
“Are you alright? Would you like me to call roadside assistance?”
“Oh. That would be incredibly helpful. Thank you.” The relief was enough to make Kiyoomi’s eyes burn. If the stranger caught it, they didn’t comment on it. Kiyoomi appreciated them all the more for it.
By the time everything with his car is taken care of, Kiyoomi has missed almost three out of the four hours of morning training. He ends up taking a cab the rest of the way feeling more exhausted than after a grueling 30-point game.
He opens the door to the courts to all eyes on him. A couple of volleyballs fall on the ground but are temporarily neglected. By the look on his teammates’ and coach’s faces, he must look as terrible as he feels.
Carefully, he makes his way inside, dumping the heavy bag next to one of the benches before approaching Foster and bowing deep.
“I apologize for being so late. A few things happened…” he starts with a heavy sigh. Foster seems to understand something and leads Sakusa to talk privately in his office. There, he explains everything and informs him of the current state of his joints.
He is told to focus on stretching and receiving for the day. No practice games, no serves and absolutely no diving digs. Kiyoomi doesn’t object to that. Every move is harder than usual and his muscles protest all the while, but Kiyoomi pushes through. It's neither the first not the last time he has to.
Lunch rolls around and he uses most of the break to make up for his morning absence, leaving only half an hour to take a shower and finally rest a bit. At 3pm everyone is back and they resume with strength and conditioning training for a few more hours.
Kiyoomi can feel the team’s eyes from time to time and though he is grateful for the concern, he tries his best to ignore it. At some point Atsumu even braves a question.
"What happened Omi-Omi? No offense, but ya look like shit and ya almost missed practice.”
Needless to say he was promptly shut down.
“Nothing serious. Get back to training Miya.”
When the final whistle signifies the end of work, Kiyoomi has to stop himself from screaming in joy. He loves his job and his team but some days just suck no matter what you do.
In his glee he conveniently forgets he has no way of going back home. That is until he steps out, facing the parking lot, his car nowhere in sight. The morning comes back to him and he can’t help the miserable groan he lets out. He just wants to go home.
Atsumu, who was only a few feet behind him stops in his tracks and reluctantly nears his dejected spiker.
“Wanna tell me what’s wrong now, Omi?” With a resigned sigh, Kiyoomi concedes.
“My car stopped working as I was driving here this morning. They had to tow it away.”
Atsumu wrinkles his nose in distaste.
“Oh, that sucks. D’ya know how yer getting back then?”
On the one hand, Kiyoomi doesn’t want to walk another foot and the train will most likely be crowed. But at the same time, he refuses to even think how many people will have occupied the uber before him, not to mention the overpriced and undeniably way longer ride.
In the end, he decides 7 minutes of torture are better than 32 –as indicated by his lovely GPS- no matter what happens during that time.
“I’m taking the train.” He finally responds to Atsumu who has been patiently waiting for him to make up his mind.
“Okay, let’s go together. ’m a couple of stops after ya, I think.” He doesn’t wait for Kiyoomi to reply and leads the way towards the station.
Once they reach it, Atsumu has to show Kiyoomi how to buy a ticket because he is a rich kid who hardly ever commutes. He wants to tease him about it, but takes pity on the poor man and lets him off with a fond snort. The station is teeming with people as predicted, but at least the train comes and goes in barely two minutes.
Kiyoomi tries to press himself in a corner of the car, thankful for the barrier of clothes that allows him to keep his sanity despite the revulsion and unease coiling in his stomach. Atsumu dutifully follows, standing a few feet away and acting as a shield from the rest of the world. He does so silently and naturally, as if it’s something he does every day, which he doesn’t. But if there is one thing Kiyoomi has learned about the setter during their time on the same team, it’s that Atsumu is irritatingly observant and startlingly caring.
A bit over a year ago, when Kiyoomi had first joined the MSBY Jackals, he had assumed Atsumu would be the one he’d have the most trouble cooperating with. They never clicked as teenagers even though they acknowledged each other’s skills; Atsumu was obnoxious and loud in a way Kiyoomi could never hope to deal with at the time and in turn the spiker was too critical of everything and everyone, too withdraw to be approached by the blond, who cared deeply about the players but had no time to spare for the people under that.
It seems though that time had smoothed their edged, both maturing and growing slightly out of their -admittedly- quite self-centered temperaments. That was carried on the court where they displayed surprising chemistry. Maybe it was the time they spent playing together back in high school or the many years of knowing each other or their contradicting but somehow complementary personalities, but no matter what the reason was, no one could deny they made a great duo in volleyball.
And even outside of the sport, there were fights and teasing and lots of disagreeing and antagonizing one another, but there was also quite concern, mutual understanding, resolute trust that took significant time and effort to be built. Kiyoomi could begrudgingly admit he and Atsumu are friends at this point. Possibly the first one he ever made.
He’s had teammates before, classmates, colleagues, acquaintances, even people he happened to hang out with a couple of times. Komori is probably the closest he got to friendship before joining the Jackals, though he is family so it doesn’t count. Even with Ushijima, the respect they shared for each other too superficial, to inadequate to come close remotely close to friendship.
Kiyoomi doesn’t really know how it became like this with Atsumu. How the setter had badgered him into extra training, lively lunches, weekends together watching games and playing video games. Before he even knew it, he was talking to Atsumu about favorite foods and detached families, about restless nights of stiff joints or days with panicked breaths and loud thoughts. About future goals and wanting a dog he didn’t know if he could care for, about wanting to brush up on his violin.
In turn, he got to learn about Atsumu’s sweet tooth and -frankly unfairly good- baking skills. About insecurities, doubt of whether this was the right choice, the right path. About fragile egos buried underneath cocky fronts and home-sickness stealing hours and hours of sleep. He got to learn Atsumu cares the same way as he laughs, with his whole being and in volume that can be heard three blocks away. He got to learn he wants to be a coach for little kids when they retire and stay in the sport until his dying breath.
It was daunting at first, being so close to someone and letting them in as well. But, Kiyoomi couldn’t deny the satisfaction and joy their friendship brought him. Kiyoomi has never felt like he needed someone emotionally, not a parent not a sibling, not a friend or a partner. He’s been on his own for so long it didn’t really matter. If anything he preferred the independence and freedom of being alone. It got too quite sometimes though, too boring and too cold. And loneliness is just about the only thing you can’t fight by yourself.
Atsumu, without even knowing, did great work of helping him battle that. It wasn’t even just him from a point on. Atsumu helped him open up, showed him how to approach and be approached better and all of a sudden he knew that Shouyou can speak Portuguese, that Barnes has three kids, that Adriah’s lab is called Ava, that Inunaki’s teasing habits stem from growing up with six siblings, that Bokuto and his husband Akaashi were engaged for three years straight out of high school before finally getting married, that Meian has horrendously low alcohol tolerance and should never be allowed more than one glass of anything.
All of a sudden he was participating in team bondings and celebratory nights out after victorious games and holiday dinners and vacation expeditions and though he had never though he had been missing out on this, he felt incredibly grateful to be able to experience it now.
It was a nice change, a good change. And Kiyoomi knows Atsumu was the root of it even if he won’t ever confess anything of the sort out loud.
The first couple of stops are fine; people come, people go and Kiyoomi still has room to breathe. On the third one though hell begins. It seems to be a popular one for corporate employees who have gotten off work and are determined to get back home as anyone would be at 6:42 in the evening. The onslaught of people starts and never ends. The very concept of personal space is relentlessly abolished by the time the train pulls back into motion. Atsumu gets shoved until he is squeezed right against Kiyoomi. It feels like every single inch of their torsos is touching and he freezes, all thought process ceasing.
Kiyoomi distantly registers Atsumu apologizing and trying to move away, but only succeeds in being pushed even closer to him. Kiyoomi should hate it. He should absolutely loathe the extensive and prolonged contact in a dirty train among dozens of sweaty strangers. He should itch with the need to move away, to get away. And yet, he feels himself burning with the desire to inch closer, press into Atsumu’s warm chest, bury his face in the juncture of his neck, have the arm caging him wrapped around his waist instead.
He doesn’t know what to do with that, with himself. He’s never wanted to touch anyone before, be touched by them. Every little movement and jolt of the train makes everything all the more intense, makes him all the more aware. It’s all too much and not nearly enough. Kiyoomi aches for something but he doesn’t know what, and it’s the only thing he can do to keep himself still, contain this unreasonable want lest he does something he might regret.
Maybe he should have taken a taxi after all.
The three minutes it takes for the last two stops feel like centuries to Kiyoomi. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t breathed in a while and his muscles keep twitching reflexively. Mercifully, though the voice overhead announces they have arrived at his station and he allows himself a relieved exhale.
He might have been too quick to let his guard down, however, because the moment he makes to step towards the double metal doors that are the last obstacle to his mental stability, his legs decide to fuck up. Kiyoomi’s knees buckle and he would have fallen to the ground if not for two strong hands catching him by the arms to stabilize him.
“Jesus Christ, Omi. What’s up with ya today?” Atsumu’s eyes are wide and his tone worried, but Kiyoomi’s mind is reeling. He can’t answer, he can’t even speak. He can only think of those hands, powerful in their abilities, yet impossibly gentle as they hold him, as they touch him.
He wants them all over his body.
He wants them running through his curls, caressing his face and stroking his nape. He wants them feeling up his chest, digging into his back, squeezing his waist, grasping his hips, fondling his thighs. He wants them everywhere, anywhere.
He tries to shake himself out of it, though the images linger in the back of his head. He comes back to reality to Atsumu maneuvering them among people and getting them out of the station. He has thrown one of Kiyoomi’s arms around his shoulder and is holding him upright with his left one wound around the younger’s midsection.
Kiyoomi wants to nuzzle into his side, wants to ask Atsumu to carry him on his back, wants to continue reveling in this feeling of warmth and safety for as long as he’s allowed.
He lets Atsumu guide him home with no complaint.
Fortunately, his apartment is four blocks away from the station. With Atsumu’s help, they make it there in less than five minutes. If Kiyoomi drags his feet just a bit more when he sees his building no one really needs to know.
They take the elevator to the 7th floor. Kiyoomi tries to keep any disappointment off his expression. Atsumu would probably let him cuddle him if he asked.
“Where are your keys?” the blond asks when they reach the door.
“Bag.” He mutters grumpily, noticing for the first time that apparently Atsumu had been carrying his as well. Since when, he doesn’t know.
“’Kay. Hold on for a sec, yeah?” the arm leaves his middle and he is unprepared for his own weight. Was standing always so hard? Atsumu swiftly catches him again with a tense gasp. He steadies him to lean on his chest, leaving one hand there to be sure and struggles to find the keys and get them inside with the other.
“Fucking hell, Omi-kun. When was the last time you ate something? You were practicing during lunch.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t even make an effort to answer. He can smell Atsumu’s apple and cinnamon shampoo from where he’s tucked under his chin and his body heat makes Kiyoomi feels so cozy he could easily sleep right now. He’s so drained. Today was hard and he just wants it to end.
“Right, got it. I’ll fix ya something.” Atsumu sighs in amused exasperation when it’s clear he’s not getting any sort of response.
Atsumu leads him to the bathroom, handing him one of the towels from the cabinet and moving him to sit on the toilet lid. Kiyoomi’s brain feels like mush as he lets himself be manhandled. It’s okay, he can trust Atsumu.
“You take a shower while I make us food. Will you be okay on your own?”
Frankly, Kiyoomi isn’t quite so sure he won’t collapse five minutes into his shower, but the mere thought of what Atsumu is insinuating is enough to make his pale cheeks burn bright with color. He can’t stop the image of himself and Atsumu in hot water, surrounded by bubbles, chest to back with their limbs entwined as he rests his head back on a muscled shoulder to meet adoring honey eyes and soft lips.
What the fuck? Where did all these come from? What the fuck is happening to him?
His breathing is getting heavier by the second and he wills himself to snap out of it. Answer first, have gay panic later.
“Y-yeah. I’ll be fine.” Atsumu narrows his eyes, looking unconvinced, which, yeah okay fair. Still Kiyoomi rolls his eyes just because.
“I’ll just yell if I need anything or am about to die. Good enough?” Atsumu snorts. Kiyoomi feels oddly pleased to have accomplished that. Did he always enjoy making the other laugh so much?
“Not really, but I’ll take it.”
Atsumu leaves and Kiyoomi exhales in pure relief, tension rolling out of him in waves as he turns on the shower to the hottest it can go. It works wonders for his stiff joints and aching muscles, but at the same time it makes the exhaustion all the more apparent. Ten minutes later, he can hardly keep his eyes open and decides it’s time to get out. He’d prefer to not actually fall and die, thank you.
During the shower he also does a lot of thinking. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Kiyoomi has developed feelings for Atsumu that diverge from what he previously considered solely platonic ones. The scenes in his mind are intimate and romantic, possibly sexual as well. He doesn’t know if the contact on the train was the trigger of this craving, or if he’s been yearning for this kid of physical affection from him without even realizing.
One thing is certain though; he wants Atsumu. In any he can have him. In all the ways he can have him.
He could do a lot worse he supposes. He makes peace with it. Accepts it, takes a deep breath and goes to have dinner with his best friend.
Atsumu is going crazy. Ever since that fateful day he helped Omi back home because he couldn’t even support himself, Kiyoomi has been weird. Like, extra weird. He has been touching him. Everywhere. All the time. Like it’s nothing.
Up until two weeks ago Kiyoomi didn’t even allow him high fives and now he sleeps on his shoulder during movie nights, presses their legs together when they sit next to each other at team outings, gives congratulatory pats that definitely linger and it’s always just with him. It’s been driving Atsumu mad.
Should he interpret this somehow? Does this mean what he wants it to mean or is it wishful thinking and desperation? Does he reciprocate? Do Kiyoomi’s boundaries stop at what he chooses to initiate? What the fuck does he do?
He’s been falling in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi since the younger’s second month with the Jackals. They had a practice match and the other team’s coach had brought along his 8-year old son as an emergency solution to having nobody to take after the kid at home at the time. Needless to say, the child was absolutely entranced by Kiyoomi and his ‘squidy wrists’. After the game the boy ran to him, bombarding with questions about volleyball and about his bones and ‘why don’t you have any?’
Atsumu knew then that Kiyoomi didn’t like kids, or personal questions, or staying in the court after a game when he could be washing the sweat and filth away. And yet Kiyoomi had stayed for almost half an hour, humoring a kid he’d never seen before and would probably never see again. He had stayed and patiently answered every question, explained whatever he could in a gentle voice. And when the boy had been dragged away by an apologetic father, waving frantically with a bright toothless smile on display, Kiyoomi had smiled back.
Atsumu felt his first heartstrings stirring at that smile and he knew. He knew he’d be a goner for him.
Fourteen months later and Atsumu falls deeper every day. Which is exactly why he’s panicking so much and has no idea what to do.
Osamu, the little shit, was entirely unhelpful; only laughing at him and calling him an idiot when he told him.
Atsumu knows, he knows what this abrupt change could mean but he doesn’t want to raise his expectation only to suffer a more devastating disappointment. Kiyoomi is a stranger to physical affection and maybe he simply started feeling comfortable enough in their friendship to try it, to experiment or satisfy his curiosity. People touch all the time. This doesn’t have to be in the way Atsumu wants it to. And it terrifies Atsumu because he doesn’t know if he can handle it if doesn’t.
It would be too hard. Too close but too far from what he wants to have with Kiyoomi.
Maybe he should ask. He should stop torturing himself with the possibilities. If anything Omi has always been brutally honest.
Of course, that’s easier said than done. Next Friday night finds him seated on Kiyoomi’s couch with the spiker’s head on his lap as he demands his hair to be played with. Atsumu almost had an aneurism when he asked. The contact has been getting bolder by the day.
Yesterday he held Atsumu’s hand while they were getting back the gym after lunch. Atsumu tripped and almost fell over. Kiyoomi laughed and kept him upright. He didn’t let go.
Kiyoomi has his eyes closed as Atsumu carefully strokes ink black tufts. He looks unbelievably peaceful like this. Gorgeous, his mind whispers. He takes a look at the hint of a smile tilting the edge of Kiyoomi’s lips and makes up his mind. He can’t go on not knowing for sure any longer. The longing is suffocating his insides. You could have this all the time, you just need to ask.
There is still a chance this is nothing but platonic for Kiyoomi. He’s learnt to read Kiyoomi though, to understand what he says and what he doesn’t. All that’s left is trusting that and taking a risk.
It’s worth it. Atsumu thinks. No matter what, Kiyoomi is worth it.
“Hey, Omi?” Kiyoomi hums but his eyes remain closed. Atsumu doesn’t really have anything planned to say. He starts speaking anyway.
“So, uh…ya’ve been touching me lately. A lot. Only me. So I just… wanted to know why? I guess?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, biting back a grin at Atsumu’s obvious nervousness and embarrassment. Cute.
“Because I like touching you. And I like you touching me as well.” He responds nonchalantly, as if this isn’t one of the most important conversations Atsumu has ever had.
“Yeah yeah, okay. But why?” Atsumu pleads with a frustrated whine. He’s going to be sick if this goes on much longer.
Kiyoomi doesn’t quite manage to hide his fond smile this time, not that he particularly cares to. He sits up to be on eye level with Atsumu. He needs him to understand this.
Kiyoomi places a hand on each side of Atsumu’s face, teasing short hair and high cheekbones.
“Because it’s you, Atsumu. I like it because it’s you.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he laughs at Atsumu’s awed expression. He is stunning. Atsumu never wants to stop looking at him. Maybe he doesn’t have to.
Atsumu wraps his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist and pulls him on top of him. He nuzzles messy curls and embraces Kiyoomi tight as the other moves to straddle his hips, hands falling to his neck.
“Yer killing me Omi-Omi.” He forces with a shakily. His eyes aren’t burning. They aren’t. Kiyoomi looks at him knowingly. It’s so tender and loving he could actually cry. He doesn’t. (Though just barely).
“Can I kiss ya, Omi?” Kiyoomi leans closer in lieu of answer. Atsumu can’t get over the way his hair frame his face. Can someone be so fucking beautiful it physically hurts you looking at them?
The first press of lips is too quick and they’re smiling too much for it to be considered a kiss, but they make up for it with the next one. And the one after that. And the many after that.
They keep it soft and slow, taking their time learning all these knew things about themselves and each other. They learn that Kiyoomi likes having his hair lightly pulled and lip bitten. They learn that Atsumu moans a bit higher when Kiyoomi sucks on his tongue and shivers at blunt nails brushing his nape. They learn the best angles to tilt their heads and how to breathe in between kisses.
They learn and learn and learn.
And they will continue to learn, because they have all the time in the world and you can never know everything about someone. They’d both be happy to try though.