Archive of Our Own

“So,” the interviewer picks up his stack of papers — papers Kiyoomi knows for a fact are blank — and shuffles the stack, then knocks it against the counter in a way that never fails to grate against Kiyoomi’s nerves. “You two —” His gaze flickers between Atsumu and Kiyoomi then back again. “You two have been married for —” he looks down at the blank paper. “Seven years?” 

“Eight,” Kiyoomi corrects without hesitation.

The interviewer laughs — a loud hah-hah-hah that makes Kiyoomi’s hair stand on end. “Of course. Of course. My mistake. Eight years is a long time.”

Objectively, Kiyoomi supposes that, yes, eight years is a long time but he’s never been one to sit back and quantify things that way. 

“You know,” the interviewer continues “We’re here to ask all the burning questions.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to be reminded. He knows. The press is always trying to stick their nose where it doesn’t belong. He used to hate this kind of thing. Press events were the bane of his existence. And part of him was convinced that they were cooked up just to spite him. But that was a long time ago. Since then, he’s developed his own system for dealing with them: fuck with them. 

Maybe’s it’s a little unprofessional or childish, but he thinks it’s fair game. If they have the right to ask invasive and borderline rude questions, then he reserves the right to answer them however the fuck he wants. His personal favorite tactic is to find that perfect middle ground. Something that sounds utterly ridiculous, almost outlandish, but grounded in enough reality that while everyone is sure that’s it’s a joke, that Kiyoomi is just fucking with them, there is just enough room for the little voice at the back of their head to whisper... but what if? Because it’s just close enough to what could be true. 

Afterward, he almost always gets chewed out by their coach or Meian, their captain, or some poor soul from public relations for the MSBY Black Jackals. But Kiyoomi has never once regretted it. He’s a professional volleyball player, not fodder for gossip and cheap dime novels. 

“First and foremost, let’s get that burning question out of the way.” 

Oh, here we go. 

“At 37 years old, have you given any thoughts to retirement?” The interviewer cocks their head to the side, a wide (and fake — trust him, Kiyoomi would know) smile plastered across their face. 

Kiyoomi breathes out through his nose and huffs a laugh. “Retirement? No, I plan to play until I’m in my sixties.” 

The interviewer laughs. Kiyoomi does not. The interviewer stares at him, waiting for him to crack. Kiyoomi does not crack. The air around them grows a little thicker as the tension builds, as everyone waits for the punchline to Kiyoomi’s joke. (It’s not a joke — after all, he’s a part of a family full of current and former professional volleyball players, he’ll have people to play the game with until the end of time).

The interviewer shuffles his papers. “Don’t most professionals retire in their thirties or forties?” 

“I’m not most professionals.” 

Next to him, Kiyoomi feels Atsumu stiffen. Kiyoomi doesn’t need to look at his face to know that he’s trying not to laugh. 

The interviewer turns to Atsumu, surely praying for some kind of answer with any semblance of normalcy. 

“That’s true, have ya seen the way his joints are all bendy? I haven’t met any other Japanese professional volleyball players that can do that.” 

Kiyoomi holds up his wrist, ready to demonstrate. “See—” 

“No! That’s quite alright.” He suppresses a little gag. “We’ll take your word for it. What about you? Any plans for retirement in your future?” 

Atsumu laughs. “They’ll have to drag me off of the court kicking and screaming before I go. I still think I’ve got another ten years in me.” 

“Ten years!?” 

“There’s plenty of professionals who work into their late forties,” Atsumu says without missing a beat. “And I’m gonna be one of them.” 

The interviewer blinks. Despite Kiyoomi’s proclivity for fucking with the press at any given opportunity, this is not one of those times. Kiyoomi and Atsumu want another decade in the sport, and Kiyoomi can count on one hand how many things in this world have the ability to stand in their way. Barring natural disasters or unforeseen health issues, Kiyoomi and Atsumu aren’t going anywhere. 

In the interviewer’s defense, many of their colleagues have retired or are considering retirement at the very least. This is Meian’s last year with the Black Jackals. Bokuto says he plans to retire when he turns forty in just a few short years. And Suna, being the first of their friends to actually hand in the paperwork, retired a couple of seasons ago, moving back to Hyogo nearly the day the papers were all signed. 

“That’s great news,” the interviewer says like it’s anything but great news. It’s clear that this interviewer isn’t here because he cares about volleyball or stats; he’s here hoping for gossip hot enough to scald. Even if Kiyoomi had any dirty secrets to unearth, he wouldn’t let this poor excuse for a journalist get them. 

The rest of the interview flies by in a blur. Kiyoomi nods when appropriate and lets Atsumu handle the next couple of questions thrown their way. 

“Alright boys, it’s been a fascinating half an hour—” It’s a lie. “ — and I hope we get to do this again soon—” another lie. “— because it’s been a great hour getting to know about the lives of professional volleyball players off of the court.” A third lie. “To wrap it up here, I’ve got one more question for you.” 

Kiyoomi inhales through his teeth. Just when he thought this absolutely tragic social interaction was done and behind him. How annoying. 

“Tell me fellas, are there any kids in your future? Any tiny baby volleyball players on the horizon?” 

Tiny babies on the horizon? What is this? The fucking teletubbies? 

“We’re not planning on coaching any children’s volleyball teams if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Hah-hah-hah. That’s a good one. No, I don’t mean as coaches.” 

“Then what—” Kiyoomi trails off. Tiny volleyball babies on the horizon. Babies. Kids. 

He means... he means... Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s volleyball babies. Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s kids. Kids that are theirs. Kids that they parent and nurture and teach. Those kind of kids. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Kiyoomi isn’t a stranger to children. There are many kids in his life. Between his two siblings, he has no less than five nieces and nephews. And of course, he has a niece on Atsumu’s side. And four more if he includes Komori’s brood in the equation. Not to mention, he’s known Bokuto’s daugher since she was no larger than a volleyball herself and she’s pushing ten years old now. There are more. In fact, every time there is a reunion of any kind — high school, college, national team etc — the children multiply. 

So really, Kiyoomi has no right to get as worked up over this as he is. Kids shouldn’t scare him. Not anymore. And yet, every time he remembers that stupid interviewer’s face and his stupid questions, his heart races. Once he nearly broke out in a cold sweat. Prior to that fateful interview, Kiyoomi had never given much thought to kids of his own. He and Atsumu had talked about the possibility before they got married, of course. And they both agreed that it wasn’t on the agenda for now but that maybe someday they could revisit that conversation if and when that time came. 

Until now, on the rare occasion such a thought did cross his mind, the aforementioned time was in the future. A future so far away that Kiyoomi couldn’t even fathom it, let alone see it in the distance. But that’s different now. Because now the future, that future — one with kids of his own — is all that he can think about. It weighs on him morning, noon, and night. Even his dreams are filled with images of strollers, picture books, and baby bottles. 

This permanent distraction becomes more of a hazard everyday — evidenced by the frisbee that just whacked Kiyoomi right in the temple. He cringes, a hand flying to cup the side of his face as he inhales sharply. The hazards of attending a child’s birthday party never cease to amaze him.

“I’M SORRY OMI-OJI!” Mirai, Kiyoomi’s niece and Osamu and Suna’s four-year-old daughter, flies across the yard to him. “ARE YOU OKAY?” 

Kiyoomi drags in another sharp breath before quickly trying to change his grimace to a smile but judging from the half-panicked, half-scared expression on his niece’s face. He’s certain he wasn’t very successful.

She hugs his leg and pushes her face into his hip, muffling her words, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.

“Mmph srwph fwaa wiping you.” 

And though his forehead still stings, he laughs and says, “Mirai, my dear, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” 

“Mmff mphed hmmmph.” 

Taking care to be gentle, Kiyoomi wedges a hand between Mirai and his thigh, being careful not to pinch her in the process. Then he pries her from his legs, slips his hands under her armpits and swings her off the ground and onto his hip. Mirai’s lips tremble and there’s a downpour forming in her eyes.

“I’m sorry!” she wails as she throws her tiny arms around his neck. “I didn’t mean to!” 

Kiyoomi pats her on the back, hips swaying naturally in time with the taps. “It’s fine, Mirai,” he says, and though his head still hurts and he’ll be surprised if it doesn’t bruise, he does mean it. “Shhh, it’s okay.” 

“Don’t be mad!” She cries against his neck, still unconvinced by Kiyoomi’s admittedly feeble comforting. The waver in her voice sends a pang through his chest. An arrow straight through the heart. Either she’s mastered the art of weaseling her way out of trouble — entirely possible considering she’s being raised by a Miya and Suna Rintarou — or she’s genuinely distraught. Kiyoomi finds that he really doesn’t care either way. Not so long as she stops crying and trusts him when he says that he isn’t angry. All is well — well, except for the lump he can already feel forming on his temple. Who knew frisbees could be so nasty?

“I’m not mad,” he says against the crown of her head. “Could’ve happened to anybody.” 

She sniffles and finally, finally, pulls her face from where he was starting to get worried it would get permanently embedded in his neck. “Really?” Teardrops cling to her eyelashes, glistening in the sunlight. She sniffles again. 

“Really, really?”

In a flash, a smile replaces the frown, so bright it could blind weaker men. She squeals and wriggles out of his grasp. “I love you, Omi-Oji!!!” Then she’s back off into the fray, chasing down the frisbee with the rest of the kids at the birthday party. 

Kiyoomi wonders what it would be like to look out there and see a child of his own squealing with glee and wreaking havoc on unsuspecting party-goers. His heart betrays him as it squeezes in his chest as he heads back inside the home of Miya Osamu and Suna Rintarou in search of some aspirin and maybe some ice while he’s at it.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” Rintarou says, already waiting with one of those QUIK-COLD single-use ice packs he usually associates with the locker room after a particularly grueling practice.

“Where did you—” 

“I carry these with me everywhere. Children are walking hazards.” 

Kiyoomi hisses as he holds it to his face, grateful that at least one of them here was prepared. 

Rintarou leans back against the counter, a small smile on his face — a cross between an evil smirk and one far more proud. “She’s got quite the arm on her, huh.” 

“That’s an understatement.” 

“Buck up buttercup. You’ll have to get used to it if you and Atsumu ever decide to start a family.” 

Kiyoomi’s heart jumps in his chest like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Wanting something he can’t have — not yet. Rintarou cocks his head to the side and eyes Kiyoomi like there is something he’s trying to puzzle out. 

“Something on your mind?” 

Lately, there has been only one thing on his mind. The same thing that’s been on his mind for the past however many months since that damn interview. Kids. A kid. A baby. A baby that he and Atsumu raise together and love with all of their hearts. A family — tiny, but theirs. 

Rintarou snaps his fingers under Kiyoomi’s face. “Did anyone do a concussion test on you? How hard did that frisbee hit you?” 

Kiyoomi blinks. “I don’t have a concussion. No four-year-old is that strong.” 

“So, what is it then?” 

“How did you know when you were ready to be a parent?” Kiyoomi blurts out. 

Whatever he thought Kiyoomi was going to say, this must not have been it.

“And don’t,” Kiyoomi adds before Rintarou has a chance to answer. “Tell me that no one’s ever ready.” 

“Am I really the best person to ask that? I didn’t exactly become a parent in the most conventional way.” 

Now it’s Kyoomi’s turn to blink stupidly at the other. “You literally have a child. We were just talking about her. She nearly took me out with a frisbee, like, seven minutes ago.” 

“ I know that. But my situation was unique. There’s no time to contemplate if you’re ready for a kid when you don’t even know one is on the way.” 

Kiyoomi can admit that Rintarou — and Osamu’s — situation was anything but typical. It’s not every day that a baby is dropped on your doorstep like a damn stork delivered it cradle and all. Osamu certainly hadn’t expected it when that very thing happened to him. And it’s definitely not every day that your best friend — in this case, Rintarou — announces their retirement, offers to move in with you to help and raise the aforementioned baby, then never move out, even once things are settled and okay. 

“But you offered to help. You offered to stay.” 

Rintarou laughs. “Kiyoomi, buddy, was I just supposed to let Osamu flounder on his own? When I was right there and perfectly capable of helping?”

“Exactly,” Kiyoomi says triumphantly. “So you did think about it and you did decide you were at least capable of providing some help. You were ready.” 

Rintarou laughs again. “I guess you could look at it that way. I didn’t consider whether I was qualified for it. And neither did Osamu. Sometimes you just do what needs done as best as you can.” He shakes his head like Kiyoomi’s a little kid he’s trying to deal with. 

“You’re missing the point. Was I ready for a kid? Fuck if I know. Was I committed enough to jump in anyway? Yeah, and I’d do it again. I have never regretted it. I’ve made mistakes and I definitely don’t always know what to do, but I don’t think any parent is capable of making no mistakes. I’m sure you’ll make plenty. But you and Atsumu will be fine.” 

Kiyoomi’s head snaps up. The ice pack clatters onto the counter. “What?” 

Rintarou raises a brow.

“Kids?” Kiyoomi gasps.

“You do want kids, don’t you?” 

Kiyoomi sputters. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Rintarou says with a smirk. “It was kind of obvious.” 

“hUH?” 

“Damn, maybe that frisbee did rattle something inside there. Come on Kiyoomi, why else would you ask me how I knew I was ready to have kids? Despite what Atsumu might try to insist, I’m not actually that dumb.” 

“Who’s dumb?” 

Osamu comes up behind Rintarou, he hooks his chin over Rintarou’s shoulder and snakes an arm around his waist. “Whatcha talkin’ about?” Kiyoomi isn’t sure why but Osamu’s addition to this conversation has his heart hammering in his chest. His stomach bubbles with an uneasy queasiness. 

“Nothing,” he stammers at the same time Rintarou says, “Having kids.” 

“Kids?” Osamu says. His mouth pinches into the same downward line as Atsumu’s does when he’s confused. “We already have a kid.” 

Rintarou huffs a laugh. A fond smile replacing the smirk now that his attention is on Osamu. “Indeed we do.” 

Osamu looks between Kiyoomi and Rintarou like he’s trying to puzzle something out but the answer is just a little too far out of his reach. “Wait,” he says. His gaze comes to rest on Suna. “You want to have another kid?” 

Rintarou shrugs. “Kinda, yeah. But that’s not quite what Kiyoomi and I here were talking about.” 

Osamu blinks. “Suna Rintarou, whaddya mean ya want another kid? Were ya ever gonna tell me about this?” 

“Technically, I just did.” 

Kiyoomi, grateful to have their attention turned anywhere other than him, is all too happy to watch the rapidly changing expressions on Osamu’s face. For all that they are different, there are moments like this where Atsumu and Osamu are so very much the same. The rapid shift from confusion to understanding to joy is followed by a brief return to confusion, and then the pure panic hits. It’s the same sequence Atsumu’s face went through when Kiyoomi had first asked him out all those years ago. 

As Osamu loops back around to confusion, Kiyoomi wonders if he should slowly back out of the room and leave them to it. Wherever this conversation is going, he’s certain he plays no part in it. Unfortunately for Kiyoomi, any and all escape would mean pushing Rintarou and Osamu out of the way. While Osamu tries to sort whatever he’s got going up in that head of his, Rintarou waits patiently. It would be sweet if Kiyoomi didn’t feel utterly out of place. This conversation — this moment — it’s between Rintarou and Osamu... And apparently Kiyoomi. 

“Well fuck,” Osamu says finally. “Another baby, huh?” 

Rintarou grins, so sickly sweet and soft that Kiyoomi is tempted to make fake retching noises. Anything to get him out of this increasingly uncomfortable position. Besides, if their positions were reversed, he knows, without a doubt, it’s what Suna would do. Luckily for them, Kiyoomi is just the tiniest bit more mature. Maybe. 

“I’m in,” Osamu says, and as he dives in to nuzzle Suna’s cheek, Kiyoomi wonders if it can really be that easy. 

Osamu pulls Suna closer, reeling him in until there's nearly nothing between them. 

Gross. Now he really wants to gag. Have they forgotten they are in public? Kiyoomi can’t do this anymore. 

“Wow, well, sounds like the two of you have a lot to talk about or celebrate or something. So I’ll just —” Kiyoomi tries to slide between them, but a hand clamps down on his shoulder and holds him in place. 

“Hold up,” Rintarou says. “We weren’t through talking.” 

Kiyoomi groans. 

“That was before I knew you were going to go all sappy disgusting on me.” 

“Anyway,” Suna says, pulling away from Osamu though their fingers are still tangled together. But his attention is turned back on Kiyoomi. “Don’t even think about slinking off now.” 

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “Don’t say it that way. You make it sound like I’m up to something nefarious.” 

Rintarou shrugs. “Not my problem. So come on, spit it out, what’s got you so worked up about this?” 

“How the hell do you even bring up something like this? It isn’t exactly dinner conversation.” 

“Says who?” asks Rintarou. “Bring it up like anything else. It’s an important conversation, yes. But it’s not that deep.” 

“And important conversation?” Osamu says slowly. “Wait—” He looks between Kiyoomi and Rintarou. Much like before, Osamu’s face switches between confusion, understanding, and joy. Kiyoomi resists the temptation to look at his watch while they wait for the moment understanding breaks across Osamu’s face, and the glint in his eyes is bright enough to rival the sun.

“No!” Osamu gasps. He shakes his head but he’s grinning. “You and Atsumu are finally startin’ a family?” 

By Kiyoomi’s count, there are no less than three issues with this statement: 

1. He and Atsumu already are a family. A child does not make or break that.
2. What fuck is “finally” supposed to mean?
3. Last, and most important to Kiyoomi in this moment, Osamu is way too goddamn loud. After all, Atsumu is right there in the other room.

But instead of voicing all of these, Kiyoomi hones in on the last. “Can you keep your big mouth shut?!” he hisses. He hazards a look into the other room where Atsumu is playing an epic game of Battleship with Bokuto’s kid. 

“What’s the big deal?” Osamu asks.

Kiyoomi belatedly realizes that he’s backed himself into a corner. He has two choices here: he can tell the truth and admit that he hasn’t actually talked to Atsumu of all people about this yet, or he can lie through his teeth. From experience Kiyoomi knows that lying, though the preferable option here, has a 50% chance of failure with both Osamu and Rintarou’s attention on him. To his chagrin, years of shared holidays and family dinners means that they know him far too well. 

“You haven’t told him,” Rintarou says with a smirk.

Kiyoomi sighs. Case in point. “Um.” 

“You haven’t told Atsumu ya want kids?” Osamu asks. 

So what if he hasn’t brought it up with Atsumu yet? He isn’t lying to him or doing anything sneaky. He just wants to be sure before he brings it up. Sure about what exactly though, he isn’t certain. Maybe that means Kiyoomi isn’t ready. Why is this so...confusing? 

“I don’t know if we’re ready. That’s the problem,” Kiyoomi says instead. 

“Well, how the hell will you know if you don’t talk to Atsumu? You’re gonna be a team, right?” 

Kiyoomi nods slowly. He supposes that’s one way of putting it. 

“See,” Rintarou says, slapping him a little too hard on the shoulder to be considered friendly. “Just like in volleyball.” 

Kiyoomi generally tries to avoid volleyball metaphors when it comes to children. There is something about the frightening speed and power he associates with the sport that is a new kind of horrifying when coupled with the image of a baby hardly the size of a volleyball. But he supposes they might have a point. He sighs. Perhaps talking to Atsumu was what he should have done from the beginning. 

“And after ya talk to him,” Osamu says, “if yer still not sure, you can borrow Mirai anytime ya want.” 

“We babysit Mirai all the time.” 

“Exactly,” Osamu says and he claps him on the back. “Nobody is ever ready to be a parent, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be a good one.” 

“Yeah,” Rintarou says, “what he said. And seriously just tell him. Trying to work this all out in your head isn’t doing anyone any good.” 

Kiyoomi hopes they’re right. 

The weekend after Mirai’s birthday party Kiyoomi finds himself back at home, blessedly in their kitchen with minimal risk of frisbee-related injuries. Atsumu stands at the sink washing the dishes that accumulated throughout the morning and afternoon while Kiyoomi sits at the counter, phone in hand endlessly scrolling through adoption parenting forums. More than once he’s considered breaking down and posting his own question. 

How to tell husband of eight years that you’re reading to start a family? Advice pls. 

Or maybe.

How do you know if it’s time to have the talk about having kids? 

Or— 

How to get over yourself long enough to spit out the topic you’ve been dying to talk to your wonderful loving husband of eight years about because you are, in fact, a giant chicken and apparently incapable of COMMUNICATING????

Maybe not that last one. 

Atsumu is in front of the sink, the last few rays of sun illuminate him from behind as he swivels around to face Sakusa. He’s got a towel in one hand that he’s using to dry a plate in the other. It’s an image Sakusa is treated to nearly every night but one whose beauty he’s never grown tired of. Atsumu standing in their kitchen, illuminated only by the soft and warm light of the setting sun — it’s beautiful in a way that no painting could ever be. Atsumu finishes drying the dish then carefully puts it onto its designated shelf in the cupboard before reaching for the next in line to be dried. 

Maybe, just as there is no real answer to the question, how do you know you’re ready to have kids? There is no real answer to the related question currently plaguing Kiyoomi: when should you bring up that you’re ready to have kids? There is no perfect time. Perhaps some moments in time are better than others, but that’s not a concern because Kiyoomi knows that this is one of those moments. The future has arrived. At least for Kiyoomi. Maybe now it’s time to find out if they’re on the same page. 

“Omi?” Atsumu calls his name gently. It never ceases to amaze him how Atsumu is able to pull him back to reality with just a single word. “Are ya okay there? You were lookin’ a little constipated.” 

“Oh, me?” 

Atsumu blinks. “Yes?” 

“I’m fine. Good. Yeah, I’m good.” 

Atsumu’s brows pinch together as he sets the cup back onto the counter undried. “Huh, you coulda fooled me.” 

“No, I mean it. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” 

Fuck it Kiyoomi thinks right before blurting out, “kids.” 

Kiyoomi can see the exact moment Atsumu processes the word. His previously concerned expression morphs into confusion followed up by panic, understanding, and joy. 

“Kids!?” 

Kiyoomi nods. 

“Omi! That’s— That’s!! I’ve been wanting to talk to ya about that!” 

Kiyoomi laughs— a quick, surprised chuckle. Even though neither of them said anything until now, they were on the same page this entire time. Not that he’s ever felt otherwise but moments like this remind Kiyoomi just how glad he is that it was Atsumu who he married. 

“I’m serious. I think we’re ready. Or-” Atsumu amends. “Is anyone ever really ready? Maybe it woulda made more sense to say that I’ve made peace with never being ready.” 

Kiyoomi laughs again.

“I really mean it,” Atsumu insists. “Why are ya laughing, asshole?” 

“Sorry, sorry. I know you’re serious.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.” 

Atsumu’s face lights up and the rays of golden sun peeking through their kitchen window pale in comparison to Atsumu’s joyful expression. “Really?” Atsumu abandons the towel and dishes completely. He crosses the kitchen in 2 quick steps that are more like gleeful skipping than anything else. Kiyoomi wastes no time looping his arms around Atsumu’s waist to pull him in closer. He looks up at Atsumu’s face, still shining with pure delight. 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Kiyoomi says. 

“I know,” Atsumu says, smile unfaltering. 

“And it’ll probably take a while.” 

“I’ll be patient.” 

Kiyoomi raises a brow. 

Atsumu scoffs. “I can be patient! When it matters,” he adds after a moment’s hesitation. “And this matters.” 

Kiyoomi hums. His chest is light with a kind of excitement he’s rarely felt since childhood. Fitting considering the circumstances. He pulls Atsumu closer and takes full advantage of the height difference between Kiyoomi’s stool and Atsumu’s standing form by pushing his face right into Atsumu’s soft stomach. A grin works its way across his face and he exhales softly eliciting a laugh from Atsumu. 

“Omi that tickles.” 

Kiyoomi exhales again, on purpose this time. Secretly delighted when Atsumu giggles again. 

“Omi, now yer doing it on purpose. Stop hidin’.” Atsumu attempts to wriggle out of his grasp but Kiyoomi holds on tight though he suspects Atsumu’s weak attempts at throwing him off are more for show than anything else. 

Eventually, Kiyoomi relents and Atsumu wastes no time cupping Kiyoomi’s face between his palms. “Come on. Let’s make some tea and have a proper conversation about this.” 

Kiyoomi surges forward to drop a quick kiss across Atsumu’s lips. “I’d like nothing more.” 

Atsumu laughs. “Great, now let me go so I can put the kettle on.” 

Later, as they’re climbing into bed for the evening, Kiyoomi stares at the ceiling in silent wonder. “Atsumu are we really doing this?” he asks once the light is switched off. He scoots across the bed, tangling their legs together and using Atsumu’s bicep as a pillow. 

“Yeah, I mean. I think so. It’s a long road ahead though. Or at least that’s what everyone says. It’s not like we’ll have a baby tomorrow. Or even in a year from now.”

“Should we talk about it more?” Despite being confident that he wants a family, he can’t stop the wave of anxiety that crashes over him.

 “We’ve talked about it lots,” Atsumu murmurs before pressing a kiss to Kiyoomi’s forehead. “And we’re gonna talk about it lots more. This is just the beginning.” Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi closer. “And ya know, I bet you’d be a great dad, Omi. No. I don’t bet. I know it.” 

It’s amazing how one simple sentence can fill him with such joy. The idea of being a dad is still kind of terrifying. But with Atsumu by his side, he’s beginning to think that there isn’t anything they can’t tackle together. After all, they’re a team. 

“Omi-oji watch out!” 

“Daddy duck!” 

It’s too late. The frisbee smacks Kiyoomi right in the temple with a clack that resounds through his head. He groans, eyes falling shut. When he reopens them a moment later, it’s to find three pairs of eyes staring him down and far too close for comfort.

“Daddy?” says the one in the middle.

“Kazuya,” Kiyoomi says, doing his best to keep his voice level. He knows it was an accident but that doesn’t mean his head isn’t throbbing. “Something you’d like to say?”

Kazuya’s eyes widen as his bottom lip begins to tremble. “We didn’t mean to!” he shouts right into Kiyoomi’s ear. 

Kiyoomi inhales sharply through his teeth as Kazuya’s shout sends a new wave of pain flaring through his head. Kazuya throws himself at Kiyoomi, wrapping his tiny arms around his calves and tucking his face against the spot where his knees meet. 

“It was an accident,” Sora, Komori’s daughter, says. Thankfully at a much more agreeable volume. 

“I know that.” Kiyoomi begins the arduous task of trying to unhinge his child from his leg, a process he knows from experience will take between one and seven minutes. For a five-year-old, his kid has considerable strength. 

Kiyoomi turns his attention onto the third kid in the group. “Deja vu, huh Mirai?” 

She shoots him a funny look and he shrugs. It was nearly five years ago and she was hardly older than four. He supposes it would be a bit of a surprise if she remembered the time Mirai herself nailed him in the head with a frisbee. Time flies.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says instead. “Just reminded me of something.” 

Ever the impatient one, Sora rocks back and forth on her heels, chewing on her bottom lip and side-eyeing the frisbee that landed not far from Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi sighs. “Go ahead,” he says, nodding at the plastic disk. 

Sora snatches back the frisbee and together she and Mirai run back into the fray but Kazuya stays put. No amount of pulling, prodding, and explaining that he isn’t mad — but he is getting a headache so can he please, please detach himself from Kiyoomi’s leg so that he can get an ice pack and maybe some aspirin from inside — is enough to convince Kazuya to let go. Just as he’s about to make peace with his son becoming permanently affixed to his leg, internally he thinks fuck it. He stumbles inside, dragging Kazuya along with him. 

“Omi?” Atsumu is sprawled on the floor, midway through changing Jun, their youngest, when he spots them. “Why are ya limping? Did something—Kazuya?” 

Kazuya sniffles. 

“Are ya hurt, kiddo?” 

“Frisbee,” Kiyoomi says as he points to his own head. “Who knew Kazuya is so strong?”

“It was an accident!” Kazuya wails. 

“I know,” Kiyoomi says for what feels like the millionth time. “It’s alright. Daddy just needs some—” 

“Here,” Rintarou says, arriving out of seemingly nowhere, QUIK-COLD ice pack in one hand and holding his daughter Hayame against his hip with the other. “Hazards, remember?” 

Kiyoomi accepts the ice pack gratefully then gingerly presses it to his temple. “Oh, I remember .” 

“I’ll getcha some aspirin,” Atsumu says, getting to his feet with Jun toddling after him. 

“Kazuya,” Kiyoomi tries again. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You can go play.” 

“No!” 

Rintarou snickers. “You’ve got a stubborn one there.” 

“Don’t remind me. I think the only one who might be more stubborn than him is Aiko.” Now that he thinks about it... “Where is Aiko?” 

“In here!” Osamu calls from the other room. “She was helpin’ me with the cake. I think I might have a cure for that little parasite ya got growing there.” A moment later Aiko, Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s daughter and Kazuya’s twin sister wanders into the room, a fistful of candy in hand. She comes to a stop in front of Kazuya. She looks to one side, then the other before leaning in conspiratory and saying, “come on, let’s go eat this candy—” She shoves her hands before Kazuya’s face. “ — before Mirai and Sora see.” 

Kazuya nods and in a flash, they’re both gone. Kiyoomi looks from the now empty spot on his leg to Rintarou. A second passes before they both crack up laughing. 

“Hey, what’d I miss?” Atsumu hands off a glass of water and two pills to Kiyoomi.

“Nothing, nothing,” Kiyoomi says. “Just your brother spoiling our children rotten and giving them enough candy to cause cavities.” 

Rintarou snickers. “It’s called payback. We knew all about Mirai’s secret candy stash that only grew after certain uncles were in town.” 

“Oh,” Atsumu says. “You knew about that?” 

“You weren’t slick,” Osamu says, joining them at last. “Just wait until Jun can eat solid foods, then it’s over.” 

Kiyoomi groans. “Thank you for the warning at least.” 

Osamu grins. “My pleasure. Now, hurry up and take that aspirin. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before a stampede of children come in here looking for cake. Yer gonna need it."

Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for the aspirin to really kick in but somehow Kiyoomi finds that, despite the promised chaos, he doesn't mind. In fact, he's looking forward to it. After all, with Atsumu on his team and by his side, there isn't anything they can't do.