Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

winter

Kiyoomi visits Atsumu’s apartment for the first time one week into December, when the leaves have settled into neat rings around the treetrunks, frost begins to line the edge of each window like lace, and the heating in Kiyoomi’s dorm has completely shit the bed. 

It’s unlivable, quite honestly. Kiyoomi would know, because he feels closer to death every second he attempts to live it. Atsumu laughs when he tells him this. 

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi snaps, over the tinny noise of Atsumu cackling through the phone speaker, muffled by the sweater sleeve-wrapped hand Kiyoomi’s clutching it close to his face with. “You try studying here, then see if you feel so good laughing in my face.”

“Oh, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu coos. “I’ll always feel good laughing in yer face.”

Kiyoomi does not give him a chance to start laughing again before he hangs up. 

Atsumu arrives at the dorm ten minutes later and knocks on Kiyoomi’s door with a plastic takeout bag in hand. He’s wearing track pants, and a sweater, and a light jacket over it. The front desk doesn’t bother calling up to Kiyoomi’s room to see if he’s an authorized guest, and Kiyoomi’s brain is too cold to figure whether this is because the front desk employee is a Jackals fan, or if it’s because Kiyoomi has him over so often. If it’s the latter, Kiyoomi’s brain is too cold to feel embarrassment anyways. Atsumu shivers performatively in the doorway. Kiyoomi flips him off as best he can from underneath six layers. 

“Six?” Atsumu says. His jacket isn’t even zipped up all the way. “D’ya think that’ll be enough?”

“Fuck off,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu laughs and takes his bag from him so Kiyoomi can stuff both hands into his coat pockets. 

The walk is pretty short. In the back of his mind somewhere, Kiyoomi must have known it would be considering how quickly Atsumu has arrived at his dorm in the past, but all the same he’s a little startled when Atsumu stops after only a short eight minutes. Atsumu unlocks the door, opens it, and gestures Kiyoomi up the stairs. 

Atsumu’s apartment is small, sparsely decorated, and about 80% kitchen. In the entryway, there’s a pile of various colorful sneakers, strewn out right to the edge of the tile. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the dining table. The table itself stretches well into the living room, extending the bounds of the kitchen into the rest of the apartment. Stainless steel pots and pans pile high on the counters, stacked as far as Kiyoomi imagines they would go without becoming a hazard. The fridge is covered in magazine clippings, printed recipes, and photos of Atsumu with his brother and high school friends. 

Despite the clutter, though, it’s not dirty; the pile of t-shirts on the floor next to the unrolled futon are clearly clean laundry, and the dishes piled in the sink are only enough for one meal.

Atsumu reddens and scrambles to shove the shirts in the closet all the same, though, when he sees Kiyoomi looking. Kiyoomi inhales in the entryway and lets the warm air soak into his chilled lungs.

“Uh. Make yerself at home, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says. There’s a couple magazines on his kitchen table that he promptly swipes off before wiping down the whole thing with a wet paper towel. “Don’t have a desk or anything, but you can do yer work at the table if ya like.”

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi says. He sets his backpack on one of the kitchen chairs. Now that he’s not standing in the entryway, he can see the blanketed kotatsu in the center of Atsumu’s living room.

Atsumu follows his gaze.

“Sit wherever ya want, though,” he says. “Can turn the kotatsu on if ya want.”

“Alright,” Kiyoomi says. And then, after a second of Atsumu laughing at him, “I’m cold.”

“I gathered,” Atsumu chuckles. “Like I said, make yerself at home. I’ll get some tea on.” 

Kiyoomi settles himself at the kotatsu while Atsumu starts shuffling around the kitchen, rifling through boxes of mismatched tea bags and turning the temperature on the electric kettle up and down and back up again. By the time he sits down next to Kiyoomi, a steaming mug for each of them, Kiyoomi is starting to feel his eyes get heavy. 

“Hey, Omi.” Atsumu waves a hand in front of his face, even though his eyes are still open. Kiyoomi grumbles and swats him away. 

“I’m fine.”

“Ya sleeping ok?” Atsumu says. “No offense, Omi-kun, didn’t wanna say it earlier, but ya kinda look like shit. How long’s yer heat been out?”

“Saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t make it not offensive.”

“Because if you’ve been over there not sleeping and getting yerself sick again I’m gonna be pissed—”

“Atsumu, I already said it’s fine,” Kiyoomi cuts him off. “I can handle a little cold. I’m not going to bother you for something stupid if I know you’re busy.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Yer not bothering me, dickhead, we’re fuckin’ friends. I wanna know if ya need something.”

Kiyoomi looks at him sidelong. “Are you actually mad at me right now? Because my heat broke?” 

It’s at this point that Atsumu’s anger reveals itself for what it truly is; the frown twisting his face starts to look a lot more like a pout. His arms crossed over his chest look like childlike frustration. On anyone else, Kiyoomi thinks he’d find it more annoying than charming. 

“No! Maybe!” Atsumu says. “Yer so fuckin’ stubborn. Geez.” 

Kiyoomi smiles, which makes Atsumu’s pout deepen. 

“I’ll call you next time, alright?” 

Atsumu grumbles and turns away. Kiyoomi laughs. “Fine,” Atsumu says. “Whatever. Asshole.” 

“Drink your tea before it gets cold and let me focus.” Atsumu huffs and picks up his cup. Kiyoomi flips open his notes and takes a sip of his own tea. The blanketed space under the kotatsu is starting to warm, and Kiyoomi feels the sensation coming back to his feet. His eyes feel heavy. 

He looks at Atsumu. “And don’t let me fall asleep.”

Atsumu raises an amused eyebrow and hums noncommittally. “Sure, Omi.”

“I mean it.” Kiyoomi yawns. Atsumu snickers. “I have a lot of work to do. I can’t fall asleep.” 

“Stop closing yer eyes, then.” Kiyoomi glares, and Atsumu holds up his hands. “Just sayin’.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Ya love me.” 

Atsumu grins broadly, a mockery of a sweet, innocent expression. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and shoves his face away with one hand, and doesn’t grin stupidly into his notes. 

When Kiyoomi wakes up, the sky outside Atsumu’s windows is dark. 

The kotatsu is still on—electric heat radiating through Kiyoomi’s stubbornly-chilled feet—but there’s a new blanket, draped across his shoulders and torso, too. He sits up and sees Atsumu asleep on the futon, still in his same sweatpants and sweatshirt, mouth open, drooling onto the pillow. 

There are two texts on Kiyoomi’s phone: one from Bokuto, with an invite to bubble tea after practice tomorrow, and one from Atsumu. 

Miya : didn’t want to wake you but I’ll walk you home when you do! 

Miya : or you can always stay here 

Miya : up to you

Atsumu snores loudly—a sound like a garbage truck, if a garbage truck could sound like it was suffocating itself—and then promptly relaxes back into quiet, pleasant-dreamed bliss. There’s an extra pillow on top of the kotatsu, and a folded oversized t-shirt and pajama pants, and yet another blanket. Kiyoomi’s eyes are still heavy.

It’s so easy to fall asleep in the heat of the kotatsu with the weight of all three blankets atop him, Kiyoomi reasons. His own dorm would have made sleeping a nightmare, if not impossible. If the smell of Atsumu’s shampoo on his borrowed t-shirt helps, Kiyoomi wouldn’t know.

When he wakes up in the morning, Atsumu’s already left for practice, but the apartment is still warm, and there’s an extra serving of rice and veggies in the rice cooker. 

“So you’re not dating?” Bokuto says, punctuated by a loud slurp at his empty tea. 

“No.”

“But you do like him.”

“I didn’t say anything like that.” 

“With all due respect, Sakusa-san,” says Akaashi, who Kiyoomi has only met twice before but has come to like quite quickly. “I’m not sure you had to.” 

Kiyoomi huffs. Bokuto laughs good-naturedly. 

“I think it’s sweet!” Bokuto chimes. “You seem so prickly on the outside, Sakkun, but I know on the inside you’re probably a romantic!” 

“Am not,” Kiyoomi says, and Bokuto laughs again. 

“That’s not your shirt, is it?” Bokuto says, innocently, in that weird, observant way of his. Kiyoomi flushes bright pink and ducks his head. “Well, either way, I’m glad you have someone looking out for you, Sakkun!”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to protest, but Bokuto beats him to it. “And before you say anything, everyone needs people looking out for them, so don’t be embarrassed, ok? Even someone as smart and as cool as you!” 

Kiyoomi closes his mouth, and then opens it again, not feeling entirely unlike a fish. “Thanks, Bokuto-san.” 

“Especially if the someone looking out for you is a cool pro volleyball player you have a crush on!” 

“ Bokuto-san! ” 

Now Akaashi’s chuckling, too. “I think you’re embarrassing him, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto grins boyishly. Kiyoomi huffs and swirls the ice left at the bottom of his cup. “Sorry, Sakkun!” he says. Akaashi chuckles and takes Bokuto’s empty cup from his hands so he can toss it in the garbage can as they walk out the door. Kiyoomi takes his cue to retrieve his bag and coat, and follows Bokuto and Akaashi out the door and down the street to Bokuto’s apartment. 

“Sakkun,” Bokuto muses, once they’re a couple blocks down. He’s walking arm-in-arm with Akaashi, a couple steps in front of Kiyoomi, but he keeps looking back over his shoulder every couple seconds, like he’s worried Kiyoomi might accidentally wander off. “Let’s say you did want to date him, hypothetically. Hypothetically —is that the right word, Akaashi?” 

“Yes, exactly right,” Akaashi says. 

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “I don’t.”

Bokuto beams at Akaashi, and then turns to Kiyoomi to beam at him, too. “Let’s say if you did, though!” he says. “You’d probably want to spend more time with just the two of you, right? So I don’t have to come to the games all the time, if you want to hang out with him!” 

“You don’t want to come to the games?”

Bokuto’s face falls dramatically. Akaashi snorts next to him. “No, Sakkun! I love coming to games with you!” Bokuto says. 

“Then come.” 

“But I would sacrifice my own fun for you, Sakkun. So you can seduce Atsumu-kun.” 

“Gross, don’t say that,” Kiyoomi says. Bokuto laughs. “If you don’t want to come then I guess I can invite Akaashi-san.” 

Akaashi perks up in obvious interest. 

“I’d love to accompany you, Sakusa-san.” 

“ Akaaaashiiiiiiii! ” Bokuto protests. “What about for love!” 

Akaashi waves him off. “I’ve never been to a professional volleyball game,” he says. “If you’re going to fall in love, it can wait another week, right?” 

Akaashi laughs at Bokuto’s wails of protest, and Kiyoomi laughs, and then Bokuto amps up the dramatics to make them both laugh harder, and Kiyoomi forgets to protest the wording. 

The following weekend, Kiyoomi and Akaashi use Kiyoomi’s two standing tickets to watch MSBY play the Japan Railway Warriors in Osaka. Akaashi meets him at his dorm with Bokuto, Bokuto sees them off ( Don’t pout, Bokuto-san, we’ll see you soon, Akaashi says, and Bokuto replies I’m not pouting! ), and they ride the bus to the arena together. They sit high up in the stands. Akaashi is a good conversationalist, if a little formal, so it’s easy enough for them to chat about books and TV and volleyball until the game starts. Once the game starts, Akaashi cheers so loud that Kiyoomi jumps in his seat, and Kiyoomi decides that he and Akaashi will be friends beyond knowing each other through Bokuto. 

MSBY wins. Atsumu texts Kiyoomi and says he’ll meet him out in the lobby, and then is promptly swarmed by fans and press. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes as Atsumu’s expression shifts to something entirely put on and cocky. Akaashi laughs. Kiyoomi thinks maybe they’re already friends, and he failed to notice again. 

By the time Atsumu escapes his professional duties, all he has time to do is briefly say hi to Kiyoomi, properly introduce himself to Akaashi, and duck back into the back hallways to the locker room. 

“You seem disappointed that Atsumu-san couldn’t stay longer,” Akaashi says to him, when they’re sitting on the bus on the way back. Kiyoomi very nearly startles—for how different he and Bokuto are, Kiyoomi nearly forgot how similar they can be, too. 

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi says. Akaashi raises a skeptical eyebrow, but hums a sound of mild acceptance and settles back in his seat. “It’s not like I won’t see him tomorrow.” 

“Sure. Makes sense,” Akaashi says. “Maybe you should let Bokuto-san skip out on you next time after all.” 

The game after that, Kiyoomi invites Bokuto again. Bokuto invents a very transparent excuse to be busy. Akaashi’s in town, or he’s not, and Bokuto’s meant to leave to visit him, or he forgot to write an essay that Kiyoomi knows he wrote because they were in the library together when it happened. Kiyoomi tells him as much. 

“You’re so funny, Sakkun!” Bokuto says, in a tone that implies he seriously thinks Kiyoomi might buy it. 

“Bokuto-san, it’s fine,” Kiyoomi says. “Just come if you want to come. Or say so if you don’t.” 

“I really wish I could, but, y’know!” Bokuto says. “Tell Atsumu-kun I say hi!” 

Kiyoomi knows Bokuto well enough by this point to understand that there’s no point arguing with him further once he’s decided on something, even if the thing he’s decided on is being an idiot. He boards the bus to the arena alone. It feels more exposed, somehow, to be wearing Atsumu’s number in the stands by himself. 

The first set drags. It’s the Jackals’ serve, and the Green Rockets libero picks it up right away and sends it to the setter, who directs the ball right down the middle to the ace, who slams it down just shy of the line on the left. Then, the Green Rockets serve, and the same thing happens; Inunaki picks it up, sends it to Atsumu, and Atsumu directs it to a spiker who scores, maybe after a rally or two. And then again, back and forth and back and forth in an unbreakable rhythm. 

MSBY takes the set—barely—at 29-27, when they get lucky, and the Rockets libero slips on a spot of sweaty court, and the ball drops limply to the court in front of him. 

At the top of the second, it seems for a moment like the momentum might have shifted—Atsumu gets two service aces, one right after the other—but then the third serve gets picked up, and the Rockets score again, and they’re back into that same exhausting back-and-forth rhythm. 

This time, at least, the Jackals are ahead by one, but even so, the Rockets are making them work for it. 23-22, and Atsumu’s chest heaves down on the court, in a tight huddle between rallies with Meian and Tomas, pointing and gesturing with hand signs indistinguishable to Kiyoomi from way up in the stands. The whistle blows and Atsumu shakes out his shoulders as he settles back into place. 

MSBY’s serve. Barnes’ hand makes contact with a POW , but the Rockets’ libero is under it in an instant. Perfect A-pass to the setter, beautiful set to the left, and Miya jumps to meet it, but it’s not enough. Even at nearly 190cm he’s the shortest member of the current block, shorter than the Rockets’ spiker, so it whiffs off the tips of his fingers, landing with a pitifully soft little dink on the court behind him, Inunaki’s hand just centimeters away.

The Green Rockets cheering section bursts into applause and shouts as the scoreboard clicks to 23-23. Kiyoomi can’t hear it, but he can see Atsumu swear and clench his fists. Meian claps him on the shoulder, a little scolding, a little conciliatory. The whistle blows again.

Back to the old rhythm—Inumaki picks it up, sends it to Atsumu, and Atsumu sends it to Barnes, who slams it down over the middle. 24-23. There’s barely an on-court celebration. Kiyoomi folds his hands tighter. 

MSBY’s serve next. Game point. 

It might be luck. It might be chance. Kiyoomi’s real guess would be that it’s Atsumu, desperate for something exciting to happen, but as Atsumu dives for the returning ball landing far out of his zone, Kiyoomi doesn’t really have time to do anything beyond thinking he’s an idiot. 

Inunaki and Barnes both have to trip over their own feet to avoid trampling him, but he picks it up. The pass is messy—Meian fumbles just to get it back over the net. Inunaki shouts something; Kiyoomi can’t tell what he says, but it’s clearly in Atsumu’s direction. The Green Rockets’ left receives. It’s a less than ideal pass, but it’s still to the setter. The toss goes to the right, high over the net. Inunaki, Meian, and Barnes are all still on the left. Barnes has only just regained his footing, and Meian’s still on the back line. 

Atsumu leaps—nearly diagonal in the air—and catches the ball with just the tips of two fingers. The direction instantly changes, and the ball spirals rapidly upward from his point of contact. He collapses sideways to the court, but it gives Tomas just another second to get underneath it; an improv set across the court to Barnes, a perfect, beautiful, terrifying spike, and BAM! as the entire MSBY fan section rushes to their feet. 

25-23. A win in straight sets for MSBY. 

Atsumu is still on the ground. 

There’s a murmur as the crowd around him starts to notice. Kiyoomi cranes his neck over the people standing back up around him as the coach on the bench waves over a medic. Two of Atsumu’s teammates lift him up by the armpits to help him off the court. He winces when the toe of his sneaker hits the floor. 

Kiyoomi’s already halfway down the bleachers before he has time to think about it. He’s accompanied Atsumu back to the locker room to pick up a forgotten jacket or water bottle once or twice, so he weaves through the hallways largely on muscle memory. 

Meian is hovering near the locker room, just past the barrier fans aren’t allowed to cross. 

“Excuse me,” Kiyoomi tries. The security guard nearest him holds out an arm to keep him from getting too far. Meian doesn’t pay him much mind. “Meian-san—”

Meian glances at him reflexively, and then looks back to his phone. Kiyoomi tries not to slump too visibly and checks his texts again to see if Atsumu has messaged. Still nothing. When he looks back up, though, Meian is looking right at him. 

Kiyoomi blinks. Meian steps towards him.

“You’re Sakusa Kiyoomi, right?” he says. 

Kiyoomi nods. “Yes sir,” he says. “I’m a friend of Atsumu’s—”

The look Meian gives him then is a little strange; Kiyoomi can't quite identify it.  A moment later, something seems to click for him. 

“Ah.” And then, like he thinks it won’t turn Kiyoomi’s whole world on its axis: “You’re his Omi-kun?” 

Kiyoomi nods, tongue suddenly dry in his mouth. “Suppose you want to come back and see him, then?” 

“Please,” Kiyoomi says, perhaps a little too quickly if Meian’s knowing smile is anything to go by. Meian gestures him past the barrier and back into the hallway. 

Atsumu’s up on the table in the AT’s office, his whole ankle purpled and swollen. His face is pinched, his leg propped up carefully with a mountain of ice packs atop it. His shoulders are hiked up to his ears as the AT adjusts the whole setup, teeth clenched in evident pain.

“Hey, kiddo,” Meian says. “Got a visitor for you.” 

Atsumu’s whole posture changes when he looks up and sees Kiyoomi—clenched muscles traded for sudden, obvious relief, frown dissolving in favor of something like a smile.

“Omi-kun,” he breathes. “Ya came.”

“You knew I was coming tonight,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu reaches out a hand as he moves closer. It’s easier than Kiyoomi expects to take it in his own. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, but it’s a little short of breath. “Yeah, m’ok. Fuck , kinda scary, though.” 

Kiyoomi hums. “You won, though.”

At this, Atsumu grins, all broad and toothy. Something in Kiyoomi’s chest unclenches minutely. “Duh,” he says. “I always win.” 

“Don’t be annoying,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu squeezes his hand, like it’s something they’ve done before. 

At the end of the table, the athletic trainer finishes wrapping Atsumu’s ankle. Atsumu and Meian both look to him as he cuts the excess off the end of the tape and straightens up. 

“Doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning,” the AT says. Meian and Atsumu both nod. “No weight on it until then. No exercising, no running, no jumping, no volleyball. Not until the doc sees you.” 

Atsumu stiffens a little bit again at ‘no volleyball.’ “Ya think it’s that bad?” 

The AT shrugs. “Can’t really tell from here. I don’t know for sure, but I’m sure the doc’s gonna want to do some scans and see if you’ve broken or torn anything. Best to not take any risks until then just in case.” 

“You alright, kid?” Meian says. Atsumu nods stiffly. “We’ll get you a car to get home. Don’t worry too much, ok? The team will still be here when you get back.”

“Ok,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi squeezes his fingers, just to feel like he’s doing something. There’s a horrible, useless pit growing in his stomach. “Yeah, ok.” 

“You ok to get home?” Meian says. 

“I can take you home,” Kiyoomi says, without really thinking about it first. “I can take him home, right?”

The AT nods. Atsumu looks like he’s blinking stars out of his eyes. 

“That sounds good to you, kiddo?” Meian says.

“Yeah.” Atsumu nods. “Yeah, sounds great.” 

“Alright,” Meian chuckles. “Rest up, ok? I don’t want to see you back in this gym until you’re fully cleared.”

“Captain…”

Meian cuts him off. “Sakusa-kun, you’ll look out for him for us?” he says. 

“Yes sir,” Kiyoomi says. He can see Atsumu frowning at him from the corners of his vision, but he still hasn’t dropped his hand. Kiyoomi hopes, briefly, that he keeps holding it as long as he can. 

Atsumu’s apartment is normally only 20 minutes by train from the Jackals’ gym, but on crutches with his wrapped up ankle, it takes them nearly 40, even in the cab the team’s manager calls for them as soon as the AT gives him the go-ahead to leave. Kiyoomi climbs up his apartment stairs behind him, step after agonizingly slow step, his and Atsumu’s bags over his shoulders.

By the time Atsumu’s front door is shut behind them, Atsumu is obviously losing his patience with the whole ordeal already. He throws himself down across the couch and groans into the cushions.

“ Omiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… ” he says. “This sucks .” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and goes to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. “Prop your ankle up, don’t leave it hanging like that.” 

Atsumu groans again, but twists so his leg rests up on the arm of the couch, his back to the seat cushions. “Never had a real sprain before,” he says. “Could be bad, right? Could be torn or somethin’, and I’ll be out for months. Could need surgery to fix it, maybe.”

Kiyoomi turns back towards him from his spot at the sink. Atsumu’s not looking at him. His hands are folded across his stomach, fingers knitted tightly. Even with his gaze trained on the ceiling, Kiyoomi can see that his eyes are a little glassy and far away. Kiyoomi finishes drying his hands and moves to sit on the floor next to the couch.

“Maybe,” Kiyoomi says. “There’s no way to know until they do the scans.”

Atsumu nods. The tension in his clenched hands is visible up into his shoulders, in the firm set of his jaw. “Mmm.”

“There’s nothing you can do right now, though,” Kiyoomi says. “It’s not like worrying about it will change anything.” 

Atsumu chuckles quietly. “Telling me not to worry don’t mean much coming from you, Omi-omi.”

Kiyoomi glares and swats at his arm, which only makes Atsumu laugh for real. A little bit of the tension dissipates from his shoulders. “Shut up,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m not—I am not a worrier .” 

“Oh, I hope yer kidding, Omi, or we’re gonna have to have a long talk,” Atsumu says. “Ya so are. You are kidding, right?” 

“I am not a worrier, Atsumu.” Atsumu throws his head back—as much as the arm of the couch will allow, anyways—and cackles. “I’m not!” Kiyoomi repeats. “Shut up! It’s not—it’s not anxiety , it’s just, it’s practical . I don’t—I don’t worry about anything that couldn’t actually go wrong. It’s being prepared.” 

Atsumu’s still laughing. Kiyoomi grimaces, which has no effect. 

“Alright, college boy, should I be preparin’ to be out for the rest of the season, then?” Atsumu says. “I could need surgery, right? Could have plenty of post-op complications. Maybe it’ll even need ta get amputated and I’ll never jump again. Only being practical, yeah?” 

“Now you’re making fun of me.” 

“Duh,” Atsumu laughs. “Yer funny. Thanks, Omi, I feel better.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he grumbles, mostly so Atsumu will laugh again, because it’s relieving something tight in his chest to see him relax a little. “Glad to be of service.” 

“Hey, ya wanna hang out tonight?” Atsumu says. “I mean, like, a sleepover party or somethin’. Could be fun. And then ya could be here to help me get to my appointment tomorrow.” 

“You just want me here to carry your bags.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Like ya weren’t gonna already,” he says. “C’mon, I’m wallowing here. Stay and watch sad movies with me.” 

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says. “But I’m not watching one of your weird old rom coms.”

“Dunno if you really get a say in that, Omi-omi,” Atsumu sing-songs. “I’m so sad, I could’a died today, don’t ya wanna make me feel better?” 

“You didn’t almost die .” 

“Gonna start crying soon, probably, if only I could watch my favorite movie, maybe I’d be able to keep it together another couple hours—”

“ Fine ,” Kiyoomi says. “Don’t start crying. Shut up, just put it on.” 

Atsumu laughs. “Laptop’s on the futon, I think,” he says. “Grab it for me?” 

“If you’re going to be needy all night I’m not staying,” he says, although he stands immediately to get the laptop. Atsumu’s responding grin says he knows Kiyoomi’s threat is an empty one. 

Atsumu clicks around on the computer while Kiyoomi sets up the futons—the guest futon next to Atsumu’s futon, rolled out right up against each other so they can set the laptop between them. Kiyoomi throws a couple blankets over the top of the whole setup and changes into a sleep shirt pilfered from Atsumu’s closet while Atsumu hops one-legged from the couch to the bed.  

When he returns from changing in the bathroom, Kiyoomi sees that Atsumu’s picked the worst, most contrived, cheesiest one; it’s clearly a bid to antagonize him, but it makes Atsumu grin giddily waiting to see what Kiyoomi will say when he sees it, and Kiyoomi hated the part of the night where Atsumu wasn’t smiling way more than he’d ever care to admit, so he just acts appropriately scandalized, lays himself out on the guest futon, and watches as Atsumu hits play. 

Neither of them pay much attention to the movie. Atsumu fields texts from his brother and high school teammates, most texting about his injury from the moment they saw him fall on the broadcast, and then stays on his phone afterwards, aimlessly scrolling and looking over at Kiyoomi every once in a while to see how much attention he’s paying. About halfway through, Atsumu leans over to show Kiyoomi a video—puts his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder to get within reach and then stays there after—and so Kiyoomi doesn’t pay much attention after that either. 

The only illumination in the apartment is the light of the city through the windows, and the dimming screen of Atsumu’s laptop. Atsumu yawns, and then blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to blink the tiredness away. The shirt he changed into is oversized on him, wrinkling up around his middle. His hair is damp and a little mussed. His cheek pillows softly on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Kiyoomi thinks he would ordinarily mind the damp hair, but he doesn’t, even with the way it’s brushing his neck. 

And Kiyoomi’s long past thinking of Atsumu as anything like the suave, untouchable persona he cultivates, but something like this Atsumu—softened and relaxed and sleepy-eyed—makes Kiyoomi feel paradoxically exposed in turn. Atsumu’s the injured one, but Kiyoomi feels entirely pinned-up and delicate, like if Atsumu looks his way just right, the whole thing will shatter. 

“I’ve never had a sleepover before,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu picks his head up, eyes wide. 

“Seriously?” he says. “What about with Toya-kun?”  

“That doesn’t count,” he says. “You and Osamu-san sharing a room doesn’t count as a sleepover every night, does it?” 

“Guess not,” Atsumu says. “Guessing yer not gonna count training camps either, then.” Kiyoomi nods. “What about with a guy, or something?” 

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I didn’t ever date in high school.” 

“Well, duh.”

Kiyoomi swats at his arm, but it’s admittedly halfhearted. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means yer a prickly bitch, Omi-omi, no secret there,” he laughs. “Plus, not like I’d expect you of all people ta bring a guy to your room in yer parents’ house. No one since university either?” 

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I’ve been busy,” he says. “It’s not like I’m really interested in dating right now, anyways. It doesn’t feel like some big sacrifice.” 

“Right.” Atsumu shifts, just a little, so he’s not facing Kiyoomi so much. “Makes sense.” 

“I mean,” Kiyoomi starts, without much of an idea where he’s headed. Atsumu looks at him again, and his chest twists in a relief the source of which he can’t identify. “It’s not—it’s not that I’m completely opposed to it. I’m just not seeking it out. But if it happened I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t ignore it, I guess.” 

Atsumu’s looking at him all wide-eyed and open. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. “I think so. I don’t really know. I don’t have any prior experience to go off of.” And then, after an extended moment of Atsumu staring at him wordlessly, “What about you?”

“What, ya asking if I’ve been dating?”

“It only seems fair.”

“Didn’t take ya for the romantic type, Omi-omi,” Atsumu drawls. He laughs as Kiyoomi shoves at his shoulder. “Not really. Dated a couple girls, like, real short term in high school. Kissed guys at training camps and never talked again, that kinda stuff.”

Kiyoomi can’t really help himself. “What about after high school?” 

Atsumu shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Been busy. But I guess, uh—guess I wouldn’t ignore it either. If something happened and it felt right.” 

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu’s smile is soft in the dim light. He puts his head back down onto Kiyoomi’s shoulder.  “Makes sense.”

The first time Kiyoomi wakes up, it’s only three in the morning.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Atsumu’s laptop is autoplaying another bad romcom. Atsumu’s snoring lightly, head still resting on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Kiyoomi’s barely on his own futon, half-tucked under Atsumu’s comforter. 

His throat is dry, itching with a cough. He needs to pee. But Atsumu’s lying on him, and he’s warm, and his eyes are still heavy with comfort despite all that. Ordinarily he would get up immediately to fall back asleep as quickly as possible, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s several extended minutes that he waits there, Atsumu snoring loudly in his ear. When he gets up, it’s only because he feels he can’t wait any longer. 

He carefully extricates himself from Atsumu and lets his head fall softly back onto his own pillow. He’s immediately cold. 

Stumbling through the apartment in his drowsy disorientation, he considers putting himself right back where he started. Atsumu’s a heavy sleeper. His bad ankle is safely positioned on the opposite side of his body, propped up on a haphazard mountain of pillows. Kiyoomi could lift up the comforter again, tuck himself back into Atsumu’s side, and it would be like they had just fallen asleep that way, and nothing had ever changed. 

But even half-awake, Kiyoomi’s a more cautious person than something like that allows. He lays himself down on the adjacent futon, pulls the untouched comforter over himself, and watches Atsumu’s eyelids flutter delicately in his sleep. 

When he wakes up again, later in the morning, Atsumu is awake and watching him. 

“Hello, creep,” Kiyoomi says, which makes Atsumu laugh this soft, hoarse little morning laugh that is just entirely unfair. “Do you watch all your houseguests while they sleep?”

“Just the stupid prettyboy ones,” he says. “C’mon, help me up, my leg is all fuckin’ stiff and I gotta piss.” 

“Don’t be gross,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu laughs as Kiyoomi grabs his wrists to help pull him to standing. 

He watches as Atsumu gingerly stretches his leg, narrowly avoiding letting his foot touch the floor. Atsumu gestures for the crutches propped up in the corner of the room. Kiyoomi fetches them, and then walks an awkward half step behind him as he maneuvers his way into the bathroom.  

“Ya don’t gotta hover, Omi-omi,” Atsumu says, but only once he’s gotten fully into the bathroom and rested back against the sink top. “I’m good. I’ll call if I need something.” 

“Alright,” Kiyoomi says. He hovers for one more second. He looks Atsumu up and down once. Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. You’re the one who asked me to stay.” 

“Hey, my ankle might be busted, but my arms are as strong as ever!” 

To emphasize his point, Atsumu lifts one arm and flexes dramatically, bicep bulging under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and shuts the bathroom door in his face. Atsumu continues laughing raucously from behind the closed door. 

The unpracticed routine of that morning is surprisingly simple; Atsumu and Kiyoomi take turns washing up in the bathroom. Atsumu makes them both breakfast out of leftover vegetables and fresh rice. Kiyoomi helps dig a sweatshirt out of the back of Atsumu’s closet for him, followed by a crisp, unused MSBY branded backpack for Atsumu to switch his things into so he can carry everything himself. When it’s time to go, Atsumu puts his sneaker on his good foot, takes his jacket from Kiyoomi with an easy smile, picks up his backpack, and Kiyoomi follows him out into the hallway. 

Atsumu makes it about 10 feet before he freezes at the top of the stairs. 

“What?” Kiyoomi says. “I told you I could just take your bag.”

Atsumu turns to look at him over his shoulder. “It’s not—the bag is fine!” he says. He looks back down the stairs. “It’s—it looks kinda steep, right?” 

“No steeper than they are when you walk down them every day,” Kiyoomi says. “Atsumu, don’t seriously tell me you’re afraid of stairs.” 

“Shut up!” Atsumu turns over his shoulder to look at him, and Kiyoomi sees how flushed his face is. “It’s different! Ya know it’s different.”

Atsumu shifts back and forth hesitantly. Kiyoomi awkwardly shifts his own weight foot to foot, and Atsumu looks back over his shoulder at him again, and then quickly looks back.

“Go down sitting, then.” 

“Huh?” Atsumu looks at him. 

“Sit down and use your hands,” Kiyoomi says. “If you don’t want to walk down.” 

Atsumu narrows his eyes, like he thinks Kiyoomi is messing with him. “Yer serious?”

Kiyoomi nods. “Why not?” 

Atsumu looks at him for another extended moment. Then, he tucks the crutches under one arm, and slowly lowers himself to sitting on the stairs. 

“This is stupid,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi sits down on the narrow top stair next to him. 

“Not stupid if it works.” 

“Yer face says otherwise, Omi-kun.” Kiyoomi tucks his elbows in closer. “Show me how it’s done, then.” 

Gingerly, Kiyoomi inches down the first step, and then the second. It does feel stupid, but he’s helping, which is why he stayed. He shakes his hands out and pushes down to the next step. 

Atsumu has the audacity to giggle , then. Not just a laugh, but a proper, giddy giggle. Kiyoomi whips around to glare at him. 

“Ya look like ya just took a bite of a lemon,” he says. Kiyoomi glares harder. “Fine! I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” 

Bad ankle held out in front of him, Atsumu maneuvers down the stairs step by step. Kiyoomi does the same just a few steps in front of him, Atsumu’s giggles in his ear the whole time. By the time they make it to the bottom, Kiyoomi can feel the texture of the wood steps buzzing in his palms, and Atsumu’s laughing infectiously, so Kiyoomi can’t help but laugh too. Kiyoomi stands, and helps Atsumu pull himself back up. 

When they get outside, there’s a car already waiting for Atsumu on the curb.

“Text me,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu stops halfway into the car and turns to him. “Whatever the doctor says. Let me know.”

Atsumu nods. “Ok,” he says. “I will. I’ll see you later?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “See you later.”

Atsumu closes the door of the car. He waves a small little wave as they drive away. Kiyoomi waves back just a second too late for Atsumu to see him properly, and then watches the car as it disappears all the way down the street. 

There’s no morning practice. Kiyoomi’s first class of the day is chemistry. Kiyoomi already doesn’t like chemistry, but the lab drags more than usual. His lab partner has obviously not done the reading, but is trying to pretend he has. The first step of the experiment is a titration. The TA is the strict one, who makes them put their phones up in lockers on the far side of the lab. Kiyoomi feels about ready to jump out of his own skin by an hour in, and there’s still two more hours after that. 

When they’re finally dismissed, Kiyoomi beelines for the lockers on the far side of the classroom and rifles through the small front pocket of his backpack for his phone. 

Atsumu : doc says I’ll be out for a month or two

Atsumu : but no surgery

Atsumu : should be just physical therapy for a little bit and I’ll be good as new 

 

Atsumu : i know you’re in lab rn but lmk when you’re out and we can do lunch? 

Kiyoomi breathing an actual sigh of relief is a very near thing, then. Someone nudges him to get their bags from the locker next to him. He quickly scoops his stuff up and ducks out of the classroom to text Atsumu back. 

I’m glad

Lunch sounds great

Atsumu : good! 

Atsumu : I’ll cook if you pick up groceries? 

Kiyoomi arrives at Atsumu’s apartment an hour later, two overstuffed grocery bags on his arms. Atsumu calls it’s open! through the door when Kiyoomi knocks. 

Atsumu’s reclined on the couch, leg elevated on one arm of the couch. His whole foot and ankle are braced in something sturdier than the tape the athletic trainer used. Kiyoomi takes his shoes off in the entryway and brings the groceries to the kitchen. 

“Omi!” Atsumu says, and heaves himself off the couch. “How was class?”

“Bad,” Kiyoomi says, and then, when Atsumu’s brow furrows, “Just normal bad. I hate chemistry.”

Atsumu laughs. His eyes pinch shut, his shoulders shake a little. “So dramatic,” he says. “Well, nothing a good meal can’t fix, yeah? Ya wanna help or ya wanna watch?”

Kiyoomi puts the bags down. “I’ll help.” 

Atsumu grins. “Good.”

They stand side by side at Atsumu’s kitchen countertop, Atsumu resting his knee on a chair from the dining table pulled up in front of the stove. Atsumu cooks thinly sliced pieces of onion and meat in a savory-smelling sauce, and directs Kiyoomi as to the size of the cut vegetables, and laughs at his serious-focused-frowning face as he cuts them, and steals little bites of the uneven pieces when Kiyoomi’s pretending not to look at him. By the time they sit down, the whole apartment smells like searing meat and fresh rice and the bright, fresh scent of steamed veggies. 

The food is delicious. Atsumu grins at him across the kitchen table—all warm and toothy and bright—and Kiyoomi feels something like relief and something else entirely bloom hot through his chest. 

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” Kiyoomi says. He can’t see Motoya’s face—whatever hotel the Raijin have him booked in doesn’t have good enough WiFi for a video call—but he doesn’t need to, at this point, to know exactly what face he’s making. “Shut up. My stomach hurts. I might be getting sick, I think.” 

“I didn’t say anything, Kiyo dearest,” Motoya sing-songs. “Besides, I think it’s sweet. Nothing wrong with caring about someone.”

“I don’t care.” Not true—just instinctually contrarian. “I do care. Not in a weird way though. Just like a normal friend amount.”

Motoya’s quiet for a second. Kiyoomi almost hates this more than when he’s talking. “Can I say something?”

“I have a feeling my response to that question doesn’t really matter.”

“I don’t know who you’re trying to convince,” Motoya says. “Having a crush is like, exceedingly normal. You’re a growing boy.”

“Gross.”

“I’m not gonna pick on you for that,” Motoya continues. “I’m kinda proud, honestly.”

“I don’t have a crush.” 

“Again, who are you trying to convince? Because I’m not arguing,” Motoya says. “Just kiss him and figure out the rest after that or something.”

“I can’t do that.” 

“Why not?”

“I can’t—” Kiyoomi hates feeling like his brain is making words slower than his mouth moves. “I’m not—I’m not the kind of person who does things like that.” 

Motoya is rolling his eyes now. Kiyoomi is more sure of this than he would be if he saw him do it. “You can do it if you want to do it, Kiyo,” Motoya says. “You can do different things at different times. You’re not bound to reacting to everything the same way forever.” 

“I’m supposed to just be a totally different person now?” Kiyoomi says. “I’m supposed to just behave in a way that’s completely counter to every way I’ve ever behaved before in my life? 

“There’s no supposed to , man, that’s the point,” Motoya says. “Do you want to kiss him? Or like, date him, hold his hand, fu—”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up,” Motoya says. “Really think about it. I’m gonna time you for thirty seconds.”

“This is stupid.”

“I’m timing!” Motoya says. “Don’t say anything out loud until I say so.” 

Kiyoomi sighs. For the 35 seconds Motoya is silent, he stubbornly does not think about Atsumu, or watching Atsumu play, or the way Atsumu’s whole face lights up when he sees Kiyoomi in the stands. He doesn’t think about the look Bokuto gives him when he talks about him. He most definitely does not think about kissing him. 

“Soooo,” Motoya drawls. “Any big revelations?”

“I hate you,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m going to hang up on you now.” 

“Can I tell Osamu?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “Or Suna-san. Don’t say anything to anyone. Goodbye.”

“Just think about it okloveyoubye—!” 

Kiyoomi hangs up on him. 

Within a minute there are two texts on his phone. One from Motoya, which Kiyoomi stubbornly does not look at until much later, and one from Atsumu.

Kiyoomi makes himself shut up and count to 30 before he replies. 

MSBY’s next away game is in Tokyo. Atsumu is told to stay home and rest, so Kiyoomi and Atsumu watch it together on Atsumu’s laptop. Since Kiyoomi has homework, they watch it at the library, and since all the study rooms are full, they don’t get to watch it behind the privacy of a locking, soundproof door. Atsumu props his leg up and into the walkway between tables only after he’s reminded. 

“What’cha working on?” Atsumu says. 

“Textbook readings, mostly,” Kiyoomi says. 

“Mmm. Anything good?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says, and then, after another second of Atsumu looking at him expectantly, “I have a hard time focusing on them unless it’s quiet and I’m alone.” 

Atsumu holds up his hands. “Alright, hint taken, Omi-kun, I’ll keep quiet.” 

“Thank you.” Atsumu hums in acknowledgment. He turns his attention to his own laptop screen. 

He lasts about a minute before he starts getting restless again. Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s eyes flicking from him to the game on the screen and back again. 

“Barnes-san’s new serve isn’t really working out for him, huh,” he says. “He’s missed twice already. I think he’s gotta polish it more before he uses it in game, y’know?” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond. Atsumu shifts in his seat. “ Ooh —rough dump. The Adlers are kinda notorious for those this season, they should’a been ready—”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says. 

“Sorry, sorry! My bad, studyin’, I know.” 

Two minutes pass this time. Atsumu huffs just a little too loudly. “Wakaba-san doesn’t even know the new quick with Meian-san, they can’t even use it—”

“ Atsumu ,” Kiyoomi bites. Atsumu hums in acknowledgment and looks towards him. “I get that you’re angry they wouldn’t bring you along, or whatever, but I have work to do, so please just shut the hell up and let me focus on this.” 

“What—I’m not angry!” Atsumu says. “It’s not like it’s their fault. I got no reason to be angry.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Then stop acting like it,” he says. Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest. “Angry, sad, frustrated, whatever you want to call it. You’re being annoying either way. You’re just—fretting. It’s not helping anything.” 

Atsumu’s quiet for a second before he speaks again.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind, Omi,” Atsumu says. “I’m so fuckin’ bored I can’t take it. Ya know I go on a five kilo run every morning? Haven’t gone on a run in weeks, just get to do these stupid physical therapy stretches, I feel like my bones are gonna jump out of my skin, and now my whole fuckin’ team is out of town without me, I just—” 

Atsumu groans. It’s a weird, sad, helpless little noise that Kiyoomi does not care for at all. 

“Can we do somethin’ tonight?” Atsumu says. “Just, anything, somewhere we can walk or something. I know ya got work to do, I swear I’ll shut up and be patient, but after—”

Atsumu looks at him directly again. Kiyoomi’s face must give him away clearly, because Atsumu’s face falls before Kiyoomi even says it. 

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says. “I have team dinner tonight. Or else I really would.” 

Atsumu groans. “It’s fine,” he says. He drops his head into his arms, and then immediately picks it back up, whole body thrumming with restless energy. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s ok, Omi-omi, I’ll be fine.” Atsumu shifts in his chair, folds his hands on the table and then unfolds them. “I gotta go do a lap or something. I’m just gonna walk around a little bit, I think.”

“Atsumu—”

“I’ll be back,” Atsumu says. “I’ll let ya focus. Just gonna do a couple laps in the hallways or something.”

He stands from the chair, pushing out from the table and reaching for the crutches. Kiyoomi watches as he goes out the door of the library and into the surrounding passageways. 

Once Atsumu is out of sight, Kiyoomi picks up his phone. 

GROUP : suzuki-senpai fanclub 😤😤

(23 unread messages) 

Fujihara : what’s the issue dude you have a problem with dudes kissing each other or something 

Aiki : man im literally bisexual shut up 

Aiki : I just think if they did it zoro wouldnt be on top is all 

Fujihara : alright. interesting 

Fujihara : i have some links to send you don’t open them in front of captain 

 

Would it be alright if I brought my friend Miya to the team dinner tonight?

I know it’s not supposed to be open invite but he’s getting on my nerves 

 

Aiki : fuji I swear to god stop sending me your yaoi links my girlfriend is gonna get mad at me 

Sato : miya??? like miya atsumu?? 

Sato : the same miya you brought to practice before?? like of the msby black jackals miya atsumu????

Bokuto : omg yeah sakkun you should bring him!! id love to see atsumukun!! 

Fujihara : @Aiki what happened to love is love smh 😔

Fujihara : yeah sakusa that sounds cool you should bring him 

Aiki : im gonna kick your ass 

Suzuki : yeah sakusa that’s cool you can bring him! just lmk if he has any allergies or anything before i order

 

He doesn't have any allergies

Thank you

 

Suzuki : yeah of course man looking forward to having him

Suzuki : @everyone for the record girlfriends/boyfriends are always welcome to team dinners as long as they won’t start fights with fuji about one piece ships

Aiki : man that was ONE TIME 

Atsumu returns 15 minutes later, looking just as antsy as he was before. Kiyoomi’s only read a couple more paragraphs of his reading. 

“Hey,” Atsumu says as he sits back down. 

“Before I say what I’m about to say, you have to promise not to be weird about it.” 

Atsumu perks up immediately. “Oh?”

“You can’t interrogate Goto-san about setting,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu’s face lights up. “And the other first years don’t even like me, so don’t try to talk to them like you’re trying to meet my friends or they’ll think I’m showing off.” Atsumu nods excitedly. “And don’t try to embarrass me.” 

“I would never , Omi-omi,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi tries to really make the exasperation on his face clear. “Fine, fine, yes, deal, whatever ya say.” 

Kiyoomi sighs. “Alright,” he breathes. “Would you like to come to the team dinner with me tonight?”

Atsumu holds a hand over his heart. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Ya make a guy feel so special, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says. And then, much more genuine, and so Kiyoomi has to add a second eye-roll to counteract the blush, “Yeah, I’d love to.” 

“Ok. Good,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu somehow grins wider. “Don’t make me regret this.” 

“So mean to me,” Atsumu says. The smile and the tone and the general spark in his eye make it sound like flattery of the highest order. “I’ll behave. Honest.” 

Kiyoomi hums. “We’ll see.” 

Ordinarily, Kiyoomi would go to team dinner straight after class, but once Kiyoomi’s finished his work for the day, Atsumu still insists on going home to change, so Kiyoomi goes back to his dorm and waits for him to meet on the street outside. He steps out the front door just as Atsumu rounds the corner. 

“Hey!” Atsumu greets. 

“ What are you wearing.” 

Atsumu scoffs, affronted. “ What? ” he says. “Can’t a guy wanna look cute?” And then, when Kiyoomi only rolls his eyes, “Just because you got no fashion sense doesn’t mean we all gotta. Just a normal outfit, y’know, for those of us who don’t dress exclusively in highlighter track pants.” 

Kiyoomi looks him up and down. It’s just jeans, technically, and a hoodie, although much more of a well-fitted fashion hoodie than the formless, oversized one Kiyoomi wears. He’s wearing boots instead of sneakers, and the boots match his coat. There’s even accessories—a thin gold necklace, mostly hidden under the collar of the hoodie, and a simple ring in the same color on his left hand. 

Atsumu raises an eyebrow at him. Kiyoomi feels underdressed in his regular sneakers and track pants.  

“I haven’t worn those since high school,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu laughs. “Whatever. You look nice. Let’s go.” 

Kiyoomi turns on his heel and begins to walk down the street. Atsumu splutters and hurries after him. 

“Was that a compliment I heard? From the ever-stoic Sakusa-san?” Atsumu says. 

Kiyoomi feels his face heat, and is immensely glad Atsumu’s behind him. “Shut up.” 

“You flatter me, oh benevolent Sakusa-sama,” Atsumu coos. Kiyoomi walks faster. “I’m honored my wardrobe is satisfactory—”

“Stop it.”  Kiyoomi whirls around to face him. Atsumu cackles. “Don’t call me that, it’s weird. You’ve never called me that before in your life.” 

“Called you—called you Sakusa ?” Atsumu says, clearly incredulous. Kiyoomi feels, very suddenly, that he’s made a horrible mistake. “Ya want me to call ya Omi?” 

“I’ll never compliment you again,” Kiyoomi swears. Atsumu laughs. He starts walking again, so Kiyoomi has to hurry to keep up with him, this time. 

Suzuki’s apartment is near Kiyoomi’s, just off campus. They walk for only a couple more minutes before they reach his building. Matsumura meets them at Suzuki’s front door and leads them upstairs. 

Most of the rest of the team is already inside when they open the door. There’s a spread of snacks and drinks covering the whole surface of Suzuki’s kitchen countertop. Some on dishes from Suzuki’s cabinets, some in takeout containers, some in containers from other people’s homes.

Atsumu blanches and whips around towards Kiyoomi.

“ Omi ,” he hisses. “Ya didn’t tell me this was a potluck situation! I should’a brought something!” 

“I only invited you an hour ago.” 

Matsumura laughs. “Don’t worry, Miya-san,” he says. “You’re a guest! We don’t even make Sakusa cook anything, honestly.”

“ Matsumura-san .” 

“ What!? ” Atsumu says. “Matsumura-san, yer being too easy on him, then. Omi-kun, I know you can’t cook for shit, but you know I’ll make ya something to bring.” 

“I’m sure Suzuki-san will take you up on that,” Matsumura laughs. “Hey, have you met Goto-san yet?” 

“Not formally,” Atsumu says, grinning Kiyoomi’s way. Kiyoomi ducks away from his gaze. “Omi-kun doesn’t want me embarrassing him in front of his setter.” 

“Ah, you gotta meet him!” Matsumura says. “He’s been wanting to pick your brain ever since you came to that one practice with Sakusa. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” 

Kiyoomi tries to grab Atsumu’s wrist as Matsumura leads him away. “Wait, Matsumura-san—”

Atsumu grins over his shoulder as he lets Matsumura drag him away into the fray. Within a couple seconds, Kiyoomi can’t even see him anymore. Very suddenly, Kiyoomi feels like he’s the one who’s been marooned at someone else’s team party. 

He turns away from the hallway Atsumu disappeared down and looks out into the living room. Bokuto and Akaashi are sitting on a couch, a tall plate of snacks on Bokuto’s lap. Akaashi spots him and waves him over. 

“Sakkun!” Bokuto greets him when he gets close. Kiyoomi sits down at the spot next to them. “Hi! I’m so glad you’re here!” 

“Hi,” Kiyoomi says. “You knew I was going to be here, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto giggles and slumps heavily into Akaashi’s side. “Are you alright?” 

“He’s a lightweight,” Akaashi explains. Bokuto frowns. “He’s only had one drink.” 

“Am not,” Bokuto grumbles. 

“Mm,” Akaashi hums and pats the side of Bokuto’s face placatingly. “You are. Sakusa-san, you brought Atsumu-san?” 

“Aw,” Bokuto says, eyes still closed. “That’s sweet.” 

“He was being annoying,” Kiyoomi says. “I needed to distract him so he’d stop interrupting my studying.”

“So you invited him here? To make him feel better?” Akaashi says. “That is sweet.” 

Atsumu’s made himself visible again by now—Kiyoomi can see him, in the alcove windowing the kitchen from the living room—chatting animatedly with Goto. Atsumu spots him looking almost immediately; he smiles from just one side of his mouth, lifts a hand in brief greeting. Kiyoomi smiles back—mostly reflex, a little bit not—and Atsumu’s eyes crinkle in delight before he turns back to the other setter. 

“I like watching you around Atsumu-kun, Sakkun,” Bokuto says. He’s a sleepy drunk, Kiyoomi’s learning. Eyes half-closed, drink held loosely in hand, he’s nuzzled against Akaashi’s shoulder as he talks. “You seem so happy! It’s cute.” And then, a moment later. “Kind of reminds me of how I feel around Akaashi.” 

“You’re not being as sneaky as you think you are, Bokuto-san,” Kiyoomi says. 

Bokuto giggles. Akaashi tucks him into his side a little closer. 

“Neither are you,” Akaashi says, and then takes another sip of his drink and turns to start a new conversation with Aiki’s girlfriend, so Kiyoomi can only glare at the side of his head. 

“Sakusa,” Suzuki sits down in the chair on his other side. Kiyoomi consciously removes the glare and turns to his captain. “Thanks for bringing Miya-san. A lot of the guys have been wanting to meet him.”

“Thanks for having him,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m sure he’s loving the attention.” 

Suzuki laughs softly into the lip of his cup. “How did you two meet?” 

“In high school,” Kiyoomi says. Suzuki hums in polite interest. “We both went to the national training camp in our second year. And played against each other a couple times at nationals.” 

“Wow,” Suzuki says. “You’ve been together a long time, then.” 

“We haven’t been friends that whole time,” Kiyoomi says. “I disliked him all through high school.”

Suzuki laughs. “Really?”

“Mm,” Kiyoomi hums. “We only became friends this year. When we both moved here.” 

“That’s sweet,” Suzuki says. “I met my girlfriend only last year, but I wonder sometimes what it would have been like if I had known her in high school.” Suzuki smiles and looks over towards the kitchen where a woman, presumably his girlfriend, is standing and talking to some of the team familiarly. “I think she probably would have disliked me then too, honestly.”  

All at once, the context of the rest of the conversation shifts. Kiyoomi feels his whole face heat. 

“Oh—Miya’s not. We’re friends—”

“Sakusa,” Suzuki interrupts. “It’s alright. I’m sure you already know this, because of Bokuto and all, but the guys all have your back. So I hope you don’t feel like you need to worry about that kind of thing with us.”

Kiyoomi blinks at him stupidly. After a moment, Suzuki adds, “Of course, it’s none of my business.” 

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi blurts. “I did—I assumed I that would be the case, with Bokuto-san, and Aiki-san, but, ah, thank you. Really.” 

“Of course, man,” Suzuki says. “I know you’re a reserved guy and all, but you’re one of us, yeah? Don’t forget that.” 

“Thanks. Thank you,” Kiyoomi says. 

Suzuki nods and extends an awkward fist bump, which Kiyoomi returns. By now, Atsumu’s looking at him curiously, so when Suzuki stands up to find himself a less awkward conversation, Atsumu’s next to him only moments later. 

“All good?” he says. He sits himself on the arm of Kiyoomi’s chair, resting his leg for a moment, and so Kiyoomi’s shoulder rests at Atsumu’s side. Atsumu’s hand goes to the back of the chair. 

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. “All good.” Atsumu smiles. “Are you behaving.”

Atsumu leans heavily into his side all at once, far enough that he has no balance of his own, so Kiyoomi has to wrap an arm around him to keep them both upright. Kiyoomi huffs in admittedly feigned annoyance. Suzuki glances their way—it’s clear to Kiyoomi what they must look like, how much of a liar Kiyoomi must seem like. Atsumu laughs, and Kiyoomi’s whole face pinkens.

“Nope,” Atsumu says. “Telling everyone yer most embarrassing stories.”

“Oh?” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu nods seriously. “Like what?” 

“Oh, all the highlights,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Yer embarrassing high school training camp stories, how ya cried yer eyes out about that cockroach in yer room—”

“I did not cry my eyes out —”

“Only history will tell, Omi-omi,” Atsumu interrupts. “That’s how I remember it. So guess ya better start working on upping your cool points with Goto-san and them.” 

Kiyoomi shoves at his shoulder, but not hard enough to actually push him anywhere. “No one thinks I’m cool, anyways.” 

“I think yer cool.”

“Well,” Kiyoomi says. “Your taste is questionable.” 

“ Very harsh, Omi-omi,” Atsumu says, although a smile colors his tone. “I think I have great taste, for your information.”

“No one thinks they have bad taste,” Kiyoomi says. “By definition, everyone thinks their own taste is good.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. Kiyoomi shoves him again.

The meal itself is an informal thing; Suzuki’s ordered takeout from a nearby restaurant, and there aren’t nearly enough chairs at his small dining table to seat all the team and their guests, so once the food arrives, Kiyoomi’s teammates spread out across the apartment wherever they can find. Bokuto and Akaashi end up at the kitchen island. Kiyoomi stays in the living room, perched on the arm of a chair Atsumu’s sitting in. 

Suzuki gives a brief toast—to upcoming tournament qualifiers, to a safe and healthy new year, to delicious food and good friends—and they eat. 

The party never goes much longer once dinner is done. Kiyoomi does his best to help clean, briefly, before Suzuki shoos him from the kitchen. One by one, Kiyoomi’s teammates slowly filter out the front door and into the chilly night. 

“Lemme walk ya home,” Atsumu says. 

“Should you really be walking that much,” Kiyoomi says, with a pointed look at Atsumu’s braced ankle. Atsumu pokes at Kiyoomi’s leg with the tip of one crutch. “It’s fine, my apartment’s close.” 

“I know where ya live, I know it’s close,” Atsumu grumbles. “I’ll be fine. I wanna walk with ya.” 

For his typically brash tone, Atsumu isn’t quite meeting Kiyoomi’s eyes. His face is a little pink; maybe just from the drinks, but Kiyoomi’s sure he only had two. If Kiyoomi didn’t know better, the word he’d probably land on would be shy . 

“I’ll walk you back to yours, then,” Kiyoomi says. “If you want to walk together. Don’t be stupid and push yourself just because you’re restless.” 

“‘M not being stupid,” Atsumu grumbles. “Fine, whatever. If ya say so.” 

Kiyoomi grabs Atsumu’s coat from Suzuki’s closet, and then his own coat after it. He follows as Atsumu slowly descends the stairs, one crutch at a time. 

The air outside is even cooler in the late evening, the sun having set behind the buildings and below the horizon. Kiyoomi’s coat is already zipped all the way up, but he shivers and ducks his chin further into the collar. 

“Want my gloves?” Atsumu says. 

“That’s ok.”

“Nah, c’mon.” Atsumu rifles through his coat pocket for a moment before pulling the gloves out. “I can’t really use ‘em with the crutches anyways. Just take them. Don’t be a baby about it.” 

“You’re so weird tonight,” Kiyoomi grumbles. He takes the gloves as Atsumu presses them into his admittedly-freezing hands. The breeze down the street is sharp and icy, and Atsumu’s face flushes pink. 

They walk towards Atsumu’s apartment side by side, mostly in silence. Kiyoomi’s one drink did nothing to make him tipsy, but his eyes feel heavier the longer they walk against the muffled backdrop of quiet city streets. 

They reach Atsumu’s apartment a couple minutes later, a light flurry of snow just starting to fall and dust the shoulders of their coats. Kiyoomi stops outside the building’s front door as Atsumu digs for his keys in his pockets. 

“Well,” Kiyoomi says, a yawn lingering in his voice. “Goodnight.” 

“Hey, uh.” Kiyoomi feels a brush of fingers at his wrist, but by the time he turns around Atsumu’s taken his hand back already. Kiyoomi looks at him. “Thanks. For inviting me. I had fun, meeting yer team and stuff.” 

“Sure,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m glad you had fun.” Atsumu stands there outside the door without moving to open it. His eyes stay trained on his shoes. “Do you need help getting upstairs, or…?”

“No, no, I’m fine, sorry—” Atsumu shakes his head. “I just, ah. I like spending time with ya like this.” 

Kiyoomi blinks at him. Condensation crowds his eyelashes, freezing into little flakes of ice that he has to blink away. He’s chilled through, even through the coat and the scarf and the gloves and the thick layers of socks, but something about the way Atsumu looks at him makes it all feel negligible. 

And for just a moment, Kiyoomi can see it: the expression on Atsumu’s face and the blush creeping up to his ears. The way he offered the gloves, offered to walk Kiyoomi home, everything Motoya and Bokuto and Akaashi and Suzuki and everyone who sees him most and knows him best have said about the two of them. He sees it—all of it, the incontrovertible evidence of it all—and he knows what’s happening. 

“I like ya a lot, Omi,” Atsumu says. “I just—I just wanted to make sure ya knew, I guess.” 

Kiyoomi’s tongue is dry in his mouth. His whole chest feels light. He’s a little nauseous. He blinks, and Atsumu looks away from him. 

“That’s all,” Atsumu says, and it’s only then Kiyoomi realizes how long he’s been silent. “Have a good night, Omi-omi.” 

“Wait, Atsumu—” 

Atsumu turns around and looks at him. In his head, Kiyoomi replays the brush of his fingers on his wrist, the walk from Suzuki’s, the gloves and the dinner and the injury and the game and the studying and texting and the cockroach in his dorm and the grocery delivery, and whatever slivers of bravery Kiyoomi might have had left die in his throat. “Your gloves.” 

“Hang on to ‘em for me,” Atsumu says. “Ya gotta walk all the way back. And I’ll see ya tomorrow, right?” 

“Right,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu grins, face still pink. “See you tomorrow.” 

Kiyoomi puts the gloves back on as Atsumu closes the door to the building behind himself. He walks home in the cold, but feels warm to the tips of his fingers.

Atsumu’s off the crutches and cleared for light exercise 6 weeks after the initial injury.

He’s under strict orders: no weight lifting with the legs, no high impact activities, keep the brace on at all times unless showering or sleeping. This means a couple things; Atsumu can go back to practice with the rest of the Jackals, even if he can’t do the same workouts they’re doing. He can watch them all play and sprint and stretch and deadlift and spike and set and jump, while he’s left to pretty much just elliptical cardio or swimming or PT exercises. The MSBY gym doesn’t have a pool, and Kiyoomi only gets so many guest passes to let him into the university’s pool, so with very few exceptions, Atsumu spends multiple hours a day on the elliptical, watching his teammates set in his place from behind the pane of glass separating the court from the weight room. 

He tells Kiyoomi all this with a tone like he’s telling him he’s been fatally poisoned. Kiyoomi, for his part, tells him to shut up and texts Bokuto to see if he has extra pool passes while Atsumu whines at him. 

The night after the dinner party doesn’t come up. Kiyoomi doesn’t exactly bring it up, but neither does Atsumu. Everything's normal, which makes Kiyoomi’s stomach twist even worse any time Atsumu’s name pops up in his messages. 

Two weeks after that, the brace comes off, and Atsumu’s back to regular practice under the athletic trainer’s close supervision. He’s measurably less annoying. Kiyoomi sees just a little bit less of him, and thinks briefly that he misses being so annoyed, and then pictures Atsumu’s face after the dinner—standing on the sidewalk in the dark, cheeks pink up to his ears, waiting for Kiyoomi to say something—and makes himself think of something else. 

The first real game that Atsumu’s back in for is in Kyoto, against EJP Raijin. An away game, but less than an hour on the train, and on a Friday evening. Kiyoomi’s in his dorm with Atsumu when Motoya texts him the tickets. 

“Ya gonna be cheering for me, Omi?” Atsumu says. He’s been clear to train with the team for the past couple days, but the restless energy he’s held onto for the past 8 weeks hasn’t quite settled yet; he’s tossing Kiyoomi’s practice ball up towards the ceiling, so it’s just centimeters from touching each time. 

“No,” Kiyoomi says. He stifles a laugh at Atsumu’s expression. “Motoya got me tickets.”

“I got ya tickets too!” Atsumu says, clearly affronted. “I always get ya tickets!” 

“Exactly,” Kiyoomi says. “I see you play all the time.”

Atsumu groans and lets the ball fall to the floor next to him. He falls back next to it, dropping his arms limply. This time, Kiyoomi does chuckle. 

“Osamu-san will be there cheering for you.”

“Yeah, but he’s gonna be secretly cheering for Rin and Toya-kun the whole time too,” Atsumu grumbles.

“And I wouldn’t be?”

“Maybe for Toya-kun,” he says. “Not for Rin, at least.”  

“Ah.” Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “So it’s a numbers game, then.” 

“What—no!” Atsumu says. “Maybe a little! I just like when ya cheer me on, is that so bad?” 

“You’re very childish sometimes, you know?” Atsumu sits up and crosses his arms over his chest. “If I promise I’ll cheer you on secretly too, will you shut up?” 

Atsumu’s face flushes, although his pout stays right where it is. “Whatever, fine,” he says. “You shut up. I’m not…whatever.” 

Kiyoomi laughs and goes back to the study guide open on his laptop, but Atsumu and his pout and his blush stay in the corner of his eye. 

That Friday, Kiyoomi rides the train from Osaka to Kyoto wearing Motoya’s jersey instead of Atsumu’s. After the bullet train, there’s a short bus ride to the arena. When Kiyoomi arrives, the whole group of them—Atsumu, Osamu, Suna, and Motoya—are all standing in the lobby of the gym. Osamu’s the one who spots him first. 

“Sakusa-san!” he calls, waving a hand over his head. All the others turn towards Kiyoomi as he does. Atsumu’s face looks a little pink. 

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu says. “Ya made it! Train ride ok?”

“Scrub, ya didn’t ask me how my train ride was,” Osamu says.

“I know how yer fuckin’ train ride was, dumbass, ya were texting me the whole time.”

“Still the polite thing to do—”

“Oh, ya care about being polite to me now, do ya—”

Motoya turns to Kiyoomi as Atsumu and Osamu’s shouting rises to an unintelligible level. He grins broadly. Kiyoomi easily accepts the hug he offers. 

“Glad you could make it,” Motoya says. 

“Me too,” Kiyoomi says. “Excited to see you kick Miya’s ass.”

“ Hey! ” 

Osamu laughs. “Y’know, Tsumu, I think I get what ya see in him.” 

Kiyoomi feels his face heat, and ducks his head. He feels Motoya giving him a look even as his eyes stay trained on his shoes. 

Atsumu shoves at Osamu’s shoulder, whole face bright red. “Shut up!” 

After a couple more minutes of Osamu and Atsumu shouting at each other—with intermittent interjections from Motoya and Suna—a manager pops her head out into the lobby and calls them back. 

“Miya,” a woman in an MSBY polo calls. “Time to warm up, let’s go.” 

“Coming!” 

“We should go, too,” Motoya says. “See y’all after!” 

In a whirlwind, Atsumu, Suna, and Motoya are all gone, and Kiyoomi’s left alone in the lobby with Osamu. 

“So, Sakusa-san,” Osamu says. “Where ya sittin’?” 

Osamu waits with Kiyoomi before the game starts, asking after his team and his classes with what seems like genuine interest until the last couple minutes before the players actually take the court, when he dashes over to take his seat in the first row of MSBY’s section. In the break between the second and third set (2-0, MSBY), he comes over to ask if Kiyoomi wants a drink from the concession stand, and returns with one a few minutes later even when Kiyoomi declines. 

It makes Kiyoomi realize he expected some sort of hostility from Atsumu’s brother, to match the hostility he’s given himself for his complete cowardice in the face of Atsumu’s uninterrupted friendship the past several weeks.  

“You’re not what I expected,” Kiyoomi says. Osamu gives him an inquisitive look, mouth half-full of the snacks he bought between sets four and five (2-2). On the court, Atsumu is taunting Suna across the net while a ref looks on suspiciously. There’s 30 seconds left in the break. “You and Atsumu are really different.” 

Osamu laughs. “Yeah, he’s a dick, huh?” 

“I didn’t mean—” Kiyoomi starts. Osamu looks at him knowingly. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Tsumu’s never really cared enough what people think about him,” Osamu says. “He seems to care a lot what you think, though.” 

Kiyoomi freezes, his stomach twisting. “I don’t know how much he’s said to you…”

“Nothin’,” Osamu says. Kiyoomi’s eyes widen. “But he’s pretty obvious, huh?”

Kiyoomi looks out on the court. Now, Atsumu’s standing with his head hunched as Meian tells him off while Suna and Motoya laugh at him from the other side of the net. After a moment, Atsumu sees him watching and waves. His whole face is flushed and sweaty from the four sets he’s already played, but if Kiyoomi’s really being imprudent, he can almost imagine Atsumu’s cheeks getting a little pinker when their eyes meet. 

The fifth set tips well into the 30s before the final whistle blows. 

Every player on the court is visibly exhausted: hands on knees and propped up on heads, chests heaving. 

Ordinarily, Kiyoomi thinks the losing team would take a morale hit after such a close, hard-fought game, but both sides only seem alight with the endorphin high of a well-fought match. As soon as the third chime of the whistle ends, Atsumu ducks under the net and pulls Suna into a hug. When they pull away, they’re both grinning. 

Suna’s family has a house just outside Kyoto, right along the edge of the water. It takes some time for the fanfare after the game to die down, but once everyone is showered and changed and sufficiently done with interviews and photos, the whole of both teams and their guests make their way there at Suna’s direction. 

They arrive after a short train ride from the arena. Kiyoomi follows Atsumu and the others through the front door. By the time he takes his shoes off, drops his bag, and makes his way to the kitchen to wash his hands, Osamu is already pulling a whole tray of appetizers out of the fridge. 

Kiyoomi washes his hands, Atsumu and Osamu pull plates and serving trays from the cabinets with an eerie synchronicity, arguing the whole time, and within 20 minutes there’s a flood of people in the house. As the kitchen rapidly fills up, Kiyoomi grabs a drink and starts to wander the rest of the house until he finds Motoya in the living room. 

“Hey, Kiyo!” Motoya raises a hand over his head when he spots him. 

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says. “Good game—”

“What’s up with you and Atsumu-kun?” Motoya interrupts. “You were weird earlier. And he’s been kinda weird all night, honestly.” 

“How has he been—nevermind.” Kiyoomi sighs. Motoya raises an eyebrow. “Atsumu confessed to me.”

Motoya chokes on his drink a little. “When? Like, tonight?” 

“A couple weeks ago.”

“ Weeks? ” Motoya blanches. “And you…said no?” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Kiyoomi says. “I just stood there.”

“Well that’s stupid.”

Kiyoomi glares. “I know,” he says. “I’ll. I’ll handle it.” 

“What are you gonna do?” Motoya says. “I mean, you do like him, right?” 

Kiyoomi swallows, throat feeling thick. “It’s certainly seeming that way.” 

“You can just say yes like a normal person,” Motoya says. His eyes flit away before Kiyoomi can glare at him again. “Hey, honestly though, it’s not like you’re bound to anything even if you do feel the same way he does.” 

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Kiyoomi says. “What if—what if it’s more serious for him than I realize. Or more serious for me than for him. Or what if it all crashes and burns and we never speak again?” Motoya stays silent for a moment. “I don’t know how any of this goes.”

“I think that’s ok,” Motoya says. “I think you can figure it out along the way, y’know?” 

Kiyoomi nods. “Ok,” he says. “Yeah. Ok.” 

Motoya smiles and shoulders into him lightly. The next sip he takes empties his cup. 

“I’m gonna get another drink,” he says. Kiyoomi nods. “I’ll see you later?” 

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “See you later.” 

After Motoya wanders away, Kiyoomi hovers aimlessly around the living room for a while. Atsumu’s still in the kitchen, helping Osamu with the frankly copious amounts of appetizers and drinks, and Kiyoomi realizes how few people here he actually knows, other than his cousin and Atsumu. 

After another minute, Suna emerges from the kitchen, looking down at his phone. When he picks his head up and spots Kiyoomi, he immediately makes his way over. 

“Hey,” he says. Kiyoomi nods in greeting. “You wanna see some embarrassing pictures of Atsumu from high school?” 

“Yes please,” Kiyoomi says. Suna chuckles and scrolls to an album in his photos. 

There’s a couple hundred photos in the album, but Suna seems to know instinctively where the highlights are. With each picture, there’s an entire story that Kiyoomi gets treated with as well. A 15-year old Atsumu with highlighter-yellow hair, who insisted that he meant to buy the wrong toner and had in fact achieved his desired look. A 17-year old Atsumu in the locker rooms after school, wearing a practice shirt shrunk three sizes too small in the wash. A picture from only a couple months ago of Atsumu lying on the floor of Suna’s Shizuoka apartment, tears streaming down his alcohol-flushed face at the children’s movie playing on the TV in the background. 

After a minute, Osamu leaves the kitchen for what Kiyoomi’s pretty sure is the first time in the past 2 hours, and makes his way towards them. He drapes himself over Suna’s shoulders and peers at the screen.

“Show him the one from the izakaya in Tokyo.” 

“Ooh, good one,” Suna says, and starts scrolling rapidly. 

Over Suna’s shoulder, Kiyoomi sees Atsumu emerge from the other side of the apartment, ducking out from behind his taller teammates. When he spots Kiyoomi standing with Osamu and Suna, his eyes widen and he beelines for them. 

“You look like you’re about to ask Sakusa-san if these guys have been bothering him, Tsumu,” Suna says. Atsumu scowls, sidling up beside Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi chuckles.

“You look like you’re about to try to scam him outta his bank account numbers,” Atsumu says. Suna laughs without really looking away from his phone. Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi. Something in his voice goes barely softer. “Hey, Omi.”

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says. “Good game.”

“Thanks.” Atsumu grins warmly. “Glad ya could come.” 

Suna looks between them. “Do you guys want a room, or…?”

“Oh, shut up,” Atsumu says. “Yer one to talk, after the last party I went to with y'all and Toya-kun—”

“Ah, c’mon, don’t make Sakusa-san listen to that story,” Osamu interrupts. His expression is indifferent, but his face is noticeably pinker. Kiyoomi immediately decides he doesn’t want to know. 

He looks over his shoulder and sees Motoya on the other side of the room. He’s talking to Washio right now, gesturing wildly along with whatever story he’s telling his teammate, but when he spots Kiyoomi looking, he turns to him and gives him a look— you ok?— so Kiyoomi nods. Motoya nods back. 

Next to him, Atsumu nudges his shoulder. 

“Omi, ya alright?”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says. “Will you come outside with me for a minute?” 

Osamu and Suna drop silent. Kiyoomi chooses to ignore this. “Sure,” Atsumu says. “Lead the way, Omi.” 

There’s a small balcony right off the now-vacated kitchen. Kiyoomi opens the sliding door and lets Atsumu out first. Once they’re both standing in the narrow space—barely big enough for more than a chair or two—he slides the door shut behind them. 

Atsumu looks out over the water and takes a sip of his drink. Inside, someone laughs raucously. Kiyoomi’s heart pounds anxiously in his chest. 

“I don’t mean to be keeping you from the party,” Kiyoomi says. 

“Don’t worry about it, Omi.” Atsumu shakes his head. “I really just wanted to hang out with you, anyways.” 

A moment later, Atsumu’s face flushes, and he quickly hides his face behind the lip of his cup, hurriedly taking another sip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I wanted to hang out with you too,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu still won’t look directly at him. “What? Don’t be weird about it. Obviously I wanted to hang out with you.” 

“Maybe not as obvious as ya think, Omi.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Atsumu’s gaze flicks his way. “What? Yer hard to read! I dunno!” 

Kiyoomi can’t help but laugh. Atsumu startles a little when he does. “That’s funny,” Kiyoomi says. “I always feel like you see right through me.” 

Atsumu looks at him again, out of the corner of his eyes like he thinks Kiyoomi might not see him, and then looks back over the balcony again. Kiyoomi takes another sip of his drink. 

“We should talk about—about after the dinner.” 

“Ah, Omi, we don’t have to, it’s ok—”

“No, I want to,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu looks at him, a little wide-eyed. “I never meant to leave you hanging for so long. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize to me,” Atsumu says. “I’m alright, Omi, honest, but if ya wanna talk, I’m all ears.” 

“Ok. Good,” Kiyoomi says. He takes a deep breath. “Your friendship is important to me. And I know that you’re—different. To me.” Atsumu nods.

“You’re different to me, too,” he says. 

“Shut up, let me finish,” Kiyoomi says, but he feels the heat in his cheeks. Atsumu holds his hands up apologetically. “I’ve just never done anything like this before. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or how I’m supposed to feel.”

“Right.”

“But I know that you’re important to me. And that I care about you a lot,” Kiyoomi says. “I just—it’s confusing. I don’t—I don’t know.” 

“That makes sense,” Atsumu says. He looks at Kiyoomi and smiles a weird sad little smile that Kiyoomi does not care for. Kiyoomi frowns. “If ya want me to drop it, I will, honest. I’d be happy to be yer friend, if that’s what ya want. Just go right back to how it was before, no hard feelings.” 

“I don’t—” Kiyoomi swallows, his throat thick. “I don’t know—I want to figure this out.” 

“I don’t expect ya to come up with an answer or something just for me,” Atsumu says. “I never wanted to pressure ya or anything, Omi, I just wanted to tell ya how I feel—”

“I’m trying to tell you how I feel too, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi interrupts. It comes out a little sharper than he intends, but it succeeds in getting Atsumu to listen, at least. Kiyoomi takes a breath slowly. “This is all new to me. I don’t know what this is supposed to feel like, or if I’ll be any good at it. Even if I—even if I like you, I don’t know if that means I’ll be a good boyfriend, or that any of this will come naturally to me, or if I’ll be able to reciprocate whatever you feel for me. I don’t know how to go about any of this.” 

“You like me?” 

Kiyoomi’s next breath is a little shaky. “Yes,” he says. Atsumu smiles softly. “Yes, I think I do.” 

“Ok,” Atsumu says slowly. Kiyoomi’s heart thrums incessantly in his chest. “What do you want to do, then?” 

They’re both quiet for a minute. The water laps quietly at the shore down below. A quiet breeze whistles between the buildings until it reaches them, and Kiyoomi shivers, wishing he had brought his coat out. Atsumu’s doing an admirable job of maintaining some sense of normality from his spot next to him, although Kiyoomi can practically hear the rapid thrumming beneath his sternum. 

“Ya don’t have to decide now,” Atsumu starts. 

“Motoya said I should just try kissing you,” he blurts. Mortifyingly, Atsumu grins right in time with the heat Kiyoomi feels rising in his face. “To see if that clarified anything that I was feeling.” 

“Oh yeah?” Atsumu’s smile is all wide and toothy and just a touch cocky, and Kiyoomi hates him a little, and Kiyoomi can’t stop looking. “I’ll kiss ya,” Atsumu says. “If that’s what ya want.” 

“What do you want,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu looks at him questioningly. “I don’t want you to just kiss me for the sake of it. Only if—” God , Kiyoomi’s going to kill Motoya. “Only if you wanted to kiss me, too.” 

“Oh, Omi,” Atsumu says. He leans in, puts one hand on the side of Kiyoomi’s face. “You have no idea.” 

Atsumu kisses him. Kiyoomi’s eyes flutter shut, and he inhales sharply.

After what must be either a lifetime or a split second, Kiyoomi remembers to move. Atsumu pulls back just barely as Kiyoomi shifts to put a hand on his waist, and he laughs this breathless little laugh that says he absolutely knows that Kiyoomi forgot. Kiyoomi wraps a finger into his belt loop and tugs him closer, which succeeds in both getting Atsumu to shut up and getting him to kiss him again. It’s good. It’s really, really good. 

“Well,” Atsumu says, near-whispered, still inches from Kiyoomi’s face. Kiyoomi opens his eyes to look at him. “Any feelings clarified? Or should we check again?” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, even though he’s sure the sentiment is lost with the wobbly smile forming on his face—Atsumu’s smiling the same smile, and so Kiyoomi can’t really bring himself to care. 

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi says.

“Make me,” Atsumu says. 

“God, you’re annoying.” 

Kiyoomi grabs the collar of his shirt and kisses him again.