Chapter Text
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The studio of his youth has a soft warm light to it all, the sounds of a piano keeping tempo for the under-10-year-olds working through a pirouette exercise at centre floor. It’s his favourite place in the world, things can become focused and free. He can be powerful and fast, his weaknesses become his greatest strengths, and no one can touch him. It is in this studio that he will forge himself over years of time, practice, sweat, and ultimately, effort .
Hibarida-Sensei paces in front of the mirrors, calling out adjustments as he sees them. His eyes are impossibly sharp, able to catch even the slightest technical misstep, but they are balanced by the crinkled corners from years of encouraging smiles he’s generously given to his students. He’s a good teacher, a great one even. He’s made a place where he, an 8 year old weirdo, can feel like someone special.
Prepare right side, rise into passé, hold, lower.
Prepare left side, rise into passé , hold, lower.
Prepare right side, relevé into passé (watch your supporting leg) while making a quarter turn, hold, lower, repeat on the left.
Continue adding quarter-turn increments until the class is working on consistent double pirouettes, alternating directions.
“Sakusa-kun.” Hibarida’s voice stops the boy in the back corner.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is a little taller than his peers, even at 8 year's old. He’s all limbs, with a mop of frizzy dark curls piled on top of his head pulled back by a horrific yellow headband, revealing two moles dotted over his eyebrow. His dark eyes turn to his sensei, no words, close-lipped, ready to receive feedback.
“Your form looks good, but you’re missing your spot when you come back around. You’ll find it easier if your eyes find the front faster.”
He nods silently, eyes fix back to the mirror and he repeats.
Prepare, lift, turn, (eyes fixing to a spot only he can see this time) turn, (find your spot) land. With no change in expression, he darts his eyes back to the front where Hibarida gives him a little smile and a nod,
“Very good, now do it again and breathe.”
A minute flinch at the corner of an 8 year-old-boy’s eye, that only the sharpest eyes would catch. Hibarida-sensei has sharp eyes.
—thirteen—years—later—
Autumn sun filters through the tree-lined campus, casting the quad in partial shadow. The air is crisp enough for a sweater, most students have a slight hustle in their step in an attempt to get to the warmth of indoors, but one is simply hustling.
"Slow down!"
"Absolutely not."
"You didn't even let me finish-"
"I heard enough."
"You're not listening though-"
Sakusa Kiyoomi, 21 years old and still wielding those unyielding eyes, halts suddenly in front of the entrance to the library, turning sharply to face his cousin, Komori Motoya.
"You asked if I would teach toddler-level ballet to the volleyball team in order too, and I quote, 'strengthen our team bonds and overall performance ability on the court'. That’s all I need to hear.” The words slip out of his mouth as if they are venomous.
Motoya huffs a frustrated sign and runs a hand through his auburn hair,
"I just think it's stupid that you have all this ability to really help us out and you can't just like, hear us out one time!"
"Because I don't want to listen to a room full of jocks stumble through French terminology and whine through an arabesque.”
Motoya’s hands flap desperately, “I don’t know what that means! But I could ! At least come to practice tonight and talk to the guys about it and get a feel for them. It might help y-"
"I'm done with this conversation Motoya, I will see you tomorrow morning. It's a no.” Kiyoomi’s arms cross in front of his chest, erecting a physical wall to shield himself from further arguments. Motoya knows any further prodding and his cousin will go from ‘manageable jerk’ to ‘fucking asshole.’
"I want the record to state that I tried to talk to you about it and anything that comes after this, I am not liable for. I asked you to consider it, I did my part, you're not listening. You want to be all 'Sakusa' about it, fine."
With a final look that’s, for once, unreadable to Kiyoomi, Motoya turns and begins weaving through fellow students and out of sight, leaving Kiyoomi looking out over the chilly, bustling quad. Surrounded by hundreds of moving, teeming, bodies, he is somehow quite alone.
Kiyoomi can feel that he's been holding his breath since Motoya brought up the request a few minutes ago and consciously releases his jaw, hidden behind the medical-grade mask he keeps affixed to his face. Inhales deep.
He knows how I feel about it, don't know why he's so adamant.
"Um - excuse me? You're blocking the door." He snaps out of his head and catches the eyes of a very short and nervous fellow student, reaching out as if to nudge him either in or out of the doorway. He flinches away from the encroaching hand,
"Don't touch me, I'm moving." He whips around and away from the hand, turns away from the outside world, and hurries into the quietest corner of the library he can find.
The day continues on. It's not a great one. Kiyoomi pours over textbooks in the library for an essay in his ( stupid, mandatory ) Literature 101 course, sits through a ( stupid, dull ) lecture in his History course, then tops it off by spilling his ( stupid, hot ) tea on his sweater. He is having a stupid day.
By the time the day winds down and twilight approaches, his head is spinning, and not in a good way.
Which brings him here.
The Yoshida Studio is always empty in the evenings, it's the smallest of the studio spaces on campus, tucked into the back corner of the dance building. Students in the dance program have keys to the three other larger studios for evening rehearsals, but this one is usually left unlocked, because no one’s looking to break into it. It wasn't included in the studios to receive an updated sound system, so students have to wrestle an ancient CD player. One of the lights flickers. The far mirror has a crack in it that no one’s bothered fixing since it isn’t quite big enough to warrant bringing someone in. There’s only one window which is fused shut and technically a fire hazard. By all accounts, it's a bit of a dive compared to the other options.
Kiyoomi loves it.
Because it's still frequented by the twice-a-day cleaning staff so it constantly smells like lemon all-purpose cleaner, his favourite scent. The only sound is the hum of the faulty light instead of chattering people. It's an open space with three walls of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a ballet barre that wraps around the room. It's simple and imperfect.
So after a day of fighting the urge to pull at his curls and snap at anyone who looks at him for too long, Kiyoomi finds himself neatly tucking his street shoes by the door, extracting a wet wipe from his bag, and wiping down a section of the barre at the far end of the room, farthest from the door.
Once the barre is sanitized to his liking, he inhales, exhales, and let's his body take over while he rests his hand on the barre, letting his thoughts finally spin free.
Don't see why I need a Literature course for a History degree, let alone why I need a History degree for a Master's in Choreography. It's nonsensical.
He vaguely notes a soft pop in his hip as he pliés for the first time of the day.
Can't believe Motoya.
A second demi plié, then a third.
It would be such a bad idea.
Exhaling out and up from his grande plié ( Mind that knee, Sakusa-kun ) and transitioning to a relevé, toes cracking,
I don’t have the patience for it, they would certainly not have the discipline for it. I’d rather - fuck, I’d rather….
He pushes his mind away from his conversation with his cousin, bringing his mind back to his breath, allowing it to line up with the actions of his body, bringing him through his adapted warm-up for when he wants to get to 'the good stuff'.
A few minutes later he raises his leg ( reach through the top of the head, turn out ) and places it on the bar in front of him, breathing as he deepens into the stretch, sinking into a long diagonal split. He fights the urge to smirk at the thought of a group of fellow early 20-somethings with no dance training trying to struggle their legs past 45 degrees, let alone Kiyoomi's current position.
They might just cry if I brought them through my parallel splits warm-up. Motoya definitely would.
At that thought he can't stop the grin from spreading.
After another 10 minutes, body feeling warm-enough, he carefully removes his medical mask ( you can keep it on during warm-up, but you have to take it off at centre floor ) and places it in the resealable bag in his duffel. He takes the centre of the bare floor, making eye contact with himself in the mirror as he does.
Turning is simple.
A checklist to run through as one goes through the practiced and dedicated movements of performing a pirouette.
Find your spot.
Fix your gaze, inhale, exhale.
Prepare.
Core tight.
Spine long, send your energy up.
Hips down, pelvis even.
Lift off.
Press through your supporting leg, hit passé position, use the movement of your arm coming through to first position to continue your momentum, whip your head back around and find your spot again.
Core tight.
Stick the landing.
It’s a checklist he’s gone through so many times that it’s not second nature, it’s simply nature. His nature.
He turns. Once, twice, thrice, four, five times.
Thud.
Repeat on the left side.
Once, twice, thrice, four, five times.
Silence.
Back to the right side.
Once, twice, thr-
Thud.
( Breathe Sakusa-kun )
As he looks at his reflection in the studio mirrors, complexion pale in the fluorescents, eyes as dark as the night sky outside the sealed window, he stands tall in his preparation, taking a second to go through that checklist for once, because although it is his nature, tonight -
Lift off.
Once, twice, three times.
Thud
“Fuck it.”
Tonight, nature is fighting against him.
He runs a hand through the beads of sweat hanging heavy in his dark curls, echoes of his old sensei running through his head. ( You’re doubting your landing. Trust the floor, Sakusa-kun. It’s got you, you’ve got you. )
He drops his hand from his hair and makes his way from centre floor, his back to the door, toward his bag lying abandoned beneath the barre and retrieves his water bottle. He can’t help the whisper of his thoughts as he tilts his head back to draw water into his mouth.
What if I can’t trust myself anymore?
He’s so lost on that question that he misses the soft creak of the studio door behind him. The voice that follows is anything but soft.
“Hey, are ya Komori's asshole cousin, Sakusa Kiyoomi? His words, not mine.”
Leaning into the studio, one hand on the door frame, one hand holding the door open, was an Adonis of a young man. Tanned, muscled, blonde. What he can’t look away from are those amber eyes, hooded and fiery.
Ew, he’s so hot.
“Judgin’ by that look on yer face, it’s gotta be you. Motoya told me ya refused to come talk tonight, so I brought in the big guns.”
“The big guns?”
“These guns.” And this stranger proceeds to smirk that stupid face and actually flex one of his stupidly thick arms. And wink. The glare that Kiyoomi shot him could have cut glass, “Come on, that one was pretty good, ya gotta gimme that. I mean ya practically handed me the openin’.” His arms drop to his sides as he speaks and his smirk eases up a touch, but his eyes remain burning and fixated on Kiyoomi.
He crosses his arms, water bottle still clutched tightly in hand. The entire studio separating them, Kiyoomi leaning on the wall across from the door, tall-blonde-and-annoying standing in said door, worlds away.
"So he sent back-up to pester me.” At this, the blonde at the door mirrors his crossed arms and takes a step inside and on to the centre floor.
He’s wearing his shoes inside the studio. Gross.
"Oh no, he didn’t send me. He actually tried to talk me outta it. Said I wouldn't get anywhere."
"He knows me well."
"Ah, but he also knows me pretty well, and I’m not as easy to brush off as yer lovely cousin.” Kiyoomi scoffs at the nerve of this guy who is not actually that hot once he starts talking. Really.
"Cool, bro. I'm still not teaching you how to point your fucking feet. Get an actual dance major."
"Motoya says yer the best dancer at the school and that-”
"Yes, I am.” He can’t help the spark of pride that alights at this.
“Well, we want the best. Plus, we-”
"Sucks to suck, piss-hair.” That, for some reason, is what throws the pompous jock (at this point Kiyoomi is sure this guy must be from Motoya’s team) off his argument, eyes flashing.
“Hey! I like my hair, did it myself.” Bringing a hand through said locks, Kiyoomi pointedly does not look at how his bicep moves in a particular way, thank you very much.
"I can tell."
"Lots of people like my hair."
"You associate with liars, get better friends."
“Okay, be my friend."
"I- what?"
"I need better friends. Yer the best at somethin', I'm the best at somethin’. Yer a rudely honest guy, so help me not associate with liars by being my friend.” That dumb dumb smirk, it’s almost predatorial.
“That- Who the fuck are you?"
"Miya Atsumu, vice captain of the volleyball team and your new friend.” Miya then reaches out, as if they were going to shake hands, which happens to be Kiyoomi’s worst nightmare. His crossed arms grow tighter around his body, the grip on his water bottle like steel, as he spits out a retort, hoping it covers up the reactionary flinch away from the outstretched palm getting closer,
“Well, Miya, let me be clear. I would rather spend my existence in the hottest circle of hell than teach you and your meathead friends how to do a tendu. You are stubborn, arrogant, and everything I hate about people who expect the world handed to them.” The hand drops and Miya has not only received the fire in his words, but he looks ready to throw it all back (and a little confused),
"Jesus can you just listen fer a second, ya prickly bastard? At least let me finish my pitch to ya before shootin' it dow-”
“Maybe I don’t want to listen to some volleyball grunt who thinks he can just waltz into here with his filthy shoes and obnoxious attitude.”
“Funny, cause I'm actually gettin' the sense that this isn't about me.” He snarls through his frustratingly accurate statement.
Fuck.
“Someone get you a gold star.” Kiyoomi witnesses the moment any sliver of containment snaps in Miya’s eyes.
“Okay you know what - I'm fine being a stubborn, arrogant jerk, but at least I'm not a stuck-up asshole dancin' alone in the fuckin' dark on a Friday night like some scrub.”
Ouch.
“Well where are you supposed to be with your thriving social life on a Friday night?”
“I'm supposed to be gettin' dicked down by a guy from my Physiology class but instead I'm arguing with yer stupid ass so-” He hears himself too late, snapping his mouth shut.
Silence.
Kiyoomi feels his jaw drop half an inch and resents that his mask is on the other side of the room and not securely on his face.
How did we get so close?
Because at some point over their exchange, they’ve met somewhere in the middle of the studio, face to face, eyes blazing, and just a little too close for Kiyoomi to be comfortable. He takes a step back from the wide-eyed expression of Atsumu in front of him.
“I would appreciate if ya don't mention that to anyone.” His eyes flicker with something new in them, something Kiyoomi hasn't seen in them within their brief, though heated, exchange. Fear. It throws him off his centre for a moment.
“Of course I won't. Say anything, that is. I'm an asshole, not a monster.” Miya exhales and reaches a hand behind his head to rub the back of his neck, those expressive eyes darting around, maybe also noticing how far into the room he’s come, how close to complete disaster this whole exchange has come.
“Cool. Well- thanks.”
Silence.
He takes a breath, eyes still flashing, tension still hot, but it looks like he's not to be completely deterred, "But I was serious earlier. I know yer the best. So look forward to seein' this face until ya agree to listen to us just once. If ya still don’t want to do it, that’s fine, but at least give us the chance to not leave it like this.”
How dare he be the mature one in this moment- fuck.
“I refuse to look forward to it.” He feels the eye roll behind Miya’s cursed bangs, his head now looking at their reflections in the mirror rather than directly at Kiyoomi in front of him.
“Sounds like a lotta work, try not to put too much effort into it, you’ll wrinkle.”
“Do you ever stop talking, Miya?”
“Nope. Now if ya don’t mind, I’m gonna- ya know. Go.” And with that, he turns around, not sparing another look to Kiyoomi, and heads to the door, “See ya soon Omi, don’t miss me too much.”
Kiyoomi gapes at his back as he exits the studio, feet moving without thinking to call something, anything out, desperate to get the last word in,
“It’s Sakusa to you.”
“Omi’s easier. Also don’t call me Miya, friends call me Atsumu.”
Fuck you.
He’s still bristling, can feel the sick sensation of word-vomit,
“Have fun with your Physiology ‘homework’, Miya.”
Atsumu doesn’t deign him with a response, just sends a flipped middle finger over his shoulder as Kiyoomi watches him retreat down the hall and around the corner, out of sight.
Turning back into the studio, listening to the hum of that one light that matches the frustrated buzzing in his mind, he churns over the conversation he was just subjected too, choosing to ignore his own part in it for the moment.
Miya Atsumu, huh?
———the-next-morning———
BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT
Pause
BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT
Pause
BZZZT BZZZT BZZ-
He scrambles blindly from between the bed covers, grabs the phone from his nightstand and blindly mutes it. Waking up sucks. He’s someone who has gotten used to performing in the evenings, a matinee at the earliest, and decided never to get used to waking up with the sun. Another reason university life is kicking his ass.
He flinches from the sunlight peaking through the crack in the blackout curtains he had painstakingly attached to the windows of his single dorm room, cutting across his face at this angle and lighting up the cramped and minimally furnished single room he had insisted on when completing enrolment.
Pulling the covers over his head while groaning lightly, he runs through his Saturday.
Breakfast with Motoya, homework for Literature, have to go see-
A knock.
Fuck you Motoya, we said 10 not... He checks his phone that he’s dragged into the safe haven under his duvet. Who the fuck is knocking on my door before 9?
His cousin isn't clueless, he knows better, but the knocking continues and has a relentless energy to it.
It doesn't take long for him to kick his duvet to the side and slip into the pair of slippers he kept at the side of his bed. With only a few strides he finds himself at the narrow entrance to his room. Swinging open the door glare first, all his brain can register is,
That hair is too bright for this early in the day.
"Mornin' Omi-Om- Oh no ya don't-" He sticks his foot between the door and the frame to stop the sudden swing of the hinges "-gotta get up earlier to beat my reflexes."
All he can do is snort in response. He hopes it covers up his instinct to laugh.
"Got ya a coffee. It's dark and bitter, just like yer personality.” Here is Miya Atsumu, in all his morning glory decked out in his athleisure finest, hair lightly tousled, holding two paper cups in his hands. His smile is as bright as that strip of sunlight from between his curtains.
"You're awfully chipper this morning.”
He shrugs and shoots him one of those winks, "Had a good night."
"Emphasis on the 'awful'."
"Get movin' Omi, Motoya's waitin' fer us."
"I told you not to call me that, and Motoya is certainly not waiting for us, Miya."
“And I told you to call me Atsumu, and no he actually doesn't know I'm comin' but the whole team knows Saturday is breakfast day with ‘Kiyo-chan’."
"He does not call me that."
"Listen," his face drops some of the smirk into something a little easier to digest, "we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, that's on me. So I apologize fer bein’ an ass. Let me make it up to ya. Take the coffee, and let me buy yer breakfast with Motoya.”
Okay. This gives him pause, because from the limited data he’s taken in from his previous interaction with this guy, he was not expecting an apology, let alone one that seems weirdly sincere. It’s unsettling.
"Why?"
"I have it on good authority that I can be a little... callous. I've been workin' on it and part of bein', ya know, not a dick to people is ownin' up when ya mess up. So-uh, here I am.”
Ah. But Kiyoomi had also forgotten in their previous interaction that Atsumu - no, Miya, had surprised him before. He seemed eerily aware of things, arguably too perceptive. Kiyoomi can feel a rush of heat to his face as he thinks about the night before. He looks determinedly at his fingers, still clutching the door, picking at a spot in the wood as he opens his mouth.
“It wasn’t all on you. I’ve heard I can be ‘prickly’, apparently. So, me too. I am sorry too.” Everyone tells him so, that he’s standoffish, intimidating, blunt. It used to hurt, until he decided that if others can’t handle his honesty, then they can stay away, and they do. But here’s this guy who he has had one not-so-pleasant conversation with, who has decided to reach out again, because maybe, if Kiyoomi is right with what he’s picking up on, he might have a similar problem.
“Wow. Ya suck at apologies.” Atsumu’s smirk is cutting, but teasing, Kiyoomi can’t help the minuscule crack in his straight-lined mouth that quirks towards mirroring it.
“I do, and I don't drink coffee.”
And please stop smiling, it’s distracting.
"More fer me then. I like bitter. Now get movin’, breakfast time!"
"Breakfast isn't for another hour idiot, and you're not invited. Go away."
"No can do Ooooomi. I already worked out and need somethin' to snack on or I’m gonna die, you want that on yer conscience? Deprivin' the world of all of this?" He gestures to himself like Narcissus himself, "I'll grab ya a tea or somethin’ on our way. That's what yer drink is, isn't it? Green tea? Shoulda guessed it." Kiyoomi has to put effort into setting his face into a blank slate at Atsumu’s earnest expression, "I'm totally right aren't I?"
That sunny, shit-eating grin was wearing down on his nerves and, oh god it’s working , this was his plan wasn't it? Annoy him into submission. Kiyoomi takes a steadying breath and unclenches his jaw a fraction of a hair,
"You're paying for my tea, and you’ll pay for my breakfast?” Atsumu makes it a ‘thing’ to balance the cups on top of each other so he can free his hand to lay it across his chest in a solemn vow.
“I am a man of my word, and nothing is more serious to me than one's morning caffeine needs.” The level of unnecessary drama cracks his facade another half inch.
“Fine and,” Oh he’s definitely going to regret this, “you get one chance to pitch your case today.” The surprise almost causes him to drop both cups, which he quickly recovers and without missing a beat,
"One shot to not miss yer chance to blow-”
"Out. Of my doorway. I will change, and then you are buying me a tea." Atsumu nods his head fast, removes his foot still propping the door open and takes a step back. He’s effectively blocking most of the hall now, but seems quite satisfied with himself as he takes a great swig of one of the cups he’d brought.
“Don’t take too long, if I finish both of these too fast before eating I might hurl.” Kiyoomi can’t help the twitch underneath his eye and his shoulders protective roll inwards, “Woah I’m just kiddin’. I’m house trained, swear.”
The ghost of that signature 'Miya smile' is still there, but his eyes have found that quiet, penetrative look to them. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with that look yet, so he settles with flicking his unruly sleep-crushed curls out of his eyes.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” And promptly closes the door with a sharp snap to separate them for a few minutes.
He takes a second, back resting against the door, taking a steadying breath, left hand brushing subconsciously over his right wrist. The lights aren’t even on in his room yet, just that cut of sunlight slicing through the muted room.
What the hell am I doing?
Pushing himself off the door and into his single occupancy room (being a mature first-year student with a savings account had it’s perks) to grab his weekend clothes, breezing through his morning rituals of leave-in creme for his curls, morning skin care routine, and a very quick stretch to make sure everything was popping and cracking in the right places, he answers his own question.
Getting breakfast I guess?
---forty-five-minutes-later---
It should not have taken them as long as it did to get here, but they had had a few ‘detours’ on their way to their destination. The first being when he had exited his room to begin their walk to the campus cafe.
It went something like this:
Atsumu had finished one of the coffees by the time Kiyoomi joined him back in the hall but, caffeinated or not, the twitchy way in which his eyes were scanning him up and down was unsettling. Kiyoomi felt like prey being stalked, or like a biohazard being scanned for contamination under that gaze, he wanted to squirm away or scream at him to stop it.
“What are those?” Atsumu’s eyes were pointed downwards, a dark glare zeroing in on it’s target. He didn’t have to look to know exactly what he was looking at.
“As you can see, with the right socks, they are both breathable and comfortable enough for any weather.”
“What are those?”
“Nurses wear them. I trust nurses.”
“What are those?!” Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and sighed,
“They are my crocs.” It was all a part of Kiyoomi’s weekend look, sue him. Some black track pants, his well-loved oversized yellow sweater, and yes, bright green crocs with a pair of thick socks. He even indulged in a single jibbitz on his right shoe, it looked like a Shiba Inu. It made him smile.
“Omi, who hurt you?”
“They’re gaining quite a following.” He replied flatly as he snapped a white surgical mask over his mouth, covering his smirk. Atsumu had let out quite the squawk at that.
“Like hell they are! The cultural laws of fashion are...”
And that debate had cost them a few minutes, neither willing to budge.
Then there had been when they had only reached the end of the hall headed to the stairs of the ground floor.
“Oh, one sec, we need to make a detour. Gotta give Sunarin his key back, he’s the floor below.” Atsumu was digging through his pocket fishing for the rattle of keys Kiyoomi could hear.
“I’m assuming this ‘Sunarin’ is how you got into the building - wait. You don’t live in this building do you?”
“Nah, I’ve got a place off campus with my brother, but Sunarin’s an RA on the second floor.” Having acquired the keys, he shot Kiyoomi a grin, twirling the key ring around his forefinger, “It pays to know people in power, this little baby can get me to all floors of this building, including yers.”
En route to this so-called-Sunarin’s room, merely one floor down, just a set of stairs and two hallways, Atsumu stops and has conversations with not one, not two, but three different people, which were always followed by a whispered aside once they were out of earshot,
“Yo, Riku, remind yer sister she still owes me from spottin’ her last week okay?”
“Sure thing Atsumu-san!” (“ His sister’s notorious for not payin’ people back, gotta go through her bro, write that down Omi! ”)
“Heard about yer last game Koji, that’s balls.” (“ Didja get it? Balls? Cause they’re the soccer team? It’s too bad they suck. Heh. They suck balls. Getit Omi-Omi? ”)
“‘Tsumu! We seeing you at the Jackal’s party tonight?”
“Wouldn’t be a Jackal’s party without this guy.” He had said that while shooting finger guns. Kiyoomi looked at his Shiba Inu jibbitz,
See, he doesn’t understand what ‘cool’ is.
“Those two always bring a keg. No idea where they get it but they’re always invited cause of it.”
“Do you know everyone on campus?”
“No, but they know me.”
He must have something wrong with his eye, no one with a healthy cornea winks this often.
When they finally reached their destination at the end of the hall, he didn’t exactly see Sunarin, he just heard the muffled grunt as Atsumu unlocked the door with the little plaque reading ‘Resident Assistant’ and lobbed the set of keys at what sounded like someone’s head. A groan and a mumbled “Fuck you.” drifts out of the room as Atsumu just laughs and yells over his shoulder, already turning away as the door swings shut,
“Owe ya one Sunarin!” The door finishes closing, cutting off Sunarin’s continued grumbling and Kiyoomi turns to catch up with Atsumu’s footsteps.
“You’re a menace.”
“Ya sound like my brother.” Kiyoomi cracks a smile hidden beneath his mask.
“Well maybe he should be treating me to tea, he sounds delightful.” Atsumu’s jaw drops so far open it looks like one of those carnival games you would throw bean bags into for prizes. Kiyoomi’s tempted to measure the distance between points, it’s endearing in a dumb way. Atsumu looks like his brain has gone offline and his mouth is just spewing words at random.
“I- that is - ya know what? That is the most insultin’ thing- I mean, the disrespect! Samu ? Yer breakin’ my heart here, Omi-Omi.” It’s a good thing he finished those coffees somehow cause now his arms are flapping like bird wings, and Kiyoomi can’t help it, his facade cracks.
He laughs . Middle of a dorm hall, earlier in the morning then he’d rather be awake at, his mask being lightly sucked into his mouth as he tries desperately to inhale and regain his composure, cackling that ugly laugh that Motoya always makes fun of him for.
It takes him a second, but he finally reels it into a small giggle,
“Sorry just - your face. It’s very funny.” Kiyoomi finally is able to crack his eyes back open enough to steadily look at Atsumu again. He looks like he’s gone offline again, his mouth parted slightly, staring at him with this look that Kiyoomi can’t quite figure out fast enough before he seems to shake himself,
“So… my face is funny?”
Kiyoomi can’t help rolling his eyes.
“Come on, let’s go get my tea.”
As they finally reach the stairs leading down to the main lobby of the dorm building, hoofing down the steps two at a time, (they’re both tall, who can blame them?) Kiyoomi hears an almost whispered,
“... I’ll show him ‘delightful’.”
He’s not sure if he’s supposed to hear it or not, but he hopes his mask covers the faint blush he can feel high on his cheeks.
Well that’s fucking weird .
Now, they’re here. Waiting for drinks, one green tea and another black coffee, milling around the barista station. Kiyoomi watches Atsumu who’s currently chatting up the barista about some show everyone but him is watching, flashing smiles, sharing a laugh. At first glance last night, he had assumed he was a classic douche-bro. Someone who would wildly gesticulate into his world with aggressive machismo and stink up his world with hormones, sweat, and Axe body spray.
However, he was reluctantly picking up hints that that may not be all to him than meets the eye. He had shown a stubbornness that he recognized far too intimately, born from a drive that burned hotter than others would understand.
It was in that fiery amber he had seen in his eyes the night before as he promised he would see his face again, something hungry. Kiyoomi used to feel that. When he would be standing in the wings of a theatre about to go on. Focused, running hot, hidden in the darkness, a kind of creature about to be released. It was something more than love that fueled it. And he recognized it in this person?
Baffling.
And then there were the things he didn’t recognize. The moment of vulnerability this morning when Atsumu had apologized in his doorway. The rolodex of knowledge he seemed to have about every person they passed on campus. This desire to do better not just for himself, but for everyone he seemed to come in contact with - where did that come from?
On top of all of it, was the curious thing he had seen flash in those eyes ever so briefly when Atsumu had let something slip that he had not intended. The fear of losing something. Kiyoomi knew too well what that felt like, and the feeling associated with it, but what -
“Yo. Omi. Tea.”
Shaking his head, he brings himself back to the present where Atsumu is standing in front of him, waving a cup in front of his face, his tea calling out to him.
“Thought I lost ya there, it’s really not that early.” Handing off the apology-tea to Kiyoomi, careful to make sure he had the hot paper cup securely before letting go and making his way back to the entrance, “I’m starvin’, Motoya won’t mind if we beat him there.”
Following the blonde hair bobbing and weaving through the students huddled by the cafe door, sun peeking in through the large windows as he gingerly removes his mask to inhale the clean, crisp scent of jasmine, he thinks,
Morning’s might not be the worst thing.
“Move yer ass, Omi-kun!”
Not like this at least.
They do not beat Motoya to their breakfast spot.
It’s a little hole in the wall spot just off of campus grounds, it has a clean modern vibe to it, and Motoya happens to live half a block from it. It’s the perfect spot for the cousins to meet. (It also has the best souffle pancakes in Tokyo, but Kiyoomi keeps that opinion to himself.)
Motoya is seated at their table, tucked snugly in the corner, in sight of the door, sipping a mimosa ( “Cause I can - It’s the weekend Kiyo!” ). Because of the perfect view of the door and the table, Kiyoomi gets the distinct pleasure of watching Motoya’s face as Miya Atsumu enters the cafe with him.
Motoya is a sunny, optimistic, almost annoyingly-sweet person. The way his face cracks and his eyes widen to the size of saucers gives Kiyoomi a satisfaction that can only be understood by a family member.
“Shit.” Motoya grinds his palms into his eyes, as if desperate to scrub this encroaching nightmare from his vision. No such luck.
“Good morning Motoya.”
“Sup Motoya, gonna grab a third chair.”
“Sit on the floor Miya.”
“Rude Omi-kun! Back in a flash.”
As Atsumu lopes off to the other side of the cafe on the hunt for an unused chair, Kiyoomi takes his usual spot across from his cousin. Their eyes lock for a second before Motoya’s eyes flick off to the side, a sheen of nervous sweat beginning to form on his brow. Kiyoomi pulls a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket, squirting a small amount into his waiting palms.
“So let me guess,” He rubs the tiny glob of alcohol around his hands, taking care not to miss between his fingers, “When you said ‘anything that happens’ yesterday, you meant this-” he jerked his head towards Atsumu who was sweet talking an old lady into giving up a chair that her bag was seated on, “-was what I had in store?” A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Motoya’s face.
“He-uh, he’s pretty persistent.” He was still working very hard to not make eye contact with Kiyoomi’s steady, dark gaze.
“I’ve learned that. What I can’t figure out though, is how he knew how to find me so quickly. Not just last night at the studio, but this morning in the doorway of my room.” Satisfied with his hands and pocketing the sanitizer, he folds said clean hands in front of himself and waits for an answer from his cousin, who is currently doing a very good job of imitating a scared rabbit.
“He’s persuasive, okay? I swear I didn’t know he was going to track you down immediately, I just thought he would talk to you eventually!”
“How long did it take him to get that out of you?”
“...threeminutes.” He finally makes eye contact, open and sheepish. His mouth is pursed like a sad puppy. His little eyebrows are inching together apologetically and-
This isn't fair.
- is all Kiyoomi can think because if he has one weakness, it’s this look from his cousin. It’s why he shuts down disagreements before he can bring ‘the look’ out, it’s one of the reasons why he only let him get a few words in yesterday as they crossed the quad. Komori Motoya is a con-artist when he wants to be, and his most effective weapon is this fucking face.
“Whatever.” He grumbles into the collar of his sweater that’s bunched up around his face mask as he slouches back into his chair, arms crossing, defeated. They sit there in silence for a few moments, stewing, until Atsumu finally bounds back with a chair and squishes in between Kiyoomi and the wall, monologuing about the adventure he’s been on to find it.
“-swear she really tried to set me up with her granddaughter - fer a chair!” He tells stories with his hands, fingers energized to the tips as he paints images in the air, Kiyoomi can’t look away, transfixed.
“Omi, ya with us?” Kiyoomi blinks and sees that he’s again, lost in thought, his cousin and Atsumu staring at him, question marks in their eyes.
Holy shit stay in the present, please.
“Not my fault I’m exhausted.” Atsumu rolls his eyes,
“I was askin’ if yer comin’ to the party at the Jackal's tonight.”
Ah yes. The Jackal's flat. Motoya’s mentioned it a few times, he should have put it together earlier at the dorms. The Jackal's are, of course, the university mascot, and ‘The Flat’ is a large studio apartment a few members of the volleyball team rent off campus. Motoya’s told him some of the stories and it sounds… messy. He feels his nose scrunch up, creasing his mask further in objection.
“Come on Kiyo, I’ve been trying to get you to come to a Jackal’s party since the semester started!” If his cousin had been apologetic and cowering a few minutes ago, he’s done a complete 180 to open and eager, “Besides, you’ll have at least two friendly faces.” Out of the corner of his eye as he looks at his cousin, he can see Atsumu gearing up to say something.
“I’ve had lotsa compliments on my face.” He reaches one hand up as if he’s about to run it through his hair. To Motoya’s credit, he reaches across the table and slaps his hand down before he makes it there.
“Quit it, Atsumu. And you-” His eyes turn back to Kiyoomi “-should consider it. I mean for some reason you’re letting this idiot-”
“Hey!”
“-tail you this far, so you may as well meet the rest of the team if you’ve met the worst of us.”
“I’m sittin’ right here.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Like, no, but a smidgen of respect for your vice might be nice.” He crosses his arms before those amber eyes lock on his, “Ya said I could have one chance to make my case for the team, and I’m choosin’ to have my chance at the party tonight at the Jackal’s. Won’t even make ya stay long, and if you hear us out and still aren’t interested, I solemnly swear I will never darken yer doorstep before yer alarm clock again.” He does that thing again where he puts his hand on his heart and makes it a whole performance.
Now for some reason, maybe it’s the earlier start to his Saturday, maybe it’s the questions still buzzing through his head about this guy who yeeted himself into his life with all the subtlety of a forest fire, maybe it’s his pride, but Kiyoomi can see the logic in the argument.
Oh fuck I’m going to a party tonight aren’t I?
Eighteen years of vigorous dance training, perfecting the art of decisive graceful movements, three years of a professional career behind him, and the best he can do in this moment is an awkward jerky nod of agreement. Motoya and Atsumu look at each other with mirrored confusion.
(If your audience doesn’t understand you Sakusa, then why are you on stage?)
He sighs deep.
“Fine. Make sure no one touches me.”
The loud whoops of his companions are too loud for the quaint breakfast spot, and the waitress that finally comes over to take their orders shoots them a glance, not saying anything verbally but saying a lot with her eyes.
So breakfast progresses, three orders of fluffy pancakes appear, along with two teas and a cup of coffee. Usually, these mornings with his cousin involve Motoya worrying that Kiyoomi isn’t getting out enough, grilling Kiyoomi about his fellow classmates that he hasn’t learned the names of yet ( “Some of them are seventeen Motoya, I don’t know what teens are talking about.” ) or best case scenario, gossiping about their family, which is always fun.
However, this morning Motoya and Atsumu chatter excitedly about the team over their food, Kiyoomi catching words here and there. He wasn't about to admit it out loud, but it was nice to watch his cousin have someone to talk to about volleyball. They had played together growing up so Kiyoomi knew the terms, but after leaving it behind in middle school to give more hours to the studio, he couldn’t really talk about the sport at length, even if he knew it gave his cousin those sparkly eyes he had right now as he and Atsumu talked about a play from their last match.
A small smile creeps into the corner of his mouth as he watches both of them flap their hands around, Atsumu reenacting something or other.
Maybe this wasn't the worst idea.
"Whatchya grinnin' about?"
"Nothing."
"Fine, keep yer secrets, but I think we'll make a volleyball dork out of ya yet."
I take it back, worst idea.
BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT
He really needs to change his phone alarm.
Glancing down he sees that time has passed. The empty plates and mostly-drunk now-cold tea indicate the same.
“I have to go.”
“Tryin’ to give me the slip Omi-Omi? Thought we were passed all that?” Atsumu is leaning on a hand propped up on the table, fork dangling from said hand, a tiny dollop of whip cream on the corner of his mouth,
Don’t look there you idiot.
“I’ve got to go see a friend at the hospital.”
“A friend?” Atsumu shoots Motoya a skeptical look, searching for confirmation, who just gives him a nod. Most of the time, his cousin is his number one ally, this appears to be one of those times, but Atsumu still looks right back at Kiyoomi.
“Yes.” He doesn’t like the look in his eye, it’s too piercing, it’s as if he knows something.
“Do ya need a ride?” He still seems uneasy, maybe hospitals just freak him out, he understands that.
“I’ll get an Uber. The energy I get from you is enough to know I am not ready to step foot in your car.” Kiyoomi fishes his mask out of his pocket where he had stored it while he was eating, affixing his physical and metaphorical shield to his face. Atsumu’s energy eases up, a small smirk sneaking into the corner of his mouth.
“Ah, there’s an implied ‘yet’ in there. I’ll call that progress.” Kiyoomi huffs somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.
“Sure, progress.”
“Okay well, if yer really sure. But no duckin’ outta this party tonight okay? I know where ya live and I’ve got powerful people in my corner.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I always see things through.”
Well, most things.
He burns at the thought.
“Have a- uh- good time at the hospital Kiyo. That sounds dumb. You know what I mean.” Motoya flushes as he talks, it’s been a tumultuous morning for him. Kiyoomi offers him a sincere nod as he opens the Uber app and secures a ride. It’s wonderfully close. Score. He takes a few steps backwards, hoping his back is aimed at the door.
“I’ll be sure to have a… good time, as you say. My ride’s just around the corner, Miya’s got my bill.” He fully turns around now, ready to make his retreat.
“Hey! We’ve spent a morning together - what do I gotta do to get ya to call me Atsumu?” That stops him as he reaches the door, and not just because it was yelled, no, catapulted, over the full restaurant. Kiyoomi shoots a glance back to the table, where Atsumu is leaning so dangerously far back in his chair to yell upside down at him, that he can’t help but respond.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
And he exits.
His car comes around the corner a few minutes later, and he climbs into the backseat, sanitizing his hands as he is driven across Tokyo, his mind straying.
It’s been a strange 24 hours. Yesterday, when his cousin had said the words ‘teach dance to the volleyball team’, his body had rejected it fast. He could still feel the trepidation in his system thinking about it.
This wouldn’t have been a problem last year.
That was the problem wasn’t it? This time last year, he wasn’t a first year university student, having to write essays for classes he barely cared about for a degree he only kind of wanted. He was picking out outfits he would be wearing to opening nights, not house parties. He was rehearsing with a company of professionals he had been with since his last year of high school, not entertaining teaching to a group of athletes who didn’t know the difference between a Tony Award and Tony Hawk.
He wrings one hand around his right wrist, caught in the past.
But last year…
“We’re here. Thanks for riding, I would appreciate the stars.” He hadn’t even noticed the car had stopped, the drive having passed in a flash of memories.
“Sure.” He pulls his sleeve over his hand to get the door, he doesn’t trust any Uber driver that much, and looks up at his destination.
It isn’t a hospital exactly , but those are nit-picky details he’s not concerning himself with at the moment. Making his way through the familiar glass doors, hands tucked safely in his pockets, head low, checking in at the front counter where a receptionist directs him to wait on one of those awful plastic chairs. After a few minutes of waiting he hears his name get called.
He’s in room 4 today. He was in room 5 last time.
He makes his way down the hall, passing doors, not having to pay close attention to his movements. He knows the way. The door is open so he makes his way inside and over to the treatment table, white paper crinkling as he sits, lifting his right leg up as he does, a ghost of discomfort making itself known. The light is a little harsh for his taste, and tips more towards the sickly yellow fluorescent that makes his stomach turn. He hears the footsteps as Dr. Komoya makes his way into the room, the unpleasant scent of warm fish tickling his nose.
He wishes it wasn’t all so routine. His stomach turns again, it might be the smell, it might be the lights, it might be nerves.
“Well Sakusa, let’s take a look at that knee.”
Dr. Komoya doesn't like to wear gloves, so he has to take some deep breaths as his right pant leg is rolled up, exposing his knee to the yellow light. He feels fingers scrape up his leg and begin the process of feeling around the patella. He keeps his eyes fixed on the little Shiba Inu on his foot, it’s tongue lolling out of it’s open mouth, it helps him hear the questions and forget about the fingers on his skin.
He answers questions about his pain. Yes, there’s been some. No, he isn’t sure how much of it is real and what’s in his head.
He answers questions about his exercises. Yes, he’s been doing them. No, they are not too difficult.
He answers social questions. School is fine.
He doesn’t answer one question near the end of his appointment.
“You must miss it a lot, don’t you?”
It’s not even worth answering.
If you had been granted wings at one time in your life, had felt what it was like to feel free, powerful, like nothing could touch you from the safety of being above it all, then what was it like to finally be grounded?
There are no words.