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A boy with dark, curly hair and a pair of moles above his right eye sits slumped against a wall, looking up at the back of a friend. He’s small for his age with chestnut brown hair and a distinctive cowlick, his hands balled up in fists at his side and his face twisted into something hard and angry - an expression completely unlike him. He stands between the boy on the ground and the pair of bullies facing them, one cowering against the other as he covers his eye with one hand, flinched against the attack he thinks is coming next.
“Why do you even care, you freak? She’s just--”
“His name,” Motoya shouts, louder than his cousin has ever heard him, “is Kiyoomi!”
“Whatever! It’s not our fault she--”
Komori lunges forward and the boys - both older and bigger and inexplicably terrified - go stumbling backwards, tripping over themselves as they scramble down the hallway. Motoya glares after them and raises his voice even farther, not afraid of the kids peering out of classrooms to see what’s happening.
“Don’t you ever bother him again!” he shouts and it takes a moment for the rage to evaporate off of him, his shoulders slowly going slack and his fingers uncurling from his fists. When he turns to look at Sakusa, his brows are shrugged and his smile is sheepish, the fury tucked away in favor of care.
“You okay?” he asks, voice soft, and extends a hand to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi looks up at him and feels his lower lip wobble, but he manages a nod and takes Motoya’s hand. He’s barely up on his feet before he throws his arms around his cousin’s shoulders and pulls him close, hands clutching at his stupid yellow shirt, wet face pressed into the crook of his neck.
“Thank you, Motoya,” he whispers.
Komori startles, having never been hugged by his cousin that he can remember, but hesitates only briefly before sliding his arms around Sakusa’s willowy frame. “Any time, Kiyoomi,” he manages, voice soft and hoarse, and holds on twice as tight.
----
Years later, they stand side-by-side outside their high school gymnasium, reading the sign posted on the door: Gymnasium Three, Volleyball Team. Sakusa is silent and while that’s not unusual, Komori knows it’s not his typical stoicism. Behind his icy calm exterior is a knot that’s been growing since his second year of middle school, the one Motoya's done his best to keep small, but he can only do so much from the outside.
“What’cha thinking?” he asks, glancing at Kiyoomi out of the corner of his eye.
Sakusa shrugs, keeps his mouth shut behind his mask.
“You ready to go in?” he tries again.
Dark green eyes hit the floor, hands clenched into fists in the pockets of the Itachiyama jacket the wing spiker is wearing. It takes him a moment to share, still not used to voicing his feelings. “What if they don’t want me on the team?”
“Then they’re stupid,” Komori says without hesitation and throws an arm around his cousin, who immediately flinches like it can help him get away from the affection. “And we’ll find something else to do with our afternoons.”
Our afternoons.
It’s a simple sentiment, but it’s not. Sakusa relaxes in Komori’s grasp and looks down at the top of his head, a tiny smile on his hidden lips.
“Alright,” he says and straightens out his shoulders, picks his head up a little higher. His name is Sakusa Kiyoomi and he knows his worth; Motoya helped teach it to him, one protective outburst at a time. “Let’s go.”