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When Kiyoomi was small, his mother explained the passage of the seasons to him. She sketched a circle in the air with her finger and tracked summer melting away into fall, into winter, and coming alive again come spring.
She told him he shared his birthday with the first day of spring on a long walk through the park in their sleepy Tokyo suburb, his small hand clutched in hers. His mother would point to the singing birds and the early spring flowers erupting from the earth and the green bursting from the scraggy, winter-worn trees. When the sakura trees blossomed and it was as though the sky and maybe the rest of the world glowed pink, Kiyoomi’s mother would take his face in her hands and tell him all it was for him.
Kiyoomi doesn’t like summer, hates its sticky heat and the way it seems to last forever. But he likes the possibility of it. He’s fond of March and April and May, when everything is fresh and new and the rest of the year feels like a far-off promise.
Sometimes, Kiyoomi will get up far too early and go for a long run along the Yodo River. It’s just him and a few other runners and the early morning sun glinting off the dark, choppy surface of the water. By the time he’s home and showered it’s barely nine in the morning, the rest of the day empty before him. Ready to be anything he might want it to be.
He’s always thought of that moment as springtime shrunk down and caught in a jar. Smaller, sure, but the feeling of standing on a ledge, the world spread out below him, is the same.
Or, sometimes, spring feels like this: Miya Atsumu, backlit by the setting sun, trailing down the wide steps of the Black Jackals’ practice gym. Atsumu’s sweet-talking Kiyoomi into a trip to the bubble tea cafe around the corner but Kiyoomi’s not really paying attention; he knows he’ll go. They’re the last out — last off the court, Atsumu taking his time in the locker room, Kiyoomi lingering. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Taking a moment longer in the showers, trying to look busy while Atsumu works through his five step post-practice skincare routine and bugs Hinata about Kageyama. All so that he can follow Atsumu out of the locker room and have every last bit of his attention.
The thing is, Kiyoomi’s feelings have been bubbling over from annoyance into something else for months now. He thought the ugly feeling burning through his stomach was jealousy those first few months, caught steadfast watching the easy way Atsumu would charm every post-game interviewer and barista. Kiyoomi would watch, arms crossed and frown hidden behind his mask. And then, late one autumn night, he realized he had got it backwards. He wishes he were that journalist, that barista, anyone on the business end of Atsumu’s sharp eyes and smirk.
Now, it’s the first warm twilight of March and every protective bit of ice Kiyoomi’s built inside himself is melting because Atsumu’s bleached hair has caught fire in the fading light and if he were to turn his head just right the sun might catch his eyes, too, Kiyoomi thinks. He couldn’t bear that.
Atsumu pushes the door open to the bubble tea cafe. The bell above the entrance chimes merrily and the girl behind the counter calls out a greeting. Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi and asks, “You want anything? I’m buyin’.”
Kiyoomi shakes his head no and Atsumu shrugs and turns his attention to the girl at the counter. She’s young, probably around the same age as them, and pretty. Her cheeks flush the same colour as her bubblegum pink hair when Atsumu leans farther into her space then is probably polite. He gives her his best half charming, half cocky smirk as he tells her his order and she nods and turns away to prepare it.
Atsumu’s birthday is October fifth. Only weeks after the autumn equinox, when the leaves burn the same red as Atsumu’s old Inarizaki jacket and the gold of their Black Jackals one. The start of autumn to Kiyoomi’s start of spring. The start of something and its end.
...
Onigiri Miya’s tucked away on a small side street just off of a major thoroughfare in Osaka City proper. A long wooden bar with stools takes up one wall, a couple Western-style tables and chairs tucked along the other. Everything is oak and shades of warm grey, somehow cozy and sophisticated at once.
It’s a winning combination — the restaurant is pleasantly loud when Kiyoomi lets himself in, as it is most nights. He has to step aside to let someone run a to-go order up to the front in a paper bag stamped with the Onigiri Miya logo as he makes his way to the restaurant’s back corner where Bokuto is waving him over.
“Oi, Omigiri!” he calls, loud enough for Hinata to shove him and Atsumu to shrink in his seat and avoid the curious looks of the couple at the next table over.
He’s not entirely sure why he agrees to these nights out with Bokuto, Hinata and Atsumu.
They’re the four youngest members of the team, and maybe more pressing, the four favourites from the Jackals to be picked for the national team. Bokuto’s only gotten better since Rio, and Hinata’s enchanted the entire country (if not the greater volleyball world) with his fierce talent and sunny grin. Kiyoomi likes to think he’s humble but he knows his spikes are impossible to dig. Hinata reminds him any chance he gets.
And the three of them only make Atsumu look better, scoring point after point off his tosses. Atsumu passes out smiles like sweets to children and makes everything he does look so goddamn easy.
Maybe he agrees because of the way his heart jumps when he sees the spot left for him at the table is beside Atsumu and the hungry way Atsumu’s looking at him. He shoves the feeling down and slides into his seat.
“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu says. He angles his body towards Kiyoomi and watches, head propped up against his hand, sleeve of his burgundy t-shirt tight around his bicep, as Kiyoomi sanitizes his hands, removes his mask, and then sanitizes his hands again before stowing both safely in his jacket pocket. Atsumu’s hair is delightfully tousled and he’s smirking, for some reason.
“What, Miya,” Kiyoomi says. He looks over to Bokuto and Hinata completely engrossed in their own conversation across the table.
“Nothin’. Just watchin’,” Atsumu says lowly. It’s his slow, sultry voice, the one he uses on unsuspecting reporters and employees working the counter at bubble tea cafes. Voice pitched down low and private.
Kiyoomi’s heard it so many times but never has he been its target. He feels it low and warm in his stomach.
Someone clears their throat and Kiyoomi looks up to see Osamu standing at the end of the table, eyebrows raised.
Atsumu deflates and whines, “What do you want, ‘Samu?”
“Nothin’,” Osamu mocks. “Just watchin’.”
Hinata cracks up and Atsumu puts his head down on the table to hide his face. Kiyoomi reaches over and very gingerly pats Atsumu’s shoulder. The fabric of the shirt is warm from his skin. Atsumu’s shoulders tense up at his touch and Kiyoomi pulls his hand away.
“Anyway,” Osamu says once Hinata and Bokuto have stopped laughing and Atsumu’s sitting up again. “What can I get you guys?”
They rattle off their orders and Hinata excuses himself to visit the washroom.
“So, Sakusa-san!” Bokuto slams the palms of his hands down on the table. Atsumu jolts in his seat. “How are you!”
Kiyoomi eyes him warily. “I’m fine. Why.”
“No reason.” Bokuto shrugs. There’s something mischievous about him; Kiyoomi knows he’s not going to like the next words that come out of his big, crooked mouth. “I hear a big day is coming up.”
Kiyoomi sits up straight. “Who told you?”
“I have my sources,” Bokuto says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
Atsumu’s eyes flash between them like he’s watching a long rally before he finally narrows them. “What the fuck are you guys talkin’ about,” he whines.
“Sakusa’s birthday,” Bokuto says before Kiyoomi can do something dramatic like call Akaashi and get him to shut Bokuto up. “It’s next week.” Kiyoomi wishes pestilence and famine on Bokuto for this. And probably Motoya; his tiny hands are all over it.
Atsumu makes an ugly noise of delight. “And no one told me this!”
“It’s on the twentieth,” Bokuto says. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Kiyoomi is cursing his family line across the table.
“How romantic!” Atsumu places both of his hands on his chest as if he’s holding his heart inside of him and closes his eyes. “The first day of spring!”
Kiyoomi makes a displeased sound. “Please don’t get any ideas.”
“Shou-kun!” Atsumu calls to Hinata, bounding back to their table. “Are you hearing this?”
“Sakusa-san’s birthday?” Hinata sits down and turns to Kiyoomi. “It’s soon, right?”
Kiyoomi nods. Doesn’t even question how Hinata knows. “Next week,” he repeats dutifully.
“Oh!” Hinata claps his hands together. “What are you going to do?”
“Very little, hopefully,” he says.
Hinata makes a noise that sounds frighteningly like he’s been mortally wounded. “Nothing?”
“We’ll see about that,” Atsumu says, waggling his dark eyebrows. Kiyoomi wants to push him to the floor so badly — to do what, he’s not sure.
Osamu wanders over a little while later, pulls up a chair and declares he’s on his break.
He pulls his hat off and runs his hand through his hair, damp with sweat, and then fits the hat back on before fixing his gaze on Kiyoomi and saying, “You look good tonight.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you, I guess.” Kiyoomi looks down at himself as if to confirm. He’s wearing an old jewel-blue fleece crewneck everyone here has seen before and his hair could stand a wash.
“Don’t you think so, ‘Tsumu?” Osamu’s sporting a nasty looking self-satisfied smirk. He cuts his gaze over to his brother conspiratorially.
Atsumu, however, looks like he might commit fratricide. Kiyoomi might help him.
“Blue’s a great colour on you,” Hinata says. Bokuto nods fiercely.
“Your hair,” Bokuto adds, as if those two words alone constitute a compliment. He twirls his finger as if to mime a curl, and then pretends to flip it out of his face. Is that supposed to be his bangs?
“They’re right,” Atsumu says, finally. His eyes land on Kiyoomi’s for a moment, and then flutter away. He mutters, “You look good.”
Kiyoomi’s face feels warm. He opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of a chair scraping against the floor stops him.
Osamu stands up and sighs. “That’s my queue, guys” he says. “Thanks for havin’ me.”
“‘Tsumu,” Osamu motions towards the far back corner of the restaurant.
“Yeah, yeah.” Atsumu stands and follows Osamu back around the counter. Kiyoomi watches them jostle each other into the depths of the kitchen.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Bokuto asks around his straw. He’s drinking some kind of carbonated juice tea; Kiyoomi’s not sure if Onigiri Miya stocks it or if Bokuto picks it up somewhere and Osamu provides a glass and turns the other way.
Hinata gives Bokuto a significant look, and once their eyes meet, Hinata’s eyes flash over to Kiyoomi.
“Oh. Right.” He looks over to Kiyoomi sheepishly and takes a long sip of his drink. Both of them fall silent.
So it’s about him, then. There’s no point trying to get anything out of them; he just waits until Atsumu gets back so he can feel the heat radiating off of him again.
…
On Kiyoomi’s birthday — the big old two three — he wakes up to the sound of his alarm and the white of the ceiling and thinks Alright. He gets up and slides his feet into his slippers and makes his bed in the weak light of the early morning.
It’s too early yet for a call from his parents but Motoya, awake for EJP’s morning practice, texts him Happy birthday!!!!! Want to call later? as Kiyoomi sits down to eat breakfast. Motoya sends a second text a moment later: And happy first day of spring :).
Kiyoomi puts his headphones in and walks to the train station. The crisp wind all but drowns out the music but the sky is clear and the dull winter brown is quietly and carefully exploding into green. Everything looks shiny and new in the morning sun, as though the breeze had lifted away the dust and grime like it might a dirty sheet.
Practice is a familiar routine of drills and splitting off into teams and scrimmaging. Atsumu’s wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, which is a special kind of torture, and Kiyoomi tries not to watch the smooth flex of his biceps, or the way he runs his hands through his sweat-damp hair. or his thighs when he squats down low to set the ball in a long, spiralling arc. Kiyoomi leaps high in the air and draws his arm back in an angle that would be painful for anyone else. The ball slams down hard and wicked on the other side of net, just outside the triangle of Hinata arms as he dives for it.
“Got something you need to work out, Sakusa-san?” Hinata crows, shaking his arms out and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Somewhere, Bokuto guffaws. Kiyoomi ignores them both.
Coach Foster calls practice and the team gathers in a loose circle. Kiyoomi stands a step back from everyone else and listens on as Foster outlines their practice regimen.
“The Kurowashiki tournament is just around the corner,” he says seriously. Kiyoomi’s eyes land on Atsumu’s hands. He’s tapping his thumb and middle finger together in a quick, anxious pattern. “We all still have a lot of work to put in.”
Foster looks around, making eye contact with each player. This is something he does, Kiyoomi’s noticed, to make a point of something. Make sure everyone knows he’s serious.
Finally, his gaze lands on Hinata and he crosses his arms, suddenly looking more like a belaboured school teacher than professional volleyball coach. “Now,” he says with a sigh, “I believe Hinata has something to say.”
Hinata smiles widely and jogs over to retrieve something thin and rectangular hidden between the objects littering the bench where Foster keeps his game schedules and clipboards.
Oh no, Kiyoomi thinks belatedly. He takes another step back.
The team parts and Hinata bounds over to where Kiyoomi’s standing. He looks firmly at an old banner hanging in the rafters and not over to where Atsumu’s surely casting him a shitty smirk. He wants something, anything, maybe an American satellite to fall from the sky into the MSBY practice gym. Or something simpler: maybe Hinata trips on his shoelaces and the team is too busy laughing to remember who he was walking over to.
That line of thinking is awful wishful, Kiyoomi knows. Hinata has the coordination of an expertly calibrated robot. He makes it over to Kiyoomi in one piece, shoelaces tightly knotted to boot, and presents him with a fern green envelope with his name printed neatly in the middle. “Happy birthday, Sakusa-san!”
Kiyoomi opens the envelope and extracts a card with a dog wearing a birthday hat printed on it. A speech bubble erupts from its maw, reading I HOPE YOU HAVE A PAWSOME BIRTHDAY! in gaudy lime green text. Inside, the blank paper is filled with signatures and short birthday messages. Hinata’s drawn a picture vaguely resembling a bird sitting on its ass. Bokuto’s signed his name with a heart, scratched it out, and then drawn a smiley face instead. He scans the card for familiar messy handwriting — there, in the corner, Atsumu’s message reads Happy birthday Omi! A small winky face is doodled beside it.
Kiyoomi holds the card to his chest and bows ever so slightly. “Thank you.”
Atsumu corners him after practice. Everyone else has left and Kiyoomi has stuffed the birthday card in the bottom of his bag, tucked away in its envelope. He steps as far into Kiyoomi’s space as he dares, spelling of soap and his expensive cocoa butter body lotion. His hands are shoved into his pockets.
Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “What.”
“Just wonderin’ if you got anything planned for today?”
He does, kind of. “I’m talking to Motoya and my parents later.”
“Okay. Well. I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to get a drink or somethin’. To celebrate.”
Kiyoomi narrows his eyes further. “I told you I don’t want a party.”
Atsumu blanches. “I was thinkin’ just you and me.”
“Alright,” Kiyoomi says, surprising himself. Is he asking me out?
Did I just say yes?
…
Atsumu’s already there when Kiyoomi arrives at Onigiri Miya hours later, leaning too far forward on his stool and bothering Osamu over the counter. The breadth of his shoulders stretches the material of his forest green hoodie taut, and his hair’s tousled as though he’s a romantic lead in a drama or about to star in a music video. That’s to say, he looks good.
At the sound of the opening door, Atsumu twists to meet Kiyoomi’s gaze. He smiles, something smaller and easier than his usual grin. Kiyoomi likes this curve to Atsumu’s mouth. He likes that Atsumu saved it for him.
It’s a quiet afternoon, sunlight slipping in through the shop’s narrow front windows. Osamu’s set up a chopping block behind the bar and lazily cuts vegetables between customers. Atsumu must have told him they were coming; he wishes Kiyoomi happy birthday and slides a plate of umeboshi onigiri towards him. Kiyoomi pulls out the stool next to Atsumu and takes off his jacket.
Atsumu squints at him. “So are you a pisces or an aries?”
“Pisces,” Osamu supplies. He cuts the tips off a bunch of green onions and begins to chop, fingers folded in protectively. Kiyoomi feels the urge to question his choice of Miya twin to fall for. “I think.”
“Pisces,” Kiyoomi agrees. “Or so I’ve heard.”
Atsumu considers this. “What’s Sunarin?”
“An aquarius,” Osamu says easily. He gathers the green onions between his knife and free hand and transfers them to a pint container.
Atsumu squints at Osamu, now. “How do you know all this shit?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Osamu says, shrugging. “Picked it up somewhere, I guess.”
The door opens and the sounds of the street outside trickle in. Osamu calls out a greeting to the customers, two university age guys in jeans and bomber jackets, and turns away from Kiyoomi and Atsumu.
Atsumu stands, stretching his hands up and over his head. His hoodie rides up a bit to reveal a stretch of smooth, tanned skin that Kiyoomi pointedly doesn’t look at.
He mutters something about his ass going numb from ‘Samu’s stupid stools and ducks around the other side of the bar. Kiyoomi watches him wash his hands (18 seconds, he counts) and then pluck a bunch of green onions from the tub Osamu had been working through. He slices off the ends, just as Osamu had, and cuts them into small, evenly-sized pieces. He’s not quite as fast as Osamu but he curls his fingers up the same way and he gets through the bunch almost as quick.
Huh, Kiyoomi thinks.
“Showing off, ‘Tsumu?” Osamu says, appearing beside Atsumu.
Atsumu flushes at Osamu’s taunt. “No. Just doing your work for you.”
“Sure,” Osamu agrees. “Now go away. You cuttin’ my vegetables is probably a health code violation.”
“Don’t say that!” Atsumu cries.
“What? Health code violation?” Osamu fixes his skeptical look on Kiyoomi, now. “Will you leave, Sakusa-kun?”
Both Miyas turn to him. Atsumu, eyes wide, knowing its not beyond Kiyoomi to get up and leave, and Osamu standing beside him with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised expectantly.
“No,” Kiyoomi says. His voice sounds rough, for some reason, and he coughs to clear his throat. When he looks up at Atsumu, his eyes have softened. “No, I think I’ll stay for a while.”
…
Kiyoomi arrives home later with a take-out bag from Osamu and a warm feeling in his chest, like a piece of fruit left out in the sun.
“Oh! You’re eating dinner?” Motoya says, his voice crackling through Kiyoomi’s computer speakers.
Kiyoomi nods. He’d gotten home barely twenty minutes ago — enough time to shower and prop his laptop open. He’d been arranging the food on plates from his kitchen cupboard when his computer had chimed with an incoming FaceTime call. “I just got home.”
“From practice?” Motoya frowns. He knows Kiyoomi’s isolationist tendencies better than anyone. “I thought you only had morning practice today?”
“I went out for a while with Miya Atsumu,” Kiyoomi explains.
Motoya’s eyes light up. “It’s like that now, huh?”
“No, not like that,” Kiyoomi insists, though his cheeks feel warm.
“Alright. Sure.” Motoya pulls a smoothie into frame and takes a long sip. “You do know he’s obsessed with you, right?”
“He likes me a normal amount.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” Motoya says.
Kiyoomi pulls the plate of onigiri towards him and selects one wrapped in a narrow slice of nori. It’s something with salmon, Osamu had said.
“Is that takeout?” Motoya asks. Kiyoomi recognizes it as a generous attempt to steer the subject away from Miya Atsumu, but then Motoya asks the all-important follow up question: “Where from?”
Kiyoomi takes a slow bite. It feels like he’s giving himself away. “Miya Osamu,” he finally says.
Motoya chokes a mouthful of smoothie and covers his mouth with his hand as he coughs through it. Kiyoomi’s ears and cheeks go dangerously pink.
“And you think he likes you a normal amount?” Motoya says, after a long drink of water. “Either both Miyas are obsessed with you or Osamu is hitting on you for Atsumu.”
“Or Atsumu is hitting on me for Osamu,” Kiyoomi adds, just to be troublesome. He thinks of last week when Osamu told him he looked good, and the way Atsumu’s ears went red when he hid his face in his arms.
“Unlikely, but excellent contribution.” Motoya takes another careful sip of smoothie.“This is probably some kind of arcane Miya mating ritual.”
Kiyoomi frowns. “I really hope not.”
“Sure you don’t,” Motoya says.
Motoya’s right, though. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind being the object of Atsumu’s desires — he enjoys it, even.
Kiyoomi knows he’s set up a messy labyrinth around himself and engraved his rules into stone. Atsumu has danced around his boundaries like a ballerina on pointe, all quick and light and easy to look at.
“So you went on a date with both Miyas,” Motoya says. He tries to wolf whistle, but it doesn’t quite work, and the sound of it catches on the laptop speakers. “Happy birthday, man.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.
…
The team had insisted on a birthday party and Kiyoomi had insisted otherwise. Then Osamu emailed Kiyoomi himself to tell him he would close down the restaurant for the night for the party and no one beyond the team was invited — the only exceptions being Osamu because, well, it was his restaurant, and Akaashi because he was in town and Kiyoomi’s not so evil he’d leave Akaashi cooped up in an apartment. Kiyoomi had no good reason to say no. Osamu happened to mention that Atsumu's behind the whole thing.
Now, Kiyoomi follows Atsumu out to the small alley behind Onigiri Miya. He does so involuntarily — a dirty back alley is high on his list of places he’d rather avoid, and he’s not drunk but the sake cocktail Osamu set in front of him has turned Atsumu into the north pole and Kiyoomi’s nothing if not an effective magnet.
“Is the party alright?” Atsumu asks. He’s leaning up against the wall, ass of his dress pants and back of his shirt surely dirty with it. His shoulders are drawn up and arms tightly crossed against the cold. He taps the pad of his thumb to his ring finger. Kiyoomi’s standing a couple feet away but he can see the goosebumps on his bare arms where his t-shirt stops. He’d tossed the sweater and jean jacket he’d arrived in aside somewhere, the press of bodies in the small shop more than enough heat. Kiyoomi wants to run inside and find Atsumu’s sweater for him but if the distance between them gets any greater Kiyoomi might burst. He wants to reach over and rub heat back into his arms with his own hands, wants to set a fire between them and watch it burn. Instead, he takes one step closer.
Atsumu’s usual bravado has melted into the uneven pavement below them. He’s standing so still, neck of a beer bottle clenched tight between the fingers of his right hand. The only movement is the silent tap tap tap of his finger and thumb and his hair caught in the breeze.
“I know you didn’t really want anything but I planned it and I know you’re comfortable here and I thought if it was just people you know already it would be okay.”
He looks over at Kiyoomi, finally, finally, eyes alive and glowing in the flickering streetlight. “It’s alright if you don’t like it, Omi.”
It sounds an awful lot like he means to say it’s alright if you don’t like me.
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to say — everything inside of him is a swirling mess of feeling he doesn’t really know how to deal with, so he says, simply, “I like it.”
You’re right, he means. I’m comfortable here, with our teammates, at your brother’s restaurant, in this city. With you. He feels like he’s giving into something enormous.
“Oh,” Atsumu says. He blinks. “Oh. Good.”
I like you, he means.
He steps forward and kisses Atsumu.
Out here, wedged between buildings in the middle of the city, Kiyoomi can’t see the bright green of spring’s first leaves or the sakura trees lining Osaka castle. But he holds Atsumu’s face in his hands, and his skin is warm like a cloudless day in May.
“What—” Atsumu starts. He cuts himself off and his eyes dart down to Kiyoomi’s lips. He swallows and Kiyoomi feels it under his fingers. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “Yes, I mean it.”
They’re kissing again, Kiyoomi pressing Atsumu into the wall and there’s a chilly hand at the nape of his neck, fingers caught in his hair. He reaches for Atsumu’s bicep and the goosebumps melt away under his palm like butter in a pan.
Osamu kicks the door open eventually. “Aren’t you guys cold?”
“Samu!” Atsumu cries, voice shrill. They’re so close; Atsumu’s voice is loud in his ear.
“Are you even compatible? A pisces and a libra?” Osamu says loftily. He’s trying to hide a grin. “Whatever. I’ll leave you to it.” He gives them a salute and then the door shuts loud and solid behind him.
A breeze blows through the alley. Atsumu shivers but Kiyoomi can feel the first hints of a warm spring on it. Atsumu swipes his thumb across Kiyoomi cheekbone and leaves his hand there. His mouth is caught in that small, private smile Kiyoomi likes so much. Springtime, caught in a jar. In a twist of lips.
All of it is for you.