Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Have you decided, Kiyoomi-kun?”

“Hm?” Kiyoomi suckles on a fruit removed from gold wrapping - Maruyama, Kishu Plums Treasure - the most recent purchase by the family patriarch to appease one appetite. The savory pinch to his tongue is well-timed, lending an excuse to fake deafness. 

“Have you decided which team?” His mother repeats as she leans over a boiling pot, containing the mystery of their weekend lunch. “The contracts have been on your desk for days.”

Contracts: the signing away of his body and at least 25% of his soul. Kiyoomi respects commitment but not the legalities of it; clauses written in skyscraper offices, solely to demarcate the black-and-whites of human choice. But here he stands in the vastness of the family kitchen, 18-going-on-19, relinquishing the most expected path at the crossroads of adulthood. 

To have options should be a privilege. To have options-within-options: a luxury.

Swallow. Gulp. To his dismay, this version of pickled plum tastes almost too luxurious. “I’ve narrowed them down to two.”

“Something’s making you hesitate.” Crinkled eyes narrow, giving further definition to crows’ feet. “Is it--”

“Father? Yes.” Kiyoomi laps at the walls of his mouth, wiping himself free from the salt of imminent frictions. “If I go with my gut, he’ll probably be disappointed again.”

His mother steps closer, expression considerate but not pitiful - never pitiful. “I think he has at least accepted that you’ll get a degree later on. So go with what you want, Kiyoomi-kun. We’ll keep him distracted.”

Kiyoomi-kun is just trying to finish what he already started. He can’t help but wonder how long that same argument will work, especially when an easy counter exists within his many years of schooling. For now, he has a few steady shields, defending him along an unfamiliar journey. But close ahead is already another fork in the road - and one prominent street sign, pointing west at many unknowns.

“What if I leave Tokyo, then? Do you think he’ll accept that, on top of everything else?”

“Ah.” A crestfallen smile appears. “I’m not even sure if I could.”

He hands over a wrapped plum from the elegant, charcoal box, and his mother accepts.

The way she peels off the gold ribbon is more resignation than approval.

==

MSBY Black Jackals. Osaka.

Eastern Japan has always been home, a safe haven where family and education comes as a 2-for-1 LAWSON deal. He has ventured away a few times over the years - the occasional practice match up north, a weekend tournament out west - but Tokyo, despite its excessive populace, roots and comforts him with its well-memorized streets. He knows the cleanest restaurants by Itachiyama, the most efficient train schedule from dorm to home, the convenience stores that offer his favorite pickled plums.

But, Tokyo.

To go professional in the capital means enduring an extra dose of fame, where fans and dissenters alike collect around you like undesirable fog. He had witnessed it through Wakatoshi’s rise-and-fall, when his every achievement as an Adlers rookie amounted to moot against one subpar international performance. That solid persona had been impenetrable, but Kiyoomi doubts he could manage the same, or wishes to manage at all.

Upon his desk, the topmost page of one contract reads elsewhere - two different kanji promising a quieter public life without sacrificing the skill level of a team, and where volleyball can potentially remain the only focus.

Osaka has the same convenience stores, too.

Motoya will probably bug him to make many visits to Shizuoka. Kiyoomi wonders if he should prepare some excuses now.

For the moment, he faces his laptop, intending to type “pros and cons of living in Osaka” into the search field. But an accidental click of the bookmarks bar accesses the volleyball forums he frequently lurks, and the page refresh highlights a new, very relevant topic up top. 

Recent High School Grads Rumors!!!!!!

In the midst of national and international elites, any discussion of his player level is unusual here. But like himself, the numerous standouts sharing his grade have all kept mum about what their future holds, and fans must have itchier fingers after the conclusion of the latest V. League season.

Kiyoomi has never cared much for fates outside of his control, but the link is bolded, and exclamation point-decorated, so rejecting an open invitation would be irrational. Surrendering to the itch along his own finger, he clicks in, and digests the immediate wall of text kicking off the thread.

kokodatego
Here’s what the whispers say for the top names: Komori and Suna both probably going to Shizuoka (what a coup for raijin?!), Hoshiumi still picking between three or four schools. Sakusa apparently deciding between a Tokyo team and a non-Tokyo one?? Idk personally I think he’s going to stay put.

It’s bizarre to be the center of gossip, to have anonymous speculation be so accurate about private wrestles. Motoya has indeed written his signature on the EJP offer, and mentioned Suna Rintarou’s identical decision, so one can assume all other details in this post are more correct than not.

Kiyoomi opens the top drawer of his desk, retrieving one of few bags within. The discussion goes on for a whopping four pages, so this might as well become his afternoon reading, with snacks at the ready.

He pops a small kernel of red into his mouth - Yamanashi, Koshu Small Crunchy Plums - breaking through the crisp surface to release flavorful juice upon his tongue. As with these brief lines of internet thought, it’s best to savor each one in bitesize, without thinking too hard about off-kilter tastes or irrelevant opinions.

Three posts down, however, his mind forces a reassess.

spiiiiiike
What about the Miyas from Hyogo?? Nothing at all on them?

inarizaki_fox
You didn’t hear? Apparently they both quit :((((

tokyo2020
WHAAAATTT??? NO WAY!!!

spiiiiiike
No. Way. Wonder what the national team recruiters think about that? That must’ve messed up some of their plans for the next few years

The latest plum lingers within his mouth a few seconds too long, its crunch softened by excess saliva as Kiyoomi ponders on. Miya twins? Quitting?

It seems unfathomable that the pair would ever disassociate with the sport, though he knows there’s personal bias, considering volleyball has dominated every setting of their encounters. Ever since the lower nets of middle school camps, the Miyas had been the feared yin-and-yang, giving the setter-opposite relationship fresh meaning. Even if their bodies hadn’t always been adjacent in court rotations, shared genetics always converted into shared gravity, attracting ball to hands and turning incensed arguments into absurd plays. Had Komori been a setter, Kiyoomi wonders how they would’ve fared as a family unit. After all, the Miyas are living proof that vastly different personalities are, perhaps, not so detrimental.

In retrospect, while Miya Osamu had shared their elite status and clearly invested effort, he had seldom welcomed attention or compliments. Perhaps those had all been signs of waning interest, a precursor to a premature ending.

But Atsumu? The loudmouth whose hands had smelled of old volleyball rubber - disgustingly so , Kiyoomi cringes - and basked in every hint of praise? The one who had breathed the sport and subjected everyone to his overbearing exhales?

To forfeit that which fills your lungs feels contrarian, feels...misguided.

Streaks of blond hair enter Kiyoomi’s memories then, tracking his confrontations with a certain Kansai dialect from camps to tournaments and back. There are replays of perfect tosses, and even more perfect serves, though any admiration had always been spoiled by a bothersome tongue. Recalling every single annoyance courtesy of Miya Atsumu proves a Herculean task, but one comment - the final one spoken after Inarizaki’s Spring defeat at his hands - rings strangely mature, doused in challenge rather than the haughty crudeness from all the years past.

“As long as we’re both still playin’, I won’t lose to ya again.”

Against a scoreboard signaling his loss, the setter’s wide grin had shone brighter than the alight 25-22, drizzling optimism upon a vague guarantee. But now, this next stage of said rivalry may never come to fruition.

As long as we’re both still playin’.

His teeth’s next crunch releases a thick flavor in Kiyoomi’s mouth, abrupt and bitter like a broken promise. Frowning, he returns the package to its abode, in denial of any psychological influence upon his taste buds.

The drawer shuts, and dark eyes are drawn to his phone instead of his laptop. With a single touch, the idle screen jumps to life, accepting the hesitant taps of a keyboard.

Random favor
Can you ask Suna why the Miyas quit vball?
Don’t tell him I’m the one asking

Instant regret surfaces once the three lines get packaged into standard LINE bubbles. Texts to his cousin are of highest appraisal in the auction of Kiyoomi’s rare life choices, and he can almost imagine rounded brows rising with shock somewhere in the next Tokyo district.

Motoya
THEY DID?? NO WAY!

He would fit right in on the forums. Kiyoomi sighs at the observation, and offers no explanation that he himself does not yet possess. Thankfully, he knows the shocking nature of the update would only incentivize Motoya to find out for them both. He had been the biggest gossip of Itachiyama, after all.

Motoya
I thought you had Atsumu-kun’s number?
Why not just ask him yourself?

He’s tempted to remind Motoya how rare Sakusa Kiyoomi phone communications have always been - and will still remain - but he resorts to a tepid response.

Me
Don’t want to come off like I care

Motoya
But...you do care?

Me
I don’t
Just want to know whether I have to play against his ridiculous face ever again

Motoya
:D

Me
What’s that emoji for?

Feeling uncomfortably exposed, he turns the phone over rather than give up any new, risky statements. The drawer opens, permitting his fingers to dig for relief in the most familiar form. Soon, another plum pops into his mouth, but it’s devoid of bitterness.

The entire room remains a hushed state as he savors, indulging in the hint of bonito flakes previously undetectable. It’s present, almost dominant, as he counts down the seconds, pacing each suckle dutifully.

In due time, the “ding ding” of notification arrives, as if ringing in that last swallow Kiyoomi finally takes.

Motoya
Rin says the twins are going to the same college in Osaka
Osamu-kun decided to not play anymore and Atsumu-kun said he’d never leave him alone
Something about wanting to beat him at life outside of volleyball too
Rin’s pretty sure Atsumu-kun just did it out of spite though

Me
They’re not even going to play collegiate?

Motoya
Rin didn’t think so
They were very serious about quitting I guess...
I never saw this coming either

Kiyoomi leans back in his chair, mulling upon the reveals.

College in Osaka? Ironically, it’s the academic path he himself had delayed, opting to take advantage of youth and vitality first. Fate had blessed him with physical prowess, not to mention recognition from all those who oversee the sport. While he had always accepted one and ignored the other, committing to existing talent had seemed the most logical choice. But now, herein lies a predicament, triggered by former opponents kilometers away.

Volleyball has always meant everything to the gifted, or so he thought.

Kiyoomi suddenly wishes to pose this doubt to the very few who relate. Whatever lies beyond the sport is not what he has considered often, especially when familial expectations will map out a tunneled route for him. But what have the Miyas come to understand? What does Miya Atsumu understand?

To sever oneself from unfulfilled potential is nonsensical in Kiyoomi’s world of neverending logic, and now, it is a mystery he intends to solve - the only education he foresees himself partaking in. Alas, if any insight leads to early retirement in order to run the family business, Kiyoomi imagines his father would appreciate the effort.

College in Osaka.  

The same city exists in printed form, awaiting his commitment and physical presence. With conviction, he drags the papers bearing Black Jackals letterhead toward him, flipping to the final page and a dotted line.

==

The dust from 15-some boxes washes away underneath the faucet, marking both the end of a road trip and a life stage. Kiyoomi wipes both hands gently with his handkerchief before tearing at a package resting upon the kitchen counter - Nokubo Farm, Soft Ripe Plums - part of one last honey-drenched batch purchased in Tokyo, with enough supply to elicit nostalgia for a few more weeks.

Kansai and its oppressive summers are home now, the scorching heat making him second guess a decision to move in the middle of July. It’s much drier heat than that of Tokyo, and somewhat more tolerable, but the liquid soaking his plums evaporates at twice the speed.

Mentally, “air conditioner” rises from the middle of his shopping list to the top.

“Why’re you living on this side of the river again?” A chipper voice cuts through his appliance musings. “It’ll take you so much longer to get to the training gym.”

His sister is carrying a futon into his new bedroom, her ponytail wild and curly from the damp of sweat. As always, Miomi poses perfectly sensible questions, but Kiyoomi, also as always, returns perfectly sensible answers. It is how they were raised, after all.

“I plan on biking for extra exercise.” He explains between chews. “It’s also cheaper housing, because of all the college students around here.”

An amused face peeks out from the doorframe, all 27-years-young and more mischievous than Kiyoomi can ever decipher.

“Or...could you be thinking about an alternative universe, where you chose school first?”

He glowers, giving a silent reminder of this first serious attempt at rebellion.

“I’m joking, Kiyoomi.” Both the head and the voice retreat into the spare room. “Let’s go find somewhere to eat. There are probably good spots near the campus.”

They settle for an udon shop near Ibaraki Station with exactly four items on the menu, and Miomi enthusiastically orders every single dish without prejudice. Kiyoomi knows he’ll get first pick once the bowls arrive - as is his unofficial privilege, being the youngest - but the tradition also awakens the fact that this may be his last family meal in a while.

The honey from plums still lingers, as sweet as sisterly gestures, grand or not.

“Thanks, by the way.” He mumbles when the shop owner wanders into the back kitchen.

A hand digs into his hair - one of a few touches he has never denied since childhood. “Wouldn’t have been right if I only saw my little brother off.”

“No, I meant...thanks for helping with father.”

“Oh. That. Well, he already got two kids to bend to his will - I think that’s more than enough.” Miomi snorts, snide but with no resentment. “I’m just sorry that we often ended up too busy to come watch you play in high school. But now you’ll be on television a lot, right? I’ll host many many watch parties in Yokohama, I promise.”

“Please don’t.”

“You’re gonna do great.” His sister ignores the rejection. “Even if you aren’t sure of it, I think you made the right choice.”

“You can tell? That I’m already having doubts?”

“A bit, yes. But I can also tell - no, I know that you didn’t choose Osaka for no reason.” Weary irises peek at him, borderline accusatory. “Besides not having father breathe down your neck anymore, you probably wanted to find some answers here...maybe even learn to love new things here.”

“It’s just a city. It’s temporary.”

“For you, though, Kiyoomi? Nothing has ever been ‘just’ something. You wouldn’t agree to be stuck in a car with me for six hours otherwise.”

Kiyoomi finds the claim difficult to confirm or deny, as there are layers to this decision he has yet to unveil for himself. In the midst of restaurant scents and sibling insights, he considers the only thing he has to offer.

“Do you want some...plums for the drive back?”

A hand reaches up to rub his scalp again. “Nah, save them all for yourself. Keep some memories of home, at least.”

==

Home departs in the form of his older version, waving from behind the windshield as she reverses out of a cramped parking space, and out of the next few years of Kiyoomi’s life.

He waves back, sighing as the car disappears behind neighboring buildings, commencing its return journey towards the same old.

For 18 years, he had found that he could depend on the same old: the rooms of a house too vast for its few permanent occupants; the daily stretch and exercise supplementing his natural-born gifts; the same 500-piece puzzle completed, dismantled, then repeat; even, admittedly, the monologues of a parent ever expanding his business empire.

He now stands prefectures away, abandoning at least half those securities. Only time would tell what else can bring about peace of mind from this day on.

The thought stalks Kiyoomi as he wanders further west, in the opposite direction of his new place. Along tree-lined streets, the setting sun falls directly in view as it floats above a foreign horizon. In this moment, his footsteps understand the next destination, even if his mind maintains a state of denial.

It’s a leisurely five-kilometer promenade, guiding him into a sea of pale buildings laid out against greenery. In the late afternoon hour, the area plays home to countless faces around his age - some alone, some paired, some in large groups - each weathering what may be the last academic chapter in their lives.

“大阪大学” engraves on a stone pillar he had passed minutes ago, delineating a boundary separating his choice from that of others.

Kiyoomi navigates the sidewalks as one of the solo figures, with no textbook underneath his armpit or bookbag burdening his spine. Marking this place with his presence is the ultimate rebellion - the rejection of fatherly expectations to be trapped in classrooms, not for education but for an artificial, designated inheritance. But even if revolting were a cause, he knows the spontaneity of this particular visit contains other intentions.

Alas, this isn’t some romance drama where he’ll come across the exact person he seeks on the first attempt. The campus is a town in itself, with a population of thousands and only one - or rather, two - Miyas among them. It would be impossible to encounter the blond one so easily, even if Kiyoomi remembers him as rowdy enough for detection over distances.

So as long as we’re both still playin’, I won’t lose to ya again.

He shakes the memory aside.

That’s enough for today.

Just as soon as he arrives, he departs, heading to the bus station to avoid walking home in the imminent dark. Rather than waiting upon the available bench, Kiyoomi ducks into a neighborhood store, and locates some suspiciously packaged plums that soon follow him to the bus’ rear. By the end of the trip, he has grudgingly finished half, but each one is bland with all the wrong crunches - less than ideal for a first Osakan impression.

As his door unlocks, Kiyoomi ponders whether settling here had also been misguided.

Nevertheless, unpacking the last few boxes goes smoothly. He has everything clearly labeled, and the process to imitate his old bedroom proves effortless. In size, it’s an average between what’s within the Sakusa mansion and the Itachiyama dorm, but there’s a unique safety unfound in the previous two. The apartment is a strange place, a strange space, with faint whiffs of fresh paint seasoning Kiyoomi’s every inhale. Yet, it’s also where he can claim sole ownership, with no one to please but himself.

He’s officially young adult, setting life at his own pace, free to choose between staying on course or going rogue.

Why’re you living on this side of the river?

Because. Upon his futon, Kiyoomi reflects upon the short proximity of the university to this new home, intentionally planned from the start. I’ve gone rogue.

His impromptu mission had failed, but just as there are four bus routes from the campus to where he sleeps, in-person contact is far from the only possible method. Miya Atsumu’s number has lived in his phone since the first year of high school, and when he taps on its messaging option, the screen swaps to a “hey hey” dated right after their initial exchange of numbers - a greeting he had never responded to.

Those first few hiragana take a whopping 30 seconds to type, but the next batch speeds back to his usual speed.

Me
Hey
It’s Sakusa
I think I live around 30 minutes from you now?

Alternative mission initiated, Kiyoomi immediately puts his phone to sleep, before entering the same mode himself. In the end, it’s only night one, and any answers can wait until morning.

==

Dawn sneaks through sheer curtains, the beams of a relentless sun more effective than any alarm. With some struggle, Kiyoomi awakens, murkily noting that the first official practice is still two days away. There’s a temporary thrill at his rare freedom, but it’s quickly offset by the lack of structure in those upcoming hours.

Out of habit, he retrieves his phone to reference how many such hours he may have to endure. But before the numbers of time come into focus, three space grey notifications catch his eye.

Miya Atsumu
Omi-kun???
I heard that ya chose the Jackals :O
Did ya move in already????

The early energy drain had completely obliterated any memory of this conversation’s inception, but each character within the texts rebuilds the previous night bit by bit. Through some burst of audacity, he had made contact without thoughts of consequence, and now, the cost exists in the form of a required response.

Me
Yes, yesterday

Three dots appear as soon as the words deliver, challenging Kiyoomi’s assumption that college students - especially of the blond and former setter variety - would have much later starts to their day. Perhaps, those athletic instincts will never fully deplete within fox spirit blood.

Miya Atsumu
We should meet up, Omi-kun!
When I’m not in class of course

Obviously. Kiyoomi almost types, but scrunches his face instead.

It’s almost irritating, the way Miya had constantly fueled their moderate discord, yet still refers to him by that woefully endearing name. But over years of action-packed encounters and ball-to-the-face attempts, he had at least been absolutely consistent - which, by Kiyoomi’s standards today, translates to tolerable.

Tolerable, however, cultivates another dilemma: a forced reversal of his eternal preference for solitude. MSBY’s team roster consists of strangers only known to him by highlight replays, making Miya ironically the closest in both distance and familiarity. To meet is to acknowledge something ongoing, not cut short by graduation or divergent paths. Between them, unfinished business exists as an incomplete puzzle - a rivalry awaiting evolution into its next form.

So he confirms, giving in to curiosity, wondering how completion could be achieved in this new era.

Me
Sure. When and where?

Miya Atsumu
Lemme text ya my fav spot! :D

==

Kiyoomi’s first volleyball match had also been when he first tasted a decent pickled plum.

Motoya's father had brought them both, under the guise of improving their cousinhood. These were middle school years, not long after Motoya had introduced him to the ball with the interesting bounce and the netted contraption twice Kiyoomi’s height. Not puzzles, alas, but more attractive obstacles to conquer, adding countless questions to answer - how many digs could he manage? How many points could he score? How high could he jump?

To attend an official game meant an opportunity to observe others who have already reached extraordinary heights. Kiyoomi had put on his sneakers twenty minutes earlier than pick-up time, and spent the rest imagining himself dashing throughout the giant court.

“Maybe you’ll both love volleyball even more after this.” His uncle had jokingly predicted in the car.

For Kiyoomi, entering that arena had sealed his fate.

Witnessing action in-person had been exhilarating. Even if the howls from dozens of voices were not to his liking, it had been easy to fall for the live velocity of bodies beneath their target, the crisp noise so specific to rubber, the spontaneous nature of each play. Ahead was a world beyond his father's inane monologues about revenues and market authority, where Kiyoomi could follow the unpredictable trajectory of a ball, rather than follow a five-step plan mapped out for five decades.

Contrary to all his principles, young Sakusa Kiyoomi had wished for disorder.

Hunger between sets - both physical and mental - had led him to the concession stand, ripe with much-needed sustenance. Upon a table showcasing snack after snack, the pickled plums with all their color had been the most eye-catching of all. At first bite, Kiyoomi had expected a generic taste, not too different from whatever is used in convenience store bento. But adrenaline rush from playing audience had morphed his taste buds, and something otherwise plain had gained an extra kick.

"May I have more?" He had requested, and his uncle had paid.

By the third set’s end, Kiyoomi had stuffed himself full, having never encountered a more delicious snack. And in all the days thereafter, that loyalty to plums seldom wavered, an ample supply always accompanying him from age to age, city to city.

Years later, he enters another venue for the first time, its environment brand-new, but not the route heading towards it. Of course, Kiyoomi wouldn’t admit to repeating the same bus ride from the previous night - just in reverse - to reach this cafe. My fav spot. As Miya had dubbed.

Prior to his coffee order’s arrival, he lowers his mask and slips a Tokyo plum into his mouth, preparing its sour to battle with heated bittersweet. The blend resembles both that first game and this forthcoming encounter, a rush of unpredictable, conflicting flavors imminent.

As he chews in contemplation, a robust shadow envelops him from behind.

“Miya.” He states flatly, without turning around.

“Ooomi-kunnnnn.” The figure that slips into the opposite booth contradicts the shade he had cast, all sunny in both presentation and mannerisms, though tamer than what Kiyoomi can recall. At first impression, this student version of Miya Atsumu already lacks the sharp edge of competitiveness. Even if he had kept up with athletic routines, there’s little sign of his old self in the t-shirt, jeans, and messenger bag getup - one reminiscent of a dozen other outfits in this very place. Worst of all, his hair color is a bizarre hue of medium yellow, like he couldn’t decide whether to go lighter in his adult makeover.

He looks like an almost-quarter-life crisis, and Kiyoomi actually relates, understands.

But as an English textbook slams down between them, and as they curiously regard each other from across the table, he realizes that he doesn’t understand what to do next. 

“Are ya...eatin’ pickled plums with yer coffee?” Freeing him of the responsibility, a bushy eyebrow bends in judgment.

Well, that’s one way to start, at least.

“Problem already, Miya? You’ve barely sat down.”

His unlikely companion raises both hands in defense. “Hey, ya can do whatcha wanna do. I was just surprised...not as surprised as I was by yer texts, though.”

“Should I not have reached out?” Frowning, Kiyoomi tosses another plum onto his tongue, secretly hoping to provoke. This time, he watches as amber eyes trail the course of the fruit, gleaming with fascination.

“It’s not that! Just didn’t think...we were ever close enough, ya know? Even for this moment right now. Us two, sittin’ here, by ourselves.”

Me neither. Kiyoomi sighs. “I figured I should probably answer your text from three years ago, that’s all.”

The deadpan joke triggers a long snicker from the blond, his whole being entering a series of mini convulsions. It’s evident how much pent-up energy Miya still stores, though he has chosen to have no more physical outlets for it. Kiyoomi can only hope that such potential is being well-spent via the classroom, but from the messy notes peeking out between that barely-used textbook, he thinks those hopes might be futile. His own Itachiyama one had been intricately studied cover to cover, fueled by a proactive nature and those household mentions of how “mastering foreign languages is necessary for mastering international business.”

He has an inkling that Miya’s English grades are a far cry from his athletic talent.

“Well, dependin’ on how long yer MSBY contract lasts, we could have three years to make up for that.”

Make up for what? He nearly asks, but the call of his name from the register - order ready - lures his physical self away. By the time he returns, heated liquid in hand, Miya’s strange yet attentive look deters him from digging further.

“So.” He redirects while blowing at the surface of his drink, sending innocent words to ride upon steam. “What are you studying?”

“Haven’t decided yet, but somethin’ hands-on, maybe. Wanna keep my fingers useful, ya know?”

Your hands still have worth on the court.

“That’s nice of ya to say.”

“Oh.” Kiyoomi grimaces, his fingertips enduring the singe through styrofoam, his mind cursing the lack of a mask to muddle his murmurs. “Did I say that out loud?”

Miya’s pointed chin settles into a propped-up palm, playfully tilting sideways. “Mm-hmm.”

The caverns of his heart scramble, though Kiyoomi isn’t sure whether it’s due to his mistake or the shifts in Miya’s expression. But similar to when he confronts a ball’s unexpected flight path, he regains calm in a nanosecond, never revealing any inner strife.

“Well, it’s true. I was surprised when I saw that you quit.”

“Eh, I didn’t quit.” The protest is weak, like it has already been repeated by the dozen. “I moved on.”

“And that’s your prerogative. I remembered that you really wanted one victory against me, that’s all.”

Miya’s mouth stiffens.

“I’m not a setter anymore, so let’s move on.”

The insistence exposes dispassion, and the young man goes from a confident subject of interrogation to an embodiment of paradise lost. It’s an image of everything Kiyoomi fears for himself: Miya Atsumu without volleyball is immensely disconcerting, and a flame that barely burns.

But for now, he hides such observations, and changes the subject as requested.

“Do you happen to know where I can get good pickled plums around here?”

The question is met with confused blinks, unprepared for the abrupt segue.

“You said to ‘move on,’ right?” Kiyoomi remarks pointedly.

“Right.” Miya relents, glancing at the half-eaten package on the table. “Um, I just get ‘em from whatever store’s around, I guess.”

“Bring me to one. I’ll check for myself.”

“Alright. But dun’ judge - I’ve only lived around here a few more months than ya.”

“And you’re not a plum connoisseur yet? Pity.”

The corners of Miya’s mouth finally swing upward. “I’m a student now, Omi-kun. So go ahead, gimme as much education as ya want.”

“Should I charge tuition, then?”

The smile enriches into a laugh, warm and full of the enthusiasm Kiyoomi remembers - feels like he should’ve learned to cherish.

“Can’t afford much more, Omi-kun.” The complaint sneaks in between shortened breaths. “And for the record...I do still wanna beat ya.”

It’s an opening - not a door, but a small window, like the one in his apartment that allows just enough sun, now permitting just enough Miya Atsumu. To earn an admission this early on is a small reward for Kiyoomi’s questionable choices. Even if his father had seldom recognized the value of his skills, at least past, present, and future opponents like the one with him understand. And even if Miya wishes to progress from a war of spikes to a war of words, Kiyoomi thinks he will gladly leave a point of entry.

He takes a sip of coffee, allowing it to inundate the already-flavored walls of his mouth. 

Answers may not surface any time soon, but the idea that there will be more to Osaka than volleyball does.

==

The convenience store Miya chooses is a short walk away, its sign entirely missable by any mode of transport outside of two feet. As nondescript as it exists, Miya struts in as if it’s his palace, calling the owner by name and marching directly to the rightmost aisle.

“Here.” He lifts an ordinary package, with neither the polish of high quality brands or the warmth of homemade ones. “I usually make do with these.”

Kiyoomi winces. The brand name rings infamous in his head, as unappetizing as the taste he knows dwells in those wrappers.

“That’s...unfortunate.” He resists an expression as sour as the inadequate plums. “You should put more effort into this.”

“Huntin’ down plums?” Miya, ironically, gives that exact expression back. “Come on, Omi-kun, it’s just a snack.”

The comment irks him, as most mediocre attitudes do. “What happened to the setter who always demanded the best of everything and everyone?” The irritated thought springs free. “Was it ever ‘just a volleyball’ to you?”

A handsome face pales, and exaggerated features strangely become more attractive in all of Miya’s bewilderment. Though it’s not one of his signature spikes crossing the net, Kiyoomi thinks he might enjoy confounding his old rival in this new context.

There’s no complaint about him not moving on this time, so he takes charge, grabbing for an adjacent package on the shelf - Kawamoto Foods, Southern Treasure Pickled Plums. The square container balances upon Kiyoomi’s palm, its well-known label more than enough to prove its contents’ quality. He had never found this specific variety in Tokyo, but like Kiyoomi himself within a sport, reputation precedes everything else.

“There are four things to look for when it comes to the best plums: source, color, date of supply, and if you can gauge it without opening, the texture.” Instinctively, he rambles critiques that have only ever swam in his own head. “Some brands, like Kawamoto, are super consistent across all their products, so anything from them can be trusted.”

“Trusted...like a reliable teammate, huh.”

The return to a supposedly forbidden topic comes as a surprise, but Kiyoomi responds in kind.

“Right. Though teammates are inedible, of course.”

Miya snorts, as if only half-believing the claim. If he was attractive before, he is now endearing, and a much bigger threat to Kiyoomi’s sanity than being across a volleyball net. Forcing a few quick shakes of his head, he attempts to regain focus.

“You can’t test this one, but usually you would press down for the texture, which should be springy. That represents patience - days of careful fermentation, all worth it in the end.”

“Kinda like the years of drills we all went through.”

At yet another reference, Kiyoomi releases a frustrated sigh. Even with less than an hour since reconnect, he can already sense Miya’s keenness to revive another connection - their forever, original link. How long has it been since he last played? Last watched? Last discussed?

“I thought you wanted to move on, Miya.” From this subject. And the sport.

“I do. But I had to answer yer question.” Beneath a steeling stare, two well-trained hands dive into pockets, as if hiding in shame. “It was never ‘just volleyball’ for me, ever. I remember every win and loss, how all my teammates prefer their tosses...how all my rivals do - high and close to the net, right, Omi-kun?”

The admission astounds, but also proves what Kiyoomi had known - that the sport will always be their drive, the court their home. Miya’s inability to disassociate has slammed that small window fully ajar, leaving Kiyoomi with the choice of closure or entry.

“And yet, you left all of it behind.” He chooses the latter, blanketing them both in gravitas. “Do you think those years were a waste?”

“I think playin’ without anyone ya trust next to ya is a waste.” The answer confirms existing suspicions. “None of the league teams who made me offers fit because of that.”

“Anyone - or just your brother?”

An uncomfortable silence follows, and Kiyoomi thinks he may have overstepped. But he also doubts he’s the first to make the claim, much less be the last. A whole minute passes before Miya exhales, snatching one of the Kawamoto containers for himself as he speaks.

“In case yer wonderin’, the decision was all mine. And anyway, college’s goin’ fine for both of us.”

“What does he think about all this?”

“Dunno.” The shrug appears casual, but fails to hide burdens. “We dun’ talk ‘bout volleyball anymore. Today’s the first time in a while for me.”

“Even if my favorite brands stopped making plums, I’d still eat them from elsewhere.” It’s not the best analogy in the world, but Kiyoomi has never claimed to be good at those. “There are always...alternatives.”

“Like what?” Miya returns a judgmental look, and strays one of his hands back towards the more subpar plums. “Ya talk like ya can even compare the two, Omi-kun. Dun’ forget, yer the one who probably won’t ever buy this bag.”

Kiyoomi silently acknowledges the fact - when it comes to something this essential, he could not settle, either. But plums and volleyball are different worlds, and there does exist more than one choice.

“Maybe not, but this one is new to me, too. And I’ll take it, simply because I’ve learned to trust the brand enough.” He shakes what he holds, as a reminder to even himself. “I’ll be playing with all strangers on the Jackals, you know.”

Miya looks to the side, voice softening. “I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Wide strides suddenly separate them, bringing Miya in the direction of the register. His next words are muffled, as if he hadn’t wished to overshare. “I looked up the team rosters, just to figure out where everyone ended up. Still never thought ya’d contact me when ya got here, though.”

“And what do you think about my choice of team?” Kiyoomi questions, a rare need arising for second opinions, unlike his solid confidence with plums.

“Stats-wise, I think ya made the right decision.” Miya affirms as he hands his new find to the store owner. “When’s yer first practice?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

A sly smirk flashes as red lasers pass over a barcode. “Trust, huh? Tell me how it goes.”

==

“I’m Sakusa. Please take care of me.”

His bowing head lifts to a horde of enthused faces and nearly in-sync claps, a welcome wagon averaging 185cm in height and likely decades in combined volleyball experience. He is the rookie, but a most highly regarded and coveted one. Though Kiyoomi has casually witnessed each of his teammates play in one form or another, he has a feeling that they’ve all had eyes on him for much longer. Their familiarity and his own lack thereof almost unsettles him, but the atmosphere is welcoming, like that from family-owned udon shops or a poorly-dressed undergrad student.

He thinks of the few tasty plums packed in his lunch box, hardcore proof that what’s new can remain trustworthy. Two days previous, Miya’s farewell to him had been brief, concluding with Kiyoomi’s view of an energetic silhouette rushing to class, having been delayed by their unplanned store trip.

For a moment, he speculates whether the Kawamoto plums had been satisfactory to another set of taste buds.

“Sakusa!”

Kiyoomi looks in the direction of the voice. Takamatsu, setter.

“I’m honored to toss to you! You like them high above the net, right?”

No matter how much footage of him they have seen, it still does not compare to Miya’s keen observation and precise memory - does not compare to years of heated opposition.

“High and close to the net, please.” He nods. “Thank you.”

One-by-one, he greets the others politely, noting the nuances in personality that may or may not resonate with his. Thankfully, there seem to be more Iizunas on this team than Miyas, which may serve his rookie self well, but the way they all stare at him like a savior may not.

“Let’s get started!” Someone yells eventually, and his body enters automatic mode. 

The texture of a volleyball is like nothing else. Kiyoomi slams his palms against rubber with habits nurtured from years of repetition. Long gone is the young boy who had watched from afar while suckling on concession plums, but that nostalgia is not something he would ever abandon. He merely takes over for those he had silently admired, each of his attacks breaking down walls erected too high, each defense protecting himself from the onslaught of expectations.

He had escaped his father’s, but would he escape this team’s?

The question causes some early stumbles, but the tosses to him end up high and close to the net, exactly as Kiyoomi had ordered. By the time the lunch break whistle sounds, he’s already honed, integrated - officially a well-made plum within the bunch.

Within his midday meal, however, the sweetness of fruity pulp fulfills something still missing: something, someone who can no longer be found on the court.

When the day ends, he fulfills a promise right as he enters the apartment, multitasking between changing his shoes and tapping at his phone screen.

Me
First practice went well
I think

Miya Atsumu
:)
Takamatsu should be pretty great for ya

What about you? Kiyoomi thinks, but doesn’t type, and the conversation is put on pause.

Up top, a notification signals one new entry within his emails. When his eyes travel to meet the preview, the sender stops Kiyoomi dead in his tracks.

From: Father
Subject: Ashikawas

He peeks in, the contents of the message already half-guessed.

The Ashikawas’ first son is taking over management of their Australian operations.
How have you been doing in Osaka?

He knows the question is anything but a sincere consideration, inquiring more about the “what” than the “how.” With a deep breath, he stomps towards the kitchen and one specific cabinet, storing the only remedy for the unsavory taste in his mouth. Though not the best he has ever tried, the plums come with the memory of being purchased alongside Miya, the flavor of someone who actually believes this city can be where he belongs.

Everything rebalances after three straight fruits travel through his throat, and Kiyoomi’s fingers rush through the terse script being composed in his head, producing stroke after stroke.

Good for him. My first day with the team was fun.
I’m really enjoying the city.

He eats a fourth plum, and feels infused with another bout of courage.

I may never leave.

The thought stems from the smallest modicum of spite, but in the world of Sakusa Naofumi, spite is thoroughly inappropriate in front of blood relations, virtually or not. Thus, the claim becomes the second phrase of the night that Kiyoomi doesn’t type.

Doesn’t type yet.

I’m pleased to hear that.
Maybe I will come visit, and watch a game of yours.

Kiyoomi leaves the e-mail chain broken. The promise has always been the same, but that seat in the stands has always been empty.

==

High school Kiyoomi had limited himself to a few text chains. Almost all continue to live on over invisible signals.

Motoya is already making a name for himself in Shizuoka; popular with local volleyball fans and non-fans alike, by all Kiyoomi can surmise through their conversations. Little has changed other than proximity - their back-and-forths are dominated by random photos and videos, mostly of things Kiyoomi cares little about. But life without his cousin is a first, so even the most mundane viral clip gets an automatic upgrade.

Further east, and where he nearly remained, Wakatoshi seems as busy as ever, slow to respond and with limited words.

The rest of his family checks in, some daily, others weekly, one rarely. Like that initial email, the only messages from the final name are business updates that Kiyoomi gives bland acknowledgements to. With each answer, he endures by suckling another plum, sometimes two.

Since the shopping excursion with Miya, he hasn’t had time to properly research or hunt down more varieties, but Kiyoomi manages with his available stash. The decent flavor is enough evidence that he's on the right track, no longer dependent on Tokyo or his father to supply his needs.

High school Kiyoomi had limited himself to those few text chains. Graduated Kiyoomi adds another to the list.

The more the team gets accustomed to his style and vice versa, the more he shares the experience with one specific number. A practice highlight here, descriptions of a wild rally there - he hopes those will keep Miya’s withering interest alive and well, even if the effort is strange to himself.

Also strange is Miya’s schedule, like he had forgotten to select classes before a deadline and got stuck with all the worst-timed ones. His responses come at 6am one day, then past midnight the next. But Kiyoomi finds himself texting back again and again for at least the next hour, even if morning fatigue admonishes him after the fact.

Before Kiyoomi realizes, this new text chain has evolved into a lifeline of sorts - at least, a phone line that pings the most consistently in his daily routines.

Miya Atsumu
Hey
Let’s meet up on Sunday
Just for a bit between some errands I gotta finish

Me
Why?

Miya Atsumu
Wanna show ya what I learned

As cryptic as the purpose sounds, Kiyoomi doesn't say no, just as he never says no to continuing their chats for extra minutes. The past weeks have been endless cycles of seeing the same faces, then going home to none. While he embraces routine, the aura of this city urges him to continue breaking free.

Miya had chosen a random street corner south of campus, an unfamiliar neighborhood that had drawn Kiyoomi into a few lost loops along the journey. It's confusion akin to Miya's exact place in his personal Osaka existence, and he thinks that maybe his feet are acting on instinct, trying - and failing - to lead him away from imminent disaster.

When he makes that correct last turn, the wave that welcomes him is not at the crest of a flood, but shaped through an energetic arm. Decked in an oversized red shirt, and jeans that Kiyoomi wishes were more oversized for his personal sanity, Miya looks like he embodies all the excitement in the world. On this sophomore reunion, he’s a burst of extra energy added to a lifeline, a series of extra beats added to pumps of blood.

"Hey." He keeps his eyes at level, resisting the distraction of tight denim against thighs. "So...what's going on?"

A small container appears between them, bearing a colorful label. “I think I found another type ya might like, so just wanted to know whatcha think.”

He's taken aback, moreso by the effort than the offering itself. By all recollection, he had barely shared three pieces of basic advice, but Miya had interpreted them as a challenge to impress. They're not engaged in any volleyball plays, but this pass feels just as meaningful, especially since he faces the setter who had always been too proud to ask "how was my toss?"

Here said setter stands, Umekaisen’s Kishu Nanko Soft Plums in hand, seeking validation from a rival.

“How did you come across it?” Kiyoomi hesitates, though he knows the inevitable.

“Went outside of campus and looked through quite a few specialty stores.” Miya answers briskly, pushing the plums further forward. “If ya like 'em, I can bring ya to where they sell it next time.”

His acceptance is thorough, heartened. And when Kiyoomi eventually bites into the delicate fruit, it’s tart and sweet, weakening the last of his stubborn resolve.

New opportunities emerge then, presenting him with the next challenge.

"So...?"

“Hey." He speaks mid-chew, not giving verdict but answering the self-imposed dare. "Do you want to come to our first game? It’s next Sunday afternoon.”

Miya’s smile falls before reviving, though its new form looks more somber than pleased by the invitation.

“Nah. Better not.” A hand lifts to scratch his nape. “Got a big exam on Monday.”

Kiyoomi may not be enrolled in classes, but he knows very well that midterms have just concluded. To have another test so soon is unlikely, and to give such an excuse is clearly a white lie.

He understands, but doesn't surrender to the first loss.

“Then, what about dinner after I’m done?” The invitation expands, partly to Kiyoomi’s own shock. “You still need to eat, right?”

A gleam flashes across Miya’s eyes. “Yea-yeah, I could be free.”

Kiyoomi claims victory, and rewards himself with another fresh plum, finding its sweetness suddenly increasing tenfold. As he indulges, he senses another watching proudly, fondly - as if enjoying his enjoyment. He realizes then that he wouldn’t need to voice appreciation or critique, for Miya is the true winner between them. Those brilliant setter instincts have read Kiyoomi through and through, deciphering exactly what he desires.

Unsettled by the discovery, he swiftly closes the lid.

"Thanks a lot for these. I guess I'll leave you to your errands."

The abrupt turn in words also snaps Miya out of their shared reverie. "Ah, right."

With a courteous nod, Kiyoomi separates himself from this short yet notable encounter, the aftertaste of both plum and revelation occupying his senses.

"Omi-kun."

"Hm?"

In front of his very eyes, the foremost layer of Miya's denials melts away, softened - weakened - by whatever had exchanged between them.

“Why'd ya keep playin’?”

Kiyoomi remembers watching thick brows he has inherited frown above an oversized dinner table, remembers clenching at chances otherwise lost.

“Because I almost couldn’t.”

==

Kiyoomi had never seen his father at a single game, and he doesn’t expect to see him at the latest. 

Since the initial days of early morning rises and after-school practices, the whole household had followed volleyball closely for his sake. But Naofumi had been the exception, limiting support to short compliments and endless purchases of plums, one fancy brand after another compensating for that empty seat in the stands.

25-20, 25-22. MSBY Black Jackals.

The cheers thunder through the stadium, trumping any high school crowd. This is the professional league, where his name no longer leads a pack but blends in with fanfare. He is comfortably anonymous, not held solely responsible for every point.

Up above, he spies a small cohort of Sakusa Kiyoomi signs - his sister's local friends, summoned as proxy, since she could not attend herself.

Miomi
Father's making me go to Indonesia to oversee a contract :(

Even from afar, obligations of the family empire threaten to impede, but his energy does not deplete. He had abandoned an entire livelihood to stand here, calculating the statistics of physicality rather than operating revenue, his surname printed on jerseys instead of business cards. His teammates had given their all, putting weeks of learned strategies into play, and Kiyoomi doubts he would ever find the same camaraderie while toiling away in a corner office. This first victory tastes sweet - not sugary, just sweet enough like the Umekaisens from Miya. 

Post-locker room shower, and amidst the few text notifications of congratulations, he finds the name he seeks to send an address.

“Sakusa! Are you coming to drink with us?”

“Sorry, I have plans.”

“Oh? A date?”

“No, just dinner. With a friend.” The most un-date of dates. He swears.

As he packs, Kiyoomi notices an unused ball resting in the corner. Though he has never gathered souvenirs from a match, he finds himself examining its cleanliness before storing it within his duffle. Something about today feels momentous enough to commemorate - a mark of not only personal, but also volleyball independence, where success can be found with names who were strangers mere weeks ago.

The development surpasses expectations, and is firsthand evidence he thinks Miya may find relevant. It is possible, Kiyoomi wants to say, to reignite the same thrill past the golden years of trusted high school teammates. And if it's possible for him, a top-rated Inarizaki setter could adapt just as well.

A mashed-up script rehearses in his head as he reaches Ibaraki Station, its makeshift entrance opening into an army of shops in their final hours and eateries still going strong. Miya already awaits at the designated corner, donned in a crisp dress shirt opening to a black crewneck underneath. He’s almost too formal for such an outing, but another pair of those cursed jeans break the illusion.

“You look overdressed.” Kiyoomi comments anyway, in lieu of greeting.

“And ya look pretty winded.” A counter quickly deflects, as the speaker begins to stroll backwards into the street block.

“The pace of our game was much faster than what I'm used to.”

"Well, if I gotta be honest, I always thought ya constantly looked in danger of floppin' over in high school, too."

Miya's smile is too bright for this night, his choice of memory too intentional in its tease. Recalling the curiosity from their last meeting, Kiyoomi retorts, giving into instincts still running on victory adrenaline.

“Do you miss it? Playing?”

Unlike before, that solid gaze doesn’t drift a centimeter, no longer rattled.

“I miss playin’ with Samu.” 

Kiyoomi receives the thorough honesty, far more satisfying than winning any war of words.

“Miya.” The word slips out, more affectionate than intended. With a swift move, he unzips his bag to retrieve that recent souvenir. The mock pass that follows is timed perfectly, forming a flight path pointing exactly where he aims. 

Miya's head cranes up, stunned at the surprise delivery while ancient reflexes kick into gear. His palms accept at the perfect angle before launching back with powerful grace, like shooting a message to volleyball Gods that he is far from finished. The ball drops back into Kiyoomi's arms as a sentiment returned, spoken in a language much more compelling than human words.

“You felt that, right?”

Kiyoomi questions from the heart, knowing that he has hit a center of sorts. It’s a direct bite into the core of a plum, stubborn teeth knocking against an even more stubborn pit.

Rather than answering, Miya stares back with intensity. "Omi-kun, what did ya mean by how ya 'almost couldn't' play?"

"My father." He lets the truth go. "He has...reservations."

“Yer father.” The words repeat, enlightened despite the lack of context. “Ya appreciate all this much more because of him bein’ an obstacle, dontcha?”

Clutching the ball tight, Kiyoomi hastens to the side with a mutter.

“Ironically, I guess.”

Miya looks contemplative as he’s passed, and follows closely behind as they embark on the last leg of a dinner voyage. When familiar signage comes into view moments later, it inspires elation from an already boisterous voice.

"Udon??"

Kiyoomi shoves fabric curtains aside, making way for their entrance. "It's pretty good here, if you haven't tried yet."

Intrigued eyes dance between the counter and him. “From how ya pick yer plums, I think I’ll trust ya."

The eatery looks different after hours, as does Miya under its temperate lights. He’s anything but a beloved sister, but the conversation flows just the same, and whenever that chatty mouth tethers to another topic, it's Kiyoomi who gets tethered in. Somewhere between Best High School Captain rankings - they both stubbornly cling to their seniors - and predictions for the Jackals' next match, Miya wolves down two entire bowls, and practically demands a revisit by the night’s end.

"Pretty good, right?"

"De-li-cious." A mock kiss blows into the air, through lips still sheened by broth. "Yer officially a better Osaka transplant than I am, Omi-kun."

“If you say so.” Kiyoomi sips the last of his meal dutifully, trying to erase the image of that plump mouth. “I am enjoying it here, a lot.”

Maybe it's the city, maybe it's the independence.

Maybe it's a person.

==

Motoya
Congrats on the win!
Did you ever meet up with Miya?
He tell you why he quit?

Kiyoomi glares at the barrage of kanji as he towels off sweat. He had held off replying to the first text last night, saving it like several others for the a.m. But by the time his morning run finishes, two much less pleasant questions have popped up.

Me
Thanks
And kind of, not in detail

Elsewhere on his phone, "Already want udon again" lives on as another unanswered message. He thinks of Miya messily devouring through a bowl, his evolved treatment of Kiyoomi like they’ve been friends since childhood. Already, an unwritten treaty had pacified their brief war, and Kiyoomi almost misses the incensed taunts from less mature years. But, if the trade means more and better pickled plums, then he has no room for complaint. 

Instead, he adds to the answers for his cousin, hinting at move-ons.

But not sure if I need answers anymore, either

A return text notification sounds immediately, but Kiyoomi has already stuffed the phone into his pocket, with no intention to elaborate further. Whatever has been asked, there are now brand-new, albeit incomplete, plans awaiting his execution.

Somewhere between warm-ups and the first drill, he decides on the best way to proceed. A phone screen revives, and he ignores Motoya’s desperate "Oho??? Tell me more???" in favor of the request for a second meal.

==

It's a rare occasion when Kiyoomi is the one to arrive last, but a few extra ties on the team's final practice game is not something anyone can predict. When he crosses the udon shop's threshold, he finds Miya buried in that same English textbook, looking half-asleep as he awaits rejuvenation by noodle. 

“Funny.” He settles into the neighboring seat, hoping to surprise. “If you asked me a year ago, I would've thought that I'd be living your life.”

“One crammed with exams and shit?” Miya answers tiredly, not at all startled by the sudden entrance. “I might be biased, Omi-kun, but I think ya got the better end of the stick.”

“I might still go back to school at some point.”

Pages shutter as their owner recites something learned outside the classroom. “But ya chose the league first, because ya 'almost couldn't.'”

Kiyoomi sighs inwardly at the accurate recall. “That’s right.”

“But what made ya choose Osaka?” His neighbor adjusts position until they're eye-to-eye, a squished cheek supported above elbow and wrist. “I was still readin’ the volleyball forums back then, and no one ever thought ya’d leave the comforts of Tokyo.”

“And no one ever thought you’d quit.” Kiyoomi is fast to quip, avoiding the need to provide reasons and adopting a certain someone's quick wit.

A knowing smile emerges, concealing all else beneath. "Let's order."

Progress officially cut short, Kiyoomi asks for the usual, and buries unfinished ideas beneath the residue of udon broth. Before long, nimble chopsticks dive in, satiating what extended silences fail to satisfy.

Like the previous time, Miya cleans out his portion first. And just as the bottom of Kiyoomi's bowl becomes visible, an unlabeled tupperware of pickled plums gets shoved into his space - a far more surprising entrance than his own from minutes ago.

"Try these, after you're done."

He gulps down the latest contents in his mouth, astonished. "You still haven't taken me to where you got the other ones."

"I will, but see if ya like these more."

A plum-udon pairing has never been part of Kiyoomi’s personal palate. But curiosity gets the best of him, and he foregoes the leftovers in his bowl in favor of peculiar fruits. There is faint disorder - practically unprofessional - to how each one is positioned, but there is no disorder to its taste. It’s an ideal contrast to their dinner, balancing salt with a moisturized tartness.

"So?" Miya scoots closer, sneaking over the borders of tolerable.

Kiyoomi swipes every bit from the walls of his mouth, before sending a stern but approving stare. "Good find."

Giddiness begins to spill out of Miya’s countenance. "I feel like ‘good’ in yer world means an 'excellent' everywhere else, Omi-kun - so I'll take it."

"Where are these from?"

"I’ll tell ya, soon." A few bills of yen gets thrown on the counter before Miya collects his belongings, English textbook atop. "But I gotta cram now...so enjoy the rest."

Right then, everything clicks - Kiyoomi’s traitorous mind, wishing for more time, and his unrealized plans, finally finding a potential lead-in.

"You might not be so good at foreign languages." He guides the farewell astray, hoping for a proper segue. “But you were at least one of the best in volleyball.”

Miya’s delight from recent plum accolades fades, his ambers sinking into unseen reveries. “Most people agreed ya were the best in our year, though. That’s part of what got me goin’, ya know? Itachiyama this, Sakusa Kiyoomi that. It made me - and I’m sure more than just me - wanna do better.”

Kiyoomi’s heart skips, leaping higher than his legs are capable. With this admission, Miya's bond to their shared past reveals itself in full, uprooting the fuels of his motivation - those old encounters that could ferment into something new.

He chooses his next words carefully. “I still need to improve, now that the stakes have become higher.”

“And ya will! The league’ll whip ya into shape before ya know it.” Miya pauses mid-descent from his stool, and lifts the book part of his load. “Meanwhile, I’m here tryin’ to stay awake through lectures I can’t even understand.”

Kiyoomi comprehends everything on that colorful cover, alphabetical symbols and their pronunciations alike. While pursuing a preset future, he had studied and excelled - but now, an entirely different road paves, and the missing cornerstone of his plans finds its place.

“Do you need help, Miya?” He gestures at the raised text. "I might not be in school, but I haven't forgotten any English Itachiyama taught me."

One of Miya's eyebrows arches high. “Ya gonna charge me for it?”

Kiyoomi thinks that his face is annoyingly handsome like this - all false innocence cloaking absolute knowledge of what's to come, threatening to unsettle Kiyoomi right when he thinks he has the upper hand.

But two can play this game - literally.

“No, I don’t need money.” He mirrors the state of that brow. “But maybe...we can come to another arrangement.”

On reflex, his limbs simulate a set of three movements in the air - dig, toss, spike - alien to others but very much a native language to them. The trade-off needs no explanation, and Miya's mask falls to the wayside. Ever so slightly, his discomfort conveys, and it almost leads Kiyoomi to retract.

“If you want to, that is." He settles for compromise.

"Why do ya want this as exchange, Omi-kun?"

"Like I said." Avoiding the storm in Miya’s gaze, Kiyoomi turns to pick up another plum. "I still need to improve, and you...might be my best option."

He chews with tedious patience, and no expectations. Tonight, it’s his door being left open, inviting a hesitant guest to step in.

“Fine. I’ll pay a visit to my old self if it means I can understand some damn lectures.”

Kiyoomi looks back in pleasant surprise, only to catch Miya pacing backwards toward the exit, distancing himself, but somehow seeming much closer at once. When his spine touches the entryway curtain, a playful, freeing smirk unveils itself.

“Plus, like ya said before - my hands still have a little worth on the court, right?”

==

Reserved elation shadows Kiyoomi all the way home, the voyage concluding with an unceremonious fall onto his couch, its impact an assurance that Miya's agreement had not been imagined. Both his brain and body buzz with excitement elusive to playing as a professional - it’s amateur, silly, a youthful frenzy gleeful over minimal accomplishments.

But soon, a second, ominous tremble reverberates, with his phone as the source.

When Kiyoomi unveils the incoming caller, any enthusiasm immediately tames.

Father

"Hello." He taps to receive, keeping a steady voice. What sounds from the other end matches him in firmness.

"Kiyoomi-kun."

"Didn't expect you to call." He notes cooly, but relents to the standard respect. "Father."

"How is...Osaka?"

"Fine." Simple had always been best. “The plums are good here.”

“I see. Would you like me to send some from Tokyo?"

Kiyoomi recalls the overflowing supply within the family pantry, constant substitutions for something missing since childhood. "No, I have plenty." 

They enter into an awkward pause - the usual - and a sign that a subject change is already needed.

"Have you...watched any of my games yet?" He decides to go for the jugular.

"Unfortunately not. Work has been busy." As with all the years before, Naofumi doesn’t promise the contrary. "Miomi says you’re playing well."

Ever the mediator. "Did she say that you should call, too?"

"She did." The confession claims no excuses. At once, the atmosphere grows in discomfort, but Kiyoomi senses that something more still lies ahead.

"So, Kiyoomi-kun - how many more years do you plan to play?"

There it is.

It dawns on him then, the divergence of two roads in his vantage point - he had given devotion to volleyball despite family, while Miya had walked away for the sake of family. But staunch commitment exists behind both decisions, and Kiyoomi refuses to be the one to crack first.

"I’ll play as long as my body allows."

"I see." The response bears false enlightenment. "I’m not sure it’s wise to do something until it wears you out."

I could say that about you, too. Kiyoomi thinks of hours of fatherhood lost to late nights, absent weekends, and empty arena seats. "Don’t worry, I'll be fine."

"Alright, then. Well, just know that the family's ready to welcome you back, whenever you decide to return."

You mean the company is ready. Rather than enabling, he challenges. "Why don't you...come here?" 

Another pause follows, the most lengthy yet.

"I’ll try, but I’ll be busy for a while."

Kiyoomi has never felt anger at these same excuses, only bitterness always rectified by the right variety of plums. But with youthful years behind him and old remedies growing impotent, there exist too many expectations he cannot satisfy. Thus far, his navigation through adulthood has fulfilled him through other means, and he no longer wishes to detour.

"What if I never leave, father? Will you actually meet me where I am?"

"Kiyoomi-kun..." Each syllable Naofumi utters hardens more than the previous, rebuffing his stubbornness. But salvation comes in the form of a background noise, an alarm Kiyoomi recognizes well - it signals yet another business meeting on his father's calendar, spanning forty to fifty minutes of drivel.

"I must go, but we’ll discuss this another time."

Kiyoomi hangs up first, breaths running short and rough, in disbelief at his own audacity. But despite a coarse throat and unstable hands, the phone doesn’t leave his grip. Instead, he swipes, switching to text message mode.

Me
Hey
When are you free for another dinner?

==

Udon and post-udon coffee comprise multiple parts of Kiyoomi's weekly diet.

He burns off generous helpings of noodles through nonstop leaps elsewhere on his schedule, while the cafe of their initial reunion sets the scene for flawed English pronunciations and patient corrections. Miya can’t quite manage words like "victory,” and he regularly confuses "lie" and "lay," but those are only minimal speed bumps throughout rather intimate hours.

Pickled fruits fit in between, forming segues between places and conversations. Once a week, a new supply gets stuffed in Kiyoomi’s hands like clockwork, each accompanied by an unspoken request for judgment.

“Are these from Aeon? The flesh is quite thick.”

“A bit too sweet, but I like how they’re pitless. Made by Nakata Foods, right?”

Every time, a smile snubs his questions. Every next time, the flavor profile changes - improves.

His father has yet to reestablish contact, but Kiyoomi pays little mind, for he already juggles focus and distraction aplenty. Practice, perform, perfect are the daytime rounds requiring every bit of concentration, while a certain rowdy blond and his plums recapture all his attention come sunset. Within days, they go from arms-length to arms-nearly-touching wherever they sit, and his brain has memorized all the exaggerated ways a human can consume a meal.

Miya regularly earns extra fishcakes in his udon through batting eyelashes.

Kiyoomi thinks that they're sinfully long.

Nonetheless, the proper execution of their deal continues to postpone. Miya always neglects to bring the right change of clothes, and never commits additional minutes if he passes a flashcard test with flying colors.

Three weeks in, Kiyoomi's patience runs out.

When their udon bowls arrive this night, he dips his chopsticks into forbidden territory, plucking Miya’s beloved fishcakes into his own bowl - potential contamination be damned.

"Hey!" His victim shoots over a startled glance, puppy-like face appalled.

Kiyoomi sits unmoved, at least on the surface. "I'll be taking all of them, until you come up with a date for us--for volleyball, that is."

It's a harsher nudge than he had intended, but the tactic works. Miya sighs as he pulls up his phone calendar, and within moments, Kiyoomi receives an invitation blocking out his Saturday evening.

When chopsticks begin to retrieve the stolen fishcakes, he allows it, all the while controlling a twitch of a smile.

The weather is mild on the chosen night, with occasional chill from the autumn winds. Miya's clothes are different from what Kiyoomi remembers from U19 camps, his athletic frame hidden behind roomy sweats.

Also different is what emanates from within, for nowhere is the magnified confidence that followed high school Miya Atsumu into every match. His posture is awkward as he steps within the boundaries of the outdoor court, his expression a neutral midpoint between relaxed and distressed. Those hands, trusted by so many and essential to endless past victories, now clench at an air of uncertainty.

"Don't blame me if ya can’t hit anythin’." A sharp tongue sticks out, operating under vastly different attitudes. “I’m pretty outta practice.”

"I won't." Kiyoomi propels the ball from one hand to another, pondering all the ways to get this former star back in line. "In fact, I want to challenge you more."

"Huh?"

"Every time you toss - call out one of the English words we've studied."

Miya returns a doubtful look, the crafting of his next question careful. "Ya mean...ya dun' want me to say yer name or anythin’?"

Kiyoomi hesitates at the tempting - almost attractive - notion. Miya had done this at the camps of their shared past, but considering his post-volleyball status, the idea promises a special experience.

"No need." He resists, for now. "Just trust me either way."

Foxlike eyes give him a once-over. “Yer not Samu, but I’ll try.”

His is just a joke, but those same words come off much more sincere than his father’s. 

An imaginary whistle blows, and the ball departs Kiyoomi’s hands, rising up, up - yet just low enough to pose a challenge.

Miya engages immediately, reshaping his body into the exact form needed.

"Ter-ri-tory!"

The first thing Kiyoomi recognizes is a lack of loss, for there is no sign of decline in Miya’s skills. If anything, he’s strangely even better than Kiyoomi remembers, like something dormant had undergone private upgrades.

Or maybe, this indicates something pent-up, finally released.

He jumps towards the precisely delivered sphere - high, close to the net - before letting gravity control them both. The ball shoots downward at lightning speed, its power a product of two players still at their best. But until now, Kiyoomi had forgotten the sheer magnificence of Miya Atsumu's "best," and all the reasons why they had been neck-and-neck as the top prospects of their year.

"Make sure you’re not breaking down the syllables too much." He reminds after a soft landing, evading comment on any of his actual thoughts.

"I’ll do better next time." Miya toys with his wrists, restoring experience into the bends.

“On the word? Or the toss?”

“The toss seemed decent, no?” Hands relocate, settling on the sides of a solid waist. “Thought I could take some credit for that perfect kill of yers.”

Kiyoomi's mind moves faster than his mouth, refusing to back down from opportunity.

“Do you want to take credit for them?” He blurts out with little regret.

Hard blinks leave gold-filled eyes more dilated than usual, and the surrounding whites in an expanded state. In the quiet, Kiyoomi can practically see scenarios play out in Miya's head: excelling on the professional circuit, being cheered on by sizable crowds their high school selves could ever imagine, wearing National Team red like they were destined to.

“But if we’re on the same team - how’ll I ever defeat ya?”

Hope sparks, though Kiyoomi isn't sure how much brighter it will burn. “Is that still the goal? Or are you okay with...alternatives?”

Ducking under the net, Miya retrieves the ball, giving no sign that he has absorbed the double meaning.

“Maybe...if I trust enough again.” He mutters as fingers rub roughly across rubber, as if testing its resistance. "I’m glad ya moved here, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi's spirit jumps, undergoing revival akin to what Miya has just expressed. They have stayed side-by-side in numerous ways now, growing in familiarity and lessening proximity through everything but volleyball. But this restoration of their original bond births power and emotion only the sport itself can inspire - a loyalty, a love that had led Kiyoomi to redirect his entire livelihood. If Miya can recover even a bare minimum, Kiyoomi wonders if he can be part of the journey - and how much of a role he will play.

He has never needed mere answers in Osaka - he needs Miya to return to the same fold.

"TERRITORY!"

A more accurate pronunciation sounds, and the ball flies his way once more, its drifting state aligned with all their current circumstances. Right then, Kiyoomi visualizes a future free of gravity, without the burden of heritage. Instead, it’s uplifted by partnership and an emphatic “Omi-kun” - the one vocabulary word he wishes to hear repeated, and repeated again.

He snaps back into action, wanting for his next spikes to convey such a hope.

==

Their bodies are strangely close as they reach the fork of diverging paths back home, the past hour forging an invisible thread Kiyoomi now hesitates to break. Shifting uncomfortably in sweat-stained clothes, he readjusts his mask before bouncing the volleyball against cement ground - a rhythmic, subtle way to delay footsteps.

“Perfectin’ yer servin’ ritual?” Miya presumes, both correctly and incorrectly, after a few cycles.

“Yeah.” Kiyoomi ceases the movements before raising his left elbow in imitation. “I remember yours.”

A snort sounds before they drift into joint reminisce.

“I do, too.”

“As do I.”

They both jump at the intrusion of a third voice and its thick Hyogo accent. To their right, the street lamps light up a familiar face, bearing sleepier, I’ve-pulled-two-all-nighters-in-a-row eyes that communicate college-era struggles. Within his arms, Miya Osamu carries three times the textbooks Kiyoomi has ever seen his brother with, but he doesn’t appear to carry weight from other burdens.

“Oh.” His companion mutters, indifferent tone camouflaging tinges of tension. “Hey, Samu. This isn’t yer usual timin’, or route.”

“Took a shortcut tonight.” The younger twin explains flatly, passing an up-to-down glance over them both before pausing on the ball. “Interesting.”

“Osamu-kun.” With a nod, Kiyoomi acknowledges another old rival - another unintentional catalyst for his Osaka residence.

“Sakusa.”

From the corner of his eye, he spies their third wheel throwing him an appalled, “But I’m still called ‘Miya?’” look. Kiyoomi ignores it, unwilling to surrender one of the final things setting necessary boundaries.

“Tsumu, we’re outta toilet paper again.” The subject change is as blunt as they come. “Stop usin’ so much every single time.”

The tension breaks, unleashing indignation. “Did...did ya have ta say that out loud?!”

“Well, now we have a witness who also knows yer responsible.” Osamu’s expression enters another level of fatigue. “So, go get some.”

Miya lifts a fist in protest, but turns to Kiyoomi regardless. “Come on, Omi-kun. One last side quest before ya head home.”

As the blond stomps off, Kiyoomi also deviates from his path, drawn to the idea of seeing the twins together in this context - a vastly different siblinghood than his, where one confronts an exact other half rather than extra sets of parental gestures. As much as he has witnessed these two bicker and fight, the strength of their connection has ultimately overpowered the love for a sport. On the flip side, Kiyoomi’s connection to said sport had severed some of his roots from the family tree.

But if Miya could recover his love, could I also reform mine?

The thought plagues him until they enter an unfamiliar store. Miya quickly gets distracted by his assigned task, while Kiyoomi gravitates towards the snack aisle, seeking the usual replacement for impossible answers. Right as he settles, he detects Osamu creeping into the same area, some badly feigned attempts at browsing goods wrecking any career prospects in the spy world. It’s Kiyoomi who must pretend to not see him, but once he picks up the first package - Ume no Fuji reduced salt, a perfect balance of salt and acid - that ghostly presence makes himself known.

“Huh. My brother has a few different bags of these at home.” Instead of explaining his stalk, Osamu eyes the plums. “But some he bought fresh, not pickled. I think he’s tryin’ to get used to the different tastes, or somethin’.”

“Oh.” The exposé brings to mind Miya devouring multiple types within seconds - a scenario even Kiyoomi wouldn’t attempt. Nonetheless, the visual entertains, and he heightens the resistance to show any amusement.

“So how’d ya do it?”

The question catches him off-guard, dissipating all comical thoughts. “Do what?”

Osamu stares back, passive yet alarmingly sharp.

“Get him to touch a volleyball again.”

It’s not a question he’s prepared for, much less one he can admit to strategizing. But he knows Osamu’s personality by high school rumors alone, and is certain that no lie would ever get past him.

“I asked your brother to help me practice, in exchange for English tutoring.” He decides on a shrug, hoping it could usher him through partial honesty. “Wasn’t somethin’ either of us planned. It just...happened.”

Just happened, like a 500-kilometer move.

“Glad to see it’s still in his blood, then.” Osamu only sounds a little convinced. “He avoids talkin’ about volleyball with me, probably outta respect. I was kinda afraid that he gave it up for good.”

“His muscle memory’s still there, in case you’re wondering.”

The younger twin’s fingers curl and uncurl around his books, as if summoning old reflexes.

“You left it, so easily.” Prompted by the action, Kiyoomi states matter-of-fact, not questioning but giving homage to what he couldn’t do.

The silvery gaze opposite him falls on the textbooks beneath, showcasing all their formal, academic titles.

“Yes, for a new lease in life. But.” A pause steeps his next words in regret. “I never meant for Tsumu to follow me here.”

“You’re twins, after all. He probably didn’t want to be separated.”

“I’m guessin’ yer the one he’s been goin’ to dinner a lot with these days.” Osamu’s head tilts up. “Does he seem a bit...lost to ya?”

Kiyoomi glances up the aisle, ensuring that no third party can overhear. “He’s worse at hiding it than he thinks - but if you ask me, we’re all at least a little lost around this age.”

“I’m hopin’ that sometimes, one person’s confusion is another’s clarity.”

The philosophy reveals depths that Kiyoomi hasn’t dared to venture into himself. He may never relate to their opposing circumstances, or understand all the dramatic life decisions along the way. But one fact remains indisputable: how Miya still yearns for the ball is what Kiyoomi doesn’t wish to endure. If anything, it clarifies that to play is, indeed, the right choice.

“Look, I think Tsumu made a huge mistake.” Unintentionally, Osamu reaffirms that very thought. “And I think...he needs someone not named Osamu to help him realize that.”

That instant, Kiyoomi understands that he’s the someone - not assigned to buy toilet paper but to help revive a discarded dream. He’s present, unlike any of the twins’ former teammates; he embodies firsthand what volleyball passion resembles; he’s the quintessential reminder to Miya Atsumu of where their hearts will always lie.

He’s here, in Osaka, where love can be rekindled again.

“Gonna get some for Tsumu.” An arm reaches for the adjacent brand of plums on the shelf. “I think he’s almost out.”

Traveling back into current time, Kiyoomi quickly shoves the bag he already holds into Osamu’s outreached hand. “No. Give him this. This is the best one here.”

I am the one here.

The expert advice is accepted without question. “Alright, thanks--”

“There ya are!” The loudest of them reappears, carrying way more than the single item that had been on his shopping list, and way, way more than what even his brawny self can manage. As they both behold the ridiculous sight, Kiyoomi spies a soft grin emerging on Miya Osamu’s dispassionate face. It stays put, even as he mutters some final words.

“I hope ya find yer way, too, Sakusa.”

With that, he heads in his twin’s direction, admonishing with unintelligible howls, but still keen to save the day.

Moments later, disaster averted and items checked out, Miya wanders close once they step outside, several filled plastic bags clutched in both hands.

“So what’d Samu and ya talk about?” He hisses, taking advantage of his twin being further ahead.

Kiyoomi opens his only new purchase, not meeting those assertive eyes. “Nothing. Life.”

“Those are two total opposites, Omi-kun.” The sound of his name is practically a whine.

The first plum slips into Kiyoomi’s mouth, rival flavors uniting as one heavenly taste.

As are we. But maybe - it’s meant to be.

==

He musters enough courage on their fifth session, midway through a decent Jackals season. They’re in between serve receives, snacking on the latest plums Miya had brought on a stone bench, when Kiyoomi proposes again. 

“Come to our next game.”

“Got plans.” Miya reacts faster than his player self.

“I didn’t even tell you which day it is yet.”

“I’ll have plans, I’m sure.”

Kiyoomi’s next bite goes all the way to the pit, soaking his tongue with extra zing. But the dose of sour doesn’t measure up to rejection.

“So you’ll play with me, but not watch?”

“Yer the one who’s playin’, Omi-kun. I’m just helpin’ out.”

“You’re tossing to me like old times.” He disputes, the memories of well-executed parabolas all too current. “I remember what they look like.”

“Anyone can toss.” Miya scoffs. “And I out of all people definitely don’t need to see others do it.”

Stubbornness raises a wall even less penetrable than Dateko’s defense. Kiyoomi frowns, finding the halfway result he has achieved much more frustrating than no progress at all. An unusual motivation flares up, and he dips fingers directly into the remaining plums, blindly selecting one from the batch.

“Open your mouth.”

“Huh?”

Thankfully, Miya’s vocal bewilderment leads to automatic obedience from his jaw. Flesh-lined gates widen, providing more than sufficient room as target, and Kiyoomi creates a new parabola - flicks a plum directly onto that irksome tongue. Miya’s limbs scramble with shock at its sudden arrival, and his lips shut immediately as to save, not savor.

“Guess I can ‘toss’ accurately, too. Who knew?” He achieves satisfaction through disorder.  “Maybe I should try it for the next game.”

Miya stares back with stunned eyes, his whole figure frozen other than the crunching of teeth. Lifting his weight from the bench, Kiyoomi prematurely ends their time, but not without providing another.

“Saturday, 5pm.” He grabs for his duffle. “If you don’t have plans, that is.”

==

He spies blond on the third rally of the game.

His secret audience is seated in the upper corner of the stands, wrapped in a black sweatshirt ideal for early winter. But poor espionage runs in the family, and his pulled-up hood - dangling yellow bangs prominent up front - only backfires against any effort to conceal himself.

Kiyoomi resists the urge to look, even if he had already been seeking, secretly hoping. He knows Miya has likely watched some of his matches before: over tapes, at Nationals, perhaps even this rookie year on the airwaves. But today’s live viewing proves special, another monumental step in a gradual redemption. No player on the opponents’ side is from their high school era, and thus, only two reasons exist for Miya to break cardinal rules - one being volleyball itself.

For the first time since relocation, Kiyoomi feels seen.

Come point eleven, when he’s the only one below a misplaced dig’s landing zone, he fulfills that casual promise.

With Miya’s form - recent, not past - in mind, the emergency toss explodes from his imitating fingers, shooting straight at his captain’s elevated body. The kill nanoseconds later stumbles their opponents, leaving legs and stomachs splattering on the ground.

A roar from the crowd precedes chants of “Sakusa,” saluting his valiant change in role. He catches Miya jumping skyhigh from his seat, hands clawing at hair over the hood’s fabric. It only takes a few more moments before the shouts of “Omi-kun!” sneak into existing cheers, one mere voice within hundreds, but echoing louder than all the rest.

From below, Kiyoomi finally looks, directly at that corner where rivalry has transformed into harmony, where the love for a sport has possibly found rebirth.

And he himself, who rarely reacts towards the stands, sends a celebratory smile upward.

Two dominant sets later, Miya awaits outside the locker room, having long given up further attempts at hiding his visit. Upon Kiyoomi’s exit, a pack of plums flies into his arms, without any expectation of being spiked.

“From the mystery brand again?”

“No. From the concession stand. But dun’ worry, I never touched this one.”

A measure of nostalgia hits. Since that first encounter years ago, Kiyoomi had grown past any varieties sold at games, deeming them lacking in freshness. But today, the walls restricting his selective senses lower via Miya’s pull on an unseen lever. He treats the gift like a reward, accepting it for his team victory and the personal victory of getting Miya to witness it all.

“How many of these did you finish while you watched?” He asks as they fall into adjacent steps, sore fingers prying open the package.

“A couple of bags.” Miya shrugs. “They weren’t terrible.”

As critiqued, the taste is much better than Kiyoomi remembers: plain yet not bland, scented but not too aromatic, almost ideal for this calm period after heavy exertions. These plums are not luxurious like those sitting in the Sakusa family pantry, or juicy like his favorite store-stocked brands. They exist as a passage of sorts, marking where old connections began, linking past and present. He’s back at that inaugural volleyball game, enjoying the mix of action and flavor, already convinced that the passage of his life would run through these courts.

“Not bad, right?” Miya - part of the present - teases. “I was surprised, too.”

Kiyoomi gapes back in silence, mulling whether a second passage may eventually lead back to the net.

“Ya know, when I watched ya play. I thought of somethin’.”

“What?”

“Instead of tryin’ to beat ya, I probably wouldn’t have minded tossin’ to ya all the time.”

Miya’s grin shines like a road sign, pointing to a course still under construction. Rather than dwelling on heightened hopes, Kiyoomi hands over the half-eaten bag, laying down a foundation for shared paths through shared plums.

“Our next game is two Thursdays from now.”

A sturdy hand dives into his offer as a former excuse surfaces.

“I have an exam the day after.” It initiates identical. “But I’ll be there.”

==

Miya Osamu
You keep stealing my brother
You shouldn’t stop

More weeks fly by, and everything becomes routine, much like the nightly but snowless freezes of Osaka. Decks of flashcards turn obsolete, their foreign knowledge etching letter-by-letter into a first-year brain, the same way various tosses burn into a rookie’s. Moments together slot into two opposing schedules, academic versus athletic, and Kiyoomi learns to prefer mystery plums over buying old favorites.

His heart settles, physically and spiritually over time, rushing beats lulling to calms after returning from road games - Miomi and his mother manage to cheer at one or two - or during treasured hours spent listening to an accented voice.

Miya Atsumu
Gonna pass english!!
Thanks!

Better grades begin, but private practices never end.

With a few games left, the Jackals are poised to finish with an imperfect but winning record. As always, Miya attends the clinching match, and doesn’t ask to celebrate anywhere new after - just their same old shop, where the heat from udon bowls resonate with two abiding bodyheats.

Midway through fragrant broth, a text message interrupts Kiyoomi’s swallows.

Miomi
We’re ALL going to come to your last game
I already booked everyone flight tickets

The salty film over his lips turn bitter as he licks the area clean.

Me
Everyone?

Miomi
Yes, even father
Is that alright?

Me
Sure

Kiyoomi hopes the terse response serves as a hint. As much as Miomi is well-intentioned, he cannot imagine such a scenario ending well.

The typing indication from his sister lasts for almost a minute, suggesting many revisions before the next message appears.

Miomi
So what’re you up to right now?

As if on cue, Miya engages in the loudest slurp known to mankind, almost shocking Kiyoomi out of his element. Watching his companion indulge has been the best benefit of his Tokyo escape. Yes, this is what he is up to, almost every night in-person, and almost everyday in mind.

“Miya.”

“Hm?”

“Smile.”

Snap. The camera does not flatter either of them in the selfie attempt. Kiyoomi’s face is angled oddly, showing more forehead than anything else. Beside him, Miya’s eyes and cheeks are both bulging with lack of preparation, tendrils of udon sloppily hanging from his lips.

“Don’t worry.” He concedes failure as Miya’s jaw drops open. “Just sending to my sister.”

“Oh...okay. I guess.” Minor chaos ensues as the blond scrambles to pick up fallen noodles, but Kiyoomi has not minded such messy antics for quite a while.

Me
I’m with an old riv

He stops mid-kanji, and backspaces to erase the past.

I’m with an old friend

Message delivered, he swiftly mutes his phone, allowing a horde of all-caps texts to bombard him for the next minute, likely for the next hour. He doesn’t know if Miomi actually recognizes the second ridiculous face, but to her, the name likely doesn’t matter as much as another presence altogether.

He makes a mental note to send the same photo to Motoya in the morning, purely for reactions’ sake.

“So what’d she say?”

Kiyoomi scrapes his chopsticks along the bowl’s bottom, toying with his meal.

“She said that she’s glad I’m not alone.” Rather than relaying the truth, he speaks from within.

Miya grins, not teasing or halfhearted - a genuine one that suggests mutuality.

It’s both normal and abnormal, how they’ve come to this point. Osaka is no longer where the Black Jackals exist, it’s where Miya Atsumu exists. It’s him inhabiting Kiyoomi’s thoughts - it has been him, even before the cross-country move, maybe long before everything.

“Hey.”

The word ushers Kiyoomi back to the present. His vision refocuses to see Miya placing the latest supply of their chosen snack on the counter. A bare hand unseals the plastic bag, and reaches in to capture one prize.

“Tell me - what is this?” A gentle hold between thumb and index keeps the fruit in place.

The question proves nonsensical at first, so Kiyoomi assumes from their personal context. “You mean what it is in English? ‘Plum.’”

“No, Omi-kun - what is this?” The hand comes closer, ever closer, and the expanding size of dark coral attempts to take over Kiyoomi’s perception. But his eyes are focused elsewhere, on medium blond and glows of amber, hypnotic enough to prompt the lowering of his jaw.

A touch lingers on a bottom lip before falling away, leaving behind a racing pulse. Kiyoomi tastes the sweet-sour of plum specific to this region, the saltiness of skin specific to this era of his life. He knows - has known - that such a delicious combination cannot be found elsewhere.

This is Osaka. He marvels.

“This is trust.” Miya declares.

In the end, they’re one and the same.

==

Osaka is where the season’s final game takes place, and where Miya's new school year commences a few days previous. The Jackals don’t sit atop the leaderboard, but it's a winning record that fan whispers credit Kiyoomi with. High school accolades repeat in the form of his commendable rookie stats, MVP-worthy, though the only rewards he expects are more plums.

As he parades onto wooden flooring, the little girl at Kiyoomi’s side admires his height with gigantic eyes. She softens any hesitation towards touching strangers, even drawing from him a kind smile. The hand grasping his is at least three times smaller than Miya's, and likely much more delicate in its hold, but he only dares to imagine such things.

"Kiyoomi-kun!!!"

As with a few of the away games, it's not Miya who first catches his attention below the bright lights. Miomi is enough of a cheering squad by herself, having disinherited the infamous Sakusa Silence. No, that attribute is best reflected through the figure next to her, stern even in his seated form, a statue made of impenetrable stone.

The sight of his father transforms the entire ambiance. Even without business attire, Naofumi has never blended into freeing spaces like this. He embodies the epitome of a figurehead, weighing down even the air Kiyoomi breathes.

His mother and brother fill out the rest of the visible seats, creating a row of those who share his blood. He acknowledges the group before turning away, and each subsequent exhale becomes hefty, slowing both systems and movements.

"Sakusa-senshuu?" A shy voice questions, while the smallest of forces tugs at his arm.

"Sorry." He scuttles to catch up.

For the rest of the walk, Kiyoomi aims to look anywhere but upward, but fails to resist one last search. Thankfully, Miya sits in his usual spot in the top corner, a customary thumbs up marking the beginning of match-long enthusiasm. Added circumstances aside, Kiyoomi discreetly hopes for one last stellar performance that inspires. But whether the inspiration should concern volleyball or Kiyoomi himself, he is no longer sure.

In-game, the ball is as lithe as ever, propelling in the exact directions he jumps and dives. As the scoreboard changes, he asserts to himself that each point is for those who have cared - the Miyas and Miomis of the world - and no one else.

Between whistleblows, sisterly squeals keep trying to catch his attention, and he strains to glance back for those brief seconds she deserves. At every instance, he notices his mother and brother leaning over to whisper in turns, as if explaining the game to one rigid face.

Watch me, father. Even if you don’t think this matters. He converts chagrin into fuel.

This is a serve, a dig, a spike.

This is what I truly want.

When match point arrives through a powerful kill from his palm, the entire arena roars with noise befitting of ancient colosseums. As soon as the bottoms of sneakers flatten against ground, Kiyoomi looks towards Miya, gauging his awe and approval.

But he is the one awed, for a second, as his vision catches the languid claps from much older hands. The image passes like a mirage before being blocked by emotional embraces from his teammates - one invasion of personal space he thinks he can forgive. By the time his line of sight returns, his father has morphed back to his composed self, nestled between the joy expressed by the rest of his cohort.

A few rows above, Miya waves both his arms.

Your family? Moving lips form an inquiry, giving evidence that he had noticed Kiyoomi's diverted attention.

He nods back, and wonders how Miya may interpret this development.

A slew of extra kudos delay his exit from the locker room, though Kiyoomi knows he's also delaying an inevitable encounter himself. When he swings the door open, it's Miomi who obstructs his path first. The rest of his family looms behind, their postures imbued with formality.

"Kiyoomi-kun!" Arms swing around him as a voice muffles into his shoulder. “You were amazing!"

Right then, Miya also treks up from the side, but backs away as soon as he notices the additional guests. Ever perceptive, Miomi releases her hold before strolling over, setting down her second blockade in the same minute.

"Miya-kun, right? You must be the 'old friend' Kiyoomi mentioned!"

"Oh?" Miya blinks before sharing in the zeal. "Yeah, guess I am!"

"I remember you from the matches with Inarizaki." Miomi adds, seemingly with ulterior motive. "Are you still playing, too?"

"Yep, back when we always lost to Itachiyama. And no, I decided to go to university."

Shit. Kiyoomi’s stomach falls, recognizing what may come next.

As goes his worst fear, Naofumi's baritone voice interrupts. "You're a good influence for my son, then."

"Huh?" Confusion, then realization, dawns on Miya's face, and Kiyoomi knows all too well what he has certainly remembered.

Because I almost couldn’t.

Because of my father.

Minimal shifts transform an animated expression, subtle yet noticeable from Kiyoomi's perspective. "With all due respect, just because I chose to go to school doesn't mean it's the best thing for Omi-k---yer son, sir."

A light gasp escapes his mother’s mouth, while both his siblings shoot nervous looks back-and-forth.

"Ya watched him play, didn't ya?" Miya's accent exaggerates, making every word more pointed. "I hope ya can tell this is where he wants ‘ta be."

"To possess passion is a good thing." Naofumi steps forward, exercising measured seniority. "I would just like Kiyoomi-kun to...keep his options open."

"Father--" Miomi starts, but fails to get more than one word in.

"And if he already chose the best option for himself?"

"Miya..." Kiyoomi attempts his own arbitration, only to get cut off as well.

"I know exactly how it is, to feel like ya can't, or shouldn’t pursue yer passion." An impaired heart gets worn on Miya’s sleeve. "Dun' put him in that position...sir."

"I think I already know what's best--"

"Yer family, aren't ya? Family isn't supposed to smother ya, prevent ya from whatcha love doin'." Rebuke doubles as self-reflection, clearing the weight of a father’s motives as well as Miya's own pressures. "The rest of ya seem to know that, at least. So I hope ya figure that out, too, Sakusa-san."

Kiyoomi stands motionless, mesmerized by the fervent words that he cannot manage to utter. The months in their new city have cultivated a bond beyond volleyball, forcing them to navigate between the sport and those they love with little room for error. But right now, only one result matters - he had come to Osaka to ask questions of another, only to have so many questions answered about himself.

At last, his life has ripened, has fermented to an ideal - and the last drip of flavor is up to Kiyoomi to add.

"Father." He announces with confidence. "I'm never going back to Tokyo."

Multiple pairs of eyes land on him, each more stunned than the next.

"I want to stay here, in Osaka."

Before Naofumi can conjure up a response, a hand, at least three times the size of that little girl's, grabs for his.

“Come on, Omi-kun.” 

==

Kiyoomi lets himself be dragged for uncounted kilometers, past curious eyes and bustling weekend streets, surrendering to a touch that finally eliminates all the spaces left between them. It feels like something permanent, a clarity amidst the scramble of confrontation, pitting Miya’s sharp scolds countering his father’s firm armor.

He barely notices when a roof appears over their heads. His companion is the same as endless hours, but the location proves unfamiliar. There’s oak wood everywhere - in the construction, in the furniture, in the accents - a natural aesthetic varying from the urbanscapes they had passed through. Then again, perhaps it’s not so out-of-place for Osaka, the land where centuries of history now has him - them - written within its pages.

“Where are we?” Kiyoomi asks, somewhat dazed.

The squeeze around his wrist strengthens.

“A spot I’ve been meanin’ to bring ya for a while.”

“For a while?”

A pull replaces a response, tugging him towards a secluded corner. Kiyoomi allows himself to be led, relishing in the insistent but sentimental contact.

“Here.” Miya settles himself down, the disconnect of their skin reluctant before he snags the menu. “I thought ya might like this one.”

Teahouse. Kiyoomi comprehends as rows of neat calligraphy enter into his vision, naming variety after variety - with one in thickened strokes across the top.

House Special: Pickled Plum Hot Tea

“Haven’t found many places that serve this.” A hint of pride accompanies Miya’s voice. “I wanted to save it for...well, anyway, I figured we both might need to relax after all that.”

That. Kiyoomi sighs, the thrill of tasting something new quickly overshadowed. As Miya orders two servings from the lone, elderly waitress, he tries to focus on handwritten kanji, anticipating the meeting of tongue and tea, instead of the trade of bitter words via said tongue.

“I’m sorry for draggin’ ya away.” The apology comes as they are left alone again. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“It’s fine. My family...can be tough.” He mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ve never known what to say to father especially, but you read my head right. I think.”

Miya leans forward, descending a chin into cupped hands. “I think...we’ve spent enough time together lately for me to understand ya.”

For someone who had just told his father off, that handsome face displays a plethora of innocence. It’s not as childlike as the little girl, but it bears an identical admiration, with a certain outside hitter at the very center.

A flush colors Kiyoomi’s cheeks, forcing him to lower his head. To his relief, their tea arrives right then, ending a wait much shorter than for udon. Once served, a calming aroma enters both his nostrils, the familiar hints of something sour doubling as extra solace. Within translucence, he spies bits of plum mingling with the leaves - infusing, adapting to their surroundings, much like he had done the past months.

He follows a gentle lift of the cup with even gentler blows of breath, and liquid relaxation removes the last of his perturbed walls. Around the corner, Miya revels in his identical drink happily, as if he had never made the outrageous choice to play both defense and offense on Kiyoomi’s behalf, as if he had never left a formidable opponent in defeat.

He realizes then, the simplest of facts: that he enjoys who Miya Atsumu is, beyond the basic curiosities, beyond their volleyball pasts. To sit here next to him is already an end justifying the means, enough reason to tell anyone who asks, who doubts: yes, I want to stay here, in Osaka.

As tea flows down his throat, Kiyoomi’s heart pumps to a brisker rhythm. 

“Can I try, too? To read your head?”

Amber eyes flutter open above a porcelain rim, casting a glow of surprise that soon dissolves through the steam.

“Why would ya wanna do that?” A signature grin hides behind both cup and hands. “My brain’s just full of English words these days, as ya know.”

“Well, I understand all of them, so I can navigate through just fine.”

“Try me, then.”

With that, Miya sets down his cup, a former deliverer ready to receive. And after a deep inhale, Kiyoomi sends everything he has.

“I thought there’d be more reasons than your brother for why you quit. But I don’t think I need to understand why anymore.”

Just let me understand you , Miya Atsumu.

“What’s important is that I believe you still want to play, with or without him. Like how I still chose to play, despite my father.”

I do understand you, Miya Atsumu.

“As proud as you’ve always been of your talent, you never trusted yourself enough to continue on alone, did you?”

Miya’s gaze drops to the table, then rises back up, thick lips pinching in a rare display of reticence. The sight lends proof that Kiyoomi has read correctly, and so he proceeds, firing confidence from his arsenal.

“I want to tell you that you don’t have to stop, Miya. Your tosses are not only meant for someone who matters to you - they matter, period. Like I said months ago - your hands still have so much worth on the court.”

They dwell in mutual silence for what seems like eternity, digesting pivotal words spoken from a renewed soul. The faint smells of tea and plum circle their cozy corner, sinking into countless emotions yet to be verbalized.

“Omi-kun.” Miya’s lips open at last.

“Hm?”

“These hands - do they matter...to ya?”

Kiyoomi wraps fingers around his cup, letting warmth seep in through vessel and skin before he empties it - two large gulps that leave only residue at the bottom. Since his arrival, those have been the hands that gifted him plums day after day, that granted him the exact tosses he needed, that led him away from conflict, that allowed him a glimpse at a future.

Yes. They matter very much. Too much.

Empowered by a different kind of liquid courage, Kiyoomi nods a single time, giving the most resolute affirmation.

Miya’s facial features seize briefly, before every part softens, displaying a side even Kiyoomi has yet to witness. He tries to look away, anywhere but across the table - but both his vision and self become pinned by this moment, fully under Miya’s control.

“Omi-kun.” One of those hands reaches over, brushing tenderly at the corner of his lip. “There’s somethin’…”

Kiyoomi can sense it, a wayward piece of plum that had stuck to his mouth instead of entering. This very second, it’s as magnetic as a volleyball, drawing them both onto the same court, attracting Tokyo to Amagasaki, culminating within all the places that have housed their togethers.

Fingertips morph into a second pair of lips, creating a union trumping any high school reunion. Kiyoomi drinks in this bonus offering of that rich, pickled plum taste, exchanged not through unmarked packages but a delicate seal between skin. As his eyes drift shut, he thinks that Miya must taste like this even without the presence of any tea. His is a flavor desired within dreams, conceivable in reality because it knows how to touch the most hesitant of hearts.

Right when said heart turns erratic, Miya pulls away from the kiss, his whole body language veering frantic.

“Shit. Sorry, I--” 

“No. Don’t be.” Hiding disappointment, Kiyoomi folds his lips in, clinging to the nuances of that taste.

The answer appears to soothe them both, and the blond breaks into a sheepish yet proud smile.

“This tea - it’s pretty damn good, no?”

Kiyoomi mirrors the expression, the curve of his mouth shaped by two long-held thoughts.

“Yes, it is.”

I want to stay here, in Osaka.

I want to love here, in Osaka.

==

Dual essence coats his lips all the way home. Contrary to habit, Kiyoomi refrains from licking anything clean, wishing to preserve the blend as an everlasting memory.

But all comes full stop when he turns into his block, and directly into his older self. Naofumi stands astute next to the apartment building, partially shadowed underneath streetlights. Unlike earlier in the day, his father materializes via a clear vision, not from afar and unclouded by dismay. Despite their shared, imposing heights, a single year has given vulnerability to the elder Sakusa’s stance, spreading fragile textures throughout his face.

Or perhaps, that unyielding nature had been made brittle by recent, fiery words.

“Hello.” Breaking a personal vow, Kiyoomi collects leftover flavor with his tongue. It extracts indirect bravery from his greatest support, currently kilometers away in a dorm.

“I asked Miomi for your address.” The most pertinent question gets answered without an ask.

Planting both hands deep into his pockets, Kiyoomi begins a steadfast march, moving past - moving away from the past. “And what kind of conversation did you expect to have here?”

“Kiyoomi-kun. I know you no longer - have never needed my approval.” At last, his father’s words match reality. “But there is one thing you should know.”

Rare emotion saturates that last sentence, unexpected enough to slow Kiyoomi’s steps, keeping him in the present.

“That first volleyball game you ever went to as a child.” Wrinkles in an aged face deepen, their crevices sheltering all sorts of secrets. “I was the one who bought the tickets.”

Events of that fateful day flood his neurons - the discovery of a thrill, the discovery of a future - and Kiyoomi’s entire self suspends, stunned by the long-delayed reveal.

“I knew Motoya-kun showed you volleyball, and I had wanted to use it to spend more time with you. But my failing was - still is - always prioritizing work as soon as anyone called.” Nearly two decades of regret blanket every syllable. “So I asked your uncle to take my place, and even bought an extra ticket for Motoya-kun. Neither your mother nor siblings ever knew.”

“Father--”

“Ironic, isn’t it? How I actually fueled this fire? And how I then tried to ‘smother’ it, as your friend rightfully claimed.” There’s a rare twist of that stubborn mouth, exuding reminisce and humility. “But I saw the flame burn in his eyes earlier, and how it was even more vibrant in yours. Unquenchable ambition - I also had that at your age, after all.”

Naofumi steps forward, close enough to land a steady palm along Kiyoomi’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, son. No plum I bought could’ve ever made up for the days we lost, and I shouldn’t have pushed you to lose yourself.”

Though the hand upon him is an added weight, years of pressure begin to alleviate. “Those are not easy things to forgive.”

“I accept that.” His father looks sullen yet hopeful. “Just know that I wish for reconciliation - even if with conditions. Stay here and compete on your own terms, as long as you’d like.”

Kiyoomi cups the bent knuckle, setting its pruned surface against his own skin. At last, they brew the leading ounce of an understanding, with barriers cast aside, giving way to freedoms earned and deserved.

Within new reassurances, Naofumi speaks again.

“Your friend...Miya, was it? Whatever has stopped him from pursuing volleyball...I certainly hope it’s not as bad as me.”

Kiyoomi scoffs, mulling on a farfetched plan actually nearing completion. “I’ll make sure he finds his way.”

“Good, good.” Multiple nods replace rigid, singular ones. “You played beautifully today, Kiyoomi-kun. I should’ve been there from the first game, watching with you...watching you.”

Layers of a veil lifts, exposing an untouched trail, wide enough for father and son to walk side-by-side.

“It’s not too late.”

It’s not too late for you, either, Miya.

Atsumu.

==

A formal but good-natured team meeting concludes his rookie season, capping off months of gratifying independence. But it’s also dependence in some ways: a gradually learned cooperation with strangers, a rapport towards fresh routines, a relationship found within the corners of a city - and another one being tediously rebuilt. Within his phone is the revival of a text message thread, commencing with a clip of his serve from the final game, as well as a thumbs up emoji by the one who captured it.

Me
Thanks, dad

When Kiyoomi exits the gym for the last time in a while, his latest and greatest dependence awaits by the doors, hauling a messenger bag that seems heavier than usual. His locks are now a proper shade of light blond, layered in rich textures that have recovered their healthy sheen.

“Hey.” Kiyoomi calls from behind his mask, admiring the view from the back.

Miya turns, his skin aglow - and Kiyoomi wonders how much his perception has been skewed ever since their lips made contact. Either way, he has yet to share the eventful encounter with his father, for he needs to meet one last goal by his own means.

“Hey to ya back.”

“Nice hair.”

“Ya like it?” Thick fingers comb through the neat waves. “Figured that I should change things up, new school year and all.”

“Yeah. Lots of changes recently, huh.” I know how that goes.

“Speakin’ of which - I have somethin’ for ya.”

Miya’s hand lowers from his crown to dig within the bag, soon retrieving the source of its extra load. Unlike previous gifts, a large jar of plums presents itself, labeled neatly with a handwritten “Omi-kun.”

“My apology, for kissin’ ya without warnin’.”

Kiyoomi knows the jar well - it’s the go-to method for fermenting anything at home, and its existence also exposes the truth behind an ongoing mystery. The revelation supplies his mind with scenarios from recent past: how the plums’ taste had slightly improved over time, how Miya had attentively listened to every critique, how his twin had accidentally given away vague details of the plot. But imagined scenarios also emerge, one more stirring than the next: Miya memorizing all the details of Kiyoomi’s preference, Miya gently handling each plum, Miya patiently awaiting the overnight soaks.

He secretly hopes to watch the process in-person.

“You’ve been making these...yourself.” His hands fall slack at his sides, almost unable to accept the value of such a gift.

Miya pushes both the jar and his body forth, as if also giving away a part of himself. “Ya missed just one small detail back at the teahouse, Omi-kun.”

“Which one’s that?”

“The fact is, I do always wanna toss to someone who matters to me.” He emphasizes with a sincere gaze. “Volleyball’s everythin’, but it easily becomes nothin’ when yer heart is not totally invested into each part: the score, the ball, the hands that’ll touch it.”

That soothing grip takes hold of Kiyoomi’s wrist, and he allows it to be lifted - allows himself to be gifted. As the jar enters his grasp, Miya’s setter hands wrap over his, and two sets of fingers intertwine, like last fragments of 500-piece puzzles finding their matching pair.

“These - these matter to me now, Omi-kun.” The heartfelt confession continues. “It’s not just about the court anymore. I want my hands - I want me to be worthy of ya first.”

Osaka’s afternoon sun overlooks them, its warming rays enabling the burst of springtime all around - the closing season of Kiyoomi’s first year, and the opening season of a flourishing love. Miya’s eyes are as beautiful as those infinite rays, the heat of his palms as comforting as pickled plum tea.

A wish to kiss the sun twice manifests, but another wish takes precedence - for now.

“Miya-- Atsumu.” He speaks it into existence, redeeming a future nearly abandoned. “You’re a setter. You are worthy.”

Atsumu gasps, breathing their sport again, and Kiyoomi treads on with valor.

“So whenever you’re ready - come back and set for me.”

Their lungs synchronize, each intake of air deep with the same exhilaration. In these uncertain, lost years of young adulthood, a pair of diverging paths twist and turn, until both combine into a single route, headed towards the widest of horizons.

As they embark hand-in-hand, a signature smirk returns.

“Is that yer way of askin’ me out, Kiyoomi?”

Some things will never change. He flushes at the tease and the first use of his name, relieved that his mask will shield most of the red.

“I was plannin’ to ask ya out after that last game.” His rival-turned-friend-turned-whatnots chuckles. “And the teahouse - if ya said yes, I meant to save it for our first date. But of course, ya beat me again to the punch, even when it’s not volleyball.”

Though surprised, Kiyoomi finds none of the words shocking. “We can revive our rivalry any time.” He pulls at the plums, claiming possession. “But for now, I guess these can be the peace offering.”

“Just peace, Kiyoomi?”

The jar rests adjacent to energetic heartbeats. Within it are the fruits of Kiyoomi’s love, of Atsumu’s labor of love. The flavor is exclusive to Osaka, and reserved for them and them alone.

“Peace of mind, for me. What about you?”

==

[Four years in Osaka]

==

“I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi sighs in exasperation, choosing to lace his sneakers rather than read the certificate being shoved into his face. While he does share in the pride, he also knows this to be one of his boyfriend’s many excesses.

“I thought you’d settle for doing better in the class, not get a whole minor degree in it.”

“Yer not the only one who doesn’t like leavin’ things unfinished!” Bright eyes beam as Atsumu rolls up the proof of his diligence. “Plus, if we ever play in English-speakin’ countries, we can now see who’s better at communicatin’ with the locals.”

As always, the challenge spurs Kiyoomi on. “You want another rivalry with me? I can do that.”

His chuckling partner-in-crime-and-conflict leans down, landing a peck from lip to lip as agreement.

“Actually.” Atsumu redirects, once they separate. “How ‘bout we compete over service aces first? Me, the collegiate MVP and risin’ league rookie, versus the superstar of the Black Jackals?”

“Are we counting aces from our one-on-ones these past few years? Because I’m pretty sure I’d win by a landslide.”

“Not fair! Ya’ve always been much better at receivin’!”

Photos of an ongoing courtship decorate nearby lockers. Within them, two duffles contain daily stashes of homemade plums, restocked every morning after two entangled giants wake up to the same alarm clock. Today, however, initiates a change in routine, where Atsumu dons MSBY practice sweats rather than mismatched ones. Swathes of dark fabric fit snugly over a sturdy physique, maintained over three seasons of leading the Osaka University Volleyball Club.

Kiyoomi thinks bleached hair looks best against this shade of black.

They enter the gym as a pair, only separating when one joins his long-time comrades. The other bows in introduction, new to a burgeoning series of trust.

“Hello. I’m Miya Atsumu.”

When that blond head lifts, they exchange an exuberant glance. It encompasses all the days leading up to this moment: when the love for a sport finds a city to call home, when the love for another finds a path into the future.

“I’m a setter.”

[Fin]