Archive of Our Own ^beta

-- BEGINNING --

What does it mean to be written in the stars?

In the hundreds of years of research into the phenomena of 'soulmates', there are no easy answers, only questions and half-baked theories. No one knows why it has to be physical touch that tips you off. No one can explain how your first physical contact with your soulmate will allow you to hear the intangible thought they're having in that moment. How afterwards, you won't be granted that whisper of inner noise again, but for one fleeting moment, the person you are supposed to be with for your entire life is an open book. Vulnerable, readable, only a moment to indicate that this person is supposed to be your always.

The only concrete fact is that it happens. What you choose to do with that information is up to you.

Not everyone gets a soulmate. Actually, scratch that, let's try that one more time. 

Not everyone finds their soulmate. 

Distance is a factor, timing comes into play, some people reject the concept altogether. 

Rarely though, is the person’s level of stubborn asshole-ery a factor.

Unfortunately, this is the story of two such stubborn assholes who eventually pull their heads out of their own assholes. 

-- DISTANCE --

When Kiyoomi's parents divorce, it's with a bang, not a whimper in sight. He sits in his bedroom, barely 10 years old, listening to insults being hurled between them from the other side of the wall. 

They were not soulmates. It was an arranged set-up, for business purposes. They had put up a good effort for many years, but now it is very much over, and they make sure everyone around them hears it. His siblings, much older than him, had all left home already. The phone calls are nice, if a little formal, but none of them are there to witness the crumbling of their parents' separation, and the effect it's having on him.

Where he does find comfort is in his cousin (and best friend), Komori Motoya. Where Kiyoomi is tentative, Motoya is Arial Bold. Where his own edges feel blunt and sharp like surgical scissors, Motoya is flexible and soft, like gauze. Not that Motoya isn't dangerous in his own right. 

They’re young when Motoya tosses a volleyball at him with gusto and a proud declaration that, "This is the best game ever - you're going to love it!" He says it with such surety that of course Kiyoomi has to fall in love with the sport of volleyball.

Later, when Motoya talks about his potential soulmate, his eyes glow.

“Kiyo can you imagine? Just walking along one day and brushing someone’s shoulder and you hear them!”

Kiyoomi can’t answer because he doesn’t want to crush the look in his cousin’s eyes. Because Kiyoomi can imagine what that’s like. To go about your day and be struck sideways by unedited words only softened by the fact that he heard them through drywall.

“I wish I had never met you.”

“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“The best day of my fucking life will be the day you’re out of it!”

“Can’t believe I spent so many years beside such a useless bastard.”

The thought of hearing someone's unbridled thoughts hurled at him? Terrible. Somewhere along the way, he decides that no one will ever get near enough to risk it. It isn't a conscious choice, but it doesn't have to be to stick. He avoids crowds, clasps his own hands when someone is near, or shoves them deep in his pockets where they can not be touched. 

As walls once kept him away from the direct line of fire, so Sakusa Kiyoomi constructs his own wall around himself to keep him safe forever.

-- YOUTH CAMP --

Youth Camp is fine. Kiyoomi’s attended it every year since he became eligible, it's part of his routine at this point. Don't get him wrong, he loves the hours on the court with players as focused as he is, but it would be so much better if he could go home at the end of the training days. They're not that far from his mother's home, or even his Itachiyama dorm, but every year he has to drag a suitcase of belongings to the dorms of the training camp and socialize with the other youth elite. Gross.

The final year he attends camp, he ends up in a room with the usual suspects his age. They've spread their futons out along the tatami floor. 

The topic has, inevitably, turned to soulmates. Currently, Motoya and that bowl-cut boy from Shiratorizawa are bouncing their hopes off of each other while the rest of them try to follow their energy. It’s too late for this.

"I hope they say something really cool like, 'That guy is the hottest piece of ass I've ever seen'.”

“Sure, but my brother's wife was thinking about different species of shrimp when they ran into each other in a grocery store so I don’t know if it totally matters, what really counts is that you find them at all."

“Oh yeah, for sure! I—”

There's a scoff from the futon on the other side of the room and they turn simultaneously towards the sound. Miya Atsumu is watching them with those hooded, currently irritated eyes.

"I hate that soulmate bullshit." The distress in Motoya's face is instant. Kiyoomi doesn’t like that, and he’s always hated Miya’s shitty attitude.

"But what about—"

"I'm already stuck with Samu fer my whole life. Sorry, not sorry, I don't need someone else forced on me who I can't fuckin' stand." And he rolls onto his back, pulling out his phone to text his twin. Hypocrite. Can't stand him, my ass. Maybe it’s the late-night, perhaps it’s the fact he’s insulted his cousin, but Kiyoomi feels like the conversation isn’t done. 

"Well, I pity the person who is sentenced to a lifetime with you, Miya."

"Aw Omi-kun, don't be like that." Atsumu practically drawls that stupid, demeaning nickname. Kiyoomi has the impulse to throw his water bottle at him and wipe that annoying smirk clean off his face.

He follows through with said impulse. He has good aim, naturally, but the bottle top is a little loose, so while it doesn't make direct impact, the water that spills out hits the best setter in high school volleyball square in the face, soaking him instantly and making him sputter.

"Fer fuck's sake, Sakusa!" He shakes his head like some kind of oversized dog before snarling, "Just cause yer soulmate's the stick up yer ass doesn't mean ya gotta take it out on me."

Kiyoomi grins watching Atsumu stomp out of the room to dry his straw hair.

Did he say Youth Camp was just fine? That's a lie. Moments like these are the best part of his goddamn year.

-- REJECTION --

Miya Atsumu believes that Miya Osamu is the worst thing to happen to him, ever. Full stop. 

He is annoying. He is a brat. He is everywhere. Atsumu has not known peace since Osamu entered his life, which was only a mere 11 minutes after he was born. Fucker. 

Right now, said good-for-nothing-twin is pissing him off by screwing up his serve practice cause he’s making goo-goo eyes at Sunarin like an idiot. So he handles it like any good captain should.

“Oi! Samu—” he hurls a volleyball at his head. “—practice ain’t done!”

Samu catches the ball before it makes impact. Of course he does. Stupid Samu.

The incredibly gross courtship of his best friend Sunarin and worst enemy Samu started in their first year.

He watched as they danced around each other, never standing next to each other in huddles, nudges with clothed elbows when they wanted to get the other’s attention, lots of texting. They weren’t slick. But it was the end of their second year when it all simultaneously crashed down around them and rebuilt itself even faster.

It looked like this.

They’d just started the mandatory appointments with the school advisor who counsels second and third years about their prospects after graduation.

Atsumu’s went fine. He shrugged off concerns about the realities of becoming a professional volleyball player. Obviously, that’s what he was going to do, sure he had the grades to go through the college circuit, but why delay greatness? Teams were already reaching out to him, even without his idiot ‘I wanna be a chef’ twin. Where the fuck had that come from?

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one thrown by the decision if his brother’s rundown of his first session was anything to go by as they sat side by side on the bottom bunk of their room.

“Well, he gave me some decent advice. Could go to college and study there or try gainin’ experience workin’ on a line and see how that goes. Obviously, he’s pushin’ college. Fucker couldn’t help but mention that I could probably get a scholarship if I played on the team.” He waved the pamphlet for the local university’s volleyball team in one hand, rolling his eyes as he did.

“If ya really think I’m gonna let ya ditch me so ya can go get shitty sets from some varsity shithead, I’ll knock ya into Tuesday.”

“I know, Tsumu, ya made it loud and clear.”

“And ya can tell Sunarin the same thing if he decides to sign with a different team than me after graduation.”

“Ya have thumbs, text him. He’s yer best friend.”

“He’s yer soulmate, isn’t he supposed to read yer fuckin’ mind? Can’t ya just think real hard?”

“Rin’s not my soulmate.”

Silence. Atsumu physically had to shake his head to check if there was water in his ear or something cause that’s some bullshit he’d just heard.

“Yer gonna have to say that one more time, Samu.”

Samu shrugged, fiddling with the corner of the pamphlet.

“I tripped last week and he grabbed my hand on the way down, it was cute as shit. Didn’t hear shit either.”

“So what? Does that just mean yer breakin’ up or somethin’?”

“The fuck, no? It doesn’t matter, I don’t need to have heard him. I already know what he’s thinkin’ half the time.”

“That’s such— fuck! That’s such horseshit, anyone who sees ya two together knows yer the best fit fer each other.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“And Sunarin? Does he know that? Cause I swear if he fucks off I’ll-—”

“Tsumu.” His voice was steady, eyes fixed. “I know ya get all wound up about shit like this, but yer makin’ it a bigger deal than either of us ever have.”

“But... people are gonna talk.” It wasn’t uncommon to be with someone who wasn’t your fated partner, but Atsumu had heard the whispers and the names people call ‘those kind of people’ behind their backs. The worst ones are always spit in their faces.

“So? I don’t care that Rin didn’t hear me thinkin’ about how fuckin’ gone fer him I am, okay? I’m glad. Because now I get to tell him and prove it to him every single day, and I’m gonna do it Tsumu. Fuck anyone else who says I can’t, cause I think that’s perfectly fine to decide I want someone. If that makes other people uncomfortable, the idea that I can love someone with no ‘proof’ other than the feelings that I have in my own fuckin’ head and heart then...” 

His breathing was heavier, and words had been tumbling out of his mouth until now. But he seemed to steal himself and glance down at his hands which were crushing the pamphlet.

The weight of it all settled on Atsumu’s shoulders, the moment not lost on him. His brother was going to do what he wanted, and it might not always be something Atsumu, or others, understand, but dammit, it would be on his terms.

He reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, ducking a little to catch his eye.

“Then fuck’em, Samu. Make yer own rules.”

And so he had. Samu had decided he wouldn’t go to college, that he would love the boy who wasn’t his soulmate without apology, and that no one could tell him otherwise.

They’re in third year now, and as Samu catches the ball Atsumu’s thrown at his head, Atsumu knows his brother’s going to be just fine.

He’s a parasite after all, and those fuckers can withstand just about anything.

-- TIMING --

Of course it happens on a volleyball court, because where else would it?

Handshakes at the end of the game are one thing Kiyoomi's never really been able to get out of. But it doesn't matter, it's not like he's going to meet his soulmate here at center court. 

Sike.

They're both graduating this year, captains of their respective teams, so it's customary for them to shake hands. As they approach, there are already sparks flying. Angry sparks. Not good sparks. Sparks that cause forest fires. 

They reach out, grip hands, and the world falls apart. God, they're so dramatic.

As palms touch and fingers grip, skin on skin, whispers echo in each other's ear, clear and sure.

Ew, he’s so sweaty. 

Fuckin' prick.

For a moment, they grip harder, as if attempting to break each other’s metacarpals, surprise and rage gripping them suredly. The next, they are practically throwing each other’s hands back with a sneer.

“Okay captains, cool it, game’s over.” The poor referee moves to place himself between the two, fearing a post-game brawl. “Medals ceremony is in fifteen minutes, get your teams organized.”

It’s said with finality and the two third years nod in recognition, eyes still fixed on the other, amber fire meeting onyx black.

Medals are placed around necks, awards are handed over, it all passes by in a blur.

It’s funny. When Atsumu thought about this day months ago, his final Interhigh outing, he imagined some moment to neatly close this chapter. After years of sweat and devotion to Inarizaki, there would be some clean break between what was and what now is.

But he’s been to medal ceremonies before, he’s received the Best Setter recognition (take that Tobio), hell, he’s even stood beside that awful neon-yellow uniform up here before. It’s not a letdown exactly, but it feels like his brain should have been allowed to process the revelation of ‘Your high school volleyball career is over and Samu’s is entirely done,’ before having to suffer through with ‘Oh by the way, Sakusa Kiyoomi, that guy you think is the embodiment of dick-head behaviour? That’s your soulmate. Have fun shithead, it’s what you deserve.’

An echo of said dickhead’s voice bounces around his head as he wrestles his things onto a bench, desperate to get the hell out of here.

It’s probably the fastest he’s ever packed his bag after a game. Throwing Salonpas and his water bottle in with a prayer that the lid is on tight enough and rips towards the door. Samu’s hot on his tail calling out,

“Where’s the fuckin’ fire Tsumu?”

The locker room exits are across the hall from each other. Whoever designed it has a death wish courtesy of Miya Atsumu. And of course, of fucking course, they exit at the same time and are practically face to face, Motoya trailing behind Sakusa, Samu behind his own shoulder. 

It's particularly aggravating that Kiyoomi only needs to jerk his head down the hall for Atsumu to understand that they need to talk in private now . He offers Samu a stormy look as he hikes his bag over his shoulder.

“Meet ya on the bus. Don’t let ‘em leave without me.”

“Don’t get in a fistfight ass-wipe, ya still gotta graduate if ya wanna go pro.”

He rolls his eyes in response and flips Samu off as he turns to stalk after the tall frame that’s already halfway down the hall.

Kiyoomi is just as unimpressed about this whole situation, can’t even physically bring himself to look behind him to see if Miya is following—but there’s a tiny, frustrating, primal part of his brain that just knows his other half (Oh god ) is following him. They barely make it around the corner before he’s whipping around, finally away from prying eyes, and of course, Miya is right behind him, as he knew he would be.

"We tell no one, Miya." He jabs a gloved finger at him as he speaks.

"Ya kiddin' me? This is the most embarrassin' thing that’s ever happened to me."

"You're embarrassed? You don't have you for a soul—" he hisses it in a way that is reminiscent of a cat. Can’t even get the word out. "—I am the one with grounds to be mortified here!"

"Ya should be mortified over yer shitty receive in the fourth set but ya don't hear me bringin' it up."

"You just did, idiot."

"Yer the idiot, Omi-kun." He loves to say that nickname in that aggravating lilt. 

"Gods, you are so annoying," Kiyoomi can't help it slipping out from his clenched teeth and he regrets it instantly.

"I know ya are but what am I?" That sing-song syrupy sweet voice will be the death of him. He shoves his hands into his pockets to fight the urge to throttle him.

"That doesn't even make sense!" 

"Ya don’t—"

"Don't say it."

"—even make sense."

Kiyoomi turns his back on him again, stalking back down the hall, fists still clenched in his neon team jacket, begging himself not to turn back and throw a punch. He's pretty sure he isn’t a violent person by nature, but this annoying asshat (his soulmate?) might make him one.

A flicker of memory, a conversation from almost a year ago, flits across his memory. It'll do. He stops, doesn't turn, keeps his back towards the bottle blonde bitch behind him.

“Looks like you're the stick up my ass, Miya.” He hears an indignant squawk behind him. “Do me a favour and stay the hell away from me."

As his feet take him around the corner he hears the muttered Kansai-ben echo off the empty walls.

“Worst day of my fuckin’ life.”

It bounces around inside his head. Although his steps forward don’t give him away, he feels his heart falter, and a sad something flutter in his chest. 

-- ATSU GOES PRO --

Life rolls on. Graduation happens. Atsumu packs his life in Hyogo into the back of Samu’s truck and drives to Osaka to play for the MSBY Black Jackals.

As they pull up to the side of the dorm housing for the team, he takes a moment. His entire life’s been leading up to this. Sitting beside Samu in his beat-up four-wheeler, bags packed, contract signed, looking forward to his dream career.

But his dream’s always looked a little different. As a kid he always imagined another set of boxes, two contracts, maybe a special one cause they’d have been a package deal, they are twins after all. He grits his teeth as he realizes that in every version of this dream becoming a reality, he imagined Samu by his side.

He casts a glance across the center console where Samu’s leaning back, eyes tracked on the building.

“Ya really did it,” he whispers it more than he says it. “Yer goin’ pro.”

“Jealous much?”

“Naw Tsumu, I’m not. Just proud.”

“Fuck off.” He slides down his seat to hide his head. “If any of them see me cryin’ I’ll never live it down.”

“Uh… Tsumu?” He covers his face, not willing to spare a glance at that sappy-ass twin of his.

“Shut up.”

“But—”

“I said shut it!”

As he rubs hard at his eyes, begging the heat inside them to stay contained, he hears a quick series of taps on the window outside. Huh? He lifts his head from his hands to see the wide, golden eyes of Bokuto Koutarou, who’s mouthing something through the window. He either does not realize the window is all the way up or believes that he speaks loud enough that they can hear him through the pane of glass. 

He looks at Samu, whose eyes are now following Bokuto’s hands as they flap around outside, illustrating whatever he’s saying that they can’t hear. Atsumu decides to unveil the mystery and rolls down the passenger side window.

“—and if there’s anything you need at all, I’m just a few doors down from you okay?” He’s so earnest, and his smile is so wide, it’s impossible not to laugh.

As the Miya twins cackle, the tension between them fully melts and a tear or two escapes the corners of their eyes. Bokuto, on the other hand, wilts a little, obviously confused. Atsumu tries really hard to get his breathing back under control.

“No, sorry man, just— can we— can I hear that one more time?” 

Bokuto’s eyes dart around between the two of them, the truck, and the boxes.

“Huh?” It takes another second and then it all seems to click into place for him and he smiles wide again. “Oh! Sorry, I think I just got excited to have someone else around who’s my age. Not that I don’t love everyone else though, they’re all great! Oh! I saw your game against my Keiji last year. You’re really good, Miya.”

Ah yes, Akaashi Keiji, the Fukurodani setter. Atsumu remembers him being almost infuriatingly calm. He could never.

“Just call me Atsumu, no one calls me ‘Miya’—” Except one person. “—so why start now?”

“Sounds good Mi- I mean… Atsumu.” He winks at him, reaching into the bed of the truck as he does it, lifting one of the large boxes up and out. “Welcome to the sharehouse!”

And he bounds away towards the front entrance.

“He didn’t tell ya where he’s goin’ with that.”

“No, no he didn’t.” Atsumu’s eyes are dry now, a grin cracking over his face. “Guess we should go find out where he’s takin’ my rice cooker.” As he finally unbuckles his seat belt and goes to open the passenger side door, his twin’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Yer gonna be fine Tsumu.” Is what Osamu says, but the unspoken ‘ Yer gonna be fine without me ’ hangs in the air.

And as his first few months with MSBY unfolds, he realizes he just might be.

Bokuto, who is indeed a few doors down from him, quickly becomes a confidante. When they’re not practicing, they’re in the weight room and when they’re not in the weight room, they’re usually on an adventure. Whether that adventure is in a video game or out on a hike outside of the city depends on the day.

They talk about everything. Their dream of becoming starters, (The current starting setter just had his second kid, he’s gotta retire soon, right?), the endless debate of which Mario Kart character is the best to play as (Daisy for aesthetics, Wario for ass-kicking), and of course, Akaashi Keiji, Bokuto’s favourite subject.

Then there’s the team itself. They’re a great group, he fits well with them, he’s carving himself a place within them, and it feels great.

And what’s more, every single person on the Black Jackals calls him Atsumu. He doesn’t have to say it, because it looks like Bokuto’s already disseminated the information. It’s a little thing to help him feel comfortable, but it’s important to him, maybe it’s growing up with a twin, maybe it’s this desire he has to never be ‘just’ anything, but no one has ever called him just ‘Miya’.

Well, that’s not entirely true. One person calls him that every time without fail. They haven’t spoken since that fateful day at Nationals, but now and then he finds himself thinking about that prickly spiker with the freaky wrists and how deeply uncomfortable he seems to look. 

Always.

A few months into his first season, Atsumu finds himself on Sakusa’s Instagram page. It’s private, and for some reason, that doesn’t surprise him. His thumb hovers over the request button. But then what? Slide into his DM’s and ignore every shitty interaction they’ve had for literal years? He hasn’t even spoken to the guy since that last Interhigh and they left things in a pretty cut and dry ‘leave me the fuck alone’ place. Would it be just awkward, feel obligatory? What if it was just more of the same?

And that’s not even considering the very real possibility that Sakusa would just reject his request. He throws his phone across his bedspread, attempting to physically yeet his thoughts away. 

Because that’s the issue isn’t it? Why would Sakusa want to talk to him out of nowhere? Why does Atsumu even want to talk to Sakusa? There is no legitimate reason he should be thinking about him. 

And yet.

He scrunches his eyes up and behind his lids he sees the little lock icon on Sakusa’s Instagram page.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is something he hasn’t cracked, a riddle he hasn’t solved. He doesn’t know why he heard that snarky voice in his head, maybe he never will.

Thinking back to the kid he was when this all started unfolding, maybe he’s missed his chance.

Maturity sucks, he realizes in this moment, because you get older and you figure out how little you know, how even less you knew when you were younger and assumed you knew what was best. Then you get a little older and figure out your short-sightedness may have determined the rest of your life. That your younger self was actually the one responsible for hiding the key you would end up desperately looking for.

Hindsight is 20-fuckin’-20.

-- OMI AT UNI --

Kiyoomi’s college team is pissing him off. 

When he agreed to obtain a degree for his family before joining the pro leagues, he thought it would be pretty straightforward. Focus on his studies for his Bachelor of Science degree, play college ball, keep in contact with the scouts who had expressed interest in him during high school (which were quite a few, by the way) and at the end of it all, grab his diploma and sprint into Division 1. Maybe the Adlers, perhaps the Falcons.

His college is known for being a high performing team, they were located in Tokyo so he’s familiar with the area, they offered him a full-ride scholarship, so it was a pretty easy choice.

But then reality sunk in.

Astrophysics is fine, he enjoys it enough to pursue his degree, but it isn’t volleyball. It doesn’t demand him to push himself like his sport does. 

Volleyball demands him to be in his peak condition, both physically and mentally, and to negotiate his boundaries like nothing else does. There is a line between safety and camaraderie that he avoided everywhere else, but is forced to navigate every time he stepped foot on a court. It’s dangerous, challenging, rewarding, exhilarating. It is his definition of passion. He has to be physically close to teammates to be successful, he had to touch a sweaty ball to connect them all. That is the crux of it, really. He gets to connect with people, in one way or another.

Which brings him to his team.

They’re… fine. He knew none of them walking into the gym for the first time, which was a red flag. He was self-aware enough to know that he was part of an elite group of players in his generation and had been to camps and tournaments with people on his level for years now, so walking in and not immediately putting faces to names was… not ideal.

Everyone played alright and got along smoothly enough, but there were gaps in technique that he could physically put his foot through. His setter consistently tosses a little too low, which makes him miss Iizuna, and he thinks of another setter who would have never sent a ball like that to him. Then there’s the defence . Do not get him started about the defence. He mentally cursed Motoya every practice for spoiling him for every libero he would ever have after his cousin. Fuck him. However, it does mean his receive form greatly improves out of necessity. He wouldn’t embarrass himself, so he just got better.

Was it a little egotistical of him to know he was the best on the team? Sure. Did he care? Not really. 

The worst part of it all though is how nice they all are. Blandly nice, delicately polite, every single one of them with their simpering smiles and blithe banter about nothing at all. Most of them had the personality of a limp handshake.

He’s bored. Volleyball is boring him now, and how dare they.

All of this to say, thank god for Akaashi Keiji.

In another universe, Akaashi is his soulmate. He's sure of it. They think similarly, share values about handwashing practices before meals, the same sense of dry humour, and the bitch-fests they can have are on another level entirely.

However, in this universe, he is his platonic-as-hell close friend. Akaashi has Bokuto Koutarou, who makes his lips quirk just the tiniest bit upwards towards a grin when he enters a room, which in his terms, means the world. Kiyoomi might be able to make Akaashi chuckle, but he's watched their FaceTime's where Akaashi practically howls with laughter. With Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji simply sparkles.

They had crossed paths a few months into their first year, Akaashi working for the campus newspaper as a side project for his literature degree and interviewing the ‘star first year spiker’. Instant recognition from their brief interactions in high school got them talking about the current team. All it took was a shared loaded look about the current starting line-up before they had to go off the record.

“Our third set last week against Waseda? I mean really .”

“No offense intended Sakusa-san, but the fact that it came down to you making an emergency set? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m a realist, not a setter. And speaking of setters, how dare you not play on this team with me.”

“I’ll only come out of retirement for Bokuto Koutarou, rookie outside hitter for the MSBY Black Jackals, sorry college boy.”

“Ew.”

And so had begun their beautiful, bitchy friendship.

It’s been two years now and he’s sharing their usual cramped table at the back of the library with Akaashi. He’s pouring over a Modern Astronomy textbook while Akaashi constructs some essay about misogyny in classical texts on his laptop. It’s a regular Wednesday night. The sun has set and the library has an evening lull to it that is comforting to people like them who enjoy the stillness, the quiet, the—

“Oh my fucking god I’m going to kill Motoya.” Kiyoomi groans into his hands. His phone will not stop pinging. It’s practically rattling off the table at this point.

“Well let’s not avoid it, how did your cousin’s latest outing go?” Akaashi has the whisper of a smirk as his fingers continue to click-clack across keys.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes as he flips over his phone to read the slew of messages sent over the last 5 minutes.

FROM: KOMORI MOTOYA

>> date was a bust

>> mourn with me bitch

>> I SAID MOURN KIYO

>> i swear if you leeave me on read again

>> its on sight sakusa kiyoomi

>> ON. SIGHT.

>> wow

>> when i die i want you to lower me into my grave

>> so you can let me down one more time

Motoya’s been on a hunt. He says he’s just having fun dating around, but Kiyoomi knows him better than that, and he’s told Akaashi so. His cousin is seeking someone who is fated for him. Good luck.

TO: KOMORI MOTOYA

<< k.

And he turns his phone on silent.

“Doesn’t look like it went well. Pity.” Kiyoomi says.

“Well, credit where credit is due, he’s searching and that’s something.”

“Doesn’t know what he’s going to find.”

“Well, neither do you.”

“Well sorry, not all of our soulmates can be our high school sweetheart. Some of us are stuck with—”

There’s a stretched out silence… Kiyoomi feels an itchy discomfort at the look Akaashi is giving him. You see, while Akaashi is what Kiyoomi considers a close friend, no one, absolutely no one, is aware of his soulmate's identity. More specifically: everyone is still under the impression that he has yet to find them.

Unfortunately, Akaashi is very intuitive, which means that this one tiny slipup may as well be a screamed confession.

“Stuck with whom , Sakusa?”

“Hm?”

“Wow, you’re really doing this.”

“Pardon?” He will feign ignorance until left with no other choice.

“You know who your soulmate is.” Curse Akaashi’s directedness, it leaves very little room for argument.

“Sure, whatevs. I don’t get the hype.” He turns back to his textbook and feels Akaashi’s eyes drilling into the top of his head. Damnit.

“So let me get this straight—” he hears the click of his laptop closing. Shit. That means Akaashi’s serious. “—your cousin is working his way through half of Japan attempting to find his soulmate, and you’re going to sit here complaining that yours isn’t good enough?”

“That isn’t—” Great. Now he’s engaged with the conversation, just like Akaashi planned. But he really doesn’t want him to think his reluctance to get into it is because… Wow okay, he’s really going to have to get into it. And if he’s reading Akaashi’s body language correctly, he’s not going to let them get back to their homework until they’ve talked about it. He could always fail this course. Flunk out of university. Leave Japan.

He takes a deep breath, holds it for a half-second, and lets words spill out with an exhale.

“They… Don’t like me.” Kiyoomi’s words echo for a moment over the tabletop, Akaashi keeping him locked in his sights as he slowly blinks, collecting data, readying his attack.

“How do you know that?”

“When we had our connection, I heard what I needed to hear.”

“Meaning?” Akaashi questions.

“Meaning I shouldn’t have to be around someone who thinks I’m a dick.”

“Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you are a dick.” Kiyoomi knows Akaashi isn’t sorry, because Akaashi knows he’s right. Damn him, he’s a good friend.

“That’s not what partners are supposed to think of each other though.”

“Not all the time, but we’re human. You can’t expect us to get along with people, even our loved ones, every moment of every single day.”

“I’m really not interested in trying to dig much deeper into it.”

“That’s very narrow-minded of you Sakusa, I’m surprised. Yes, that may be what this person was thinking at that exact second, but are you really going to live your entire life defined by a single moment in someone else’s head? Are you really going to subject them to that?”

“Easy for you to say, Bokuto was waxing poetic about you, wasn’t he?”

“And I was thinking about calculus homework. Besides, that’s Bokuto-san, and unless we’re about to have a very awkward conversation—” Akaashi folds his hands definitively as he speaks. “—I don’t think he’s your soulmate.”

“But they thought—”

“Who cares what they were thinking about? What matters is what you do with it. If you actually put the work in to get to know them and decide that it’s not going to work, that soulmates aren’t for you, fine, so be it. But if you’ve decided to dwell on the fact that someone thought one negative thing about you, someone who the universe has pointed to saying ‘this person is our gift to you’, then that’s on you. Not them.”

“Chill Akaashi. Shit.”

“My apologies, I get passionate about this.” Knowing Akaashi’s soulmate, Kiyoomi can’t fault him. “I know you tend to be guarded, but Kiyoomi—'' he leans forward over the table, those eyes piercing him over their frames “—happiness sometimes comes with a little bit of risk. As your friend, I would love to see you take a chance at being happy.”

“You and Koutarou make it look so easy though.”

“What Koutarou and I have is what works for us, it isn’t always easy but it’s what works. We’ve loved each other for almost as long as we’ve known each other. Don’t come trying to plagiarize my love story, write your own Kiyoomi.”

And Akaashi opens his laptop, returns to his document, and begins typing away.

“Are you suggesting I give this… a good old college try?” Akaashi’s eyebrow twitches and Kiyoomi can’t help but clench his fist in victory under the table. Take that for psychoanalyzing him on a Wednesday night. Wordplay bitch.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, I am going to throw my pen at you and I hope it takes out your eye. Do your homework.”

Kiyoomi spends the rest of the evening staring at the characters of his textbooks, not taking in a single one of them. The sound of Akaashi’s keyboard accompanying his whirring thoughts.

He thinks of the sparkle in Akaashi’s eye as he speaks with Bokuto over a video call, the warm tone that overtakes his voice when he speaks his name. Atsumu’s eyes don’t sparkle, they pierce. The heat that comes with his words isn’t comforting, it’s scorching, almost blistering with the intensity. Under Atsumu’s gaze, Kiyoomi feels like an ant under a magnifying glass on a summer’s day: magnified, perceived and fried.

And himself? Sakusa Kiyoomi is no dreamy, soft lover. He’s a hard shell surrounding a painfully vulnerable core. Cold to the touch but easy to bruise. A livewire ready to bite brave fingers, anticipating it even.

And maybe that’s what makes it so hard, he thinks, staring at pages swimming with the stars, unreadable to his preoccupied mind. Perhaps what makes it all so difficult is that those all-seeing eyes see past the walls he’s constructed and straight through to the little spot between Kiyoomi’s ribs that is desperate to be known.

-- THE ENGAGEMENT --

“There’s this jeweller I want to check out when we play the Hornets next week. You’ll come with me right, Tsum-Tsum?”

They’re walking home from the weight room after a conditioning session. The sun’s already set and the glow of the Osaka city lights casts Bokuto and Atsumu in partial shadow as they make their way back to the sharehouse.

“Sure. Akaashi’s birthday comin’ up or somethin’?” As he says it he knows that he’s wrong, because last month when it had been Akaashi’s birthday, Bokuto had made it not just the team’s business, but all of Japan’s business. It could have been a holiday. As he tries to figure it out, a streetlight catches Bokuto’s face.

The only thing that’s stopping Bokuto’s grin from splitting his face in half is the fact that he’s biting his bottom lip in an attempt to contain it. But nothing can stop the warm sparkle in his eye.

“I can finally afford a ring for Keiji. I’m gonna do it, propose.”

“Woah, crazy.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“It’s just cool, ya know? That ya feel so sure about the whole soulmate thing.”

“Well yeah, it’s Keiji.”

“But don’t ya worry that yer only with him cause like… fate or destiny or some shit are tellin’ ya you should?”

“Not really. And besides, what if they are?”

“That doesn’t freak ya out?” 

Bokuto isn’t someone who thinks before he speaks, he processes his thoughts live and in technicolour. The slightly longer inhale accompanied by a soft hum may as well be an hour of pondering on his terms. The moment passes and he just starts talking.

“I want to be with Keiji for a lot of reasons. I want to be with him because he chose to understand me when other’s wrote me off. For his patience, the look in his eyes when I enter a room, the way he makes me laugh. He’s so funny, Tsumu, the funniest person I’ve ever met. And he’s the smartest person I’ve ever known. He doesn’t make me feel bad for the fact that he’s smarter than me. He accepts me as I am. It’s just a wicked bonus that we’re soulmates.”

Crickets.

“You don’t get it do you?”

“Honestly Bo? Not really. Don’t get me wrong, I’m real happy fer ya and Akaashi. I just think there’s gotta be more to being in love or whatever than feelin’ obligated to bein’ with someone.” He halts, hearing his own words. “Shit, that came out wrong.”

A younger Bokuto may have deflated with Atsumu’s comments, but this slightly older, slightly wiser Bokuto Koutarou laughs with his whole body at Atsumu’s confused pleading, and he claps him happily on the shoulder with such force that Atsumu’s knees almost buckle.

“Stop worrying, Tsum-Tsum! You may not get it, but I do. I don’t feel obligated to be with Keiji, I’m excited to be with him.”

“I’m really tryin’ to get on yer level here, Bo.”

"I guess it's nice knowing Keiji's going to be there no matter what. Don't get me wrong—" urgent, hands waving, "—I knew he was going to be, I didn't need to know he was my soulmate to believe that, but I guess there's something comforting about it. There isn't any second-guessing with us, it's like we were written in the stars."

His eyes, as they often do when he talks about his partnership with Akaashi, take on a look that Atsumu can't really understand. He’s known who his soulmate is for a while now, but he's never felt that soft assuredness with Sakusa that Bokuto so clearly feels whenever he talks of his destined Keiji. 

"Someday Atsumu, I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for. Cause let me tell you, once you do—" he looks up into the night sky, lost in the cosmos, "—you feel like you could take on the world."

— — —

Six months later, there’s a party held in a Tokyo izakaya. It’s filled to the brim with friends, some family, and in the center of it all, Bokuto and Akaashi. Their arms wrapped around each other, eyes barely leaving the other’s face, and a whisper of silver shining off of one of Akaashi’s fingers.

Kiyoomi stands along a wall, not a corner of the room, so that’s progress. He’s been here for a while now, taking it all in. He said his pleasantries, offered Akaashi and Bokuto sincere congratulations, and drank exactly two beers. He’s just about met his social capacity.

Kiyoomi catches Atsumu’s eye across the room. It’s only been a few years but Kiyoomi can admit that he appears to have grown up. His hair is lighter, closer to a platinum blonde, and is styled in a purposely tousled look rather than his high school whatever-that-was hairstyle. He’s currently in conversation with his brother and the newly engaged couple, but he sends a little smile to Kiyoomi and a nod, which Kiyoomi returns. Atsumu smiles softer now, not as forced. Granted, they’re not on a volleyball court, so who knows how well it all translates there.

What does Atsumu see in him?

Kiyoomi doesn’t feel like he’s grown up, in a lot of ways he feels the opposite. Can he tell?

Does he see the bags under Kiyoomi’s eyes from all the sleepless nights spent studying or in the gym working on his serve alone? Would he be able to hear the way his heart has been hammering with anxiety surrounded by all of these people celebrating?

Could he feel the way his hands fidget as everyone says things like,

“A perfect match.”

“They’re going to be together forever.”

“I want what they have.”

The words and the sentiments, which he understands and cherishes for his friend, feel like tiny pinpricks in his skin, as if someone is egging the walls of his house. It makes the lines in his palms sweat.

Can they all see that? That this 6 foot 3 young adult is having a near-meltdown over what is the happiest day of his best friends life?

He’s been staring at Atsumu the whole time. Atsumu, still surrounded by people, who quirks his head in a silent question. He can imagine pretty clearly what he's being asked.

Are ya okay?

He shrugs in response, rolls his eyes. 

Sure, considering.

An eyebrow raise.

Wanna talk?

That almost shakes him. They could talk, but here, in the middle of a party for their friends, not having spoken for however many years (Two and a half technically. Yes, he knows. No, it’s not important.) may not be the best idea.

He shakes his head before jerking it towards the door.

No. I’m heading out anyway.

An understanding nod from a platinum blonde head.

Sounds good.

A wave from his own still-shaking hand.

See you sometime.

And Kiyoomi makes his escape into the cool night air, finally breathing a full breath.

He shoots a quick text to Akaashi, apologizing for not saying farewell (he’ll understand), and makes his way up the street. He burrows his hands into his jacket pockets, the tremors in his fingers finally stilling and his heart rate deescalating to match the steady beat of his feet on pavement.

He pauses his steps, looking up into the sky above him, stained with the glow of city lights even though it’s well into the evening. He imagines without the haze of Tokyo’s gleam, there would be stars dotted all over the night sky. Curious. 

There’s a phrase he read once in an English Poetry course he took as an elective so Akaashi wouldn’t have to bear it alone. It was an early morning class and Akaashi’s greatest enemy is waking up before 9 in the morning.

He enjoyed the class, despite its need for caffeine to complete it. Their professor posed famous passages to the class and would just open the floor for discussion on it’s interpretation. Most of the grade was participation and while Kiyoomi was not the most enthusiastic participant in most classes, he could get behind a good old fashioned debate.

The phrase in question goes like this: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It’s an interesting phrase because, while everyone knows it, there’s no solid evidence of who said it first and in those terms. The earliest version of it can be traced to the Ancient Roman poet Sextus, Shakespeare used a variation of it in the Merchant of Venice, while others credit James Howell for its closest equivalent to our modern understanding. But Kiyoomi doesn’t need to know where it came from to be frustrated by it. 

His argument is that it lacks depth and, frankly, sense.

To be ‘absent’ could make the heart grow fond, but he knows that to be left in the place of longing can also leave one abandoned, isolated. It may not be ‘affection’ that grows in that space, but rather a thick scar tissue attempting to fill the gap.

But like any good student, if he is going to argue the proposed thesis he needs to support his case. He needs to look at the evidence, he needs proof. 

He offers the following in its place: 

Perhaps it is not ‘absence’, but rather ‘perspective’ which makes the heart grow fond. The chance to take a step back and look carefully and objectively at all the pieces of the puzzle before diving back in. In this way, one can’t say it is truly being absent but rather… getting a different viewpoint?

The chance to double back a few pages to catch a detail you may have missed last chapter, to stop halfway up the mountain and look at what you’ve accomplished so far, the opportunity to gain insight from a new angle.

Like right now, as he looks into the sky. The stars aren’t absent, they’re simply hidden. 

If he were to get on a train right now and ride a few hours out, he could look up and see them. If he had the power to turn off all the lights in Tokyo at this very moment, stars would blink into awareness. Not into existence, because they were always there.

It’s all about perspective.

--TWO MORE YEARS AND A DEGREE LATER--

It’s during the offseason on a warm Thursday night in Hyogo, halfway through packing his suitcase to return to Osaka after a visit with his Ma, hellspawn and hellspawn-in-law (Samu and Sunarin, respectively) when Atsumu gets a Twitter news alert that tilts the world on its goddamn axis.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, collegiate MVP, has been signed to the MSBY Black Jackals.

Oh shit.

He does what any sane person would do in the situation and kicks down his Ma’s guest room door where hellspawn is packing his and Sunarin’s suitcases.

“Put on some fuckin’ pants, Tsumu.”

Oh yeah, he’s also waiting on some laundry because the sharehouse washing machine is broken.

“No time fer pants, I need… somethin’”

“We’ve got a train to catch, so if there’s any chance we can speed up this meltdown, I would really appreciate it.”

“Give me a second, I don’t know what I need, just need to— I don’t know...”

“Tsumu, it’s just me. Whatever happened, we can fix it.”

“I didn’t break anything! But—” he thinks of dark eyes that he’s usually seen filled with contempt, but last spotted were flitting anxiously around a crowded izakaya, like a caged bird, “—I think I do have to fix somethin’.”

“What’s goin’ on? Yer actin’ weirder than usual.”

“Follow me on this, okay? People don’t really like me, Samu. Other than Bo, but he’s the best person in the world. They respect me, and they’re friendly and all, but people don’t really like me. Ya know?”

“I like ya.”

“Yer my twin, ya have to.”

“No I don’t. If I thought ya were a shit person, I wouldn’t like ya, but yer not. I know ya, Tsumu. Yer a lot of hot air and shitty jokes, but yer heart’s in the right place.”

“Don’t know how true that is.”

“Ya care a lot. Sometimes too much, like so much it hurts the people yer tryin’ to look out for, but it’s still carin’. If yer worried about that, I’d start there. Find the line before ya tip over it. All the good stuff’s there. Like when ya serve.”

“My serve’s are always brilliant.”

“Yer a liar, but I’m ignorin’ that fer a second. When ya put too much power into yer jump serve with the curve, it goes haywire. But when ya focus and pull it back a bit, that’s when it lands in bounds.”

“So ya want me to dim my light?”

“No fucker, I want ya to not knowingly needle people yer tryin’ to make a good impression on.”

“Fine, I get it.” Samu looks at him expectantly, Atsumu rolls his eyes and let’s out, with a long-suffering air, “Thanks.”

He crosses back to the door before pausing. He turns back to watch his brother carefully folding Sunarin’s sweater.

“Samu… one more thing.”

“We’re gonna miss our train and yer gonna buy our new tickets.”

“How do ya know Rin’s it fer ya?”

“I guess… I just don’t care whether he’s my soulmate or not, I want to make him happy. I keep wakin’ up every day wantin’ to see him grin like an idiot cause of me. That’s how I know.”

And he zips the last suitcase shut, a silence settling comfortably over them.

“Now please, put on some pants.”

— — —

As Atsumu pushes the locker room door open into the gym on the first Monday morning of the new season, he reviews his game plan for the day.

He has a goal: Don’t be a dick. Easier said than done.

He has a plan: Act like he’s at a press event. He’s alright at those, pretty good actually. However, today specifically he will not be playing ‘Atsumu being interviewed at a fan event’, he will be playing ‘polite interviewer of Sakusa Kiyoomi.’

Flawless, right?

He scans the room, it’s still pretty early, he’s almost always the first person at the gym so there’s always a chance Sakusa isn’t even here yet. However, already dressed for practice, stretched out on a mat going through his warm-up, is Sakusa Kiyoomi. Stretching out his freaky wrists while sitting in a straddle split. What a weirdo. 

No, scratch that. Not a weirdo. He’s going for polite and digestible. What a perfectly normal thing to do.

He approaches his target, nervously running a hand through his hair as he goes for it.

“Hello Sakusa-san, long time no see. Settling in alright?” 

Sakusa’s moles float closer to his hairline as his face takes on visible confusion at the formal greeting.

“Miya. It’s uh… good to see you?” Well, shit, he probably sounds like an insincere douche, so he notches down the ‘TV voice’ by one.

“Yeah, same.” Crickets. “Heard about yer MVP title, that’s pretty cool.”

“Thank you.” 

Atsumu lets out a puff of air, he has to have more they can talk about right? They’re supposed to be like… good at this aren’t they?

“Miss yer college team?”

“Sure.”

Double fuck, why is this so awkward?

“Were they any good?”

“They were… fine.”

“Shit it’s like pulling teeth with ya, isn’t it?” He didn’t mean for that to come out, he’s trying so hard to be smooth, whatever that means. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Miya, If I wanted someone to pussyfoot around me and act like a fucking weirdo, I would have stayed with my college team.” 

Oh. This is what it looks like when Sakusa Kiyoomi grins at you. It’s a tiny thing, a little sly, sharp as a knife. And it sparks something in Atsumu he hasn’t felt in a while. He can work with this, so he serves him his own best grin, dripping with hubris.

“Okay. Ya want unfiltered Atsumu? Tell me all about the shitty team yer comin’ from and how grateful ya are to be hittin’ my sets.”

“I had no issue with my setter, thank you very much.”

“Bullshit. I watched some of yer tapes when I heard ya signed, he was garbage. He was consistently too low fer ya, and too far from the net. A certified scrub.”

And in that moment, as Sakusa lifts his fist to hide his laugh, Atsumu is horrified to discover that Sakusa Kiyoomi is handsome. Which is weird, yeah, he knows, but it is what it is. Sakusa had been some gangly frizzy-headed asshole in high school. Now, he is a lean, chiselled frame, topped with inky curls that shine in a way that should be deemed as unnatural. One of those curls bounces a little as he chuckles. Atsumu desperately wants to pull on one.

“I’ll have you know, it gives me no satisfaction agreeing with you.” Sakusa huffs a sigh. “As a person, he was only half as annoying as you, but he made up for it with those tosses.”

“Tell me bout it.”

And they’re off. Sakusa bitching about his college team’s short-comings, Atsumu practically preening at the implication that his own sets are superior, which Sakusa just rolls his eyes at. Eventually, they branch off into Onigiri Miya’s newest location gossip and Atsumu promises,

“Ya haven’t eaten proper umeboshi onigiri til you’ve had Samu’s. Don’t tell him, he’ll get cocky.”

“That must be saying something, coming from you.”

“I’ll have ya know, I—”

A whistle pierces through the air. Oh yeah, practice. They’re at practice. Which he definitely should have been warming up for.

Their teammates are rushing past them to the far end of the gym and into formation for serving drills.

Atsumu casts a look back at those dark eyes, which he had always assumed were black, but were actually an incredibly deep green. He’s just found that out.

“Well— uh, guess we should go do our jobs huh?”

Sakusa’s mouth is a little pinched, eyes wide, looking out across the gym, as if he’s just realized that this is really happening.

“This is my job.”

“Sure is Omi-kun.” And he finds that just like their verbal sparring and quick banter, this comes easy too. “Congratulations.”

Then that sharp, welcoming grin.

“Bet I can get the first service ace this morning.”

“Oh it is on , Omi-Omi.”

— — —

Kiyoomi is enraged to find that no one on the team understands him like Miya Atsumu. Disgusting. 

But also not?

When he’s in a bitchy mood, everyone always leaves him alone, which honestly? Is annoying as hell. But not Atsumu. Like the other day when Omi rolled into the locker room like a thundercloud, sparking with pissed-off energy and tense as a piano string.

“What crawled up yer ass and died?”

“You, Miya.”

“Come on Atsumu, leave him be.” Shion chimes from his own locker.

“Now I can’t tell if that’s a pick-up line or if yer threatenin’ me but I gotta say Omi—” He winks at him, shamelessly. “—I didn’t peg ya as a kinky shit.”

“No kink shamin’ in the locker room.” Meian grumbles, he’s just so tired. “I ask for one mornin’ of peace, that’s all I want.”

Let it be noted, Meian Shuugo would never know peace again.

But it’s more than that.

He notices that he doesn’t have to tell anyone about his physical boundaries, they all seem to know already, which is nice. He knows there’s a chance that word came through Bokuto via Akaashi, but Bokuto himself is the biggest giveaway. 

He’s an energetic teddy bear of a man, so after particularly good plays with him, he has to physically restrain himself from throwing his arms around Kiyoomi. It usually comes out as a series of twitches that resolve into a very enthusiastic thumbs-up, followed by the ghost of a glance to Atsumu, as if looking for approval. Atsumu always gives him a little nod.

So yes, Kiyoomi’s pretty sure that the person responsible for his comfortable transition to the Black Jackals is Miya Atsumu.

And then there’s the worst part of all. The part he can hardly stand to even think, a whisper he wishes he never heard in his own traitorous mind.

Miya Atsumu has become hot. 

Like, physically and also temperature-wise apparently, because he is always sweating, and it should be gross, but the way he glistens is maddeningly attractive. When it isn’t sweat, it’s from pouring a water bottle over his fair hair to cool himself down, which is somehow worse. 

No longer does a soaked Atsumu leave Kiyoomi thinking of a wet golden retriever, but rather about how lucky it would be to be his tight-fit sweaty jersey that gets to cling to that waist.

To put it plainly: If Atsumu is hot, then you could say Kiyoomi is thirsty. Parched, even.

-- FORWARD --

The season officially begins, and the world watches as the MSBY Black Jackals unleash their share of the monster generation on the league. Between ‘Beam Weapon’ Bokuto, ‘Ninja’ Shoyou, collegiate MVP Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu, they’re a popular quartet in the media.

Atsumu doesn’t have a fun title and he’s like, totally fine with it. It’s cool. Really, it doesn’t bother him, he isn’t jealous. Seriously, he’s not.

“Oh come on Atsumu-san, it’s not that big of a deal!” Hinata throws an arm around his shoulders, his other arm plucking Atsumu’s phone straight out of his hands. “Stop reading the article if it’s just gonna make you grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.” He grumbles. Grumpily.

The four of them are crowded into a booth in an izakaya close to the gym, Bokuto and Hinata now tossing Atsumu’s phone back and forth as he tries to grab it from the sky so he can read what’s on it just one more time, to be sure. 

The article in question is a review from their match the night before, a heated battle against the Red Falcons. It is titled:

MIYA WIELDS ‘BEAM WEAPON’ AND ‘NINJA’ SKILLS TO SOAR PAST FALCONS

“I don’t get why you’re so upset about it Miya, they make it sound like Bokuto is Excalibur and not a perfectly good player on his own without your help and he’s perfectly fine.” Kiyoomi deadpans over his drink.

“Yeah Tsum, I’m fine with it!” Then, loudly whispering in Omi’s direction, “Who’s Excalibur?”

“Magical British sword, you’d like it.”

Bo’s eyes light up like the sun and whispers a revenant ‘hell yeah.’

Seemingly satisfied with himself, Omi presses on, eyes back on Atsumu, who's still huffing but has successfully snatched his phone back and pocketed it.

“They don’t even mention me until the end of the article and I’m not making a fuss.”

Atsumu throws his hands skyward, exclaiming,

“They say ya, and I quote, ‘stole the fourth set single-handedly, ensuring the Jackals victory’, end quote. Then they sing yer praises about how yer ‘incredible talent is the definition of athleticism’, end quote again.”

Their table silences as three sets of eyes blink at him, mouths quirked in wonder. Hinata breaks the lull.

“Woah, how’d you remember that Atsumu-san?”

“Got a photographic memory.”

“He’s been reading it non-stop for an hour, Hinata.” Omi crosses his arms, unconvinced. “Now spill, why are you acting like a child?”

Atsumu drops his head into his hands, mumbling into his fingers, the sound coming out as a garbled mess. Kiyoomi shares a look with Bokuto, who’s confusion is clear.

“One more time for the whole table.”

Atsumu’s head shoots out of his hands and he wails, loud enough for the whole izakaya to hear.

“They called me ‘Miya’!”

Silence descends again, thick as a heavy snowfall. This time, it’s Kiyoomi who has to break the silence, since he’s the one who seems out of the loop at this one.

“That’s your name…You know that right?”

“Tsum-Tsum doesn’t like being called Miya, he prefers Atsumu.” Bokuto supplies, Hinata nodding knowingly beside him. Kiyoomi shrugs.

“Oh. Okay, whatevs.”

“Sakusa-san, why don’t you ever call him that?” Hinata, sweet Hinata, throwing unnecessary curve-balls Kiyoomi’s way.

“Oh, well. Uh—” Come on Kiyoomi, get it together and formulate some kind of answer. “—I guess I’ve never thought about it. I mean it’s what I’ve always called him?”

“But he has a twin.”

“Yes Hinata, I’m aware, I’ve met him.”

“Do you call him Miya too?”

“Yes.”

“But how can you tell them apart then?”

“One is Miya and the other is Miya . Obviously.”

“Huh?”

“Just because they have the same name doesn’t mean I can’t tell them apart.” Kiyoomi huffs. Most of his fellow monster generation are known for athletics only, he has to keep this in mind.

“Well duh, Samu’s a chef with a CrossFit membership, I’m a fuckin’ pro athlete with a Calvin Klein contract, ya can tell the difference now.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, one member of the monsters should be known exclusively for athletics and well-deserved vanity.

“Brag much? Besides, I could before too.”

Silence.

“How? Like in high school, the hair?” Hinata asks.

“It must have been the hair.” Bokuto adds on, nodding along.

“No, middle school too, it’s just—”

Atsumu watches as Omi flushes deeply, picking mindlessly at the corner of his napkin. 

“—they’re different. One is ‘Miya’, who speaks a little lower, walks with longer strides, then there’s ‘ Miya ’, and that’s you.”

“And what am I?”

Omi, without hesitation shoots him a look and responds,

“Infuriating.”

Atsumu can’t help it, he joins Bokuto and Hinata’s laughter at that. Omi’s lips quirk up a little.

"You always freaked me out seeing you at Nationals, but you're funny Omi-san!" Hinata cackles.

Atsumu watches as Omi’s mouth doesn’t change, but his eye sparkles in this little way the others don’t seem to notice. They’re right, of course, he’s still an asshole but he’s a funny asshole.

"Yeah, you reminded me of one of the zombies in Keiji's series, but you're not like him at all — you're like..." Bokuto searches for some word that's bound to be embarrassing and accurate. It comes to him finally and he snaps his fingers and declares, "An oyster! You know? All rough and stoic on the outside, but on the inside you're mushy and shiny."

"Bo, did ya just refer to an oyster as 'stoic'?"

"Well, what else would you call it?"

The rest of the night goes like this, Atsumu successfully dragged out of his slump. When they finally decide to head back to the sharehouse, it’s with big grins on their faces. As they step out into the night, Bokuto and Hinata almost immediately begin racing, boundless energy bridled by nothing as they speed ahead of their teammates, laughing wildly into the evening.

Atsumu and Omi share a look as they watch their friends bound ahead and around the corner at the end of the road, content to keep pace with each other.

As they round the corner themselves Omi, hands deep in his pockets, casts a look his way.

“Hey… Atsumu.” His tongue audibly trips over the name, like it’s taking a test-drive. “Should we talk about it?”

“Bout what?”

“You know the um... Thing .” The word is loaded without him trying.

“Hm?”

Omi’s jaw clenches, which is impressive that Atsumu notices, because he’s wearing his mask. Maybe Omi isn’t the only one who’s been keeping track over the years.

“I’m just kiddin’ Omi, jeeze.”

They’ve yet to talk about the whole ‘soulmate’ situation. Months now they’ve been on the same team and they have successfully avoided it. 

“Do ya want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Then why do ya think we should?”

“Fair point. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s talk about what that article said about me again. Wasn’t there something about my ‘incredible talent’ being the ‘definition of athleticism?’ Am I misquoting?”

“Come on Omi, why ya gotta rub it in like that?”

“Quit whining, Atsu. It’s not a good look on you.”

Atsumu’s heart rattles his ribs at the sound of that name, screaming for attention.

“Liar. Everything looks good on me.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

He can’t quite figure out why it makes him giddy, the idea that Kiyoomi can tell him and his brother apart. Maybe it’s because the one person who insists on calling him ‘Miya’ doesn’t think of him as ‘just’ Miya, he just is Miya. There’s a difference there, he swears.

Would be nice to have a cool nickname in the media though.

Maybe he could float ‘Atsu’ by PR, he likes the ring of it.

-- THE OTHER SIDE --

They’ve been working on this play for a while now. It’s late. Even Hinata ‘I don’t count laps as a punishment, they’re so fun’ Shoyou has left for the night. But it isn’t right yet.

He tosses the ball and immediately dashes for his run-up, practicing this kind of thing with just the two of them is difficult.

Kiyoomi knows he has a pride thing, and that he’s quietly competitive to a fault, he is very aware of all of these facts, thank you very much. So watching Hinata, who he quite likes actually, do that minus tempo with Atsumu feels like a taunt.

Atsumu shoots the ball and—

He misses it completely. He lands with a disappointed kind of thud, lacking his usual grace.

They’ve also just finished a week of out-of-town games and today had a 2 hour practice of drills and scrimmages so the timing of said pride could have been better. But the minus tempo looked so good, and it would be so cool if more than one spiker on the team could do it, and he should be able to do it anyways. If Hinata can just waltz in from Brazil knowing how to—

“Sakusa, come on. Ya gotta stop, yer gonna hurt yerself.”

He’s so tired, and he’s aching. He doesn’t even have the energy to snark him like he usually would.

“Yeah. I think you might be right.” And Kiyoomi flops to the ground, legs splaying out to the sides and fingers weaving into his curls.

“Well as I live and breathe, Omi-Omi admits I’m right.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“And a please! Who are ya and what have ya done with my—” Atsumu coughs, very smoothly. “— our , Omi-Omi?”

“I’m not that bad am I?”

“What are ya talkin’ about?” Atsumu receives a pout in response. “Use yer words.”

Kiyoomi steals himself, quickly writing a pros and cons list before hearing an echo from a friend and ditching the list. He chooses to inhale and see what comes out on the exhale.

“I think… I think that people get this idea that I don’t want to be liked, or that I need to have distance between myself and the people around me, that I prefer it that way.” Gods, okay, the word vomit is coming and he has no energy or will to stop it. “That’s not exactly the case, it’s simply a product of my goals. I want to be the best, my best, so I choose to surround myself with like-minded people. I don’t like dishonesty or people who aren’t straight up with me so I don’t bother with them. I want to be… safe. Happy, even. If I’m not sure something will… accomplish that goal, I have to give it time before I, um, trust it. I suppose.”

The silence creeps down Kiyoomi’s neck, the feeling of being exposed.

“It’s probably just my own doing but— sorry I don’t know why I’m unloading this on you. You probably have something you’d rather be doing. We should get back to work.”

Atsumu thinks about the call he’s got scheduled with Samu coming up in half an hour, it’s a weekly thing, their little Friday night ritual. He looks at Kiyoomi, sprawled out on the floor in a sweaty heap, looking at him with eyes that usually look so guarded but in this light, in this moment, reveal a tiny crack in the armour.

“Got nothin’ goin’ on right now, let’s talk.”

Kiyoomi blinks up at Atsumu, a little lost.

“Oh. I didn’t have anything else prepared.”

Atsumu’s laugh bounces off the wall of the gym.

“This isn’t a summit debate, we’re just talkin’!” Atsumu watches as Kiyoomi’s face relaxes a little, taking it as a sign to keep going, “Why the Jackals, Omi?”

That nickname used to aggravate Kiyoomi to no end, but somewhere along the way, it’s become something else. Tonight, it’s said almost delicately. It gives him pause. Because why did he pick the Black Jackals? The Adlers were practically breaking down his door trying to get him. Other teams too. He didn’t have to leave everything he knew behind and move to Osaka.

“I suppose, I’ve spent a long time being very safe. A friend of mine told me it might be time to do something that scared myself and see what I found out on the other side of it.”

“Oh? Ya find anything interestin’?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes involuntarily.

“Found somethin’ annoyin’ as all hell.”

Gasp. Oh no.

“Kansai-ben!” Atsumu barks, pointing directly at Kiyoomi. He’s been perceived.

The silence following his outcry fills the gym, weighted and full. It’s broken with Omi’s snort of laughter that is so ugly, Atsumu can’t even begin to comprehend how it came out of such a pretty face.

“Gods, this is the worst day of my life.” Kiyoomi grumbles good-naturedly, running a hand through his curls as he does.

“Naw, I don’t think it is. Come on, now that yer essentially a good-ol’ Hyogo boy, we gotta celebrate. I’m thinkin’ ramen at that place down the street.”

“You just want to stop practising, slacker.” Kiyoomi reaches forward towards Atsumu, making little grabbing motions until the setter helps hoist him up and off the ground.

“I’m savin’ yer life, Omi-Omi. Now hit the showers!” They drop hands as soon as they’re both standing, a brief silence settling as they awkwardly brush their hands off on their shorts, almost performative. 

Before they can actually ‘hit the showers’ they have to quickly break down the net and return the balls they’ve been using to practice, they do so efficiently and silently, moving in sync. It’s not until they’re both collecting their water bottles and making their way to the locker room that Kiyoomi breaks their reprieve.

“I’m telling Osamu that you didn’t take me to Onigiri Miya.”

“He’ll live. Besides, he’s closin’ early tonight, Sunarin’s in town.”

And they continue talking. Voices echoing between their shower stalls, through gathering their bags, all the way down the street. There are a few minutes when their ramen arrives when they pause, but that’s only to refuel. 

When they reach the hallway outside their respective rooms at the sharehouse later that evening, bellies full and heads full of shared stories, Kiyoomi realizes he has, in fact, found something.

It feels like being happy.

-- STUMBLE --

There’s this little park across from the sharehouse that Atsumu frequents at moments like this. Well, park is generous. There is a patch of grass, mostly consumed by gravel and a bright orange slide and two climbing contraptions. During the day, it’s swarmed by children from the nearby elementary school, but at night, it’s mostly deserted. Which is good, because tonight, Omi is sloshed on cheap red wine and some homemade cocktail nicknamed ‘The Wrecker’, courtesy of Komori Motoya.

It’s been a long day, capped off with a brutal game against EJP. They had gone into the high 20’s for the last two sets before falling short to Sunarin’s weird-ass spike at the last second.

Sunarin had been unbearable at the afterparty. Smirking knowingly and going on about how he was so grateful to be on a team that highlighted his assets.

It’s a good thing he’s family. 

They had been holed up in the corner of the kitchen, watching their teams drift through the kitchen to the living room where someone had set up some music, the chatter bleeding through the thin walls of the house. They’ve hit the mid-season break so there’s reason to celebrate, and people are really taking advantage of it. 

Bokuto‘s shirt got caught in the garburator so he was parading around bare-chested and grinning, phone out and on FaceTime with Akaashi so he could ‘be part of the good times’. Komori had been on the roof for a while, but they got him down before he hurt himself. Meian had gone home to tuck in his kids, because that was his definition of celebrating.

And he and Sunarin were gossiping about all of it.

“But why the roof though? There isn’t even a way up there.” Atsumu said.

“He does it back in Nagano, couldn’t tell you how he does it. Life finds a way.” Sunarin shrugged as he spoke.

“But why up there?”

“Says he does his best pining from dramatic heights.” Sunarin said it like that’s the most casual thing to say. “Look out, incoming at 6 o’clock.”

“What—?”

He felt a forehead land on his shoulder and caught a glance of dark curls falling over and into his line of sight.

Ah. Drunk, needy Omi was out to play tonight.

“Wanna look at the sky.” Came out as a muffled grumble from the mouth covered by the back of his shirt.

Atsumu rolled his eyes at Sunarin, not even attempting to mask the smile creeping over his features.

“Okay Omi-Omi, we can go look at the sky.”

“...see if I can find Uranus.”

Of course, Sunarin heard and howled.

Which brought them here. Across the street from the sharehouse, standing on the top of a playground, on one of the little bridges connecting the two large main structures. 

He loves it in moments like this because of the timeless, quiet air. The way that you can stand on a playground at any age and feel the desire to slide down a slide or start playing tag. It reminds him a little bit of home whenever he’s a little homesick.

“I can’t see anything.” Omi pouts. He honest-to-god's pouts . It’s not like Atsumu hasn’t seen it before, it’s actually a pretty regular setting for his friend's face. But this pout is a little exaggerated, lip pushed out that little bit farther, cheeks flushed warm with drink, it’s almost too much.

“Sure ya can Omi, look. There’s a few stars out.” He points one at a time at each pinprick of light breaking through the sky.

“I wanted to show you Gemini, but we can’t see it here.” Oh and he’s whining. Must have been the Merlot. Heh.

“I know. Back home, there’s this farm out where Kita lives, ya can see them all out there, makes ya feel really small. But in a nice way.”

“I understand.” Omi hums happily. “I’d like to see that.”

Atsumu bites the inside of his cheek to stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

I’ll bring ya sometime.

Not that he doesn’t want to, he very much wants to actually. The thought takes him by surprise for a second, but then settles into something recognizable. Yeah, that seems about right actually.

“Here.” He digs his phone out from his back pocket and dips into the App Store to quickly download what he needs.

“What is it?” Omi needles, head perching on his shoulder and peering at the screen.

“Hold yer horses, yer so impatient.”

He feels fingers poking at his back in an incessant rhythm. He sighs big.

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing.” The poking stops. What a dramatic, endearing ass. Atsumu’s face hurts from grinning. “Look at this, Omi.”

And he boots up the Star Map on his phone, tilting the screen towards the sky and watching as stars pop onto the screen, little words typing out beside them describing which major stars they are, and the systems they’re attached to.

He looks at Omi, whose head is still on his shoulder, but who’s eyes are as wide as the moon.

“Look! There.”

Long fingers wrap around his wrist, tilting the screen a bit to the right before stopping. New writing pops onto the screen, highlighting a section of stars.

GEMINI - The Twins (Greek mythology Castor and Pollux) - 85 stars

“Get it? Twins.”

“Yeah Omi, I get it. Which one am I then? I think I look a little like this one on the right.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Callin’ me stupid?”

“No not you , just the—” he waves his hands at the sky, huffing all the way, “—it’s the principle!”

“I’m not followin’ ya.”

“It’s like, the stars! The thing with constellations is that they don’t actually look like a lion, two fish, or some ancient hero. They look like dots of light burning hundreds of thousands of miles away. We fill in the lines and connect the dots so that they look like something we come to recognize. We imagine them into existence and then write stories in the distance between them. Then all those little pinpricks mean something. So no, you don’t look like a star, you’re Atsumu, and that— that’s— well… I suppose that should be enough.” Then he stills completely, eyes widening and jaw slacking, and speaks with a clarity he hasn’t had for a few hours now. “Atsu, I don’t feel so good.”

Hm. Maybe that’s why Komori called it ‘The Wrecker.’ He’s barely containing a giggle at Omi’s drunk ramblings as he pockets his phone and places his hands on his shoulders.

“Okay, come on. Let’s get ya down and back home Sir Chugs-a-Lot.”

Omi just silently nods, letting Atsumu drag him over to the side of the playground and towards the ladder built for bodies much smaller than theirs. He hops down first and turns back up towards where Omi is now seated at the top of the ladder, looking down on him with those slightly out of focus eyes. He lifts his arms towards the plastered man.

“Ya can use me for support okay?”

Omi’s lips curl ever so softly skywards as he speaks,

“I already do.”

And the force of that tiny smile and those chosen words knock the breath straight out of Atsumu’s lungs. Oh, he’s going to do everything he can to keep that smile there.

Oh.

So this is what Samu meant.

-- THE NEXT MORNING --

Kiyoomi peels his eyes open with the kind of dedication only the truly hungover know, only to find himself eye-to-eye with his cousin.

“Fuck you.” It comes out gravelly and dry. Motoya’s grin is far too bright.

“Aw, come on Kiyo, it looked like you had a lot of fun last night!”

Kiyoomi pushes himself to sit up in his bed so he is on Motoya’s level, Motoya sits perched on the edge with two mugs of what is (hopefully) coffee. Motoya hands one over with an eye roll.

“It’s almost 10, at least try to pretend you’re a functioning adult.”

“How are you like this? The only clear memory of you I have from last night is you chugging rum straight from a bottle.”

“I’m a man of mystery and talent, what can I say? Now, get up!”

“We’re on break, Motoya. You’re my guest, shouldn’t you be-”

“You promised to go on this double date with me, Kiyo! You said you would and it’s gonna be very difficult for me to flaunt my charm if I’m dragging a zombie around.”

Shit. The brunch date. He had really hoped Motoya would forget in the boozy haze of last night.

“No you don’t!” Motoya wrenches the comforter straight off his bed as Kiyoomi tries to bury himself in it’s depths, “Listen, all I’m asking is a few hours of your time to drink some mimosa’s and make some small talk—I know, your greatest weakness—then you can come back here and get back to whatever you’ve got going on with Miya. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Kiyoomi squints at Motoya. Motoya, who has always been dangerous. Motoya, with his little brows and all-seeing eyes.

“What do you mean ‘whatever I’ve got going on with Miya’?”

“How am I supposed to know? I mean you were all over him last night.” Motoya grins like the gremlin he is as he speaks, “Is there something you aren’t telling me about, sweet Kiyo-chan? Found someone to pass the time in Osaka with?”

He means well, Kiyoomi knows that. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t know better, because Kiyoomi’s never told Motoya. Motoya, who’s dreamed of a soulmate since they were children, who’s searched for them since they were teenagers, Motoya, who has yet to find them in adulthood.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, Jan.” The eyeroll Motoya gifts him with as he speaks could be framed as an example for future generations.

“I don’t know anyone named Jan.”

“You’re the worst, you know that? I love you, but you’re the worst. Now put on one of your nice shirts and let’s get going! I have a really good feeling about this one.”

Kiyoomi drags his feet out of bed and towards his closet where he considers for a moment calling the whole thing off. Dropping the metaphorical bomb that he has absolutely zero interest in entertaining whoever his date may be.

It’s been so long, how would that conversation even go?

“Hey Motoya, guess what? I found my soulmate when we were 17 and never told you, but now that he and I have a good thing going, I think it’s time to let you in on it.”

“Hey Kiyo, fuck you straight to hell. I’m never talking to you again.”

So Kiyoomi digs through his closet for his nicest shirt, chugs his coffee, takes a painkiller for his headache, and readies himself for brunch with some random guy who isn’t—

Well, you know.

— — —

Atsumu gets back to the sharehouse after seeing Sunarin off at the shinkansen just past noon. They had a nice morning walking to the station, shooting the shit, but over their hours together, he didn’t breach the topic of his revelation from the previous night.

There’s really only one person he has to talk to, he doesn't know how he’s going to go about it, but that little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Samu tells him that he should start there. Whatever it is.

However, he’s reached a roadblock in the form of the sentence Bokuto has just garbled out between gulps of his green smoothie.

“You’re looking for Omi? He’s on a date with Komori! Huh, that kinda rhymes.”

“On a date with… his cousin?”

“Oh no! Not like that! Double date. He’s on a double date with someone, and the double he’s with includes Komori.”

“Huh. Okay. Cool.”

He shouldn't be annoyed, but well, he’s no saint. Sakusa’s allowed to go on dates if he wants to, it’s not like he belongs to Atsumu or anything. Even if technically —

No. Stop that train of thought, that isn’t fair.

“You okay, Tsum-Tsum? You look red, and not in a ‘fresh-from-the-gym’ way.” 

“Yeah Bo, perfectly fine.” He says while puffing his cheeks out.

“If you plan on talking to Omi when he’s home,” Bokuto gives him a knowing look, “I would probably cool down a bit. You two can get kinda intense.”

“Ya know?”

Atsumu’s brain has come to a halt. If Bokuto knows how he feels, that probably means others know, and maybe Omi knows. If Omi knows and has decided to go on a date with some guy who’s probably boring and annoying and ugly and terrible… What does that mean?

Bokuto shrugs, licking his lips clean from green sludge.

“I don’t know for sure, cause it’s up to you two if there’s something to know. I like how happy he makes you though. Other than now, cause right now you look like you’re going to burst a blood vessel or rip a hole in the wall.”

Atsumu stares at sweet, honest Bokuto with a look that hopefully conveys everything he needs to get across. Bokuto’s eyes widen and he nods as he takes a step backwards.

“I’m gonna, uh, go finish my smoothie in… the bathroom? I guess?” And Bo hustles out of the kitchen, leaving Atsumu to simmer in the thick, ugly stew of his own mind.

A date huh?

— — —

Kiyoomi is, in a word, done. It’s late afternoon by the time he drags his feet towards the front door of the sharehouse, Motoya safely on a train to Kiyoomi’s aunt and uncle’s home in Tokyo.

Brunch had been, as he expected, a tiring affair.

What’s-his-name (his date) was dull, not even worth remembering. Their conversation was, somehow, duller. When what’s-his-name had asked for a bite of his souffle pancakes while snaking his fork towards Kiyoomi’s plate, Kiyoomi hadn’t attempted to hide his shudder of disgust and batted away the encroaching fork with his napkin. He had then flagged down the waiter for a fresh napkin.

Motoya had shot what’s-his-name a very apologetic look at that.

The pancakes had been good though. The cafe had an option to get them topped with peaches. Those would have been a little too sweet for Kiyoomi, but he knows Atsumu would like them. They should go sometime.

He pushes the front door open, trades his shoes for his slippers and slinks off to his room to hopefully sleep off the rest of his hangover and wake up in a world that feels a little bit easier.

But that would be too simple.

As he’s pulling his oversized sleep shirt over his head, his date shirt discarded to the hamper, there’s a hard knock at his door. A single knock.

Weird.

He pulls his door open, revealing Atsumu, hair looking a mess, arms crossed over his chest, obviously looking for a fight. Fucking fantastic.

Lucky for Atsumu, Kiyoomi’s tired, tense, and ready to snap.

“What?”

“Ya went on a date.” One of the nice things about Atsumu, one of the many things Kiyoomi loves actually, is that he never asks a question he already knows the answer to. He prefers the direct approach.

“Sure.”

Atsumu is trying, really. He’s spent the last few hours in his room, staring daggers through his and Omi’s shared wall while breathing deeply. When he had heard him shuffling around he had tried to repeat what Bokuto had said in his head.

Cool down.

He tries to remember what Samu had told him almost a full year ago.

Sometimes ya care so much, like so much that it hurts the people yer tryin’ to care for.

He’s trying, he swears, but Omi’s always had the ability to meet him, match him, and challenge him. In times like this, it’s not always for the best.

“What the fuck does ‘ sure ’ mean?” Atsumu tears his hands through his hair as he says it.

He watches Omi put in conscious effort to look down his nose as he says,

“It means yes, Miya. I went on a date.”

And that just won’t do in Atsumu’s world. Breathing heavy, he fists his hands at his sides, gritting words out between his teeth.

“Ya plan on goin’ on a second date?”

“Obviously not, idiot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Omi huffs, and not in the cute way.

“Figure it out, Miya”

“And what’s with this ‘Miya’ bullshit? I can’t read yer fu—” 

Shit, Atsumu’s yelling, and he can see Omi drawing in on himself. Atsumu takes a deep breath, trying to pull on his own reins, and tries again, speaking carefully, 

“—I can’t read yer mind Omi, much as I’d like to. So can we talk or somethin’?”

Kiyoomi feels himself deflate at Atsumu’s change of tone, the fight leaving as quickly as it had caught him. 

“I… Atsumu, I’m really tired. I don’t want to fight with you right now, fun as it sounds.” They share a secret little smile that almost verges on sad, a shared ache.

Atsumu takes in the way Omi’s fingers are picking at his shirt sleeves, the way his eyelids are hanging just a little lower than they usually do.

“Why dontcha go to sleep and we can talk tomorrow or somethin’? Might be best fer both of us.”

“Sure.”

“What does this ‘sure’ mean?”

“It means yes, Atsu. It means let’s reconvene this—” his words are broken by a yawn, “—tomorrow.”

With the permission to sleep, Atsumu watches as Omi quickly begins to descend into slumber right there in front of him. He lays a hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, steadying him before he falls over.

“Okay don’t fall asleep standin’ up, ya horse.”

“Heh. Cause they stand when they sleep.”

“Yeah Omi, that’s what I meant.”

Omi nods, head listlessly bobbing with the movement. Atsumu can’t help but chuckle. He’s so weak for this weirdo.

It’s quick work getting him tucked into bed, Omi’s body almost pulling him magnetically down. Atsumu draws the blackout curtains that are Omi’s favourite purchase, casting the room into near darkness, even though it’s only just past 5 o’clock. He closes the door gently behind him as he makes his way back to his own room on the other side of the wall.

Things may not be necessarily solved, but it seems they’re on a course to something, and that’s all Atsumu can really ask for.

— — —

Kiyoomi wakes feeling rested and like a new person entirely. He turns to his side to grab his phone where it is (thankfully) charging to check his morning texts. The light from his phone piercing the darkness, his eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden change. His blackout curtains rock.

Oh my god.

It’s 3 in the fucking morning.

He sighs heavily, head landing back on his pillow. He went to sleep at 5 o’clock and now he is wide awake, screwing his sleep schedule into oblivion.

Great.

He huffs around fiddling on his phone for a bit until he surrenders to his new reality, throwing on a sweater and heads to the shared kitchen, busying himself with a cup of tea.

As he stares out into the dark sky, steam tendrils pass his vision, making little shapes against the navy of the early morning, the sweet smell of chamomile warming his nose.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until he hears soft footsteps shuffle down the hallway, the sky has lightened marginally though.

“Hey.” Atsumu’s hair is still a disaster, but his voice is quite clear. He’s changed from sleep clothes into his joggers and a sweater.

“Hey, yourself.” Kiyoomi goes to take a sip of tea and realizes he’s long since finished his cup.

“Was gonna go on my mornin’ run.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost 5, Omi.” Then, as Atsumu turns to the door to leave, “ya comin’ or not?”

“Give me a few minutes, I’ll meet you out front.”

It takes a bit longer than a few minutes, but Kiyoomi finds himself changed and outside in the crisp, dark morning air, breath puffing in front of his face. Atsumu cracks his neck, Kiyoomi winces and Atsumu laughs loudly, probably waking half of Osaka.

They run in silence, it’s a familiar route they’ve taken before. Kiyoomi isn’t a naturally early riser, but he’s joined Atsumu enough times to know that this one has hills. A particular one looks over the neighbourhood they live in, if Kiyoomi looks carefully he can make out the silhouette of the slide at the park. They slow as they reach this lookout point before coming to a stand still, turning to look back on the view. It might not be much, but it’s theirs.

Out of his peripheral, he sees Atsumu’s head quirk upwards before his hand follows, pointing skywards.

“That a shootin’ star?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes join his in the heavens.

“No, that’s a satellite. It’s not hard to tell the difference, it’s literally blinking at you.”

“Huh. Weird.”

They watch the little light progress across the sky, attempting to outrun the looming sunrise.

“It must be lonely up there.”

“I’m sure yer little satellite friend is okay, Omi.” Atsumu’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s coloured with mirth. Kiyoomi could get lost in it if he was allowed.

“It just seems to be a very solitary life, floating around up there. They’re connecting all of us down here, our texts, e-mail, everything, but they’re just orbiting around us, not quite in contact with us. It’s a little sad. The moon is technically one too, you know. A natural satellite. People seem to forget that. The moon’s not as sad though.”

“Hadn’t thought of it like that.” 

And Atsumu looks at the contemplative look on Omi’s face tilted upwards, the way that one curl hides his moles, the way his eye’s drink in the sky, his relaxed lips, and feels a tingling in his own palms. It feels like when he’s taken his place on the court before his jump serve and he knows it’s going to be a no-touch service ace. Completely in tune.

“Listen, Omi—”

“I never wanted to be alone, Atsumu. I just never wanted to end up like my parents, they hated each other—" He quirks a smile, casting a look at Atsumu’s eyes, "—and I loathed you."

Atsumu can’t help but grin because of course, the moment he figures it out for himself, Omi takes the lead, barreling ahead of him. It’s one of the many things he lo– well, you know.

“Ya couldn’t loathe me.”

“Well, not forever.”

“Try as ya might.” Atsumu nods up. “I think yer little floatin’ pal is probably okay bein’ out there doin’ it’s thing, cause that’s what it was always meant to do, ya know?”

“Fair point.”

“And I don’t give a shit that we’re soulmates. Just so ya know.”

“Oh.” Kiyoomi’s looks at him, face scrunching in confusion.

“I’m sayin’, I don’t want ya just cause some cosmic force told me to choose you. I want ya cause yer you, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Yer not just my soulmate. Yer an asshole, a nightmare, the prickliest bastard I’ve ever met.” 

He has to physically jump out of the way as Kiyoomi kicks out at him, a smirk revealing the softness in his violent attempt. Atsumu’s heart stutters at all of it as he dodges the incoming foot.

“But yer also the person who makes me excited to get outta bed. Yer my teammate, my best friend, my Omi-Omi.”

The warm look in Kiyoomi’s eye as he catches Atsumu’s gaze could melt ice, but there’s a moment of hesitancy still living in the corner.

“Is it… okay that it’s taken so long? And that I hated you?”

“Hey, don’t forget, I hated ya too, we’re equals.”

Kiyoomi chuckles quietly, eyes casting down at his feet. Atsumu reaches his foot out, knocking against Omi’s own.

"Besides, maybe that's what works fer us."

"Go on."

"Like, maybe if we know how it really feels to hate each other, we'll remember how hard it was, so we can just... Gods this is gonna sound fuckin' dramatic as shit."

"Probably, but I'm still listening."

Atsumu meets Kiyoomi’s eye—the deepest emerald he’s ever seen. How he ever thought those eyes were black, he’ll never know.

"We could just choose to love each other instead. Maybe we can do that every day, keep choosing each other."

Kiyoomi simply nods, thinking.

"That sounds easy.”

“I think it could be that simple, Omi. Whaddya think?”

“I’m willing to find out, Atsu.”

Kiyoomi reaches out, just a hand extended into the air, towards Atsumu. Long fingers that stretch past any remaining walls, searching for purchase. Atsumu answers by wrapping his own fingers, perpetually warm, around Kiyoomi’s icy ones, threading their fingers together and tugging him to his side. Shoulders knock against each other, a perfect fit.

“You want me?” Kiyoomi breathes into the space between them.

“Yeah Omi, I do.”

They stand there under the slowly lightening sky welcoming a new day, hands clasped, sides warming each other, eyes watching as the dregs of night steep into morning, stars hiding away as the sun makes her presence known. It’s a comfortable thing. 

When their feet move forward again, eventually leading them back to the front door of the sharehouse, hands still wrapped in the others, they’re already home. As the dawn bleeds into morning, fingers knot between inky curls and fair strands are brushed away from golden eyes. 

The stars align as their lips meet.

-- ENDING --

Not everyone finds their soulmate. 

Distance can be a factor, some find them at the wrong time, others reject the idea of a soulmate entirely. However, if you're two lucky jerks with volleyballs for brains, you may find them at the wrong time, but truly discover them at the perfectly right time. 

And if you're even luckier, you may get a choice in the matter.

-- FIN --