Archive of Our Own

He’s back again, and Kiyoomi is not hiding in the biographies section.

“Sakusa,” says Sugawara, shelving books and looking at him with what looks alarmingly like amusement. “Aren’t you supposed to be on desk duty?”

Technically, yes, but he left Kageyama in charge and retreated immediately upon seeing the bane of his existence walking up to the front doors covered in grease and oil and God knows what else. It’s fine. Kageyama can handle it.

Kiyoomi puts a finger to his lips angrily and jabs his thumb towards the main floor. Sugawara looks over his shoulder. His mouth makes a neat ‘O’ shape.

“I see,” he says. Then, “He’s touching the display.”

That’s all it takes. Those four simple words every day without fail are always enough to make Kiyoomi see red and roll up the sleeves of his cardigan and stride out of his hiding place with purpose. Sugawara knows this. As does Shirabu, and Aone. Even Kageyama is beginning to get an idea after being forced onto desk duty outside of his scheduled times at least three times since he started working at the library two months ago.

Kiyoomi also knows this. But he’s not going to give any of them the pleasure of seeing him worked up. Not today. It’s a special day, and nothing is going to ruin it.

“Kageyama can handle it,” Kiyoomi firmly says. He crosses his arms and tactically steps behind Sugawara and the book cart, even crouches down a little, as the mechanic begins looking around the library, book in hand. Sugawara snorts and rolls the cart over his foot.

“Kageyama looks like he’s about to pee himself. Go help him.”

“No,” says Kiyoomi. “Absolutely not. There is nothing that could get me to move from this spot.”

“He’s walking over here.”

Kiyoomi pops up, ready to run for shelter in the dreaded kids’ section, though he stops and instead fixes his hair in the reflective cover of a Miyazaki autobiography when he realizes he’s been caught.

“Miya,” he shortly says.

“Omi-kun,” the mechanic responds. A smile curls across his face like a lazy cat. There’s a swipe of grease under his eye and across his cheek towards his ear. Kiyoomi fights the urge to pull out his hand sanitizer and a tissue and wipe it away. “I was wondering if you could help me find a book.”

Kiyoomi’s eye twitches. “I’m busy helping my co-worker here. There are other librarians available to help.”

“Well, actually,” Sugawara says, leaning against the book cart’s push bar and pretending to look over the clipboard list of books needing to be shelved attached to it with a red string of yarn. “I think I’ve got it handled. If I need anything, I’ll grab Aone.”

Kiyoomi’s eye twitches. “I see. Well, Miya, let’s see if I can help you.”

Miya grins and waves at Sugawara as he leads Kiyoomi out of biographies and back onto the main floor. He’s holding the book from a moment ago, stolen right off of the display in the front by the doors, and he flips it over and shows the cover to Kiyoomi.

“Fox Den by Nakahara Ichirou,” Kiyoomi says. He pretends to be disinterested. He pretends that he doesn’t have a signed copy of this book at home on his shelf next to signed copies of the other three books in the series. “I didn’t know that you were into romance.”

“Nah, but my brother hates this series,” Miya responds. “I want to find the rest of it for him.”

Kiyoomi gives him a stern look. “You are not borrowing books just to bring them back destroyed again, are you?”

Miya holds up his hands innocently, though his smile and personal track record says differently. Kiyoomi revoked his library card once a year ago when he was a new hire and Miya was just a terrible customer, and he hasn’t bothered getting a new one since. Instead, he walks two blocks to the library during his lunch break every day, grabs a random book off of whatever display Kiyoomi has set up for the week, and sits at a table by the entrance with a bottle of water and reads. He always manages to smudge the covers of the books, and he always manages to break some part of the display in the process. The first time, he stepped on a part of the tablecloth and ripped it. Last week, he knocked a stack of books off and startled Kageyama so badly that he ripped the book he was in the middle of checking out.

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. Miya’s smile only grows.

“You’ll need a new library card,” Kiyoomi flatly says.

Miya drops his hands and groans loud enough to get the attention of two old women reading newspapers, who leer at the two of them. He shoots them a wink. Kiyoomi makes a mental note to personally apologize to them after Miya leaves.

“C’mon,” Miya whines. “I don’t need a library card.”

“You very much do.”

“Don’t you trust me to bring them back in good condition?”

“After last time? You’re lucky I’m offering to let you get a new card.”

“Those were extenuating circumstances!”

“As you said.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, and his sleeves. He doesn’t miss Miya watching his arms, and maybe Kiyoomi flexes just a little as his sleeves settle around his biceps. “The romance section is this way. Follow me.”

Miya gives a salute and duly follows, chattering about his brother’s inexplicable hatred for the Fire’s Fated series. It’s too realistic, the brother claims, which is ridiculous because it’s a series set in Edo period Japan about a romance between a kitsune lord and a peasant farm girl. It’s beautiful, yet tragic. A real work of art, and Kiyoomi’s favorite book series since he was in college and picked up the first book in an airport bookstore between flights.

They get to the romance section, and to Nakahara Ichirou’s shelf. The entire Fire’s Fated series is there. Kiyoomi nods at a teenage girl picking out the final book in the series. She blushes and skitters away.

Miya clicks his tongue and whistles appreciatively. “Damn, there are a bunch of these, aren’t there? And ain’t he working on a new one?”

Kiyoomi balks. “You know about it?”

“What, don’t I look the type?”

Kiyoomi looks Miya over from head to toe. Ruffled, bleached hair. Curry-stained t-shirt. Unlaced boots. Captivating eyes. Magnetic personality. Arms.

He doesn’t hesitate, “Not at all.”

“Excuse me?” Miya protests, putting an offended hand on his offended chest. “I’m romantic as hell!”

“You couldn’t romance your way out of a paper bag.” Kiyoomi sneers. It’s true. He doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body (he also doesn’t need it, much to Kiyoomi’s annoyance.)

Miya’s mouth shifts into something not quite smug, but not quite not smug. To put a word to it: annoying. It should not be enough to make Kiyoomi’s heart skip a beat, but here he is, his cardiovascular system jumping rope.

“You sure about that?” Miya asks, voice low. He steps close, close enough to touch. “I’m half convinced that I’ve romanced you already.”

“That’s a stolen line,” Kiyoomi murmurs. He bends down slightly and grabs a book off of the shelf without looking and puts it in between his chest and Miya’s. “Page 179 of Forged Bonds, hardcover version.”

Miya’s eyes widen fractionally, and he takes the book from Kiyoomi’s hand and stacks it on top of Fox Den. Their fingers brush. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose and wipes his fingers on a tissue.

“You’re really a fan, huh?” Miya asks.

“I have a signed copy of every book in the series,” Kiyoomi says. He steps away and crouches down to grab the rest of the series for Miya, handing books two and four up to him individually. He’s lucky they have two copies of each book courtesy of a kind donor. Otherwise, he would have to wait two weeks for the girl to return book four.

Miya whistles and accepts the books. “Right, okay. Super Fan Omi. Y’know, I didn’t know he did autographs.”

“They were a special pre-order bonus.” A pause. “And don’t call me that. Use my name.”

“Well, Nakahara Stan Omi, I never took you for a love story kind of person.”

“I could say the same about you.” Kiyoomi stands and gives Miya a considering look. “You look like an action sort of man.”

Miya puffs himself up and flexes the arm not holding his books. Kiyoomi notably does not stare. At all.

“I am an action sort of man, if ya get what I mean,” Miya replies, voice purposefully strained. “Real into action.”

Kiyoomi watches over Miya’s shoulder as a passing Shirabu ushers a mother and son past the romance section and towards the kids’ section with a glare.

“Right,” Kiyoomi drawls. He crosses his arms, forcing his mouth into a flat line. “Is that going to be all for you?”

Miya sags a little, probably more than a little disappointed that his idiotic display didn’t provide any visible results. “Yeah. Do I gotta get a new card or somethin’?”

“Yes. Luckily for you, I’m working the desk for the next…” Kiyoomi checks his watch and sighs tiredly. “Hour and a half. Come on.”

As he picks his way back to the desk, Miya grunts confusedly and says, “Wait, you’re on desk? Then why…?”

It must hit him because he throws his head back in an obnoxious laugh. Kiyoomi feels the tips of his ears heat up and sighs, giving an amused Kageyama a glare as he shoos him away from the desk and sits down to make a terrible decision.

That night as Kiyoomi eats his dinner, he refreshes his Twitter feed and waits.

Right at seven p.m., as promised a day before at the same time, Nakahara Ichirou’s official account posts the announcement he promised:

‘New book announcement:

Sick of You, a stand alone novel from the author of the bestselling Fire’s Fated series.

More information to be released over the coming months. Please be patient as I continue writing, and thank you for your support!’

Kiyoomi smiles into his ramen. A good ending to an alright day, as expected.

Nobody knows who Nakahara Ichirou is. He published his first novel, Fox Den, in the autumn of 2014, and has steadily released a new novel every other year or so. Kiyoomi was hooked instantly. He’s always had a soft spot for cheesy romance.

Nobody knows who Nakahara Ichirou is. He admitted once in a Reddit A.M.A. that he’s writing under a pen name, and that he’s doing so because he’s pretty sure his family would disown him if they heard that he was writing steamy romance novels. He has his pronouns in his Twitter bio, he/him, and likes to tweet pictures of foxes in hats between complaints about the writing process and about his “goddamn evil motorcycle”.

He also tweets haikus about the person he has decided his muse is, and complaints about his agent telling him to stop tweeting haikus about the person he has decided his muse is.

He’s the most romantic person Kiyoomi has ever seen in his life, and his cousin is a self-proclaimed romance expert and part-time marriage counselor when he isn’t coaching. If only Miya was more like him and less… well, Kiyoomi likes Miya just fine. But if he was an anonymous romance author, Kiyoomi would quite possibly marry him on the spot. Unfortunately, Miya is loud and likes physical contact and breaking the displays and peace Kiyoomi works so hard to set up. His poor heart can’t take it.

-

Two weeks after Miya checked out the Fire’s Fated series, Kiyoomi is hiding in the sci-fi section behind Ushijima, who is not a librarian, but who is tall enough for Kiyoomi to actually be able to hide behind. Unlike the traitorous Sugawara, who had barely given Kiyoomi a head’s up before wiggling his fingers in a wave and loudly announcing Miya’s presence.

“I thought that you liked him,” Ushijima says. He’s looking a translated Halo novel intently, almost like he knows what Halo is (he does not, in fact, know what Halo is because his mother was seemingly allergic to anything not Nintendo and threatened to ban his weird redhead friend when he snuck his PlayStation over in their second year of middle school.)

Kiyoomi guides Ushijima’s hand a shelf lower to a series of books about alien horses and their conquest of the solar system. “Unfortunately. Try these, I’ve heard good things.”

“I see.” Ushijima nods and pulls the first book in the series off of the shelf to inspect the back. “Why are you hiding if you like him?”

Kiyoomi regrets this hiding place. He regretted it from the moment he realized that the person he had ducked behind was Ushijima and not the ever-silent Aone. Ushijima may be a close friend and a good listener, but he also asked his high school sweetheart out after their first day of classes and has been with him since. It’s sweet, sickeningly so, but Ushijima doesn’t quite see the point in dancing around one’s feelings.

He also has never had feelings for someone he supposedly hates.

Miya, out by the desk, tells Sugawara about what his co-workers were up to when he left. Someone named Daichi was stuck under a car. Someone named Kuroo was stuck under the same car. Miya is pretty sure that it wasn’t a coincidence. Kiyoomi is listening far more intently than he should be.

“He seems nice,” Ushijima says. “I approve of him.”

“I didn’t ask for your approval.” Kiyoomi scowls. “I don’t need your approval.”

“Then why are you hiding behind me? This isn’t high school, Sakusa.”

Kiyoomi met Ushijima at a volleyball tournament in high school. It was love at first sight. Kiyoomi hid behind his cousin. Komori is shorter than he is. Ushijima just shook his hand and told him that he looked forward to defeating him on the court (and he did.) Over a decade later, and they’re friends despite Kiyoomi’s best intentions.

“I know it isn’t high school. And I’m not hiding.” Ushijima gives Kiyoomi an unconvinced look; Kiyoomi huffs and dejectedly slumps against the shelves. “Maybe I’m hiding. But it’s for good reason. Have you seen him?”

“I’m looking at him right now.”

“And have you seen me?”

“Multiple times.”

“Do you see the problem here?”

“No.”

Kiyoomi sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Forget it. Tell me if he’s coming over.”

“He’s coming over.”

“What?” Kiyoomi whisper-yells, standing back upright and clearing his throat as he indeed sees Miya approaching with a grin. He brushes some hair out of his face; Miya mirrors him with his own hair. “Miya. Did you ruin the books? You’re paying for replacements if you did.”

“Nope! Returned ‘em safe and sound!” Miya chirps, sticking his hands into the pockets of his uniform jacket and rocking back on his heels. It’s colder out than it has been, so it makes sense that Miya wore the whole uniform over. Still a damn shame that Kiyoomi can’t see his arms, though. “Told you, my brother takes care of things better than me.”

“I’m not convinced you two are related,” Kiyoomi dryly says. He eyes the display at the entrance. It looks undamaged. “What can I help you with today?”

“Eh, just looking around. Unless you got any recommendations?”

Miya wiggles his eyebrows. Kiyoomi snorts despite himself.

Their moment is interrupted by Ushijima asking, “Miya? As in Onigiri Miya?”

Miya’s smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. That’s my brother.”

“Ah,” Ushijima says. He nods solemnly and tucks the horse book under his arm and turns to nod at Kiyoomi this time. “I will return in two weeks.”

Kiyoomi gives him a fond smile and nods himself. “Of course. And bring Tendou-san. He’s a month overdue.”

Ushijima’s face darkens for a moment. “He will pay, I can promise you that.”

Before he leaves, he spares one last glance at Kiyoomi with an expression reading Take him to lunch.

Instead, Kiyoomi wipes the smile off of his face (a difficult task these days with Miya hanging around more and more) and looks the shelf over for a recommendation. Something shitty. Awful. Horrible, even. Something that would make his soul shrivel up inside.

He pulls Left Behind off of the shelf and hands it over.

“You’ll love it,” he says.

Miya raises an eyebrow at it. “Ain’t this that shitty Christian book? My brother gave it to me as a birthday present a couple of years ago. I gave it back that night in different wrapping.”

Kiyoomi must look confused because Miya clarifies, “Twins.”

“Oh, God, there’s two of you,” Kiyoomi flatly says. He can’t help the smile that erupts at Miya’s offended expression, or the genuine laugh as Miya’s eyes widen comically. “What, didn’t you think I could smile?”

Miya shakes himself and smiles. “You’ve got a nice smile. You should do it more.” A pause. “Smile, I mean.” Another pause. “Please don’t take that the wrong way.”

“What’s the wrong way?” Kiyoomi asks. He likes this. Miya is cute when he’s all embarrassed like this, shifting from foot to foot and looking at the air beside Kiyoomi’s head.

“In a creepy way. Like those guys who are all, ‘You should smile more’.”

“I can guarantee that I did not take that in that way.” Kiyoomi honestly says. He considers for a moment, then, “Didn’t you say that you’re some kind of romance expert?”

“I am!” Miya protests. “I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

“Ushijima makes me laugh. You are not special.”

“Yeah, who?”

“The guy who was here a moment ago. Asked about your brother’s shop.”

“Ah.” Miya’s expression goes slightly flatter, and Kiyoomi doesn’t like it. It doesn’t fit him. He should smile. “Him.”

Is he upset? God forbid, jealous?

Kiyoomi frowns. “Are you alright?”

He almost hopes that Miya is jealous. At least then he might know if Miya actually returns his feelings or if he just wants to be his personal nuisance. Kiyoomi would be fine with either. He hates that he would be fine with either. Though he would prefer the option that involves being swept off of his feet in a storm of cherry blossom petals under a sweet spring sunset.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Miya answers. He sounds sure. He doesn’t look it. He looks back down at his book, unhappy. “Hey, can you show me back to the romance section? I wanna see if you’ve got anything else good over there.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, fond despite everything, and takes the book back and shelves it.

Five minutes later as Kiyoomi pulls Twilight off of a shelf, Miya clears his throat and asks, “When’s your break?”

Kiyoomi drops the book onto Miya’s head. Miya, sitting on the floor absently leafing through a different vampire love story, yelps and rubs his head, glaring.

Kiyoomi does not apologize and simply knocks the next book over off of the shelf, staring Miya dead in the eyes. It hits him in the same place. Miya smacks Kiyoomi’s shin with his book and scowls.

“I already took my break,” Kiyoomi says. He did. He may die. His hand shakes as he bends down to pick the fallen books back up. He knows that Miya sees this. Before he reshelves the books, Kiyoomi pulls a tiny bottle of disinfectant out of his cardigan’s pocket and a tissue and wipes them down. God knows what people get up to in the romance section.

“What about tomorrow?” Miya asks. “When’s your break tomorrow?”

Kiyoomi drops Twilight again. Miya yelps again. Kiyoomi picks it up to disinfect it again.

“You smell like smoke,” Kiyoomi says. He meant to say that his break is at eleven thirty tomorrow.

“Kuroo set a car on fire,” Miya replies. He puts his book on his lap and leans forward onto his knees, looking up at Kiyoomi through his eyelashes. Kiyoomi’s heart skips a beat. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What makes you think I want to answer your question. I’m a very private person.”

Kiyoomi stiffly puts Twilight back on the shelf. Thankfully, he doesn’t drop it this time. Why can’t he just answer Miya’s question. Oh, Komori is going to get a fucking kick out of this, isn’t he?

Miya doesn’t comment on his lack of an answer, or on how pink Kiyoomi’s face has suddenly gotten. Instead, he tilts his head back and sets his thousand-watt smile directly upon him. Kiyoomi is blinded. Oh, his life would be so much easier if he knew when to close his eyes.

“Meet me here after my shift tomorrow,” Kiyoomi sighs, already full of regrets. Miya is going to want to go out to eat. Kiyoomi needs to start planning accordingly.

“Alright!” Miya cheers. He fist pumps. Kageyama walks by pushing the book cart, raises an eyebrow, and moves on silently. Miya hops up with little difficulty and bounces on the balls of his feet, hands back in his jacket pockets, book stuck in the crook of his elbow and about to fall to the floor. Kiyoomi wants to adjust it. “When do you get off tomorrow?”

Kiyoomi smirks and pulls the book out from Miya’s arm, pulling it to his chest. He turns on his heel and strides towards the front desk, Miya squawking and questioning his way behind.

That night, Nakahara Ichirou posts his first new tweet in three days:

‘His eyes are like slate

His heart is a crouching frog

Poised to leap away’

Kiyoomi smiles into the palm of his hand and likes the tweet.

If you asked Kiyoomi when he realized he might have a bit of a crush on the man he has banned from the library twice, he would look at you blankly and walk away in confused silence.

He doesn’t have a crush, is the thing. He just wants to hold Miya’s hand and hold him close and breathe in the scent of his orange-scented shampoo. That’s normal. Kiyoomi likes oranges. He likes blondes. He likes men. That doesn’t always have to add up to a crush.

But as he sits on a park bench in the waning hours of the day listening to Miya ramble on about an idiotic new hire who keeps trying to put tires on backwards, Kiyoomi could maybe imagine that this is a crush. He likes Miya’s company some days, and he wouldn’t mind doing this again.

“Why did you even hire him?” Kiyoomi asks, only halfway listening and only halfway caring. He brought his own dinner, not trusting anyone else with his food. Miya bought himself a crêpe at a stand by his shop and is still nibbling at the pancake wrapping between sentences.

“His uncle owns the building,” Miya scowls. “What if I drop a car on him.”

“I think that would be illegal,” Kiyoomi mildly says. “And it would be too obvious.”

“I guess. How would you do it, then?”

Kiyoomi hums and taps his chin. Out in public like this and out of the relative safety of the library, he’s donned his mask, and Miya only looked vaguely upset by it. It’s like a security blanket. He’s sure that if Miya tried asking him out again, he would be able to properly answer.

“What if you cough on him,” Kiyoomi settles on. “But only after you have definitely been sick.”

“I never get sick,” Miya sniffs. He tears off a chunk of pancake with his teeth and sucks it into his mouth. “I had perfect attendance in school, just so you know.”

“That was, what, thirty years ago?”

“Uh, excuse you, do I look that old?”

“Do I need to answer that truthfully?”

“You talk a lot for a man with wrinkles under his eyes.”

Kiyoomi elbows him in the side. “It’s stress.”

Miya elbows him in the side. “It’s old age. How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m 25. Not old. Just eternally stressed, thanks to someone who keeps knocking my displays down.”

Miya smiles innocently, teeth stained with chocolate sauce. “Now who would go and do a thing like that.”

Kiyoomi pretends to lean over to retie his shoelace and unties Miya’s. Miya, surprisingly, doesn’t notice, apparently too enthralled with his crêpe. After the briefest of moments of thought, Kiyoomi takes an extra step and ties Miya’s shoelaces together.

“Y’know,” Miya says around a mouthful of pancake. “You’re a full year younger than me, but you look as old as my brother.”

“Aren’t you twins?” Kiyoomi asks.

“Yeah, but I got all the good genes. He looks like a sad raccoon half the time.”

Kiyoomi briefly pictures a raccoon with Miya’s face on it and quickly dismisses that thought before he’s too grossed out.

“If he looks like a raccoon, does that make you a tanuki?”

“Uh, fuck no. Tanuki are ugly as hell. I’m a kitsune, majestic and proud.”

Miya dramatically looks into the distance in a pose reminiscent of the kitsune lead from Fox Den. Only Inari doesn’t have chocolate sauce staining his chin or a smelly mechanic’s jacket over his shoulders.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Of course you are. Are you just saying that because you know I like that series?”

“And if I was?”

Miya looks hopeful. Adorable, even. His nine tails would be wagging, all out of sync and probably smacking him in the face.

Kiyoomi looks away before he can be accused of staring. “Then I would tell you to try harder. I always liked Ojiro-chan better. Inari pissed me off.”

“What?” Miya screeches. “How could you hate Inari? He’s the cool-headed and sexy mystical being with a heart of gold and an attention to detail that rivals even the most focused of artists!”

“Did you get that off of the wiki?”

“Nah, dude, it’s all from my imagination.” Miya slumps pathetically. “I don’t know if we can speak again. You have horrible taste.”

I must for liking you, Kiyoomi doesn’t say. He catches himself right before it slips out and bites his tongue.

“But you also consider me to be your best friend, so I guess your taste can’t be all bad,” Miya continues.

Kiyoomi can’t help but laugh at that, hard enough to double over. “You- you’re not my best friend. God, no. You’re disgusting and annoying.”

“Omi-omi?” Miya asks, sounding vaguely concerned. “You good there?”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi replies, sitting up and wiping his eyes. That really shouldn’t have been that funny. This is why he doesn’t talk to people. Ushijima should’ve understood this the day before better than anyone else. “We aren’t even friends, Miya.”

Miya’s expression falls faster than a bulldozed building, though it perks back up again as Kiyoomi says, “Yet. You annoy me. A lot. You make me want to tear my hair out. But you seem like a nice enough guy underneath all of…” he waves his hand vaguely at Miya’s face. “that.”

“And I’m sure that you’re a nice enough guy under all of…” Miya smiles lazily and pokes Kiyoomi’s forehead with the tip of his napkin. Kiyoomi goes cross eyed trying to look at his finger. “that. You’re kinda an ass, ya know that, right?”

“So I’ve been told,” Kiyoomi says. “And you’re a real shithead.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t miss Miya scooting closer on the bench. Their knees touch. So could their hands, if Kiyoomi so chose. He does not so choose. Not yet.

This isn’t a crush. It’s a vague infatuation at most. But, hell, if Kiyoomi doesn’t want it to become something more.

‘Allergic to me

Willing to meet me halfway

He is my true love.’

Kiyoomi sighs wistfully and likes the tweet. After a moment, he scrolls back up and retweets it for good measure.

He still hides. It’s routine at this point, even if he’s sold out by his fellow librarians or Ushijima or Ushijima’s eternally-annoying husband.

“Tsum-tsum!” Tendou waves, sticking his hand far above Ushijima’s head and waggling his fingers. “Yoo-hoo!”

Kiyoomi glowers. He’s even working at the moment, shelving books for a sick Shirabu. Or a “sick” Shirabu. He always ducks into the employees’ bathroom when Tendou comes to visit. Ushijima and his husband were just in the section as a coincidence. A bad one. A terrible one, even.

Miya looks positively disgruntled when he joins them, hair messier than usual and circles under his eyes that rival a panda’s. He yawns and turns it into a wave specifically aimed towards Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi tries not to think about it too hard and grunts a greeting before getting back to work as best he can surrounded by three idiots.

“Good morning, Miya-san,” Ushijima plainly says. “You should try getting more sleep tonight.”

“You look like shit,” Tendou helpfully adds. He looks like a hyperactive hyena looking at its prey. “What were you doing all night, partying?”

“‘Samu’s bachelor party,” Miya drawls. “Hey, weren’t you banned from this place?”

“I wish,” Kiyoomi sighs. He slides two copies of a Poe collection onto the shelf and drops into a crouch to shelf an anonymous poetry collection. He notices Miya staring and holds it up for him to take. “I didn’t think you were into poetry, Miya.”

Miya takes the book and flips it open to read the inside cover. “Don’t pretend to know what I like to read. Twilight, really?”

He gives Kiyoomi an unamused look. Kiyoomi smirks and moves to the next shelf over. Miya follows. Ushijima and Tendou do not.

“For a supposed ‘romance expert’...” Kiyoomi provides the air quotes. “You sure haven’t read the classics.”

“Twilight is not a classic.”

“Sure it is. I’m pretty sure that Nakahara took inspiration from it, actually. They’re remarkably similar at points.”

Tendou coughs. Kiyoomi covers his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his cardigan. Miya steps between him and the two of them. Kiyoomi feels the sudden need to swoon and catches himself on the cart in a feigned casual lean.

“He did not take inspiration from Twilight,” Miya states, words clipped short. Shorter than usual, that is. “Everything he writes comes from his own imagination.”

“Nothing comes from nothing, you know. Back when I wrote, I took inspiration from anything and everything. Even a gum commercial, I think.”

Ushijima pipes up, “It was a breath mints commercial, actually.”

Kiyoomi snaps his fingers and nods at him. “Right. Point is, Nakahara absolutely had to consume some kind of cheesy romance bullshit to come up with half of what he writes. Do you remember the confession scene in book two?”

“‘I may be born of flames and glory, but you sweep me off my feet much like your broom sweeps the ashes from your hearth,’” Miya quotes. Tendou snorts. Miya flips him off. He also tilts his head, looking slightly more awake than he was a minute ago. “You were a writer, Omi?”

Kiyoomi grips the spine of the book he’s shelving a bit tighter. “I was. In college, anyway. I fell out of it when my classes started piling on me.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d be pretty good.”

“He was,” Ushijima says. He sneaks past Miya with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, knocking a globe off of the top of a shelf that hits the ground with a hollow thunk, to reach the end of the poetry section and the beginning of the film and television books that never get checked out. “It is a shame that he had to stop.”

“Yeah, yeah, damn shame, really,” Tendou agrees. He grabs a Nakahara Chuuya collection off of Kiyoomi’s cart as he passes. Kiyoomi snatches it back, puts it on the shelf, and pointedly watches as Tendou pulls it back off with long fingers and a stare that would peer into Kiyoomi’s very soul if he didn’t already sell it to get a job in library science.

“Huh,” Miya intelligently says. He picks the globe up off of the floor and puts it back on the shelf, barely even needing to reach. He isn’t wearing his jacket today, and Kiyoomi has a full view of his arms that he takes full advantage of. He catches Kiyoomi staring and winks. “Like what you see?”

Kiyoomi smacks his back with a Tachihara collection. Hard. Miya oofs and staggers a step.

“Be modest,” Kiyoomi says, an entire hypocrite. “This is a library, not a gym.”

“You could’ve fooled me. How many people here lift? You can’t be the only one.”

“Half of them don’t even work out,” Kiyoomi answers. Is he bitter? A bit. “Lucky bastards.”

“I guess we all can’t be gods.”

Miya shrugs, raises his arms far above his head and stretches. With a hint of his belly exposed, Kiyoomi doesn’t need to stare at his arms this time.

“If you’re a god, I’m an atheist,” Kiyoomi says. Miya hmphs indignantly, and Kiyoomi turns back to the cart to hide his smile. “I’m working late tonight, by the way.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting.”

Kiyoomi blinks, surprised, at the books, who look at him impassively. He and Miya have been meeting up after work for a few weeks now, Kiyoomi always supplying his own food and Miya always grabbing something from a stand or from his brother’s restaurant a couple of blocks over, though that’s rare. He hasn’t been in the past couple of days.

It’s nice, spending time with Miya, even if all they do is bicker and talk shit on tourists walking by in loud t-shirts and talking into their phones like assholes. They both know what’s going on, and that’s fine. Kiyoomi may be a romantic at heart, but in real life, he’s much more practical. If he and Miya are going to do anything, it will be on his terms (and on Miya’s, of course, but he seems content following along and waiting, and he’s wonderful and Kiyoomi may be in love, which is significantly different from having a crush, thank you.)

Kiyoomi turns his head to give Miya a much softer look than he would like. Miya looks damn delighted by it, even if he does still look like he slept in a wind tunnel.

“Are you sure?” Kiyoomi asks. “I won’t be getting off until around nine.”

“Eh, that’s plenty of time for dinner. I can grab something from my brother’s and bring it over.”

Kiyoomi pales. He doesn’t know the other Miya. He hasn’t been to Onigiri Miya.

Miya must catch this because he raises his hands, one still holding the poetry collection. “Hey, or I can not. Your pick.”

Kiyoomi lets out a tense breath and balls the sleeves of his cardigan up in his fists. “Let’s not.”

“Alright.”

“I have my break in ten minutes. If you don’t mind waiting, we can eat then rather than tonight.”

It’s Miya’s turn to look surprised. “Are you sure? I mean, yeah, cool. I’ll get myself some lunch and meet you outside, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi echoes, voice pitifully weak in his ears.

As soon as Miya is gone, Ushijima walks back over carrying a thick stack of books that Kiyoomi knows he is absolutely not going to read. Tendou skips over from another aisle and places a vegan cookbook on top of the stack. Ah. That’ll do it.

“You’ve got it bad,” Tendou says. “It’s cute. Precious.”

“Funny,” Ushijima adds.

“That, too.”

They’re meant for each other. It’s disgusting.

Kiyoomi scowls at them and gets back to shelving books as quickly as possible, ignoring the couple’s bickering as they leave to check out.

‘His smile is a star

His skin shines like the aurora lights

His laugh feels like home’

Kiyoomi is on the floor carefully unpacking the new display frames from a box when someone behind him clears their throat.

“Go around,” he snaps. “There’s plenty of room.”

He’s never been known for his customer service.

“Damn, okay,” says a familiar voice, and it’s all Kiyoomi can do to not drop the display frames and turn around.

“You’re here early,” Kiyoomi states. “What, the shop kick you out?”

“Shop’s closed.”

“Liar. I saw it open on my way in this morning.”

“That’s funny, ‘cause I’ve never seen you before.”

Kiyoomi sighs and turns around, ready to say some smart comment about Miya needing to shut up before he gets a display frame up the ass, but he stops short when he sees that he is, in fact, not talking to Miya.

Well, not his Miya, anyway.

“Twins,” Kiyoomi flatly says.

The other Miya looks mildly surprised at that. “He talks about me?”

“Sometimes. What do you want.”

The other Miya looks around the library casually, hands in his jeans’ pockets. The hat on his head has a rice ball on it. They have the same face, but Kiyoomi somehow couldn’t care less if this Miya smiled.

“Is my brother around?” the other Miya asks. “He said he’d meet me and Rin for breakfast but never showed up.”

Kiyoomi glances at his watch. It’ll be another half an hour at least until his Miya arrives.

“Why do you think he’d be here?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure he’s illiterate.”

Sugawara walks by with a cardboard box in his arms and perkily supplies, “He is!”

“He isn’t,” the other Miya says. “He just wants you to think he is.”

“That’s stupid,” Kiyoomi says.

“So’s he. Your point is?”

“Fair enough. But he’s at work right now.”

“At work?” The other Miya frowns. “Where does he work?”

Weird.

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “Don’t you know?”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’ve only been in town a month.”

“I thought you owned a restaurant.”

“Yeah. It’s a new branch. The original’s back in Hyōgo. I’m up here checking in. Where does ‘Tsumu work?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself. Unlike some people, I actually have work to do.”

The other Miya bristles. “Look, if you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine, but you don’t gotta be so rude about it.”

“Your brother has thicker skin than you. Maybe you should take notes.”

Kiyoomi feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up at a smiling Sugawara.

“Sakusa, leave the display to me. I think Kageyama got his shirt stuck in the copy machine again.”

Kiyoomi grumbles, though he stands and brushes his pants off. “Fine. Break anything and I’ll break you.”

“Not if I break you first,” Sugawara pleasantly says.

“Wait,” says the other Miya, looking more confused than anything else. He looks at Kiyoomi with his eyebrows knit together, his head slightly tilted. “You’re Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi straightens up to his full height and begins rolling up his sleeves. Sugawara makes no move to stop him, instead pulling out his phone.

“Is there a problem with that?” Kiyoomi asks, reaching out and lowering Sugawara’s phone. Sugawara quickly raises it again. Kiyoomi lowers it again.

“No. You’re just a lot different than he described, ‘s’all,” the other Miya says. He takes off his hat and scratches the top of his head, then he replaces it. “Hey, when my brother comes by, tell him to call me, would ya? If he’s being stupid again, I wanna be the first to hear about it.”

“Sure thing,” Kiyoomi says, not at all planning on doing so. “Now fuck off before I carry you out myself.”

The other Miya’s laugh is the same as his Miya’s, but it doesn’t feel nearly the same in Kiyoomi’s heart.

Disgusting.

Miya, his Miya, Kiyoomi’s Miya, settles onto the bench with a groan and a bag of caramel popcorn. Their knees brush. As do their shoulders.

Kiyoomi hardly notices, busy scrolling through his Twitter feed looking for a specific tweet to show Miya.

Miya pops a popcorn kernel in his mouth. “You have Twitter?”

“It’s 2021. Of course I have Twitter,” Kiyoomi responds. He nudges the popcorn away when offered some. “I’m looking for something.”

“Ooo, what? Tell me.”

“Nakahara’s new post.”

“Shit, he posted? Guess I missed it.”

Kiyoomi nods. “You were getting your popcorn. Ah, here.”

He shows Miya his screen, drumming his fingers on his knee with excitement.

‘Sick of You is to be released on November 13 of this year. Pre-orders will be available beginning September 13.

Thank you for your patience, and I look forward to sharing this new story with you!’

Underneath the tweet is a picture of an angry-looking fox wearing a hot pink cowboy hat.

Once he’s certain that Miya has read it, Kiyoomi turns his phone off and puts it in his pocket. “It’s weird how he’s announcing the release date before telling us what the book’s even about.”

“Maybe he forgot.” Miya shrugs. “Who can judge genius? You pre-ordering?”

“Uh, yeah. You?”

“Nah. I don’t think it’s worth it. ‘Cause what if the book sucks? I can’t exactly return it then, can I?”

“You really think it’ll suck?” Kiyoomi asks.

Miya shakes his head and shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth. Kiyoomi has to look entirely away, otherwise he would probably cry and vomit at the same time as Miya says, “It’s gonna be great. Nakahara hasn’t let us down yet, has he?”

“Unless you count the ending of Grains of Love, no.”

“What’s wrong with the ending of Grains of Love?” Miya asks, mouth still full. Is he even chewing? Disgusting. “I thought it was sweet!”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “Finish chewing before I push you in front of a bus. And the ending sucked. Realistically, I don’t think that Ojiro-chan would’ve settled down and become a rice farmer like her father wanted. Wasn’t her whole arc about moving on and making her own path in life with Inari?”

“I guess, but she wasn’t the only person in the relationship. Inari’s the one who wanted to become a rice farmer and break away from the rest of his kind. She loved him enough to stick by him.”

“I wouldn’t just give up on my dreams for some guy, though. I would try and find a compromise. If he wasn’t willing, I would leave him.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Miya looks deep in thought as he rolls an unusually-round piece of popcorn between his thumb and middle finger. “Yeah, but you’re not Ojiro-chan. She loves Inari more than anything. And he loves her more than anything. I mean, he gave up his tails for her. ‘Course they would compromise.”

At the end of the series, the girl settles down with the kitsune on a rice farm. During the winters, they travel the countryside fighting demons like the ones who killed their infant twin sons at the end of the third book. A mixture of the life she wanted, and the one he wanted.

“It’s unrealistic,” Kiyoomi says, because it is.

Miya laughs and tosses the popcorn kernel into the air. He catches it in his mouth and waits for applause that Kiyoomi refuses to give him. Miya pouts and chews his popcorn sadly. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. After a moment of consideration, he takes the bag of popcorn and picks a few pieces off of the top before handing it back.

“I know people like them,” Miya says, breaking the near-silence. “Like Ojiro-chan and Inari. My old high school volleyball captain and his partner. Dunno. When I read Fox Den for the first time, I thought of them and sent them pictures of the text.”

“You played volleyball?”

Miya winces, as does Kiyoomi, who mentally smacks himself. Touchy subject. He should’ve known. Miya hasn’t talked about it for a reason.

“Yeah,” Miya answers. He absently twists his wrist in a circle. Kiyoomi tries not to stare. “All in high school. I was gonna go pro but fucked up my back at a party before I was set to start. It’s fine now, but they told me it would take too long for me to recover.”

Kiyoomi looks at the sidewalk. There’s a trail of ants crossing on a grand expedition. A gum wrapper stuck under one of the bench’s feet. A dead leaf.

He puts a hand on Miya’s knee and squeezes. “I used to play, too. But I never fell in love with it like I did writing. I stopped playing in college.”

“I wonder if we ever played against each other.”

“We probably didn’t. My team made it to nationals every year.”

“So did mine, jackass.” Miya’s voice is soft, and so is his hand as he places it over Kiyoomi’s. “Me and ‘Samu were unstoppable.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah. It’s whatever. He’s got his business, and I’m genuinely happy working at the auto shop. It’s not volleyball, but I’ve always liked working with my hands.”

“You do have nice hands,” Kiyoomi mindlessly says. He pales and covers his face with his hands. “I didn’t say that.”

“Aww, Hand Fetishist Omi?” Miya asks, a smile on his voice. It’s warm and curls around Kiyoomi like a scarf.

“I’m going to push you in front of a bus.”

“I’ll pull you down with me. We go together or not at all.”

Kiyoomi can’t help but smile. He looks at Miya through his fingers. “Grains of Love chapter seventeen. Fucking loser.”

“Hey, you memorized it, too!”

Miya huffs and shoves some more popcorn in his mouth. Kiyoomi chuckles and gingerly takes a singular kernel for himself. Before it can reach his mouth, however, his hand is stopped.

“Lemme take you out for dinner,” Miya says. His hands are slightly sticky from the caramel, but Kiyoomi can’t quite find it in himself to care. “A real one. I know you don’t like eating out, but I can get the restaurant for half an hour after closing while ‘Samu cleans. Just us, and you can even watch me make it. The onigiri. It.”

Kiyoomi slowly blinks. “I thought you and your brother didn’t get along.”

“We’re fine. Why?”

Miya looks a little puzzled. Which is to be fair considering Kiyoomi never told him that his twin had stopped by. It wasn’t any of Kiyoomi’s business, what the two of them were up to and arguing over.

“He stopped by the library the other day before you arrived,” Kiyoomi says. He gently pulls his hand away and slides his mask down long enough to pop the kernel into his mouth. “He was annoying.”

“Yeah, sounds about right. Did he bother you or anything?”

If Miya is upset about Kiyoomi withholding information from him, he doesn’t show it. He does take Kiyoomi’s hand again, though, and drops both of their hands back onto his knee where this all started.

“No more than you bother me,” Kiyoomi replies. “We don’t have to go to your brother’s restaurant if you aren’t comfortable with it.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll just have to deal with his annoying ass at home asking questions about my back ‘n shit. He’s always like this.” He slumps against the back of the bench. “Swear to God, he’s worse than our ma.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Then it’s a date.”

Miya smiles softly up at him, hair lit gold by the sunset. “Guess it is.”

The night they settle on for the date is cold. Cold enough for Kiyoomi to wear a light jacket, and cold enough for Miya to wear his uniform jacket out of the shop.

Kiyoomi frowns at his phone, Nakahara’s most recent tweet pulled up. He hasn’t liked it yet, and it was only posted ten minutes ago.

“A medical drama, really?” he asks. “I thought he was a fantasy writer.”

“It’s a vampire medical drama,” Miya explains. He read the post over Kiyoomi’s shoulder as Kiyoomi finished handing the library’s keys to Kageyama, who’s working the late shift tonight. He sounds more excited about this than the release date. Funny. “It’s fantasy.”

“It’s weird,” Kiyoomi insists. He hesitantly likes the tweet and puts his phone away. As soon as his hand is free, Miya takes it and swings it between them. “Most authors have a variety in what they write, but jumping from an erotic historical fantasy series to a modern medical drama? I don’t get it.”

Miya’s voice is quiet, subdued. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Of course I am. I’m just confused.”

Kiyoomi gives Miya’s hand what he hopes is a comforting squeeze. Miya squeezes back hard enough to pop a few knuckles.

“I trust him to write a good story,” Miya says. “He’s never let us down before, has he? And, no, Grains of Love does not count.”

“It should count.” They arrive at the restaurant, and Kiyoomi carefully and slowly opens the door. “You first.”

“Nervous Omi,” Miya comments. He ignores the glare sent his way and indeed enters first, tugging Kiyoomi behind him and announcing, “Hey, asshole, we’re here!”

“Hold on a damn minute!” a nearly identical voice calls from somewhere in the back. Kiyoomi can hear a difference now that they’ve spoken right after each other. Miya’s voice is slightly smoother. His Miya’s is. Hmm.

“What’s your first name?” Kiyoomi hisses.

Miya’s eyebrows shoot up. “My, direct, aren’t we?”

Kiyoomi elbows him in the ribs. “Do you want me referring to you the same way I refer to your brother.”

“Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi tests the name out. “Atsumu.”

Miya, Atsumu, turns a unique shade of pink and ducks his head. It’s cute. Adorable, even. Unfortunate how it’s him being cute and not some other very attractive dumbass. Atsumu was right; Kiyoomi really does have bad taste.

“Fuckin’ gross,” the other Miya comments, walking into the restaurant proper with a white towel flung over his shoulder. He looks between the two of them with a peculiar look in his eyes. “Disgusting, even. Do any canoodling and I’ll kick you out.”

“Spit in my food and I’ll leave myself,” Kiyoomi dryly says. “I’m going to sit. Joining is optional.”

It isn’t optional, but Atsumu stays behind to whisper something to his brother while Kiyoomi sits at a table in the far back by the door he suspects leads to the kitchen.

“You’re kidding,” he hears the other Miya say, and then a hush from Atsumu.

Eventually, Atsumu slides into the chair opposite Kiyoomi and rolls his eyes. “Twitter again?”

“I’m an addict.”

“You can say that again.” Atsumu leans over the table to take a peek and sighs. “Nakahara again? Really?”

“I’m trying to figure it out! It just- I don’t understand.” Kiyoomi drops his phone onto the table and crosses his arms, leaning back into his chair. “A germaphobic doctor falls in love with the vampire he catches breaking out of the morgue. A little macabre, don’t you think?”

“And Ojiro-chan having to feed her twins to the demon of the mountain in exchange for the lives of all of Japan wasn’t?”

“Here we go again,” the other Miya groans, passing by them and into the kitchen.

Atsumu flips his brother off. “Just admit you don’t want to read the book and get over yourself, Omi-Omi. I promise he won’t be heartbroken.”

Nakahara? Maybe not. He’s a famous author whose interaction with his fans is limited to Reddit and Twitter.

Atsumu? Looks like a cloud has passed over his face. He’s smiling, though, and it looks pale as compared to usual.

Kiyoomi lets a slow breath out through his nose and looks up at the ceiling. “Of course I want to read it. I’ve been buying his books for nearly a decade. A genre switch won’t be enough to drive me away.”

“Then stop your complaining.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“You sound like a disappointed mother.”

“And you sound like an angry fanboy.”

Kiyoomi startles at a sudden laugh from the kitchen.

Miya’s mouth twitches. “I’m not a fanboy. I just don’t like people criticizing others for their own choices. I don’t judge you for dressing like an old man every day, do I?”

“You stole my cardigan last week, tied it around your shoulders, and knocked my display down pretending to be Superman.”

“That wasn’t criticism, though, was it? Nope. So you don’t need to be criticizing Nakahara for switching things up this time. As a writer yourself, I thought you’d understand.”

Kiyoomi’s hands grip his elbows. “I’m not a writer.”

“You were, though, right? You didn’t just stick to fuckin’ horror or whatever, did you?”

“I didn’t write horror,” Kiyoomi says, trying to keep the waver out of his voice and mostly succeeding.

“Yeah?” Atsumu asks, looking genuinely interested. “What did you write, then?”

Kiyoomi looks down at the table. “Romance, actually. Ignore what Ushijima and Tendou told you, though, I wasn’t any good.”

“Aw, no, that can’t be true. You’re the most romantic person I know.”

Kiyoomi snaps his head up at that. Atsumu still looks genuine, still open. His eyes are stars.

“I’m unrealistic,” Kiyoomi says. “I know I say that about Ojiro-chan and Inari all the time, but I… I don’t do romance.”

“Omi, we’re literally on a date.”

“Because you asked me. I wouldn’t have done it on my own. I expect people to move at my own pace, and then I also expect them to give me the most cliche shit possible.”

“Romance is always going to be unrealistic.” Atsumu pulls out his phone and swipes and taps for a minute, speaking as he does so, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen or heard of a normal one. What, is it supposed to follow the wikihow? ‘Cause God knows we aren’t doing that.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? I don’t think it is. I think you’re just overthinking things. Like… look at this.”

Atsumu flips his phone around for Kiyoomi to see. It’s a picture of a tall man with two-toned hair and another man (a foreigner?) at the beach asleep next to each other on the sand.

Kiyoomi looks at it for a moment, then looks back up at Atsumu, unimpressed and a little confused. “What’s this?”

“This is my old volleyball captain and his partner,” Atsumu explains. He points at the one with the pale hair. “That’s Kita. He’s the coolest guy I’ve ever met. The other one-” he points at the other one. “is Aran. He, ‘Samu, and I have known each other since middle school, actually.”

Kiyoomi remembers him mentioning them before. “They’re the ones that Fox Den reminded you of?”

“Yeah. Kita’s a lot like Inari. Both are cool as hell, and smart to boot. Like if you go on the wiki and look at the section on Inari’s personality, it would match Kita to a tee. And Ojiro-chan’s a lot like Aran. They’re both strong and don’t take shit from anybody.”

“They’d better be similar!” the other Miya calls.

Atsumu flushes and pulls his phone away. “A-anyway, they’re the most basic couple I’ve seen. High school romance, brief time doing long-distance while Aran went to school in Tokyo and Kita got his farm set up. Only know what? They didn’t know they were dating until my friend Gin asked when the marriage was.”

“How do you not realize that you’re dating? Are they that stupid?”

“Nah. But they were so comfortable with each other that they didn’t ever really realize that they moved on from friends to lovers. And then take your scary librarian friend and his model boyfriend. I haven’t seen them exchange a compliment once in the year I’ve been bothering y’all and they’re goddamn adorable.”

Kiyoomi hesitantly nods. “And then there’s us.”

“And then there’s us! You say it’s unrealistic that you want me to go at your pace or some grand sweeping gesture like the confession scene in book two, but here I am waiting a step behind you and planning something that’s gonna sweep you off your damn feet.”

Kiyoomi’s heart flutters. “What is it?”

“A surprise. Hush. You’re gonna have to wait, but it’ll be worth it. But, uh, do you see what I’m saying here?”

Atsumu scratches the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. He’s sweet. Unable to explain anything well, but sweet all the same.

“You just shouldn’t stop writing because you think it isn’t ’realistic enough’,” Atsumu softly says. “I mean, we both read Nakahara Ichirou’s novels. Name one realistic thing about them.”

Kiyoomi snorts and looks down, brushes his bangs out of his face where they fall. “You’re right. Maybe I’ll try it again.”

“If you do, I wanna read it. I’ll be your alpha!”

Something in the kitchen falls to the floor with a clatter. “It’s beta, you uncultured pig!”

“Alpha, beta, omega, same thing. Point is, I like you, Kiyoomi, and I want to be there to support you.”

“I didn’t say I would do it.”

“But you didn’t say that you wouldn’t.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head fondly, but he doesn’t comment any further, allowing the conversation to drift into a discussion on Atsumu’s terrible new co-worker. And when the onigiri arrives courtesy of a tired Miya Osamu, Kiyoomi even eats it and doesn’t comment when his Miya dips his onigiri into his soda before eating.

Two hours later when he collapses into his bed, he sees a notification for a Nakahara Ichirou post that he must have missed during dinner.

‘I’m in love.’

And Kiyoomi feels much the same.

September thirteenth comes quickly. Between his job and dates with Atsumu and attempts at getting a story to stick to his Google Doc for longer than a day, Kiyoomi has been busy. But as he clocks out for the day, he has one thing on his mind.

Unfortunately, so does Atsumu.

“A date?” Kiyoomi asks, hand gripped tight around the strap of his bag and teeth grit. “Tonight?”

Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice his irritation and smiles, hands behind his back. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet again, something Kiyoomi now knows to be a nervous habit of his.

“Yep! Ready?”

“No,” Kiyoomi flatly says. He turns on his heel and strides down the road in the opposite direction, towards his apartment complex, hoping that Atsumu doesn’t follow.

Atsumu follows.

“Omi!” he whines, running after and stepping in line next to Kiyoomi, hands in his pockets. A plastic bag is looped around the wrist nearest Kiyoomi. “I thought you loved me!”

“It’s September thirteenth,” Kiyoomi slowly says, because he’s talking to a goddamn toddler. “You know what today is.”

Atsumu should know. Kiyoomi has only been talking about it for a week straight. He only complained all through their last date that he would have to wait until he was home to pre-order Sick of You. His hands itch. The book could very well have pre-orders closed by now. They tend to close very quickly, supposedly because Nakahara hates having to sign more than one hundred books.

“It’s pre-order day,” Atsumu says.

“Right. And you know why I can’t go on a date tonight.”

“Because you’re worried that you’re gonna miss the deadline.”

“So you can go.”

“Nope! We’re going on a date.”

Kiyoomi stops in his tracks and gives Atsumu an exasperated look. “Go home.”

“No,” Atsumu firmly says. His smile drops into a flat line, more serious than he’s been in weeks. “We are going on a date. I don’t care if it’s at your apartment. We are doing this.”

They stare at each other for a good moment, each waiting for the other to back off. Kiyoomi only breaks first because he really wants this book.

He looks at the bag. “What’s in the bag.”

“Nothing,” Atsumu immediately says. Too quick. “Can we go now?”

“Tell me what’s in the bag first.” Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “Is that a book?”

“I- yes. It is. Can we not do this in public?”

Atsumu sounds pained, almost panicked, and if Kiyoomi weren’t busy being angry at him, he would be a little concerned.

He does nod, though, and extend a hand for Atsumu to take. “Come on. If I miss the deadline, though, I am breaking up with you.”

He’s only half-serious, but it’s enough for Atsumu to jump into action, grabbing Kiyoomi’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled, yanked, down the street.

It’s a silent walk. Kiyoomi even glares at a pack of tourists in their way hard enough for them to cower and scatter. By the time they reach his apartment, Kiyoomi is nearly ready to tear the damn bag off of Atsumu’s wrist and see what’s inside himself.

Graciously, he waits until they’re inside and settled at the kitchen table with Kiyoomi’s laptop open to the pre-order sales page for him to ask again.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks, voice clipped and short and he is very impatient. He drums his fingers on the table.

Atsumu jumps in his seat and nearly falls out of it. He puts the bag on the table and slides it over.

“I mentioned a grand gesture. On our first date,” he says, picking at the skin by his thumbnail. “Well, here it is.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, opens the bag, and slowly pulls out what’s inside.

He drops the book onto his keyboard and hardly even reacts when it hits the power button and shuts the whole thing off.

It’s thick, paperback, easily four hundred pages. The cover is of a man with dark, curly hair wearing a surgical mask and a crimson-stained lab coat pointing a hypodermic needle at his patient’s heart. The patient is just an ordinary-looking man with brown hair and a slight half-smile that reveals hints of what look like fangs.

Written on the title page is, in familiar handwriting:

‘To Omi-kun, my love

You make me yearn for your touch

With every soft look.

Nakahara Ichirou’

A looping heart is drawn next to Nakahara’s name in glittery purple ink. Kiyoomi knows that ink. It’s his ink. Atsumu stole his pen a month ago and claimed to have lost it on the train.

He looks up at Atsumu, wide-eyed. “Where?”

Atsumu won’t look at him. He seems much happier inspecting his hands. “Where what?”

“Where… how did you get this?”

“I asked for an advance copy. They make one for each different cover we’re trying to decide between, and I liked that cover the best. It’s not the one we’re actually using, but-”

“You’re rambling,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “Shut up. What do you mean ‘we’?”

“I mean ‘we’. That’s my book. Thanks for trying to pre-order, by the way. They sold out at noon, though.”

“What do you mean that’s your book?”

Atsumu looks up at him, finally, looking like he’s trying to explain physics to a kindergartner. “I mean that I wrote that book. And all the ones you’ve got on your shelf. It’s a pen name, dumbass.”

Kiyoomi scowls and closes the book and delicately places it next to his laptop. “Don’t call me a dumbass when you’re trying to tell me that you’ve written five books. How dumb do you think I am?”

“Pretty fuckin’ stupid if you honestly didn’t figure it out by yourself. I wasn’t exactly being secretive or anything.”

Kiyoomi thinks back, vaguely remembering their first proper conversation in the romance section over Fire’s Fated. He was surprised that Atsumu had even read the books. Weeks later, he admitted that the main couple in the series reminded him of his friends. His brother vocally agreed. Even beyond all of that, he constantly bragged about Nakahara’s apparent genius. Tendou, a literary agent when he isn’t a professional annoyance, knew him and even had a nickname for him.

“Oh my God,” Kiyoomi whispers.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, all signs of nervousness apparently gone now that the hard part is out of the way. “You finally get it?”

Kiyoomi looks down at the doctor on the cover of the book. “That’s me.”

“Well, a version of you. You’re kinda too three dimensional to put directly into a romance novel. I kinda just grabbed a bit of your sex appeal and your whole germ thing and upped your libido by a hundred.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“In a good way…?”

Kiyoomi hesitates. “It’s almost too good to be true. You’re my boyfriend.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re also my favorite author.”

“Also yes. Honestly, I was shocked when I found out that you’re this big a fan. You never hit me as the type. My audience is mostly teenage girls and middle aged women.”

“I got bored,” Kiyoomi absently says. He’s still staring at the cover. “You have a big ego, you know.”

“Excuse me? I go out of my way to gift you the grandest gesture a writer can, and this is how you repay me?”

Kiyoomi feels like laughing.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he opens Twitter and goes to Nakahara’s account. There’s a fresh poem posted, time stamp from right before Kiyoomi left the library less than an hour ago.

‘I hope he likes it

I love the way he smiles, life

This is a bad post.’

He looks up at Atsumu, whose smile is a touch more awkward than usual.

“Well?” he asks. “Do you like it?”

Kiyoomi answers him by lunging across the table and pulling him into a kiss. A bit distantly, he realizes that this is his first kiss. Their first kiss. His first kiss.

Atsumu tastes like cinnamon and bubble gum. He probably hasn’t brushed his teeth since this morning. Kiyoomi can’t find it in himself to care.

Atsumu’s hands scramble at thin air for a moment before settling on Kiyoomi’s shoulders.

They pull away for a breath, and Atsumu murmurs, “I think you like it,” before being silenced with another kiss.

Dinner comes shortly after. Kiyoomi’s lips hurt. He sets the bowl in front of Atsumu, and then another at his own place at the table. The book is tucked away safely on a shelf next to the Fire’s Fated series, all thoughts of pre-orders forgotten.

“I was in the hospital when I started writing,” Atsumu says. He blows on his noodles, but doesn’t eat yet. “It was boredom, mostly. Turns out it was good enough to publish, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Kiyoomi repeats. “Eat your dinner.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, but he slurps up his noodles like a good boy. Too loudly. Kiyoomi’s eye twitches.

“I try and keep it a secret,” Atsumu continues, covering his mouth so that Kiyoomi doesn’t have to deal with his terrible, horrible, awful manners. “It’s just you, ‘Samu, and Tendou. I wish he didn’t know, though. He’s been trying to get me to tell you since I started posting those poems.”

“Tendou is a piece of shit,” Kiyoomi announces. “I’m going to revoke his library card.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“For being a piece of shit?”

“He also hasn’t returned anything he’s borrowed since 2019.”

“That’ll do it.” Atsumu pauses and swallows. “So… you really don’t mind being my anonymous muse for a year and a half?”

“Did your captain and your friend mind having their lives adapted to an erotic novel?”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Why did you tell me?” Kiyoomi asks. It’s an honest question. Why him and not his oldest friends, ones whose personalities manage to have shined through four novels and endless layers of purple prose.

Atsumu’s ears tint themselves pink. “Because I love you. Talk about love being unrealistic, I fell in love the first time you bodily carried me out of the library when I broke your display.”

“Disgusting.” Kiyoomi sniffs. He smiles into his soda so Atsumu doesn’t quite catch it (he does, and his own smile turns as sappy as syrup.) “It took me longer. The second time, at least.”

“That’s not much better than me!”

“Cry about it.”

“I will. Don’t test me. I’ve been on the verge of tears all night.”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “Disgusting.”

“You say that like you’re not the star of glorified vampire porn.”

“Better me than your poor captain again.”

“You’re both lucky I love you,” Atsumu pouts. He has sauce on his chin.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and grabs a towel off of the counter behind him. He reaches across the table and wipes Atsumu’s chin, rubbing his thumb over a leftover grease stain under his ear from work.

Atsumu kisses Kiyoomi’s thumb.

Kiyoomi shoves the towel into Atsumu’s mouth and sits back, laughing as he sputters and spits it out onto his lap.

“I love you, too,” he says, living in the way Atsumu’s eyes light up like the sunrise. “But, really, eat your dinner. I expect a haiku by the time you leave tonight.”

Atsumu salutes with his chopsticks, and Kiyoomi salutes with his own. He’s warm, and fuzzy, and he almost wants to marry this man. Almost.

He’ll give it another couple of months.

(“I would never kiss a vampire,” Kiyoomi says.

“Oh my God, shut up,” Atsumu groans, pulling a pillow over his face and trying to cover his ears.

Kiyoomi flips the page and makes a disgusted face. “And you know I would never do it without protection.”

“I hate this,” Atsumu says. “I hate you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have asked me to read to you. Now shut up, I’m about to slip it in.”

Atsumu groans again and smacks him with his pillow. Kiyoomi smiles and leans down to kiss him before beginning to read.)