Work Text:
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
- Emily Brontë (1818-1848)
- Eat a meal made by someone else without watching them prepare it. Even just a bite.
It fucking sucked. Kiyoomi knew it was for his own good, and he knew he should have started therapy sooner, but it didn’t change the fact that it fucking sucked. “It’s just the way I am; it’s just what makes Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi” he had told himself, for as long as he could remember.
For as long as seeing, hearing, or even thinking the word “dirty” would convince him he was infected with some unidentified ailment. For as long as believing that not opening and closing his bedroom door eight times in the morning would cause misfortune to him and everyone he loved. For as long as unwanted thoughts would assail him without warning, sending him into a sometimes debilitating spiral.
He had told himself it was “just something he lived with” but it took until Atsumu had responded to that excuse with, “But Omi, what you’re doin’, that’s not livin’” for him to stop and realize—after the initial burn of Atsumu’s comment had faded—that Atsumu was right. Nobody had pushed Kiyoomi on it before like Atsumu had. Nobody had cared enough about him to stop it from continuing unchecked, thinking they were helping by letting Kiyoomi go about his rituals without comment. Nobody had forced him to think about his behaviors, think about himself.
Nobody had urged him to understand that just because this was how he’d always been in the past, didn’t mean it was how he had to be in the future.
So, after that, he found himself a therapist, and he found himself a diagnosis: OCD. Obsessive compulsive disorder. Obsessions. Thoughts, images, or impulses that intruded repeatedly on his mind, accompanied by intense and uncomfortable emotions like fear or disgust. Compulsions. The behaviors he performed, or the things he avoided, to neutralize the obsessions.
Worried that Atsumu was going to die of a heart attack while at the grocery store? Better open and close the cap of your face wash twenty times to make sure it doesn’t happen!
His obsessions and compulsions weren’t bound by rules of logic, and Kiyoomi knew this, he always had. That didn’t stop the feelings from occurring, and it didn’t stop the “what if?” from seeping in. What if he didn’t do it and then Atsumu really did die and it would be his fault? The mere chance was too much to risk.
It wasn’t helping anyone, least of all Kiyoomi, but he thought it was his only option. To exist with the possibility that one of his obsessions could come true because he didn’t abide by one of his rules wasn’t an existence he was interested in humoring. However, to exist with the incessant need to perform his compulsions, to be ruled by them at every waking moment, wasn’t much of an existence either.
Along with OCD, another player joined the game—mysophobia, or fear of germs, in the most general sense. It wasn’t just washing his hands frequently, carrying around hand sanitizer, or cleaning his apartment daily—that would be too easy to explain, too easy to understand, too easy to anticipate.
No, his mind was a loose cannon. There were some constants—he couldn’t sleep without a shower, sliding into bed with all the day’s germs still on him was not an option no matter how late he and Atsumu got back, and he couldn’t read about someone being ill without showering immediately afterwards. Showers were very important to Kiyoomi.
Out of the blue, without rhyme or reason, it would rear its ugly head, shoving lies into his skull that he couldn’t help but succumb to. Once during practice, he was ambushed with the thought that the volleyball he was holding was infected and he would be too unless he touched nothing else and washed his hands within the next minute. Flustered and embarrassed, he had run to the bathroom without another word, Atsumu watching him go.
It made no sense but sense wasn’t something OCD was familiar with.
More recently, Osamu and Suna had invited Kiyoomi and Atsumu over for dinner while Osamu tried out some possible new menu items. Osamu had been adamant that he didn’t want or need any help in the kitchen, snapping at Suna when he came in to hover. So, Suna had grabbed them all beers and they sat in the small living room, Suna in a plush chair while Atsumu leaned comfortably against Kiyoomi on the couch.
Kiyoomi was relaxed and content as he idly ran his hands up and down Atsumu’s arms while he laughed at some story Suna was telling. Until a smell wafted through from the kitchen, making Kiyoomi’s stomach grumble. Then, with it came a rogue thought—what if, because Kiyoomi hadn’t watched Osamu prepare the food, hadn’t watched him wash it properly, that something in it was going to give him food poisoning?
Kiyoomi had a sticky brain, and once the thought made itself known, he knew it wasn’t going to leave, not with the rising wave of panic he felt shoot up his spine. Atsumu felt him tense, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow and a gentle hand to his thigh.
“Something wrong, Omi?”
Shaking his head slightly, Kiyoomi didn’t respond, instead just tried so damn hard to forget about it. This, of course, just made him think about it more. By the time Osamu was done, a huge spread of food that could easily have served double the amount of people currently present was presented before them. It looked and smelled absolutely delicious.
Kiyoomi couldn’t bring himself to take a single bite of it.
He felt like shit and he apologized profusely, making some piss-poor excuse that nobody believed, but also that nobody wanted to push him on, so they let him be.
Until they got home, until Atsumu pushed him, until Atsumu didn’t let him be, until Atsumu told him that this wasn’t a life. He had been getting steadily worse over the past year and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Atsumu, the way Kiyoomi was being eaten alive by his own mind.
Hence the diagnosis, hence these newly learned terms, hence another three-letter acronym that he was about to become intimately familiar with—ERP, or exposure response and prevention therapy.
The process was, on the face of it, quite simple. ERP took “facing your fears” literally and worked by exposing someone to the thoughts or situations that triggered their compulsions while prohibiting them from doing the behavior.
Simple in theory, agony in practice.
He and his therapist had crafted a list, and slowly but surely, he was going to work through it, and (hopefully) slowly but surely, he was going to take his life back. And Atsumu was whatever Kiyoomi needed him to be along the way—someone to hold him accountable, someone to listen to his frustrations, or just a literal shoulder to cry on.
The first item on the list was one that Atsumu insisted on being a part of. After Osamu’s dinner, that concern had stuck around and Kiyoomi hadn’t eaten a meal that he hadn’t either made himself or been there for its creation, since. Now, it was a Friday evening, and Atsumu was making a simple udon dish that he and Kiyoomi made at least once a week.
Usually, they prepared it together or played a riveting game of ‘who can distract whoever’s cooking that night the fastest’ with noses to the neck or hands slipped under shirts and around biceps. Atsumu said it was a health hazard and one of these days he was going to cut a finger off, but feeling the way Atsumu’s arms flexed as he chopped vegetables was too good of an opportunity for Kiyoomi to pass up.
Tonight, though, Kiyoomi was banished to the bedroom, book in hand that he was in no way able to focus on. Their living room was connected to their kitchen, so he couldn’t even talk with Atsumu as he waited in an attempt to take his mind off what was happening. Atsumu had left him with a gentle kiss to the forehead that turned into a kiss on the lips as Kiyoomi lifted his head up, feeling a moment of comfort as Atsumu’s mouth pressed against his.
“I don’t want to do this,” Kiyoomi had whispered once they separated.
“I know ya don’t, that’s sorta the whole point of this, right?” Atsumu responded, a small smile on his face that wasn’t meant to mock him but rather to put him at ease.
Kiyoomi had just taken a deep breath, and with one final kiss to his cheek, Atsumu was gone.
He knew Atsumu would wash everything first, he knew Atsumu would never feed him spoiled meat, and he had watched him prepare this meal without Kiyoomi’s intervention many times before. That didn’t change the way his mind howled at him, the way his breathing had steadily increased with every minute, the way that he was utterly convinced that no matter how much Atsumu cleaned, it wouldn’t be enough if Kiyoomi wasn’t there to see it.
Eventually, with a light knock at the door, Atsumu leaned in.
“Dinner is served!” he announced with a flourish, making Kiyoomi smile slightly, despite it all.
Kiyoomi followed Atsumu to their small dining table, everything laid out like it always was, no fancier or more casual than ever, Kiyoomi’s bowl at his usual spot and Atsumu’s at his. Atsumu hadn’t made it some big event, because it wasn’t. It was just a normal dinner and Kiyoomi would be fine.
They sat down, Atsumu eyeing him warily as he took his first bite.
Kiyoomi stared.
Atsumu took another bite.
Kiyoomi stared.
Atsumu took a third bite, and Kiyoomi spoke.
“Tsumu, I don’t think I can do this.”
His voice was small as he stared at the noodles, breathed in the comforting aroma of the broth.
“Sure, ya can, Omi-Omi, and you better do it soon before it gets cold and then ya won’t want to eat it regardless,” Atsumu said, strong and confident in his reply even as he stuck out his leg and hooked an ankle around Kiyoomi’s. The touch centered him, reminded him that this wasn’t supposed to be easy.
The point was to let the anxiety crash into you, overwhelm yourself with it, take the full brunt of it head on, and survive. Survive and show your brain that you’re fine, that you won’t give in, that it won’t win and you’ll move through it.
“One of the things I love the most about ya is that ya never quit anything once ya set your mind to it, so don’t let me down now,” Atsumu said with a challenging smirk and a knock of knees.
It was enough to make Kiyoomi close his eyes and pick up his chopsticks. He swirled them in the broth, the smell once again hitting him, reminding him of Atsumu, of care, of home. Bringing his face forward, he breathed in again, letting the heat of the dish warm his face slightly.
Progress.
“I hate this,” Kiyoomi grumbled. Every noodle was holding countless deadly toxins, sure to bring ruin to his health. Only him, though. Atsumu would be fine, perfectly healthy afterwards. OCD was a tricky bastard like that.
“You’re allowed to hate it but that doesn’t change the situation,” Atsumu responded, quieter than before. “C’mon, ya don’t need to eat it all, just a couple bites. We’re not leaving this table until it happens and we both know that.”
This was something they’d agreed upon beforehand. Kiyoomi was taking his treatment seriously, and it meant that if they were doing something from the list, they were doing something from the list, no cutting corners. He had told Atsumu not to coddle him, not to waver no matter how uncomfortable he seemed or how much he protested.
Atsumu not humoring Kiyoomi’s complaints wasn’t him being cold or uncaring—it was exactly the opposite. It was Atsumu showing how much he loved Kiyoomi and how much he believed in him, that he could do this, that he could get better.
Atsumu slurped up his broth obnoxiously loud in the way he knew Kiyoomi hated, making eye contact the entire time. It was partially to annoy him, Kiyoomi was sure, to bring him the slightest bit out of his anxiety laden state, but it was also a silent suggestion. Start with just the broth.
Kiyoomi set the chopsticks aside and spooned himself a small serving of broth, blowing on it as Atsumu grinned. Ignoring the pounding of his heartbeat that he could feel in his ears, ignoring the way his hand shook as he brought the spoon to his lips, he opened his mouth and swallowed, letting the flavorful broth make its way across his tongue and down his throat.
He felt fucking awful. A traitorous part of his mind tried to tell him that it was because what he was infected with now was actually a new fast-acting disease whose symptoms appeared instantly. Closing his eyes, he set the spoon down, and laid his tight fist against the table, let himself feel every sharp toothed emotion that coursed through him, every stab of anxiety that pricked away at his bones.
A warm hand enclosed his own and Atsumu slowly uncurled Kiyoomi’s fingers until they were locked together with Atsumu’s own, thumb running soothingly up and down his skin.
“Good, Omi, that’s really good,” he said, and Kiyoomi could hear the smile in his voice, the genuine happiness and relief.
After a few moments, Kiyoomi opened his eyes to see Atsumu staring back at him, scanning over his face to ensure he was okay, that he could continue. Kiyoomi nodded stiffly and removed his hand, grabbing the chopsticks once more.
“Where’s the onion?” he said, finally attending to the dish enough to notice their absence.
“Ah, hell, I was hopin’ ya wouldn’t notice…I got distracted at the store the other day and forgot to grab ‘em,” he said.
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and Atsumu continued, “It’s your fault, though, technically! They had that ad campaign you were in plastered all around the store and shit, Omi-Omi, why did ya have to look so fuckin’ good in that sweater? The dark green one, with the turtleneck? Did they let you take that one home with you?”
“Useless horny bastard,” Kiyoomi said with a chuckle as he relaxed further in his seat.
He stirred some more and Atsumu prodded again.
“Well, did they?”
“Yes, Atsumu, they let me keep the damn sweater. Now, are you going to shut up so I can eat this onion-less udon or what?”
Atsumu promptly closed his mouth and took another bite himself, no doubt already thinking of how he could convince Kiyoomi to change into the sweater after dinner even though he was already in his pajamas.
Without preamble, while the feeling of endearment towards Atsumu was still fresh in his chest, Kiyoomi shoved a bite of the udon into his mouth. The taste was everything he knew and loved, reminding him of the times when they didn’t bother with the dinner table and instead ate huddled together on the couch as Atsumu sloshed broth onto the cushions.
His worry and his fear screamed, but his love for Atsumu, for his life, for his home, screamed louder as he took a second bite. Atsumu didn’t say a word until half the bowl later, Kiyoomi pushed it away from him, wordlessly declaring that he was finished.
They sat in silence for a moment, Kiyoomi’s anxiety ebbing, coming down from its peak, retreating further and further into the background with every second that it wasn’t listened to. It was like a flower without sunlight, and Kiyoomi had plans to keep it in the dark for as long as he could.
Promptly, he got up and swept up both their bowls—Atsumu’s completely empty by now—as he went to the kitchen. Before turning on the water to do the dishes, he checked in with himself, make sure that the desire to clean these bowls wasn’t a new compulsion born out of the fact that the rejected an earlier one. Feeling nothing but annoyance at the thought of Atsumu giving him grief for letting them sit unwashed overnight, he decided he was fine, and turned on the water.
As he began to rinse out the second bowl, he felt arms wrap firmly around his waist and hot breath against his ear.
“I’m real proud of ya for that, baby,” Atsumu said, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Ya doin’ alright?”
Kiyoomi leaned back into Atsumu’s embrace, tilting his neck slightly to the side which made Atsumu respond with a pleased hum as he ran his nose along where his lips once were.
“I think I’m…fine, surprisingly. Or, I guess, not so surprisingly, that’s what was supposed to happen. It was fucking awful when I was doing it, but now I just feel, normal?” Kiyoomi said, setting the bowls aside to dry.
He knew this wasn’t a one-time thing, that he would continue to face it until it wasn’t something to be faced anymore. But he also knew that it would get significantly more manageable each time, that this time was by far the hardest it would ever be.
“Mm, that’s good. Wanna watch somethin’? Samu was just tellin’ me about this awful new reality show he and Suna started watchin’ the other day,” Atsumu asked, fingers slipping underneath Kiyoomi’s t-shirt as he squeezed lightly.
Atsumu’s touch had always been Kiyoomi’s tether, especially when his mind would threaten to carry him away. It wasn’t a cure-all and it didn’t eliminate the unease, but it was enough to reign him in, focus his thoughts, bring him closer to center. Most people’s touch did the exact opposite for him and put him on edge, which was probably why Atsumu’s felt so comforting in contrast.
“So, what’d ya say? Let’s watch some awful people get paid to make themselves look even more awful,” Atsumu prodded, reaching past him to turn off the water.
Kiyoomi managed to turn in Atsumu’s grip, soft gazes meeting as he brought their foreheads together.
“Sure, just let me take a quick shower and we can start it,” he said, placing a quick kiss on Atsumu’s lips.
He tasted like the broth. The broth that Kiyoomi ate, without seeing it prepared. Ate and enjoyed and felt completely fine after consuming. A shower would still feel nice, though.
Atsumu kissed him back once before breaking apart to comment, “Showers at night? Isn’t that on your list? Am I supposed to be lettin’ you do that?”
Kiyoomi chuckled; knowing how seriously Atsumu took his role as Kiyoomi’s accountability partner never failed to make his chest hurt in the best way. Kiyoomi was the one doing the work, he was the one having his mind slowly chipped away at in order to mold it into something new, but he only had so much resolve. Atsumu made sure he followed through with his therapy homework, that he didn’t back down when things fucking sucked. Which they did—a lot.
“One thing at a time. That’s next on the list.”
And, it was.
- Go to bed without a shower. Bonus points if you did something physically strenuous that day.
Eating that meal made without the presence of Kiyoomi’s watchful eye—something that had now happened four more times since—had been a whole event; it had required preparation and planning. This, not showering, didn’t require anything. That was sort of the whole point, the inaction.
However, inaction instead of action didn’t make it any easier. The Saturday that Kiyoomi chose to tackle that particular item on the list—not showering became his entire day. All he could think about was the fact that tonight, when he curled up in bed next to Atsumu, he would be doing so without a shower. It was a constant thought behind every other thought he had throughout the day, and if he wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, it took center stage.
It was exhausting.
Knowingly staying indoors or avoiding physical activity like he and Atsumu’s morning run defeated the whole purpose of the exercise, so he had to go about his day as normal. Atsumu knew what he was doing today, Kiyoomi had told him before they had even gotten out of bed.
Atsumu had just smiled softly and said, “Sounds good.”
Now, it was almost midnight and they were finishing up their latest puzzle—Atsumu had brought one home from a promotional event a couple weeks back and now they were hooked. It was time for bed. A bed without a shower.
Atsumu seemed to have sensed Kiyoomi’s hesitation because as he got up and headed to their bedroom, he turned and asked, “Would it make it better or worse for ya if I showered right now?”
Kiyoomi considered this.
“Neither, really. I’m not thinking about where your body’s been throughout the day, just mine.”
“Aw, Omi-kun, you’re not thinking about my body?” he said, letting a dramatically fake pout grace his face.
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and stepped forward, planting his hands on the center of Atsumu’s back to push him ahead.
“You’re really not as cute as you think you are.”
Atsumu just laughed—loudly, obnoxiously, and of course, agonizingly endearingly.
Later, Kiyoomi toyed with the damp pieces of bleached hair that were splayed across his chest as Atsumu curled against him, eyes closed and breath steady, but not asleep yet. He was probably waiting to make sure Kiyoomi was able to sleep before letting himself nod off. Needless to say, Kiyoomi was not able to sleep. No, his mind had never felt more awake.
Surely, Atsumu could feel the tightly coiled tension in Kiyoomi’s body. Kiyoomi’s dirty, disease-ridden, non-showered body. It was, quite literally, the only thing he could think about. The day hadn’t been any more or less strenuous than usual, yet Kiyoomi felt like he could detect every individual ounce of filth that had painted his body that day, and that each ounce held the key to a different disease that he would surely be infected with because he wasn’t able to wash it all off at the end of the day.
He knew this wasn’t true, of course. Diseases didn’t work like that, germs didn’t work like that, cleanliness didn’t work like that. It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t real. Still, reality was no match for Kiyoomi’s mind.
Knowing what was true and feeling what was true were two different things, and what Kiyoomi knew to be true at this moment differed greatly from what he felt to be true. That was the hardest thing.
Atsumu lifted his head, meeting Kiyoomi’s gaze with his own, a silent question in his eyes.
“It’s fucking hard,” Kiyoomi said, voice coming out much quieter than intended.
He didn’t know what else to say to convey what he was feeling right now—a potent mix of panic and frustration.
“I know,” Atsumu responded, just as quietly. He didn’t ask if there was anything he could do, because he was already doing it.
Kiyoomi focused on Atsumu’s nose—at the way it tipped up just the slightest bit at the end, at the faint freckles that had started to appear within the past week as they ushered in summer, at its sloping bridge that Kiyoomi had brushed his lips against too many times to count. He wondered if Atsumu had been serious yesterday when he said he wanted to get a nose piercing.
It didn’t work to push the thoughts about showering away, but at least it added a new thought on top of it, diverted his attention for just a moment. Any moment was good, but it wasn’t enough.
“It’s not that I don’t think I can do it. I know I can, but fuck, I don’t want to. I want to get out of bed, take a shower, slide into bed next to you and go the hell to sleep.”
Atsumu sighed as he reached up to card his fingers through Kiyoomi’s (dirty) curls, causing his eyes to close at the contact. He loved Atsumu’s hands, his spindly but strong fingers, and the feel of them weaving their way through his hair was one that could be rivaled by little else.
“Well, ya know ya can’t do that. Even if ya tried to, I wouldn’t let ya,” he said with a grin.
Atsumu wasn’t just saying things to say things, either, Kiyoomi knew he meant what he said. Kiyoomi and his therapist had spent a long time discussing how exactly ERP worked, and specifically how it would work when he did it. Then, he had gone over this information with Atsumu and told Atsumu that nothing they’d be doing would be too much for him—that was the whole point of crafting it with his therapist beforehand—so if he set out to conquer an item on the list, he was going to see it through.
No matter how hard it felt for him in the moment, Atsumu reminded him that quitting wasn’t an option.
“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi responded, in the most tender manner he could manage, meaning none of what he said.
Atsumu leaned forward and kissed him briefly on the forehead before sliding back down and wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi in a vice grip.
“Face it, Omi-Omi, you’re stuck here for the night, get used to it. It’s fuckin’ hard, that’s true, but that also means it’s workin’, right?”
Kiyoomi grumbled in assent and breathed deep, succumbing to the anxiety peak that he could feel threatening to overtake him. Letting that peak overtake him was the point, he reminded himself. It had to get worse before it got better. So, he brought an arm around Atsumu’s back and shoved his hand underneath his worn t-shirt, feeling for the warm skin underneath. Atsumu made a pleased noise at the contact and squeezed Kiyoomi impossibly tighter.
“Love you,” Kiyoomi all but whispered.
“Love ya too. Need me to stay awake with ya?” Atsumu asked, even though he seemed half-asleep already.
“No, it’s fine—well, not fine but…I’m good. Go to sleep.”
“Ya sure?”
“I’m sure, goodnight Tsumu.”
“Kay, night Omi.”
Within moments Kiyoomi felt Atsumu’s breaths even out under his hand, consciousness slipping away. Sometime later, in the middle of trying to remember if they were meeting Bokuto tomorrow for lunch or dinner, Kiyoomi realized that the peak had passed. He was left feeling worn out, but fine.
There was still a trickle of worry at the back of his mind, trying to tell him to jump out of bed and rush into the shower as quickly as possible. When he had gotten into bed, those thoughts had been a yell, drowning out anything else that tried to make its presence known. Now, it was barely a whisper.
He wondered if Atsumu would be willing to give him a blowjob in the shower tomorrow morning in celebration, already knowing the answer.
- Eat food after 9pm.
Because they were competitive assholes, Kiyoomi and Atsumu had turned it into a game. Kiyoomi had convinced himself that between the hours of 9pm and whenever Kiyoomi woke up the next morning, all food became spoiled—even processed food where the worst that could happen was it would get a bit stale. Again, an easy enough one to conquer in theory—simply eat after 9pm. Much easier said than done however.
Or, at least, it would have been, if this were happening a couple months ago. However, he was six months into this, six months into becoming familiar with the rush of fear and anxiety, and six months into becoming familiar with the way that the rush lasted for a shorter and shorter amount of time the more he did it.
So, still, when Atsumu opened all the cabinets and the fridge to ask, “What’re ya hungry for tonight, Omi-Omi?” precisely at 9:01pm, he didn’t feel good. He felt the swoop in his stomach, the panic settling in, his mind already off to the races crafting a contingency plan for what he would do tomorrow if and when he fell ill because of whatever he was about to eat.
But he pushed forward, not ignoring the anxiety but trying not to give it the attention it so desperately craved. Plus, he was hungry—he and Atsumu had eaten an early dinner for this very reason. It didn’t matter what the specific type of food was, he would feel the same about it either way. However, eating a full second meal was pushing it, even for where Kiyoomi was at the moment, so he wandered over to their snack cabinet.
He felt Atsumu’s head on his shoulder as he approached him from behind and leaned too much of his muscled frame on Kiyoomi, knowing that he would always take it. Kiyoomi reached forward and snagged a can of salted peanuts. A bit mundane, perhaps, but they would certainly do.
Almost as soon as his hands touched the container, Atsumu said, “How many of those d’ya think ya can catch in your mouth in a minute?”
“Twenty,” he answered immediately, feeling Atsumu smile into his shoulder in response.
That’s how Kiyoomi found himself running around their living room looking like an absolute fool with his mouth wide open, Atsumu laughing hysterically. You’d think this would be their game to dominate, that Atsumu’s skill in tossing and aiming a volleyball would transfer to this. You would be wrong.
In actuality, Kiyoomi didn’t think Atsumu was aiming at all. He had come to believe that it was more fun for Atsumu to just toss a peanut wherever and watch as Kiyoomi scrambled to catch it. During the first round, Kiyoomi knew he was off his game, simultaneously trying not to have an anxiety attack as he also tried to anticipate where the hell Atsumu was going to throw to next. The subsequent rounds, though, he thought he did pretty well with all things considered, but that didn’t stop Atsumu from calling him a scrub when his final best score was twelve.
“Fuck off, like you could do any better,” Kiyoomi said, tossing three into his own mouth in a row.
Atsumu’s eyebrows narrowed as he responded, “Ya know I could. Alright, I officially challenge ya to a Nut Off—whoever gets the most in their own mouth within a minute wins, and the loser is on vacuuming duty for a month.”
Vacuuming was the one chore both Kiyoomi and Atsumu despised—this was a high-risk situation. Still, the fact that possibly having to vacuum was Kiyoomi’s chief concern at the moment and not that these peanuts would give him some mysterious illness was already a win in his book.
“A ‘Nut Off’? Have I ever told you how much I despise you?” Kiyoomi asked, giving Atsumu his most disdainful look as he lounged on their sofa and blew Kiyoomi a kiss that finished in a wolfish grin.
“Love ya too, babe. Now, are ya in or not?”
“Is that even a question? Of course, I’m in, and of course, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Kiyoomi did not kick his ass, it wasn’t even close. But, as he popped another handful in his mouth nearly an hour later, at 10pm, and thought nothing of it, he smiled anyway.
- Wear a shirt that someone else picked out for you.
Atsumu was having too much fun with this one. Normally, picking out what clothes to wear was a big deal for Kiyoomi because once selected, he couldn’t change his mind or else he would experience nebulous “bad luck” for the day—according to his brain. So, Tuesday morning, as they were getting ready for practice, Kiyoomi picked out a shirt, then promptly turned to Atsumu and told him to choose a different one.
Atsumu gave him a once-over as if he didn’t spend half the day ogling Kiyoomi anyway, then turned to their t-shirt drawer, seemingly deep in thought. Kiyoomi stood, nervously toying with the shirt he had originally selected as the unease grew. If he didn’t wear the shirt currently in his hand, then Atsumu would get run over by a bus on their way, or someone would come to practice sick, or he’d miss every hit tossed his way.
Or, very possibly, absolutely none of those things would happen, because it was just a shirt.
This was what he repeated to himself ad nauseum as Atsumu threw a very old and very thin black tank top at him, complete with deep openings down the sides. Kiyoomi would barely categorize this piece of fabric as a shirt, and he told Atsumu as such.
“It’s in the t-shirt drawer, so therefore, it’s a shirt! Ya put it there yourself!” he protested. “You’re not allowed to veto my choice, just put the damn thing on!”
Atsumu was right, Kiyoomi had to wear the shirt no matter what. So, rolling his eyes and muttering curses under his breath, he shoved on the “shirt” as Atsumu watched appreciatively.
“There? You happy?”
“Yes, very,” Atsumu said, stepping closer and catching Kiyoomi in a kiss way too deep and way too lingering for the fact that they were already running late.
However, that didn’t stop Kiyoomi from opening his mouth the second Atsumu’s tongue poked at it, or tangling his fingers in Atsumu’s hair as Atsumu reached down to graze along Kiyoomi’s ribs, conveniently out in the open due to the shirt. He broke away with a pant and a kiss to the cheek.
“Ya should let me pick your outfit every morning, Omi-kun,” Atsumu said as they walked out the door hand in hand.
“Absolutely not, once was enough,” he said, remembering the reason they were doing all this in the first place.
Somewhere in between the shirt going on his body and the blistering kiss that had followed, the feeling of distress had washed over him, subsequently subsided, and he hadn’t even noticed. He wasn’t sure if he should be giving himself or Atsumu’s lips the credit, but he was feeling generous and it had been almost eight months since he started this, so he let himself have it.
?. Stop reading your book on a page that ends in nine.
Eventually, he didn’t need to number every single one, because they ceased to be important enough to get that type of acknowledgement. He recognized that an action he was about to do (or not do) was a compulsion, let the concern wash over him, and went on with his day, not engaging with it. These impulses, these desires, these fears, were like ants now, and he noticed them only to stomp them out before they could spread or make a home in him.
They didn’t go away completely and he knew they never would—that’s what the word ‘chronic’ in chronic mental illness meant. He would always have obsessions and compulsions to some extent, but instead of feeling like mental boulders he didn’t have the strength to push over, now most of them, the everyday ones that would crop up, felt like small pebbles, easily dislodged with a small kick of his shoe. The larger ones, the sustained ones that he was still working through may still be boulders, but Kiyoomi was stronger now and he wasn’t trying to push them away alone anymore.
One night, as Atsumu was passed out on his stomach to his left, taking up at least three quarters of their bed himself, Kiyoomi placed his bookmark precisely on page 279. It felt wrong, but only for a second. He sat with that feeling, but only for a second. Then, he reached over, turned off the light on their nightstand, and after running his fingers through Atsumu’s hair one last time, went to sleep. That was it.
At his first session, his therapist had asked him to imagine a life where he wasn’t governed by his OCD. He physically couldn’t do it; his thoughts and compulsions had been his own personal tyrant for so long that to imagine a life where he wasn’t bound by them, where he was the one in control, was just too far outside the realm of possibility.
Now, though, he didn’t have to imagine it. He was living it. He wasn’t just living it, he was living, period. And, thinking back to that earlier conversation with Atsumu over a year ago, that wasn’t something he could have said before.
It fucking sucked, until it didn’t.