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Osaka smelled like magic.
It was a terrible, cloying smell, overwhelming on the best of days and thicker than smog. The scent poured out of colourful storefronts and gathered in the air like a blanket over the city. Kiyoomi hated it.
Kiyoomi hated most things about Osaka. It was an eccentric place that attracted oddballs from all over the country, and it was a city that never slept. Clairvoyants and shapeshifters polluted the daytime while vampires haunted the streets while the moon was high. Osaka was darkly whimsical and impossibly bright. It was a shame, Kiyoomi thought, that he could never leave. The countryside was too dangerous for the undead; without a choking concentration of magic in the air, Kiyoomi would fade away into nothing, forgotten forever.
The bells hanging off the front door of Komori’s shop didn’t jingle when Kiyoomi walked in because Kiyoomi was against doors on principle; he preferred to pass straight through them in order to forgo touching filthy doorknobs. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to open the door anyway; he felt rather flickery, like a lightbulb in need of changing.
“Komori,” said Suna Rintarou, “I think there’s a ghost haunting our shop.”
Suna was Komori’s employee-slash-boyfriend-maybe-husband. He claimed to be a psychic medium, but he was usually too lazy to bother speaking to the dead. Since ‘not working’ was strictly against Komori’s business model, Suna compromised to offer this service on Tuesdays and every other Thursday.
“That’s not very funny, Rin,” Komori scolded, sticking his head out of the back room. “Is Kiyoomi here?”
“No,” Kiyoomi said. Komori brightened. He couldn’t see Kiyoomi, though he could hear him; it was touch-and-go with Komori on the best of days. His so-called sixth sense was more focused on predicting lottery numbers and love confessions.
“Where are you? Where’s Atsumu?”
Atsumu was Kiyoomi’s roommate. He was also a menace to society, irreparably evil, and the most powerful man in the city, not that Kiyoomi would ever admit to the latter. Atsumu’s ego was massive enough already. Atsumu was strong enough that his very presence lit up the air around him; with Atsumu around, Kiyoomi was entirely corporeal.
“He’s out today,” Kiyoomi said vaguely, only because he wasn’t quite sure where Atsumu was either. He’d woken up to an empty apartment.
“He picked up a job. Something about imps? He told me to tell you if you showed up,” piped up Osamu, the third member of Komori’s curious coterie. Osamu was Komori’s second and final employee-slash-boyfriend-maybe-husband. Kiyoomi wasn’t really sure.
“I hate him,” Kiyoomi said, unprompted but venomous. Atsumu worked too much, driving himself to exhaustion. He looked more ghostly than Kiyoomi some days, and more infuriatingly, managed to pull off the ‘undead’ look magnificently.
“Can you see him?” Komori asked Osamu, ignoring Kiyoomi entirely. “He’s hiding from me today. Osamu, go stand by him.”
“Do not,” Kiyoomi protested, but Osamu did. Osamu wasn’t half as powerful as Atsumu (“I stole all his magic in the womb!”), but he was enough to render Kiyoomi visible if not solid.
“Kiyoomi, you look like death,” Komori fretted, frowning. “Rin, doesn’t he look tired?”
“He’s a ghost,” Suna pointed out. “He always looks dead.”
“Nonsense. Sit down, Kiyoomi, we’ll do a reading.” Komori sat beside Suna at the rickety table in the back of the rickety shop and patted it. “Come on. Osamu, come here.”
With a heavy sigh, Kiyoomi obliged. The lone chair opposite Komori was too far away from Kiyoomi’s current plane of existence to pull out to sit on, so he settled for hovering beside it.
Komori, Suna, and Osamu were psychics. Their quaint, homey shop was full of odds and ends and eccentricities, but the main service offered was fortune-telling. They were good, too; happening upon a clairvoyant with a one-hundred percent success rate was near impossible, but the three of them had cracked it, with only one catch. Komori, Suna, and Osamu each predicted wildly different futures, and one of them was inevitably correct. The trick was figuring out which one.
Usually, Komori put on a show for clients; taking their hands or closing his eyes or turning off the lights. None of this was necessary, but as Komori put it, I am running a business here, Kiyoomi. With a wry smile, he announced, “I smell love in your future.” At this, Osamu and Komori exchanged knowing glances; Osamu, having gleaned something from Komori’s mischievous grin, glared. Finally, Komori said, “Suna, what do you think?”
“I think we need to stop doing this for free,” Suna said flatly. “We’re behind on rent.” He turned to Kiyoomi. “You’re going to die.”
“He’s already dead,” Komori pointed out, frowning.
“I think he’s going to die for a second time. Are you doubting my awe-inspiring psychic powers, Motoya?”
“Shut up and let me think,” Osamu interrupted, pressing a hand to his temple. Unlike Komori, Osamu wasn’t making a spectacle; he was likely rubbing his head because he was prone to migraines. Finally, he hummed, giving Kiyoomi an appraising look. “You’ll be betrayed by someone you love.” He frowned at his words, but didn’t change his mind.
Not one of these options, Kiyoomi thought, sounded pleasant. Not betrayal, or death, or least of all love. “I hope I die,” he said. “I’m leaving.”
“No tip?” Suna asked.
“I’m incorporeal,” Kiyoomi pointed out. “Bye.”
“What did you come here for?” Komori called after him, confused. Kiyoomi only shrugged. He was bored, mostly; Atsumu’s absence left him adrift with nothing to do but observe. Without a beacon like Atsumu or Osamu to bring him to life, Kiyoomi was nothing more than a wisp, invisible and untouchable. Still, staying with Komori would have meant an onslaught of questions about the betrayal in his near future, or worse, love. Besides, Kiyoomi found it hard to visit his cousin’s shop alone. One psychic was annoying. Two was pushing it. Three was a madhouse without Atsumu to hide behind.
Floating just above a business-casual-clad centaur, Kiyoomi watched the city sprawled below him and thought about Komori, Suna, and Osamu’s predictions. Love was out of the question, and so was death. The only option, then, was betrayal. A betrayal from someone he loved.
Kiyoomi could count on one hand how many people he loved. There was his mother, because he saw her three times a year; any more than that, and she’d be bumped off the list. She couldn’t have been the traitor, surely, because he had no intentions of seeing her any time soon, and Osamu couldn’t see that far into the future. There was Komori, his first and longest friend, but it wasn’t Komori, either. He’d have admitted to it freely and immediately because he cared too much about winning against his boyfriends in their irritatingly endless game of seeing who was the best at predicting the future, even though they’d been stuck in an unbreakable tie for years. There was Wakatoshi, his ill-fated ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t Wakatoshi because the heartbreak between them was long-dead and collecting dust while Wakatoshi fucked off to France.
And then there was Atsumu.
Under normal circumstances, Kiyoomi would never admit to caring for Atsumu. He’d be hesitant even under the threat of death because Atsumu’s ego would grow three sizes bigger than it already was. Still, it would have been unwise to ignore him considering Atsumu’s propensity for trouble. He was blunt and impulsive at the best of times; it was just the sort of thing he’d do, to trip and fall over Kiyoomi’s heart and shatter it in the process.
Living with Atsumu was singularly difficult. It was impossible to fade into the background of their apartment when simply being there was enough to put colour in Kiyoomi’s cheeks; Atsumu’s residual magic dripped off every surface, pooling in every dip and divot. It was the only place Kiyoomi was certain he wouldn’t flicker away into invisibility. Still, it was nothing compared to being around Atsumu himself. Atsumu, who burst into their apartment at half past ten o’clock at night, panting and frantic and frightened.
“Omi,” he said, panicked. “Omi?”
“What,” Kiyoomi hissed from his perch on the kitchen island, staring Atsumu down as though they hadn’t been in this situation a thousand times before. Ragged but unhurt, he peeled off his jacket, now missing half its right sleeve, and kicked off his shoes with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
“Omi,” Atsumu repeated, trotting forward and stopping just before the island. He twisted his hands together. “I thought you were dead.”
With a heavy sigh, Kiyoomi dropped his head in silent permission. Atsumu wrapped his arms around Kiyoomi’s torso, pressing his face against Kiyoomi’s neck. Kiyoomi didn’t return the embrace, frustrated with Atsumu for disappearing for a day with no explanation. Still, it was impossible to resist leaning into Atsumu’s warmth, and warm he was: Atsumu was a living, breathing furnace, enveloping Kiyoomi in an all-consuming sort of heat he hadn’t felt since before he died.
Osaka was chaotic on the best of days. It was busy and bustling and overwhelming. It was desperately alive, each alleyway and a hidden path a capillary, each clairvoyant and shapeshifter and vampire an alveolus keeping the city breathing. At the beating heart of it was this: Atsumu.
He lacked the terrible, sugary smell that permeated the streets. No, Atsumu smelled like nothing, like shaving cream and sweat and the shampoo he used that was called ARCTIC BEAR or NIGHTPANTHER or something equally nauseating. Atsumu brought Kiyoomi to life, literally; he was never quite as solid as he was with Atsumu’s arms around him. Sensations were amplified when Atsumu was around, like the bubbling warmth just where Kiyoomi’s heart would’ve been if he were alive.
“I’m not dead,” Kiyoomi said, like he did every time Atsumu ran home in a panicked frenzy, which was often.
“I couldn’t see you,” Atsumu, who was used to having the Earth and several celestial bodies surrounding it tucked neatly into his back pocket, whispered. “I thought you were dead.”
Seeing for Atsumu was not the same as it was for Kiyoomi, or Komori, or anyone else in the world, probably. Atsumu (as he described it) saw colours and feelings and energies and auras, which were present in all living beings, a population Kiyoomi was categorically excluded from. Atsumu’s needling clinginess was a result of this unfortunate blind spot.
“I’m not dead,” Kiyoomi repeated, growing impatient. He threaded his cold fingers through Atsumu’s hair and tugged with no small amount of rancour. “And if you’d stop running halfway across the country on a whim you’d have no reason to think I was. Idiot.” He put his hands on Atsumu’s shoulders and pushed him away. “You have control issues.”
“Do not,” Atsumu sulked. He looked at the floor and back up at Kiyoomi. “I’m going to shower. Gotta get out of these stupid clothes.” He paused as he walked away. “Sorry about disappearing today. Imp infestation, you know. Shit takes ages.”
Kiyoomi made tea while he waited, though it was a risk because he was never sure for how long he would be solid enough to hold a cup. Several times he’d let a boiling-hot mug drop to the ground and shatter because his hands couldn’t stay corporeal. It would be fine if Atsumu was home, probably, considering how keyed-up he was. The apartment buzzed with energy; Kiyoomi could almost see the air shift before his eyes, like the dizzying distortion above a hot fire.
Abruptly he wondered when Atsumu would betray him. Perhaps something had happened today; perhaps he’d spiralled into hysterics for a reason, done something to put Kiyoomi in danger. Perhaps it would be an accident; he’d take his overprotective nature a step too far. Or maybe it wouldn’t be dramatic at all. Maybe Atsumu would grow tired of him and walk out.
Lost in thought as he was, Kiyoomi didn’t notice the shower cutting off, nor did he notice the bathroom door creaking open. Atsumu stuck his head out with a sharp glare, hair dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Stop doing whatever the fuck. Water’s fucking freezing.”
The thing about ghosts was that they were not meant to be; a ghost was the result of the violent clash between life and death. There were more than a few unfortunate symptoms of flickering between two conflicting planes of existence, including but not limited to: drifting in and out of corporeality, lowering the temperature of any given room by (on average) three-point-six-two degrees Celsius, creating a viscous aura of doom and gloom with a two-metre radius, sometimes three depending on Kiyoomi’s mood, and freezing the water pipes. Kiyoomi blamed karma and the stars and the gods themselves for turning him into a creature that wore its heart on its sleeve by nature.
The shower turned back on, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out Atsumu’s obnoxious singing. His voice was rough and unrefined, unpleasant enough to scare any invading insects out of their cluttered apartment. Atsumu had that effect; the world rearranged itself to accommodate him. Kiyoomi felt some days that Miya Atsumu was the centre of the universe.
“Tea’s frozen,” Atsumu said later, frowning. He pushed his too-long sleeves up to his elbows to poke at the icy surface. “What’s up?”
At once, Kiyoomi was lost for words, because Atsumu was wearing his sweater, though it hadn’t been his for years. Not since he died, and Atsumu stole all of his clothes because he’d been, at the time, the only person Kiyoomi knew who wouldn’t drown in clothes fit for a one hundred and ninety two centimetre athlete. The sleeves were too long on him and the shoulders too loose, but Atsumu didn’t seem to mind. He wondered if Atsumu remembered that they weren’t always his.
“Omi?” Atsumu pressed, taking the cup into his hands and holding it between his palms. It looked tiny in Atsumu’s broad, callused hands, like it would shatter at any moment. Atsumu only grinned, watching with childish excitement as it melted back into liquid. The warmth from Atsumu’s hands filled the air around them, settling like dust on Kiyoomi’s upper lip, catching on his eyelashes like snowflakes. Kiyoomi felt like he was going to die a terrible, wonderful second death.
“It won’t taste any good now,” Kiyoomi pointed out. “It never does after getting frozen.”
Atsumu shrugged. “I’m not wasting perfectly good tea, Omi,” he said, and took a defiant sip. He looked angry, caterpillar eyebrows furrowed into a glare rendered ineffective by his loud slurping. He set the cup down on the counter. “Why’re you freezing the pipes?”
Kiyoomi thought about his mother, who ran a decidedly non-magical business in Tokyo and called Kiyoomi for twenty minutes every second Sunday at precisely six in the evening. He thought about Komori, who’d stumbled upon possibly-wedded bliss by accident and texted Atsumu to tell Kiyoomi good morning every morning without fail because Kiyoomi couldn’t reliably hold a cell phone for long enough to justify owning one. He thought about Wakatoshi, who sent postcards from France and chocolate in the mail. He looked at the floor, away from Atsumu and his warm hands and mismatched socks and sharp jawline.
“I didn’t mean to,” Kiyoomi said, irritated. “You woke me up. I was annoyed.”
Atsumu slurped his tea. It was obnoxious. It was on purpose. “You weren’t sleeping,” he said. “You were waiting for me. You don’t even need to sleep.”
“You’re imagining things,” Kiyoomi lied.
“Samu said you walked out of the shop real suddenly this morning,” Atsumu barrelled on. “Stop lying to me.” The air, once pleasantly warm, became uncomfortably hot. Atsumu tapped his socked foot on the floor anxiously.
“I’m going to sleep,” Kiyoomi said flatly. “Good night.”
“Tooru’s coming over tomorrow,” Atsumu reminded him, as if Kiyoomi would forget. He reached out to grab Kiyoomi’s arm but thought better of it, letting his hand fall back onto the counter. “Good night, Omi.”
It wasn’t as though they’d be apart for long; they lived in a one-bedroom apartment that contained one king-sized bed. It was useless to buy a second when Kiyoomi only slept when he was in the mood, and only when the bone-deep chill he could never quite shake was chased away by something warmer.
Kiyoomi had always thought magic was a childish word. It brought forth images of card tricks and rabbits crawling out of top hats; to call his existence a result of magic felt juvenile.
Oikawa Tooru, on the other hand, embodied the word. He waltzed into the apartment a few centimetres above the ground. With a flick of his wrist, the curtains flew open, flooding the place with natural light. Not to be outdone, Atsumu slammed them shut and crossed his arms.
“Tooru,” he said. “You could knock. And the curtains don’t like to be opened.”
Oikawa shrugged. He was unbearably graceful and annoyingly beautiful. “Lovely to see you, Atsumu. Sakusa.”
Kiyoomi didn’t acknowledge his greeting. Watching Atsumu and Oikawa interact was like watching two wild animals circle each other, ready to spring forward at any moment. Needless to say, Kiyoomi hated Oikawa Tooru, whose bi-monthly trips to Osaka from Sendai were the bane of Kiyoomi’s existence. He liked to drag Atsumu away on dangerous, faraway adventures and say things like it’s okay, Kiyocchi, I miss my Iwa-chan when I’m away too, like their situations were in any way similar and Oikawa knew anything about Kiyoomi in the first place.
Kiyoomi took silent comfort in the fact that Atsumu was stronger; something about Oikawa was inexplicably discomfiting in spite of his ever-present smile.
“No need to look so glum over there,” Oikawa said. “It’s getting a little nippy in here.”
Atsumu looked conflicted. “Omi, you don’t need to—”
“I’m staying,” Kiyoomi interrupted, because he didn’t like Oikawa Tooru and Oikawa Tooru could put on a sweater if he was so goddamn cold.
It ended like it always did: there was a siren causing trouble in Hokkaido, and no, Oikawa didn’t know what a siren was doing in Hokkaido either, but he needed Atsumu’s help because this promised to be a messy case and he didn’t trust anyone else with such a delicate matter and and and and,
“But it’s in Hokkaido,” Atsumu said at the end of it all, sporting a thunderous glare. Atsumu was an open book, bluntly honest and brutally earnest while Oikawa was the opposite, hiding his emotions behind a decadent facade.
“We’ll be reimbursed for travel expenses,” Oikawa promised. “And it pays well.”
Atsumu glanced anxiously at Kiyoomi. “I don’t like being away from home for too long.”
“It’ll only be a few days if we’re lucky,” Oikawa assured him. His gaze softened. “They need help. And I’m sure you’ll survive a few days away from your boyfriend, hm?”
Kiyoomi let himself fade into the wallpaper. He hated Oikawa Tooru. Oikawa Tooru knew too much. Atsumu only sighed. “Only a few days?”
Being undead and largely transparent precluded Kiyoomi from most corporeal pastimes. During college he played volleyball; this became difficult post-funeral thanks to the ball’s unfortunate habit of passing through Kiyoomi’s hands. He didn’t particularly care; the attachment he felt to his human life was faint and fleeting.
In death, Kiyoomi found himself strangely fixated on people-watching. Atsumu insisted it was a parabiological predisposition to haunting.
It was shockingly easy to accept Atsumu’s betrayal. Atsumu was, at heart, selfish; it was something Kiyoomi liked about him. He hadn’t run across the country to Hokkaido on a whim to help anyone. No, he revelled in pushing himself to the limit; a siren was a new creature to learn about, a new way to use his magic. He’d return restless and exhilarated and itching to move onto the next job. His dedication was attractive but alienating.
Often Kiyoomi wondered if he’d have grown to care about Atsumu as much as he did had he survived; his memories of his life before were fugitive, but he knows they didn’t always like each other. Atsumu claimed Kiyoomi hated him at first (“I still hate you.” “Do not.” “Do too.” “Do not—”) and Kiyoomi refused to ask for further clarification—he wasn’t the human he used to be, and clinging to his past wouldn’t do him any good. Still, it was hard to believe that his feelings had veered so far off course. Kiyoomi blamed Atsumu and his all-consuming warmth; it was like he said. A parabiological predisposition.
“Kiyoomi,” said Wakatoshi, voice crackling over the payphone. “I did not expect to hear from you.” Music chimed quietly in the background.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Kiyoomi said, suddenly anxious. He wasn’t quite sure how he got here, or what spurred him on to call Wakatoshi; he felt unmoored.
“Of course not,” Wakatoshi assured him. “Are you alright?”
Memories of Wakatoshi were sparse; they’d dated for more than a year, apparently, but after death, all Kiyoomi had left of him was a bittersweet sort of feeling that left him happy and aching all at once. Now, they’re friends. Hopefully. Probably.
“I’m not sure why I called you,” he admitted.
“Oh,” said Wakatoshi, thoughtful. His pensive nature, Kiyoomi was sure, must have been what attracted him to Wakatoshi in the first place. He thought before he spoke and he meant every word he said; he was the opposite of Atsumu, who was incurably impulsive and couldn’t help but run his mouth. “Are you alright?”
“Wakatoshi,” Kiyoomi said, and then frowned. “Did I ever tell you why I liked you when we were together? I can’t remember.”
If Wakatoshi was shocked by the question, he didn’t mention it. “You did,” he finally replied, without the shame or bumbling modesty a lesser person might have answered with. “You liked that I was attentive and thorough. You respected hard work and effort. You looked up to me. We were similar.” He paused; Kiyoomi could hear him smile. “You had quite a lot to say about my thighs.”
“Shut up,” Kiyoomi said automatically, and then, after a heavy sigh, “I see where I was coming from.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Wakatoshi pressed. “Did something happen with Miya?”
“No,” he bit out automatically. “Well. He’s away right now, and I’ve been thinking.” Even now, Kiyoomi couldn’t lie to him.
“Thinking,” Wakatoshi echoed. “Of course. I hope I was able to help you.”
“Wakatoshi, I—”
The phone fell from his hand. Rather, it fell through his hand. It felt like a bad omen. Wakatoshi’s voice filtered through the speakers for a few seconds longer before the dial tone sounded.
Kiyoomi didn’t go home straight away; he watched a couple walk down the street from above. One had horns and the other sported a prehensile tail; their hands were interlocked. A few feet ahead of them, a man pushed a stroller, cooing at the baby inside. It was all so foreign; what drew one person to another? He thought of Atsumu.
It was true that Atsumu possessed all of the traits Wakatoshi listed: attentive, thorough, hardworking, and though Kiyoomi hated to admit it, nice thighs. Still, it was undeniable that Wakatoshi and Atsumu were polar opposites; Atsumu was loud, thoughtless, and bared his heart on his sleeve while Wakatoshi was calm, cool, and collected. Had death changed him that much? Kiyoomi and Wakatoshi were similar, while Kiyoomi and Atsumu were not. Apples and oranges. It was difficult to parse what was real, and even harder to face what he felt. Atsumu’s words returned to him. A parabiological predisposition.
CLOSED, read the front door of Komori’s shop. It was a narrow building, stuffed between an animated tattoo parlour and an old, rickety video rental store that hadn’t seen a customer in years but managed to stay open. He passed through the locked entrance and into the back room, finding the door to the apartment unlocked.
Komori, Osamu, and Suna lived in the room above the shop. It was barely fit for one person, let alone three, but they made it work. It was just as cluttered as the shop below it, filled to the brim with useless knickknacks: a clock that only ever showed the time you wanted to see, a Vabo-chan figurine that always pointed north, and most confusingly, a radio that played the news of an underwater city that, to Kiyoomi’s knowledge, did not exist.
“Sakusa’s here,” announced Suna without looking away from his phone. Suna disliked being forced into the position of liaison when Kiyoomi was too far from the mortal plane to be seen, but more than that, he enjoyed irritating Sakusa by making his presence known.
“Kiyoomi,” Komori bellowed, throwing open the door to the bedroom. And then, more quietly: “Go back to sleep, Osamu. Kiyoomi, you come here right this instant,” but instead of waiting for him, Komori stomped aimlessly forward, looking around the room.
“What,” Kiyoomi said.
“Kiyoomi?” Komori asked.
“What do you want, Motoya?”
Finally Suna looked up. “I don’t think Motoya can hear you,” he said. “I’m not doing this right now.” He plucked his headphones off the table beside the sofa he sat on and put them in, leaving Komori to struggle through communicating with the dead on his own.
“Kiyoomi,” Komori said, and he sat on the floor where he stood, groaning. “This is so annoying. Where’s Atsumu when you need him? Ugh, Atsumu. He told me you’ve been mopey lately. He also told me to watch out for you while he was away and I totally see what he meant by mopey because it’s freezing in here right now.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Can you give me a sign that you’re listening?”
Kiyoomi crossed the room and attempted to knock down the cat-shaped salt shaker on the minuscule, circular dining table stuffed lovingly into the corner of the equally minuscule though markedly less circular kitchen. The cat stayed steadfastly upright, Kiyoomi’s hand passing through the painted ceramic. Tugging on the ugly black and yellow checkered tablecloth produced the same result, and so did pressing his cold hand to the back of Komori’s neck. It was frustrating; Kiyoomi felt helpless. Without Atsumu as a tether, he was useless and ineffective. He felt his mood drop, and with it, the temperature.
“There you are,” Komori said, teeth chattering. “I’m going to need my jacket soon, Kiyoomi. Chill out. Or warm up? I don’t know.” He sighed. “Atsumu said you wouldn’t say why you’re moping, but I think I know why.” He wrapped his arms around his torso, shivering. “It was what we said, right? The other day.”
Kiyoomi was not in the mood to talk about Atsumu’s inevitable betrayal. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about Atsumu at all, because Atsumu had run off to Hokkaido with Oikawa Tooru and left their apartment ice-cold and empty.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready to tell him how you feel yet,” Komori continued. “I know I said I saw love in your future, but I wasn’t trying to rush you. I know it’s complicated with you two.”
“What,” said Kiyoomi, who had been trying very hard not to think about it.
Komori lit up. “I heard you that time!”
“What,” he repeated, giving his cousin a glare so sharp Komori would have withered had he seen it.
“I’m not really sure what you’re confused about,” Komori admitted, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“I never told you that,” Kiyoomi said, because he did not have feelings for Atsumu. It wasn’t allowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Komori laughed. “I mean sure, you never told me, but come on. Atsumu panics every time he’s away from you for too long! You’re the same, even if you don’t want to admit it. It’s kind of cute.”
“I don’t feel anything about Atsumu,” Kiyoomi hissed. “There’s nothing to tell.” His chest felt tight, suddenly, the air around him stifling. Atsumu was in Hokkaido with Oikawa Tooru and Kiyoomi was invisible. Komori was wrong.
“Uh, Kiyoomi, it’s getting really cold in here. I don’t want the pipes to freeze again so can you—”
“I am leaving,” Kiyoomi said, clenching his fists. “I’m leaving.”
Kiyoomi’s feelings for Atsumu were complicated. It was true that Kiyoomi cared about him, and it was true that Kiyoomi spent more time with Atsumu than he did with anyone else, and it was true that Atsumu knew him inside and out. It was, then, unfortunate that Kiyoomi’s feelings were nothing more than a symptom of his addiction. Atsumu was nothing like Wakatoshi. Without Atsumu, Kiyoomi was faint and inconsistent. Kiyoomi depended on him to interact with the physical world, and for warmth and laughter and comfort and touch, and and and,
Atsumu was a source and Kiyoomi was a sink. It was only natural that Kiyoomi, a void in and of himself, would be attracted to someone as bright and overflowing as Atsumu. Any feelings he had were a product of biology. Or something. It couldn’t be real. The consequences would be too great if it was. Kiyoomi was dead. He wasn’t built for feelings this big; it was easier to expect the worst.
There was only one library in the city of Osaka that allowed Kiyoomi to have a library card—the others were hung up on things like him being ‘legally dead’. Filled with ancient tomes and crumbling manuscripts, this particular library boasted the largest collection of grimoires and spellbooks and compendiums in the country. Magic was laced into the very architecture, which had the lucky advantage of rendering Kiyoomi mostly solid. It was usually a comfort—with Atsumu, Kiyoomi preferred to be real, to be visible, but today, it felt wrong. Browsing the old wooden shelves, Kiyoomi felt anxious and observed. At times like this he remembered he wasn’t human; being so very present wasn’t in his nature. It was exhausting.
“It’s been a while, Sakusa,” said Iizuna, a shapeshifter who wasn’t a librarian at all. Rather, Iizuna took care of the oldest books in the collection, the ones that were too valuable to be borrowed. Iizuna was most notable for his inquisitiveness—a trait that came naturally with his profession but grated on Kiyoomi. Shapeshifters tended to take on qualities of their animal forms and Iizuna was a weasel through and through, always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Kiyoomi tolerated it silently because Iizuna was one of his only friends Atsumu wasn’t also somehow haphazardly connected to, something Kiyoomi would need to rely on once Osamu’s damning prediction came true.
“Iizuna,” Kiyoomi greeted him.
“Something’s different about you,” Iizuna mused, grinning mischievously. Decidedly, he sniffed the air. “Is your partner away?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi answered stiffly. Somewhere along the way, Iizuna realized Kiyoomi talked about Atsumu a—well. A normal amount. Iizuna had assumed, and Kiyoomi hadn’t corrected him because Iizuna was the meddling sort and surely nothing good would have come of telling him that no, Atsumu, the centre of the universe, wasn’t his partner, and only his roommate. And maybe Kiyoomi liked to pretend, even if it would end in flames once Atsumu broke his heart.
Iizuna nodded. “Smells like it. You’ll have to come by again sometime, Sakusa, and why don’t you bring Miya with you? In the meantime, I’ve got to—”
Afternoon plans ruined by the threat of further interrogation, Kiyoomi instead let the wind pull him down the busy street outside. There was an ache in his chest he couldn’t quite place, the sense that something wasn’t quite right.
No one could see him, but that was expected—even on the most corporeal of days, natural light reduced Kiyoomi into a wispy shadow. At times like this he was glad to be nothing more than an untethered observer. He watched a naiad sprint to the train station and a kitsune shout into her phone; a sprite burnt her tongue on a fresh cup of coffee while someone—a seer, likely, looked straight up at Kiyoomi, giving him a smile before returning his gaze to the woman at his side.
Something was missing, he decided. Not just the misalignment behind his non-existent ribs, no—the very air he breathed was wrong. Incorrect.
The sickening scent of magic remained; the bustle of the city was as loud as ever; the sky was clear and bright. But something was missing.
Atsumu returned without fanfare. Correction: Atsumu returned with only the normal amount of fanfare, insisting he thought Kiyoomi was dead and complaining about Oikawa and travelling and Hokkaido and how he’s so glad to be home, Omi, didn’t you miss me? Aren’t you glad I came home early?
“No,” Kiyoomi had said, “you’re annoying and you were only early by an hour,” and then Atsumu had draped himself on Kiyoomi’s back like a particularly clingy weighted blanket.
It was hard, Kiyoomi thought, to tamp down the burgeoning feelings in his chest when Atsumu was so firmly rooted in every corner of his life.
“What’s gotten into you?” asked Atsumu suddenly. “Motoya said you’ve been moping. Even your dumb little library didn’t cheer you up.” He sighed. “Aren’t you happy I’m home? I thought you were dead, you know.”
“I’m not dead, we went over this before,” Kiyoomi snapped. “Leave me alone.”
“Aw, Omi, don’t you—”
“I said leave me alone,” he hissed, suddenly angry. “I didn’t think you were coming home early and now—” he cut himself off, frustrated.
“It’s awful cold in here,” Atsumu ventured, sitting up and giving him a pointed look. “Look, I was going to go see Osamu, if you don’t want to see me I guess I’ll…”
“Okay,” Kiyoomi said evenly. “See you later.”
It would be easier to accept it if Atsumu weren’t so earnest. If Atsumu were more like Oikawa or Iizuna, it would be easy to move on, but he wasn’t. Surely Kiyoomi’s relationship with Wakatoshi was nothing like this—Atsumu had crawled under Kiyoomi’s skin and made a home there, like a parasite Kiyoomi didn’t know how to remove. Maybe that was it—maybe Kiyoomi was sick. Atsumu’s overwhelming presence had gotten into his head and reduced him to this writhing, emotional mess. He was drunk on Atsumu’s warmth and couldn’t clear his head.
It would be easier, Kiyoomi thought, if it was real—if they were binary stars instead of a dull, rocky planet orbiting the fiery sun.
“You’re so dumb,” Komori said of Kiyoomi’s plight. “And also dramatic. Jeez. Get over yourself.”
“Thank you, Motoya.”
Kiyoomi sat on the bathroom floor, locked in a staring contest with the stubbornly grey shower grout. It had been scrubbed clean for the third time in two days, but it wasn’t quite right; he was sure it had been beige when they moved in, and yet the grey refused to budge.
It wasn’t that Kiyoomi needed to shower—water tended to pass through him—and it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Atsumu’s ability to clean, because he wouldn’t have moved into Atsumu’s apartment had he not obeyed the rigorous rules that dictated Kiyoomi’s life even after death. It was that Atsumu wasn’t home, and his absence created a restless sort of feeling in Kiyoomi’s chest that resulted in, apparently, mercilessly scrubbing at the shower grout.
If Atsumu were here, he’d say, the grout looks sad, Omi! Let’s put on some music, your face is bringing down the mood, because Atsumu lived in perfect harmony with the world around him. If Osaka was an orchestra, Atsumu was the conductor; Kiyoomi was only a spectator.
“Damn,” interrupted a familiar voice, “what did the floor do to you?”
“It’s the grout,” Kiyoomi said. “Was it always grey?”
Atsumu laughed. “Yeah, Omi, it’s been grey since we moved in.”
“It’s probably happier now that you’re here,” Kiyoomi said nonsensically.
Atsumu sat on the floor beside him. “Are you sure you’re fine? You’ve been kinda weird since I went to Hokkaido.” He leaned forward, frowning. “I thought you were dead, Omi.”
“You did not,” Kiyoomi muttered. “You were only out for a few hours. And I’m already dead.”
“I can always tell where Samu is, and my mom, and Aran and Sunarin and Kita,” Atsumu said grandly, the beginning to a dramatic spiel Kiyoomi had heard a hundred times before, “but you’re like a blip. And I know you’re probably fine, and you’re probably not dead, but I don’t know for sure and it—”
“It scares you, I know,” Kiyoomi interrupted, frowning. “I’ve heard.”
“And the grout was plenty happy with you,” Atsumu said suddenly. “It likes you ‘cause you clean better.”
“The grout likes me,” Kiyoomi echoed, feeling sort of like he’s been knocked onto his ass.
“Yep. Most things here like you better than me, except for the plants, and also the mirror ‘cause I’m hot.” Atsumu held out his arms. “Can I?”
Kiyoomi glared. “Why?”
“I thought you were dead, you moron.”
“Did not.”
“Did so, now are you going to—”
Atsumu was warm under Kiyoomi’s hands. He melted into the touch, hitching his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist and tucking his chin over Kiyoomi’s shoulder. The angle was awkward, with Kiyoomi half turned around and Atsumu craning his neck, but the ache in his chest had disappeared.
“Omi,” Atsumu whispered suddenly, “Samu told me. About your future thing. I know that’s why you’ve been worrying. Sorry I didn’t tell you I knew.”
Kiyoomi froze. The temperature in the room dropped. He almost didn’t want to know—he’d be content to trap this moment in time and live in it forever. “What,” he said. “What do you mean. By that.”
“I was going to talk to you about it anyway,” Atsumu began, sitting back and wringing his hands together nervously. “But I don’t—”
“Get on with it,” Kiyoomi interrupted. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Atsumu deflated but continued on, “No, just let me… it’s important, Omi. You gotta let me ramble just this once, alright? I know we’ve had this… thing, going on between for a while and I was just gonna wait until you were ready, but I really missed you while I was in Hokkaido, and I’ve been thinking a lot. I kinda don’t want to wait anymore. If you’re okay with it.” He looked up, a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Kiyoomi felt like he was staring at one of Iizuna’s ancient, unreadable tomes. Atsumu said something, certainly, and though Kiyoomi understood each of the words individually, he was missing the greater context. Nothing made sense.
“What the fuck,” Kiyoomi said.
“Uh?” Atsumu gave him a quizzical look. “Sorry to spring that on you, I guess.”
“No,” Kiyoomi clarified, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He did, sort of—he had one piece of the puzzle, but he was missing a few hundred more that Atsumu seemed to have sorted out.
Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”
Kiyoomi nodded.
“Oh,” Atsumu said, surprised. “You’re in love with me.”
“I am not,” Kiyoomi corrected him. “I would know. You’re going to betray me. Osamu said I would be betrayed by someone I loved.”
Atsumu opened his mouth and closed it. “Omi,” he said. “I am not going to betray you. Am I that much of an asshole? Jeez.”
Kiyoomi shoved him. “Why not?”
Confused, Atsumu narrowed his eyes. Kiyoomi wanted to smooth out the crease between his brows with his tongue. “What do you mean, why not?”
“I don’t know. You tell me since you have all the answers, apparently.”
After an unbearably long pause, Atsumu laughed. “You thought I was going to… betray you, and you wanted me to, apparently, and you didn’t know you were in love with me, but you thought I was going to betray you because you love me, but—”
Kiyoomi crossed his arms. “That’s different. And it’s not that I wanted you to, I just. I don’t know. It was easier.”
“Okay. Easier. Sure.” Atsumu was irritatingly smug; his moods had the tendency to fill the room like smoke. “Tell me what—don’t look at me like that, ass. I’m sure you’ve got some unbreakable logic behind this, so why don’t you explain it to me, okay? ‘Cause you’re such a genius.”
It felt like Atsumu was making fun of him, but Kiyoomi only glared. “I knew someone was going to betray me because I’m already dead and I can’t—the other one wasn’t an option, but the only people who qualified were Komori, my mother, Wakatoshi, and you. So it had to be you. But I wasn’t—and I am not—in love with you. I’ve considered it, but I’m not.”
“Says who,” Atsumu argued, leaning forward so his face was only inches away from Kiyoomi’s. “I think you’re super into me. Like, embarrassingly into me. All signs point to yes. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll back off, Omi-Omi.” Kiyoomi opened his mouth, but Atsumu raised a hand to stop him. “Tell me I’m wrong, and you’ve gotta believe it too.”
“We’re roommates,” Kiyoomi began, feeling unsure of himself. “It’s just… proximity. I rely on you too much. Even if I felt that way about you, it would be unhealthy. I’m invisible more often when you’re gone, so it only makes sense I would feel attached to you. It’s your power. It’s not real.” He looked up at the ceiling, struggling for words. “It’s a parabiological predisposition.”
To Atsumu’s credit, he thought about it, if only for a few moments. “I was kidding when I said that, Omi. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He frowned. “It stuck with you all this time?”
Kiyoomi felt, suddenly, as though the world had tilted on its axis. “It’s true.” He wasn’t sure if he believed it.
Atsumu nodded, too enthusiastic to be genuine. “Sure. Sure sure sure. I got a few questions for you, though. I thought you liked being invisible. You’re always complaining about how Iizuna’s fuckin’ sniffing you or whatever.”
“Right,” Kiyoomi confirmed, unsure where Atsumu was taking this. He was right, after all; incorporeality was occasionally irritating, but the only time he really preferred having a solid ground to stand on was when Atsumu was around.
“And do you feel like that when Oikawa comes around?” Atsumu pressed. “Or Kozume? Even Osamu? Hope not, jeez.”
“No, I don’t,” Kiyoomi said. “Why would I?”
Atsumu smiled and the bathroom, previously freezing cold, bloomed into warmth. The sharp scent of cleaning products was drowned out by Atsumu: shaving cream and sweat and his awful body wash. A terrible joy filled Kiyoomi’s chest.
“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said, voice dripping with affection, “you’re the dumbest person I’ve ever met in my life.”
“I am not,” Kiyoomi said automatically. “Please explain yourself.”
“You sleep in my bed,” Atsumu pointed out. “You, in your own words, feel attached to me in a way you don’t to anyone else, you clean my damn shower grout even though you can’t fucking shower, you started acted like you were dying ‘cause you thought I was going to leave you or some such dumb shit, I could go on.” He cocked his head. “Are you convinced yet? ‘Cause to me it’s starting to sound like your whole ‘biology’ thing was a super-convenient excuse.”
“No.” Atsumu frowned, and Kiyoomi amended, “Wait. Okay. Whatever. I’m in love with you. Fine. But I still don’t get what you said earlier.”
“What?”
“About you, and not wanting to wait anymore.”
“Right,” Atsumu said, suddenly nervous. “Right right right right. This was easier when I thought you were smart.”
Kiyoomi glared.
“I thought we were on the same page, Omi,” Atsumu whined, knocking his head back. “I thought we had this cool, will-they-won’t-they thing going on, but you’re just. Ugh. Like, I was flirting with you and you didn’t even notice. Jeez. Point is, I like you stupid much.” He sighed. The shaving cream/sweat/body wash odour got stronger. Kiyoomi felt drunk on it. “If you don’t say something now I’m just gonna keep going and not a one of us wants—”
“You must be terrible at flirting,” Kiyoomi said. “I didn’t even notice.”
Atsumu scoffed. “You didn’t notice how bad you wanna kiss me either. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“No one said I wanted to kiss you,” Kiyoomi muttered, trying very hard not to think about kissing him, or his warm, callused hands or his broad thighs or his—
“You totally wanna kiss me. So bad.” Atsumu laughed. “C’mere.”
“No,” Kiyoomi said, stubborn as the grout. “I won’t. We can’t. We’re not the same.”
At this, Atsumu paused. For a moment, Kiyoomi thought he had won, and then: “Well, it would be pretty boring if we were, wouldn’t it?”
Kissing Atsumu was torture. The prickly little fireworks that used to go off in Kiyoomi’s chest every time Atsumu looked at him spread down to the very tips of his fingers. They short-circuited his brain, making it impossible to focus on anything but Atsumu’s hands on his hips, Atsumu’s hands lips on his throat, Atsumu—
“Omi likes me,” Atsumu whispered against Kiyoomi’s mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” Kiyoomi hissed. “Idiot. I do not.”
“Do so.”
“Do not.”
Atsumu took Kiyoomi’s face in his hands and smiled. Kiyoomi was hopelessly, helplessly, warm all over.