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It isn’t unusual for Kiyoomi to wake up and feel as though the entire world is just slightly off-kilter. Just enough to make everything a little more wrong than the day before or the one to come after. It’s never surprising; but it is with grave and tiresome frustration that he acknowledges once things begin to tilt, it is nearly impossible to bring them back before it all slips into disarray.
In time, they straighten up.
In time, he calms down.
But the seconds in between drag on and grate against his skin just like his clothes. And the wind. And people’s voices. And their looks. And their judgement.
On these days, everything that is normally sufficiently tolerable skips over the edge of too much.
They also seem to be the days when everything piles on all at once.
Alarm, blaring.
Coffee, bitter.
Rice, overcooked.
Joints, sore.
Nerves, shot before the sun has barely been up for a few hours.
Wrap it all up as a perfectly horrible dawn that bleeds into a morning with something dreadfully worse,
“You’re not coming to your father’s birthday dinner?”
He’d been sitting at the table, lamenting over his stodgy breakfast when his phone rang and his stomach soured further.
His sigh was preparatory. It eased his mind into the slightly defensive headspace needed to take on his mother.
“I have a match.” She gives a sigh of her own, but hers is exhaustedly disbelieving. “I told you this weeks ago.”
“And you expect that to be an excuse?”
“It’s not an excuse. It’s my job.”
“Yes, well, so you say.” Following the click of her tongue, she throws her voice up high. “But remember, your coworkers are not your friends or your family, Kiyoomi.”
“They’re not coworkers, they’re-“
“It’s just hard for me to believe one game can’t occur without you.”
“Is that meant to be a blow to my abilities as an athlete? Because it certainly-”
“There are other players for a reason, are there not?” His parents never understood anything about this. Barely supported him past buying the necessities to keep him playing through highschool. But at the mere notion he would continue pursuing it after graduation, the rift only worsened. “Why don’t you give someone else a chance to play and come be with us. Where you should be.”
“It doesn’t work like that. And I can’t decide something is more important than my career because I want to go be elsewhere-”
“You hardly show any want to come at all, so please don’t bother with that. As far as importance, it’s always been very clear what is most important to you. And family has never-”
“Family implies the barest sense of understanding and consideration. Neither of which-”
“Family is being where you need to be when you need to be there.” Where they wanted him to be. “Choosing what is best for the whole-” Doing what they wanted him to be doing. “-Not one’s selfish desires.” Being who they wanted him to be. “But it’s fine. You don’t have to come. Especially if you’re going to act like this.” Being no one he actually was. Or ever wished to become. “I’ll do you the favor of not telling your father how unreasonable you’re being.”
“He won’t even notice I’m not there.”
“Of course he will. You’re his son.”
“In name alone.”
A wealthy name.
An arrogant name.
Her next reply is short, voice curling into a threatening sharpness. “You’re lucky to have such a name. You should use it more to your advantage.”
They always talk in circles, never ending anywhere mutual, pulling the ends of their relationship further and further- thinner and thinner-
It’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped yet.
Maybe it’s just to keep himself from being ostracized altogether.
“Is Sayaka there?” He asks instead of trying to resolve or explain things any further.
His sister levels them. Swells like a cool tide that drops their fire into a mere billowing steam.
“She’s busy. Preparing for the party. Would you care for me to tell her something?”
More likely, to twist his words into something he never said at all-
“No.”
“Then are you finished?”
“You called me.”
“I was giving you room.”
To break.
“To change my mind.”
“Whatever you may have chosen to use the chance for.”
To disappoint further.
“I’m finished.”
“Well then,” Collecting herself, she dismisses him with a hum, “Good luck with your game. I hope the decision is worth it.”
When the line falls silent, Kiyoomi’s head droops with it and his phone slips down to the table. The deep breath that fills his chest is hardly relieving. It merely emphasizes the ache there, the tired soreness that’s been lingering in his bones for days- maybe weeks? He rubs a hand over his face and into his hair just as steps come out from the bedroom.
“Who was it?”
Atsumu’s question is quieter than usual. He’s still a ways off, peering out from the shadow of the hallway.
“It’s nothing.”
“Yer ma or yer sister?”
“Does it matter?”
It does.
The answer would dictate how lightly Atsumu needs to tread.
Out of his family, Sayaka is the only one who knows about them. The only one he sort of gets along with. The only one that never fully treated him like the strange, unfortunate, out of place black sheep.
They have their differences- their age gap alone is enough to keep them distant- but she tries. Which he cannot claim for the rest of them.
“Yer ma, then.”
Kiyoomi stares at the table, waiting the silence away. When Atsumu doesn’t laugh or offer some unnerved comment to fill the space, Kiyoomi pushes his chair back and stands.
“We should get ready for practice.”
The haze follows Kiyoomi everywhere when it lies low like this.
No matter how far he walks, how fast the trains move, the fog swarms around him and drifts like a ghost lapping at his back.
Practice, in short, was abysmal. By his standards and anyone with the barest sense of what it takes to stay at their level.
The air of the locker room is even heavier than the gym. It was an unexciting day. Routine drills. No weight lifting. Nothing more than practicing plays they’ve run through time and time again. Still, Kiyoomi’s limbs hang from their sockets. They catch after each shift, a stiff aching as he tucks his things into his bag with a meticulousness that’s giving him none of the control he wishes it did. The sweat drying on his skin begs to be washed off but the thought of staying under the harsh lights and being assaulted by all the noise any longer than he must feels like too much.
He needs to leave.
Get away from them all- especially the constant chirping going on beside him.
On a normal day, Hinata is as bearable as the rest of the team.
On a bad day, he is an unreachable pest gnawing away frayed nerve endings. Aloof but incessant.
“Were you trying something new today?”
Hinata asks as a point of conversation. It’s not meant to be an insult but it feels like one because Kiyoomi was so glaringly off today. Just like everything else, his movements were sluggish and lacked their usual strength.
He’d hoped, foolishly, that no one noticed. If Hinata had, it looks like he assumed Kiyoomi was just working up to a new technique. If anyone else had, they hadn’t said anything. Barely looked at him any different. Even Atsumu.
No, especially Atsumu.
Which was odd.
After the third subpar spike, he had expected to get chewed out right there on the court per usual. Atsumu wasn’t above noting that people were slacking. Instead, he took it as a personal offense. Like he was the one suffering because his sets weren’t being used to their full potential.
But he hadn’t said a single word. Hadn’t asked any questions. Hadn’t berated Kiyoomi or mocked him. Just adjusted himself in the slightest way to make the ball a little easier to hit.
It felt like a handicap.
But maybe that was what Kiyoomi had needed.
In the end, Kiyoomi didn’t respond to Hinata’s question. It didn’t matter. Hinata kept going like he hadn’t asked it in the first place.
Thankfully, Hinata is always unfazed by any lack of response even if Kiyoomi’s face sours and his shoulders hunch. He continues on despite it blatantly seeming like Kiyoomi isn’t listening. He is. Because he has to. Because Hinata is loud and that close to him and so insistent on having people’s attention no matter how they react.
No matter how much Kiyoomi prefers to be alone so he can get ready to go home. He doesn’t want to be rude but there are times when he can’t manage a conversation at Hinata’s velocity.
But despite how tilted his world seems to be, it also appears the universe is consistently trying to counteract it. Maybe he’s learning how to work through these days quicker. Or maybe he’s been given something to help.
Someone.
“ Shouyou! ”
It’s Atsumu’s sharp, demanding voice that cuts Hinata off mid-sentence.
They both turn at the shout. Atsumu has stuck his head and shoulder through the heavy locker room door and is emphatically waving his hand.
“Come here.” A final wave before he grips the door. “I got somethin’ I wanna try before ya get ready to leave.”
Only a moment of stunned silence passes before Hinata jumps into motion. It’s a common thing they do, but what keeps Kiyoomi stuck in his spine-twisting turn is the look Atsumu spares him before opening the door wider. It isn’t one Kiyoomi often sees. It’s an intense gaze but it’s the one rooted in something very still. There’s none of his fire and hunger behind it- no anger or foreboding- just silence and something that looks straight into Kiyoomi. Not only at him. Or near him. But right down to the center of the itch still creeping up the back of his neck.
It’s gone in an instant.
The moment Hinata reaches toward the door, Atsumu is back to grinning and chattering. They duck outside the locker room and Kiyoomi is left in the distant bustle of the rest of the team.
It feels as though he was just spared from something. A lot of somethings.
He tries his best not to fixate on it too heavily as he finishes packing up, zips his jacket, and makes his way out.
He only stops once he’s outside. The evening is cool but the breeze barely registers against his cheek. His senses were dull and lagging to begin with. Now, they feel further stunted by arduous confusion.
The only thing he can decide on is that Atsumu’s wrath targeted at his shoddy performance is inevitable.
Hinata was pulled away so Kiyoomi could have time to think about it. To come up with reasons as to why he’s operating so poorly. Reasons that Atsumu will probably reject and argue.
The thought worsens the exhaustion. Kiyoomi sags against the brick wall and sighs heavy- hot- against his mask.
Atsumu emerges eventually. He keeps walking once he’s pushed through the front door, just a slight glance to the side that catches on Kiyoomi’s frame before he keeps going. Any other night and Kiyoomi would assume he’s upset. Pouting about something. Working up the nerve to start complaining as soon as their steps fall in line. But tonight, his face isn’t screwed up and there’s no tension in his shoulders that hint towards annoyance. So, when Kiyoomi moves quickly to his side and they begin their walk; there’s only a bit of surprise that things remain quiet.
He wonders the entire way to the train if there was anything Atsumu really had needed to show Hinata or if he was just- what? Making up a reason to draw him away? But why-
Why isn’t he whining?
Why isn’t he scolding?
Has Atsumu ever been this content to exist in silence?
Kiyoomi keeps sliding his gaze over- Atsumu must notice- but he lets himself be ogled at and picked apart by Kiyoomi’s intrusive staring. When Kiyoomi sits on the train, Atsumu’s bag gets slung to the seat next to him. Instead of dropping into the open seat on the other side, Atsumu stands in front of him and reaches up for the overhead handle. It feels like Kiyoomi’s being boxed in- but the car begins to fill and it suddenly seems more like being guarded than smothered. He knows it’s rude to take up a seat like that for just a bag- but suddenly he realizes he doesn’t have to deal with the constant bump of someone’s arm against his. Or the sound of their swallowing. Or the itch of their body heat picking at the bit of exposed skin between his collar and his hairline.
Head back against the window, Kiyoomi spares Atsumu one last look before he closes his eyes and does his best to block it all out for the rest of the ride.
The first thing after getting home is a shower. Long, blistering heat, burning over his skin until it’s red and pebbles under the cold air as he steps out.
He feels only marginally better afterwards. There’s a comfort to being scrubbed clean but it fades quickly once wet feet squish against the tile. Then, all he wants is to be dry and cooled off.
There’s a towel left on the counter, neatly folded and ready for him. When he reaches for it, it’s warm on his palm. Fresh from the dryer. Soft and clean. His hair is tousled, body dried slowly before the towel is wrapped around his waist.
His lotion has already been pulled out from the cabinet and placed next to the sink. Damp fingers try to grab it, slip around the plastic, curl into a fist as the bottle falls and clatters to the floor. The noise shouldn’t be so loud. The weight of dropping something shouldn’t feel like a worse defeat than anything else.
A frustrated sigh leaves him as he crumples into a hunch over the counter. He’s a moment away from sliding to the floor altogether but then there’s a soft brush of fingers against his back. Kiyoomi arches away from them just slightly, huffing down into the sink. Unlike his own, these fingers are persistent. They stay stuck to the knobs of his spine as Atsumu bends behind him to grab the lost bottle.
“If I had heard ya get out I woulda been here sooner.”
It’s the first thing Atsumu’s said to him since the last call for Kiyoomi to follow through on a set.
It’s just a thought, spoken out into the air for Kiyoomi to hear. Not really asking for a response but being open to one if he pleases.
“I don’t need all this help.”
“‘Course ya don’t.” Atsumu’s hand leaves him to crack the bottle open and squeeze the lotion into his palm. “Stand up, skeleton.”
Skeleton shouldn’t feel like an endearing name but it comes with Atsumu’s smile in the foggy mirror and a tender press over his shoulders and Kiyoomi can’t help but accept it as one.
Smoothing the cream into Kiyoomi’s skin, Atsumu doesn’t force their eyes to meet. He doesn’t say anything else. He infringes on this space but doesn’t invade. Puts himself between Kiyoomi and the lowest parts of his anxious thoughts but backs off before it makes them any worse.
Even at his most uncomfortable state, Kiyoomi rarely finds himself recoiling under Atsumu’s touch anymore. He could say it’s because Atsumu has always had surprisingly well-kept hands. Call it a privilege of falling for a setter. One of the many. Many that have always been hard to admit despite knowing how much the other hangs off every word of praise like the last drop of water he’ll ever get to swallow.
Maybe Kiyoomi should tell him something. Anything, really. His mouth opens, jaw hanging there lifeless while Atsumu caps the bottle and steps out of the bathroom before Kiyoomi can find a single word.
Beyond the static, Kiyoomi manages to leave the bathroom. He dresses himself in the tshirt and sweats laid out on the bed. Starts a load of laundry. Eats whatever dinner is placed in front of him at the table. Noodles of some sort, pulled from the fridge and reheated given how gummy they feel in his mouth.
He drifts to the cough at some point. There’s a game on the tv- maybe something he’s seen before- maybe something live- nothing he really sees or cares to focus on. Just something to make it seem like he isn’t entirely lost within the itch of his shirt against his chest and the way every wet hair on his head tingles along his scalp.
The rest of the apartment is a distant hum. There’s faint clattering as Atsumu moves around somewhere but Kiyoomi doesn’t really listen, or wonder, or care-
Not until the rustling comes closer. The sound of track pants rubbing together and slippered feet scuffling over the floor. Whatever the reason is, Kiyoomi knows he hasn’t asked for it. A question. A statement. A look. He doesn’t want any of them. He just wants white noise and his blank stare toward the wall till it's an appropriate time to sleep.
For once, nothing he’s dreading comes.
In fact, nothing at all happens other than a coaster being slid across the coffee table followed by a mug.
Atsumu doesn’t speak as he sets the cup down. He doesn’t glance over or linger. He leaves it there and turns back without even a breath.
Kiyoomi’s head is pulled to follow as he leaves. There’s no explanation written down the plane of Atsumu’s back. The confounding nature of the gesture only becomes more convoluted as he turns into the kitchen and the cord of headphones bounces against his chest.
A few facts make themselves known as utter phenomena.
First, this being the only willing use of a coaster he has ever seen Atsumu exhibit despite incessant nagging for the sake of their furniture.
Second, the small courtesy of Atsumu not blaring his music through the bluetooth speaker set up on their kitchen counter. The apartment is always loud; aggravatingly so. Until this point, Kiyoomi has been convinced Atsumu didn’t even own a pair of headphones.
Third, the tea. Namely, the manner in which it was deposited in front of him. Without so much as a “here you go Omi~” or a peek of eyes over at him.
The mug sits, steaming away and abandoned.
Distantly, the sink starts.
Atumu’s cleaning. It’s not necessarily a rare occurrence- he’s surprisingly tidy but it usually comes with at least a couple of complaints. A dramatic whine that demands Kiyoomi help him.
Kiyoomi stares into the empty space of the apartment before his attention goes with his hands toward the mug.
He’ll thank Atsumu later.
He probably already knows, anyway.
When Atsumu returns, he places himself on the opposite end of the couch, curled up against the pillows with his phone snug between lifted knees and his face.
He doesn’t say a word.
Just exists nearby.
Minutes pass.
Comfortably, there’s nothing but the faint sounds of shoes against the gym floor, the smack of spikes, the announcer dictating each play, Kiyoomi’s occasional sip, the tack of Atsumu’s nails against his phone screen as he types.
When the game comes to an end, Atsumu stands and asks just loud enough to reach him, “You done?”
He’s holding the remote in one hand and the other is reaching out. Kiyoomi looks down to the mug- ah - he must’ve drank it all. It’s offered up, slipped from dull fingers as the tv clicks off.
“Let’s head to bed, yeah?” Atsumu doesn’t wait for the answer that wouldn’t have come even if he had. He tosses the remote to the couch and carries the mug away.
Bed. It sounds far. Somehow, Kiyoomi drags himself through their apartment. His steps feel more like a floating bob, wading around in something thick until it all gives way to the bed. Maybe it’s a drift, maybe it’s a collapse, but he’s suddenly engulfed by sheets and it’s the first thing all day that feels slightly right.
He wants to sleep.
He’s wanted to sleep since he first woke up.
Wants so badly just to disappear for a few hours and hope this all goes away by morning. But then the mattress is dipping, jostling him around, making him groan despite the way he pushes himself toward Atsumu’s warmth the moment the sheets settle around them.
He wants to sleep. Is that too much to want?
“Hey… can I touch ya?” Whispered, apprehensive like he’s afraid Kiyoomi will shove him away at the thought. As if Kiyoomi isn’t the one who stuck himself to Atsumu’s side. As if they weren’t already touching from shoulder to knee.
But, Atsumu hadn’t initiated any of it.
And, Kiyoomi knows what he means.
There’s nothing suggestive about his tone. Nothing insinuating Atsumu’s going to try anything more than just that. A touch. A connection that Atsumu needs almost constantly but resigns himself to existing without when he knows it’ll only make Kiyoomi’s skin crawl that much more.
It’s gotten that bad today, huh-
Bad enough that Atsumu feels the need to ask and not just take like the insatiable man he is. Somewhere along the way, it seems, he’s learned Kiyoomi’s limit for tolerating how rapacious his touches can be.
Kiyoomi wants to thank him for the courtesy. But that seems like an awful admission of how dark he’s let himself become. Instead, there’s only a small nod just before a hand is laid gently on his back. After a moment, it begins to brush over his spine. Up and down. Back and forth. Filling the silence with the soft sound of shifting fabric.
“Atsumu.” Even a single word feels like sludge in his throat.
He just wants to sleep. It’s apparently too much.
Because if not now, if not spoken into the closed walls of their bedroom with no one else around and no space for the words to escape out past the liminal haze of this darkness- he would fester on and on until nothingness.
Still, Atsumu’s hand freezes and the shoulder under Kiyoomi’s cheek stiffens slightly.
“Sorry,” It’s quick and whips itself over the top of Kiyoomi’s head. “Want me to stop?”
“No.” Kiyoomi breathes slow, eyes opening to nothing but black and the faint outline of a rising chest. “Something else.” Kiyoomi’s pause spans on and on but despite Atsumu’s shared silence, he relaxes back into the bed. “Have you,” He begins, deep breath in through his nose. “ever regretted anything?”
On another night, Atsumu would’ve cracked some joke. Something along the lines of yeah, fallin’ for you for starters-
But today, he’s been different. For once, Kiyoomi sees without doubt or question how well Atsumu knows him. Atsumu’s horrible about coddling people’s emotions when he’s got something to say or thinks he’s being funny, but when it matters- surprisingly - he knows when to shut up and actually think.
So, he thinks.
Kiyoomi waits through his pondering, finding the eventual hum below his ear a tickling sort of comfort.
“No.”
So matter of fact. Definitive and certain. Kiyoomi nearly huffs a laugh. He’s close, but it comes out as more of a sigh.
“Ever since I was little, there was only one thing, after all. And I’m doin’ that thing, so what’s there to regret?” His hand stops moving to press firmly between Kiyoom’s shoulder blades. “An’ if yer talkin’ about you and me-”
“I’m not.”
“Better not be.”
“I’ve-” The next sigh that leaves him is heavier. Kiyoomi turns his face in a bit more. He noses at the familiar smell of Atsumu’s shirt, muttering around a truth he’s almost too reluctant to admit in fear of inflating Atsumu’s ego toward irredeemable extremes. “Never had any regrets about this.”
“Oh-” He sounds startled- squirms with an embarrassed sound in his throat. “Well, sometimes -”
“Not now.”
“Right.” Atsumu stops himself quickly, pulling back out of the snarky comment that was to come. He settles down and the calm rolls in once more. “Whatever it is- Sorry that I can’t share yer sentiment.”
Kiyoomi hadn’t really expected another answer. He wasn’t sure what difference hearing it made. It’s not as though he feels any more or less affirmed knowing his doubts are his alone.
“Feel free to tell me to shut up if I’m pryin’- but this morning...” Kiyoomi’s eyes scrunch, teeth sliding together as Atsumu eases his way through the topic. “You’ve been extra-mopey-Omi ever since yer ma called. Do you wanna-”
Talk about it
“Not especially,” He gruffs into Atsumu’s shirt before turning away from it and speaking toward the curve of his jaw. “There isn’t much to say. I’m missing my father's birthday because it’s the same night as our next game. I don’t want to be there- and I don’t need to be there. It’s just an excuse to boast about himself, really, but my mother’s upset. So she caused her usual, pointless fuss.”
“And that led to regret?”
How could someone without any doubt understand?
How could someone who always- always - knew what they were meant to do sympathize with his pitiful wallowing?
“You know how much they hate to consider a sport as a legitimate career.”
“Still chose it though. And it makes you happy. Yer only regretting it ‘cause they have a problem with it.”
“I’m aware how stupid it is.” He wishes things were easier. That he didn’t worry about what they thought. “Being bothered by something so trivial.”
“S’not stupid.”
It is.
Fearing disappointment from people who would never be anything but that. Disappointed.
Even if he’d done exactly what they wanted, it wouldn’t have been enough. Knowing that should make it all hurt less, and yet- every time- every phone call- every lofty sigh and click of a tongue- it hurts.
Or maybe it’s just heavy.
Each snide comment, a feather by itself, but suffocating when they all fall upon the countless others right on top of him.
“They’re never gonna get it.” Atsumu’s talking louder now. He’s got that whiny, irritated twinge to his words that pulls Kiyoom’s mouth up just a bit. “Which sucks, but you can’t rationalize yer way through other people’s stubbornness.”
“And if I’m the one that’s being stubborn?”
“ Ahh, don’t get me wrong baby, yer always stubborn. But standin’ up for what you enjoy and who you wanna be isn’t wrong.” He pinches at Kiyoomi’s nape before soothing over the skin. There’s a smile evident in his tone, light and sincere and blanketing them. “Yer not doing anything wrong. Even if it feels that way.”
Kiyoomi’s mouth opens far before anything comes out. He lays there, just breathing, just trying to find some part of him that can believe that for more than a night. It’s fine if he doesn’t. Atsumu’s said similar things before and knowing how much he likes to hear himself talk, Kiyoomi doesn’t doubt he’ll say it all again. However many times it takes.
He can guess, in some ways, Atsumu is the thing that makes it all easier when he knows he can’t do this himself.
Inevitable, reluctant but grateful, he surrenders.
“Thank you.”
His whisper is answered with a soothing croon. “Hmm, what for?”
“For saying that.” Kiyoomi shifts himself up, “And- for learning,” Closer, “To live with me.” Tucks his face into the warm curve of Atsumu’s neck and slumps back into the arm around his back. “Taking care of me.” His lips purse just enough to press the barest senses of a kiss to the skin below them. “I appreciate it.”
“Hey, hey, m’happy to.” The hand on Kiyoomi’s back trails up until Atsumu’s fingers are scratching into his hair. “I know how much she gets on yer nerves.”
“It wasn’t just her.”
“Yeah, I know that too. But I just wanna try and make yer bad days a lil’ less bad, right?”
Atsumu’s honesty has always been jarring. He’s awful at hiding his feelings, paints them right across his chest, pours them into the shine of his eyes and the turbulent expressions that he flicks through on a loop.
Kiyoomi wants to think he’s gotten used to it, at least a little bit. But now- all day- days like these- it’s a near shock just how far Atsumu’s wormed his way into Kiyoomi’s space. His habits. His eccentricities. All the way down to the smallest shift in his shoulders and the way he slouches when his thoughts get too heavy.
“I love you.” It leaves Kiyoomi like an exhale, more effortless each time he says it.
“‘Course ya do.”
“I don’t tell you enough.”
“Not really.” Finally, Kiyoomi feels light enough to huff through a laugh. “But that’s okay. I know ya think it. Can ya stomach me sayin’ it back?”
“Try and find out.”
“I love ya more than… mm… huh, maybe-”
“Don’t think too hard and hurt yourself.”
“ Oi!” The fingers in his hair curl and tug in offense. “I’m tryin’ to be romantic and help ya feel better.”
“It doesn’t have to be more than anything else.”
“Just I love you is boring. Do you think I’m boring, Omi?”
Despite himself, a smile breaks across his face. He turns in further, stifling it all with a mutter trapped between skin and the pillows. “Annoyingly far from it.”
“Yer the annoying one.”
“Mhm,”
“ Mhm-” It’s thrown back in a mocking whine that breaks into a bristly, “Whatever, take yer boring I love you and go to sleep.”
Belying everything about the bitter twist of his mumble, Atsumu’s arm curls tight around him.
It isn’t unusual for Kiyoomi to fall asleep feeling the same as he woke up. As though the entire world was just slightly off-kilter. It is with grave and tiresome frustration that he acknowledges once things begin to tilt, it is nearly impossible to bring them back before it all slips into disarray.
That was, until he met Atsumu.
A blinding, unavoidable force that rights his world without question. Without thought. Only to please and comfort. A selfish, greedy man turned humble for one person. For him.
Refuge.
His solace.
Kiyoomi finds now that even after the worst of it, his mind settles. Sleep comes swiftly amidst Atsumu’s gravity and all is leveled out.