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Sakusa Kiyoomi likes order.
There’s a natural way to do things that just makes sense to him. Order gives him time to breathe, time to center his mind, time to find peace before his day really begins.
Early in the morning, he wakes, boils water for ginger tea, and carefully folds an egg white omelet with exactly 1 cup of vegetables.
After a cool shower, he spends at least half an hour on yoga, stretching his muscles for the day. Two full minutes at the beginning and end are spent practicing his ujjayi breath; ocean breathing.
Then, he takes the train to practice, finding a seat in one of the last two cars where the fewest people are. Three stops.
He arrives at practice twenty-five minutes early. Usually, it’s just him and Meian at this point, which is a time he needs, because he needs to prepare himself for Miya Atsumu.
Kiyoomi is in the middle of a reverse triangle stretch when Atsumu barrels through the door separating the locker rooms from the gym.
“Mornin’!” he shouts. Kiyoomi dips his head low to hide his face in a downward dog. All the blood rushes to his head, fills his ears with swirling fire that makes his chest ache when he breathes through it. It’s a good feeling, of course; it makes his muscles light up, ready to hit something during practice.
The chorus of hellos, the brief conversations, prepare him for the inevitable. He counts: Meian, Inunaki, Hinata—and then black gym shoes step into his vision.
“What’s up, Omi-Omi?”
They both come here, every day, and Kiyoomi does precious few things in his free time, none of which feel worth sharing with Atsumu. He groans, shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the setter’s shoes.
“Nothing. I’m stretching.”
There’s a bright chuckle, and, when Kiyoomi flips on his back to stretch his thighs, he feels Atsumu lay down next to him.
He opens one eye.
Atsumu is looking at him.
He wrinkles his nose.
While he’s trying to think of something witty to say, something to cut just enough to make Atsumu go away and go bother Hinata or Bokuto, or anyone else with a comparable amount of energy, the setter speaks up.
“I’ve been thinking about getting drinks at this new place near ‘Samu’s restaurant. Wanna come?”
Kiyoomi balks.
“No.”
Days off are supposed to be restful, according to their coach. Especially as the season winds down at the end of summer, players are supposed to focus on gentle physical activity and a lean diet, and for the love of volleyball, do not spend the entire day in front of a TV screen.
Kiyoomi does what he’s told, of course. But, his days off aren’t exactly the most restful thing in the world for him—he tries to picture “rest” and starts dreaming about a trip to an onsen, a real one, in a natural hot spring far, far away from the city (and Miya Atsumu). Nights with the shoji door slightly open so he can hear the ocean in the distance, setting the pace for calm, gentle breaths that help him get to sleep.
But, he spends his days off with a morning therapy appointment, followed by an afternoon of emotionally recovering.
He thinks therapy is supposed to make you less bitter about the world and all your problems with it, but his doctor tells him that “unpacking long-held feelings is sometimes very painful.”
That’s why he has yoga. And routines. And alone time. All of which are doctor-ordered to help him, or whatever. Maybe they do, but the bitter taste that won’t leave his mouth exhausts him at the end of the day.
He’d love to lie down and forget about all the unpacking he spent the last hour doing, forget all the once-again-dragged-to-light feelings about things like his mother and his father and fear of abandonment, but he needs groceries. He could get takeout, as in, it’s physically possible and he has money, but their nutritionist said to lay off salt and sugar.
Kiyoomi doesn’t break rules.
His therapist is trying to get him to talk about that.
He’ll get there. Someday. Probably.
In the middle of the produce section, he hears a shout, a sound he wishes could have been anything—anyone—else.
“Omi-Omi!”
No. Absolutely not.
He bows his head, suddenly extremely interested in a chest-high display of sweet potatoes. Sure, he could use a few of those, maybe boil them and eat them with some kale, and peppers, and—
“Omi-Omi,” he hears again. It’s closer. His heart pounds, shoulders tighten. His body is preparing for an attack, to defend itself—
“Hey.”
Miya Atsumu is standing right next to him with a plastic shopping basket in hand. He knocks his basket against Kiyoomi’s, and the spiker shuffles a few inches away.
Doesn’t Atsumu know anything about personal space? Kiyoomi almost snorts at the thought; of course he doesn’t.
“What’cha getting ingredients for? Looks healthy.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what comes over him. Maybe it’s the pitiful, childlike wonder in Atsumu’s eyes. Maybe it’s the absurdity of the fact that they’re both here, now, in the same grocery store. Maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment, or something.
Regardless, he gives an actual answer, “Mushroom soup, salted salmon, and stuffed peppers.”
Atsumu continues to peer at the ingredients in Kiyoomi’s basket. “I didn’t know you cook.”
Kiyoomi mentally acknowledges how little Atsumu knows about him, but decides not to twist the knife. Instead, he decides to be as bland and uninteresting as possible, in hopes that Atsumu will go away. “I cook.”
It’s then that he notices what’s in Atsumu’s basket. He expected a menagerie of ingredients that go against their nutritionist’s orders, but the other man actually surprises him by following orders for once.
There’s chicken, lean tuna, a rainbow of fresh fruit, and a box of store-brand black tea. Maybe he underestimated Atsumu, infantilized him a little too much—no, this is just because it’s for volleyball, the only thing that motivates Miya Atsumu.
That’s the only thing they all care about, honestly, but Atsumu takes focus to an entirely different level—to the point where Kiyoomi is absolutely certain there’s nothing else going on in his life.
“Could ya give me the salted salmon recipe sometime?” Though Kiyoomi shuffles until there’s a little bit of distance between him and his teammate, he doesn’t find himself tensing up at that request.
What harm could a little salted salmon do?
Kiyoomi does not know why he did this.
Days later, he’s standing in front of an open-mouthed Miya Atsumu, holding out his spare bento box. It’s after their morning practice, and the team is taking their hour break for lunch. Usually, Atsumu disappears for the whole time; this time, he’s only gone for fifteen or so minutes before he settles in to eat lunch in the gym’s lounge.
Kiyoomi kind of wishes this plan didn’t pan out. He wishes Atsumu followed his normal routine. He wishes he didn’t humiliate himself by following through on his dumb idea to share his dumb lunch with Miya Atsumu.
But, here he is.
“What’s that?” Atsumu says.
“A bento.”
Atsumu already has half an onigiri in his mouth. He grunts around it (gross), but Kiyoomi thinks that he sounds more “interested” than “put off.” He blinks, still wondering why he’s doing this. How bad would it be if he just turned around and took his bento with him?
“Is it the salted slamon?” Atsumu’s eyes flicker between the bento (which is obviously being offered to him) and Kiyoomi’s face (which Kiyoomi is trying to keep from scowling).
“For me?”
Kiyoomi inhales a sharp breath, like waves curling back. His skin is starting to prickle. His neck feels warm and clammy. He feels dozens of eyes on him, even though he counted how many people were in the room and who they were (Meian and Inunaki won’t hassle him for this like Bokuto and Hinata would). Just take it, he thinks, please just get this over with.
“Yes, obviously,” he bites, waves smacking against the shore.
Atsumu looks pleased. Thrilled, even; exhilarated when the water drenches him. He takes the bento. Kiyoomi’s hand falls limp against his side.
“Thanks, Omi-Omi,” he says, grinning. He shoves the other half of his onigiri into his mouth (again, gross), before popping the box open in his lap and beaming at the bright contents: pink salmon, green salad, orange and purple carrots. He looks up and notices the matching box in Kiyoomi’s other hand, then pats the seat beside him.
“Wanna eat with me?”
Kiyoomi huffs. Harsh waters smooth over rough sand, leaving a softened shoreline behind.
“Fine.”
“I met this girl,” Atsumu announces in the locker room, standing far too close to Kiyoomi for his liking. He can hear Atsumu’s breath, which means he’s ten times closer than he needs to be right now.
Kiyoomi nearly growls, running deodorant along his skin before he puts his shirt on. Why Atsumu feels the need to tell him everything that happens in his life is beyond him, but maybe, maybe, this random girl will make him go away for a few weeks. Maybe a month.
“Finally.”
“Not like that,” the setter says. “She’s nice, friendly, all that stuff. I think you should meet her.”
Kiyoomi stares at the ceiling, shirt around his elbows. He’s asking the gods to give him strength, because why on Earth would he want to do that?
Doesn’t Atsumu know that he isn’t interested in girls, never has been, and most certainly never will be? Or is the setter that blind off the court?
When he’s about to snap at him, Atsumu just keeps going. “‘Samu’s totally in love with her; she’s in love with him; they’re totally getting together. And she doesn’t have a lot of friends in Osaka.”
Oh, Kiyoomi thinks, it’s like that. False alarm, then. He pulls a sweatshirt over his head and finally turns to look at Atsumu, who’s looking back at him with clear, excited eyes. He’s used to the way Atsumu’s bullish personality comes through on the court; how he shares sets beautifully among himself, Bokuto, Hinata—all of them. He’ll always make the right call, always do what needs to be done.
He just didn’t expect that to take effect in his personal life, too.
So he bites, just out of morbid curiosity. “Why does this poor girl need more friends?”
Atsumu just shrugs, gives him a half-smile. “She’s got ‘Samu, me, some girls from her office, that’s it. She needs someone like her that gets it, you know?”
“Gets what?”
He gestures to himself with a thumb, then wiggles two fingers in Kiyoomi’s face. “Me an’ ‘Samu.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes roll so far back in his head that he thinks he’ll never see again. He slams his locker door shut and saunters past Atsumu, making sure to be extra petty and thump him with his shoulder.
But still, he mutters, “Just give me her number.”
Yachi Hitoka is poised, polite, and stronger than she looks. He recognizes instantly that Meian would terrify her, no matter how gentle he really is; that Bokuto would overwhelm her; and that she prefers her free time to be quiet and calm in a way Kiyoomi finds familiar.
He finds out that she was friends with Hinata in high school, but they drifted apart when the middle blocker went to South America.
Kiyoomi has absolutely no idea why she’s dating Miya Osamu, no matter if he’s the slightly-more-tolerable twin. She can do better. He tells her this.
She laughs and hides a blush behind a mug of tea.
Then, there’s a question that slips out of his mouth before he can think it through. “Would Osamu be upset that you’re out, alone, with a different guy right now?”
Kiyoomi can’t help but pick at things; he sees opportunities and strikes in every situation, usually before he can stop himself. He stopped trying to curb his attitude years ago.
Hitoka shakes her head. “He knows his place.”
Somehow, she says it in a way that’s equal parts deeply fond of her boyfriend and threatening toward him. Kiyoomi smirks. Yachi Hitoka earns his respect and a bi-weekly breakfast meetup.
“‘Samu told me that Hitoka told him that you have breakfast with her every other Saturday.”
Kiyoomi pretends that he’s listening to music through his AirPods, which are off (they’re really just a shield against “pleasant” conversations). Atsumu doesn’t go away, though; he just stands there, waiting.
“I’m glad you get along,” he continues. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s kicking one of his feet out like some schoolgirl in a drama (not that Kiyoomi watches dramas! Not often. Just when they’re on. And he needs background noise.)
Kiyoomi spares him a glance. He tries to make it a glare, but his breathing is so calm that he can’t scrunch up his face as much as he wants to.
He’s not sure why, but he never really thought that the setter was capable of caring about anything but himself, food, and volleyball. Seeing him so invested in the happiness of some random girl (though, admittedly, she is his brother’s girlfriend), makes Kiyoomi feel… Warm.
He’ll catalog that feeling to revisit later. Or not.
“Omi!”
It’s half-shout, half-whine, and Kiyoomi groans. They already finished practice. He already spent ten hours of his day with Atsumu, and he can’t fathom why on Earth he’d want more.
“What?” he sighs, in spite of himself.
Atsumu catches up with him in seconds; he was running, following him down the steps of the practice gym, but he’s not out of breath in the slightest. Of course.
“I’m starving, and, you know, I like your taste in food.”
Kiyoomi scowls; so this is how sharing his lunch with Atsumu will come back to bite him. It’s been months, and he’s done it more times than he’ll ever admit to out loud.
Salted salmon was the beginning. Then, there were seared scallops, roasted chicken, vegan spring rolls.
Feed the stray, and it’ll follow you home, Kiyoomi thinks. He pretends to consider the offer if only in the name of wasting Atsumu’s time; but then, he sees puppy-dog eyes that give him pause.
In this light, stars mixed with street lamps in the late fall, when trees fill the sky with red… Atsumu’s kind of handsome.
That thought alone makes him take a step backward to put physical and emotional distance between him and his setter. Quickly, he tries to count how many lunches they’ve shared. How many more sets he’s received than Bokuto or Hinata. How many times he’s allowed Atsumu to stretch next to him.
Too many. Far, far too many.
He’s let himself become tangentially associated with Atsumu outside of work, now that he’s gone and started a friendship with his twin brother’s girlfriend, but that wasn’t even his first mistake. Every time he interacts with Atsumu turns out to be a mistake, since the man is insatiable when it comes to his attention.
“Come on,” Atsumu interrupts his spiraling thoughts with gentle words, an easy smile, and fingers brushed against Kiyoomi’s wrist. All of these, combined, nearly knock him off his feet. “How about some soba and vegetable tempura?”
Well, Kiyoomi thinks, at least Atsumu’s following the team diet.
Atsumu begins to monopolize almost all of Kiyoomi’s time outside of practice. Breakfasts, dinners, even movies and “hey, come over to my place and see this new video game.” Kiyoomi doesn’t know what this is, but he settles into it with an ease that he’s never felt before. When he has a new book he likes, the first thing he does when he finishes it is lend it to Atsumu. Atsumu texts him random songs that his Spotify algorithm recommends. Kiyoomi’s even favorited his chat with Atsumu: His initials sit on his phone screen in between Motoya and Hitoka.
Kiyoomi tells himself that it’s just because Atsumu is selfish and that he has nothing better to do. If something else came along, surely he’d tell the setter “no,” wouldn’t he?
“What’re you doing for Golden Week?” Atsumu asks.
The pair walk side-by-side through a park in Osaka (“Yeah, it’s the long way to my apartment,” Atsumu said, “but it beats gray streets, doesn’t it?”). Kiyoomi’s hands are in his jacket pockets, but Atsumu’s elbow keeps bumping into his, keeping time like a grandfather clock.
Back and forth at a calming, even interval.
If that’s the case, though, why does the question make Kiyoomi frown? He can’t exactly lie, so he admits, “Nothing.”
“That’s awesome.” Atsmu grins over at him, oblivious to the way Kiyoomi’s palms sweat in his pockets. He feels every lick of the wind, every crunch of gravel beneath his shoes, as if they’re breaking glass or nails on a chalkboard. Something is off, and he can’t place it, but that makes it worse.
Just as Kiyoomi’s about to ask why, Atsumu adds, “I’m thinking about taking a trip to Kyoto. Wanna come?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t hesitate before shaking his head. “Why?”
“Well there’s this festival, and there’s good hiking—”
“No,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “Why are you asking me?”
Atsumu stops in his tracks to blink at Kiyoomi, looking at him like he’s speaking a completely different language. “What d’you mean?”
“What about Osamu?”
“He’s got Hitoka.”
“I’m sure she’ll love Kyoto.”
At that, Atsumu actually laughs. It’s not his usual laugh, though; Kiyoomi hears something stiff and nervous in it, as if Atsumu just said something incredibly stupid and he’s trying to backtrack. Genuinely, though, Kiyoomi can’t figure out what on Earth he means by all of this.
The idea of traveling to a different city with Atsumu for an entire week feels like a mountain looming over Kiyoomi, blocking out the sun and casting shadows as far as he can see. His stomach twists, and all he can think is back away, back away.
“I just thought it’d be romantic, is all,” Atsumu murmurs. He toes the gravel with his sneaker, glancing at Kiyoomi only once. “Sorry if I…misinterpreted.”
Kiyoomi sucks in a breath, but the spring air feels like knives in his lungs. “Romantic” is never, ever a word that he associated with himself. He’s only ever thought of Atsumu in the context of sharing lunch, of days off relaxing together, of innocuous little moments shared between two people.
Kiyoomi’s throat tightens as he thinks, oh no.
In a moment of weakness drawn out over months, he let himself fall in love with Miya Atsumu.
He needs to make this stop before he falls deeper, harder, faster. Before he’s so tangled up in Atsumu that he can’t get himself free ever again. He won’t lose himself—won’t compromise his volleyball career for this.
He clears his throat. Atsumu is still staring at him. “You did,” he lies. “I’m…sorry.”
“Ah,” Atsumu says, as if he’s been punched in the stomach. “Don’t worry about it. That’s on me, honestly; I should’ve…”
He shouldn’t have done anything differently at all, Kiyoomi thinks. It’s him that’s the problem, not Atsumu. Atsumu, who deserves far better than Kiyoomi can provide.
“I guess you don’t want to come over, then?” Atsumu mumbles. He isn’t looking at Kiyoomi, and whatever panic Kiyoomi thought he was alleviating is replaced with an empty, numb feeling that reaches through his chest and consumes his heart.
“I guess not,” Kiyoomi agrees, too frozen to say anything else.
Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to eat salted salmon anymore. Nor soba, nor sashimi, nor the croissants from the bakery by the gym. He’d say that the last one makes him less likely to have cheat meals, but at the rate he’s going, he’s going to waste away to nothing.
Not for lack of food—not really. Tuna is fine. He can survive on chicken. And Atsumu hates mushrooms, so Kiyoomi eats them every day now.
Kiyoomi feels like he’s wasting away from the inside out because he let himself come to rely on Atsumu. And without his absurd humor, his gentle eyes, his absolutely ridiculous way of doing literally everything, Kiyoomi is starving.
He thinks that a breakup might be worse than death. But, he isn’t even good enough to deserve a breakup, since he wasn’t strong or confident enough to ask Atsumu to really, really be his boyfriend.
It’s his pride, he realizes, that’s going to kill him.
Golden week passes by. Kiyoomi does not leave his apartment and denies all of Hitoka’s and Motoya’s calls.
Motoya shows up on the first day Kiyoomi’s meant to be back at training. He has only his backpack, so it doesn’t seem like he plans to stay very long, and the scowl he’s wearing tells him in no uncertain terms that there are hundreds of places his cousin would rather be right now.
As it turns out, Atsumu told everything to Osamu, who told Suna Rintaro, who told Motoya to knock some sense into Kiyoomi. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and prepares for the degree of sense-knocking that only Motoya can deliver.
“I took a train from Tokyo because of how stupid you’re being,” Motoya starts with, “so you’d better be grateful.”
“I’ll transfer you the price of the ticket—”
“And for my emotional support—”
“Twice the price—”
“—because, Kiyoomi, no one your age is this thick-skulled when it comes to love. Honestly, I can’t believe I’m saving your relationship right now.”
“We were never in a relationship.”
Motoya grunts, grabs Kiyoomi’s single throw pillow (which, admittedly, he bought because he was inspired by Hitoka, who Atsumu introduced him to, so he briefly thinks that he should get rid of it), and hurls it at his face.
“There’s your problem!”
After several hours of sitting patiently while Motoya picks apart every little interaction he’s had with Atsumu for the last year, Kiyoomi tells his cousin to get lost in exactly that many words.
He might admit it, now that he’s second-guessing everything he’s ever done since moving to Osaka: Motoya has a point. He’s a little icy, and also averse to change, and also standoffish, and also difficult to please.
The only actual advice he got from Motoya’s lesson on love was, in short, be honest and ask for what he wants.
The problem with that hits him like a volleyball to the face when he spots Atsumu in the locker room pre-practice.
Atsumu spots him just a second later, and he watches the man he loves (which, admittedly, Motoya had to point that out to him, too) scowl at him. They’re the only two in the locker room right now. Atsumu is already in uniform, just putting his street clothes away, so Kiyoomi guesses that he has about 30 seconds.
“Atsumu,” he begins. His voice sounds soft, questioning, and completely unfamiliar to him. He doesn’t know this meek, nervous version of himself. He never dated in high school, never so much as looked twice at any boys other than pro athletes he knew he never had a chance with.
“I’m not doing this now, Omi,” Atsumu cuts him off. The blond shakes his head, and Kiyoomi watches him bite down on his lip. The setter’s cheeks burn, and Kiyoomi knows with his heart of hearts that Atsumu is lying to him.
“Give me ten seconds,” Kiyoomi barters, shifting from foot to foot.
Atsumu looks him up and down, and Kiyoomi thinks he sees the fire in his eyes dull just a little. “Talk while you’re changing. If you’re late to practice, you’re not getting any sets.”
Kiyoomi crosses the room, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.
There’s a long pause, and he can feel Atsumu’s eyes on his back while he, with shaking fingers, unlocked his locker.
“Didn’t catch that.”
Kiyoomi throws a peeved look over his shoulder, and finds Atsumu at the intersection of smug and pissed off.
“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi snaps, feeling his face grow hot. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s apologized, ever, but he’d need an hour to count how many times his mother scolded him to never apologize for others’ mistakes, Kiyoomi.
She never taught him what to do if the mistakes were his own.
“I’m sorry I’m difficult,” he continues.
Atsumu chortles. “You’re an absolute jerk.”
“I’m sorry for that, too,” he huffs. He yanks his gym shirt over his head and spins to face Atsumu completely, then takes a few tentative steps toward him. When he doesn’t move, Kiyoomi closes the distance and stands right in front of him. “I don’t have any right to ask you this, Atsumu, but if you could just be patient with me…”
“I’ve been patient, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs. This close, Kiyoomi notices the hurt written all over Atsumu’s face. The frown, the sadness in his eyes, the creases in his forehead—they all gut him, cutting him through to his core. He would give anything to make that go away. He’d atone for the rest of his life if he had to.
“I hate the thought of…of dating, publically. Especially as an athlete,” Kiyoomi begins again, heart pounding in his chest. When Atsumu opens his mouth, clearly ready to fight back, Kiyoomi grabs his hand. “But I hate the thought of losing you even more.”
Atsumu swallows, clinging to Kiyoomi’s hand. Kiyoomi looks down; never in his wildest dreams did he imagine someone holding him like this, with such need and desperation.
“You can’t have both,” Atsumu warns. “I’m not a halfway sort of guy, and you know that.”
Kiyoomi swallows. “I do.”
Atsumu didn’t become the setter that he is by being stupid. In fact, Kiyoomi would say he’s one of the smartest men he knows, and that fact terrifies and excites him all at once. Now, as Atsumu observes him with a setter’s analytical eye, he’s petrified. Atsumu leans in, giving himself the upper hand by surprising Kiyoomi at every turn.
“It’s either teammates or boyfriends, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says, dangerously close to Kiyoomi’s ear. Kiyoomi feels his breath, which sends a tingle down his spine. Having Atsumu so close feels dangerous, because Kiyoomi thinks he’ll someday become addicted to how he feels. “So, what’ll it be?”
Now or never, he thinks; Motoya will never speak to him again if he messes this up; and, like he said, he hates the idea of being anything less than special to Miya Atsumu. So, his choice is obvious, no matter how twisted his tongue feels in his own mouth.
“Boyfriends.”
Though he doesn’t recognize his own voice when he says it, Kiyoomi feels relief wash over him.
Atsumu and Kiyoomi start by making late-night practice and soba runs a habit. It isn’t that they’re more dedicated than their teammates (no one can claim that when Hinata is right there). It’s more that, tossing a ball back and forth in an empty gym makes something flutter in Kiyoomi’s belly.
With every thwap of the ball against his palms, he feels a whispered reminder of being a little boy who just wanted to play volleyball. No paycheck, no stats, just a sense of joy about a game.
And, in an empty gym, he doesn’t feel so bad about letting that sense of vulnerability linger. His receives come as easily as his breaths.
Late night dates become early morning dates, and Kiyoomi grows more comfortable with other people seeing them together—and him, like this. In love. Affectionate. Soft. Tearing down his own pride because his want for Atsumu is even more important.
They spend months like this: Atsumu pushing Kiyoomi out of his comfort zone, little by little; Kiyoomi holding Atsumu steady and providing the constant sense of challenge he so desperately craves.
Together, they’re like Yin and Yang. Perfect opposites, each one with a piece of the other tucked away in his heart. The piece of Atsumu that lives within Kiyoomi brings him a sense of warmth and calmness he’s never felt before; now, he can’t imagine himself without it. He holds his boyfriend’s hand in public. He lets his cheek be kissed. Sometimes, he even banters with Atsumu in front of their teammates or Hitoka and Osamu.
He finds himself in the center of a little family of his own choosing. The sting of emotional pain from his upbringing heals into a small scar, and sometimes, he forgets that it’s there.
“So, when’re we doing this?” Atsumu sidles up next to Kiyoomo at the bar. That is a feat in itself, since the bar at Hitoka and Osamu’s wedding is absolutely packed. One Miya Osamu would probably drop dead if his wedding had bad drinks, and all of the guests caught on.
This does not stop Kiyoomi from grabbing a cocktail, however, and he’s mulling over the fact that he elbowed several uncles out of the way to get it. Old Kiyoomi would never.
“Well, we move in together in a few months,” he deflects, hiding his grin behind his glass. Sakusa Kiyoomi, a married man? Are pigs flying?
“That’s not enough time to plan a wedding,” Atsumu counters, fully serious.
Or, as serious as a drunk man at his twin brother’s wedding can be. Kiyoomi laughs out loud, and doesn’t even bother to glance around to see if anyone is staring because it was too loud. Instead, he reaches to tangle his fingers with Atsumu’s; his boyfriend leans his head on his shoulder and eyes him with a watery, puppy-dog look.
“Ask me again later, will you?”
Atsumu beams. “I’ll ask you every day forever, Omi.”
“Marry me,” Atsumu breathes, huffing and puffing as he tries to catch his breath from his nth trip up their new apartment’s stairs. “I mean it this time.”
Kiyoomi’s halfway out the door already. He tries to tell himself that he didn’t hear that, that he could pretend that he didn’t hear that, but as the seconds pass, he knows his boyfriend’s eyes are set on him, and his window of opportunity closed before he even processed what he heard.
“Do you even have rings?” Kiyoomi scowls.
The look is wiped off his face when he spots a sleek, black velvet box the size of two rings in his boyfriend’s hand.
Despite the matching engagement rings they wear and the borderline-obsessive way that Kiyoomi plans things, Atsumu is the one to spearhead wedding planning. If Kiyoomi had his way, they’d do a city hall thing and spend the offseason traveling the world, but Atsumu finds his friends and family important—so, they compromise on 50 people, a fancy rooftop restaurant, and absolutely no Sakusas present.
Except for one. But, that thought has been nagging at Kiyoomi ever since marriage felt like a real possibility.
On the living room sofa, Atsumu has a literal book of menu options in one hand while the other caresses Kiyoomi’s thighs, which are draped over his own. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, is much less focused on scallops or lobster and beef or pork than his hyper-focused fiance happens to be at the moment.
“I want to change my name,” Kiyoomi interrupts.
He spent weeks building himself up to tell Atsumu, carefully thought of the kinds of questions he’d ask, and thought through every one of his answers. His argument is airtight, really; no one can talk him down at this point—
But Atsumu regards him with understanding eyes and a soft, lazy smile. “Okay.”
The outcome he’d planned for shatters, and he’s left with broken pieces that he doesn’t know what to do with. His back goes stiff and, unsuccessfully, he tries to say something, but his mouth just opens and closes over and over until he murmurs and echo.
“Okay?”
His tone must be what gives Atsumu pause, because he sees a frown on the blond’s lips the moment his answer turns into a question. In response, his fiance moves instantly: hands grasping Kiyoomi’s, head tilted, body a hundred times more relaxed than Kiyoomi’s.
“‘Course it’s okay,” he murmurs. He leans to give Kiyoomi a kiss; Kiyoomi reciprocates, but doesn’t really register the way his lips respond to Atsumu’s before he’s already pulled away. There’s a hand in his hair, petting his curls in a way that makes him swallow down a pitiful noise.
“Wanna talk?”
It’s a question, an offer; not a demand. Atsumu is giving him a choice to open up to him, and it’s a choice he’s never had before.
Discomfort swirls in his stomach. He knows he’s supposed to be okay with this, knows that he shouldn’t have to fight to be honest with the man he loves, but he is. Guilt piles on top of every other feeling that drowns him.
Kiyoomi won’t look at him, but he manages to find his words in the neat penmanship and spreadsheets looking back at him from Atsumu’s coffee table.
“Sakusa doesn’t mean anything to me,” he starts, and it’s a half truth. In reality, the name Sakusa means less than nothing to him.
Atsumu’s thumb traces his hairline, gently massages his temple, and pushes long curls away from his forehead. Kiyoomi lets out a trembling sigh, then adds, “I want to choose who I am.”
“You already do,” Atumus interjects, not missing a beat. His voice is soft, going against everything everyone who isn’t Kiyoomi thinks that he is. “You do it every single day, Omi; you wake up and choose to be the person you are, and I know how hard that is.”
A sharp intake of breath—Kiyoomi knows it’s his own, but it rings in his ears like a distant sound. After all that buildup crumbles down, he’s exhausted, needy, weak; he needs…
Atsumu.
His arms snake around his fiance’s stomach while he hunches; Atsumu is ever-so-slightly shorter than him, which makes laying on his shoulder annoying, but Kiyoomi does it anyway. He needs this. Him. To be held.
A wide, soft hand comes to cradle his neck while kisses pepper their way from his temple to his neck.
“I’m so proud of you,” is whispered beside his ear. “For telling me this. For making such a big choice.”
“I love you,” Kiyoomi murmurs into Atsumu’s skin, half proclaiming it, half reminding himself that it’s real.
Atsumu echoes wholeheartedly, then tips Kiyoomi’s chin up for a proper kiss that grounds them together.
Atsumu carries apprehension with him for a month leading up to the wedding. He wakes up jittery, talks nonstop, and frets about mundane things like “non-alcoholic options” and “no shellfish.” Kiyoomi isn’t a fool; Atsumu worries about other people to avoid worrying about himself, but his thoughts don’t usually stray too far from the source.
Hitoka is seven months pregnant with twins. She confessed to him a month ago that her doctor is very worried about premature delivery, and he, stupidly, mentioned it to his worrywart fiance.
Atsumu’s worry manifests as fretting over Hitoka, though Kiyoomi knows what this is really about.
Miya Atsumu requires exactly three things: Kiyoomi (as the list-maker, he feels entitled to the first spot), volleyball, and Osamu.
So, Kiyoomi, silently, lets Atsumu customize the menu to make sure there’s something for Hitoka. He lets him schedule an extra venue tour to make sure it’s as accessible as possible. Elevators. Comfortable chairs. The works.
In the background, Kiyoomi himself moves heaven and earth to make sure both Osamu and Hitoka can be there.
This involves thrice-daily texts to nag the poor woman about her diet, sleeping habits, and appropriate levels of exercise. He knows she probably hates him, and he briefly considers if he’s out of line, but then he sees his husband’s face at their wedding when his second- and third-favorite people arrive a full hour early.
“You guys made it!” Atsumu hollers, bounding over to envelop his brother in a beastly hug. It has enough force for two hugs—Osamu banned him from hugging the heavily pregnant Hitoka a month ago, and the twins she carries only seem to make her more delicate every day.
“I am going out every day until my doctor puts me on bedrest,” Hitoka proclaims, nudging her way into Atsumu’s embrace anyway.
Over her shoulder, Kiyoomi makes eye contact with Osamu. The father-to-be shakes his head: no, she won’t be. Kiyoomi snorts, but still hovers close to Hitoka’s side so he can sneak the gentlest of hugs when Osamu’s back is turned.
He knows Atsumu is back to normal—better than normal, even—when he hears a shout cutting through the music: “You’re drinkin’ for four tonight, ‘Samu!”
Miya Kiyoomi is the kind of family man Skausa Kiyoomi resented. Sacrificing a timely honeymoon to care for a pregnant sister-in-law is something the old Kiyoomi would never do.
But, his husband is about to be an uncle (Atsumu constantly reminds him that he, too, is about to be an uncle), and seeing their nieces’ first days of life is worth rearranging the entire universe. When Hitoka ends up on bedrest, as they all knew she would, he makes time for her in his routine. He doesn’t go visit; he knows that she cares an awful lot about being presentable, and he’s not a villain. So, he does what he can to lend a hand without embarrassing her.
He organizes a chain of gift deliveries. He buys things, gives them to Atsumu, who gives them to Osamu at the restaurant, who brings them home for his wife (who Kiyoomi assumes must be both miserable and bored out of her mind, given that the gifts Osamu says she appreciates most are ginger tea and new books to read). Occasionally, Hinata and Bokuto slip in other gifts, like mandala coloring books and konbini sweets. Meian occasionally adds beer, “for the father.”
“You’re so good, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu murmurs one evening. “You know that?”
He’s just returned from Onigiri Miya with a trade: a bag of leftover rice and sashimi for DIY chirashi for a bag of pregnancy gifts. Kiyoomi’s hand freezes while he reaches for a piece of mackerel.
“Why would you say that?”
He cringes at his own tone, but the lazy smile on Atsumu’s face doesn’t flicker. Instead, his… Nuisance, pain in the ass, favorite idiot of a husband just gives him this soft look that makes his stomach feel sick.
He doesn’t deserve this. Does he?
“You care a lot about Hitoka, ‘Samu, me… Even the rest of the team. But it’s so… Quiet. You never ask for anything in return, do ya?”
Kiyoomi drops his hand, sets his chopsticks on the table. His fingers lace together in his lap and he bends his head, swallowing. He feels like he’s being scolded, like he has something to answer for, but his lips feel numb. A voice whispers in the back of his head:
What a good boy you are, Kiyoomi. So dutiful, filial, and silent.
There’s a lump in his throat now.
As much as he wishes he could evaporate like mist atop the ocean waves, he can’t. He can’t hide from Atsumu, not when he’s less than 3 feet away from him, not ever.
The click of his husband’s tongue across the table strikes his head like a clap of thunder, echoing, reverberating. It hurts. He can’t help the way he flinches.
Atsumu drops it, or so Kiyoomi thinks. All he says is, “Which fish did you want?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kiyoomi mumbles. It doesn’t, not really; he doesn’t think he’d be able to taste anything, anyway.
Dutiful, filial, and silent.
“Omi,” he hears. It’s real, soft, gentle, like the lick of a gently moving river against his ankles. He tries to mimic the sound with his breaths: slow, flowing, calm.
Atsumu reaches forward with a creak of the kitchen chair and plops the four biggest slices of mackerel on top of Kiyoomi’s bowl of rice. The smooth flow of his breaths erodes the lump in his throat, wearing it down until he can breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. He can’t look at Atsumu, but he does accept the mackerel with a tentative bite. He chews, swallows, and counts.
“‘S fine, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs. He hears a smile in his voice that soothes his fingers to stop trembling. It’s odd, Kiyoomi thinks, that he’s so quiet when it’s just the two of them. He ponders just how much Atsumu has changed since they met, how much his own gloom casts a shadow on Atsumu’s light. Or maybe, this kindness, this ability to adapt—was always there.
“Actually, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pointed that out.”
He wonders just how much Atsumu has changed him all these years.
“It’s alright,” comes a tentative reply. “You didn’t mean to… I mean, I just…”
Atsumu is patient, which feels like an oxymoron the moment Kiyoomi acknowledges it. He’s always had a terrible time verbalizing what he needs, and he swears he’s working on it, but the ghosts of his past haunt him every day. His words either come out wrong, or not at all, and it seems that the latter option is what’s in control right now.
He takes a breath, listening. Air moving through lungs vibrates through his bones, and he hears the ocean echoing in his ears. When he looks up, he sees soft greenish brown eyes, a gentle, stagnant smile. A calm lake; not a raging sea.
“Mom used to say that.”
The gentle expression turns completely serious, then; Atsumu knows everything Kiyoomi cares to share about his family, and the colorful things he’s called his mother and father in the past all bubble up to the surface. Atsumu possesses a special sort of hatred, burnt into a part of his heart that stays dormant until it needs waking.
Kiyoomi thinks that he’s about to call his mother a manipulative bitch again, but instead, Atsumu says, “I can’t believe she can be right and wrong at the same damn time.”
There’s a pause; Kiyoomi blinks at him while he shoves a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Eating to slow down his thoughts. Filling his mouth with food so he doesn’t say something hurtful.
How interesting Atsumu’s coping strategies are.
“I mean,” he continues, “you’re good, Omi. A wonderful, beautiful man; but I love you when you’re quiet, I love you when you’re loud, I love you when you’re mad at me, I love you when you’re sweet with me, I love you when—”
Kiyoomi groans, stress and fear melting away with every word his husband rants at him. “I get it.”
“I love you no matter what, do you hear me?”
They already made this vow, Kiyoomi recalls, but maybe in more official-sounding, elder-pleasing words. Not at the kitchen table, not over takeout sashimi, not because the very idea of Kiyoomi’s mother pissed Atsumu off again.
Somehow, this time feels even more real.
On a Saturday morning in the off season, Kiyoomi wakes up to the feeling of being suffocated. His eyes squeeze shut, then flash open, and he finds the reason he can’t breathe.
This shouldn’t be a surprise.
Atsumu lays fully on top of him, crushing him under his weight, while his lips attach to his neck. He kisses, nips, sucks, and—good god—Kiyoomi can’t handle this much heat in the morning.
That’s what he gets for agreeing to spend his January honeymoon in the Maldives. They delayed it two months to be present for the birth of their nieces, to help Osamu and Hitoka as much as they were allowed to, before spending the last few weeks of the winter someplace private and warm.
That way, both Kiyoomi and Atsumu get what they want.
“Mornin’ Omi,” Atsumu yawns. Morning breath fans over Kiyoomi’s cheek; he wrinkles his nose and presses a kiss to Atsumu’s nose.
“Aw, won’t even kiss your husband on the mouth, huh?”
Kiyoomi scoffs. “Not until he brushes his teeth.”
There’s a dreamy glint in Atsumu’s eyes, as if he’s still half asleep, staring into a dream. His hair is a godawful mess, dark roots streaking through fading blond; there’s a crust of sleep on his lower lashes; and the beauty of it all takes Kiyoomi’s breath away.
Even after Atsumu peels himself out of bed, Kiyoomi watches him. Shirt pulled over muscled arms. Stretching with his face toward the sun. A pause in the door to the hotel room’s ensuite bathroom. A chuckle that makes his shoulders shake.
“Miya-san.”
Kiyoomi sits up on his elbows. His heart swells every time he’s called that—which, to be fair, has only come from Atsumu himself and the Jackals’ assistant who ordered their new set of jerseys that almost match.
Atsumu has his lower lip under his teeth, biting back a grin, when they finally meet eyes again. “Love you, Omi-Omi.”
He knows. Atsumu states the obvious multiple times a day, every day, but that doesn’t make it less wonderful to hear.
In an instant, he’s on his feet, yanking Atsumu out of the bathroom and into his arms while waves of laughter fill the room. He kisses his husband’s neck, shoulders, cheeks, and whispers, “I love you, Atsumu.”
Atsumu’s love is a healing water; every time he’s reminded that it’s real, that it isn’t going anywhere, Kiyoomi feels alive.