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Thirteen
A wave of footsteps rolled overhead as a half-dozen kids tromped up and down the risers. Loud, energetic bursts of conversation echoed in the cavernous space where Kiyoomi laid on his back, jacket pillowed behind his neck and head. He kept his knees bent to avoid the unpleasant urethane flooring sticking to his calves. Every set of footsteps he closed one eye and opened the other, gaze always trained on the volleyball propped on his fingertips, over his head.
The chatter above was competitive and loud:
What high school did everyone want to go to? Kiyoomi didn’t care. High school was another year off.
How tight can they get their elbows forming a platform with their arms? Komori and a boy from Nekoma loudly compared, dialing their aptitude into meaningless fractions of millimeters. Kiyoomi’s elbows could touch like Komori’s but he never told anyone or bragged. If Kiyoomi said something, everyone would ask to see and he didn’t want to deal with people talking about his and Komori’s freaky elbows. They already talked enough about Kiyoomi’s wrists.
Conversation lulled. A kid from Nohebi asked about watching the other prefecture’s middle school tournaments as another set of footsteps smacked down the bleachers, sweeping through the coarse lights buzzing overhead in strict, narrow lines through the gaps above. Left eye closed, this time, focusing on the little bumps in the leather of the ball, the feel of the seams. A shallow toss in a straight line up and down.
The boy Komori was talking to started waxing poetic about cute neighborhood girls and listened with rapt attention as Komori spun old wives’ tales about cold fingers and dropped forks in exchange.
A nasal voice asked what position everyone wanted to play.
Another topic Kiyoomi had little interest in. He didn’t care what position he played, just that he did. He didn’t care much for volleyball in particular, either, but his parents said he had to pick an activity and then there Komori was with a ball, a week-long summer camp, and enthusiasm so severe he trembled. It was fun enough. A challenge Kiyoomi could become submerged in for hours at a time just like this: laying back, volleyball perched on the tips of his fingers like the coach showed them the other day. The loud kid who never stopped talking about Fukuroudani showed them again, later that night. Bokuto was ostensibly older and wiser but Kiyoomi thought he was better than Bokuto by now. He just needed more practice before letting anyone see.
“I can’t believe you’re lying on the floor.” Komori’s voice echoed in the slatted cavern under the bleachers.
Kiyoomi shrugged, assuming Komori couldn’t see but when he glanced back, Komori was standing nervously at the tall end of the bleachers, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Need something?” Kiyoomi asked. Another toss, a little higher, eyes firmly on Komori to maintain the blind catch. Definitely as good as Bokuto, at least.
“It’s time for dinner,” Komori said. “Then after we’re going to watch some more games.”
The ball flew again. “Okay.”
Fingers poked into Kiyoomi’s vision and wiggled. They looked clean, at least. No dirt, no sheen of sweat. Komori was always good about being tidy.
“Are you having fun?” Komori asked. “Or at least learning something? I feel bad dragging you along…”
Kiyoomi wasn’t sure what, exactly, constituted ‘fun’. He liked the camp well enough; it beat being home alone and having his sister call every two hours. Would be better without all the other kids, though. Kiyoomi’s hands were too small to palm the ball, so he cradled it to his chest with his arm and reached for Komori’s. “I guess.”
“Better than, ‘no.’” Komori laughed and hauled Kiyoomi to his feet, only letting go once they were out from under the bleachers and he was sure Kiyoomi would follow along.
Later, after dinner, once the more boisterous conversations turned sleepy, Kiyoomi found himself crammed into a huddle with a dozen other boys, all watching Bokuto’s tablet with varying levels of rapture.
Kiyoomi would not normally be found in such a situation, but he caught a glimpse of a serve that left him near breathless as he walked by—as if the ball had slammed straight into his ribs and popped his lungs—and he couldn’t look away. The boy crackled with electricity. A vicious grin stretched ear-to-ear, shoulder flexed back and chest popped out. Savage. Ravenous. Kiyoomi had never seen such a thing; how was anyone supposed to catch a feeling like that? Whenever Kiyoomi tried, it always tumbled between his fingers like smoke.
“Who is that?” Kiyoomi asked before better sense caught up to him.
Bokuto didn’t care much for the scandalous nature of Kiyoomi asking after someone for what must have been near the first time in his life. “Miya Atsumu is the one serving. Osamu’s the other one. They’re from down south, this is the Hyogo qualifiers.”
Kiyoomi barely noticed Osamu. They were obviously twins but he carried a slow, smoldering roar in contrast to Atsumu’s flamboyant cannon.
“When do we get to play people like that?” Kiyoomi desperately wanted to be on the other side of the net from these Hyogo kids. His school had some decent matches but nothing that lit this competitive spirit. Kiyoomi had never walked onto the court desperate to win and not sure he would.
“When you play for a school good enough to go to Nationals,” Bokuto said.
Kiyoomi started running down the high school wish lists everyone was comparing earlier. He could make it. He had a whole year to improve and he was already as good as Bokuto.
The match ended without another serve from the electric twin—Miya Atsumu rang in the back of Kiyoomi’s head—and the group dispersed with frenzied whispers.
“You like watching the game?” Komori asked as he and Kiyoomi headed across the room to their side-by-side futons. “You know my mom keeps saying I should make you come to our house after school. Could stop by and watch more, get her to leave me alone. Your parents, too. I know they nag you to make more friends.”
“I have friends,” Kiyoomi said. It could have been more of a lie if he added a quantity. ‘I have six friends’ was more outrageous than the subtle fogginess of ‘my friends exist at all.’
“Well, then do it as a favor for me.” Komori spun on his heel to walk backwards, a toothy smile playing at his cheeks. “I’m your friend and your favorite cousin, you have to say yes.”
The rest of their cousins were much older, around Kiyoomi’s siblings’ age. He and Komori were the babies of the family. The happy accidents. The superstitions come to haunt those who didn’t believe. “You lack competition.”
Komori only laughed.
“Can we watch more games like the Hyogo one?” Kiyoomi asked.
“Sure. There’s a really good school up in Miyagi, too. They’ve got this southpaw bigger than my brother. Man, he looks scary.” Komori’s glee was obvious.
Again, Kiyoomi’s interest prickled. Komori’s company wasn’t bad. He was far preferable to the other kids at their school—loud and demanding all the same but at least Komori generally respected Kiyoomi’s boundaries. Besides, Komori called them friends. He had even less competition in that department than he did with the cousins.
“Okay,” Kiyoomi agreed.
Komori beamed bright and happy, backlit by the blinding afternoon sun streaming through the gymnasium windows.
Kiyoomi smiled back.
Sixteen
Miya Atsumu, as it turned out, was an ass.
He was smug, he was rude, he was bratty, entitled, obnoxious—the grievances reached near the heavens by the end of the first set. If it wouldn’t both get Kiyoomi tossed out and rid the match of its most interesting opponent, Kiyoomi would strangle him with the net.
The worst part was Kiyoomi could still so easily see what was obvious in the videos. Atsumu’s raw passion was a sight to behold, so powerful not even his obnoxious serve routine or persistently wagging tongue could ruin it. No, the worst part wasn’t Atsumu’s smirk across the net or his nonstop trash talk. The worst part was it was the best game Kiyoomi had ever played in his life.
Kiyoomi had to hustle. Had to provide support for Komori instead of picking up what little slack there was. Itachiyama—best of the best—held on to their lead by their fingernails, there was never a sure moment. By the time the ball dropped in Inarizaki’s court at the end of the third set, Kiyoomi was drenched. An ocean roared in his ears. If not for the whistle and Komori’s sudden anaconda-like grip around his arms, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. He’d have served again and again, until he collapsed.
The line up and say thanks for the game ritual had always been a bit beyond Kiyoomi. Gratitude was implicit, why else would they be there? Likewise, he accepted the social convention to thank the crowd for attending—though at least this one he had some resonance with.
When they were finally released to leave the court and retrieve their belongings, Kiyoomi grabbed everything Komori had left out after pawing through his bag, hoisted the strap over his shoulder, and turned to go to the locker rooms only to be assaulted by the livid scrunch between Miya Atsumu’s eyebrows right at eye-level.
Atsumu sneered, “That spin you get is nasty, what’s you’re trick? Show me.”
How outrageous, and not a little insulting, either. “I thought it was polite to introduce yourself before making demands. Besides, if I had some sort of trick, why would I tell you?”
Kiyoomi’s outrage only served to fuel Atsumu’s.
“You know, you’re almost as good as me,” Atsumu said with his chest puffed out.
It would be easier if Atsumu’s confidence was unfounded. “You lost.”
“This time,” Atsumu said, pretending to be calm but Kiyoomi noticed his clenched jaw and fingers curling into fists at his sides. Then, as if he knew the answer, he said, “U-19 camp is comin’ up. Think you’ll get an invite?”
Kiyoomi was certain he would.
Atsumu didn’t wait for an answer. “Yeah, me, too. You know, you’re meaner in person. Thought you’d be a wallflower scrub. Look the type.”
“And you’re every bit as obnoxious as I imagined.” Kiyoomi demanded an even tone and blank face as the lie coasted off his lips, easy as any other.
“Oh?” You watch our games?” Atsumu asked like every team hadn’t done just that for every opponent. Whatever he saw on Kiyoomi’s face was answer enough. “Surprise, surprise, Omi-kun. Didn’t think you’d be the type to obsess over little ol’ me.”
Kiyoomi’s revulsion was immediate. What was he, a child? “Don’t call me that.”
“We’ll see. Don’t let me down. I’d like a familiar face at the U-19 camp, even if it ain’t all that pretty or friendly.”
Kiyoomi didn’t set out to be the best. He only wanted fluency, to be able to say he’d mastered his chosen fixation through and through. What a paltry and indistinct benchmark. Kiyoomi’s best was constantly shifting; only he could decide how far to push it.
At that moment, Kiyoomi wanted to span the Pacific.
“I will see you at the U-19 camp,” Kiyoomi said, hoisting his bag further onto his shoulder and taking a step around Atsumu.
Atsumu’s lopsided, toothy grin raking over the pitiful expanse separating them felt at home with all the strange feelings crackling down Kiyoomi’s spine.
“See you there.”
Seventeen
Flames licked constant reassurance over Kiyoomi’s arms lain carefully across his lap, fingers woven together to keep from fidgeting every time his mind wandered. Kiyoomi’s flawless posture was helpless against the overstuffed armchair devouring him. Anger and disappointment churned a foamy wave in his stomach, rising higher, into his chest, if he didn’t mind it.
Atsumu sat across a small, round table in an identical earthy brown armchair. He was angry, too, though his amusement at Kiyoomi’s rage seemed to keep him afloat.
‘Oh? Finally lost that iron composure of yours?’ Atsumu had asked when he found Kiyoomi in the coffee shop. ‘This all it takes? Thought I’d have to shove you off a podium to get you so red in the face.’
‘You can stay, but you have to shut up immediately,’ Kiyoomi had answered but it hadn’t mattered one bit.
Kiyoomi refused to slouch even if his ramrod posture gave away his temper.
The smart thing to do would be to throw Atsumu a silly half-truth and leave but Atsumu didn’t listen. Never had, never would. Ignoring Atsumu’s nonsense was equally useless, it did nothing to deter him. Neither did outright vitriol, scolding, or one tired plea for sanctuary. The part Kiyoomi couldn’t figure out was why Atsumu’s refusal to leave well enough alone settled over the angry atmosphere like a comforting balm.
Kiyoomi didn’t have many people in his life so persistent. Komori would have let him be by now. Atsumu’s refusal to leave well enough alone settled an odd feeling in Kiyoomi’s chest and fingertips—a sharp twinge situated between the mortifying ordeal of being known and the sort of bone-deep horror that can only come from having your flaws reflected straight back at you.
“Ok,” Atsumu said, one leg tossed over the armrest of his chair so he was half laying in it. “Are your panties in a twist because you messed up your third serve in the first set?”
“No. Stop trying to guess.” Kiyoomi’s voice was hoarse with lingering rage. He kept both feet on the floor but let his arms drift to the armrests. Their chairs were just far enough apart in that upsetting way where if they were truly having a conversation, they’d have to lean into each other to be polite. “God, you suck.”
“I know, honey.”
Really, Kiyoomi would be better off with his team, even with how emotional they were over their loss.
“At least you got to shut down those Karasuno nightmares,” Kiyoomi said, ignoring the nonsense of ‘honey’ and his reluctance to be understood in this complicated and unfamiliar typhoon of emotions roiling up and down his throat in turns.
“Would’ve preferred to waste them in two sets, though,” Atsumu shot back. “Like you got.”
Such rude sentiments tended to be soothing when presented like this. Kiyoomi didn’t want to examine it too closely. Being the second biggest jerk in the room was nice sometimes even if Kiyoomi didn’t mind being number one, anymore.
“Should’ve been us,” Atsumu said. “You and me, right there at the end, that’s how it should’ve gone down. I really wanted one more chance to crush you.”
Atsumu didn’t say which of them should have won. It was hard to tell how that theoretical match would play out without Iizuna or Ojiro and this whole year—every month since the last time Kiyoomi licked his wounds alone after being thrown out of Spring Nationals—felt slathered in the horrible uncertainty of what are you without the ones who left?
Now, it was Kiyoomi’s turn to leave. What would his team do without him? No more Kiyoomi and his freaky wrists or Komori and his freaky elbows. No more top three spiker or libero. “What do you think will happen without us? Who’s going to be Inarizaki’s prodigy setter now?”
“They’ll be fine,” Atsumu said. His eyes narrowed. “So will Itachiyama, by the way. You may have been the best on your team but that don’t mean they’re helpless without you. You should be upstairs reminding them of that, not moping in private.”
Kiyoomi shrugged. “Don’t feel like it. They’re all having meltdowns and being dramatic. I prefer to seethe in peace.”
“You sayin’ you prefer my company? That’s rich. Didn’t you once call me as emotionally horrifying as a howler monkey?”
An unintended chuckle rattled in Kiyoomi’s throat. “I’m surprised you remember when you can’t possibly know what half of those words mean.”
“I made a note.” Atsumu grinned, wide and cheeky. “Just to make sure I looked it up exactly right. Had a feeling I should be offended. Wasn’t so much in the end, though.”
Kiyoomi didn’t believe him at all but what good would it do to interrogate Atsumu over a not-so-clever insult Kiyoomi slung when he was a frazzled first-year? He’d rather come up with new and better insults. See if he can find one Atsumu doesn’t throw back in his face a year or two later. Kiyoomi would miss this sort of thing, too. Annoying as Atsumu was, he was also fun to talk to and Kiyoomi never had anyone else like that in his life. Now with Atsumu off to Osaka and Kiyoomi heading for college, they’d see each other even less. Who would go for extra serves before bed and irritate Kiyoomi out of his coffee shop funks now?
Atsumu, observant and crass as ever, noticed the mood. “Look like you got somethin’ on your mind. Care to share with the class?”
“You are such a—” Kiyoomi was in public. It was difficult to remember this when speaking to Atsumu “—an emotionally draining person to be around, but at least you’re concentrated. There’s just one of you to ignore.”
“Well, be still my heart,” Atsumu said, clutching a fist to his chest. “Is that why you’re so mad? You gonna miss me?”
A liminal ache crawled through the atmosphere along with the radiating heat of the fireplace and soothing aroma of coffee. Kiyoomi didn’t know what to do with it, but once he acknowledged its presence it felt like he had to do something.
“I’ll miss playing you,” Kiyoomi said, a rare bout of undeniable truth he didn’t want to fight. Inarizaki was a fun match; made his muscles burn, got his heart hammering away behind strict breaths and made him feel like every chance to serve was a moment stranded on top of the world. “Like I’ll miss playing with Komori. It’s just weird that’s not going to happen next year.”
“Meet me at the Kurowashiki,” Atsumu said, high and trilling. He leaned into his fist and grinned. “That’s what you’re aiming for here, right? How romantic.”
That accidental humor in Kiyoomi’s chest exploded in a too-loud guffaw that didn’t draw nearly as much attention as he worried. Orange and yellow flickered across Atsumu’s cheek, teasing the line running down his nose separating light from shadow—both warm and comfortable. Both easily slipped into.
Atsumu’s smile softened. “Ain’t the end, you know. Not of everything. I’ll still be around to crush you whenever your head gets too big.”
“Likewise.” It felt like a promise.
“Anyway, thanks for the company. I’m gonna head back and mope with my team. You should do the same. It’s the last time, you know. Show ‘em what they mean to you before you have to move on.”
Another daunting prospect. Kiyoomi never had been any good at letting go before he was ready. Time to learn, he supposed. If even Atsumu could do it, so could he.
Twenty
It was the end of the world. Ragnarok. The reaper had come for Kiyoomi and was taking its time playing with him before finishing the job. Kiyoomi couldn’t breathe—his sinuses were packed solid, his throat burned, blinking stung. His cheeks burned too hot for the cold glass of the train window to provide any relief.
“Are you okay?” Komori asked timidly, his voice small and compressed over the phone.
“Fine.”
“Kiyoomi—”
“It was a matter of time, I knew that.” He did, too. Kiyoomi knew it wasn’t going to last. Some things are always meant to be a brief flare in a cold night sky and Ushijima Wakatoshi was always meant to be one of them. It was too difficult, too complicated, and Kiyoomi was far too inexperienced to make it work.
“That’s not true,” Komori said, biting off each syllable like he could gnaw his way past Kiyoomi’s self-awareness if he mustered enough tenacity. “And even if it were, that doesn’t even matter. It’s okay to not be okay.”
All advice Kiyoomi had heard and taken to heart before. As it turned out, things were different on this side of heartbreak.
Kiyoomi’s train pulled into his stop with a hydraulic hiss and sharp jerk.
“Where are you?” Komori asked. “That sounded like the shinkansen.”
Kiyoomi exited the train and considered telling the truth. Then, he lied. “I just figured I’d head home for break. Take some time to myself. Reset.”
“Liar. If you were going home for break my mother would have made me come back with you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried,” Komori said, “I’m dying to know who you’re trying to rebound with.”
The train station doors swept open, sucking the warmth straight out of Kiyoomi’s bones and leaving his face flushed pink in the sudden chill of Osaka. “I keep telling you, there will be no rebound. Don’t worry about it.”
“If you promise to call me if something happens, I will save my questions for when you’re back,” Komori offered. “Otherwise, you might as well turn off your phone until the end of break because I will blow it up twenty-four, seven.”
Kiyoomi did not often appreciate his cousin enough. “I’ll call you if something happens.”
“Then be safe and have fun.”
Atsumu answered the door as if he were expecting a friend and then needed approximately five seconds to pick his jaw up off the floor before gasping, “Omi-kun?”
It wasn’t exactly the reaction Kiyoomi was hoping for, but far from the worst he envisioned.
Atsumu blatantly eyed Kiyoomi head-to-toe before stepping aside and gesturing Kiyoomi into his apartment. “Come in. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Moments like these, it wasn’t so bad having someone around who could read him at a glance. “Sorry, it was rude to just show up like this.”
Atsumu shook his head and closed the door behind Kiyoomi. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I just—” Kiyoomi didn’t know how to begin to explain. He felt lost, in need of an anchor. He was desperate for something solid and undemanding, and wasn’t that what Atsumu had always been to him? Regardless of the particulars, Atsumu was always Atsumu. Even when they didn’t get along, he was consistent.
“You know I don’t care,” Atsumu said once it became clear Kiyoomi was struggling for words. “Explain or don’t, doesn’t make a difference. Just tell me if this is a booze or cake sort of sad you’ve got going on, here.”
“Wakato— Ushijima-san and I have ended our relationship and I am finding myself… distressed.” It was both too broad and too small, but Atsumu understood and that was the whole reason Kiyoomi hopped a train to Osaka without a word to anyone.
Atsumu jerked his head toward the corner of his apartment dominated by a sofa and kotatsu. “Well, lucky for you, I have dealt in heartbreak and have a foolproof way to get over it in a hurry.”
“Oh? Is this the tried and tested method employed for all the heartbroken fools you’ve left on the curbside?” Perhaps Kiyoomi wasn’t so much looking for comfort or sympathy.
“Ha, ha, very funny. But yes.”
“I don’t want a rebound,” Kiyoomi said. “Komori already tried suggesting it and I’m telling you the same thing I told him: no.”
“Komori’s an amateur. That is the absolute worst way to get over someone, especially when it’s fresh or serious.”
“And how do you know it was either?”
“Please,” Atsumu snorted. “I know you. You try to act like I don’t, but I’d put my month’s salary on the table betting you have spent precisely one week out of your initial grieving period and despite telling yourself that you neither loved him nor intended to stay with him long, you did both.”
Kiyoomi would sooner eat nails than admit Atsumu is correct.
“But like I said: you can tell me what happened if you want, or not. Don’t matter to me either way.”
And this was it: that unspeakable rationale, the mysterious certainty chugging through Kiyoomi that what he needed was someone who saw him for who he was and wasn’t bothered a bit by the parts that were callous or blunt. “Not, I think. For now.”
“Then pick your poison, Omi-Omi. Booze, or sweets.”
An easy choice for a multitude of reasons. “I don’t drink.”
Atsumu backed toward the kitchen with a watermelon-sized grin speaking of boundless ill-advised adventures all hovering just out of sight. “Oh, honey, you’re lucky you’re heartbroken.”
“’Cause if I weren’t you’d liquor me up?”
That same mischievous smile twitched. “Could you blame me? Last chance to change your mind.”
Kiyoomi almost did, just to see the look on Atsumu’s face. “No.”
Atsumu fussed in the kitchen for a few minutes before tossing a box of cookies to Kiyoomi in the living room like a football. They were the sort Komori bought solely because he could eat more of them without completely screwing up his diet—hardly worthy of being called sweets to ease his broken heart, but then again, Kiyoomi was inexperienced in these matters. Maybe quantity mattered when drowning sorrows.
On his way to the couch with two bottles of water tucked under his arm, Atsumu grabbed the remote and flipped channels until he found a basketball game. He flopped onto the couch next to Kiyoomi—too close for casual friends but wasn’t that always the way with Atsumu? He constantly kept an infuriating distance and Kiyoomi was never sure if he wished for more or less space.
With a huff, Atsumu thumped one of the water bottles to Kiyoomi’s chest and held out his hand until Kiyoomi popped open the box of cookies and laid two in Atsumu’s palm.
The basketball game wasn’t interesting enough to hold Kiyoomi’s attention, but it provided enough distraction for some of his more turbulent thoughts to settle into place. He still didn’t want to talk about it, but he should. That’s what everyone always said, wasn’t it? Get it out so you can move on.
“It’s only been three days, actually, but I didn’t tell anyone until today.” Slowly, Kiyoomi’s confounding and frustrating feelings smoothed into palatable lines. “He ended things. I figured one of us would, eventually, just didn’t think it’d be now. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I hoped it’d never happen. I feel pathetic.”
“I think the one thing everyone agrees on is that you are not pathetic.” Atsumu bit off half a cookie.
“Doesn’t feel like it. What am I doing? Fleeing Tokyo because my feelings got hurt? Pathetic. That’s the only word for it.”
“You know I once got dumped in the middle of a movie,” Atsumu said. “Like, in the theater. Mid-chase scene. Now that was pathetic.”
“What did you do?”
Atsumu scoffed so outrageously, Kiyoomi didn’t believe for a second he was anywhere near offended. He glanced at Kiyoomi but didn’t turn away from the TV. “Why do you assume it was my fault?”
Kiyoomi ate another cookie and waited.
“Fine. But in my defense, he’d said he liked fooling around in public.” Atsumu grabbed the remote and muted the TV before smacking Kiyoomi in the thigh and dropping it back on the kotatsu. “Not my fault he chickened out.”
A laugh bubbled out of Kiyoomi’s chest. “I’d have broken up with you, too.”
“Sure, you just keep tellin’ yourself that.” Atsumu tilted his head toward Kiyoomi, the pretense of watching the game forgotten. “That was probably the most embarrassing one—for me, anyway. Once broke up with someone on an elevator but then had to get through another twelve floors and it stopped at every single one.”
The tempo of the conversation demanded a response from Kiyoomi—some sort of oneupmanship to move along the tête-à-tête but Kiyoomi had nothing to work with. “This was… I’d never been in a relationship before this.”
“I figured,” Atsumu said but there was no trace of teasing or judgment behind it. Just an arrogant acceptance he was not the yardstick others should be measured by.
“I think it would have gone better if that weren’t the case. If I wasn’t so—” Kiyoomi struggled with how to put it. Every explanation sounded self-depreciating; like he was ashamed of himself and that wasn’t the case at all. Kiyoomi was particular. He liked things the way he liked them and that included men, relationships, and his peculiar taste in friends. There was nothing to be self-conscious of. “Long-distance is hard. If I knew how hard it is, I wouldn’t have agreed to try it.”
“Would you ever do it again?” Atsumu asked, an unusual frogginess crackling in the spaces between his words.
“No.”
“Hmm, too bad,” Atsumu said. “You’ll have to find someone who likes you enough to put up with you in person, then.”
“Bite me.”
“Thought you didn’t want a rebound,” Atsumu snarked like he’d been waiting all night for the chance to say it.
“Hilarious.” Kiyoomi’s vision blurred with his drooping eyelids. Distantly, he wondered what, exactly, that waver in Atsumu’s voice meant.
Atsumu stood and stretched both arms over his head before nudging the table out of the way with his calf. “Got a futon you can crash on. Stay as long as you want but you’ll be by yourself most of tomorrow. Unless you wanna come to conditioning with me, Coach doesn’t care if we bring people as long as it doesn’t get out of hand.”
“Thanks,” Kiyoomi said, sinking further into the couch cushions. He was tired and felt at odds with himself on a molecular level. Warm from the treats and Atsumu’s space heater but cold in his fingers and toes.
“Hey,” Atsumu said, grabbing the abandoned box of cookies from Kiyoomi’s lap and knocking it into his knee twice. “I mean it. Stay for your whole break, it’s ok. You can work out with my team, you don’t have to go back to yours yet if you don’t want to.”
The nice thing about Atsumu was he didn’t offer if he didn’t intend to fight for a ‘yes’.
“For a few days, maybe.” Any longer and Komori might come looking.
Atsumu grinned like he won something.
Twenty-Two
The crowd was deafening, the lights blinding. Walking for graduation felt different from walking onto center court—more exposed, more personal—but Kiyoomi had plenty of practice ignoring nerves and this was no different.
Kiyoomi did his best to smile. Made sure the handshake was the confident sort that conveyed strength but not arrogance. And then, walking down the stairs on the other side of the stage, he passed the spotlights overhead and saw a blond terror half-hanging over the balcony railing above, screaming his lungs out.
This time, Kiyoomi didn’t have to try for the smile.
“You didn’t have to come out, you know,” Kiyoomi said later that night, after the congratulatory dinner with his family and nearly a full hour prying Komori’s blubbering vice-grip off him.
“Well, sure, but I wanted to.” Atsumu grinned, head tilted toward Kiyoomi as they turn yet another corner, wrinkles exploding around his eyes. “You sayin’ you ain’t happy to see me?”
Kiyoomi shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and breathed deep the comforting smell of Tokyo’s night—the food, the asphalt cooling off from laying under the sun all day, a touch of cigarettes, a hint of alcohol from three of his classmates passing by in the other direction looking for another bar. It was a nice night in no small part because Atsumu had bullied his way into it. Kiyoomi ducked his chin beneath his jacket’s collar and said, “Maybe.”
“Liar.” Atsumu said it with a fond curl in his lip and fingers twitching at his side.
They turned left again, another block out, still wandering with nowhere to be as the streetlights buzzed on, wishing farewell to the waves of commuters heading out on their trains. It was a warm night for April. Light jackets and sweaters all around while some brave souls like Atsumu donned long-sleeve t-shirts and called it a day. Just looking at them made Kiyoomi curl his fingers into his palms for warmth. “Where are you staying? Or are you going back to Osaka tonight?”
“And now you’re trying to get rid of me,” Atsumu said with a horribly sarcastic lilt to his voice. “You’re so cruel.”
Kiyoomi rammed his shoulder into Atsumu’s hard enough, Atsumu had to chase his momentum down the curb and into the street to avoid crashing into a lamp post.
Atsumu only laughed. “My feelings are hurt.”
“I changed my mind,” Kiyoomi said. “Go away.”
Atsumu hopped back up on the sidewalk. “No, thanks. Where are we going?”
Kiyoomi had nowhere in mind. When they left Kiyoomi’s apartment, they started walking and kept at it—no destination. They’re following each other.
Another turn. Kiyoomi jerked his chin to the right, across the street. “Komori and I used to hang out at this park when we were in high school. It’s quiet. Good place to relax and talk if you want. Or if you’re hungry we can find you something to eat.”
“I’m good. Let’s see your teenage haunting grounds.”
The park was small and mostly wooded, but there was a bench not too far from the street where they could people-watch; Kiyoomi had nothing better to do and little energy for more. Atsumu sat with his hip tucked against the back of the bench and arm draped along the top. Kiyoomi stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, and marinated in the odd mood of Graduation night. Like an opportunity begging him to catch hold; a chance to test how bright he could shine.
“Did you know I learned how to love volleyball from you?” Kiyoomi asked before he could convince himself to hold it in another ten years.
“Oh?” Atsumu sounded as if he did, in fact, know that.
“Yeah. When Komori and I were kids, my parents said I had to pick a club, and Komori wanted to play volleyball. I wasn’t really into it at first. Not until we watched one of your games. It made me wonder—is there any of that in me? So I decided I would find out.”
Atsumu sat quietly for a moment with his teeth dug into his bottom lip. He wrung his fingers together and said, “I’d have more power on my hybrid serve if I took another step.”
“What?”
“I would. I know that. But I had to make a choice between power and unpredictability, and if I’d never had to deal with you, maybe I’d take the extra step. But there’s strength in being unknowable.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Atsumu huffed. “I’m just trying to say you’re not the only one who learned something unexpected.”
“Thank you?” Kiyoomi was fairly certain this was a compliment.
“There you go, was that so hard?” Atsumu asked, knocking his knee into Kiyoomi’s thigh. “Well, as long as we’re doing the whole sappy heart-to-heart thing—” Atsumu huffed. “This ain’t easy like I thought it’d be.”
Kiyoomi’s fingers scratched nonsense patterns on his jeans. “Whatever happened to ‘just spit it out?’”
“Fair enough.” Atsumu cut a familiar glare across the expanse of their little bench in the middle of a little park. “You’re trying out for my team, right?”
Yes. “Maybe.”
“You should. If you said ‘no’ I was going to ask you to.”
This wasn’t surprising. Kiyoomi was good. MVP didn’t come easy and Kiyoomi could go anywhere he wanted now that college was over—but Osaka carried an appeal hard to shake. Easier than admitting any of this was asking, “How come?”
Atsumu’s gaze wandered over Kiyoomi’s shoulders. “Just… sometimes I think about you. And I didn’t say nothin’ before because Ushiwaka seemed to do a number, and it didn’t feel right…”
“You trying to confess?” There was something inevitable to it, strewn through all the teasing and ‘honey’ and years upon years of both of them refusing to let go. Kiyoomi’s connection to Atsumu sprouted long, long ago at summer camp and only grew throughout high school and college. Kiyoomi always wondered what might come of it.
Atsumu grabbed Kiyoomi’s hand to stop his fidgeting. “Your fingers are cold.”
Kiyoomi suddenly remembered Komori, years ago, whispering old wives’ tales at training camps and a cozy night in Osaka, just shy of breaking through his heartbreak. “Yeah. They get like that around you.”
Atsumu smiled. “You know, we have a saying about that back home. Supposed to mean you’re in love with me.”
"Komori used to say something like that when we were kids, too.”
“Oh?” Atsumu leaned in close, tilting his head making a show of trying to look Kiyoomi in the eye. “No denial? My, my, Omi-kun, who’s confessin’ now?”
“Still you.” Give a few weeks, maybe a month in Osaka, and it’d probably be Kiyoomi, though.
Atsumu’s fingers slipped between Kiyoomi’s. His thumb stroked a wide arc along the back of Kiyoomi’s hand. Two gentle tugs as he stood, not letting go of Kiyoomi’s hand. An invitation. “Not gonna make me go it alone, are you?”
Kiyoomi let Atsumu pull him to his feet and then closer until he could feel Atsumu’s breath beating away the chill. “I suppose I shouldn’t. Your fingers are kind of cold, too, you know.”
A smile twitched across the bow of Atsumu’s lip. “Always have been around you.”