Chapter Text
Kiyoomi would never understand why the lights in the hospital had to be so bright. They burned fluorescent rings into his vision, casting ugly green-hued light across the rooms and leaving no place for shadows. He just wanted to sleep, and he used what little strength he could muster to curl into a small ball under the thin baby blue hospital sheet. The red digital clock on the wall above the sliding doors read 3:52. Kiyoomi wasn't sure if it was early in the morning or mid-afternoon, but exhaustion tugged at his tiny limbs. A plastic mask was placed over his nose and mouth. He hated it; it was supposed to help him breathe, but it left him feeling itchy and chained to his bed. It was as if his body was blanketed in lead: small limbs pinned by lassitude, head spinning with every shaky inhale, and skin torrid and damp with sweat. He suffocated under the weight of vulnerability and malady. A nurse came around to draw more blood, poking and prodding until he couldn't take it.
"I want my mommy," he hoarsely cried, heavy defeated sobs wracking his small frame. The nurse continued her work, carding her fingers through Kiyoomi's dark wiry hair as she checked his temperature. The gentle touch soothed the young boy enough to lull him into the expanse of restless sleep.
Wide dark eyes slowly fluttered open after a refreshing nap. Although his limbs ached and his throat burned, Kiyoomi felt better. He slowly explored the room, looking at the medical equipment on the walls and the weird screen he was hooked up to. Numbers on the screen crept higher and higher as he came to, indicating his condition was improving. Small chubby fingers apprehensively tugged at the IV taped to his arm. Kiyoomi promptly cried out in pain as the needle in his arm moved. The same nurse from before came rushing in, unabashed shock plastered on her traditionally sombre face.
"He's awake!" she called behind her, dragging a doctor in the room to see the young boy. He had managed to prop himself up, now able to get a better view of the room. It clearly wasn't the same. It was colder somehow, white sterile walls and no toys or chairs for visitors. His mother was crying on the other side of glass sliding doors that kept him separated from the outside world. Doctors hovered around him, trying to jab him with more needles and god knows what else.
It seemed like half the day had gone by before anything substantial happened. Wide excited eyes now swam with boredom under drooping eyelids. Doctor's asked so many questions, too many in Kiyoomi's opinion. At just four years old, he had absolutely no idea what was happening. The small child resolved to close his eyes, just for a little bit, until the nurse would come back, and he could ask for his mom. The day had droned on with far too many questions about how his body felt for someone who couldn't use the washroom by himself. He was tired, but they kept pestering him. A small cold, something so simple, and although annoying, it was harmless, spread through his daycare wreaking havoc on him only for some particular reason. Maybe it was because he got upset last week when his mother asked him to put away his toys and come get dinner; maybe the universe hated him now.
His eyes remained closed and his body limp, but he heard the door slide open and two sets of footsteps to follow. Kiyoomi desperately wanted to open his tired eyes and beg to see his mom. His muscles refused to comply, leaving him limp and helpless in a bed far too big for him. The thin mattress dipped down as someone took a seat on the bed. Soon enough he felt a familiar warm gloved hand caress his face, trailing over the two moles that decorated his forehead. The remnants of an important conversation were muddled in his ears, previously whispered words like "normally around ten years," "quality of life," and "HIV" floated across his blank mind.
Nine to eleven years was the expiration date the medical professionals pinned on four-year-old Sakusa Kiyoomi that day in the ICS. He left that day with a diagnosis of human immunodeficiency virus, no idea what was happening, and his entire life as he knew it gone. It started with daycare, no more friends. No leaving the house. He began his first year of elementary school at his mother's home desk the next year. As his childhood faded away before his eyes, carelessness followed. Everything must be clean. Everything. Cleaning was a ritual, a refuge from his death sentence. Kiyoomi grew considerably less fond of mucking around in the dirt as the years flew by. Everything must be clean. His mother was the same; he got it from her. Soon enough he wasn't allowed to leave the house. Ever. Time was wasted in front of the TV, watching whatever was on, which was often volleyball. A small voice in the back of his head screamed that that could be him someday, that he could play on the courts like that. Kiyoomi locked the voice away, and he refused to believe what it said. His thirteenth birthday rolled around far too fast, signalling just under nine years since his diagnosis. Fear overtook him, and the obsession with cleaning became even more overzealous. But he took solace in volleyball. It made sense: there were rules to follow and specific methods to everything. Volleyball intrigued him, and soon enough schoolwork was being pushed aside in order to study the sport.
Not long after he hit fourteen, he was reminded of how dangerous it truly felt to live with HIV. His mother was fine one day: laughing, smiling, making sure the Sakusa household was in order. Illness overtook her cheerful demeanour, and she was gone. Would he be next?
Kiyoomi sat at the desk he did so many years of schooling at, books on volleyball tossed aside, scorching angry tears rolling down his soft cheeks. She forced this pestilence upon him. It was her fault that he would never live freely. Watching her coffin lower into a grave, all the hurt that Kiyoomi pent up over the years burst like a dam. He had no friends, no life. He couldn't rebel like a normal teenager, go to the mall, or even go to school for fuck's sake.
At fifteen years old, Sakusa Kiyoomi set foot in a school for the first time. He had officially outlived the prognosis. Fears still remained coiled in the pit of his stomach like an ugly demon ready to rear its head if things were not sanitized to his satisfaction, but for the most part, he truly felt normal. Never stepping outside of his home without gloves and a mask left him an outsider, but at least he was outside.
"You're Sakusa-san, right?" a voice bellowed behind him. Kiyoomi turned to face its source and found a boy from one of his classes there. His light brown hair was long and shaggy, covering half his face until he tucked his flyaway bangs behind his ears. He extended a warm hand for the other boy to shake. "Motoya Komori. First-year."
Sakusa glared at the offending limb outstretched before him. There was no way in hell that he would touch someone else.
"You don't have many friends, do you?" he retracted his hand, choosing instead to nervously tug on the bottom hem of his uniform shirt. Motoya's question was legitimate and Kiyoomi replied with a blank stare, but on the inside, it rubbed him the wrong way. "It's 'cause you're new here, right?"
"Not particularly," he replied with a small smirk, which was hidden by the mask covering his face. Motoya took another hesitant step towards him.
"Wanna have lunch with me?" He raised a single eyebrow up in question as a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Sure." On that day, at the age of fifteen, Sakusa Kiyoomi made his first friend. It was far from any normal friendship, but Motoya was someone to talk to, someone to let close enough to spite his late mother. And despite everything inside his head screaming no , he allowed himself to take pleasure in Motoya's smile.
Days flew by, each lunch spent with the brown-haired boy, until he was inevitably introduced to Motoya's other friends. These other friends of his seemed to have an affinity for volleyball too. Soon enough, Kiyoomi, hellbent on proving his worth and living life on his own terms, decided to join Itachiyama's boy's volleyball club. And at fifteen years old, already well past six feet tall, Sakusa Kiyoomi decided that being HIV positive would not stop him from playing volleyball.
Second year rolled around far faster than either boy expected. Sakusa still only had one real friend, mainly because Komori was the only one willing to put up with his prickly personality and germophobic ways. For the first time in his life, he had people looking up to him, and boy were the first years impressed. It had taken just a year for him to refine his skills and claim his spot as one of the top three aces in the nation. In the same time, he developed feelings that hinted at something slightly more than a friendship with the libero, but he chose to let them fester inside rather than risk it.
Nationals rolled around again, both Kiyoomi and Motoya prepared to defend their titles together. The games were draining, and the crowds terrified the black-haired ace to no end. Motoya silently took notice of this, resolving to question his best friend on it later. And that he did.
The streetlamps outside shone softly, as if not to wake the exhausted boys residing in the hotel, but a bit of light slipped through the blinds on the window in their room. Motoya stood at the window, bathed in moonlight and gazing out over the outskirts of Tokyo where they were sleeping for the night. The team had decided on two team members to a room, and Sakusa had refused to share a space with anyone else. The other boy lay behind him now in his own bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The libero sucked in a quick breath before disturbing the peace. "Kiyoomi-kun?"
He grunted in response, and Motoya took that as a sign to keep speaking.
"There's something you're not telling me." Both of them fell into silence, rolling unsaid words around on their tongues. Motoya glanced back behind him, eyes meeting Sakusa's, who had arisen up at the implication. He took initiative to get an answer. "You're afraid of crowds. Everything must be clean. You refuse to talk about anything. You're afraid of getting sick."
"I believe that's reasonable. No one likes being sick," he replied sternly in a feeble attempt to end the conversation, sitting down on the edge of his bed and closing his eyes. His teammate's words weighed heavy on his heart. Afraid . Damn right he was afraid. His life played like a movie on the backs of his eyelids, laid out for him to see every heart wrenching moment of a lost childhood. That day in the hospital was just the beginning of a nightmare of missed opportunities.
"You're insufferable," Motoya said with a light laugh, taking a spot across from him on his own bed. "But I'm here for you."
His heart clenched in his chest. No one had ever really been there for him . His mother had claimed to be, but she made him feel stuck and alone, alienated from the rest of society. "Thank you," he declared solemnly, tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes.
The night ended with the ace curled up in Motoya's arms, hands fisted in the front of the other boy's sleep shirt, sobbing into his chest. His kinky hair was in disarray, but the smaller boy ran his short roughed up fingers through it to soothe him just like his mother used to. Tears dampened his shirt. Motoya paid it no mind, choosing instead to pull Kiyoomi closer.
It seemed like it had been forever since Sakusa had been held like this. Is this what he had been always missing out on? He allowed himself to relax in Motoya's arms, trusting that he would be safe. His curls tickled Motoya's neck as he lolled his head upwards to face him. His heart thrummed in his chest as the libero met his perturbative gaze. With wet cheeks and quivering breathes, he called, "Motoya-"
He interrupted the taller boy. "I don't know why but I feel different when I look at you." Sakusa stared into thin blue irises, and he swallowed his trepidation. He told himself he would not be a prisoner to fear anymore.
"Different?" he asked, unsure of how to continue without letting his feelings burst from his lips like a broken dam.
The libero tucked a stray curl behind the other’s ear as he shifted his face closer to Kiyoomi's. "Like, a good different."
"Kiss me," Sakusa blurted before he realized. So much for his former thought. He prepared for the worst, inching away from the other boy. His cheeks burned in the moonlight, and Motoya wondered if he knew how nice he looked like this.
Before the spiker could distance himself, apologize and ignore his declaration, Motoya was cradling his face between his short fingers, and he leaned in to press a tentative kiss to Sakusa's lips. He pulled away, but only an inch, and watched the other gnaw on his bottom lip before Kiyoomi was kissing him again.
It wasn't pretty like in movies. Sakusa awkwardly threaded his fingers through Komori's previously tame hair, unsure if he should pull his counterpart closer or keep him an arm's length away for both their safety. He chose the former, and Motoya softly laid a hand on his back, the other caressing his cheek. They both paused to catch their breath.
"We have finals tomorrow," lips brushing Motoya's as Sakusa whispered.
"Yeah, we should get to bed," the libero replied and reluctantly sat up to go to his own bed. Despite everything in the deep recesses of Sakusa's brain screaming not to, he reached out, seeking purchase on Komori in the dark. He caught the bottom of his shirt just as he began to stand.
With wide deep green pleading eyes, Kiyoomi begged him. "Stay. Please?" The shorter boy joined him in bed, and Kiyoomi allowed himself to think, just for one night, that maybe it wasn't so bad being close to people.
But at sixteen, just days after he and Motoya, side by side, earned the championship title, he soon realized that was a mistake.