Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

RULES FOR LIVING:

1. Keep early hours
2. Don’t skip meals
3. Do well in school
4. Get your Bachelor’s 
5. Don’t touch your trust fund
6. Move somewhere far (the further, the better)
7. Save up for your own apartment (don’t touch your trust fund)
8. Retire from volleyball at 30
9. Go to grad school: get a master’s and a doctorate

—

20 APRIL 2027

12 months, 0 days

Atsumu is waiting for him at the airport.

He hadn’t told him he was coming, and Kiyoomi isn’t sure how he found out about his arrival details anyway, but he figured out early on not to ever question Atsumu’s surprisingly impressive resourcefulness for the sake of his own mental well-being. 

“What are you doing here?” Kiyoomi demands, by way of greeting.

“Do you really want those to be the first words you say to me in three years?” Atsumu retorts, hands planted on his hips. “After I drove all the way to the airport too!”

His hair is as bright as ever, and so is the blinding grin he sends Kiyoomi's way.

“If this is your way of getting into my good graces, just know that it won’t work,” Kiyoomi states bluntly. “Any chance of that was eliminated the time I saw you eat spaghetti off of the ground when we were in high school.”

“Sheesh, nice to know that you’re still as rude as ever,” Atsumu complains, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have any ulterior motives, alright? I’m not doing this so you’ll owe me a favour or anything — just think of it as me doing something nice for an old friend.”

An old friend. 

Kiyoomi would be lying if he said the label doesn’t please him — he has to fight just to keep his expression impassive.

“Okay,” he says, finally giving in and breaking into the barest of smiles. “Where’s your horrible car, then? Or have you finally gotten rid of that monstrosity?”

Atsumu grins in response, dimpled in one cheek, lopsided, and full of mirth just as Kiyoomi remembers. “Clifford is still around and thriving, thank you for asking.” 

“How reassuring to know.”

Atsumu laughs. “Come on. You’re probably tired.”

He makes to take Kiyoomi’s bags from him, but frowns when he notices the small suitcase by his side. “That’s...all you brought back home?”

Kiyoomi glances down at his singular piece of baggage and shrugs. “It’s enough for me. I’ll only be here for a year, after all.”

“Oh. That’s right,” Atsumu says quietly, more to himself than anything. Kiyoomi thinks he sees his smile vanish, but then it reappears just as fast as it was gone, and he wonders if he imagined it after all.

"Come on. Clifford awaits!"

—

Atsumu’s car is a 1979 Bentley T2 four door saloon in a deep cherry red, the seats reupholstered to a stygian black, and no one who sets foot in his car is allowed to put their feet up on the dashboard at all times, no questions asked. Kiyoomi knows all of this because Atsumu would not shut up about it when the automobile first came into his possession all those years ago. Old cars are rare enough in Japan, let alone one red enough to rival a certain large cartoon dog, and so it remains one of Atsumu’s biggest pride and joys. Kiyoomi had initially thought the car tacky and Atsumu’s love for it even tackier still, but this disdain softened considerably when he came to learn that it had been his very first big purchase for himself. Five whole years into his illustrious career as a top-rated athlete, and he’d never once splurged on himself.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to Kiyoomi, who until that point had assumed Atsumu’s personal purchases even more extravagant than the generous manner in which he often lavished others. A fully-paid vacation for his mother. Half the cost of Osamu’s restaurant opening. Limited edition sneakers on Bokuto’s birthday. Expensive chocolates for the whole team on Valentine’s Day. Kiyoomi had almost begun to think he lacked any and all financial sense altogether. But all that, and his one gift to himself only happened because the previous car owner had been a huge fan of the Jackals and sold it to him for much lower. 

“I’ll put your stuff in the back,” Atsumu calls, disappearing around the other side of the car.

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi grunts, then opens the passenger door and clambers in. 

The car smells like he remembers: like leather, of course, but with a hint of something sweet and mild. Not citrusy or floral, not musky or cloying. It smells clean, but not in the astringent way.  He’s always wondered what it was. He thinks it might be Atsumu himself. 

But he doesn’t deliberate too long, because the jet lag catches up to him all at once as he waits for Atsumu to be done, and his eyelids slowly droop shut as he sits. Faintly, he registers the sounds of a door opening and Atsumu sliding into the driver’s seat, before there’s an amused, “you forgot your seatbelt, silly,” and then the sensation of the seatbelt running across his torso lightly. There’s a gentle click and then Kiyoomi fully surrenders to the clutches of sleep.

“Welcome, welcome. May I take your coat, my good sir?” Atsumu asks in an oily voice, dropping into a bow with one hand behind his back and the other outstretched to accept Kiyoomi’s jacket. 

“Stop that,” Kiyoomi mutters, rolling his eyes. “Keep acting like a fool and I’ll be moving out before I’ve even moved in.”

Atsumu lets out a laugh, before dropping the sycophantic act and shutting the front door behind them. Kiyoomi toes off his shoes in the genkan, before stepping into the living space and appraising his new surroundings.

“What do you think? Is my humble abode to your liking?”

“There is nothing humble about this place,” Kiyoomi scoffs, eyeing the opposite wall that just so happens to be an extensive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Higashiōsaka skyline, unobstructed by the lack of curtains.

A large Persian rug lies in the very center of the living room, above which sits a navy-coloured mid-century tufted sofa and an accompanying low coffee table. The walls are covered in decorative wainscoting, and a large plasma TV is mounted onto the opposite wall, flanked on either side by identical exotic-looking potted plants that Kiyoomi doesn’t recognize. It’s at this juncture that he realizes the abundance of plants within the space, and suddenly the missing curtains make a lot more sense.

There are shelves full of potted shrubs and cacti, and even several hanging fixtures with tendrils running the entire length from ceiling to where they end just above eye-level. A chandelier hangs above everything else, encrusted with Swarovski crystals twinkling gently in the sunlight. Kiyoomi raises a brow at a vintage-inspired burgundy chaise longue by the far end of the room, complete with a gilded wood frame and legs. Beside it sits a small antique coffee table bearing yet another comically large houseplant.

“Atsumu. Why on earth do you live in a greenhouse?” 

“I like plants,” is all he says in response, shrugging as he offers a sheepish smile.

“That is very clearly an understatement,” Kiyoomi mutters, wandering further into the penthouse.

He’s impressed by what he sees — the walls and crowning are a pristine white, and the marble flooring gleams lightly in the late afternoon sun. Even the plants, overabundant as they are, are neatly arranged and barely clutter the spacious living area. And Atsumu’s tastes in interior design might tend towards a more grandiose aesthetic than Kiyoomi’s own minimalist inclinations, but they’re nothing too awful, he supposes. 

“So what do you think?” Atsumu prompts again, trailing behind Kiyoomi.

“It’s clean enough.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Atsumu grumbles. “No compliments about my plants? My taste in decor? My second-hand vintage furniture which I painstakingly scoured thrift shops all over Japan and haggled expertly for? Nothing? You wound me, Omi-kun!”

Omi-kun.

Kiyoomi feels his lips quirk upwards. “Aren’t you going to show me to my room?” is all he says, turning away before Atsumu can catch sight of his smile.

Later, after Kiyoomi has unpacked and Atsumu has given him a full tour of the entire apartment, they sit side-by-side at the kitchen counter, eating a takeaway dinner (lunch for Kiyoomi, still jet-lagged and running on European time). 

“Bokkun called the other day,” Atsumu says through a mouthful of noodles. “Said he’s bummed that you came back the season right after he retired. Wouldn’t stop whining, oh my god.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Kiyoomi says absently. 

“Sorry,” Atsumu says lightly, swallowing quickly before resuming where he left off. “He’s getting married, by the way. Akaashi said they’ll be mailing out the invitations next month, but I thought I’d let you know first.”

Kiyoomi nods. “So he’s finally tying the knot then.”

“Damn right,” Atsumu laughs. “He’s been talking about marriage since forever.”

“Anything else I missed while I was away? Oi, stop that.”

Kiyoomi bats away Atsumu’s hand as he tries to steal a piece of ginger pork from his plate, earning him a whined protest.

“Come on, don’t be selfish,” Atsumu grumbles. “I’m letting you stay here for free! The least you could do is give me a morsel of your food.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Atsumu sighs, then sulkily returns to his own dinner. “If you kept up with social media, you wouldn’t need me to update you on everything, you know?”

“Social media is meaningless to me.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Atsumu sighs. “Anyway, you missed a ton of stuff. Most of the people we know retired — they hit the big Three-Oh, and poof! Gone. Oh, and aside from Bokkun, a bunch of them are getting hitched, too. Not anybody close enough for us to get an invite, though.”

“What about you?” Kiyoomi asks, shifting a piece of pork to Atsumu’s plate. “What have you been up to?”

Atsumu lets out a delighted noise at the extra food, before proceeding to devour it in a single bite. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. 

“I’ve been real busy,” Atsumu replies, chewing thoughtfully. “Haven’t got much time to do anything since I took over as captain, which was a mistake, by the way — Meian-san calls me every other day just to nag about captainy things. It’s almost like he doesn’t have a wife and kid to be busy with, ugh.”

“We won this last season, so you’re probably doing your job alright,” Kiyoomi says dismissively, and it’s only after the words are out that he realizes he said we, as if he hasn’t spent the past three years on another continent playing for an entirely different league altogether. If Atsumu notices the slip-up, he doesn’t mention it.

“Enough about me! What about you? What have you been doing over in France?”

“Playing volleyball,” Kiyoomi says flatly, before taking another spoonful of rice. 

“Wow. You are such a boring person.”

“It’s nothing you didn’t already know,” Kiyoomi points out.

“Hm. I suppose so,” Atsumu says, and there’s a curious small smile playing on his lips. Kiyoomi doesn’t dare wonder what it means.

Late that night, Kiyoomi stands before the large window in his new bedroom, staring out into the twinkling lights of the city down below. It’s silent, night hours blending into early morning, but he's wide awake and he knows that it isn’t just the jet lag at play this time. 

“Coach Foster told me that you’re coming back to play for the Jackals again,” Atsumu says over the phone. “Is that true?”

“Yeah. I am.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Kiyoomi isn’t sure what to make of it.

“Where will you be staying?” Atsumu finally asks, voice quiet. “You sold your place when you left, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

Because he hadn’t planned on ever returning.

“So have you found a place yet?”

“I’m still looking.”

There’s another stretch of silence, this time longer than the first.

“You can stay at mine,” Atsumu says softly.

“What?”

“Come stay with me, Omi.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes shift over the skyline outside the window, and he sees his own face superimposed over the tallest buildings in the reflection of the glass. 

One year. 

That’s all he has, all he promised himself. One year, and all of this will finally be behind him.

16 MAY 2027

11 months, 4 days

Kiyoomi gets out of bed at 5am, just as he’s done every day for the past decade and a half of his life. He isn’t really an early riser by nature, but it’s remarkable what physical barriers can be overcome when you put your mind to something. He gets to his feet, makes his bed, and carries his rolled-up yoga mat with him out to the living room, where he proceeds to perform the same yoga exercises he’s always done, in front of the oversized window-wall as he’s taken to doing since moving into Atsumu’s apartment.

As expected, it hadn’t taken him long to adjust to his new arrangement here in Osaka — there’s the regularity of a professional athlete’s schedule that differs little from place to place, and Kiyoomi has always been quick to adjust to living away from home. But despite his swift adaptation to this once-familiar lifestyle, there are several quirks that come with sharing a living space with Atsumu.

Some of these eccentricities he’d expected, like the dishes in the sink, the numerous hair products taking up precious bathroom counter space, and god forbid, the drinking of milk straight from the carton. But others he hadn’t quite predicted when he agreed to room with Atsumu for his final stint back in Japan, like the houseplants, and most surprisingly, his sleeping habits. Kiyoomi thinks it isn't a stretch at all for him to assert that Atsumu has the worst sleep schedule he's ever observed in a professional athlete. 

The light below Atsumu’s closed door stays on well after midnight on most nights, and Kiyoomi isn’t sure when exactly it is that he goes to sleep, but he's witnessed the now all-too-familiar rectangular glow in the darkened corridor as late as 3am when he sometimes gets up for a drink of water. It’s new, his insomnia. It hadn’t been around back then, and Kiyoomi figures it must have started in the years he was away. But when confronted about it, Atsumu had merely offered a wry smile and a veiled admission of “I think about stuff at night.” It was far from a response he was satisfied with, but it’s rare for Atsumu to be less-than-forthcoming about anything, so Kiyoomi had decided not to pry any further.

Back in the present, he settles into Pigeon Pose and exhales slowly as the burn from the stretch passes. It’s not like he particularly enjoys doing yoga, but at thirty-one years of age, these stretches are unfortunately the only thing still keeping him limber, so he persists. Aside from that, it’s always nice to watch the city slowly wake up. He shifts into Downward Dog as the sun creeps across the sky, running its Midas touch over the city and washing everything with a brilliant amber glow — he thinks the lack of curtains is a design choice he might borrow from Atsumu once he eventually returns to his own apartment overseas. 

Atsumu gets up a couple hours later, stumbling out from his room with eyes still half-shut and fingers scratching at his bare stomach. Kiyoomi pays the partial nudity no mind, having since given up on asking him to put on a shirt around the house after about the two-week mark. He watches in mild amusement as Atsumu stumbles around like a baby giraffe, before returning his attention to the stack of mail in his hands. It’s Sunday, but Atsumu had once again forgotten to get the previous day’s mail, so Kiyoomi now sits at the kitchen island sorting through the envelopes. From out of the corner of his eye, he sees Atsumu pawing at the coffee machine, jaw unhinged in a particularly loud and unattractive yawn. Kiyoomi frowns at the unseemly sight.

“What’re you doing today?” Atsumu asks, sleep-hoarse voice pitched lower and kansai-ben heavier than usual.

“Nothing much,” Kiyoomi replies, sliding Atsumu’s stack of mail towards him. “I’ll probably catch up on my readings later.”

“Readings? That sounds awfully boring.”

“I go back to school in a year, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says distractedly, fingers busy with the letter opener. “I’ll be competing with fresh graduates, and I don’t want to fall behind.”

“Is everything a competition for you?” Atsumu mumbles quietly. 

Kiyoomi’s hands pause, and he glances up at Atsumu, but the blond is busy opening an envelope and paying him no mind. He frowns, wondering if he was meant to hear that comment at all.

Atsumu is frying eggs when Kiyoomi gets out of the shower later that morning, water dripping from his hair in rivulets because he’s found air-drying to work best for his curls.

“Your phone was ringing earlier,” Atsumu informs him when he hears Kiyoomi step into the kitchen behind him. “And it rang for a really long time. I think they called you, like, ten times.”

Kiyoomi stiffens, and he’s grateful for the way Atsumu’s back is turned, because he’s afraid of what his own expression must look like.

“Some girl mad at you or something?” Atsumu asks, amusement evident in his tone.

“Yeah...something like that,” Kiyoomi mumbles, feeling nauseous all of a sudden.

“Well, good luck to you then! Anyway, do you prefer a sunny-side up or a scramble?” Atsumu asks.

“Poached,” Kiyoomi says unthinkingly, pouring himself a glass of water to settle his stomach.

Atsumu looks up from the pan, sending him an annoyed look. “ Poached. You’re so pretentious, oh my god— hey! I told you to stop doing that!”

“Huh?” Kiyoomi asks distractedly, freezing up at his exasperated voice.

“You’re gonna give yourself a headache,” Atsumu scolds, sliding two fried eggs onto a plate before turning off the stove. “And look! You’re dripping water all over my tiles!”

Oh, Kiyoomi thinks blankly. He means the wet hair. 

Atsumu marches over to where he stands, backing him up against the cabinets and wrestling the glass of water from him before putting it down on a nearby counter with greater force than is strictly necessary. Cornered and left with nowhere to run, Kiyoomi can only watch with a resigned expression as Atsumu yanks the bath towel from around his neck before rudely forcing him to take a seat on one of the kitchen stools.

“Are you really going to do this every time?” Kiyoomi asks, sighing.

“Yes,” Atsumu answers curtly, before beginning to dry his hair with the towel.

“You’re gonna ruin my hair,” Kiyoomi protests. “You can’t be this rough with curly hair.”

“Then learn to dry your hair yourself,” Atsumu bites back.

“But that’s what the air’s supposed to do.”

“I’m not letting you drip water all over my house, leaving water stains on my marble flooring, and ruining my parquet,” Atsumu huffs out, punctuating his point with a particularly nasty scrub to his scalp with the terry cloth towel.

“Point taken,” Kiyoomi mumbles, sufficiently repentant now.

“There,” Atsumu says, finally releasing his hair from his clutches and taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “Now, was that so difficult?”

Kiyoomi stares back with an unimpressed look, already knowing what a frizzy mess his hair must look like.

“You’re gonna give me split ends,” Kiyoomi sighs, reaching up to try and settle his cloud of hair. “You don’t dry curly hair like you’re drying a dog, you monster. You have to scrunch it gently…”

“Well, that won’t be necessary knowledge for me, seeing as you’re gonna be drying your own hair from now on, right?” Atsumu says brightly.

Kiyoomi looks away.

“Right?” he repeats, narrowing his eyes.

“...Yes,” Kiyoomi mutters.

“Good,” Atsumu says, sounding pleased.

19 MAY 2027

11 months, 1 day

Bokuto’s wedding invitation arrives in the mail. Kiyoomi almost misses it, because only one gets sent to their letter box, and it’s addressed to Atsumu alone.

“I wonder if he sent mine to my Paris address,” Kiyoomi says, somewhat chagrined at being left out.

“Doubt that. He knows you’re back in Japan, and that you’re staying with me,” Atsumu replies, busy perusing the invitation in his hands. “Also, your name’s right here.”

“What?”

Atsumu hands him the invitation in lieu of a verbal response, so he can inspect it for himself. Kiyoomi frowns as he quickly scans the thick card. Sure enough, his name is printed on the front in gold embossed calligraphy, right next to Atsumu’s. The furrow between his brows deepens the longer he stares at the gold lettering. 

“I don’t get it,” is what he finally lets out, returning the invitation to Atsumu.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t he send me a separate one?”

“Maybe he’s cutting costs,” Atsumu jokes. “I heard he and Akaashi are going to eleven different countries for their honeymoon. That’s gotta take some proper budget planning.”

Kiyoomi grunts in response, but he still isn’t satisfied. He stares at the cream-coloured cardstock in Atsumu’s hands, pondering. It’s printed stationery, customized and made to order. So it’s not like Bokuto had put his name in at the last minute — it had been an intentional choice.

“Aw, is Omi-Omi feeling left out because he didn't get a card of his own?” Atsumu teases.

“Shut up.”

“Here, you can have it. Your name’s on it as much as mine is, anyway,” Atsumu laughs, standing up and nudging the invitation towards him on the coffee table. “I’m gonna get started on making lunch, any special requests?”

“Anything is fine,” Kiyoomi replies distractedly, eyes still trained on the card resting upon the hardwood. An uneasy feeling has begun to settle upon him.

“Okay,” Atsumu chirps, and then he disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

Kiyoomi picks up the card again. He stares at it, scrutinizing the words once more. There’s a footnote at the bottom about dietary preferences for invited guests and their plus-ones, should they choose to bring one. Kiyoomi’s gaze returns to the middle of the card, where his and Atsumu’s names are emblazoned. The gold foil of their combined names catches the light, shimmering in the afternoon sun and seeming to mock him in a dizzying manner. Kiyoomi swallows uncomfortably as realization sets in. 

Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, the gold lettering reads. Not Miya Atsumu, line break, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Just Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

A singular entity. No mention of plus-ones. 

Kiyoomi puts the card back down onto the coffee table once more, facedown.

24 MAY 2027

10 months, 27 days

“You’re late,” Kiyoomi says curtly, as his cousin slides into the seat opposite him, grinning brightly like he isn’t an entire forty minutes late to their brunch arrangement. 

“We were supposed to meet at eleven. It’s nearly noon now — we might as well be eating lunch already,” Kiyoomi grumbles.

“Give me a break,” Motoya says good-naturedly, pushing his sunglasses up and into his hair. “I’m not from around here and I got lost, okay? Cut me some slack!”

“Which is why I suggested picking you up from the train station,” Kiyoomi says pointedly.

Motoya shrugs as he peruses the menu. “Hey, hey, walking’s better for the knee — doctor’s orders, what can I say?”

Kiyoomi grunts in response, then nudges a glass of iced coffee towards him. “I ordered this for you, but I think the ice has all melted by now.”

“Aw, for me? How sweet,” Motoya teases, intercepting the drink.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Are you ready to order yet? I’m hungry.”

“Yep,” Motoya replies, already gesturing for the waiter to come take their order.

“I’ll get the avocado toast along with a poached egg,” Kiyoomi says to his cousin quickly, before leaning back in his chair and pulling out his phone.

Motoya glares at him. “Are you serious? You’ve been doing this since we were kids!”

Kiyoomi shrugs, sending him a smirk. “What? I’m the introvert here, you’re the extrovert. Ordering food for the introvert is the job of the extrovert — it’s symbiosis.”

“It’s parasitism, is what it is,” Motoya mutters, then plasters on a bright grin as their waiter approaches. “Hi! Can we get one lox bagel, a mimosa, and—”

He sends a glare at Kiyoomi as he says the next part of their order:

“—an avocado toast with a poached egg, please.”

Their waiter nods, before repeating their order and asking if they’d like anything else.

“Nope, that should be enough until dessert, thank you!”

The waiter nods, and then disappears to relay their order to the kitchen.

“See?” Kiyoomi says. “You’re a natural, Toya. You extroverts have to use your god-given gifts to help the introverts, it’s only right. Symbiosis.”

“You,” Motoya hisses, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction, “are so annoying.”

Kiyoomi grins.

“So, how’s Japan treating you?” Motoya asks afterwards, through a mouthful of toasted bagel.

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “I was gone for three years, not three decades, Toya. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Sure felt like three decades though,” Motoya snipes, mouth still full of bagel. “I can’t believe you didn’t come back to visit your beloved cousin, not even once in all those three years!”

“You’re not my beloved cousin,” Kiyoomi deadpans. “And I told you before I left that I wouldn’t be coming back. What, were you not listening to me as usual?”

“For the record, I do remember you saying that,” Motoya argues, narrowing his eyes. “I just didn’t think you’d actually commit to it. On that note, why are you in Japan right now anyway?”

“None of your business, stop being nosy.”

“Nu uh, you’re my beloved cousin, meaning your business will always be my business!”

Kiyoomi groans. “You’re such a pest.”

“Okay, I'm lying. I know why you're back — I heard you signed with the Jackals for one last season before retirement," Motoya says casually. "So. Care to explain what that’s all about?”

“Who told you that?” Kiyoomi demands.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere in the volleyball scene,” Motoya says dismissively. “Now answer the question.”

“Suna,” Kiyoomi says decisively. “Suna Rintarou told you, didn’t he? He must’ve heard about it from Atsumu.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Motoya says impatiently. “So why did you change your mind? You always said you’d retire at thirty, no matter how much I tried to convince you. Now look at us! I’m the retired one, and you’re still playing even though you’re thirty-one.”

“I changed my mind,” Kiyoomi says thinly, disliking where the conversation topic is heading — Motoya’s sudden retirement is still something he doesn’t like to talk about.

Motoya must notice his discomfort, because he rolls his eyes. “It’s been a year, Kiyoomi. I’m over it. Besides, I was supposed to retire in a year or two anyway. It just pushed my plans forward by a couple years, that’s all.”

Kiyoomi grinds his teeth in annoyance at the laid-back way he says it, tone flippant as if he’d merely had a simple change of heart and not a career-ending injury that changed the entire trajectory of his life overnight. As if it was just a minor inconvenience and not a devastating injury that had required two surgeries and months of agonizing physiotherapy to recover from, prematurely wrenching him from the competitive season and the sport entirely. Kiyoomi had been prepared to drop everything and fly back from Paris the moment news first broke of his cousin’s injury, but it had been Motoya himself who instructed him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to turn up on Japanese soil until his own competition season had ended, or he would never be forgiven. And Kiyoomi would have flown back the second the last volleyball of the season dropped on the other side of the net, but by then Motoya’s surgeries were completed and the urgency long over.

“The surgeries went well,” Motoya says to him over the phone. “So you don’t have to come back just to see me. Besides, I know you’d rather not return anyway. So when my knee gets better I’ll come visit you in France, or wherever in the world you’ll be by then. So just hang tight, yeah?”

He should have said no then, should have gotten onto the first flight back to Japan in spite of what Motoya had said, because even thousands of kilometres away, through the tinny audio quality of a phone call, he could hear the lie in his cousin’s words, the brave front that he was putting on. But Kiyoomi was a coward then, and the thought of returning scared him even more than the thought of disappointing his cousin, and so he had played along, acting out the lines to a screenplay for the dishonest and the cowardly.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says. “Then I won’t come back. I’ll see you when you get better.”

And he had never hated himself more than in that moment.

“Why’d you come back after all?” Motoya asks again in the present. “You say you changed your mind, but what was it that made stubborn little Kiyo change his mind?”

His tone is light and teasing, but Kiyoomi hears the question that goes unsaid: what was more important than even me?

Kiyoomi was a coward then, but he’s still a coward now.

“Who knows?” he says, avoiding Motoya’s eyes. “I guess I just felt like coming back all of a sudden. It’s funny how things work out, huh?”

Motoya eyes him wordlessly for a moment, before reaching for his mimosa, stirring the ice cubes in it with his paper straw.

“I guess,” is all he says. 

—

Motoya says goodbye to him outside the restaurant, once again declining his offer of a ride to the train station.

“My physiotherapist says it’ll heal faster if I walk more,” Motoya explains. “Counterintuitive, I know, but I trust her!”

“If you say so," Kiyoomi replies, still not fully convinced.

“Well then, I’ll probably continue to travel around the rest of Japan with Tsukasa, so I guess the next time I see you will be at Bokuto’s wedding.”

Kiyoomi nods. “I’ll see you then. Tell Iizuna-san I say hi.”

“You’re still so formal with him after all this time,” Motoya tuts. “He’ll be your cousin-in-law one of these days, you know. Learn to get over the awkwardness, will you?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen. “Are you…?”

“Found a ring in his sock drawer the other day,” Motoya says with a wink. “And he thinks he’s slick.”

Kiyoomi breaks into a smile, broad and genuine. “Well then, you have my early congratulations.”

Motoya smiles back. “I don’t know how long you’ll be back for, but I’ll probably push for a destination wedding when it happens, so don’t worry about having to come back if you’ll be gone by then.”

Motoya turns to leave after those words, and Kiyoomi feels his smile slip as his words register.

“Oh, and one last thing,” his cousin says, turning back to face him, his own smile now, too, gone entirely. “Your sister called the other day. She knows you’re back in Japan, and she wanted to know where you’re staying — don’t worry, I pretended not to know.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Kiyoomi says, feeling cold all of a sudden.

“I can’t keep covering for you, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, smiling tightly.

“I know,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “I’ll try and sort things out on my end so you won’t have to anymore.”

“Okay. Well, then I guess I’ll see you around,” Motoya says, and then he’s turning around to walk away for good.

Kiyoomi watches as he leaves, the slightest limp now present in his new gait. 

He lets out a long exhale. 

Time and tide waits for no man — it’s an adage he can only wish he wasn’t so intimately familiar with.

—

Late afternoon finds him sitting cross-legged on his bed, back against the headboard as he pores through yet another academic article on his tablet, making annotations along the margins every so often. A knock on his open door has him looking up in questioning.

“I’m going out for a bit,” Atsumu says. “Do you need me to get anything?”

“I’ll come with you,” Kiyoomi says, already beginning to get up. “I need to stretch my legs anyway.”

“Um, no. I think it’s better if you don’t come along with me to where I’m going,” Atsumu says awkwardly, taking a step back and fiddling with his own fingers.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “And where, exactly, are you going?”

Atsumu’s expression turns inscrutable. “It’s not important. So, uh, do you need anything or not?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “Why are you being weird about this?”

“I take it that you don’t need anything?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says slowly, squinting at him. “But where are you even going?”

“Well if you don’t need anything, then I won’t bother you anymore,” Atsumu says breezily. “I’ll be off now. Bye!”

And then he hurries away, the sound of the front door opening and closing quickly before the apartment turns silent. 

Kiyoomi is left staring at the now-empty doorway, frowning to himself.

7 JUNE 2027

10 months, 13 days

“Good to see you again, Sakusa,” Coach Foster says to Kiyoomi the first day he returns to the MSBY gym, offering him a warm smile and a pat on the back.

“It’s good to be back,” Kiyoomi replies, and he thinks the words are an understatement to the dizzying rush of euphoric nostalgia coursing through him as he takes in the familiar lights, smells, and sounds of the place he once spent all of his waking hours in. He’s silently pleased to see that nothing much has changed, apart from a new paint job perhaps. 

“Alright, when you guys are done with stretches, gather round and we’ll discuss some new plays Coach and I want to try out,” Atsumu’s booming voice echoes from across the indoor space.

“Yes, Miya-san!” a round of affirmatives resounds from the team.

Kiyoomi glances over at Atsumu, who stands at the far end of the gym with a volleyball in hand, speaking with a player he doesn’t recognize. Kiyoomi blinks. There’s a certain air about Atsumu now that didn’t use to be there, something in the way he stands with both feet firmly planted on the ground, shoulders squared and gaze held steady. There’s confidence and authority in the way he carries himself, assured but not arrogant. It’s different from the cocksure swagger he once paraded around with, his current presence seeming to command a different sort of attention altogether. 

Kiyoomi sees it in the way the nameless player looks at him, hanging on to his every word with undivided attention — Atsumu has become someone not just to be admired or feared, but someone deserving of respect. 

The corner of Kiyoomi’s lip tugs upwards — maybe some things have changed after all.

Playing with Atsumu is exhilarating. It’s not like he’s forgotten how good of a player he is, but playing with him again after three years is a thrill like no other, his sets just as brilliant as he remembers. Atsumu is as attuned to Kiyoomi’s presence on the court now as he was three years ago, and it’s almost like the time spent apart slips away for as long as they work in tandem on this side of the net. It's only a practice game among the team members, but Kiyoomi is certain that this is the most fun he’s had in a long time. 

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu calls, and Kiyoomi leaps for the ball sent to him in a perfect high arc, grazing his fingers just inches away from the net.

Kiyoomi adds his own touch to the ball in the form of a powerful spin, and the players on the other side scramble to receive his spike. One of them gets a hand on it, but it flies off in a wayward direction, landing somewhere out of court. His mouth, open in a surprised ‘o’, is a look Kiyoomi is familiar with seeing from across the net.

“Nice kill!” Atsumu cheers, reaching a hand out towards him.

“Nice set,” Kiyoomi replies, smiling as he returns his high-five.

Atsumu returns to his position on the court and Kiyoomi is reminded, not for the first time, of the sort of world-class athlete he could be if not for his desire to remain close to home. He’d demanded to know why before, years ago when Atsumu had rejected an offer to play in a foreign league ranked higher than the Japanese one.

“You turned them down again?” Kiyoomi fumes. “First it was the Italian league. Then the Russians. Now this. What’s wrong with you, Atsumu?”

“I’m not interested,” Atsumu says flatly, turning away from him.

“Why not?”

“Because I’d rather stay here,” he responds curtly. “My home is here, Omi. My family is here, my friends are here, and my team is here. This is where I belong.”

“No, it’s not,” Kiyoomi says angrily. “What happened to always trying new things? What happened to always striving for better? You used to always say you had no use for nostalgia or memories, what happened to that?”

“I was younger then,” Atsumu snaps, whirling around to face him. “And this isn’t a new development, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve always been this way, you know that.”

“You don’t belong here, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi spits, barely registering Atsumu’s own words. “You belong where your talent and hard work can best be showcased, where you can reach your fullest potential.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Atsumu says sharply. “I’m telling you that I have no interest in any of that.”

“I don’t fucking get you,” Kiyoomi seethes. “Why would you willingly box yourself in? For your mother’s sake? For Osamu’s?”

“It’s not for them,” Atsumu growls, livid. “It’s for myself. I choose to stay for my own sake, why is that so hard for you to understand?!”

“You think it’s worth it to act like a sentimental fool when you can achieve so much more elsewhere?”

“I don’t need you to understand the choices I make,” Atsumu says coldly. “I just need you to respect them. And I've never once settled for anything in my life — I’m here not out of obligation to anyone or anything but myself. I’m making a personal choice to stay, and don’t you ever fucking think otherwise.”

“Miya-san!”

Kiyoomi looks up at the sound of Atsumu’s name in time to see the ball being sent in his direction by a teammate’s serve receive.

“Got it,” Atsumu calls, a smile on his face as he eyes the ball in the air, preparing for a quick set down the middle. 

His hair is glowing under the bright overhead lights, the pale gold of it catching the light like the first surge of champagne from a popped bottle. Kiyoomi doesn’t know if he’ll ever fully make sense of the enigma that is Miya Atsumu, but in this moment, with his smile only brighter than the halo of his hair under the fluorescence, he thinks he might have made the first step towards understanding the biggest conundrum in his life.

—

“So how was your first practice back on the team?” Atsumu asks, towelling his hair dry. 

They’re the last ones left in the locker room, Kiyoomi having taken longer than necessary in the showers while Atsumu stayed back to discuss something with Coach Foster.

“It was fine,” Kiyoomi replies, shrugging on his team jacket. “This new team has a lot of potential, I think — the kid with the pierced ears especially.”

“Oh, Ueno? Yeah, he was consistently ranked the top spiker in high school. He’s a good one. Real polite, too.”

Kiyoomi nods. “We might have a shot at the championship title this coming season.”

“Ooh, thinking about going out with a bang, are we?” Atsumu teases. “Bagging the championship in your final season, veteran player Sakusa?”

“Can it,” Kiyoomi scoffs, then picks up his gym bag and slings it over a shoulder. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“Oh good, me too.”

“Let’s stop by the store on the way home. I need to get ingredients,” Kiyoomi says, zipping his jacket and making for the exit.

“You’re cooking?” Atsumu asks suspiciously.

“We can’t eat out all the time,” Kiyoomi grunts, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Is your cooking even any good?” Atsumu demands, falling into step beside him. “Is this all a ploy to poison me?”

“Dick around and find out, asshole.”

“Mm. Verbal abuse. Lovely,” Atsumu beams. “So glad you came back to Japan just to bully me, Omi-Omi.”

“Fuck off,” Kiyoomi says as he stifles a smile, no heat behind his words at all.

3 JULY 2027

9 months, 17 days

There’s a cat in the apartment. 

Atsumu doesn’t own a cat.

“Atsumu?” Kiyoomi calls, loud enough to be heard wherever his roommate might be in the house — he sometimes tends to the plants on the balcony, and the sliding doors are of surprisingly good soundproofing quality.

“What?” Atsumu yells back, and Kiyoomi is terribly disconcerted at the way he sounds both near yet far away.

“A stray got into the apartment.”

There’s a pause, then he hears Atsumu yell back, “Oh, that’s just Haru! He’s probably hungry, so open a can of cat food for him — they’re in the leftmost cabinet by the sink!”

Kiyoomi squats down to stare at Haru, who lets out a petulant mewl as Kiyoomi extends a hand towards him. If he’s being honest, he’s more than a little impressed at how this ginger cat managed to even make it here. He wonders if he took the stairs or the elevator — he’s not sure which is more impressive. 

Haru pads forward lightly to sniff at his fingers, but saunters off with a flick of his tail after just a couple of moments. Kiyoomi scowls, then straightens up and retrieves a can of wet cat food from the kitchen cupboard, noting with amusement that it’s an expensive brand. Trust Atsumu to splurge on a cat that isn’t even his. When he returns, Haru is sitting patiently before the kitchen entryway, tail swishing behind him.

“There you go,” he mutters, placing the dish before the cat.

Haru makes a little chirruping noise, before attacking the food with great fervour.

“Hi baby!” Atsumu coos at the feline, suddenly coming into view from seemingly nowhere, wearing a pair of work gloves and a dirty apron.

“Why do you look like that?” Kiyoomi asks, eyeing his grimy appearance warily. There’s a streak of dirt on his cheek and his hair is even more disheveled than it usually is. 

“I was repotting Omi,” Atsumu explains, pulling off the soiled gloves and freezing as soon as the words are out.

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “You named a houseplant after me?”

“No,” Atsumu lies, avoiding his eyes by pretending to be interested in a patch of fur on Haru’s head.

Kiyoomi decides to let the matter slide, opting to join him on the floor instead. “So do you just let strays into your apartment all the time?”

Atsumu glances over and eyes Kiyoomi up and down, before flashing a devilish grin as he announces, “Yep!” 

Kiyoomi shoves him in the shoulder for that, delighting in the way he topples backwards. Atsumu lets out an aborted scream as he goes down, flopping backwards onto the floor.

“Bully,” he complains, gathering himself into a sitting position. “But to answer your question: no, I don’t actively allow feline trespassing. But Haru over here is just a little bastard who comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes I get home from practice just to find him in my kitchen meowing for food, the little shit.”

Kiyoomi stares at him. “You mean you leave your apartment unlocked when you leave?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I trust the security downstairs.”

“Clearly it’s not very trustworthy if a little ginger cat managed to slip past them and up thirty floors,” Kiyoomi retorts, aghast at Atsumu’s sense of complacency.

“Relax,” Atsumu laughs. 

“Unbelievable,” Kiyoomi mutters. "How can you of all people be so nonchalant about this?"

"Well. It's a new thing I'm trying out," Atsumu explains, reaching out a hand to scratch Haru behind his notched ears. "I deliberately put myself into situations out of my control, to prove to myself that nothing bad will happen and I should just stop worrying all the time."

"Why are you so extreme with everything that you do?" Kiyoomi sighs.

"What do you mean?" Atsumu asks quizzically.

"Can't you pick something safer if you're gonna DIY your own exposure therapy?" Kiyoomi says wearily.

Atsumu lets out a laugh, shrugging as he does so. "Now who's the worrywart here?"

Kiyoomi watches as he stretches across the floor to flop beside Haru, cooing as he offers more pats that Haru is only too glad to accept. He looks the very picture of carefree nonchalance, nimble fingers dancing across ginger fur as an airy giggle escapes his lips. Kiyoomi's gaze gravitates over to his hands, where healthy fingernails sit atop the ends of his fingers, neatly trimmed and evenly filed to follow the gentle curve of each fingertip.

Kiyoomi stares.

"Does it not hurt?" he asks, standing before Atsumu who sits cross-legged on the floor of the gym, carefully filing his nails as he is wont to do anytime there's a break in practice.

"What, when I fell from heaven?" Atsumu asks, without missing a beat, without looking up from his hands. Back and forth, the file drags, slowly whittling down, slowly eroding away at already stumpy nails. Kiyoomi’s fingertips sting just by watching.

"No, your nails," he replies to Atsumu tersely, because he isn't looking to joke around right now.

"Nails don't have nerves in them, Omi-Omi. They can't hurt," Atsumu answers almost patronizingly, still not looking up.

He's being deliberately obtuse, skirting around the question and being evasive.

Kiyoomi hates that.

"Why do you keep them so short?" he demands to know.

He first noticed it at the youth camp in their high school days, had said nothing back then, but he thinks it’s time he finally addresses it after years of holding back.

"Well, this may be news to you, but I'm a setter, you see. I have to keep them short."

Short nails aren’t uncommon for athletes. They’re a requirement, even, in a sport like volleyball. Kiyoomi himself keeps his fingernails trimmed to prevent injuries. But Atsumu takes it to the extreme. His nails are filed down to the quick, the nail beds far smaller than they ought to be because of how severely he clips them. 

And he does so relentlessly. 

Day in, day out, he can be found filing his nails mindlessly and incessantly. Before practice. After practice. During breaks. On the bus. Before matches. After matches. Between sets. 

It’s almost obsessive, the constant back and forth motion, and Kiyoomi wishes he would just stop.

“Other setters don’t keep their nails this short, Atsumu — they do you more harm than good. I've seen the way you wince sometimes when you make a toss, because it stings. I know it hurts you."

"You're supposed to be looking at the ball, not me, Omi-kun."

"Why, Atsumu?"

Why do you do this to yourself? He wants to ask.

Humans have fingernails for a reason — to strengthen, to protect — but Atsumu, at some early point in his life, decided to defy that, to coerce and to maim the keratin to bend to his will. 

And Kiyoomi does not understand, but he wants to.

Atsumu is silent after that, fingers pausing in their action, the rhythmic, methodical sawing motion finally halted as he stills in the wake of Kiyoomi's insistence.

"Because I like control," is what he finally says, gaze turned up to meet Kiyoomi's.

There's defiance in the gold of his eyes, daring Kiyoomi to say something, anything, in response to this damning admission that isn't really much of a revelation at all, because Kiyoomi has always known.

"You're hurting yourself," he says quietly.

“Maybe I am," Atsumu concedes, "but I can't stop now."

“Why not?"

"Because it's just how I've always done it."

Kiyoomi is silent, waiting for him to elaborate, because there has to be more to it than just that.

"I can't stop," Atsumu repeats, quieter now. "Anything longer than this and it makes my skin crawl, makes me want to drag my fingernails across the nearest rough surface just to get it under control - a rock, a rough park bench, the uneven concrete out front. Sometimes I use my teeth."

It strikes Kiyoomi then, how strange the juxtaposition of his words is in relation to the issue at hand. How feral and animalistic he could become, all to keep something ordered, tidy, neat — something altogether divorced from traditional notions of savagery.

Control — it's perhaps just as bestial as untamed acts go. He thinks back to something Atsumu himself said once, a cavalier remark about himself being the handler of monsters. How strange, then, that the tamer himself would be just as savage as the beasts.

Or perhaps it isn't at all strange. He doesn't know anymore.

"Your hands. They're important, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says softly, a silent plea in his words.

"I know," Atsumu murmurs. “That’s why I have to take care of them.”

And the sawing motion is resumed once more, back and forth, back and forth, a steady action as consistent as the ticking of the clock on the far wall, as unceasing as time itself. 

Kiyoomi doesn't know what to say anymore. 

So he doesn't.

Atsumu’s nails are still short now, still on the stubby side, the nail plate smaller than most other people’s from years of abuse and near-obsessive paring. But they’re not short beyond reason anymore — there’s carefulness in the length now, short enough for volleyball but still long enough to protect the tender flesh from the elements. Kiyoomi wonders what it means, that he’s managed to withhold himself from indulging in the bad habit over the years.

Restraint — a more subdued sort of compulsion, and Kiyoomi thinks it a far more compelling demonstration of control than the sheer forcefulness once so intimately acquainted with Atsumu’s person.

“Shouldn’t you leave now?” Atsumu asks, peering up at him curiously and breaking him out of his thoughts. “You’ll be late otherwise.”

Kiyoomi glances down at his watch, and immediately sobers up. “You’re right. I should probably get going.”

Atsumu lets out a hum in response, still busy patting Haru. “Tell Ushiwaka I say hi, yeah?”

Kiyoomi nods stiffly. “I’ll be off then.”

Atsumu hums again.

The cafe Ushijima has chosen to meet him at is quiet when Kiyoomi enters, slow jazz music playing in the background and little else. He spots Ushijima by the corner and takes a deep breath to steel himself before walking over and sliding into the opposite seat.

“Kiyoomi,” Ushijima greets, waiting patiently for him to settle into his seat. “I’m sure you know what I’d like to speak with you about today.”

“Please just cut to the chase, Wakatoshi-kun.”

It’s not like him at all to be this impolite with Ushijima, but Kiyoomi’s emotions have been stretched taut over this particular issue for far too long now.

“I intend to propose to Satori in the coming months,” Ushijima begins.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says flatly. “If it’s my blessings that you want, well, you have it. You can get on a plane to Paris now.”

“Thank you,” Ushijima replies patiently. “But that’s not what I wanted to say to you today.”

“Then what is it?" Kiyoomi snaps.

“I was able to let go of the past,” Ushijima says calmly. “And I would like for you to do the same.”

“That’s not up to you to decide for me,” Kiyoomi sneers.

“I know,” Ushijima continues in that same serene manner, the one that makes Kiyoomi feel like a child being talked down to by an adult. 

It makes him feel silly and immature, which in turn renders him furious, because Ushijima of all people should know better than to belittle him in this way. He grits his teeth, feeling his hands begin to shake with quiet anger.

“I want you to choose happiness for yourself, Kiyoomi," Ushijima says, and Kiyoomi finally snaps.

“Stop.”

“Kiyo—”

“I said stop,” he hisses, standing up with an abruptness that causes his chair to topple over backwards, screeching unpleasantly across the linoleum flooring as it goes. His grip on the sides of the table is knuckle-white as he seethes out, “I thought I made it clear the last time that I don’t want to ever talk about this again.”

Ushijima meets his glare head-on, his own gaze unyielding. “You need to let that anger go, Kiyoomi. It’s the only way you can move on.”

“No,” Kiyoomi grits out, before turning away to storm out.

He doesn’t look back as he goes.

“Oh, you’re back earlier than I—” Atsumu cuts off at the look on his face as he steps through the front doors, his smile faltering.

Kiyoomi silently walks past him, trajectory headed towards his room.

“Omi?” Atsumu asks carefully, voice small. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, doesn’t look back.

There’s a knock on his door several hours later. Kiyoomi counts five, ten, twenty beats before getting up to open his door, ready to snap at Atsumu to leave him alone. But the blond isn’t there. Instead, there’s nothing but a pack of umeboshi candy sitting on the floor. Kiyoomi picks it up and glances down the corridor, but sees no sign of his roommate anywhere.

“Thanks,” he mutters into the air anyway, before retreating into his room and shutting the door gently. 

30 JULY 2027

8 months, 21 days

Me (8:23a.m.):

Happy birthday

Did you see what I mailed you

Motoya (9:53a.m.):

thank you (◕ᴗ◕✿)

nope, i’m not in tokyo right now

what is it

Me (10:03a.m.):

You’ll see when you get back

Motoya (10:04a.m.):

...it’s a vacuum cleaner isn’t it?

Me (10:04a.m.):

Maybe

Motoya (10:05a.m.):

my god

you are so bad at giving gifts

but it's ok, tsukasa will probably like it lol 

anyway, thank you!!!! 

you’re still my favourite cousin  (◡‿◡✿)

Me (10:05a.m.):

Damn right I am

31 JULY 2027

8 months, 20 days

The sun is high in the sky when Atsumu emerges from his room, messy-haired and sporting a grin that has Kiyoomi instantly feeling wary.

“Good morning!” he announces, voice scratchy with sleep and willfully oblivious to the fact that it’s past midday.

He ducks under a hanging air plant, then doubles back to peer closely at the moisture on the spiky leaves, balancing on the tips of his toes as he does. After a while, he drops back onto his heels and scurries over to scrutinize his shelf of cacti in a similar fashion, before turning to face Kiyoomi with a bright smile on his face.

“Aw, you watered my plants for me! Thanks, Omi-Omi!”

Kiyoomi spares him a nod and a grunt, eyes trained on his computer screen. Atsumu wanders over, squinting at the words on his screen over his shoulder.

“Stop snooping. I’m just studying, you busybody,” Kiyoomi grumbles.

“Again?” Atsumu says, tone disapproving. “Don’t you have a life outside of volleyball and studying?”

“No,” Kiyoomi responds without hesitation, making a shooing gesture. “Go away, you’re distracting me.”

“No! This won’t do,” Atsumu announces, planting his hands on his hips and putting on what he probably considers his best stern face but really just makes him look sort of constipated. “No studying today, let’s go out instead. You’ll get burnt out if you keep this up.”

“No, I won’t,” Kiyoomi says stubbornly.

“Yes, you will. Come on,” Atsumu whines, fingers sliding towards his laptop surreptitiously. “Let’s go out and have some fun today.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kiyoomi demands, eyeing his creeping fingers.

“A good deed,” Atsumu answers blithely, fingers inching closer to the screen of his laptop all the while. They hover over the edge for a few seconds, then slowly begin to shut the lid.

Kiyoomi lets out a long-suffering sigh, leaning back in his seat to shoot him a defeated look. “Fine. What do you have in mind?”

“Let’s go on a picnic!” Atsumu says happily, closing his laptop with a soft click. 

As it turns out, Atsumu’s idea of a picnic entails driving to the nearby river and preparing far too much food for two people.

“We can’t possibly eat all of this,” Kiyoomi points out, gesturing towards the multiple containers of rice balls, finger sandwiches, and fruit salads set out on the kitchen counter.

“Sure we can,” Atsumu says brightly, busy mixing a large batch of egg salad. “Can you help me to cut the crusts off of four slices of bread, please?”

“I’ll just do yours,” Kiyoomi sighs, reaching for the bread bag and a serrated knife. “I like the crust on mine.”

“No! You can’t do that,” Atsumu gasps, looking scandalized. “It doesn’t look as pretty with the crust on!”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Food is food.”

“But don’t you want your food to look pretty?”

“So? It’s all just going into my stomach and out my ass eventually.”

Atsumu sighs. “You wound me.”

It’s early evening when they head over to the riverbank, Kiyoomi carrying the bulk of the food as Atsumu scuttles about looking for a good spot to set their picnic blanket down on the grass. He’s surprised to see a fair number of people around, mostly families with young children and couples, all similarly perched atop picnic blankets.

“Here, Omi-kun!” Atsumu calls out up ahead, jumping up and down to get his attention. Kiyoomi groans inwardly at his shameless antics, hurrying over before he can attract any more attention. 

"The view from here should be good," Atsumu says as he nears, sounding pleased.

"View of what?" Kiyoomi asks, confused.

"The fireworks, duh. Why else would we be having an evening picnic here in the first place?"

Kiyoomi pauses in the middle of helping him to unfurl the picnic blanket, frowning. 

"Fireworks? What for?"

Atsumu sighs. “It's summer, Omi. Meaning, it’s hanabi season. There's fireworks every other day, just because. Did you already forget that after just a few years away from home? Sheesh."

“I’ve never attended a hanabi viewing before, give me a break,” Kiyoomi mutters, smoothing out a crease in the fabric of the blanket. 

“What, really? Not even with your family?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re missing out,” Atsumu says pompously, flopping onto the blanket and letting out a satisfied noise. "Ah, the sky looks pretty right now. You think we'll get a good sunset later?"

Kiyoomi glances up at the rosy-tinged sky, soft streaks of muted orange peeking through the gaps of countless fluffy clouds.

"Mm. I guess so,” he says lightly, beginning to unpack the food they’d brought along.

"See, isn't this so much better than being cooped up at home studying?” Atsumu says pointedly. “Now you get to enjoy good food, a good view, and good company too!"

"Not too sure about that last one," Kiyoomi snorts, earning him a yelp of protest from Atsumu.

By the time the sun has fully set, a sizable crowd has formed around the riverbank, and they’ve somehow managed to finish all the food.

“Told you we could do it,” Atsumu wheezes out, lying on his back like a beached whale.

“Don’t talk to me,” Kiyoomi groans. “My stomach is exploding and you're entirely to blame.”

He’s in arguably worse shape than Atsumu, sprawled on his side in the recovery position as he makes little groans of discomfort every now and then. Halfway through his second serving of food which Atsumu had heaped onto him, he’d begun to feel rather ill but felt bad about discarding food that Atsumu had prepared by hand, so he forced himself to consume the rest of it. It had been delicious, of course — Kiyoomi has long known the cooking prowess to be a Miya family trait — but he now fears that he might no longer be able to eat anything made by Atsumu in the future without feeling at least a little bit sick.

It’s a bit of a comical situation, two professional athletes used to being pushed to their physical limits now rendered powerless and pathetic by a bit of egg salad. 

A lot of egg salad, actually.

“Get up,” Atsumu says, heaving as he begins to sit up. “I think the fireworks are starting soon.”

“I can watch them like this,” Kiyoomi retorts, rolling over so he lies supine instead.

“Wow,” Atsumu says, a complete lack of inflection in his tone.

Kiyoomi sighs, then slowly eases himself into a sitting position. “Happy now?”

But Atsumu isn’t paying any attention to him anymore. He’s staring at a nearby family, gaze soft as watches their two young sons chase each other, the bottoms of their yukata stained from frolicking in the grass.

“They remind me of Samu and I when we were kids,” he says with a smile. “Our mom used to take us to summer festivals whenever she could, and she’d insist on dressing us up in matching yukata all the time. We hated it, of course, but then again we often got free things out of it from food vendors who thought we looked adorable, so I guess it was a successful ploy.”

“Sounds like something your mom would do,” Kiyoomi laughs, knowing how shrewd their mother can be from the stories that Atsumu has told him over the years.

“Yeah. Ah, it’s been ages since I attended a summer festival,” Atsumu says wistfully, turning back to face him. “You’ve never been to one before, right?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Not unless you count the one my high school hosted.”

“Nah, high school festivals are nothing like the real ones,” Atsumu says, scrunching his nose. “Oh, I know! We should attend the Tenjin Matsuri!”

“Didn’t that happen last weekend?” Kiyoomi says, frowning.

Atsumu’s expression falls. “Oh, shit. We missed it?”

“Mhm.”

Atsumu sighs, leaning back on his hands. “Oh, well. There’s always next year, I guess.”

“...Yeah,” Kiyoomi mumbles, a beat too late.

Atsumu seems to realize his mistake then, because an odd expression crosses his face. “Oh,” he says. “I forgot. You won’t be here in a year, huh?”

It’s uncomfortably silent after that, until a tell-tale crackling noise begins somewhere in the distance, marking the first of the night’s aerial pyrotechnics. 

“Oh, it’s starting!” Atsumu points out excitedly.

“Mm,” Kiyoomi hums quietly, looking to the sky.

The first fireworks are nothing short of breathtaking. Kiyoomi watches as brilliant streaks of gold stripe the night sky, then burst into dazzling pinpricks of light that stipple the darkness, before softly fading into nothingness. It’s visually stunning, as intense as it is short-lived, and the crowd cheers as more of the lights transform the otherwise stygian sky into a shimmering, glittering palette for the heavens.

He’s seen fireworks before, but never like this. It’s different, he thinks, watching from somewhere up high behind a sheet of glass — it's nothing like being here on the ground, neck strained while gazing skywards and seeing only saturated hues in your field of vision. It almost feels like it’s too much, and he has to turn away from the brightness threatening to sear an imprint into his retinas, gaze instead falling onto Atsumu, his own line of sight turned to the sky. There’s a smile on his face, eyes bright enough to rival even the brilliant illuminations above. 

But it’s his hair that Kiyoomi finds most mesmerizing. Tonight, the fairness of it catches the hues of the fireworks easily, glimmering in time with their burn and fade — an unlikely canvas offering a gentler, more enthralling interpretation of the intense brilliance painting the skies above, and Kiyoomi finds himself unable to look away, as if spellbound.

—

It’s late when they get home. Atsumu hums quietly to himself, heading into the kitchen for a drink of water.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi calls quietly, watching him from the entryway of the kitchen.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for today. I had fun.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen in surprise, before he lowers his glass to offer a small smile in return. “Me too. I enjoyed today as well.”

Kiyoomi dithers for a bit, then offers a small nod. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Omi-kun," Atsumu says softly.

8 AUGUST 2027

8 months, 12 days

It’s silent today, save for the sounds of Kiyoomi typing away quietly, and the occasional purr Haru lets out as he pads around underneath the dining table, weaving in and out of the table and chair legs. Every so often, he approaches Kiyoomi to brush against his legs insistently, only stopping when he receives a pat on the head or a couple of scritches behind the ears. It’s a distraction, but a welcome one, so Kiyoomi doesn’t mind too much.

He can hear the tinkling sounds of Atsumu pottering about the kitchen, trying a new recipe of sorts. It seems to be going well, if his content humming is any indication. 

“Omi-kun,” he calls, popping out from the kitchen holding a spoon.

His other hand is curled beneath it to catch any drips, and he wanders over to where Kiyoomi is seated at the dining table.

“Can you try this for me?” he asks, bringing the spoon to his lips.

Kiyoomi shifts away from his hands almost instinctively, head ducking as he eyes the pale green substance in the spoon suspiciously. “What is that?”

“It’s broccoli soup.”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose, not quite sure what to make of it when its consistency and colour are so reminiscent of something...much more unsavoury.

“Try it,” Atsumu prompts again, pushing the spoon against his lips.

Kiyoomi frowns, but allows himself to be fed the strange concoction anyway. He smacks his lips a little after Atsumu has pulled the spoon away, still frowning slightly.

“Needs more salt,” is the verdict he decides upon.

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Atsumu chirps, and then he’s turning to return to the kitchen, but pauses when something on Kiyoomi’s screen catches his eye.

He turns back around, head cocked to side curiously. “Are you studying English? I thought you were fluent.”

“It’s not English. It’s Latin.”

At his response, Atsumu’s eyes widen comically and he begins to back away slowly. “Latin?! Wha— are you summoning a demon in my living room?!”

“Ha ha,” Kiyoomi answers dryly, unimpressed by his antics. “Very funny. No, it’s for school.”

Atsumu stares at him. “School,” he repeats slowly, nodding. “Right. That makes sense — not. Seriously? Latin?”

“It’s a basic requirement for most classical departments in the West,” Kiyoomi replies, rolling his eyes. “How else would we interpret ancient Roman texts? For that matter, I’ll have to work on my Greek as well. It’s been a while since I used either language.”

“Considering one’s a dead language, that’s hardly surprising,” Atsumu snarks. “But wow, just how many languages do you know? Japanese, English, French, Latin, and Greek?!”

“My French isn’t that good,” Kiyoomi points out. “I relied pretty heavily on English while I was in Paris.”

“Yeah, but still. Wow. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s cool and all, but why would anyone need to know so many languages? ”

“Languages are like keys, Atsumu. They open doors for you.”

“You sound like an ad for foreign language classes.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Are you done? Can I return to my studying now?”

“No. Never. I’ll never let this go,” Atsumu says, voice fading away as he returns to the kitchen. “Five languages! Wow! Who knew I was living with a straight-up genius?”

Kiyoomi watches as he goes, rolling his eyes in amusement.

14 AUGUST 2027

8 months, 6 days

Kiyoomi stands before a tall mirror, trying valiantly not to fidget as the old tailor runs a measuring tape around his chest, followed by his neck and then down the length of his back.

“Why so stiff, Omi? A passer-by might mistake you for one of the mannequins,” Atsumu goads from behind him, appearing far too amused for Kiyoomi’s liking.

Kiyoomi sends him a glare through the mirror. “No comments from the peanut gallery, thanks.”

“Pea— excuse me?!” Atsumu splutters. “Would someone from the peanut gallery dress like this?”

He gestures down the length of his body, where he’s clad in an admittedly dashing burgundy suit, even if Kiyoomi is loath to admit to its stylishness. 

“Careful with the colour on that one,” he sniggers, eyeing Atsumu’s suit. “Any redder and you’ll start to look like your own car.”

“Clifford is nowhere near this shade of red!” Atsumu squawks, cheeks colouring in indignation and ironically turning himself a step closer to becoming indistinguishable from the vehicle in question.

“All done,” the tailor murmurs from beside Kiyoomi, tucking one last pin into the excess fabric. “Check the fit, and let me know if anything is uncomfortable so we can make any adjustments if necessary.”

“Thank you.”

The man nods politely, then steps away to discuss something with a coworker. Kiyoomi turns back to the mirror, tentatively raising his arms to check if the sleeves of his suit are too tight. He’s a little unfamiliar with the process, having only had experience with bespoke tailoring in the past, but Bokuto’s wedding is in a little under a month so there’s little choice but to settle for an off-the-rack suit and some additional tailoring. The coarse tweed of the jacket leaves something to be desired, and Kiyoomi wishes not for the first time that he’d had the foresight to pack along one of his many suits when he first flew back to Japan. Instead, his suitcase had been filled with nothing but athleisure, leading Atsumu to take it upon himself to drag Kiyoomi out to look for more appropriate formal wear today.

He’d woken up to a bright yellow sticky note on the bathroom mirror with nothing but the words “we’re going shopping today!!” in a round, childish scrawl, along with a lopsided smiley face down below. Atsumu himself didn’t wake up until a good couple hours after that, meaning the idiot must have stuck the note there before he went to sleep in the hopes that Kiyoomi would see it bright and early in the morning. 

“Gimme a hug,” the idiot now says, arms outstretched and pearly whites on display.

“What? No,” Kiyoomi shuts him down immediately.

“Haven’t you heard of the hug test? You gotta hug someone to make sure the sleeves aren’t too tight,” Atsumu explains.

“No, I haven’t heard of it. And it sounds like you just made that up on the spot.”

“You're right."

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, before returning his attention to the mirror and eyeing the length of his pant leg.

“Wow, look at us,” Atsumu coos, joining him in front of the mirror. “We look good.”

Kiyoomi grunts in response, more focused on examining the silhouette of his own suit.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu calls, shuffling closer beside him. “Smile!”

Kiyoomi glances over just in time to see him snap a picture of their reflection.

“Aw, you didn’t smile,” Atsumu complains, but Kiyoomi barely registers the words, Atsumu’s voice fading into the background as his vision seems to close off on anything but their joint reflection in the mirror. 

They’re standing close, shoulders pressed together and elbows brushing. Kiyoomi’s suit is entirely black, from the jacket to the waistcoat and even the shirt and tie he’d picked out earlier. And though Atsumu’s jacket and pants are burgundy, his shirt and tie are the same inky colour as Kiyoomi’s. Their ensemble isn’t matching, not exactly, and the suits aren't of a quality he would have settled for outside of present circumstances, but as they stand dressed in coordinated finery before a mirror framed in ornate filigree, they almost look like—

Kiyoomi turns away with an abruptness that catches Atsumu by surprise.

“Omi? What’s wrong?” 

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“It’s nothing,” he lies, unable to turn back around and meet Atsumu’s eyes.

18 AUGUST 2027

8 months, 2 days

Kiyoomi is busy washing a head of broccoli under the tap when he hears the lock turn in the front door.

“I’m back,” Atsumu’s call reverberates through their apartment. He appears in the kitchen doorway shortly after, a tired smile on his face.

“Welcome home,” Kiyoomi says, feeling his own brows knit together as he catches sight of sunken cheeks and dark circles.

Atsumu had gone out again earlier that day on yet another one of his mysterious trips, and just like all the previous times, he’d left the house in a hurry and remained uncontactable all day, as if worried that Kiyoomi might enquire as to his whereabouts. He does it often, disappearing for hours on end, supposedly to run errands or to pick up something from the store, but he always comes home empty-handed and looking the worse for wear. He’s uncharacteristically tight-lipped about what he gets up to on these excursions, and Kiyoomi would demand to know what’s going on, but Atsumu isn’t the only one in this house keeping secrets, so he holds his tongue now as Atsumu steps into the kitchen, fatigue evident in his slumped shoulders and the way he drags his feet.

“What’s for dinner?” he enquires quietly, sniffing the air and coming to his own conclusion a moment later. “Grilled mackerel again?”

Kiyoomi ignores the dejected sigh he lets out in favour of slicing the broccoli into florets. Atsumu moves to stand beside him, lightly hip-checking Kiyoomi aside to wash his hands. Their elbows jostle despite the double sinks, because Atsumu always insists on using the left sink — for some inexplicable reason, he simply refuses to use the right one, in much the same way he despises half the spoons in their house for their “bad juju”. 

“Three years in France and you couldn’t have picked up one fancy French recipe?” Atsumu grumbles without any real heat, flinging the water droplets off of his hands.

“Stop complaining,” Kiyoomi retorts, tone flat.

“No.”

“Then starve.”

Atsumu lets out a soft laugh, before reaching for a potato to help peel. “Not gonna ask me about my day?”

“No, but I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it anyway,” Kiyoomi says, in order to humour him, even as he knows that Atsumu will keep mum about his secretive activities just as he always has.

“Aw, you know me so well,” he beams, and the falseness of the declaration, delivered with such casualness, only serves to unsettle Kiyoomi even further.

“Unfortunately,” he plays along, feeling a strange sort of hollowness begin to settle deep within his soul.

“Mean!” 

Atsumu laughs after that, but the sound is more restrained than usual, and the weariness lingers on long afterwards in the shadows of his visage. Kiyoomi longs to reach out, to bridge that gap, to ask and to know, but it isn't his place to want, so he hangs back, and doesn't do anything more than to hand him the vegetable peeler.

4 SEPTEMBER 2027

7 months, 16 days

Kiyoomi fidgets outside the ballroom doors, waiting for Atsumu to wrap up his conversation with two other younger volleyball players whom he doesn’t recognize. Every so often, a server with a plate of hors d'oeuvres will step out of the double doors, and Kiyoomi is made to listen to snippets of the classical music being performed by the live string quartet within the ballroom. The present arrangement is Vivaldi’s Spring, a composition equal parts trite and prosaic, but Kiyoomi will admit that his loathing for the concerto stems mostly from a place of personal hatred. 

It's unfortunate, but the baroque score conjures up some of his most unpleasant memories, of tedious music classes and childhood summers spent practising an instrument he had the aptitude but little passion for. He was never truly coerced into doing anything, but his younger self had been all too eager to please his parents, an attempt that would ultimately prove futile. Their absenteeism only grew more conspicuous as the years went by, and Kiyoomi eventually turned jaded enough to hurl his violin from the second-floor balcony of the family home, watching with a twisted sort of satisfaction as the wood splintered and shattered upon impact. 

The caterwauling of the string quartet reaches a crescendo, and Kiyoomi briefly wonders if he can truly be faulted for leaving before the reception has even begun.

“You look like you’re at a funeral,” Atsumu jokes, as he returns to Kiyoomi’s side. “Between the full-black get-up and the miserable expression on your face, I’d almost think I was at the wrong event if I didn’t know better.”

“Ha ha,” Kiyoomi answers dryly, before turning on his heel and entering the ballroom. Atsumu hurries after him.

“We’re at number forty-two,” he reminds, as they scour the glitzy, expansive area for their assigned seats. “Oh, there! I see Shoyo-kun.”

Kiyoomi looks over to where he’s pointing, and sees the redhead sitting beside Kageyama. He scans their table’s occupants, as well as those of the other nearby tables in the hopes that a certain someone does not catch his eye.

“Come on,” Atsumu says, tugging on his sleeve lightly when he doesn’t respond. “Omi-Omi? Let’s go.”

Kiyoomi trails behind Atsumu as they make their way over, and when they get to their table he sees that most of its occupants are already there. He stiffens when he spots Suna, as well as Aran and his own cousin. 

“What is this, the Olympians' table?” Atsumu laughs, sauntering over and confirming his suspicions.

Kiyoomi feels dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. If their seats were indeed assigned based on the Paris 2024 roster, then—

“Hm? Where’s Ushiwaka?” Atsumu asks, peering about.

“He’s over there!” Hinata chirps, standing up to point at another table in the distance. “He’s with Yaku-san, Kiryu-san, and Hoshiumi-san...”

Kiyoomi lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding — he can do this, he can avoid Ushijima for all of tonight at least. He owes Bokuto and Akaashi that much.

“Are you matching with Clifford or something?” Suna asks suddenly, squinting at Atsumu’s suit. Beside him, Osamu momentarily chokes on the complimentary peanuts as he snorts in laughter.

“Wha— that’s what Omi said too!” Atsumu cries out, dismayed.

“That’s because it’s true,” Kiyoomi says, sliding into the seat beside Motoya, where his place card sits. 

Atsumu shoots him a glare. Kiyoomi merely sends him a beatific smile in return, pulling out the chair beside him and giving the seat a couple of pointed pats.

“Annoying,” Atsumu grumbles, dropping into the seat and scooting himself in.

The reception kicks off very soon after they settle down, but the speeches are a decidedly long-winded and boring affair — that is, they’re exactly what Kiyoomi had expected. On one side of the table, Osamu and Suna are playing tic-tac-toe with the peanuts, while on the other, Atsumu and Aran are preoccupied with a game of hangman using a paper napkin. They’d asked him to play along too, but Kiyoomi had refused on the pretense of possessing a higher level of maturity, but he now wishes that he’d said yes instead, because the alternative is to be stuck giving one-word responses to his cousin.

He’d been so preoccupied with looking out for Ushijima that he’d completely overlooked the perils of conversation with Motoya, incorrectly assuming that his cousin would be sufficiently distracted with Iizuna around.

“Your sister called me again the other day,” Motoya says, feigning casualness. 

Kiyoomi pretends not to hear him, gaze resolutely glued to his phone screen.

“Kiyoomi. I’m talking to you,” Motoya chides, and Kiyoomi grinds his molars together.

“Not now, Motoya,” he mutters. 

“Kiyo—”

“Stop it, Motoya,” Kiyoomi sighs. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Motoya tuts, but thankfully drops the matter.

“Stop bugging me,” Kiyoomi mutters, glancing up when he feels someone’s gaze upon him.

Atsumu quickly averts his eyes, but not fast enough to avoid detection. Kiyoomi’s scowl deepens, wondering how much of that exchange he had overheard. After a while, he gets to his feet, too restless to sit still for any longer.

“I’m going to the washroom,” he announces.

“Mm, okay,” Atsumu replies distractedly, focused on his and Aran’s game of hangman.

“Ooh, I’ll come with you!” Hinata announces, scrambling to get up and follow suit. 

“You always need to pee,” Kageyama mutters, earning him a swift jab to the side from a chagrined Hinata.

“I just need to stretch my legs,” Hinata hisses.

"What for?" Kageyama quips, ever the opportunist when it comes to teasing his husband. "Not much length on them anyway."

Hinata looks like he might squabble in response, but then seemingly remembers that they're at a formal event, and halts his tongue. He settles for a hiss and a restrained kick to Kageyama's chair leg, before hurrying after Kiyoomi.

“It’s been forever since we last saw each other, Omi-san,” Hinata says, the moment they step out of the ballroom. “You’re back with the Jackals now, huh?”

Kiyoomi nods in response.

“You know, Tobio and I were supposed to do the same too — we were thinking of playing for the same team in Japan for one final season before retiring, just like old times. At first we agreed to both retire at thirty-two, but then Tobio said thirty-three, and now he’s thinking of only returning when we’re thirty-four. Honestly, I think he’s planning to just keep playing until he gets kicked off the team, seriously!”

“As if you aren’t as much of a volleyball idiot as he is,” Kiyoomi says, amusement evident in his tone.

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Hinata laughs, expression sheepish. “But it must be nice, right? To be finally back home with Atsumu-san after so long.”

“I guess I’ve missed playing with him,” Kiyoomi admits quietly.

Hinata barks out a laugh. “And I’m the volleyball idiot? I meant in general, Omi-san, not just that!”

Kiyoomi frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know how tough long-distance relationships can get. So it must be such a relief, right? To finally be together in person after all that — ah, that sounds so nice!”

Kiyoomi stops walking, halting so suddenly that his shoes squeak unpleasantly against the polished marble flooring. Hinata pauses up ahead, turning around to frown in confusion.

“Omi-san? What’s w—”

“Hinata. Atsumu and I are not together.”

“...Huh?”

“We’re not seeing each other,” Kiyoomi says emphatically. 

“But I thought…?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head, staring back at him wordlessly.

“Oh,” is all he says after a long silence. “I’m sorry for...assuming.”

Hinata’s words hang heavy on his mind for the remainder of the night. First it was the wedding invitation, and now this. Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder just how many more people have arrived at the same false conclusion. He clenches his jaw in irritation at the thought.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu calls, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

"Dance with me?" Atsumu asks, nodding his head in the direction of the space in the middle of the ballroom, where other guests have gathered to sway along to an upbeat song about being in love.

It’s reaching the end of the night, and most people have since migrated to the dance floor. Motoya and Iizuna had been the first to get up, and Kiyoomi now spots his former captain hovering beside his cousin worriedly as the latter dances with wild abandon, chronic knee pain be damned. Atsumu himself had earlier danced with Aran for a bit, and then even had a bit of a dance-off with Osamu, but he returns to their table now, where Kiyoomi has been sitting alone and debating the merits of leaving before the cake-cutting as is socially acceptable.

“Dance with me,” Atsumu wheedles again.

“You know I don’t dance,” Kiyoomi mutters, glancing away as Atsumu looks at him expectantly.

Atsumu lets out a laugh at his curt response, sending him a lopsided smile. He’s sitting sideways in his seat, chin in the palm of his hand as he gazes at Kiyoomi. The amber of his eyes appears darker in the dimmed lighting, framed by dark lashes that flutter slowly, slower than usual. Kiyoomi frowns.

“Are you drunk?”

“No!” Atsumu protests, laughing again. “I only had one flute of champagne — you saw me!”

“So why do you look drunk?” Kiyoomi asks suspiciously.

“I’m just happy,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes. “It’s a wedding, I’m allowed to be happy!”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Kiyoomi mutters, reaching forward to take a sip of water.

“So dance with me,” Atsumu repeats, tugging lightly on his sleeve. “Please?”

Kiyoomi pauses with the glass halfway to his lips, gaze flicking over to meet Atsumu’s above the rim. He’s smiling softly at him, head tilted sideways in questioning, and Kiyoomi finds himself putting the glass back down. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. “But only for one song.”

Atsumu’s smile widens, and then he’s pulling Kiyoomi to his feet, fingers circled loosely around his wrists.

“Let’s go,” he hums, leading them over to the dance floor.

Kiyoomi follows behind, stumbling a little as he goes, surprised to find a small smile playing on his lips in spite of his earlier reluctance. Atsumu lets go of his hand when they get to the space before the double doors, somewhere close enough to the dancefloor but still far enough from the stage that the attention won’t be on them.

“Just follow me,” he says, beginning to move in time to the upbeat song playing on the speakers.

Kiyoomi feels the back of his neck warm up in embarrassment as he tries to emulate Atsumu’s footwork, a simple back-and-forth sideways step that looks effortless as he does it but feels impossibly clumsy when he attempts it himself. Atsumu lets out a quiet laugh, then reaches out to squeeze his shoulders gently.

“Drop your shoulders,” he suggests. “You’ll be less tense that way. Don’t worry about getting it right, just have fun.”

“Dancing is never fun,” Kiyoomi mutters.

“Not with that attitude.”

“Don't be obnoxious,” Kiyoomi sighs, and Atsumu giggles again.

Kiyoomi notices that his hands still haven’t left his shoulders, but decides not to point it out.

“Look! You’re getting better already,” Atsumu praises after a while, beaming. 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, then moves to break away as the song comes to a close. “Okay. That was one song, I’m going back now.”

“No,” Atsumu whines, tugging on his wrist to pull him back lightly. “Just one more? Please, Omi-kun?”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi sighs.

“You’re the best!” Atsumu cheers.

The song changes then, into something less uptempo and much more mellow. Atsumu pulls him closer, maneuvering Kiyoomi’s hands to rest against his waist. 

“Wait,” Kiyoomi says, frowning. “I don’t—”

“Relax,” Atsumu murmurs. “Just trust me?”

He looks up at Kiyoomi then, a questioning look in his eyes, and Kiyoomi swallows before nodding minutely. Atsumu smiles again, hands coming up to rest upon Kiyoomi’s shoulders once more. 

“Follow my lead,” he whispers, and Kiyoomi finds himself moving along to the pace he sets, a gentle sway in time to quiet piano chords and tinkling acoustic guitar.  

“It’s better this way, right?” Atsumu asks softly, blinking up at him.

“...Yeah,” Kiyoomi replies, voice just as quiet. “Easier without the footwork.”

Atsumu laughs quietly, and Kiyoomi feels it more than he hears it, a gentle thrumming under his fingertips wrapped around his waist. “You know, for how agile you are on the court, you really don’t know much about dancing, do you?”

“I’ve never had a reason to learn,” Kiyoomi scoffs.

“Hm, but it does come in useful sometimes, no?”

“Like when?”

“Like now,” Atsumu breathes out, the honey of his eyes appearing almost molten in this light. Kiyoomi gazes back as if in a trance, wondering when their faces got so close. 

Atsumu leans in, ever so slightly. “Kiyoomi.”

The syllables roll off his tongue quietly, almost inaudible through the chatter and music, but Kiyoomi hears them all the same. He swallows. Atsumu shifts even closer, eyes never leaving his even once. There's a thunderous din in his ears now, an erratic drumming that matches the thumping within his chest. Atsumu's gaze falters, flickering downwards for a second, and Kiyoomi finds himself unable to breathe. Warm eyes drift back upwards, catching his again, and Atsumu somehow presses even closer. Every single nerve in Kiyoomi's body is alight, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

"Omi—"

A high-pitched keening noise suddenly goes around the room, an almost-painful squeal of acoustic feedback as someone picks up the microphone on stage.

“Ah!” Atsumu yelps in shock, hands jerking up to clutch at his ears instinctively. 

Kiyoomi lets go of him immediately, springing apart as if he's been burned, his heart hammering an uneven rhythm in his chest. 

“Are you— are you okay?” his voice comes out sounding strange, fingers hovering over Atsumu but not daring to touch.

“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, still wincing.

“Sorry about that,” the emcee on stage says sheepishly, raising an apologetic hand at the crowd. “We’ll be cutting the cake soon—”

A round of claps goes around the room, punctuated by the occasional whoop of excitement.

“—but first, it’s time for the bouquet toss!”

Another round of applause goes up, and people begin rushing towards the stage. Kiyoomi spots several unfortunate unwed souls being shoved forward by their friends, and lets out a sympathetic shudder.

“Wait, they’re doing that?” Atsumu mumbles in questioning. “I don’t remember either of them even holding a bouquet when they walked in earlier.”

Kiyoomi shrugs slowly, still feeling out of sorts. “Bokuto probably thought the idea of spiking a bunch of flowers into the crowd sounded like fun.”

“And Akaashi likely just went with it,” Atsumu completes the thought, nodding in chagrined agreement.

Sure enough, up on stage Akaashi is holding the bouquet in preparation for a toss, and Bokuto appears to be getting ready for a run-up leading to a spike.

“Someone’s going to get an eye taken out,” Kiyoomi says warily, as the bouquet gets sent up into the air in a high arc.

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees. “We should probably get out of the line of fire.”

Bokuto leaps, right arm swinging as he grins brightly. People rush forward.

“Oh, for sure,” Kiyoomi mutters, still staring at the spectacle as a bad feeling starts to creep up his spine.

The bouquet begins to sail through the air, over the heads of most of the crowd gathered before the stage, losing a couple of leaves as it goes.

“Let’s go,” Atsumu says, tugging on Kiyoomi’s elbow as he turns to make his way back to their table.

But Kiyoomi doesn’t move, not immediately anyway. He’s frowning, watching the flowers as they cut across the room, a perfect arc aimed directly at—

“Watch out!” he yells, leaping in front of Atsumu to snatch the bouquet from the air, inches before it was set to make contact with Atsumu’s face. He turns back around angrily, crushing the bouquet in a death grip.

“What the fuck, he aimed that at you,” Kiyoomi hisses.

Atsumu stares at him, bewildered and still getting his bearings. “Omi…? Woah. Calm down. It’s okay, it’s just flowers.”

“What if it had hit you in the eye?” Kiyoomi snaps. “You could’ve gotten your corneas scratched, or— or worse!”

He hears the absurdity in his words as soon as they leave his mouth, senseless and unreasonable. It's ridiculous, but not nearly as laughable as the real motivation behind his sudden bout of fury. He isn't paranoid enough to think the flowers could have caused any lasting permanent damage, but the alternative to redirecting his rage would be to acknowledge the true reason behind his anger, and that’s not something he's ready to do anytime soon.

“Kiyoomi!” Bokuto yells from the stage, not bothering with a microphone. “You caught it? Guess that means Tsum-Tsum is gonna have to propose soon!”

Kiyoomi freezes, and suddenly he realizes the hundreds of people staring at him, friends and strangers clapping loudly as they send congratulatory cheers his way. 

“Bokuto-san!” Hinata cries, dashing onto the stage with a worried expression as he goes to whisper something in Bokuto’s ear. 

Kiyoomi takes a step back to steady himself, feeling trapped with so many eyes on him at once. Bokuto’s words replay within his mind on loop, a phantom recording of a voice sample that only grows louder and more insistent the longer the attention on him stretches out. 

“I’m not…” the words get caught in his throat. “We’re not…”

But it’s Atsumu who speaks.

“Omi-kun and I aren’t dating,” he says, loud enough to be heard by even those on the stage. "Sorry to disappoint, folks!"

His tone is light, but Kiyoomi can hear the tightness in it. Before them, awkward glances are exchanged, nervous laughter rings out, and the emcee begins to speak into the microphone, an attempt at damage control that Kiyoomi doesn’t hear because he drops the bouquet, turns, and slips out of the ballroom without looking back.

Ushijima ambushes him as he’s waiting for the elevator at the hotel lobby to get to the underground parking garage — he must have seen him leaving and followed him here.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Kiyoomi snaps, emotions still running high as he stabs the button for the lift in agitation.

“I meant to ask you this the last time we met — why did you come back to Japan, Kiyoomi?” Ushijima asks, in a quiet, calm voice that has Kiyoomi mashing his teeth together.

“None of your fucking business,” Kiyoomi hisses. 

The elevator arrives then, and Kiyoomi all but dashes inside, furiously pressing the button to shut the door, but Ushijima puts one hand against it, and the automatic sensor opens them once more. He keeps his palm there, preventing the doors from shutting. 

“What made you come back?” he asks insistently. "It must have been important, for you of all people to return. What was it, Kiyoomi? No, who was it?"

“Let’s not do this now, for god’s sake,” Kiyoomi says tersely.

“You know I only mean well,” Ushijima says, giving him a sad look. “You have to stop punishing yourself, Kiyoomi. You deserve to be happy too.”

“I'm doing no such thing. Move out of the fucking way, Wakatoshi-kun. Let me go home.”

“It's him, isn't it?” Ushijima asks quietly.

Kiyoomi stiffens. 

“Move aside,” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please.”

Ushijima finally removes his hand. “It won’t just be yourself anymore if you keep refusing to change, Kiyoomi,” he says, as the doors finally begin to close. “You’ll hurt him too.”

“Better now than later,” is the last thing Kiyoomi grits out before the doors shut for good.

Atsumu returns home not long after he does. He flicks the entryway light on, staring unmovingly for several moments at Kiyoomi perched on the sofa. 

"I'm sorry," Kiyoomi says tightly, hands balled up atop his thighs and fisted in the material of his pants. "For leaving without you."

"It's okay," Atsumu says tiredly. "Osamu gave me a ride home."

He's taken his suit jacket off, his tie is loosened, and he looks exhausted. Kiyoomi watches silently as he removes his shoes at the genkan, then straightens up and steps further into the apartment, making to move past Kiyoomi.

“Does it not bother you?” he asks suddenly, and Atsumu pauses in his trajectory, turning to face him instead.

“What does?”

“That people call you my lover," Kiyoomi says, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Atsumu studies him for a second, before turning his gaze skywards, expression contemplative as his fingers toy with the ends of his tie.

“There are probably worse things to be called.”

And it’s not like him at all to be this cryptic, but it hardly feels like Kiyoomi’s place to ask, so he doesn’t. 

—

Kiyoomi is reading a book when his phone rings. He reaches for where it sits by his bedside, wondering who could possibly be calling him at this time. Receiving a call at 8pm on a weekday is not entirely out of the realm of possibility, but it's still a strange time for an unscheduled phone call, all things considered. He flips his phone over, and— 

It's Atsumu.

Kiyoomi stiffens when he sees the caller ID, feeling a current of unease run down his spine. It's 3am in Japan, and he has no idea why Atsumu would be calling him at this time, especially since they haven't spoken at all since he left almost three years ago. He remembers the last time they saw each other. He hadn't thought Atsumu would ever want to speak to him again.

It's silent on the other end of the line when he picks up the call, but he can hear someone breathing quietly so he knows that he's there.

"Hello?"

There's no response. 

"Atsumu?"

Still nothing. Kiyoomi is beginning to wonder if he'd been dialled on accident when Atsumu finally speaks.

"I miss you."

He sounds drunk. 

His articulation has never been the best, but the slurring in his voice right now is unmistakably the effect of alcohol.

Kiyoomi doesn't know how to respond. He stays on the line for a long time after that, either side silent and still, in anticipation for something, anything. 

It never comes.

Eventually, Kiyoomi hangs up.