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Atsumu has always looked good in red. But somehow, to Kiyoomi, he looks even better when they match.
He’ll never tell him that, though.
The thought strikes the same time his soles hit the floor, his palm still stinging from a spike. His eyes gravitate towards Atsumu, now clad in Waseda red with platinum hair sticking to his clammy forehead.
“Nice kill, Omi-kun!” Atsumu calls with a grin. Kiyoomi nods curtly and pries his eyes away before moving into position once the whistle blows.
It’s as much a surprise to both of them as it is to everyone in the Japan volleyball scene when the top setter and ace of high school volleyball meet each other along the halls of Waseda, standing side by side as they introduce themselves to the university’s volleyball team.
Which is how they begin changing intercollegiate volleyball.
Kiyoomi watches the other team struggle to even get the ball across the net. He knows they’ve been staring, particularly at him and Atsumu. Everyone has been since the school year started. Let them watch, then, Kiyoomi thinks as they clinch the win with their quick attack, the smash echoing over the thunderous roar of the crowds. Atsumu beams at him and almost leans in for a victory hug but stops at the last second, sweaty jerseys grazing before Atsumu inevitably steps back.
“Ah, sorry,” Atsumu says before looking away, as if electrified.
He might as well be, though, because he knows—and Atsumu knows—that they have been treading a live wire that has been slowly yet steadily intensifying since that first Interhigh, to when Atsumu first received Kiyoomi’s spike in All Japan Youth, to their last meeting in Spring Nationals as opponents across the net and as spectators on the stands, simmering on a shared loss as the finals unfold with neither of them playing on-court.
Kiyoomi once thought that whatever that was was cut off the moment they left the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, the momentum fizzing off to nothingness.
And yet there it is, stronger than ever, the wire burning as red as their university colors as their paths crossed again. The cord reunites.
Atsumu approaches him after their stretches, apprehensive. “Ya still down to study at yer dorm, Omi-kun?” Kiyoomi glances at him and nods. “Yeah, of course.”
But maybe it has never been severed in the first place.
His head is still reeling from a week of trying (and failing) to navigate life as a college student in Waseda. So when Kiyoomi walks through the doors and sees a familiar high school rival, now with more muted platinum locks, Kiyoomi has to do a double take just to be certain.
The man turns around and locks eyes with Kiyoomi, lips parted in a similar state of shock.
“Okay, freshies, line up! Time for introductions.”
They fall in line, both vastly aware of the other’s presence. As soon as the introductions are out of the way, the new team members start going around and mingling, but they opt out of the cursory handshake. What’s the point, anyway, when they already know each other’s spiking forms and serves from having studied each other’s teams for three whole years.
“Guess we’re teammates now, huh, Kiyoomi-kun?”
Kiyoomi shoves his hands down his pockets and shrugs. “Guess so.”
There’s a tug at the wire, and everything unravels.
Still, hours spent watching Atsumu’s form across screens and nets could not have prepared Kiyoomi to see Atsumu on the same side of the net, circling the same rotation in a dance he’s always known the steps to, now with a foreign yet welcome music.
It’s their first team practice since Kiyoomi and Atsumu have been included in Waseda’s starting lineup. And, by god, is Kiyoomi not prepared for the swell of pride he feels as Atsumu sets to him, replacing the usual rush of dread (and awe, if he’s being honest) he used to feel as Atsumu’s opponent. It’s too much of a whiplash, too polarizing.
It makes syncing with Atsumu... different. It does not happen right away, it never does even with the best players, which is how they found themselves staying behind to practice more.
The thing is, the problem has never been on skill or physicality. It’s the paradigm shift, the sudden need to change the whole model he has lived by for all of high school. From opponent to teammate. From someone to beat to someone to grow with .
“One more time, Kiyoomi-kun,” Atsumu would say, running after another ball. “We’ll get it soon enough.” So Atsumu sets some more until late into the night. Stray volleyballs litter the gym, their ears hounded by the constant slamming that only stops once they sync up. The ball connects, right in the middle of Kiyoomi’s palm as it smashes down the courtline.
They only stare at each other, eyes wide open and mouths agape.
The shifting stops, the paradigm settles.
“One more.” The wire crackles with the glint in Atsumu’s eyes. “Whenever you’re ready, Miya.” And crackles.
With live wires as tense as the one they are on, it’s only a matter of time until someone trips. For the longest time, Kiyoomi thinks the slip will happen on-court. After all, there is nothing as potent as the powerful mixture of adrenaline and victory that can sweep them off their stupidly stubborn and dense feet.
He thought it would happen then in the “Day of the Almost Hug”, as he called it in his head. He thought it would happen when Atsumu boasted that he had more service aces than Kiyoomi after a match, beginning a long-running competition stretching through scrimmages to official matches.
It almost happens on a game against a particularly offense-heavy team that cornered Atsumu to receive the ball. Kiyoomi hears the sharp tch before the more definitive shout of “Omi-kun!” Not Kiyoomi-kun. Not Sakusa.
Still, Kiyoomi moves at Atsumu’s voice, all ten fingers ready for an overhand toss towards their captain waiting to spike.
On the next set, after a perfect dig sends the ball to a perfect arch towards Atsumu, he calls out “Atsumu!” Not Miya. Atsumu .
Once they score the point, Atsumu looks at him as though he has already tripped the line, but he doesn’t say anything and neither does Kiyoomi.
Not a whisper about ‘Omi-kun’. Not a word on ‘Atsumu’.
They take the new developments in stride and move on without so much as a bat of an eye.
But Kiyoomi should have known. Nothing about either of them is predictable. What happens isn’t a slip, but more of a slide. An excruciatingly slow and surprisingly mundane slide, because most of it happens off-court.
It begins when Kiyoomi catches Atsumu hunched over the water dispenser, pouring hot water on cup ramen. Kiyoomi clears his throat, making Atsumu jump and nearly spill the water. A sheepish grin flashes across his face. “Hi, Omi-kun.”
Kiyoomi sighs and wordlessly grabs Atsumu by the wrist towards his dorm room, pulling out ingredients for oyakodon from his fridge and cupboards. “We’re athletes. We have to watch what we’re eating,” Kiyoomi says as he begins cutting the chicken and cooking the rice.
“I know that. I just don’t have time to cook, Omi. The GE I took is killing me, and I was plannin’ on cramming that’s why I was eating cup ramen, so don’t judge me.” Atsumu leans against the counter, takes one look at Kiyoomi’s work, and furrows his eyebrows. “You’re doin’ it wrong.”
“What?” All he hears is a dramatic sigh before the knife and cutting board are taken away from him. “Ya should slice diagonally. It’s called sogigiri, or somethin’.”
Atsumu does not give the knife back even after cutting the chicken in even strips. Instead, he takes over the reins, making the mixture and bringing the onions and the chicken to a boil over the pan. He pours the beaten egg over the pan and waits until the egg is set, lines forming in between his brows in concentration.
Atsumu is halfway through transferring the chicken and egg over the bowl of rice when he speaks. “I can’t believe ya brought me here to give me food only for me to end up cookin’ for ya . That’s yer plan all along, isn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t. I can cook fine.” Kiyoomi takes the bowls to the kotatsu and sits, picking up a chicken with his chopsticks, and Kiyoomi has to physically restrain himself from making a noise because how is that so good? “Nah, I don’t think so. Just be glad I cooked for ya,” Atsumu shrieks as he settles beside Kiyoomi.
“You should cook more often,” Kiyoomi mumbles as he reaches for another serving. “We can enlist for the same general education classes next semester too, if you want to. I’m kind of struggling right now, and I could really use the help.”
Atsumu’s chopsticks hang midair, his mouth agape. “Hold up. One at a time, Omi-kun.” He raises his pointer finger at him as he shuffles in his seat, raising one leg up and resting his elbow on his knee. “Yup, I’d like to enlist the same classes with ya, too. Having a classmate I already know will help a lot. But the first one. You’re just trying to get me to cook for ya!”
Kiyoomi shrugs and smiles slyly before picking up more chicken. “Maybe.”
Which is how they find themselves slumped over Atsumu’s couch months later, hunkered over their laptops.
Kiyoomi has seen Atsumu nervous before games. He’ll never admit it but Kiyoomi knows Atsumu was nervous during their first game in the college circuit. But this time is different. Kiyoomi has never seen Atsumu this frazzled .
And it’s all because of the school website.
“Is it 10 am yet?” Kiyoomi turns to see Atsumu practically writhing on his couch, randomly circling his finger on the trackpad. “No. It’s only been three minutes since you last asked. But there’s two minutes left.”
He’s trying to keep it cool, too, but he has been tapping his foot incessantly for the past thirty minutes. He and Atsumu have asked around for the best (see: easiest) General Education classes, which classes and professors to avoid, and which classes give out easy As until they found the perfect class.
Now they just have to fight with everyone else in Waseda for a slot.
Atsumu has been muttering prayers for a good chunk of the last hour. Two pairs of eyes anxiously watch the hands on the clock hanging on the wall. Then the clock strikes 10.
They are furiously tapping and scrolling on their laptops, throwing in several curses here and there, until Kiyoomi yells “Shit I got in!”
Atsumu just screams “Fuck!” a few seconds after, folds his laptop, and pumps his fists in the air. “Hell yeah, we’re gettin’ that A, Omi!”
They look at each other in their various states of celebration and break out in a fit of laughter. Two new hotshot volleyball players of Waseda, towering at six feet, are screaming like they took the gold at the Kurowashiki Tournament just because they managed to get a slot for a GE class.
Tears are forming in Kiyoomi’s eyes and Atsumu is doubling over from the force of his laughs. “I know it’s selfish, but in times like this I really wish I can get some special star treatment or somethin’.”
Kiyoomi huffs out the last of his laughter and throws his head back against the couch. “Nah, that won’t happen. This is college.”
Kiyoomi turns around and meets Atsumu’s gaze, Atsumu’s face still light from laughter. And he knows Atsumu knows. It’s hard not to when the live wire is dangling in front of them, luring them in.
But maybe they can take their time.
They begin building routines, walking over and around the wire as they go.
Now enrolled in the same GE class, study sessions become a given. They submit requirements in between practices and stay in the club room until dark, furiously rifling through the reference books scattered around them. Their poor seniors had to help them out by giving them reviewers from when they were freshmen. Some even help them review by taking Kiyoomi’s index cards and bouncing off questions for the two to answer.
It becomes a caffeine-filled, sleep-deprived dance of shuffling between their dorm rooms. Sometimes they study at Atsumu’s, the smell of Atsumu’s attempt at Osamu’s newest recipe wafting from the kitchenette. Other times they study at Kiyoomi’s with his fancy air purifier and his seemingly endless stash of umeboshi candies that they nibbled on to keep themselves awake.
One day, though, Kiyoomi barges in on Atsumu’s dorm room, horrified, and blurts out with no pretense, “Coffee’s not good for athletes.”
He can see Atsumu try to stifle a laugh as he flips his book down. “I could’ve told ya that, Omi-kun. Why do ya think I drink tea?”
Kiyoomi slouches on Atsumu’s couch. He has lived off of caffeine for most of the school year by now. He is dependent on it now. How is he supposed to just undo that?
Atsumu stands up from his study table with a tiny smile. “Come on. I’ll make ya tea.” He jerks his head towards the kitchenette and Kiyoomi follows.
He can’t help but watch as Atsumu boils the water and steeps the tea. He hands Kiyoomi a warm cup and Kiyoomi pouts, cupping the cup with both hands. “I’m going to dream about caffeine everyday from now on.”
Atsumu huffs a breath and walks back to his desk. “Stop whinin’. We still have midterms.”
Kiyoomi follows suit. Electricity moves in a current after all, and they have been floating aimlessly in it for so long. Too long.
Kiyoomi is still trying to catch his breath when a reporter approaches and shoves her microphone towards his face. A cameraman trails after her, training the camera on Kiyoomi. “Congratulations on your victory, Sakusa-senshu! How is it playing for Waseda so far?”
Kiyoomi takes a step back, pointedly creating a space between them before answering curtly. “I’m still adjusting, but the team is very supportive. It’s fun playing with them.”
He knows that’s not what they want to know, though. Not really. “How do you feel about fans calling you and Miya-senshu the best spiker-setter duo in collegiate volleyball right now? Is it weird now playing with your former high school rival?”
The question makes him look up, and there, past the shoulders of the reporter, he can see Atsumu who has just gotten out of an interview himself. Atsumu glances towards him and he smiles.
Kiyoomi diverts his attention back to the reporter, his lips similarly quirking upward. He knows Atsumu is still staring. Somehow, he always does. “I don’t know about best, but we’re still gaining momentum, so we’ll see. Besides...” Kiyoomi looks up, and Atsumu is still staring, just like he thought. “Atsumu is a very talented setter. Even then, whenever I’m not worried about him stealing a point from us, I think I have always been waiting to spike his tosses. So no, it’s not weird.”
The reporter asks a few more questions before Kiyoomi bows and excuses himself.
He knows what’s happening. He’s fumbling over the live wire, his soles are slipping, but he holds on at the last second.
He has to do something first.
Kiyoomi did not expect to see Atsumu sitting and dozing in front of his door at 9 p.m.
The sight tugs at Kiyoomi’s gut. He approaches the blond and shakes his shoulder until Atsumu opens his eyes. Drowsiness drawls his speech as he meets Kiyoomi’s eyes. “Ya said we’ll study tonight. Ya weren’t even home .”
The wire crackles yet again.
The plastic bag in Kiyoomi’s hand crinkles as Kiyoomi lifts it. Atsumu leans forward, sniffing the bag. “I know. That’s why I bought oyakodon.”
Kiyoomi offers his hand, pulling Atsumu up to his feet. It takes Atsumu a few seconds to register what he has just done, looking down at their still entwined hands and immediately letting go. “Ah, sorry, sorry. My bad.”
The key clicks into place and Kiyoomi turns to look at Atsumu. “Stop worrying. I’m the one who offered.” They both walk inside, following the well-worn tracks of habit from months of navigating each other’s routines.
Their reviewers and index cards are already on the couch. Atsumu finishes steeping their tea, and Kiyoomi brings the bowls of oyakodon to the kotatsu. They eat in silence with their reviewers spread out in front of them, the multitasking skill forced into mastery by late-night volleyball practices and far too many deadlines. The TV drones in the background, not too loud to distract but soft enough to fill the silence like white noise.
Kiyoomi waits until they both finish their meals before he grabs the remote and shuts the TV off. The sparking wire they have been ignoring is enough to fill the long-neglected silence, anyway.
“Omi?” The rush of his pull floods his senses as Kiyoomi closes the binders of reviewers with no pretense. He can sense that Atsumu wants to say more, but the intent fades as Kiyoomi lays down on Atsumu’s lap, wrapping his arms around Atsumu’s waist.
Kiyoomi does not like leaving things unfinished. Not volleyball, not food.
Not a hug in the middle of a game.
“Kiyoomi...” His voice is as tentative as the hand hovering above Kiyoomi’s curls. He lets go of one hand and grabs Atsumu’s wrist, pulling it down. Atsumu’s hand relaxes, cupping the back of his head and combing through his locks. “Atsumu. You know you can touch me, right?”
And there it is. The slip. The slide. The ‘whatever the hell this may be’.
But he’s wrong about one thing, yet again. Kiyoomi thought it would be explosive, electrifying. A shock that permeates down to the bone from the force of years’ worth of repressed attraction.
It isn’t, though. It’s just… them. Just candidly, wholly them . No live wires, no cords, no sparks.
Just Kiyoomi and Atsumu.
They don’t need anything else.
Atsumu smiles, ever so softly, and traces a thumb over Kiyoomi’s cheeks, his nose, his moles. “So… I guess we’re doing this now, huh?”
The memory of their reunion at Waseda’s gym flashes in his mind. Funny how he thought high school was the end, only for them to find their way back to another ball game. He repeats the words he told Atsumu then, returning Atsumu’s grin. “Guess so.”
They stay like that for a while, with Kiyoomi nuzzling his face on Atsumu’s hips. Atsumu does try to pry him away to throw the takeout boxes, but Kiyoomi only tightens his hold. Atsumu simply laughs, wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi and tracing lazy circles on his skin in the wake of another paradigm shift.
They don’t say anything more. They don’t need it.
“Kiyoomi, calm down.”
Atsumu rests a hand on Kiyoomi’s leg. It has been jerking non-stop since the shinkansen left Tokyo, and they are now a few minutes away from their destination.
“What if I don’t get in, Atsumu? What if...” His voice trails off, not wanting to repeat a conversation they have exhausted since they were freshmen.
Atsumu cups his face and leans in for a kiss, tender yet firm, a certainty amidst the chaos in his head. “We’ve talked about this, Omi. We have plans from A to Z, like you insisted. We’ll be fine. Besides.” Atsumu threads his fingers with Kiyoomi’s, raising their intertwined hands to his lips. “You’re literally the intercollegiate MVP. They’re stupid if they don’t sign ya.”
His thoughts still race in his head, but they have simmered down at the brush of Atsumu’s lips to his skin.
Kiyoomi lets go of Atsumu’s hand to run a finger down his red Waseda jacket. “Have I ever told you that you look good in red?”
Atsumu raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin curling in his lips. “No. Ya like me in anything , though.” He doesn’t miss the emphasis on ‘anything’. Instead, he ups the teasing and curls a fist around his jacket, pulling him in to kiss the back of his ear and whispering “Yeah, I do” over the shell of his ear.
Atsumu pulls back and cocks his head. “What if when — and I do mean when , shut it, Kiyoomi. What if when we get in, though? Will ya still like me in black?” Kiyoomi shrugs, faking indifference. “I think so. I did have a crush on you when you were wearing Inarizaki black.”
He also doesn’t miss the blush coating Atsumu’s cheeks. The satisfaction brings a smile to his face when Atsumu suddenly snorts.
“What?”
Atsumu tries to hide his laughter, but it bubbles up despite his best efforts. “What’re ya goin’ to say when they ask why ya want to join MSBY? Do ya think they’d accept it when I say, “Oh, it’s because my boyfriend likes yer uniform. It reminds him of our hair colors.””
The suppressed laughter evolves to a full-body cackle, and in a turn of events, it’s now Kiyoomi who’s blushing. “That’s not the only reason my first choice is MSBY!”
“I know, I know, I’m just teasin’.” A woman’s voice sputters over the intercom and the shinkansen slows to a stop.
They’ve been together for two years now, but the future still scares him. There is no dorm room to retreat to anymore, no campus walls to hide for cover.
His mind is still fumbling over all the probabilities, fear escalating with one scenario to the next: one where he doesn’t get in, one where Atsumu doesn’t get in, one where he’s in Tokyo and Atsumu’s in Hyogo—
All thoughts halt as Atsumu reaches for his hand, fingers interlocking with his and squeezing his hand thrice. Atsumu is already standing, eyes ever so patient and understanding as he smiles at Kiyoomi. “Whenever you’re ready, Kiyoomi.”
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and stands up. Atsumu raises their hands towards his chest, pressing it hard enough for Kiyoomi to feel his heartbeat.
He’s scared. But maybe Atsumu is scared too. So what? They’re facing it together, anyway.
Just them. Just Kiyoomi and Atsumu.
They don’t need anything else.