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“Yo, Miya,” Meian calls. Kiyoomi doesn’t look up. His thoughts are still too focused on the practice they’ve just completed, methodically running through the specific drills and plays they’d done, assessing his performance for areas in need of focus and improvement. Behind those thoughts is a slight humming in the back of his head, a distant awareness of his afternoon plans prickling at him, but he ignores that. He has never been able to stand leaving things undone, and so his post-practice routine needs to be satisfied first.
Then Meian says: “Your brother’s here,” and that does effectively snap Kiyoomi out of his thoughts.
“Wha? ‘Samu?” Atsumu says, sounding confused. Kiyoomi doesn’t blame him. He probably didn’t know Osamu was coming.
Kiyoomi looks away, focuses on his locker. Tries to finish running through his post-practice routine, replaying and assessing his performance, but his thoughts are wandering. It’s exceedingly frustrating, but not entirely a surprise. Miya Osamu has an unfortunate habit of distracting him these days.
It’s probably his distracted mind’s fault—focus on the left wrist at conditioning this weekend, that last run was sloppy – Osamu’s here, he’s just outside the locker room – Bokuto should do some emergency set practice, it’s his only underdeveloped skill on the court – Osamu, Osamu, Osamu—more than anything else, running through thoughts while trying to get dressed, but it’s Inunaki who actually spills the water bottle all over his post-practice clothes. So.
They both stare down at the wet mess in Kiyoomi’s hands, the liquid seeping through the fabric at an alarming rate. Kiyoomi extends his arms as far as he can, holding the clothes as far away from his body as possible, and scowls at Inunaki.
“Oh, fuck, Sakusa, I’m sorry,” he says, for once not sounding like he’s teasing. He still doesn’t sound that apologetic, but Kiyoomi has a theory that he is pathologically incapable of sounding sincere, like an audible version of that wing spiker from Fukurodani with the perpetual smile. This still does not make him feel better, however, so he continues to scowl.
“It’s just water, right? We can dry it under the heater,” Hinata suggests, popping up like a whack-a-mole of good cleaning intentions. Kiyoomi frowns, thinking that was perhaps an uncharitable image, especially considering Hinata is his favourite teammate (though, realistically, Bokuto is his only competition).
Then Hinata sniffs the clothes—Kiyoomi recoils further—and scrunches up his nose. “Wan-san, why does it smell sweet?” Hinata asks, confused.
“It’s, uh, Pocari Sweat,” Inunaki says, rubbing the back of his neck. Kiyoomi briefly considers burning his clothes.
“Sugar water,” Kiyoomi says flatly. “You spilled sugar water on my clothes.” Kiyoomi is not against Pocari Sweat; he even uses it, occasionally, in its optimal form, which is as a drink. As a liquid to douse laundry in, however, he has his objections.
“Okay, so maybe not… the heater,” Hinata says, clearly reading the disgust on Kiyoomi’s face. Kiyoomi thinks of putting sugar-infused clothes on, and shudders. Definitely not the heater. Which leaves him with a conundrum of what to wear, because he refuses to stay in his practice gear. It’s sweaty, and he wouldn’t spend an entire day in it anyway, let alone one where he has plans.
“You have spare gear in your locker, right, Omi-Omi?” Bokuto asks, popping his head around the corner from the shower room. Kiyoomi resists the urge to tell him to dry his hair and thinks about his question instead. Bokuto is correct. Kiyoomi looks around, trying to figure out where to put his newly wet clothes, when Hinata produces a laundry bag, seemingly out of nowhere.
“We can wash it in the dorms!” Hinata says brightly, then tilts his head. “Wait, you’re—”
Kiyoomi frowns at him lightly. It’s not a secret, exactly, because he’s allowed to have plans, but Hinata bringing it up would draw attention to it, which invites questions. It’s not as if they’re impossible questions to answer, but Kiyoomi knows his team—ugh, he can’t believe he’s calling them his team, even just in his head—and he doesn’t really want his personal life to become the topic of an open forum amongst them.
Hinata just winks at him. “Yeah, I’ve got stuff to wash too, you can just put it in here! I’ll chuck them in with mine. I know how your process goes,” he offers, smiling brightly, and—well, it’s true. Bokuto is also learning the intricacies of Kiyoomi’s method of doing things—which, Kiyoomi maintains, contrary to popular belief, isn’t excessive, just thorough—and even Atsumu’s picked some of it up along the way, but Hinata knows it better than anyone except Kiyoomi himself. Well, and Motoya, he supposes, though his cousin never really had a choice in the matter, considering how they were constantly together. For all of Hinata’s flaws—there aren’t many, honestly, but the top two are his relentless competition with Kageyama even over the most mundane things and his tendency to indulge Atsumu—he is a good friend, and Kiyoomi can feel his expression soften slightly as he gives him a short nod.
From the way Hinata beams in response, you’d think Kiyoomi had given him a hug.
“Thank you,” Kiyoomi says, depositing his wet clothes into the bag with an expression of mild distaste. He pulls out his handkerchief to dry his hands, folding it with the wet side in, then moves back towards his locker, opening it to examine it for clothing options. His nose wrinkles in annoyance.
Inunaki has a lot to answer for.
✧
That’s how Kiyoomi finds himself sitting in the passenger seat of Miya Osamu’s car, wearing MSBY Jackals official practice gear. It could be worse, he reflects. His other option—Bokuto endorsed this, which Kiyoomi silenced with a frown—was wearing his actual spare MSBY Jackals official uniform, which would have just been extremely embarrassing. Still, wearing official practice gear, even if it only had the logo in the corner and not the entire team name emblazoned across his chest or one of the claw marks running down the fabric, was still hardly the plan.
Kiyoomi thinks about Kuroo’s inevitable amused, exasperated reaction to this, and bites down on a hmph.
“Your brother was confused when Meian said you were outside the locker rooms,” he says.
Osamu snorts. “Er, yeah, I guess you didn’t see before practice, I messaged ya, but I didn’t—exactly tell him,” he says. His voice is steady, but Kiyoomi watches in fascination as one of his hands comes off the steering wheel to rub at the back of his neck, his elbow resting on the car door.
“Hmm,” is all Kiyoomi says, but he unlocks his phone to read Osamu’s messages.
taste? I think you have great taste :) Ya seemed like u enjoyed the chazuke I made last time at least
Kiyoomi swallows. He scrolls up to look at what he said to produce such a message, and feels his cheeks pink. you're impossible. i have terrible taste. whoever invented commuication made a mistake
A typo. At least this time Osamu didn’t call him on it. Kiyoomi thinks to himself that perhaps he shouldn’t be so harsh on Inunaki—after all, Kiyoomi is the one who is constantly distracted by Miya Osamu. Making typos and not noticing, telling Kuroo that some of the things Osamu says make him want to punch himself in the face, thinking about Osamu’s presence instead of avoiding overly-friendly liberos with a penchant for Pocari Sweat… this is Sakusa Kiyoomi in the wake of Miya Osamu establishing himself as someone worth paying attention to, and it is an extremely unhelpful development.
He flicks a glance at Osamu again, his gaze trailing the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. Ugh. Distracting.
“I did enjoy the ochazuke,” he says, offering that instead of any variation on the phrase can you stop being so fucking endearing so i can focus please. Osamu glances at him, and Kiyoomi raises his phone in answer. “You very humbly suggested I have great taste, then brought up the ochazuke,” he elaborates. A beat, two. He talks before it can become three. “I did.” He shrugs, and looks out the window. Feels Osamu’s gaze resting on his face. “Thought you should know.”
It’s incredibly distracting, Kiyoomi decides, that he can tell that Osamu is grinning without even looking at him. Ugh.
✧
“C’mon,” Osamu says, beckoning, and Kiyoomi follows.
The sunlight dances across Osamu’s skin, drawing Kiyoomi’s attention to his arms. He remembers when Osamu had invited him over the other day: how when Kiyoomi had arrived, he hadn’t even registered him at first, focusing too hard on the umeboshi onigiri he was still making; how steady he’d been, taking care in his work, but still moving with an ease that could only have come from dedication and practice; how flustered he’d gotten when he’d finally noticed Kiyoomi watching him, apologising for not having registered his arrival, as if Kiyoomi didn’t spend twelve hours a day with Hinata and his terrifying focus. How thoroughly he’d cleaned the bench, how meticulously he’d washed his hands. Kiyoomi’s eyes had trailed across Osamu’s hands, following his intricate ritual: being careful with himself, his work, his food, his customers. Being careful with Kiyoomi.
Just like that night, Osamu has prepared food for them. He unfolds a blanket, laying it down on the grass, and sits down. Kiyoomi mirrors his position, sitting across from him on the blanket. Osamu slings off his backpack—a small thing, one which he has been wearing only on one shoulder, which has caused Kiyoomi the warring reactions of wanting to tell him to wear it properly and finding his eyes drawn to the way Osamu’s unobstructed shoulder blade moves beneath his shirt—and places it in front of him. From it, he pulls out two bentos, and places one in front of Kiyoomi. Next, he brings out two chopsticks cases, and Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow as Osamu holds them out to him.
Osamu’s cheeks flush slightly, but he just quirks one side of his lips in a half-smile. “Shut up,” he says. “Okaahan gave ‘em to me when I moved to Osaka to open the store—said ‘Tsumu an’ I could use ‘em together when we made meals together. As if. I mean, he’s always around, but he can’t cook for shit. Doesn’t even know how to cut a cucumber.”
The cases in question are covered in foxes; one grey beneath the pattern, one a pale gold. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who they were meant to be for, even if Osamu hadn’t alluded to it himself.
Kiyoomi suppresses a smile. Something about his expression must shift, though, even behind his mask, because Osamu stops his rambling about his brother’s inability to do anything correctly in the kitchen, and looks at him instead. His eyes are warm, and part of Kiyoomi hates that he’s close enough to tell. He’s not scared to be close; it doesn’t infringe on any of his carefully cultivated boundaries, even the unvoiced ones, but something about Osamu’s gaze causes his heart rate to accelerate slightly. It feels a little too tight in his chest.
If he can see the warmth in Osamu’s eyes, what can Osamu see in his?
Kiyoomi’s never cared about what anyone thinks of him before, particularly, except for those few he respects on the court, like Wakatoshi. This doesn’t feel like that, exactly. He doesn’t want to impress Osamu, because that’s not who he is, but there’s something in him that is curious about what Osamu sees when he looks at him. Something in him that can’t decide if it wants to make Osamu never say another word, or to listen to him forever.
It’s an altogether unprecedented feeling.
“Here,” Osamu says, his voice softer—still rough with laughter, like always, but in the way an old sweater is rough, warm and comforting to the touch. “Which one d’you wanna use?”
Kiyoomi raises his eyebrow even higher. “Do you not want to use your set?” he asks curiously.
Osamu just shrugs, still smiling a little. Cryptic as ever, Kiyoomi thinks to himself, a touch exasperated. A touch fond despite himself, maybe.
He glances down at the sets Osamu is holding out to him, and considers them carefully. He selects the grey one—Osamu’s, his mind whispers—and places it on top of his bento. When he looks back up, Osamu’s eyes are… weird. Kiyoomi frowns slightly. He doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s the same way Bokuto had looked when Akaashi had said he’d think about moving in with him, if a little less exuberant; the same way Iizuna had looked when he had been made captain. Like – like being pleased to be chosen, maybe.
Kiyoomi ducks his head, unsure how to chase that thought any further without blushing. When he glances back up, Osamu’s smile has gone crooked, a wry thing, still full of fondness.
Kenma told Kiyoomi once that he was terrible at being dishonest, and Kiyoomi does not disagree. He’s never put any value in pretence, anyway; even if he was any good at it, he wouldn’t have any use for it. Miya Osamu, however, is honest in a different way. Kiyoomi is blunt, direct—he wears his displeasure on his face because he’s never had any interest in hiding it, and sometimes he says things that are too honest, because his other option is not to say anything at all. Osamu, on the other hand, is open. Earnest. These are not words he’d have used to describe the Osamu he knew in high school—not that he paid particular attention to him, much more interested in his talent on the court than anywhere else, though he was always Kiyoomi’s favourite of the twins, by virtue of demanding less attention—but they are true of the Osamu before him now. Osamu then was – not quiet, exactly, but muted. No less troublesome than his brother—either on the court, or, if Kita was to be believed, off of it—but perhaps a more measured presence. Contained.
Osamu now isn’t wild, or anything, but Kiyoomi notices how at ease he seems now. He works so hard—has longer days than the Jackals do—but even when he deals with demanding customers, he always seems to end his days satisfied. He smiles so easily. Kiyoomi can’t help but notice that – be caught on the warm edges of it, the way a grin always springs to his lips when he sees Kiyoomi, the way amusement spills across his face whenever Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him, or pauses incredulously after one of his jokes.
He’d said something similar to Osamu yesterday, about how he seems to smile so easily, and his cheeks heat up when he thinks about what Osamu had sent back:
😁😁😁 maybe
or maybe I just enjoy spending time with ya
(if u couldn't tell! I'm buzzed 4 tomorrow !! can't wait to see ya)
Kiyoomi hadn’t known what to do with that. He’s not sure anyone had ever been looking forward to spending time with him before: maybe Motoya when they were younger, though he’d never lacked for friends, and Bokuto or Hinata now, but they would enjoy spending time with anyone. Kiyoomi thinks they could befriend a brick wall. And possibly end up becoming its rival, in Hinata’s case. Wakatoshi at camps, perhaps, though as much as they enjoyed each other’s company, it was built on mutual respect, first and foremost. A mutual understanding of both otherness and being exceptional. Being lucky.
He’s certainly never been heralded as a harbinger of smiles before. He thinks Kuroo would laugh at the idea, having seen Kiyoomi all through college and onwards; Motoya would probably defend him, then tease him in private. Kiyoomi can’t say he’d blame either of them.
“Hey,” Osamu says, breaking Kiyoomi from his thoughts. Kiyoomi looks up, meeting soft eyes, creased with amusement. “Y’hungry?”
Kiyoomi looks down at his bento, and feels his cheeks warm. Right. Lunch.
He removes his mask, folding it precisely and slipping it into his pocket. Next, he puts his chopsticks case to the side, then opens the bento, unwrapping it carefully. Then he pauses.
Everything is green. Green and yellow, but vividly so. It’s like he’s looking at his old Itachiyama uniform in food form.
He looks up, surprised. Osamu is looking at him, and he looks like he’s struggling not to laugh.
“It’s all edible,” he promises. “I was just thinkin’, I knew I’d be in my old school colours—” he gestures down at himself, decked in black Adidas gear, accented with white, “—and I figured, we should give Itachiyama some rep. Even if the uniform is an eyesore,” he tacks on with a wink.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but he can feel the amusement tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible,” he says, shaking his head.
“Yer the one here with me,” Osamu says cheerfully, utterly unrepentant, and Kiyoomi feels his cheeks get pinker.
“Clearly, I have terrible taste,” he says, and Osamu laughs. It’s a bright sound, ringing through the air, and something lodges itself in Kiyoomi’s chest when he hears it.
“Well, let’s let ya try the food then, to test it, yeah?” Osamu says, as if that’s the taste Kiyoomi means. Kiyoomi is fairly certain Osamu knows what he means. It feels – like a shared secret, maybe. An inside joke, even though it doesn’t make Kiyoomi want to laugh from amusement as much as it does from this feeling bubbling in his chest, although he refuses to do either. Something unspoken, building in this moment between them, and the next, and the next.
“Itadakimasu,” they say together; Osamu with warmth, Kiyoomi in a murmur.
Kiyoomi is opening his chopsticks case when he hears Osamu exclaim. He looks up quickly, only to find Osamu fiddling with the speaker, his phone in hand. A few moments later, music starts streaming through it—low enough that it’s not overwhelming, but loud enough that Kiyoomi can make out the familiar beat. It takes him a moment, but then he stills, chopsticks in hand.
Osamu notices, grinning. “It’s the playlist ya sent me last night,” he says. Kita had once compared Osamu to a cat when talking to Kiyoomi, but right now, Kiyoomi thinks he looks a little like a puppy – all pleased eyes and undemanding affection. It’s – it’s really cute. Fuck.
“Oh,” he says, feeling a little stunned. “It’s good that it’s helpful.” I’m glad you like it.
Osamu smiles, like he heard what Kiyoomi didn’t know how to say anyway.
✧
They go to the museum next, and Osamu charms the curators while Kiyoomi probably terrifies them with his face.
“They loved ya,” Osamu insists, as they walk towards the gift shop.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him. “One of them looked like she was going to keel over when I asked her a question,” he points out.
Osamu snorts. “That’s just ‘cuz yer hot,” he says easily. Kiyoomi almost chokes on his tongue. “And tall. She was probably intimidated. Also, we’re in Osaka. She probably knew who ya were too.”
Kiyoomi scrunches up his nose, which should be covered by his mask, but Osamu must see it in the way his brow furrows, because he chuckles.
“What’s that they’re always callin’ Kenma?” he asks. “World-famous Kodzuken? Well, yer world-famous too, Olympian-san,” he teases.
“Oh my god,” Kiyoomi says, looking up at the heavens. “Impossible. Absolutely impossible.”
Osamu barks out a laugh. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” he says, and Kiyoomi is furious at the stupid flip his heart does at the smile Osamu shoots him. Ugh.
They don’t leave the gift store for at least twenty minutes, mostly because Osamu finds some Sakai Takeru-kun tote bags that are being sold, and entertains himself telling Kiyoomi random facts about Sakai City and Daisen-Kofun based on the designs of the bag. Kiyoomi is almost certain none of them are true, but some of the actual facts about the Mozu Kofungun are just as difficult to believe as Osamu’s invented ones, which causes some havoc with Kiyoomi’s ability to assess them for honesty.
They end up walking up a hill, trying to get a better view. The curators at the museum told them that the only way to get a true bird’s eye view of the whole thing was to go up to the 21st floor of Sakai City Hall, but it isn’t until they’re standing at the top of a hill and are still unable to get a sense of what the whole thing looks like that the sheer vastness of its scale really hits Kiyoomi.
There’s a bench there, though, so the two of them sit down. Osamu leans back, stretching out, his back curving like a bow. Kiyoomi’s eyes trail it, unbidden.
He swallows, then thinks about what’s in his pocket. He takes a breath, then reaches in, and pulls out its contents: his phone, and a pair of earphones, still sealed in a soft plastic wrapping.
“I have a new playlist from today,” he says, more to the greenery around him than to Osamu, though he can feel Osamu’s eyes snapping to him immediately. “If you want to listen.”
He ignores his heart hammering, and thinks that Osamu has taken every step so far – made every move that counts. He invited Kiyoomi over last time, made him food, gave him a place to sleep—
Kiyoomi cuts that thought off before he can pursue it too far, because he does not like to leave things half-finished, and seeing that thought through to the end is something he doesn’t know how to do yet.
“Are you sure?” Osamu asks, after a moment. “About sharin’?”
Kiyoomi thinks back to yesterday, when he’d gone to the electronics store after practice. He must have been a sight: the tallest person in the shop, staring critically at the earphones selection, and scowling furiously whenever anyone came too close. He can’t even really explain why he did it. He just – wanted to be able to listen with Osamu. It’s some deeper impulse within himself. He’s not sure how to process it, so he’s not sure he likes it. But it’s there, nonetheless.
“They’re new,” he says. He thinks about all the little truths Osamu has given him, scattered between the jokes and banter, and thinks he can give him this one in return. “I got them to share. If you want.”
Osamu looks at him, open-mouthed. “I – yeah,” he says, nodding. “Uh. Yeah, I’d love to – to listen with ya.” His accent sounds a little thicker. Kiyoomi is appalled to find it endearing.
Instead of examining this newfound fondness for Kansai-ben in specific contexts, Kiyoomi focuses on the earphones, tearing the plastic seal and inserting the jack into his phone. He offers the left side earphone to Osamu, who takes it, handling it with a care Kiyoomi associates with handling living creatures, not small pieces of common electronic equipment. It makes something in Kiyoomi’s chest soften.
He places his earphone into his right ear, and scrolls through his phone, selecting the correct playlist and starting it.
If Kiyoomi closes his eyes, all he is aware of is the music streaming into his ear, and Osamu’s warmth beside him. They are not touching, and yet Kiyoomi is intimately attuned to his presence.
He looks at Osamu. Finds him looking back. Osamu’s cheeks flush, but he doesn’t look away, and Kiyoomi’s chest aches.
There’s a movement in the corner of his eye, so Kiyoomi glances away, and watches a bird take flight. He wonders if it was cowardice to look away.
Then there’s another movement, this time between them. Kiyoomi’s gaze strays down to the space on the bench between them, where their hands are resting. Where Osamu’s hand had inched a little closer to his.
Kiyoomi exhales. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. He inches his hand a little closer to Osamu’s, and is rewarded by Osamu’s breath hitching.
They sit like that for another song, two, three. There’s another movement, and Kiyoomi watches Osamu lift his hand, as if to reach out, and then pull it back slightly. He wonders if he’s misreading something, but then he glances at Osamu’s face.
He looks – conflicted, maybe. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and he’s determinedly not looking at Kiyoomi. He doesn’t understand it for a second, and then – oh.
Kiyoomi thinks about Osamu assuring him about the hygiene standards at Onigiri Miya before the last time he’d invited him over, thinks about how he stripped all his linen to replace it with newly-clean sheets that time Kiyoomi had needed to stay during the storm, thinks about the chopsticks cases he brought and the individual bentos, thinks about Osamu asking if he was sure about sharing the headphones. Kiyoomi thinks about Osamu meeting him at every boundary, even the ones he didn’t give voice to, and his heart feels too heavy for his chest, too full with something he doesn’t know how to give words to.
So he takes a deep breath, loosens his shoulders, and reaches out.
Osamu’s fingers brushing against his own is an electric feeling, searing through his skin.
Osamu whips his head around, staring at their hands. Kiyoomi steels himself, and flips his hand completely, so it’s lying palm up, his thumb brushing against Osamu’s pinky.
There’s a terrible, breathless second where Kiyoomi’s heart pounds in his ear, louder than the soft strains of music between them. Then Osamu slips his hand more completely into Kiyoomi’s, and Kiyoomi’s heartbeat gets even more erratic, this time from the dizzy aftermath of adrenaline.
Osamu’s hand is warm, and firm, and it’s in his. It’s in his.
He marvels at it, glancing down at their hands, at the ways their fingers intertwine. Kiyoomi is fascinated by Osamu’s hands; Kiyoomi is surrounded by people who pride themselves on how they use their hands—Osamu’s own brother being one of them, and a loud one at that, always going on about how a ‘setter uses ten fingers’ to anyone who’ll listen, which normally just means an indulgent Hinata—but he doesn’t think any of them are as impressive as Osamu’s. He watches Osamu take care of his hands, and then use those hands to take care of others, with others – he watches Osamu shape rice into onigiri, watches Osamu pour tea steadily, watches Osamu scrub methodically – he watches Osamu grip his hand more firmly, watches him resettle their fingers together, watches him press their palms together.
It’s a bizarre sensation, having his hand held by someone. It’s not a bad one, not at all, but it’s – unexpected. It’s kind of thrilling. It’s warmer than he knew it was possible to feel.
Kiyoomi looks at the earphones they’re sharing, the cord creating a bridge between them, and then at their hands repeating the action.
It’s a kind of closeness he’d never really thought about. A kind he didn’t even know how to want.
And now it’s a kind Miya Osamu wants with him.
Something about that thought slams into his chest, larger than he has words for. It’s a warmth curling into every inch of him, and he thinks, almost madly, that he doesn’t know what idea’s more excruciating – if it ends, or if it doesn’t.
✧
They sit there for a long time. Kiyoomi doesn’t know how long. He could work it out, could count how many songs they sat through, just basking in the sunlight and each other’s presence, anchored by their hands, but he wants to leave the experience as it was – something that felt like it could be endless.
He ignores a voice that sounds distinctly like Kuroo in the back of his head, saying aw, Kiyoomi-kun, that’s so romantic! Big improvement on ‘i feel horrifying when i talk to him’.
Kiyoomi maintains that he was right when he said that to Kuroo, anyway. He does feel horrifying when he talks to Osamu – horrifying and exhilarated and exasperated all at once. Fond and endeared and absolutely unprepared for the way the things he says and does slam their way into Kiyoomi’s chest.
He’s starting to calm down from the hand-holding by the time they get to the Sakai City Hall. They’d kept listening to music on low volume, connected by the earphones, as they walked from their bench to the City Hall. Kiyoomi can’t count how many times Osamu made him roll his eyes, or smile behind his mask.
It’s evening by the time they get there, and Osamu’s eyes light up.
“Oh, this is the best way to see it,” he says, and Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow.
“It’s still light enough to see everythin’,” Osamu explains, “but as it gets darker – well, you’ll see. The city’s really somethin’.”
Kiyoomi follows him into the elevator, and smirks at the expression on Osamu’s face at the elevator music. He’s muttering something about it being worse than the pop playlist the part-timers put on at the store when the doors finally open, and Kiyoomi can’t help it—he’s endeared.
Then Osamu leads him to the huge wall-to-ceiling window, and Kiyoomi forgets about anything he was going to say.
Daisen-Kofun is huge. He knows this; knows that the whole complex is bigger than the Great Pyramid of Giza—it was one of the legitimately true facts Osamu had told him during his stint as self-appointed tour guide for Kiyoomi.
It’s one thing to know that. It’s another thing, however, to see it in all its magnificence.
Kiyoomi’s eyes are wide as he takes it all in. Osamu, beside him, breathes out a laugh.
“Told ya,” he says. “Best view in Sakai City.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him, or tries to – he thinks he might still be a little too taken aback by the sheer magnitude of the place they visited today to pull it off effectively. Osamu quirks a grin at him regardless. Then his eyes take on a mischievous glint.
“Say, y’know how it’s a keyhole?” he asks, affecting an innocent tone. Kiyoomi immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion. He glances down at Daisen-Kofun, which, yes, resembles a keyhole, and returns his narrowed eyes to Osamu, who looks amused at Kiyoomi’s evident lack of trust for where this is going. “Was kinda hopin’ comin’ here would help me find the key to yer heart,” he says with a wink.
Kiyoomi stares at him incredulously. “Oh my god,” he says, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh my god.” He can feel himself blushing, which is terrible, because that was so dumb, and he’s so furious that he found it kind of cute despite himself. What the fuck. He rolls his eyes at Osamu exasperatedly, and Osamu laughs, the same bright sound as before, and it sinks into Kiyoomi’s skin.
“You are impossible,” Kiyoomi says, for probably the fifth time today alone, and Osamu just grins at him.
“Maybe that’s how I’ll find the key,” he teases, and Kiyoomi genuinely considers shoving him.
“Awful,” he says, shaking his head, trying to bite back his smile. “Absolutely terrible.”
Osamu just grins at him unrepentantly. Kiyoomi’s starting to think he likes it when Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him.
His pocket vibrates, and Kiyoomi reaches in and grabs his phone, careful not to dislodge their shared earphones. He sees the notification is from Motoya: looks pretty!!
He shows it to Osamu, who snorts, and pulls out his own phone. “Check what ‘Tsumu said,” he says, showing the notification.
fuck off
Kiyoomi snorts, and Osamu looks at him in delight. “I’ve never heard ya do that before,” he says. “It’s cute.”
Kiyoomi immediately fixes his expression into a scowl, but Osamu just laughs. “That’s pretty cute too,” he says, and Kiyoomi has no idea what he’s going to do with him. This is terrible for his heart rate.
Instead, Kiyoomi looks at his phone. He flicks to the camera roll, where he’d saved both Osamu’s accidental video from when he’d been struggling with how to use Kiyoomi’s phone, and the eventual snapchat selfie they’d managed to take and send to Motoya.
That’s what Kiyoomi finds himself looking at. He can see the smile in his eyes, even if most of his face is covered by his mask, and Motoya is right—the surroundings do look pretty. But Kiyoomi’s eyes stray to the edge of the frame, where Osamu is the focus. He looks at his grin, remembers the way he’d flashed his teeth and tongue, laughing a little as he’d done so – remembers the hilarious noise he’d made when he realised he’d taken a video by accident originally – remembers how bright his eyes had been when he’d grinned at Kiyoomi after taking the selfie, proud of his photography skills. Maybe he liked the photo as much as Kiyoomi did – he asked for it too, after all, to send to Atsumu.
“It’s a good picture,” Osamu says, his voice a little softer than before, though no less amused.
Kiyoomi flushes a little, but he ducks his head in a quick nod. “Yeah,” he says. “I like it.”
Osamu’s breath hitches a little, but when Kiyoomi glances back up at him, he’s just smiling.
“Oh,” he says suddenly, pointing out through the glass. “It’s dark now, look, y’can see—”
Kiyoomi looks, and breathes in sharply. The city is absolutely alight, which isn’t necessarily uncommon for a city in Japan, but from up where they are, they can see the ways the light streaks around the tomb and the areas around them. It’s kind of amazing. Kiyoomi’s never seen anything like it. He’s from Tokyo, but there’s nothing like Daisen-Kofun there, and it’s the dichotomy of the lights and the expanse of greenery that really astounds him.
“Oh,” he says, and Osamu nods.
“Oh,” he agrees.
They stand there, staring out at the city, Kiyoomi’s new playlist as the backing soundtrack for this moment, just for them. It almost doesn’t feel real.
Kiyoomi brushes their fingers together, half-wanting to be grounded in the moment, and half-testing the waters, and exhales when Osamu brushes them right back. Kiyoomi links them loosely, and he stands there above the city, staring at one of the largest tombs in the world, fingers entwined with Miya Osamu’s.
He’s not sure he could have ever guessed he’d end up here, but it’s the kind of moment he never wants to forget.
✧
They’re pulling up to the MSBY training facility dorms when Osamu glances at him, letting his gaze rest on Kiyoomi’s face.
“What?” Kiyoomi asks, meeting his gaze.
Osamu shrugs, quirking his lips in a half-smile. “I was just thinkin’ about what ya said earlier.”
Kiyoomi frowns. “When?” he asks. “We’ve been together for half the day.”
Osamu’s grin stretches a little at the reminder, before softening back into a smaller smile. “Nah, earlier. In the messages. Said I could judge your smile for prettiness myself,” he says steadily.
The car has stopped, but Kiyoomi feels like time has too.
“I think I said you could if you managed to make it happen,” he says, and wills himself not to blush at the reminder of Osamu’s message. I bet you’ve got a pretty smile.
Osamu raises an eyebrow, expression quietly amused. “So I didn’t make ya smile today?” he asks.
Kiyoomi hates this.
“Ugh,” he says, which is not at all eloquent. Then, more quietly: “No. You did.”
Kenma’s voice streams through his head again. You’re terrible at being dishonest. God, doesn’t Kiyoomi know it.
Osamu smiles, and it makes Kiyoomi’s heart beat harder in his chest. It’s a different smile than the one he’s been wearing all day—it’s slower, sweeter. Rarer. Kiyoomi’s never seen it before. It almost feels like it’s just for him, which is a heady thought.
“Can ya take off yer mask?” Osamu asks. “Just – to see.”
Kiyoomi hesitates for a second, and then tugs it off. Osamu exhales, and Kiyoomi looks at him.
“Pretty,” Osamu says, and Kiyoomi frowns.
“I wasn’t smiling,” he points out, and Osamu quirks his lips up.
“Guess ya weren’t,” he says easily. God. Every day, Osamu says words, and every day, Kiyoomi has to deal with them.
“Impossible,” Kiyoomi says, and Osamu laughs a little.
“Is that yer favourite word for me?” he asks.
Kiyoomi thinks. “Distracting,” he decides. “That’s also accurate.”
Osamu grins at him. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” he informs him.
“You would,” Kiyoomi mutters, which just makes Osamu laugh again. Kiyoomi’s lips twitch in amusement, and Osamu sucks in a breath.
“That’s almost a smile,” he says. “I was right. Real pretty.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him, but there’s something warm unfurling in his chest.
“Hey,” Osamu says, and Kiyoomi looks at him. “I had fun,” he says, and Kiyoomi nods.
“Yeah,” he says. He can feel a small smile playing at his lips, slowly tugging at the corners. He can see it too – not its reflection, but he can see Osamu’s eyes widen, brighten, can see his answering grin, and it’s almost the same thing. “Yeah, me too.”
When Kiyoomi closes the car door, walking up the path to the dorms, he still has Osamu’s smile fixed in his head. He can’t help the answering smile that pulls itself across his face, even as he puts his mask back on.