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.

Chapter Text

14 SEPTEMBER 2027

7 months, 6 days

It’s dark in the apartment today, the sky having been overcast for most of the morning and afternoon, and stretching on into the early evening now. It’s times like this that Kiyoomi truly mourns the lack of curtains in Atsumu’s apartment, because there are few things more depressing than to look out one’s window and see the darkened skies stretching on for as far as the eye can see. Kiyoomi sighs, and the sound reverberates throughout the empty apartment — a bleak reminder of the strange emptiness that comes with his roommate’s absence.

Atsumu had pulled another disappearing act earlier that day, this time straight after practice with nothing but a vague, “see you later, Omi-kun.”

He checks his phone.

Me (17:48p.m.):

Atsumu

What time will you be back?

Me (18:23p.m.):

I’m making dinner soon, are you eating at home?

Still no response. 

Sighing, he flips his phone back around, setting it back onto the table face-down before getting up and heading over to the kitchen. He’s chagrined to find that they’re out of anything that can be thrown together for an easy meal — there’s nothing in the fridge but leftover rice and half a carton of milk, alongside some unripe fruit. Their fridge isn’t usually this ill-stocked, but the two of them have been busy preparing for the upcoming competition season, and the more frequent practices means that they’ve had to skip one or two errand days. Atsumu’s mysterious disappearances have also seemingly doubled as of late, and even his beloved plants are beginning to suffer for it — a number of them would have long wilted if not for Kiyoomi’s help, but even so, he’s hardly got a green thumb, and it’s Atsumu’s care that they truly need if they're to be saved at all. 

Sighing, he shuts the fridge and grabs his jacket and keys instead, intending to head to the store. It’s still not raining when he leaves, so he doesn’t bother with an umbrella. The wind nips at his cheeks and nose as he steps out, and Kiyoomi zips his jacket all the way up to his chin before marching to the store with his hands firmly planted in his pockets. There’s an earthy smell in the air, so he quickens his steps in the hopes of getting there and back before the rain hits.

The store is blissfully warm when he steps in, and he forgoes a basket on account of the few items that he’ll be getting today — the bulk of the grocery list will have to wait for the weekend. He rings them up quickly at the self-checkout, before bracing himself and stepping back outside. It’s freezing now, the wind chill stinging the exposed parts of his face and hands. Kiyoomi doesn’t need visual confirmation to know that a heavy downpour is coming soon. It’s already begun to drizzle a little, and he finds himself all but sprinting as he tries to make it back to the apartment as quickly as he can.

Turning into the apartment compound, he gives the security guard a brief nod before hurrying over to his apartment block, his access keycard already in his hand. He’s just about to enter the lobby when he hears it.

Mrow!

Kiyoomi freezes, then glances around the bushes nearby, but doesn’t immediately see the source of the noise.

Mrow…

It doesn’t sound like a normal meow or a purr — it sounds distressed. Kiyoomi’s eyes dart about, forehead creased in worry. He can feel the beginnings of unease bubbling within his gut.

Mrrrrow...

It sounds nearby. Kiyoomi curses before setting the groceries down and bending into a crouch. He searches the surrounding foliage, clicking his tongue lightly in the hopes of coercing another mewl from the animal. 

Mrrrowww...

The ground is beginning to turn damp from the moisture, dirt quickly turning to mud and staining his shoes and the hem of his joggers, but he continues to push twigs and leaves apart, hoping to find the feline. The rain is getting heavier now, fat drops landing on his skin and hair and soaking through both layers of his clothing.

“Come on,” he mutters, as his hair begins to plaster itself to his forehead. “Where are you, buddy? Come on...”

And then he sees it, something bright and orange trapped within the bars of the compound fence. A spike of panic wells up within him, and he swallows down the nausea, cursing again.

“ Haru? Is that you?”

The cat lets out a pitiful whine, lower body trapped in the metal gate. He eyes Kiyoomi warily, but must recognize him from past visits, because he allows Kiyoomi to approach. He doesn’t look like he’s in pain, just stuck, but even so Kiyoomi knows he has to work fast — the rain is pounding down now, and the frightened cat is shivering in the freezing cold.

“Hold on, I’ll get you out,” Kiyoomi mumbles, fingers working to bend the bars of the fence just enough to free Haru’s hind legs.

He curses as his fingers slip again and again, the metal far too slick with rainwater. His fingertips are red with cold and exertion, and he can feel the beginnings of blisters forming on his palm. Kiyoomi pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his hands to cover his fingers before he tries again. This time, the fabric adds just enough friction, metal shifting ever so slightly as he yanks on it. But then his grip slips, and Kiyoomi hisses in pain as the skin of his knuckles scrapes against the jagged edge of an adjacent bar. The skin tears, and blood springs forth, mixing with rainwater and running down the back of his hand in tiny rivulets like tributaries flowing downstream. It hurts, but he ignores the sting of the wound, locking his jaw as he tries again. Haru lets out another mewl.

“I’m gonna get you out...” Kiyoomi grits out, the muscles of his arm protesting as he pulls on solid metal once more. 

Haru begins to squirm in place, legs scrabbling for purchase on the muddy ground as he tries to wiggle free. Slowly, with the combined efforts of both of them, they begin to see progress. The ginger cat slips through inch by inch, Kiyoomi pulling so hard that he can feel his forearms begin to cramp up. But he doesn’t stop, worried that Haru might get hurt if he lets go.

“Come on,” he mutters again, and then with one final sharp yank, Haru breaks free and shoots straight into his waiting hands. 

“We did it buddy,” Kiyoomi says deliriously, fingers shaking and arms spasming as he glances up at the mangled metal bar. 

Quickly, he sheds his jacket and bundles Haru up in it, before retrieving his waterlogged bag of groceries and running into the safety of the lobby. The ball of fur in his arms is shivering uncontrollably now, and Kiyoomi frantically slams on the elevator buttons with a bloodied knuckle, jamming it insistently in the illogical hope that it’ll somehow make the elevator arrive faster. He sprints through the open doors when it arrives, hitting the button for the topmost floor and shutting the doors. 

The journey to the thirtieth floor is nothing short of hellish. Haru is quivering silently in his arms, and Kiyoomi can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. In the silence of the elevator, his breaths ring out fast and loud, as erratic as the thumping in his own veins. 

In his arms, Haru is deadly silent. 

His hands begin to shake uncontrollably, and he’s not sure if it’s just from the cold anymore. When the elevator doors open, he flies out and towards the apartment doors, fingers trembling so hard that he can’t get the key into the lock.

“Fuck!” he yells, when he misses the lock for the fifth time, and then suddenly the door is swinging open and he’s coming face-to-face with Atsumu.

“Omi? Where did you— you’re soaking wet, oh my god what hap—”

“The cat,” Kiyoomi gasps out, voice strangled. “ Haru. He’s— he’s freezing, I don’t know what to do, please help me, Atsumu, I don’t know what to do!”

Atsumu seems to notice the bundle in his arms then, because there’s a sharp intake of breath and then he’s taking the cat from Kiyoomi and turning around with urgency.

“ Fuck,” he swears. “He’s shivering so much. I’m running him a warm bath. Omi, I need you to — oh hell, are you bleeding?! Okay, uh, fuck, you should go and take a hot shower in the other bathroom, I’ll treat your wounds later!”

And then he’s sprinting off with the cat in his arms, leaving behind a distraught Kiyoomi dripping mud and bloodied rainwater all over the genkan.

—

Atsumu sets down a steaming mug onto the coffee table before him, as he sits wrapped up in several fleece blankets and staring blankly ahead.

“Here,” Atsumu says gently, pushing the mug closer to him. “It’s hojicha.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, and makes no move to reach for the drink. Atsumu eyes him warily but doesn’t comment on it, simply leaving briefly to retrieve a first aid kit before he returns. Silently, he opens the kit and takes out a tube of topical antibiotic, cotton wool, gauze, tweezers, and a roll of paper tape. 

“Your tetanus shots are up to date, right?” Atsumu asks quietly, slipping on a pair of disposable gloves.

Kiyoomi nods stiffly. Beside him, Haru purrs lightly in his sleep, warm and content. Atsumu had bathed him earlier, and it had unsettled Kiyoomi to his core when Haru put up barely any fuss, desperate for warmth as he was. Kiyoomi had felt another wave of nausea then, and stumbled into the other bathroom before collapsing on the shower floor and curling up with his knees tucked to his chest.

Eventually, he forced himself to get up and turn the water on, but it wasn’t until the steaming water hit his skin that he realized just how cold he had been. He stood under the spray of water for a long time, barely registering the sting of his wounds until long after the skin of his fingers had pruned. When he got out, Atsumu was sitting on the couch with a freshly blow-dried Haru, stroking his fur gently as he watched Kiyoomi with an unreadable expression.

“Omi,” Atsumu says softly now, kneeling before him. “Give me your hand?”

Kiyoomi blinks at him, then slowly brings his hand out from under the blanket. The scrapes on his knuckles have stopped bleeding by now, but the raw wounds smart as they come into contact with the cool air. Kiyoomi winces. Atsumu catches the minute action, because he offers his wrist a sympathetic stroke, the way one might calm a spooked animal.

“This might sting a little,” he says apologetically, before dabbing an antibiotic-soaked cotton ball to his hands.

Kiyoomi grimaces in pain, and Atsumu murmurs an apology, brows furrowed. It’s silent after that, nothing but the sound of the rain outside, unrelenting and ceaseless. Atsumu works quickly, and reaches for the gauze when he’s done disinfecting the wounds on his fingers. Kiyoomi watches as he winds the thin fabric around his hands, careful to pull it taut enough to be secure, yet not too tight as to be uncomfortable. He secures it with tape afterwards, smoothing the ends down carefully. His movements are gentle yet deft, nothing like the boorish clumsiness Kiyoomi remembers from when he helped to tape his fingers before volleyball practice, many years ago.

“All done,” Atsumu says when the last of the scrapes have been dressed, then begins to return the items to the first aid kit. 

He rises to his feet and Kiyoomi expects him to bring the kit back to where it came from, but instead he rounds the couch silently, reaching for the towel around Kiyoomi’s shoulders. He positions himself behind Kiyoomi, and his movements are gentle when he begins to dry his hair for him. Throughout the entire process, he doesn’t once try to make conversation.

“I had a pet parakeet once,” Kiyoomi says quietly, finally breaking the silence.

“It’s okay,” Atsumu says softly, scrunching his curls lightly with the towel to absorb the excess moisture. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Omi.”

But Kiyoomi soldiers on. “His name was Tora. My dad got him for me when I was nine. My parents were worried that he would be too noisy, but Tora didn’t chirp much at all — he was shy, most of the time.”

He pauses then, gathering himself, but Atsumu doesn’t push him for more. He merely continues to dry his hair silently and carefully.

“Tora—”

Kiyoomi cuts off, chewing on his bottom lip.

“It’s alright,” Atsumu says, carding a hand through his hair to part the curls to the right, the way Kiyoomi always does so for himself. “It’s okay.”

“He died,” Kiyoomi says, voice wavering. “He died when I was thirteen. The vet said it was stress.”

Behind him, Atsumu is silent. He’s finished drying his hair by now, towel tossed to the side, but his fingers haven’t left Kiyoomi’s locks. His hand runs through his curls gently, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp.

“He went limp in my— in my hands. In his last moments.”

“Oh, no,” Atsumu breathes out, hands stilling. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it was,” Kiyoomi says, voice broken. “He was quieter the last few days. I should have said something, should have asked to take him to the vet.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Atsumu says gently. “You were just a kid.”

“But he was my responsibility,” Kiyoomi insists, fingers curling into fists despite the stinging pain that comes with the action. “I should have said something. But I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to make a fuss. And he died because of that. It’s my fault, Atsumu.”

“No,” Atsumu says fiercely. “It wasn’t your fault, Omi. I promise.”

He stretches over the back of the couch, picking Haru up before carefully depositing him into Kiyoomi’s lap. The sleeping cat doesn’t stir once.

“You saved him today. You saved Haru. I want you to focus on that — what you did today. Can you do that for me?”

Kiyoomi stares at the ball of fur in his lap, not daring to touch.

“Can you do that for me?” Atsumu asks again, gentler this time.

Gingerly, Kiyoomi nods. His fingers hover above Haru’s back, hesitantly lingering in the air for a few moments before finally coming to rest fully upon the feline. Kiyoomi lets out a shuddering breath at the feeling of soft fur, warm under his fingertips and rising and falling with each breath that Haru lets out.

Slow, steady. 

Alive.

Kiyoomi lets out another long exhale, still shaky but more composed this time. Gradually, his hand begins to move, to stroke ginger fur slowly and gently. It’s a languid, repetitive action, one that grounds and calms him, and it’s not until several minutes have passed that he realizes Atsumu’s hands are mirroring the same actions to his hair.

“You did well today,” Atsumu murmurs, scratching his scalp softly. 

His eyelids begin to feel heavy, exhaustion from the day’s events finally catching up with him.

“It'll be okay, Omi.”

It’s the last thing he remembers hearing before his eyes slip shut, Atsumu’s fingers and low murmurs lulling him into a dreamless sleep. 

15 SEPTEMBER 2027

7 months, 4 days

For once, he gets up later than Atsumu. It’s not entirely surprising, considering all that had happened the day before. His roommate is sitting at the dining table when he steps out of his room.

"Banana?" Atsumu asks, offering him one from an overripe bunch.

Kiyoomi takes the fruit from him, peeling the skin as he glances about. "Where's Haru?"

"He left just now," Atsumu says nonchalantly. "I fed him some tuna and then he started pawing at the front door to be let out, so I opened it for him."

Kiyoomi pauses, lowering the banana. "You let him go? Aren't you worried?"

"That he's off terrorizing somebody's flower beds right now? Kinda. I really hope he doesn't get into too much trouble this time," Atsumu chuckles, but stops when he sees the grave expression on Kiyoomi's face. 

He sighs. "Omi-kun. Relax. He'll be fine."

"How can you be so calm about this?” Kiyoomi demands. “Don't you worry about him sometimes?"

"’Course I do. The little bastard's always up to no good. One of these days he’s gonna do something real dumb, I just know it."

"Then why don't you take him in?" Kiyoomi presses.

"He's a stray, Omi."

"So? Adopt him."

"Haru's not young for a cat," Atsumu says patiently. "He's spent his whole life outdoors — he's not socialized to living with humans, and he's just not suited for a domestic environment."

"But it's safer here for him, isn't it?" Kiyoomi urges.

"Maybe. But he wouldn't be happy here. Besides, I'd never be able to get him to stay — like I said, he's a stray. Strays don't like being cooped up, they'd much prefer to roam free."

"But aren't you worried?" Kiyoomi finds himself asking again. "What if he never comes back?"

Atsumu gives him a wan smile. "I worry about that all the time, Omi. But what can I do? I can only hope that he'll come back each time he leaves."

Kiyoomi isn't satisfied with that, not in the least, but he doesn't push the matter anymore.

5 OCTOBER 2027

6 months, 15 days

“Good morning,” Kiyoomi greets when Atsumu ambles out of his room in the late morning. “And happy birthday, you old man.”

Atsumu pauses in the middle of scratching his stomach to scowl at him. “Oh, shut it. We’re both in our thirties now. Can you really lord that five-month age gap over me in good faith?”

“I won’t answer that because it’s your birthday and I shouldn’t hurt your feelings,” Kiyoomi retorts, delighting in the indignant noise Atsumu makes. “I heard you took the day off. Going to see your brother?”

“Nah,” Atsumu replies, rooting around in the fridge for milk to add to his coffee. “He flew out to Hokkaido with Sunarin. I'm going to see my mom, though, so I'll probably be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Hm. Turn around.”

Atsumu shifts, and his eyebrows raise a little when he spots the wrapped package sitting on the kitchen island. 

“For me?”

“Yeah. Open it.”

Atsumu shoots him a suspicious look, but does as instructed, carefully opening the flat package to pull out the gardening apron that Kiyoomi had ordered from online.

“This is so ugly,” Atsumu laughs. “I love it.”

He slips the garment on immediately, before posing for Kiyoomi. “How do I look?”

“Ridiculous,” Kiyoomi laughs, eyeing the glittery font proclaiming Atsumu to be the 'no. 1 plant dad in the world'.

Atsumu laughs again, before his smile softens. “Thanks, Omi-kun.”

“You’re welcome,” Kiyoomi murmurs. 

—

It’s close to midnight when Atsumu returns home that night, and normally Kiyoomi would be fast asleep by now but he’d stayed up tonight to wait for him.

“Omi?” Atsumu asks as he steps into the apartment, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’re still up?”

“Quick,” Kiyoomi says impatiently, stepping over to shepherd him into the kitchen. “The day’s almost over.”

“Woah, what’s going on?” Atsumu laughs.

“I got you a cake,” Kiyoomi explains, bringing the pastry out from the fridge to set before him on the counter.

“Aw, are you gonna sing me a birthday song?” Atsumu asks cheekily as Kiyoomi busies himself with the candles.

“Don’t expect that much from me,” he mutters, lighting the final candle. “Make a wish, Atsumu.”

“Okay,” Atsumu chirps, then clasps his hands before him and closes his eyes. A moment passes, and then he blows out the candles.

“That was quick,” Kiyoomi notes. “What did you wish for?”

“It won’t come true if I tell you,” Atsumu sings, giving him a lopsided smile.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “If you say so. Here, cut your cake.”

“Hey, Omi. Guess what?” Atsumu slurs, eyes heavy from his fourth glass of wine. 

Kiyoomi had tried to stop him after the second, but he insisted that he wasn’t allowed to stop him on account of it being his birthday. It hadn’t been true, because it was already past midnight, but Kiyoomi had elected not to point that out.

“What?” he asks, toying with the tag of the teabag in his mug.

Atsumu had wanted him to drink as well, but Kiyoomi has never had much of an inclination to alcohol in general, much less wine.

"Why go to France if you can't even appreciate wine," Atsumu had tutted, and it would have been a lighthearted thing for anyone to say had it not been for the underlying truth that Kiyoomi knows to be hidden within his words, embittered and silently resentful. 

“I’m happy,” Atsumu says brightly now in the present, a dopey smile gracing his features once the words are out.

“Because it’s your birthday?”

“Hm, I guess so,” Atsumu replies, leaning forward. “But I’m mostly happy 'cause you’re here.”

Kiyoomi’s hand stills, and he sets the mug down onto the counter. “Oh,” is all he says.

“I’m glad you came back, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, looking at him earnestly. In the warm glow of the kitchen lights, his eyes have turned a dizzying colour, like liquid gold shifting in the sun.

“I almost didn’t think you would, you know?” Atsumu continues, and Kiyoomi finds himself unable to look away or to even blink. He feels laid bare, as if Atsumu’s golden gaze might be capable of seeing straight into his soul. “I thought that maybe, maybe, you’d pull an Oikawa Tooru. And that I’d never see you again.”

Kiyoomi feels his throat bob uncomfortably, unsure if he should respond. He’s well aware that the honesty coming from Atsumu’s lips right now are nothing but the byproduct of too much wine, just like those three words he had uttered over the phone all those months ago. He wonders if it had been the same back then, Atsumu sitting in the dim half-light of the kitchen, intoxicated and loose-lipped as he spilled words that were never meant to be spoken in the sober light of day, never to be heard by a man who had upped and left for France without so much as a second glance backwards.

“So I’m glad,” Atsumu says, his voice now soft and slow like syrup over pancakes. “I’m glad you came back.”

“...Me too,” Kiyoomi says breathlessly, staring into twin pools of honey like a moth drawn to a flame. “I’m glad I came back.”

“Do you know what I wished for just now?” Atsumu murmurs, leaning even closer. Kiyoomi smells the sweetness of wine and strawberries from the cake earlier.

“You’re not supposed to tell me that,” Kiyoomi breathes out.

“Yeah, because it won’t come true otherwise. But I don’t think it’ll come true either way,” Atsumu says softly, and Kiyoomi is suddenly unsure if the glassiness of his eyes is solely from the alcohol. “So I can tell you if you want.”

Kiyoomi’s pulse is loud in the silence of the kitchen.

“No,” he whispers. “You don’t have to tell me, Atsumu.”

“Okay,” the blond says softly, leaning back. “Then I won’t tell you.”

He smiles at Kiyoomi then, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says softly, but the man doesn’t stir. 

He sighs, leaning back in his seat and blinking slowly at the ceiling. Then he gets to his feet, and puts their empty cups into the sink before returning to where his roommate is slumped over at the counter, fast asleep.

“Atsumu,” he calls, shaking him lightly. 

When he receives no response the second time, Kiyoomi leans over and picks Atsumu up in his arms, his head lolling against his shoulder. It isn’t easy, because the two of them are practically of equal weights, but he manages to carry him to his bedroom without stumbling. Atsumu doesn’t once stir in his arms the entire time.

He pushes the door to Atsumu’s room open with his foot, and uses the light from the hallway to guide him over to the bed, setting Atsumu’s sleeping form down gently. He turns him on his side and then draws the duvet over him, tucking it under his chin while being careful not to rouse him. There’s a stray lock of fair hair falling across his face and Kiyoomi reaches over to smooth it away, but stops himself at the last moment, fingers lingering mere inches from his face. 

He’s already done too much tonight. 

Slowly, he retracts his hand, then turns to walk away.

Kiyoomi allows himself one last glance at Atsumu before shutting the door quietly.

23 OCTOBER 2027

5 months, 28 days

Ushijima proposes to Tendo. Kiyoomi hears about it from Atsumu, who hears about it from his social media feed. 

“Everyone’s getting married,” Atsumu comments mildly. “I guess we’re at that age, huh?”

“...Yeah. I guess we are,” Kiyoomi agrees with him, because he doesn’t know what else he should say.

15 NOVEMBER 2027

5 months, 5 days

Atsumu hasn’t been sleeping lately. Where he used to sleep late, he now sleeps hardly. Kiyoomi sees it in the circles beneath his eyes, more pronounced than ever, and the listlessness he carries with him around the house. His fatigue has proven itself to not be a debilitating one on the court, but it’s clear that this impression is nothing but a deliberate effort on his part, a veneer meant to cover up the weakness he only dares to show behind closed doors. He might be just as alert as he’s always been during practices and games, but outside of that his eyes are vacant and unseeing — it’s almost like he uses up all the energy he has on the court, and walks off as a shell of himself once the last whistle blows.

Kiyoomi isn’t sure what he should do, if anything at all.

I’m okay. 

I’m fine. 

Don’t worry about me.

He’s long since given up on ever expecting an honest reply from Atsumu.

17 NOVEMBER 2027

5 months, 3 days

Kiyoomi isn’t sure what awakens him when he first opens his eyes, lying still under his covers in the pitch darkness and blinking slowly at the ceiling. But when he strains his ears, he can just about make out the sound of someone busy in the kitchen, cutlery clinking and the tap being turned on. It’s the fourth time in two weeks that he’s been woken up in this manner. He sighs, then throws back the covers and steps out of bed.

Only one of the kitchen lights has been turned on, so it’s dim when he strolls in. Atsumu has his back to him, staring blankly into a saucepan sitting on the induction cooker.

“You know, a watched pot never boils.”

Atsumu jumps, turning around to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Oh, did I wake you up?” he asks guiltily, once he regains his composure. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi sighs.

It isn’t, not really, but the circles under his roommate’s eyes let him know that his midnight activities are hardly by choice either.

“What are you cooking?” Kiyoomi asks, stepping closer.

“I’m not,” Atsumu explains, still staring into the pot. “I’m just heating up some milk.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t the microwave be faster?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I like doing things the old-fashioned way sometimes.”

He peers into the pot again, then looks up at Kiyoomi. "Do you want some as well? I think I added too much milk for a single serving."

Kiyoomi shrugs. "Sure."

It’s silent after that, Atsumu’s gaze fixed on the milk gently simmering on the cooktop while Kiyoomi watches him in turn.

It’s worrying, what he sees. There’s a growing darkness beneath Atsumu’s eyes, the perennial purple-blue discoloration having grown in prominence the past few weeks to a point where it’s now dark enough against his sallow skin to mistake for bruising. His tan from the summer has faded, but even so Kiyoomi knows that his present complexion is far paler than it ought to be.

“Atsumu.”

He turns, and Kiyoomi sees that his eyes are bloodshot.

“Have you been sleeping at all?”

Atsumu looks away, and it’s answer enough for him.

“What’s wrong, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi demands, frustration slipping into his voice. “You’re an athlete — you should know better than to let yourself get to this state of exhaustion.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply. Kiyoomi exhales in irritation.

“We’re in the middle of a competition season, for god’s sake. You’ll be in no condition to play in our next match at this rate.”

“It’s not that I’m not trying,” Atsumu says quietly. “I just can’t go to sleep, Omi.”

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know, okay?”

“How long have you had this problem?”

“High school,” Atsumu sighs. “I’ve had insomnia since high school. I told you that once.”

Kiyoomi stiffens . There’s a memory somewhere. It’s interred deep in the recesses of his mind, and it’s fragmented, but Atsumu’s words trigger bits and pieces of a forgotten vignette from over a decade ago. There are images: the Ajinomoto national training center, the cafeteria in the Athlete’s Village, a younger Atsumu standing in the pale moonlight, and Kiyoomi himself.

A conversation.

“What are you doing here?”

The blond boy — Atsumu — turns, and Kiyoomi sees that his eyes are bloodshot, the only hint of colour on his otherwise pallid face. He’s dressed in a large oversized training tee, one that’s more a tunic than a shirt. It engulfs his entire torso and stops at mid-thigh, the fabric swallowing up so much of him that he looks almost small as he stands before the wide windows. In the faint light of the moon, his skin is ghostly and wraithlike. If Kiyoomi didn’t know better, he would have assumed this to be a supernatural encounter with an otherworldly being. But as it stands, he knows that head of dull mustard all too well, recognizes it as belonging to none other than this mortal plane.

“I can’t sleep,” Atsumu says, offering him a tired smile, and as he does so Kiyoomi catches the barest glimpse of a dimple in his right cheek, disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Motoya was snoring.”

Atsumu gives him a strange look when the words leave his mouth.

Kiyoomi raises a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Atsumu replies, moving away from the window to pull out a seat at one of the many tables around the cafeteria. “Just find it a bit odd.”

“What is?” Kiyoomi asks, following him as he goes.

“Is that, like, your thing?” Atsumu asks, squinting up at him from where he sits. “Calling people by their first name?”

Kiyoomi frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Motoya. Wakatoshi-kun,” he says, raising a finger with each name that he lists off. “You call everyone by their first name.”

“So do yo,” Kiyoomi points out. “You even give stupid nicknames.”

Atsumu throws one leg over the other, leaning back in the chair as he dangles one arm over the back of it. “Yeah, but that’s because it fits my, what do you call it, my concept? Y’know. My brand, my image. Whatever you wanna call it.”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “You mean you actively put on a persona in public?”

“Nah, that’s not what I mean. I meant, like, I’m generally seen as an outgoing person, and I’m friendly with most people unless they’re scrubs or deadweight, but you’re none of that, y’know? You’re all silent and moody and you don’t talk to anybody here but Motoya-kun, so I think it’s weird that you call people by their first names. Wouldn’t have pegged you as that sort of person, is what I mean.”

“I don’t call everyone by their first name — Motoya is my cousin,” Kiyoomi says bluntly. “It’d be weird if I didn’t call him by name.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “You guys are related? Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, that explains a lot, actually. Okay, then what about ‘Wakatoshi-kun’? What’s up with that?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “We’re just close.”

“How so? Okay, sorry if this makes you think I’m nosy — well, I mean, I am, actually, so you can go ahead and think that of me — but I’ve been wrecking my brain for ages and I have no idea how you guys are so close. Like, what’s the commonality?”

He leans forward in his seat, pinning Kiyoomi with an appraising look. “I mean, you guys aren’t in the same academic year, you go to different schools, and you’re not even from the same prefecture. So, what gives?”

Kiyoomi gives him an unimpressed look, before dropping into the seat opposite him. “We come from similar backgrounds.”

Atsumu leans back, expression pinched. “What? Oh, don’t tell me this is some rich kids’ club. Like a rich persons’ society, but for the kids of the rich instead? Ew, ew, ew!”

Kiyoomi glares at him. “It’s nothing of the sort, you idiot. We just have a...a similar history.”

Atsumu gives him a blank stare. “Oh, god. Are you guys exes?”

Kiyoomi glares at him again. “No. Stop probing.”

Atsumu puts up both hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“What even was your question? You’re all over the place, Atsumu.”

“See, that. Why do you call me ‘Atsumu’? You claim to only call people by their first name if you’re close with them, but why me? We’re not close.”

Kiyoomi pauses, thinking. “I guess I do it because you have a twin brother. So it doesn’t get confusing.”

“Uh-huh, I hear you. But Samu isn’t here anyway, so why ‘Atsumu’ and not ‘Miya’?”

Kiyoomi pauses again. 

“I don’t know,” is what he finally settles on. “I’ve never really thought about it. Would you rather I call you Miya instead?”

“Nah,” Atsumu says quickly. “Atsumu’s fine.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, stifling a yawn. “I’ll stick to that, then.”

Atsumu’s eyes soften. “You’re tired, huh? Go back to bed, then.”

Kiyoomi nods, standing up. “You should get some sleep, too.”

“Can’t. I have insomnia.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Don’t they give you pills for that? Why not just take one of them and go to bed?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Left my melatonin at home. Besides, I try not to take it too often. Just on the really bad nights.”

“What do you do on the not-so-bad nights then?”

“I just wait it out, mostly. The exhaustion will come for me eventually.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Kiyoomi says disapprovingly. “Isn’t there anything else you can do to help? Maybe listen to calming music or something?”

“Yeah, no. I’ve tried those textbook suggestions, but they don’t work for me. I mean, there is one thing, but it’s, well, hmm. Ah, nevermind. You should go to bed. Shoo.”

But Kiyoomi doesn’t leave. He shoots Atsumu another unimpressed look. “Out with it. What, is it something gross? Like masturbating? I know some people do that to fall asleep.”

Atsumu fakes a horrified expression. “Me, masturbating? Pure, innocent me? Oh, you sick-minded bastard, you!”

“You’re so obnoxious, you know that?” Kiyoomi says, glaring at him. 

Atsumu laughs, the sound ringing out bright and clear in the silent space.

“So what is it?” Kiyoomi finds himself asking. “What do you do to fall asleep?”

“Curious, are we?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I think you’re an interesting person. So I can’t help but wonder.”

“‘Interesting’? Is that just a polite way of saying I’m a weirdo that you’re observing like a circus monkey?”

Kiyoomi sighs. “If that’s how you want to interpret it, sure.”

Atsumu laughs again. “I’m just kidding. I know you meant nothing bad by it.”

“Well?” Kiyoomi tries again. “What is it?”

Atsumu hesitates. Kiyoomi sees the way his eyes glaze over, and suddenly he feels bad for being so pushy.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Nah,” Atsumu says, shaking his head. “I’ll let you know. It’s just a little embarrassing, that’s all. See, it’s—  well, it’s being read to.”

“Like...a bedtime story?”

Atsumu flushes, pink blossoming across his cheeks in the faint light. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s kind of embarrassing, huh?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Not really. I think it makes sense — probably triggers some part of your brain that associates it with your childhood, maybe releases serotonin or something.”

Atsumu squints at him. “Wow. You’re actually kinda nerdy.”

Kiyoomi scowls.

“Kidding! Just kidding,” Atsumu says, then glances at the clock mounted on the opposite wall. “Hmm, it’s late. You should go back to sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine — I usually get tired enough to fall asleep in about another hour or so.”

Kiyoomi fidgets a little, pondering. “Atsumu,” he says slowly, “what if I read to you tonight?”

Atsumu looks up, surprised. “Why would you do that?

“So you can sleep?”

Atsumu blinks. “Why do you care so much about me?” he asks, but it’s not said in a rude manner. He just sounds confused.

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I don’t really know either. Like I said, I just think you’re interesting. Also I think it’d be cool to see if it really works — whether you fall asleep if someone reads to you.”

“Ah, there it is. I’m just an experimental monkey for hypothesis testing after all,” Atsumu jokes.

“Yes or no, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi asks impatiently. “Do you want me to read to you or not?”

“I’d say yes, but the only book I have with me is my bio textbook that I brought along to revise.”

“Wow. And I’m supposed to be the nerd,” Kiyoomi mutters. “But I don’t mind. Come on, let’s see if you can fall asleep to me describing the process of mitosis or something. Quick, let’s go to your room.”

Atsumu stands up, faking another expression of false horror. “Inviting yourself back to my room? How scandalous!”

“Are you always like this?” Kiyoomi demands, trailing behind him as they wander back to the rooms.

“What, an absolute delight to be around?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother answering that, merely sighing loudly in response. Atsumu laughs again, and Kiyoomi finds that he rather likes the sound of it after all, pleasing to the ear like chimes in the wind.

Atsumu turns the cooktop off, removing the saucepan to pour the warmed milk into two mugs sitting on the counter. He stirs a few drops of vanilla into either mug along with a spoonful of honey, before turning around and offering one to Kiyoomi.

“Careful,” he murmurs, as he presses the heated ceramic to Kiyoomi's fingers. “It’s hot.”

“Thanks.”

They sip their drinks in silence, and Kiyoomi’s mug is half-empty by the time he next speaks.

“I thought you got it under control, your insomnia. You seemed—  fine. Back when I first joined the Jackals.”

“I was taking sleeping pills a lot,” Atsumu admits quietly, avoiding his eyes. “Probably more often than I should have.”

“Do you still take them now?”

Atsumu offers him a tired smile. “What do you think?”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi responds, staring into his milk. Then he looks up. “What exactly is it that keeps you up at night, Atsumu? You said you think about things, but what things?”

Atsumu’s eyes glaze over, eyes looking at Kiyoomi but unseeing at the same time. “Everything,” he says quietly. “Everything and nothing.”

Then he raises his mug to his lips, and Kiyoomi senses that the conversation is over.

They brush their teeth in silence afterwards, standing close together before the bathroom sink. Atsumu doesn’t normally use this bathroom, preferring the one connected to his own bedroom, but Kiyoomi hadn’t said a word when he stepped in earlier with his toothbrush in hand, reaching for the tube of toothpaste sitting on the counter beside Kiyoomi’s aftershave. 

Atsumu glances at him in the mirror, and their eyes meet through the glass for a moment before he looks away. Kiyoomi is reminded of their time together on the national team, when they would room together on trips out of the country. They often brushed their teeth together like this, standing side-by-side in a hotel bathroom as they both got ready for bed. He would do his skincare routine while Atsumu sat on the edge of the tub and watched, his hair for once unstyled and the usual alertness of his eyes replaced with an unusual softness. It had always unnerved him, how horribly domestic it all was, but when the room lights were turned off they would fall into separate beds and it would be like the strange spell in the bathroom had not happened at all. Atsumu would always succumb to sleep before him on such nights, the sound of his slow, steady breaths eventually lulling Kiyoomi into his own slumber.

He wonders how he missed it, how he never noticed the pills Atsumu must have taken night after night. He wonders if he took them while he was in the shower, stashing the bottle somewhere out of sight by the time Kiyoomi emerged from the steaming bathroom, only to pretend that all was fine, that he had everything under control — he’s always been one for false fronts and pretences, even back in their youth.

Atsumu now elbows him gently out of the way to rinse his mouth out at the sink. Kiyoomi waits until he’s done, before taking his place and cleaning up. He looks up when he’s finished, only to see through the mirror that Atsumu is still standing by the doorway of the bathroom. 

“Goodnight, Omi-kun,” he says once the tap is shut off, voice quiet in the silence of the space. “I’m sorry I woke you up tonight.”

And then he’s turning to leave, to return to his own bedroom where he’ll toss and turn until the first streaks of daylight break through the clouds, until night gives way to day and then he’ll rise once more, fatigued and exhausted and—

“Let me read to you.”

The words are out before Kiyoomi even realizes he’s spoken. Atsumu stills, turning to face him with an opaque look in his eyes.

“You don’t have to do that for me,” he says quietly, after several moments of agonizing silence.

“But I want to.”

“...Why?”

“To test an old hypothesis,” Kiyoomi replies, voice soft.

“...temperature regulation of the human body, also known as thermoregulation. It is controlled by a region in the brain known as the hypothalamus. This process allows the body to maintain its core internal temperature, of which a healthy range exists within thirty-seven degrees celsius and thirty-seven point eight degrees celsius. Temperatures outside of this narrow window may impede normal bodily processes. This makes thermoregulation important for returning the body to a state of equilibrium that is— Atsumu, are you asleep yet?”

“No,” Atsumu groans, sitting up in bed to shoot him a glare. “How do you expect me to fall asleep if you stop every few sentences just to ask me that?”

“Hey, I’m doing you a favour here,” Kiyoomi argues, gesturing for him to lie back down. “Stop getting irritated, if you elevate your heart rate then there’s no way you’re going to sleep. Okay let’s try again. Now, where was I…”

Atsumu lets out an indignant huff before flopping back down and drawing his blanket up to his chin. He looks awfully at-home considering the unfamiliar surroundings, and Kiyoomi can only watch with mild fascination as he turns on his side, curling up into the fetal position as he awaits the next few lines of Kiyoomi’s makeshift bedtime story for him. 

Kiyoomi himself is sitting cross-legged on the empty bed beside Atsumu’s, a thick bio textbook splayed out across his lap and flipped to a chapter on homeostasis. He had been surprised upon first entering Atsumu’s room to find that the camp organizers had given him a double room despite his single occupancy, experiencing a brief moment of intense envy as he thought back to his cousin asleep in their shared room a few doors down, snoring like a freight train and without a care as to Kiyoomi’s own wellbeing.

He picks up the book once more, index finger running along the text as he reads.

“When the body’s internal temperature changes, feedback is carried via the central nervous system to the hypothalamus. In response, signals are sent to various organs and systems within the body to initiate compensatory adjustments,” Kiyoomi reads aloud, glancing up every now and then at the figure lying opposite him to see if it’s working. 

“Response mechanisms differ depending on the sort of thermoregulation needed to be achieved. To return a body to an appropriate temperature from one that is too low, vasoconstriction and thermogenesis may occur. Vasoconstriction refers to the narrowing of blood vessels, which decreases blood flow to the skin and in turn retains heat…”

He continues to narrate the processes and mechanisms in a low, hushed voice, and he’s almost done with the chapter when he notices that Atsumu’s breathing seems to have evened out, breaths coming slow and soft. 

“Atsumu?” he whispers. “Are you asleep?”

When no response comes, Kiyoomi flips the textbook shut and stands, mildly surprised that it had worked, but nevertheless pleased with his own efforts. Atsumu’s hands are curled under his chin, quiet for once as Kiyoomi’s eyes track the steady rise and fall of his body. He places the textbook onto the desk at the foot of Atsumu’s bed and prepares to tiptoe out of the room when he suddenly halts, realizing the predicament he’s landed himself in — he can’t leave without locking the door. But the only way he can do that is to take Atsumu’s keycard with him, which hardly sounds ideal, discounting the fact that he has no idea where Atsumu has even kept it. The alternative is to wake Atsumu up for him to lock the door on his own, but a single backward glance at his peaceful sleeping form has Kiyoomi abandoning that line of thought altogether.

He pauses in the middle of the room, watching as his — acquaintance? friend? — sleeps soundly for several moments before he makes up his mind, striding over to lock the door from the inside. Then he returns to the spare bed, hesitating for another moment before sliding under the covers. It’s not an ideal arrangement, but returning to his and Motoya’s room would mean leaving Atsumu’s door unlocked as he sleeps, a thought which doesn’t sit right with him at all.

He curls up under the covers, and the last thing he sees before drifting off is Atsumu’s face, slack with sleep as a stray lock of golden hair flutters with each gentle breath that he lets out. Kiyoomi has a fleeting thought that he should reach out and brush the strands from his face, but the distance between their beds is too wide, and the clutches of sleep are quick to pull him under.

Atsumu is lying in bed when he enters, and Kiyoomi watches with mild amusement as he ogles the weighty tome in his hands. 

“What is that, a dictionary?” he mutters, eyes flicking up to meet Kiyoomi’s. “You’re not planning on reciting the dictionary until I fall asleep, are you?”

He sounds wary, but his posture is anything but — he’s curled up on his side with a duvet drawn all the way up to his chin, the very picture of coziness.

“It’s not a dictionary,” Kiyoomi scoffs, pulling out his desk chair so it faces the bed, before taking a seat. “It’s an anthology.”

“Of what?”

“Poems.”

Atsumu blinks curiously. “You’re gonna read me poetry?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi replies, scooting the chair nearer to where Atsumu lies facing him.

“What kind?”

“You’ll see.”

Kiyoomi adjusts his glasses upon the bridge of his nose, then flips the volume open to a page that has been marked with a sticky note from long ago. 

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, peering down at Atsumu.

“Mhm.”

“Okay. Then I’ll start reading now,” Kiyoomi murmurs, lifting the book for a better view in the dim light of Atsumu’s bedside lamp. “ Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit—”

“What the heck is that?” Atsumu demands, shooting up in bed. “Some kinda alien language?!”

“It’s Latin. Lie back down,” Kiyoomi intones flatly.

“Nu-uh,” Atsumu argues, frowning. “Are you casting a spell on me or something? Selling my soul to the devil?”

Kiyoomi lets out a heavy exhale. “Lie. Down. And not even the devil would want your rotten soul, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Hey—”

“Do you want to go to sleep or not?” Kiyoomi demands.

Atsumu opens his mouth, then closes it and flops back onto his pillow. “Fine, fine. Latin time it is,” he mutters.

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi says dryly, picking up the book and starting over again. “Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet.”

It’s been a while since he last used spoken Latin, and Kiyoomi is careful to enunciate properly even if his present audience is unable to appreciate his efforts — the Vigil of Venus is a beautiful poem, and he would hate to butcher it because of poor pronunciation.

“Ver novum, ver iam canorum, vere natus orbis est. Vere concordant amores, vere nubunt alites, et nemus comam resolvit de maritis imbribus…”

It’s a long poem, one with ninety-three verses, and he’s so preoccupied with proper articulation that it’s only several verses in that he realizes Atsumu has gone truly silent. Kiyoomi looks up to find him breathing slowly in a rhythmic pattern, one that while isn’t exactly snoring, is still a fraction louder than he would sound if fully awake — he recognizes the familiar cadence of it. Kiyoomi gently shuts the heavy book and rises to his feet, watching as Atsumu slumbers quietly. His lashes are dark against his skin, fanned out across the tops of his cheeks as he rests. His preferred sleeping position hasn’t changed in all the time Kiyoomi has known him, and he still sleeps with his knees tucked close to his chest and fingers curled beneath his chin. It makes him appear impossibly small this way, taking up far less space on the bed than one would expect for someone of his stature.

Kiyoomi lingers by his bedside, experiencing a strange mixture of guilt and something else he doesn’t dare to name. 

He’s done too much again tonight, overstepped where he shouldn’t have and crossed the very same boundaries he had painstakingly laid down for himself once upon a time. It’s how he’s always approached life, methodical and systematic, deliberate and purposeful. 

Disciplined. 

But restraint has never been easy around Atsumu. He takes up all the space in every room he walks into, a magnetic presence that intrigues and captivates and demands to be acknowledged by one and by all. Even now, hunched upon himself as he is, Kiyoomi feels the draw towards him all the same, a mortal rendered powerless in the face of a celestial body — it’s nothing but wishful thinking, to believe an asteroid could ever refuse the gravitational pull of the sun. 

But Kiyoomi is nothing if not a contrarian, and so he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.

22 NOVEMBER 2027

4 months, 29 days

Reading to Atsumu before bed becomes a daily occurrence. He had fought against it at first, of course, not wanting Kiyoomi's own sleep to suffer for his sake, but Kiyoomi had refused to take no for an answer, and it quickly became clear which of the two was even more headstrong than the other. Now he spends his nights reading to Atsumu until he falls asleep, or if it’s one of those times where Atsumu’s mind simply refuses rest, he reads until Atsumu quietly lets him know that he can stop, that he’s done his best to help, even if sleep won’t come for him that night. It’s on those nights that Atsumu looks most guilty, a murmured apology falling from his lips that Kiyoomi gently refutes each time. He claims the arrangement to be mutually beneficial, an opportunity to refine his oratory skills by reciting ancient Latin and Greek passages regardless of whether or not Atsumu falls asleep.

But if he's being entirely honest, to be by Atsumu's side as he dozes is its own reward. There's something almost magical about watching as the honey of his eyes gets lost to heavy lids, breaths evening out and falling to the pull of slumber. Kiyoomi is entirely undeserving, he thinks, to be trusted to gaze upon him in his most vulnerable moments. He’s keenly aware of his own meddling, that he's crossing into territory where he isn't allowed, but willpower is a feeble thing when a spell has been cast on you. 

And so night after night, he watches as Atsumu slumbers, his skin warmed by the glow of the lamp and his hair glimmering in the light like spun gold. He longs to reach out and to touch, to caress the velvet skin of a gently curving cheekbone, to run his fingers through that delicate mess of blond silk, but as selfish as he is, he knows to do so would be as senseless an endeavour as to grasp at starlight. And so he contents himself with watching, to simply witness and nothing more. But he allows himself only a few moments, because to hold the sun in one’s palms might be its own folly, but staring at it for too long is no less deadly.

—

“Welcome back,” Kiyoomi calls as he hears Atsumu return, his heavy footfalls thudding through the apartment until he stands at the entryway to the kitchen, watching as Kiyoomi retrieves vegetables from the steamer.

“I thought it was my turn to cook tonight," Atsumu says.

“It is,” Kiyoomi replies, scooping up a piece of carrot. “But it was getting late and you weren’t back yet, so I decided to take initiative.”

“Oh. Sorry, I got stuck in traffic on the way back,” Atsumu says sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi murmurs. “Go get changed out of your outside clothes, dinner should be ready soon.”

Atsumu nods, but doesn’t make to leave. He lingers at the doorway, looking like he might say something, but eventually thinks better of it and turns to leave. Kiyoomi watches his retreating back for a few moments, before returning to the vegetables. 

He’s busy plating the table when Atsumu returns, dressed in an oversized MSBY sweatshirt and joggers. Kiyoomi thinks nothing of it at first, but double-takes when he notices the way the sleeves of his sweatshirt pool at his wrists, swallowing most of his hands and leaving just the tips of his fingers exposed. It strikes him as odd, because Atsumu doesn’t own MSBY sweatshirts in that large a size. At first he thinks he might have gotten a new oversized piece of team apparel as loungewear, but frowns when he notices the pilling on the sleeves — it’s not new.

“Is that mine?” Kiyoomi asks curiously, gesturing at the sweatshirt.

Atsumu blinks, looking down at himself as he plucks at the fabric, inspecting it. “Oh,” he mutters. “It must’ve gotten mixed up the last time we did the laundry. Sorry, I’ll go and change.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It fits you better anyway.”

He had sized up when he first purchased it so that the sleeves would be long enough, and the garment has always hung too loose on his leaner frame, excess fabric bunching around his waist awkwardly. But it seems to cling to Atsumu’s wider shoulders and broader chest better, even if the sleeves are slightly too long.

“Oh. Okay, then,” Atsumu says, looking pleased as he slides into his seat at the dining table. His expression falls when he sees the grilled mackerel on his plate, however. “This again?”

“Stop complaining,” Kiyoomi chides, sitting opposite him and picking up his fork.

“But it’s so bland,” Atsumu complains, prodding at the fillet with his fork, a pinched expression on his face. “Would it kill you to add a little seasoning for once?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother with a verbal response, simply pushing the salt and pepper shakers towards him with a raised eyebrow.

“Ugh. That’s not what I mean,” he grumbles. “Can’t you, I don’t know, marinate the fish a little before you cook it? Samu almost passed out from horror when he heard that you don’t even use salt. Oh, and he said he’s got a great recipe for mackerel with soy sauce and sake that you should try out.”

“You mean you’ve complained about my cooking to your brother?” Kiyoomi asks, indignant. “Atsumu, he’s got a Michelin star. That’s hardly fair to me!”

“Not just him,” Atsumu laughs. “I’ve told just about everyone! Samu, Sunarin, Aran-kun, my mom, even my therapist!”

Therapist.

Kiyoomi pauses slightly with his forkful of broccoli, unsure if he should react to this revelation. Atsumu had said it so casually, slipped it into the conversation with no fanfare at all, and he’s not entirely sure if it was accidental or not. He brings the broccoli back up, lips closing around the vegetable as he opts not to react.

But Atsumu is watching him from across the table, gaze searching, and Kiyoomi realizes it was a deliberate choice. He brings the fork down, chews, and swallows. 

“I didn’t know you went to therapy,” he says quietly.

Atsumu sends him a small smile. “How could you? I never told you.”

“Oh.”

“I was at my therapist’s office earlier today,” Atsumu says quietly, his smile turning nervous as his gaze slides from Kiyoomi’s face to land on the table. “And all the other times I disappeared without telling you — I know you’ve been wondering. Sorry I waited till now to let you know.”

“You don’t have to tell me. You’re not obligated to let me know,” Kiyoomi says softly.

“I know. But I wanted to. Let you know, I mean.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” he says, voice quiet.

Atsumu’s lips quirk upwards again, and his eyes shift back up to peer at him almost shyly. “I talk about you a lot at therapy — sorry if that’s a weird thing for me to say.”

“Oh. I don’t think it’s weird.”

Atsumu’s eyes dip back to the table once more, index finger scratching along the wood grain. Several moments of silence creep by, and Kiyoomi scrambles for the right things to say, because he's never been the best with words.

“I think you're doing great, Atsumu,” is what he finally decides upon. "In volleyball and in everything else."

Atsumu ducks his head further, still staring at the table. “Thanks," he mumbles, and Kiyoomi sees that the tops of his cheeks are red.

“Is there...anything I can do to help?”

Atsumu peeks up at him. “You’ve already helped me loads. Don’t worry about it.”

His lips curve upwards then, and the gold of his eyes glints mischievously. “But if you really wanted to do something for me, I guess you can try seasoning your mackerel fillets from now on.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes fondly, bringing a forkful of fish up to his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my cooking is great.”

“To you,” Atsumu snarks, grinning as he reaches for the salt and pepper. 

10 DECEMBER 2027

4 months, 10 days

The words on the computer screen stare back at him, harsh black against stark white as they spell out a message Kiyoomi had known was coming, but still feels wholly unprepared for: APPLY TO GRAD SCHOOL. 

It’s a scheduled reminder, one he had set for himself over a year ago, but it still gives him pause, something not unlike dread building within him and crawling up the walls of his stomach. His applications have already been filled out, ready to be sent out to all the schools he had shortlisted months ago, and yet he still doesn’t feel prepared. It’s not a fear of rejection — his transcript from his undergraduate days had been nothing short of stellar, and so are the research samples attached to his applications. No, it’s a different sort of fear, one which he isn’t inclined to study too closely, for fear that he might begin to unravel uncontrollably like a sweater with a hole in it, stretched too thin and too far with every fibre of his being exposed for all to see.

Simply put, he isn't ready.

It's not the first time he's felt this way. It's a feeling he's experienced before, three years prior and no less nerve-wracking now than it had been then. It stands testament to the circularity of time, cyclical and unceasing as people and events are buoyed along and around, again and again and again.

“Are you sure about this?” Motoya asks from his perch atop the bed, eyebrows scrunched and watching as Kiyoomi scrolls through apartment listings in Paris.

“Yes,” Kiyoomi grits out, a hint of impatience making its way into his tone. “I told you — I've already signed the contract.”

“That’s not what I mean. Are you really not coming back?”

“I always said I’d leave, didn’t I?”

Motoya doesn’t reply, and when Kiyoomi turns around to face his cousin, he sees that his lips are downturned. “I thought you’d change your mind,” he says quietly.

“And why would you think that?” Kiyoomi mutters, turning back around to click on a listing that catches his eye.

“Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi stiffens as the name falls from his lips, but doesn’t break his gaze from the screen. “What does he have to do with this?”

“You have feelings for him, don’t you? I thought you might stay, if not for yourself then for him.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response, instead opting to save the URL to a steadily growing spreadsheet of apartments he’s narrowed down so far. There’s a slight thump, and he sees through his periphery that Motoya has stood up, appraising him with a somber expression.

“When are you gonna stop lying to yourself, Kiyoomi?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It’s an echo of a past conversation, the actors and script unchanging despite the many years that have since passed. It conjures a memory of the morning after Kiyoomi read to Atsumu for the first time. He had returned to his own room after Atsumu finally roused, with a brief exchange of goodbyes and an assurance to see each other at breakfast later. Motoya was awake in bed, and pinned him with an odd stare as he stepped into the room, casually asking to know where he had been all night. But it seemed as though he already had his suspicions, because he hardly seemed surprised when Atsumu’s name tumbled from Kiyoomi’s lips. 

“You like him,” he had said, plain and simple. No upward inflection at the end — not a question, but a declaration.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kiyoomi had replied dismissively, as he sifted through his belongings for his toothbrush.

“Liar,” Motoya had said, rolling his eyes, and the issue was dropped without further ado.

But he’s much less inclined to simply let things go in the present. “Does he know that you’re leaving?" he demands, fixing Kiyoomi with a hard stare.

"Why wouldn't he? He's my teammate," Kiyoomi replies tersely.

"And what does he have to say about it?"

"Nothing. Because this isn't about him. It's my life, and these are decisions I'm making by myself, for myself," Kiyoomi says emphatically, glaring at the screen to avoid looking his cousin in the eye.

"You can't keep doing this," Motoya says, and there's a hard edge to his voice that is rarely ever present. "You need to stop cutting everyone off and pushing people away. You can't live like an island, Kiyoomi."

"I invited you over to help me pick out an apartment, not give me some bullshit philosophical crap," Kiyoomi hisses.

He's never this unkind to Motoya, but they're skirting about dangerous topics in this moment, and he has nothing but harsh vitriol to shield the fragile glass cowering behind his ribcage, so he lashes out. 

"You know what’s the problem with you?" Motoya snaps. "You love with your mind and not your heart."

"Wrong," Kiyoomi says, turning to finally face him, expression steely. "I don’t love."

His words are spoken emphatically, tone reeking of finality, and Motoya's face falls, the fight draining out of him all at once. 

"You're making a mistake, Kiyoomi," he says softly.

Kiyoomi keeps his expression blank, gaze sliding back to the computer screen. 

"Maybe I am. But that's for me to decide. Not anyone else."

The harsh blue light from the screen sears into his retinas from how long he spends just staring at it blankly, the words within the inbox of his email swimming before his vision and seeming to crawl like ants on a page. Kiyoomi blinks, and the words fall back into position, spelling out an acknowledgement of his application. The first of many more to come. 

It’s okay, he tells himself, beginning the process of drafting his second application to another school. He’s done this before, and he’ll do it again — the strange aching in his chest doesn’t have to mean a thing at all.

25 DECEMBER 2027

3 months 26 days

Kiyoomi has barely knocked even once before the front door swings open, a blur of a tortoiseshell cat leaping past his feet and into the wintry air.

“Agh! Kiyo-nii, stop him!”

Kiyoomi’s reflexes kick in, and he flings out an arm just in time to halt the fluffy maine coon’s great escape past the threshold of the front door. Before him, his younger cousin Yuriko huffs exasperatedly, stubby eyebrows furrowed in annoyance on her round face. A pair of felt antlers bob atop her head as she reaches forward to scoop up the would-be runaway cat.

“He always does this!” Yuriko grumbles, intercepting the mewling bundle of fur and indignance from Kiyoomi’s arms. “You dumbass, you think you can survive in the wild? Who’s gonna feed you your favourite treats or scratch you under the chin, huh?”

Kiyoomi laughs, taking his shoes off and arranging them neatly by the shoe rack. “Cut the little guy some slack. He’s just excited.”

“Little bastard,” Yuriko scolds, giving the feline a tap on the nose. “Aren’t you, Tuna? Just a little bastard boy, aren’t you?”

Tuna makes a little chirruping noise, front paws scrabbling to catch her finger. 

“You are so dumb,” she sighs, even as she lets him nip at her finger. “Not a single brain cell between those fluffy ears, little guy. You’re lucky you’re cute. Tsk. Pretty privilege.”

“Is your brother here yet?” Kiyoomi asks in amusement, shutting the door behind him and watching as Tuna stretches lazily in her arms.

“Yep,” Yuriko replies, bending down to release the cat. He quickly wriggles free, darting off as soon as his paws touch the ground.

“He’s upstairs in his old bedroom with Tsukasa-nii,” she says distractedly, watching as Tuna begins to scale a bookcase. “They’re unpacking their bags, I think.”

Kiyoomi nods, ducking into the kitchen for a drink of water. Yuriko follows him, eyes narrowed in appraisal.

“What?” Kiyoomi asks defensively.

“Where are your bags? You’re empty-handed,” she says accusingly, “You’re not staying until New Year’s?”

“Can’t,” Kiyoomi responds, pouring himself a glass of water. “I’ve got scheduled practices between now till then. Sorry.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” Yuriko shrugs. “My parents miss you. My mom especially.”

“Where are they, anyway?” Kiyoomi asks, between sips of water.

“They went out to get more chicken for dinner, but they should be back soon. Kazumi and her husband are arriving soon too, I think — you haven’t met him before, but he’s nice. I think you’ll like him.” 

Kiyoomi nods, then turns around to wash the glass in the sink.

“Oh my god,” he hears Yuriko gasp, sounding panicked, and glances around in time to see her dash out of the kitchen and towards the Christmas tree by the corner of the living room. “Tuna, no! Not the fairy lights!”

Kiyoomi lets out a huff of laughter before setting the glass down at the drying rack. He looks up when he’s done, staring curiously at the taupe herringbone backsplash lining the walls. He remembers it being plain white square tiles years ago, and while the change isn’t a particularly dramatic one, it’s enough to arouse an uncanny feeling within him. He steps out of the kitchen, wandering about the house as the sounds of Yuriko berating Tuna fades away. There are other differences elsewhere too. Much of the home remains as he remembers, but he occasionally chances across something out of place, something he doesn't remember.

A change of a wall colour. New pictures on the wall. A table that used to be there but in its place now sits empty air. All around him are minute differences, aberrations from his memory of how the place used to look like. And it's odd, to see so much of the place unchanged and yet so different all at once — little changes here and there, each one a reminder of the passage of time. 

Kiyoomi reaches the staircase and begins to climb it, instinctively avoiding the spots that creak. He's surprised that his feet remember something like that, even after so many years have passed. He reaches the first landing, pausing as another childhood memory resurfaces. He had broken a bone here once, racing down the stairs with Motoya on cushions that they had pulled off the couch. They had gotten into so much trouble then, and Kiyoomi recalls being far less worried about his own mangled arm than the punishment that was in store for Motoya — not so much for himself, because his aunt and uncle have always been soft on him. Unfairly so, as younger Motoya had rightfully complained on multiple occasions, but Kiyoomi thinks it'll always be human nature to be harsher on your own child than somebody else's.

He reaches the second floor of the house and steps in front of a familiar door to the left, pushing it open without a second thought.

"Hi," Kiyoomi says, barging into the room to find Motoya sitting on the bed as Iizuna perches on the desk chair, massaging his knee for him.

"Wow," Komori deadpans, turning his head as Kiyoomi steps in. "You really never knock, huh? What if Tsukasa and I were making out? Or worse? What if you had walked in on us having sex?"

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Ew." Then he glances at Iizuna. "Hello, Iizuna-san."

Iizuna smiles at him. "Hello, Sakusa. Merry Christmas."

"Why are the two of you still so stiff with each other?" Motoya grumbles, then winces in pain immediately after. "Ow, that really hurts, Tsu."

"I know," Iizuna replies apologetically. "But your doctor said we have to do this every day."

Kiyoomi stares at Komori's right knee, the hem of his pants rolled all the way up to just above the joint. It's the first time he's seen it post-surgery, and his throat goes dry as he takes in the sight of two angry, jagged surgical scars where he only remembers unblemished skin. 

Another aberrant.  

Another reminder of the passage of time.

Motoya notices him balking in the doorway, and forces a smile. "Oh, right. You haven't seen the scarring yet. It's not as bad as it looks, really."

His words would have been easy to believe if only they had been spoken to anyone else. But Kiyoomi knows his cousin well enough to recognize the grimace he forces down for his own sake. 

A lump forms in his throat.

When Kiyoomi had broken his arm all those years ago, Motoya had held his good hand the entire ride to the hospital, crying his little heart out the whole way. Even after they returned home, he stayed by his side all the time, doodling onto his cast and taking notes for him in class each day. 

When Motoya's knee had shattered a year ago, Kiyoomi was six thousand miles away and sound asleep, his phone ironically set to airplane mode.

Kiyoomi takes a step backwards now, an instinctive action to distance himself, and it's only after he's done it that he registers what a coward he is, that running away has always been in his nature. 

"Kiyoomi?" Motoya asks, eyebrows creased.

Iizuna is looking at him now, too, and Kiyoomi feels like a cornered animal. 

"I think I hear your parents pulling into the driveway," he lies, taking another step back. "I'll go and see if they need help carrying anything."

And then he's turning and walking away, hating himself with every step that he takes down the stairs.

Dinner is a rowdy affair. The Komori’s are an excitable bunch on a regular day, but tonight they’re pumped full of wine and gin, and there’s a baby in the midst to boot, so it’s no surprise that things are a little rambunctious.

“Omi!” his two-year-old niece calls, pointing at him as she gurgles out a laugh.

Kiyoomi smiles at her, reaching over to push down her tiny hand gently. “Don’t point, Asami. It’s rude.”

“Omi!” she babbles again, eyes scrunched into twin crescents.

“You’re so cute,” Yuriko coos, pinching her cheek lightly. “When I have a kid I hope they’re just as cute as you, A-sa-mi!”

“You haven’t even got a boyfriend, what do you mean you’re already thinking about kids?” Motoya heckles, earning him a harsh kick under the table.

“Shut up,” Yuriko hisses. “Maybe if you introduced me to a hot volleyballer, then I wouldn’t be single right now.”

“Not a chance,” Motoya says immediately. “No dating volleyballers for you.”

“ You’re dating a volleyballer!”

“Omi!” Asami yells delightedly, deciding that she wants in on the noise as well.

“Come now, Asami. Don’t bother Uncle Kiyoomi, alright?” his older cousin Kazumi says amusedly, attempting to distract her with a spoonful of applesauce. Unsurprisingly, it works.

“Aw, Asa-chan likes you,” Motoya teases. “And here I thought she’d be scared of you.”

“You’re good with kids, Kiyoomi,” his aunt praises, beaming, and Kiyoomi notices that the crow’s feet around her eyes are deeper now.

“I like babies,” he says quietly, shrugging.

And it’s true. He doesn’t want any for himself, but they’re fun to be around as long as they’re not wailing, he thinks. Across the table, Asami giggles again, and Kiyoomi finds himself smiling at the sound even as a shred of guilt creeps into his mind. It’s the first time he’s met his niece, because she was born in the years he had been away. Those three years hadn’t felt all that long while he was gone, but now that he’s back he’s realizing just how much he had missed out on. Friends getting engaged, getting married. People and places changing, growing up and growing old. New additions to his family. And he wasn’t here for any of it.

“Kiyoomi, more wine?” his uncle asks cheerily.

“Sure,” he says, forcing a smile back onto his face.

After dinner, Kiyoomi tries to help with the dishes, but his aunt and uncle predictably refuse his offer, redirecting him out of the kitchen instead. Chagrined, Kiyoomi returns to the living room to find Motoya and Yuriko engaged in a two-player match on the gaming console. Kazumi and her husband have gone upstairs to put Asami to bed, leaving him standing in the middle of the living room with Iizuna who watches as Motoya gets trashed by Yuriko at whatever game it is that they’re playing, expression soft. 

Feeling awkward, Kiyoomi pulls out his phone to fiddle with. He’s mildly surprised to see that there’s a few unread messages from Atsumu.

Atsumu (6:53p.m.):

omiiiiiiiiii

how’s xmas with your fam!!!!!!!

having loads of fun with mine :DDDdd

i might be. drunk!!

hehe

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[ image attachment ] 20271225_123743674.jpg

[ image attachment ] 20271225_05638314.jpg

happy chsistmas!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The first image he had sent is a selfie, taken with his mother as they both grin into the camera. They have the same smile, wide and toothy and dimpled on one cheek with both eyes crinkled. The next image is a family picture. Atsumu has his arm thrown over Osamu’s shoulder as they don matching ugly sweaters, and their mother is flashing a peace sign at the camera in the foreground, alongside a smiling Suna — it must have been taken using a self-timer. The third and final image is again a selfie, but this time featuring just Atsumu himself, standing before a faux fir tree decked out in Christmas garlands. He’s grinning at the camera, cheeks flushed from what must be alcohol, but his eyes are brighter than even the lights twinkling in the background.

Me (7:48p.m.):

Merry Christmas, Atsumu :)

It’s not like him to use emoticons, but there’s a slight thrum in his veins from the wine earlier, and it’s a festive season, so he indulges.

“You look happy,” Iizuna comments, and Kiyoomi glances up, realizing only now that he’s been smiling at his screen all the while.

“I guess I am,” he answers, alcohol enabling the honesty to fall from his lips as he pockets his phone.

“That’s nice,” Iizuna says, shifting his gaze back to Motoya as he wails in defeat, demanding for a rematch against Yuriko. There’s a small smile on his face as he says, “I’m happy too.”

Kiyoomi traces the line of his sight to fall onto his cousin, and he feels the same rush of awkwardness from earlier, except this time it’s accompanied with an undercurrent of curiosity.

“Iizuna-san,” he says. “How did you realize you were in love with Motoya?”

Iizuna blinks, turning to him with a surprised look. “Oh? That’s a good question.”

His eyes drift to stare into the distance, pondering. Finally, he peers at Kiyoomi again. “I don’t know,” he confesses, laughing a little. “I don’t think there was ever one singular moment where everything clicked for me. It was more of a gradual process, I think.”

“Oh.”

“But you know, there's a difference between loving someone and being in love with them. I knew I was in love with him long before that, but I think I only realized that I truly loved him during his recovery after the accident," Iizuna says softly, seeming to stare off into the distance again.

Kiyoomi swallows around the uncomfortable lump in his throat.

“He was miserable a lot of the time in the first few months after the surgeries,” he continues. “And it made him...difficult to be around. I think he half-expected me to leave him, but the thought never even crossed my mind. And I’d do it all over again if I had to — so that’s how I know that I love him.”

He fixes Kiyoomi with a knowing look, and Kiyoomi suddenly feels like he’s seventeen again and looking at his team captain, no more than a year older yet seemingly so much wiser.

“Being in love with someone, and actually loving them — it's not the same. But I think you’ll know when you truly love him, Sakusa.”

And then he’s walking away, moving towards Motoya to gently chastise him for once again agitating his bad knee. 

Kiyoomi stares at him as he goes, feeling like he's just been dissected under a microscope, his very inner workings picked apart and studied, before being put back together in almost the same way, but just ever so slightly differently. It leaves him feeling unsettled, and he's not sure what to do with this almost imperceptible change.

Chapter Text

1 JANUARY 2028

3 months 19 days

The start of the new year is a silent affair. Kiyoomi rises before the break of dawn, not so much to observe the first sunrise of the year as is customary in Japan, but simply because it is daily practice for him to do so. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and carries his yoga mat out to the living room just as he would any other morning. And in more ways than one, it is nothing but a regular day for him. He’s never been one for adhering too much to traditions or customs, after all. 

Atsumu isn’t around today. He’s back in Amagasaki again with his family, but before he’d left he had pinned Kiyoomi with a strange look as he enquired about his plans for the new year. “Nothing,” Kiyoomi had replied, a response that had Atsumu frowning slightly. But he hadn’t commented on it, and that suited him just fine. He had half-expected Atsumu to try and drag him along to a shrine visit or something along the lines of that, but he hadn't, and for that Kiyoomi is silently relieved. It gets overly crowded this time of year, and he's never been particularly religious, so it's been years since he last visited one. 

And he'd rather like to keep it that way.

The rest of the day goes as per usual. Kiyoomi vacuums and waters the plants, eats his grilled fish, and sends out the last of his applications to graduate institutions. Haru pops by for a short visit, and he feeds him some scraps of mackerel from lunch. 

Everything is unexceptional and mundane, and Kiyoomi wouldn't have it any other way.

The only unusual occurrence occurs in the early evening, and Atsumu is unsurprisingly the cause for it. He's looking for a jar of pickled radish when he sees it, a large box sitting on the second shelf with a sticky note stuck to the lid.

On it, Atsumu's childish scrawl reads:

ingredients for ozōni!!!! 

I heard people from Tokyo use dashi soup stock instead, but I'm not too sure about that so I got both miso and dashi for you to choose from. the rest of the ingredients are just what my mom uses in her recipe, so I'm sorry if it's different from what you're used to. just add water and chicken meat, and you’ll be good to go!

happy new year!!

Kiyoomi opens the lid of the box, and sure enough he sees the typical ingredients found in ozōni soup: mochi, komatsuba and mitsuba leaves, slices of carrot, julienned yuzu peels, sliced menma, packaged meatballs, and a roll of kamaboko. There's a package of dried konbu and katsuoboshi for the dashi stock, alongside a packet of white miso paste.

Kiyoomi stares at the assortment of ingredients, wondering when Atsumu found the time to prepare all of this while rushing to catch the train back home yesterday. And then he stares some more, unsure if he should let Atsumu know that he can't even remember the last time he had ozōni, much less know how to make it. He doesn’t know what order the ingredients go in, and he’s not entirely certain which of the leaves are the komatsuba and the mitsuba respectively.

In the end, he decides to toss everything together into a large singular pot to boil alongside some water, like he's making a hotpot. The end result isn't disgusting by any means, but it definitely isn't ozōni by any traditional definition. And it's not until he's eaten half of the strange concoction that he realizes he's forgotten the chicken, and that the mochi is supposed to be grilled prior to being added into the soup. But his taste buds aren't complaining too much, so he supposes it’s fine.

Me (7:03p.m.):

Thanks for the ingredients :)

And happy new year

Atsumu (7:05p.m.):

happy new year omi-omi!!

was the ozōni yummy? :D

Kiyoomi stares at the soggy hotpot mess sitting before him.

Me (7:03p.m.):

Of course.

Tell Osamu I'm coming for his Michelin star

19 JANUARY 2028

3 months 1 day

It’s Coach Foster who first puts the idea into his mind. 

It comes at the tail-end of a routine team debrief, as Atsumu takes over to address the team in a captain capacity. Foster taps him lightly on the shoulder, then cocks his head in the direction of one of the many gym exits. Kiyoomi is confused but understands his gesture nonetheless, and breaks apart from where he stands with the rest of the team to follow him towards the doors. The other Jackals don’t seem to notice, far too engrossed in whatever Atsumu is saying.

“Sakusa,” Foster begins as soon as they’re out of earshot, standing just beyond the doors to the gym. “Have you considered staying on with the team?”

Kiyoomi blinks in surprise. “You mean...for another season?”

Foster nods. 

“No, I haven’t.”

“Hm. Well, you see, on your own you’re an exceptional player. And so is Miya. But when the two of you play together, it’s something else entirely. And I know it’s selfish of me, but I’d love to keep my strongest duo for a little longer if I can.”

“But I’m getting old,” Kiyoomi says, frowning.

“Nah. You’re still keeping up just fine with the youngsters — I reckon you’ve got a couple more years.”

Kiyoomi ponders this over for a while, but ultimately shakes his head. “Sorry, but I always told myself I’d retire at thirty. I’m already pushing it as is, and I have plans to go into academia once this season is over.”

“Academia, huh?"

Kiyoomi nods.

"You know,” Foster says slowly, expression contemplative, “The brain is a remarkable thing. It gets stronger the more you use it, and only grows even more with age. But the body isn’t like that. You’re never too old for education, but the same can’t be said for sports. Your body won’t get stronger, faster, or more powerful from here on, Sakusa. You can go back to school anytime, but you can’t ever play volleyball like that again years down the line.”

“I know,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “I was prepared to let go of volleyball a year ago. I’m already playing on borrowed time as it stands.”

Foster's expression softens. “It’s your choice at the end of the day. But I just thought I’d ask, because it's not every day you get a setter and a spiker who can synchronize quite like the two of you. But like I said, the final decision is up to you. Anyway, good work today, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gives Kiyoomi a pat on the shoulder along with a smile, then turns to leave. Kiyoomi himself is just heading back into the gym when Foster calls him back.

“Wait, Sakusa. About what you said to me a year back — whether the Jackals emerge as champions or not, I truly hope you’ll be satisfied with what you set out to achieve this season.”

And then he leaves.

“What were you and Coach talking about?” Atsumu asks, neck craned to stare up at him from where he sits on one of the half-height lockers against the adjacent wall, feet swinging as he waits for Kiyoomi to get dressed.

“Nothing much,” Kiyoomi says nonchalantly, pulling on a clean T-shirt. 

“Ooh, secretive,” Atsumu sings.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, then reaches into his locker for his tube of moisturizer.

“We were gossipping about how huge your nose is,” Kiyoomi snorts, squeezing out a generous dollop into his hands and beginning to slather himself all over.

Atsumu wrinkles his — figuratively large — nose as he watches. “Look at you, slimy as a slug. Gross.”

“Says the one with chronically dry hands,” Kiyoomi bites back, then narrows his eyes at the appendages in question. “Let me see how disgusting you are today, you flake monster.”

“I remembered to use hand cream today!” Atsumu protests, stretching his hands out for Kiyoomi to inspect.

“Not good enough,” Kiyoomi tuts, frowning at the tightness around and between each of his fingers. “What kind of setter doesn’t know how to take care of their hands? Here.”

He snatches Atsumu’s hand and dispenses a large glob of moisturizer onto his palm. “Now don’t say I never do nice things for you.”

“Yuck,” Atsumu complains, even as he massages the lotion into his hands obediently. “So gross. You use old lady scents, you know? Stinky.”

“ You’re stinky,” Kiyoomi mutters, returning to tidy up his mess of hair and skin products in his locker.

“That’s gonna be a bitch to clear out when you leave,” Atsumu muses, squinting at the numerous bottles and tubs from his perch atop the other lockers.

Kiyoomi’s hands pause in the midst of arranging the cosmetics, frowning lightly to himself with his face hidden from Atsumu’s view.

When you leave.

His eyes flick over to the small calendar sitting in the corner of his locker: 11th January, today's date reads.  Three months more, which means he has slightly less than that amount of time left on this team. Even less, if the season ends early for them. He swallows uncomfortably. Foster’s earlier words ring out once more in his mind.

A couple more years, he’d said. 

That’s two more years with volleyball. Two more years with this team. And two more years with Atsumu. 

It’s a temptation of biblical proportions and Kiyoomi is a mere mortal, powerless to the serpentine promise of more. Behind him, Atsumu has begun to hum the melody to a song he recalls hearing on the radio the other day, bubbly and full of good cheer. How funny, he thinks. He had never expected the siren’s song to sound quite so much like bubblegum pop.

11 FEBRUARY 2028

2 months 9 days

“Comfy?” Kiyoomi murmurs, turning off the light in Atsumu’s bedroom so that his bedside lamp remains as the only source of illumination, warm and diffused.

“Mhm,” Atsumu hums, burrowing further into the covers.

He’s pulled the hood of his hoodie up over his head, and his duvet is tucked all the way up to his nose, so he appears no more than a tuft of fluffy cornsilk peeking out of the bedding. Kiyoomi lets out a quiet laugh at the comedic sight as he takes a seat beside him, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. 

Atsumu had been the one to suggest it, for him to sit beside him in bed as he reads to him. Reading to him is an effective sleep aid, but it’s not foolproof, and it sometimes takes as much as two full hours of soft-spoken literature from Kiyoomi to get Atsumu to finally nod off, by which time Kiyoomi’s back would become so stiff from sitting in a desk chair that he would be the one waking up tired the next morning. Atsumu’s sheepish solution had been for him to sit on the soft bed surface instead as he reads, the inclined position far more forgiving on his lower back. 

“Is it Greek or Latin today?” Atsumu asks softly, already beginning to sound sleepy just from the present set-up — Kiyoomi suspects a Pavlovian response to be at play.

“Latin,” he answers just as quietly, adjusting the bolster behind his back before opening his book to a familiar page, the spine of the volume now creased from how often he revisits this particular poem.

He clears his throat light, and begins to read.

“Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique —”

“—amavit cras amet,” Atsumu mumbles the rest of the line for him sleepily, his pronunciation of the words clumsy but unmistakably Latin.

Kiyoomi blinks in surprise, glancing down at where he’s curled up on his side, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. 

“Did you just…?”

“Mhm. It sounded familiar,” Atsumu mumbles into his pillow, eyes still closed. “I think you’ve read me this one before.”  

“I have,” Kiyoomi explains, still surprised. “But it’s still very astute of you to notice.”

“That line repeats a lot throughout, though.”

“Yeah. Because it’s the refrain.”

“Oh. Dunno what that is, but you must like this poem a lot,” Atsumu says, peeking at him now with one open eye. “I think you’ve read it to me several times already.”

Kiyoomi smiles. “You’re right, I do like it a lot. Sorry for re-reading it all the time, are you bored of it?”

“Nope. What’s it about, though?”

“The arrival of spring.”

“Oh. What about the— the refrain? What does that line mean?”

Kiyoomi runs his finger along the margin, to an annotation he had made years ago. It’s a rough translation, but even without consulting it he knows the meaning of the line by heart — it’s what makes the poem one of his favourites, after all.

“ Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet. ‘ Let him love tomorrow who has never loved, and let him who has loved love tomorrow’,” Kiyoomi reads out quietly.

Beside him, Atsumu scrunches his nose. “What does that even mean? Poetry is so confusing.”

Kiyoomi laughs softly. “Don’t worry your head with it, or you’ll never get to sleep. Come on, close your eyes. I’ll pick something else to read for tonight so you won’t have to puzzle over it anymore.”

“‘Kay,” Atsumu mumbles, nuzzling further into his pillow.

Kiyoomi watches as he gets comfortable once more, his own gaze mellow at the sight of Atsumu in his pastel fleece hoodie, surrounded by soft linen sheets as he snuggles into the warm bedding by his side. They’ve never shared a bed before, and this hardly counts as such, but he feels a light clenching in his chest all the same.

More, his traitorous heart whispers.

He wants to thread his fingers through blond tresses, to feel the soft silk of it beneath his fingertips. He wants to glide a warm palm across lightly bronzed skin, to trace the contours of a high cheekbone and a gently sloping nose. He wants to fall asleep here tonight, and to be here in the morning when honey eyes slowly drift open.

He wants, he wants, he wants. More, more, more.

And, oh, what a fool he was for ever thinking twelve months would be enough. 

1 MARCH 2028

1 month 19 days

Kiyoomi receives his first notification of acceptance into grad school. It's for dual master’s and doctoral degrees at a prestigious university in Rome with a reputable classics department, and it comes with an offer of funding. In short, it's a perfect outcome. But he finds himself staring at the email for far longer than necessary, the words beginning to swim before his eyes as he takes apart the grammar, syntax, and vocabulary in an attempt to see where the offer might be a bad one. He looks for ambiguity in the words, unfavourable conditions in embedded clauses, and anything else disagreeable. 

He finds nothing.

But he tries again. And again. And again. And it's not until he's read and re-read the email for the thousandth time that he realizes it's not a hidden clause or a paragraph of fine print that he's looking for. 

It's an excuse — he's looking for an excuse. Because for all the benefits and goodness promised in the acceptance offer, he finds himself wanting to say no.

Because he doesn’t want to leave.

20 MARCH 2028

1 month 0 days

Do Not Answer (6:27am):

Happy birthday, Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi stares at the message on his phone for a moment, then exits the chat without a second thought. He turns thirty-two today. It’s also shunbun no hi this year, meaning they have the day off. 

“Happy birthday to the spring baby!” Atsumu announces as he steps into the kitchen, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

He steps over to battle with the coffee machine, bleached locks messy in a way that doesn’t appear deliberate, and Kiyoomi feels the words don’t call me that die before they even have a chance to be spoken aloud. He stares at Atsumu's profile bathed in the light of the mid-morning sun, and hears the whir of the coffee machine fade into nothingness.

Sometimes, on mornings just like this, when Atsumu stumbles out of his bedroom with his hair unstyled and lying flat against his crown, its usual tousled volume not yet mussed into place through a combination of skilled fingers and sea salt spray, Kiyoomi goes still for the briefest of moments. Because with blond strands falling across his forehead and into his eyes, Atsumu looks so much like his seventeen-year-old self that it gives Kiyoomi pause, sends him hurtling backwards through space and time to an earlier, simpler time. A cloud crosses the sun outside, the room darkens along with his hair, and a decade and a half melts away like sticky-sweet ice cream left out in the height of summer. But then the cloud continues on in its trajectory, and takes the shadows along with it. Sunlight filters back once more through the French windows, and dull ochre is restored to fairest gold. Atsumu rakes a hand through overgrown strands, pushing them out of his eyes and away from his face, and the illusion fully shatters. 

They’re older now, both thirty-two years of age as of today, and it will do Kiyoomi no good to look behind him all the time anymore.

“Don’t call me that,” he says. 

“Why not? I think it’s cute. Spring baby Omi-Omi!” 

“Stop it.”

“You know, it was the vernal equinox on the 20th of March the year you were born too. You were an actual spring baby.”

“I said stop,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “And I know I was born on the spring equinox. But why do you know that?”

Atsumu flaps a hand dismissively. “I was checking to see if you were a Pisces or an Aries years ago, and it happened to come up in the searches when I entered your birthdate.”

“I don’t believe in zodiac signs.”

“I know. But I do, so I had to check.”

“Whatever. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you would've gone back to Hyogo — it is a public holiday, you know?”

“I know that,” Atsumu says, turning back to the eggs on the stove. 

“I don’t celebrate my birthdays,” Kiyoomi replies bluntly, filling a glass with water. “So if you’re still here because of that, here’s my gentle warning to not make today about me.”

“I know you don’t,” Atsumu replies brightly, transferring the eggs to a plate. “But who says we’re celebrating your birthday today? We’re just celebrating the spring equinox!”

He smiles as he slides the plate towards Kiyoomi alongside a cup of freshly-brewed coffee. “Happy spring!”

True to his word, Atsumu doesn’t do anything for the rest of the day that might suggest an attempt at celebrating Kiyoomi’s birth. In fact, he does just the opposite, putting Kiyoomi to work spring cleaning the entire apartment.

“I just finished vacuuming the entire place,” Kiyoomi informs him. “And I officially hate you and your big fucking house.”

Atsumu laughs, hands busy with a dirty rag as he wipes down the kitchen surfaces. 

"Also, I found this while cleaning your room," Kiyoomi announces, fishing the item out of his pocket where he had placed it earlier for safekeeping — it's a ring, simple and elegant in its design and made of a solid gold that twinkles gently in the midday sun.

Atsumu glances up curiously, eyes widening in recognition as Kiyoomi drops the trinket into his palm.

"Oh! I misplaced it a while back — where did you find it?" he asks curiously, looking up with a relieved smile.

"Under your bed. Bit careless of you, isn't it? It looks expensive," Kiyoomi chastises.

"It's priceless," Atsumu admits. "It's a family heirloom — I got it from my mom."

"Then you ought to take better care of it if that's the case," Kiyoomi chides.

"I've always left it on my dresser, it must have rolled off on its own somehow," Atsumu whines.

"Put it in a proper jewelry box instead of just leaving it lying around," Kiyoomi nags.

"I will, I will," Atsumu replies, nodding. “Anyway, can you help me out here since you're done? See if there’s anything expired in the fridge or the pantry area — you can throw those away.”

“What am I, your maid?” Kiyoomi grumbles, even as he steps into the kitchen anyway.

“No, but you also haven’t paid me a single cent in rent for the past eleven months so you can see this as paying your dues!”

Kiyoomi lets out another noise of displeasure, before getting to work emptying the fridge as he sees fit. There are several expired jars of condiments on the top shelf that they rarely use, so he takes those out and sets them aside, then returns to inspect the rows below. Nose wrinkling, he pulls out a jar of pickles, long past its shelf life.

“Atsumu. This is from two years ago.”

Atsumu looks up from where he’s scrubbing the marble counter by the sink, and squints at the jar he holds out. “Pickles have expiration dates?”

“Yes?” Kiyoomi answers, staring at him in disbelief.

“Really? I thought they get better with age. Like wine.”

“ No. And for your information, wine has an expiration date too.”

“Well, that’s news to me,” Atsumu says blithely, before nonchalantly resuming his scrubbing of the worktop.

Kiyoomi shakes his head in resignation, before turning back to the fridge. He removes a few more expired food items in the same manner, then frowns as he comes across a random sprinkling of cosmetics in the bottom shelf, deciding not to touch those. There’s a box full of uneaten candy that looks like they might’ve been gifts from fans, so he decides to trash those as well — it’s not like either of them can eat them with their nutritionist-prescribed diets anyway. There’s another container beside it, and Kiyoomi takes it out to see what it contains. 

He blinks in surprise when the lid comes off. Just like the previous box, it’s full of candy, except unlike those, these aren’t of the commercial sort. They appear to be artisanal ones, from what looks like handmade chocolates to custom rock candy. He reaches into the box and pulls out a wrapped sugar cookie, the design of the royal icing vaguely familiar.

“Don’t throw those away!” Atsumu suddenly squeaks, hurrying over to snatch the box away from him.

“They gave these out at the V.League banquet,” Kiyoomi says, still staring at the design of the packaged cookie in his hand. He looks up at Atsumu in horror. “That was before I left for Paris. Atsumu— how old is this thing?!”

“It’s not like I’m not planning on eating it!” Atsumu cries out, flustered.

“Then why are you still keeping it?!”

“Because— well, I don’t know, okay! I just like to keep things that remind me of milestone events. Like this,” he says, lifting a small package of customized rock candy. “This was the door gift at the JVA annual dinner last year.”

“Why not just eat them before they go bad or stale?” Kiyoomi asks, still cringing at the knowledge that Atsumu actively hoards expired candy.

Atsumu gasps. “You want me to eat them? When they look this pretty?”

He holds up a lollipop wrapped in cellophane, an edible flower suspended in the clear sugar. “Samu had these as part of his wedding favours. Look at it, Omi. It’s so pretty! How could anyone bear to eat this?”

“I would, except I don’t like sweets,” Kiyoomi answers bluntly.

“And that’s why you’re a monster,” Atsumu mutters, snatching the cookie back from his grasp. “Anyway, whatever you do, don’t touch this box! Or I’ll get mad at you. I mean it!”

“Oh, don’t worry. That won’t be a problem at all. I have no intention of going near that thing,” Kiyoomi says, still disgusted.

“Good!” Atsumu huffs.

To Kiyoomi’s chagrin, his roommate’s hoarding tendencies aren’t simply limited to the realm of decorative candy. He’s appalled to learn of the sheer quantity of his wardrobe, much of which dates back several years to even over a decade prior.

“Atsumu, can I throw these away?” he asks, holding up a bunch of old volleyball jerseys that he’s just discovered at the back of his cupboard.

There are jerseys from his junior high days all the way up to his old MSBY jersey before they revamped the design a couple of years back — and to say Kiyoomi is appalled would be an understatement. Atsumu glances over in the middle of sorting through his linen shirts, and gasps dramatically before lunging forward and snatching them from him.

“No!” he squawks indignantly. “What kind of a question is that?!”

“Why are you even keeping them?” Kiyoomi sighs, feeling a headache begin to set in. “Have you learned nothing from Marie Kondo?”

“It’s precisely because of Marie Kondo that I’m still keeping them — they make me happy, Omi!”

“How so?” Kiyoomi challenges. “You can’t even fit into half of them anymore, and the rest haven’t got any use. This is just plain mindless hoarding at this point, Atsumu.”

“But they carry sentimental value,” Atsumu mumbles, cradling his old Inarizaki jersey to his chest.

“Sentiment is a useless emotion,” Kiyoomi scoffs, regretting his words as soon as he sees Atsumu’s expression darken.

“I’m not like you, okay?” Atsumu says, voice strangely quiet. “I like nostalgia.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat, feeling bad all of a sudden. “Right. Sorry.”

Atsumu doesn’t give him a reply, opting to set the pile of jerseys down onto his bed as he carefully begins to refold the Inarizaki jersey in his hands. Kiyoomi awkwardly slides over to help him. He sneaks a peek at Atsumu as he picks up what looks like his jersey from Yako Junior High, but Atsumu staunchly refuses to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi mumbles again.

“It’s okay,” Atsumu says, but his clipped tone suggests otherwise.

By late afternoon, it seems Atsumu finally forgives him for his earlier transgression, because he ropes Kiyoomi into helping him tend to the plants on this balcony — he likely would not let him near his beloved mini garden otherwise. He’s wearing the ‘plant dad’ apron Kiyoomi had gotten him for his birthday, and now squats before his blooming plants instructing Kiyoomi on which foliage are the weeds which he needs to pull.

“Don’t just yank at random,” he explains. “If you uproot one of my babies, I’ll never forgive you until the day I die.”

“Harsh.”

“They are my darlings, you know.” 

He hands Kiyoomi a pair of gloves after that, so he won’t have to get soil all over his hands as he works. Kiyoomi scans the neat rows of potted plants as he slips them on, squinting.

“Which one’s me?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“You named one of them after me, didn’t you?”

Atsumu reddens at his words. “Well, I mean— yeah. Yeah, I did,” he admits.

“So which one is it? Is it that one?” he asks, pointing at a particularly large and bulbous cactus sitting off to the end of the open space.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s...prickly.”

Atsumu laughs. “Very self-aware of you, Omi. But no. It’s not that one.”

“Which one is it then? Are you gonna make me guess?”

Atsumu considers this for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll just tell you. I’m rather fond of it anyway.”

He wanders off to the other end where his flowering plants sit, and returns with a relatively small pot of just barely-bloomed trumpet-shaped blossoms, their inky colour a stark contrast to their other brightly-hued counterparts abounding the balcony.

“Omi, meet Omi,” Atsumu says, then laughs at his own joke.

Kiyoomi stares in surprise at the plant in his hands, reaching out a hand to stroke at the velvety petals. “I’ve never seen black flowers before.”

“Well they’re called black petunias, but they’re not actually black — not really anyway. True black pigments don’t exist in nature,” Atsumu explains. “It’s just a really, really dark purple, so dark that it looks black.”

“Oh. Okay, I get it. Black flowers. Because I’m all doom and gloom, right?” Kiyoomi grumbles.

“Your words, not mine!” Atsumu laughs. “But nope. I named it after you because it reminds me of the colour of your hair. Also, it’s kind of a drama queen. I mean, look at it! It easily steals the show among all my other flowers!”

“Wow, thanks,” Kiyoomi says sarcastically. “Anyway, why’s it so small compared to your other plants? Are you depriving it of nutrients on purpose? Is this some sort of voodoo thing to get back at me when I piss you off?”

Atsumu bursts out laughing. “See? Dramatic. But no, it’s small because I had to grow it from seeds — not many nurseries are too keen on carrying black flowers, after all. And I only got it around the time you left for France, that’s why it’s still so small.”

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums, considering his words. “I’d say it’s pretty, but that would be rather self-absorbed of me, wouldn’t it?” 

Atsumu beams. “No, you’re right. You should see it when it’s in full bloom — easily the prettiest flowers I’ve ever grown.”

“Oh? Are you calling me pretty?”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “As if you needed me to tell you that,” he mutters with a smile, walking over to gently return Omi the Plant to its spot among the other blooms.

Kiyoomi stares at him for a while, then reaches into his back pocket to pull out his phone, before running a quick query through a search engine.

Symbolism of black petunias (‘Black Velvet’): resentment & anger

He swallows uncomfortably when he sees the results, recalling Atsumu’s words from before: I only got it around the time you left for France . 

It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just like Atsumu had said, perhaps he’d grown the flowers simply because of their likeness to his own dark tresses. But Atsumu rarely does anything without purpose, an overwhelming amount of care in everything that he does — there’s little chance he wouldn’t be aware of the flowers’ symbolism. 

"Drink enough water and have some painkillers in the morning," Atsumu says quietly from the doorway, already turning to leave. "Oh and Omi? I've had fun playing with you all these years. I hope your new teammates will be kind to you."

"That's not what I expected you to say," Kiyoomi slurs from the couch, veins still thrumming with alcohol from dinner with the team — his farewell dinner.

"I don't know what you mean," Atsumu replies, pausing at his front door, the warm orange light from outside feathering out around him like a halo. 

Kiyoomi squints against the light. "I thought maybe you'd ask me to stay."

"Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I don't know."

"Your flight is in nineteen hours."

"I know."

"Goodnight, Kiyoomi."

"You're mad at me."

Atsumu stares at him wordlessly from the doorway, face half-hidden in the shadows of his darkened apartment. 

"I'm sorry," Kiyoomi says softly. "I really am, Atsumu. But I can’t stay here."

"It's okay."

"You don’t mean that. I know you don't want me to go."

"I'm not stopping you."

"Why not?"

Atsumu shifts slightly where he stands in the threshold, and the shadows slip away from his face only to be replaced by the warmth of the corridor light outside. From Kiyoomi's perspective, he looks like he's glowing. He looks like an angel. And Kiyoomi must be the devil, because the angel's eyes are red and it’s all his fault. 

"I stopped being selfish a long time ago," Atsumu whispers. "Take care of yourself for me, Omi."

And then he's turning to leave, and this time Kiyoomi knows that he won't turn back again.

He's a careful man. Everything that he does, he does so meticulously and diligently. Every move he makes, he plans for and calculates beforehand. But for how careful he is with everything else in his life, Kiyoomi has always been markedly careless with Atsumu's heart.

Atsumu straightens up from his crouch by the flowers, and turns around with a smile. “Let’s get to weeding then!”

Kiyoomi swallows around the growing lump in his throat, locks his phone and returns it to his pocket.

“Okay,” he rasps out, suddenly feeling nauseous.

—

Atsumu insists on making dinner even though it’s Kiyoomi’s turn, and he thinks nothing of it at first, assuming he wants to try out a new recipe. However, the true reason becomes abundantly clear once the meal is served: tonight’s menu is grilled mackerel, unseasoned, along with a serving of white rice topped with umeboshi, and a bowl of miso soup.

Kiyoomi stares at the fish, then looks up, narrowing his eyes at Atsumu. “You said you weren’t going to do anything for my birthday today.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies airily, waving a hand around the air dismissively. “I just felt like whipping up a simple meal today. Rustic, isn’t it? Look at this fish. Oh no, I left out the salt by accident, dear me! But I think the umeboshi makes for a fitting choice with today being the start of spring and all, wouldn’t you agree?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, a smile creeping onto his lips. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Unfortunately, Atsumu’s antics do not stop there.

“Oh no! I forgot about my scented candle on the coffee table!” he says later that night, as they’re settled in bed for their nightly reading. “Omi-kun, could you be a dear and blow it out for me, please?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him. “Is this a ploy or something?”

“What? Of course not, why would you ever think that?”

Kiyoomi sighs, but wanders out into the darkened living room to do as he’s told, and sure enough there’s a candle on the coffee table. Except, it’s not a scented candle in a votive, but a cupcake with a lit birthday candle instead.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters, blowing out the flame.

“Hope you made a wish before you did that,” Atsumu sings, appearing by his side.

In the dim glow of his bedroom light leaking out into the living room, Kiyoomi sees that he’s holding something behind his back.

“I thought I said no birthday celebrations,” Kiyoomi reminds him.

“What birthday?” Atsumu teases. “It’s just to welcome spring!”

“What’s that behind your back, then?”

“A gift for you. To welcome spring, of course.”

Kiyoomi lets out a huff of laughter. “Nobody gives gifts on shunbun no hi , Atsumu.”

“Well, maybe everyone’s just doing it wrong,” Atsumu declares, finally handing him the small gift box that he had been hiding behind his back. “Happy spring.”

Kiyoomi accepts the box from him, eyebrows shooting upwards. Even in the dim half-light, he recognizes the crown-shaped logo on the top lid.

“You got me a Rolex? ” he asks, stunned.

“Yeah,” Atsumu answers sheepishly. “I know you don’t really wear watches because of volleyball but I’ve always thought you seemed like a watch guy. In any case, you’re leaving soon anyway — you won’t have to adhere to volleyball regulations anymore, and you can wear all the watches in the world! So I thought I’d give you a headstart.”

“Atsumu. You got me a Rolex,” Kiyoomi repeats, still in shock.

“Do you— do you not like it?” Atsumu asks nervously.

“No, it’s not that,” Kiyoomi says, shaking his head. “It’s just— sorry, I can’t accept this. It’s not right. I mean, I got you a gag gift for your birthday!”

“Don’t say that,” Atsumu whines. “You haven’t even seen it — I picked it out just for you, Omi.”

Kiyoomi frowns, but opens the box to see the watch. It’s a beautiful model, made from polished steel and fine gold, with a midnight black dial and bezel. It’s not something he would have picked out for himself, but now that it’s in his hands it feels right, somehow. He stares at the black and gold accents, feeling his chest constrict painfully the longer his gaze lingers on two colours that shouldn't carry this much significance but still do anyway.

“Turn it over,” Atsumu says, smiling. “I got it engraved.”

Kiyoomi lifts the watch out of the box, carefully flipping it over. It catches the light from the hallway, and Kiyoomi sees the kanji for ‘Omi’ on the back plate.

“My name has five kanji characters you know,” he jokes, to distract from the emotion welling up within him.

“I know,” Atsumu says softly. “But you’ve always just been Omi to me.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking hard.

“So...do you like it?”

“Yeah. I like it a lot, Atsumu. Thank you,” Kiyoomi replies, voice thick.

“You’re welcome. And don’t worry about it being too much okay?” Atsumu says quietly. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

It’s too much, Kiyoomi thinks. It’s too much for a simple birthday gift. But he also knows better than to think this a mere birthday gift, because it’s so much more than that.

It’s a farewell gift.

26 MARCH 2028

25 days

Kiyoomi has received just about all the grad school acceptances he could receive, and yet he’s responded to none. All of them are good offers, a prospective student’s dream. But he’s beginning to wonder if he’s really even a prospective student anymore. Not for lack of interest per se, but a sort of paralysis has taken hold of him of late, rendering him completely and utterly immobile. It's as if roots have snaked their way from within him and into the earth here, like he’s just another one of Atsumu's many plants thriving within these four walls. 

Inertia, maybe.

Or perhaps, something much more potent than that. 

Whatever it might be, Kiyoomi now finds himself at a crossroads, standing stationary as time flies past without a care for his plight. A decision has to be made soon, but he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t know how to think about it.

He stares down at the screen of his phone, open to a chat he hasn't touched in months. Wakatoshi-kun, the top of the screen reads. He wonders if it's even acceptable for him to contact Ushijima this way after months of radio silence, without the barest of apologies for the last time they had seen each other at Bokuto's wedding.

Wakatoshi-kun, how did you realize you were in love with Tendo-san?

His fingers hover over the screen, debating if he should send his drafted message or not. He'd asked Iizuna a similar question a while back, but his response hadn't quite satisfied him. Perhaps he should have looked for an answer closer to home, from someone like Ushijima instead. His thumb hovers over the 'send' icon, deliberating if he ought to close that tiny gap between finger and glass.

“He’s good for you,” Ushijima says suddenly, as the team clears out of the gym, heading towards the locker rooms. 

“What?” Kiyoomi asks distractedly, busy blotting the moisture from his forehead with a towel — he detests the sticky sensation of leftover sweat.

“Miya,” Ushijima clarifies, nodding in the direction of where Atsumu is pestering Aran about something or other, the latter sporting a world-weary look as he delivers a small kick to the back of Atsumu’s knees. Atsumu lets out a loud squawk, before flailing an arm out to steady himself. Aran laughs, but catches him with a firm grip all the same.

“I suppose,” Kiyoomi decides, eyes lingering on the blond. “He’s a good setter. Maybe the best I’ve played with.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Kiyoomi glances at him where they’re walking side-by-side. He frowns. “What?”

“He likes you.”

Kiyoomi stops walking, feeling every fiber of his being abruptly seize up with this declaration.

“Judging from your reaction, it seems you’re aware.”

Kiyoomi is silent.

“And,” Ushijima continues, pausing where he’s walking ahead of Kiyoomi to turn and face him, “you like him too, don't you?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t deny the allegation.

“You’re afraid,” Ushijima observes. 

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi answers stiffly, not liking this conversation the slightest bit.

“Then what’s wrong, Kiyoomi?” Ushijima presses. “It’s not like you to leave something with an obvious solution untouched.”

“I have plans, Wakatoshi-kun. You know that.”

“Plans can be changed at any time.”

“No,” Kiyoomi replies, and the vehemence in his tone startles even himself. “I have plans, and Atsumu has never been a part of them. Not now, not ever.”

“Do you intend to always be like this?” Ushijima asks, and Kiyoomi hates the pity in his eyes.

“Yes,” he snaps. “You of all people ought to understand why.”

“It’s a sad way to live, Kiyoomi. You’d be happier if you learned to let go.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond to that. A minute passes, and Ushijima turns to walk away.

“I am,” Kiyoomi says eventually, and Ushijima glances back at him, but his own gaze drifts over to where Atsumu has now roped Suna into harassing Aran alongside him. 

“I am letting go, Wakatoshi-kun.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Ushijima sighs.

This time, Kiyoomi doesn’t bother asking him to clarify.

Minutes pass, and he eventually decides against sending the message altogether, hitting backspace to completely erase the draft from existence. He's not too sure what prompts him to retreat, but he finds himself locking his phone and setting it face down.

It’s not a conversation he thinks he’s ready for anyway.

—

“What did you want me to get again?” Kiyoomi asks, phone held to his ear as he scans the rows of spices at the grocery store.

“Saffron,” Atsumu replies, sounding mildly annoyed. “You threw it away the other day and you don’t even remember?”

“You told me to throw out anything that was expired, and it was,” Kiyoomi explains patiently, fingers dancing over the shelves as he looks for the spice in question.

“Spices don’t expire, Omi-kun. They just lose flavour by the best-by date — they won’t actually kill you,” Atsumu grumbles.

“Not taking any chances,” Kiyoomi says. “Imagine if we lose the season to the Raijins on Saturday because of explosive diarrhoea from stale saffron. Could you imagine?”

“That won’t happen,” Atsumu insists, annoyance creeping back into his tone.

“Okay, okay,” Kiyoomi laughs. “I’m sorry I threw it away, okay?”

“You’re forgiven,” Atsumu huffs. “Just come back quick. I can’t marinate the chicken without it.”

“Okay. See you.”

Atsumu grunts in response, and then hangs up. Kiyoomi stares at his phone screen after being hung up on, shaking his head in fond amusement. Pocketing his phone, he quickly locates the bottle of spice that he needs, before picking it up from the shelf and heading over to make payment. On the way there, he spots a display case full of sushi, and decides to pick up a box of tuna sashimi — it’s not chūtoro , but he figures it’ll be enough to mollify Atsumu all the same.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi calls, stepping into the genkan and bending down to remove his shoes. “I got the saffron. And some sashimi. It’s only akami tuna, but I know you’ll eat it anyway.”

“Omi?” Atsumu’s voice comes floating over, sounding strangely uncertain. “Uh, you have a guest.”

Kiyoomi pauses, blinking in surprise as he arranges his shoes neatly by the entryway. “What, is it Toya?”

“No, um, I think it’s better if you come see for yourself?”

Kiyoomi frowns, wondering who would drop by unannounced like this. He wanders out of the genkan and into the living room, adjusting the plastic bag in his hands and— 

“Hello, Kiyoomi.”

He freezes, blood turning to ice not so much at those two words, but the voice that speaks them — steady, feminine, and familiar. 

Slowly, as if pulled by the string of a puppeteer, Kiyoomi feels his head tilt upwards, a marionette forced to come eye-to-eye with an unexpected visitor, seated on the couch adjacent to Atsumu. He looks up nervously as Kiyoomi drops the grocery items onto the coffee table, jaw clenched.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” his older sister says, standing up to greet him.

Kiyoomi finds himself unable to respond, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth as he stares at her, the ground seeming to buckle and bend beneath his unsteady legs. Cat got your tongue? she looks like she might say, if the quirk of her eyebrow is any indication. But she doesn’t, and Kiyoomi wonders if she's only holding back on the condescension in Atsumu's presence. He doesn’t dwell on it for long, though, because his sudden lockjaw comes to an abrupt end.

“How did you find out where I was staying?” he demands, aggression tumbling from his lips alongside the words.

“So you were hiding from me,” she muses, sounding vaguely disappointed.

“Was it Motoya?” Kiyoomi asks, and even the words are enough to send a stab of betrayal right through him. “Did he tell you?”

“If only. No, he wouldn’t say. I had to do my own digging — not that it was particularly difficult, mind you. You’re not exactly as low-profile as you seem to think you are. I had someone tail you for just half a day and it gave me all the information I needed.”

She sounds amused, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Kiyoomi grinds his teeth in annoyance.

“What do you want, Akiko?” he asks coldly. “Why are you even here?”

“To make amends,” she says plainly, dropping back into her seat and patting the space beside her.

“There’s nothing to mend,” Kiyoomi grits out, ignoring her invitation to sit.

“Not so much between you and me, maybe. But Mom misses you,” Akiko says, giving him a sad smile. “She wishes you’d come home.”

Kiyoomi snorts incredulously, and Akiko frowns. “Why is that so hard to believe, Kiyoomi?”

“Do you hear yourself? Look at you, she’s making you do her bidding as usual. She won’t even come down to see me herself.”

“She’s busy , my dear brother,” Akiko sighs. “You should know that better than anyone else.”

“So are you,” Kiyoomi snaps. “You’re a fucking partner at her law firm, for god’s sake. And here you are running little errands for her — aren’t you the least bit ashamed of what she’s having you do?”

Akiko’s expression hardens. “I wouldn’t be here if only you would answer my calls, Kiyoomi.”

“Tell her to call me herself.”

She sighs. "Why are you being so difficult? She just misses her youngest child and wishes he would talk to her sometime."

"Tell her he has nothing to say to her — oh, and that he’s not going back to school to study law just so he can help run her shitty law firm."

"I'm disappointed, Kiyoomi. I thought you'd had a change of heart when I first heard you were returning to Japan. I see now that it was nothing but wishful thinking on my part."

"That's your fault for assuming,” he snaps.

"How long are you going to act this way? Mom isn't getting any younger, you know. One day she'll be gone, and will you really be proud of the way you're acting now?"

"Don't patronize me," Kiyoomi hisses. "You've done nothing but talk down to me all my life."

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you could just stop and think for yourself for once."

"Oh, I do that alright," Kiyoomi says, laughing humorlessly. "Why do you think I left Japan in the first place?"

Akiko's lips twist. "I see there's little value in my staying any longer," she says primly, picking up her handbag and getting to her feet. 

She steps past Kiyoomi, then turns and addresses Atsumu.

"Atsumu-kun, thank you for being such a hospitable host for the brief amount of time that I was here. A pity my younger brother never learned the sort of courtesy you possess.”

“Uh, well—” Atsumu struggles out, flapping his hands uncomfortably.

“I suppose no amount of fine upbringing can polish someone of inherently poor character,” Akiko says incisively.

And the puppet’s strings finally snap.

"You want to talk about upbringing?" Kiyoomi explodes, whirling around to face her as something hot and ugly coils in his gut, a clockwork toy wound up past its limits. "You know what? You're right. I'm rude. I'm disrespectful. And I behave like trash. But you wanna know why I turned out like this? It's because both our parents couldn't be fucking bothered when it came to raising me."

Kiyoomi sees the moment his words register, Akiko’s eyes flashing in anger immediately after. “Watch your tongue, Kiyoomi. Slander Dad all you want, but Mom—”

“Is no fucking saint either!” Kiyoomi yells. “I’m sick of you always acting like she did no wrong, when she was just as bad as he was!”

“How can you say that after all she did for you? Where would you be if she hadn’t clothed and fed you and sent you to all the best institutions in the country?!” 

“It’s always about the money with you guys isn’t it?” Kiyoomi sneers, staring her down. “After all she did for me? Hell, that’s all she ever did for me — simply threw money where she couldn’t be bothered to actually be present while I was growing up!”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Akiko barks. “How ungrateful do you have to be to think this way? Your life would be nothing if not for—”

“It’s not like I wanted to be born! I never asked for this life, did I?!”

Akiko’s expression freezes, and she takes an unsteady step backwards. “Kiyoomi, what— what are you saying?”

“It’s not like they wanted me either,” Kiyoomi says bitterly, feeling the back of his eyes begin to prick painfully. “You said so yourself, remember?”

He lets out a laugh then, but there’s no humor in the sound.

Kiyoomi stands with his back against a stone statue, staring blankly at the creeping growth of moss between the tiles on the ground of the Shinto shrine. It had rained earlier that morning, a light drizzle that now leaves a misty layer of moisture in the air. The surrounding foliage is glimmering with dew, catching the light of the sun every so often as the rays beam down through the clouds. 

A smell of petrichor hangs suspended in the air, and he's wrapped up in more layers of silk than he could have ever imagined possible. He's never enjoyed wearing a kimono, but he has little choice in his elaborate get-up for today — or his being here in the first place, for that matter. The haori around his shoulders is embroidered with a beautifully intricate detailing, but all his fifteen-year-old self can think about is how scratchy and uncomfortable it feels against his skin.

He's overdressed, underprepared, and he wants to go home. It’s a thought he experiences often as someone who dreads leaving the house on most days, but he thinks his current lack of good cheer is perfectly reasonable considering he’s presently in attendance for his mother’s marriage to a man who isn’t his father. 

“Come on, Kiyo-chan! Smile a little, won’t you? Sheesh, with that scowl on your face you’d think the world was ending!”

Kiyoomi exhales deeply before turning towards his most recent source of irritation, though he doesn’t need visual confirmation to know that his older brother has already gone and gotten himself shitfaced. It’s barely three in the afternoon, but who can fault him? It’s probably the only way he’ll get through the day without having a nervous breakdown.

“Masaki. You’re drunk,” Kiyoomi says bluntly, because he might understand his brother's choices but that doesn't mean he's above judgement all the same.

“Damn right I am,” Masaki slurs, and Kiyoomi cringes as the astringent smell of sake wafts over from his kimono. His own haori has slipped off one shoulder, his neatly-parted hair from this morning has devolved into an uncontrolled mess of dark curls, and he looks nowhere near presentable.

Not that Kiyoomi particularly cares.

And then in a characteristic show of bare honesty, his brother declares, “no way in hell am I gonna be sober for this shitshow, buddy.”

“First time I’ve ever heard you say something I actually agree with,” a voice carries over from behind Kiyoomi’s shoulder, and he recognizes the expensive perfume wafting over to be that of his older sister’s. 

“Christ,” Masaki curses under his breath. “Here comes the queen bitch herself. Happy fucking family reunion, I guess.”

“Are you drunk? Unsurprising, considering you never did have a shred of decorum at the best of times.”

“Oh, fuck off, Aki,” Masaki swears at the approaching figure. “We all know you’re thrilled for this absolute clusterfuck, don’t even try to lie about this. You supported Mom all throughout the goddamn divorce like the conniving bitch that you are. So was it worth it? How much of a pay raise did you get out of that?”

“If you don’t stop spreading baseless rumours about me, I’ll sue you,” Akiko threatens. “I’ll even make sure you lose your license to practice, don’t even try me, Masaki. And I only did as any dutiful child would — Mom and Dad have been in a loveless marriage for decades, how much longer did you want to see them in misery? You and I both know that they only stayed together for as long as they did because they had Kiyo—”

Abruptly, she stops talking, lips set into a thin line as she seems to suddenly remember her present company. Masaki lets out a low whistle.

“Wow, Aki. Nice going. Always knew you were a bitch, but this is a new low,” Masaki sneers, jabbing an accusing finger in her direction. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” 

“The ceremony’s about to start,” Kiyoomi says quietly, before slipping away from his older siblings. 

It’s not like he’s any stranger to the accidental circumstances surrounding his own birth — the hefty age gap between him and his siblings speaks for itself. 

“Kiyoomi, you know I never meant what I said all those years ago,” Akiko pleads, reaching out a manicured hand to rest on his arm, but he shrugs her away like he’s been burned. 

“It doesn’t matter if you meant to say it or not, because I know everyone thinks it all the same,” Kiyoomi says quietly, blinking hard. "That I'm an unwanted child."

Present tense, because he still feels it to this day.

“That’s not true,” his sister insists, but Kiyoomi isn’t listening anymore.

“I want you to leave, Akiko,” he says, turning away from her and closing his eyes. “Please.”

“Kiyo—”

“Um, I think you should go,” Kiyoomi hears Atsumu say hesitantly from behind him, the first he’s spoken throughout the entire row between him and his sister.

There’s a pregnant pause, and then Kiyoomi hears his sister whisper, “I’m so sorry, Kiyoomi. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Please leave, Sakusa-san,” Atsumu says, voice strained. 

There’s the sound of heels clicking across the parquet of the genkan, and the front door opens and closes. He feels Atsumu return to his side afterwards, hovering hesitantly and unsure of what to do.

“Omi?” He asks, voice riddled with uncertainty. “Do you need me to—”

“Can you hold me?” Kiyoomi whispers, finally opening his eyes. “Please?”

Atsumu pulls him into his arms almost immediately, gently guiding Kiyoomi’s head to rest in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Kiyoomi holds him tight, feeling wetness begin to pool at the corners of his eyes and soaking into Atsumu’s collar. Warm fingers thread into his hair, running through the curls slowly as an arm comes to rest around his waist to pull him even closer.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Kiyoomi sobs out, fingers twisted in the fabric of Atsumu’s sweatshirt.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything,” Atsumu says softly, fingertips brushing the short hairs at the base of his head. “You don’t have to talk either, if you don’t want to. I’ll just hold you for as long as you need, Omi.”

Kiyoomi nods, squeezing his eyes tighter as more tears leak uncontrollably down his cheeks. It has to be uncomfortable, the dampness saturating through layers of his clothing, but Atsumu doesn’t say a thing. He merely squeezes his arm around him comfortingly, stroking random patterns into his back as he weeps. Kiyoomi doesn’t speak once throughout it all, and Atsumu doesn’t push him to. He simply holds him close, cradling the broken pieces of him with such tenderness that it makes Kiyoomi’s head and heart ache all the more.

27 MARCH 2028

24 days

When Kiyoomi opens his eyes in the morning, the first thing he notices is that he isn’t cold. He’s so used to feeling the morning chill right down to his bones as he rouses each dawn, that it throws him for a loop to find a heavy weight over his waist and an all-encompassing heat pressed up to his back, warming him all over through each point of contact. He blinks, and notices for the first time that the pressure around his midsection is an arm, far tanner than his own and curled around him loosely and gently. There’s the tickle of a warm breath against the back of his neck, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that he’s curled up in Atsumu’s arms, the blond still fast asleep as he holds Kiyoomi to his chest.

Ah. He remembers now. 

He’d cried in intermittent bursts last night, fresh waves of tears springing forth each time he thought he was done, Atsumu holding him throughout it all and gently wiping tears from his face until he finally passed out from exhaustion, still in his arms as they laid in his bed. Nausea crests within him at the memory, and he finds himself clawing his way out of Atsumu’s arms. He barely stirs as Kiyoomi stumbles away from the bed, staggering from his room and collapsing onto the floor of the bathroom as he sheds his clothes. He'd woken up beside Atsumu today, the fulfillment of a dream he's long held close to his heart, but that's all it was ever supposed to be. A dream and nothing more — he doesn't want it to be real. Not like this, not with his face sticky and eyes red, feeling like a shell of himself as he crawls into the shower. The steaming water hits his skin and Kiyoomi feels himself sob once more.

Because he doesn’t want to wake up in Atsumu’s arms when he can't have him.

Because he had finally made up his mind last night, the fate of his departure now finalized at long last. His sister’s sudden reappearance in his life had been the wake-up call that he had needed, a grim reminder of how small Japan is and why he left the country in the first place.

Kiyoomi knocks once, twice, and then he’s kicking Motoya’s bedroom door open and striding into the space like it’s his own — considering how much of his life he’s spent within these four walls, it might as well be.

“You should wait before barging in,” Motoya says pointedly, glaring at him from where he is on his bed, lying on his front with a textbook and scattered pieces of loose-leaf notes splayed about him atop the duvet. “What if I was naked?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t already seen,” Kiyoomi says blankly, already unpacking his bag in the corner of the room that has been designated his after a lifetime of encroaching upon his cousin’s personal space.

It would be far easier to just leave spare clothing and essentials here, what with how often he stays over, but some part of him has never been able to make peace with the idea — outwardly, he frames it as a desire to retain some semblance of autonomy from his cousin, but the truth is that he’s come to view the frequent packing in preparation to head over to the Komoris' as nothing more than yet another one of his many routines, a ritualistic act to reinforce the idea that he’s just here for a sleepover and nothing more.

To disguise the fact that he’s here because he's been sent away by a mother who cares more about her career than her own child.

But the blame isn’t solely hers to carry, not when his father lives several prefectures away and hasn’t been back to see his children even once since he separated from their mother four years ago. Even before the split Kiyoomi remembers seeing little of him, dedicated to his research as he was — he seldom returned home, preferring the tranquility and solitude of a university’s faculty housing to the home environment where frequent domestic disputes and the sounds of his youngest son playing the violin distracted from his grand pursuit of knowledge. 

It was during that period of constant quarrelling that Kiyoomi’s older brother began crashing at friends’ houses and staying overnight at the on-call room of the hospital he was completing his residency at, all to avoid coming home to a family that was only one in name and nothing else. His older sister moved into the dorms of her college around the same time, citing the need for a more conducive studying environment, and Kiyoomi suddenly found his younger self standing on the front step of his aunt and uncle’s house with a weekender bag, a change of shoes, and a cage housing his beloved pet bird.

“I’m so sorry to impose upon you like this,” his mother had apologized to his aunt, as if Kiyoomi was a burden being passed on. 

In some ways he supposed he was.

“No, no, it’s okay,” his aunt had replied, offering to take Kiyoomi’s bag for him. 

But he merely shook his head, holding on tightly to the straps of a bag that was far too big and heavy for a nine-year-old to carry. 

“Kiyoomi, you’ll stay with your aunt and uncle for a few days, alright?” his mother had said to him as she opened the door of her car. “I’ve got a big case to oversee at work and I won’t be home until we close it, so this is for the best.”

Kiyoomi nodded.

“You’ll have your cousins, and Motoya is about the same age as you — the two of you can use this opportunity to get closer.”

Kiyoomi nodded again.

“Well, I’ll be going now.”

"Wait. Mom—"

I love you, he wants to say, but she's already leaving. Kiyoomi waves at her departing car until it's long out of sight, wishing all the while that it would turn back, that she would turn back.

“How long will you be here for this time?” Motoya asks, stretching as he does so.

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi says, because he doesn’t. 

His mother had merely waved a dismissive hand in his general direction when he’d enquired about it at breakfast that morning, offering nothing more than a vague, “we’ll see. I might not be home for a while this time. Besides, your aunt and uncle enjoy having you around, anyway — you're a good influence on Motoya, they say.”

At thirteen years of age, Kiyoomi thinks he’s old enough to manage most things by himself — he can do almost all household tasks unassisted, from cleaning to laundry to even unclogging a choked sink, and he knows his way around the kitchen. Motoya might not like his cooking very much, on account of it tasting “too much like healthy food”, but Kiyoomi is confident in his ability to not die of hunger if left to his own devices for an extended period of time. Despite all of this, however, even his precocious and headstrong self is more than aware of the reasoning behind why his mother packs him off to her sister’s house with such startling frequency and regularity.

Because thirteen-year-olds simply do not live by themselves, this much Kiyoomi knows. 

“Are you hungry?” Motoya asks, sitting up in bed and dislodging one of his many notes in the process. Kiyoomi watches as it flutters down to the ground.

“Not really,” he mumbles, gaze trained onto the rogue sheet of paper.

“Well, you better be in an hour,” Motoya threatens jokingly. “My mom’s making grilled mackerel for dinner, because it’s your favourite.”

And it’s strange, that being treated with such hospitality only makes Kiyoomi want to clench his jaw in silent frustration. He’s always been treated too kindly here, like he’s a porcelain doll that will crack if someone so much as speaks to him in a tone just this side of too harsh. His own hypocrisy doesn’t go unnoticed by himself — he’s aware that on some level, the cordial treatment he receives from Motoya’s family aligns with his private wishes of wanting to be nothing more than a visitor here, but at the same time he’s always detested it, because if he’s nothing but a guest even here, then where can Kiyoomi truly call home?

And he remembers now, why he first left all those years ago. 

Because this place has never been kind to him. 

—

“Where will you be going once the season ends?” Atsumu asks quietly later that day, as he tends to the flowers on the balcony.

Kiyoomi watches him from the sliding door, feeling the early spring air nip at his cheeks and nose. But the sting of the wind is nothing compared to the dull ache in his chest. He hadn’t told Atsumu of his decision to accept an offer to grad school, but it seems he’s always been able to read him a lot better than he lets on.

“New York,” Kiyoomi says softly, and Atsumu tenses just the slightest amount, almost imperceptible if not for how closely Kiyoomi watches him.

“Not Rome?” he asks, still with his back turned to him. 

“I considered Europe and the UK, but I think the States would be best for my specialization,” Kiyoomi answers stiffly.

“I see.” 

There’s a silence where neither of them has any words to say. Atsumu’s hands still.

“New York, huh?” he says. “That’s a thirteen hour time difference from Osaka.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathes out.

“Well, whatever’s best for your education! I don’t really know much about what you’re studying, but I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Atsumu says, turning around to give him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

His words are reminiscent of something Motoya had said to him once, many years ago.

“You’re gonna study what?” Motoya asks, staring blankly at him.

“Liberal arts.”

“I have no idea what that is,” Motoya says, frowning. “Does that mean you can study anything you want and it all counts towards your degree?”

“Kind of. Yeah, you can think of it that way,” Kiyoomi says, not too keen on giving his cousin an in-depth explanation of how the credits system works in his upcoming undergraduate degree programme.

“Hmm. So, Waseda, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you wanted to study somewhere away from Tokyo.”

“I did, but my mother isn’t agreeable to funding my college education unless I go into law,” Kiyoomi answers bitterly. “And Waseda was one of the few good universities that would offer me an athletics scholarship.”

“That sucks,” Motoya mutters. “Well, at least Waseda's got a strong volleyball team.”

“I guess.”

“Come on, let’s not stress about that anymore. Wanna play the Wii with me and Yuriko downstairs?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Can’t. I’m studying English.”

Motoya wrinkles his nose. “That again? I’ve never understood why you’ve always been so obsessed with learning English.”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I don’t care much for the language itself, but knowing English is like a really good passport. You can go just about anywhere with it — who knows, I might end up moving to Hong Kong or Singapore. Or the Philippines. I hear the mangoes there are delicious.”

“Southeast Asia? They’re not big on volleyball there, though. Hell, I can’t think of one English-speaking place that’s known for volleyball. Oh, there’s Canada, I guess. But still, wouldn’t it be more useful if you learned Italian or Russian instead? I mean, the US doesn’t even have a professional league.”

“It’s not for volleyball,” Kiyoomi answers quietly. “It’s for what comes after.”

Motoya affixes him with a strange look. “You know, you say a lot of weird things sometimes. My parents are always telling me and Yuriko not to grow up too fast but I think they should be saying that to you instead — I don’t know anyone else our age who plans that far ahead.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to tell him that it wasn’t by choice that he had to grow up this quickly. 

“It never hurts to think ahead,” is what he says instead. 

“There’s thinking ahead, and then there’s micromanaging every aspect of your life,” Motoya mutters. “Who the hell makes a thirty-year master plan at age ten, Kiyoomi? Are you still following that list, by the way?”

“I am,” Kiyoomi answers, reaching into his bag to pull out a crumpled piece of lined paper once ripped from a bound notebook.

It’s stained with age, but the handwriting on it is meticulous, his penmanship just as neat then as it is now:

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

Motoya steps over to look at the torn parchment. He taps his finger on number six.

“You can try out for the Black Jackals after college — they’re based in Osaka, and that’s pretty far from Tokyo.”

“I guess,” Kiyoomi says, unconvinced. “But it’s not far enough. I think I’ll go somewhere even further one day.”

Motoya furrows his eyebrows, but doesn’t probe further. “That’s a rather strict list to follow for something you made when you were ten.”

“I don’t think it is — my feelings haven’t changed since,” Kiyoomi answers simply, folding the sheet of paper back to slide into his binder.

“It’s not set in stone, you know?” Motoya says, looking worried now.

“It isn’t,” Kiyoomi concedes. “But I’ve decided to treat it like it is.”

Motoya sighs, and turns to leave. “You know, you truly worry me sometimes,” is the last thing he says before he slips out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “I won’t be able to read to you anymore once I leave.”

“That’s okay,” Atsumu replies, still smiling that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I always knew it wasn’t gonna be a long-term arrangement anyway.”

It’s a response meant to assuage his guilt, but all it does is to deepen it tenfold, because it lets Kiyoomi know what Atsumu really thinks of him: a flighty man always on the run, with no regard for the hurt he inflicts onto anyone unfortunate enough to have their lives entwine with his when he inevitably takes flight once more.

But the worst part of all, he thinks, is that Atsumu isn’t wrong in the slightest to think of him that way.

17 APRIL 2028

3 days

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu calls out, and Kiyoomi leaps for the ball sent his way, but the Raijins' defense is near-impenetrable, and the opposing block sends his spike rebounding straight back over the net.

Their libero scrambles to get the ball back up, but the receive is clumsy and doesn’t manage to make it to Atsumu. Instead, their opposite hitter sets the ball his way again, and Kiyoomi finds himself hitting a cross to avoid the opposing blockers. But the Raijins' libero is there, and the ball gets sent back as the Jackals fail to scramble in time to avoid it from touching the ground. It hits the empty space in the middle of the court with a loud smack, and Kiyoomi feels himself growing antsier.

They’re in the fourth set now, and it looks like they’ll be going to a full five sets today. Barely two more ticks of the rotation goes by, and the Raijins hit set point. 

“We’ve got this, guys,” Atsumu assures them, more for encouragement than anything if the six-point gap is any indication. 

The current set is as good as lost, anyone can see that. Kiyoomi lets out a rough exhale, sweat pouring from his temples as the muscles in his body beg for mercy. An errant curl flops over into his field of vision and he pushes it back quickly with the back of a sweaty hand. Atsumu’s stare lingers on him for a moment, eyebrows creased in concern ( are you okay?) , and he forces a smile that probably comes off as more of a grimace (I’m fine). But Atsumu gets the intended message anyway, and smiles back just as tightly.

Kiyoomi lets out another long exhale and focuses his gaze onto the opposing team server, before gearing up for yet another killer serve reception.

“No changes,” Foster says, before sending them back onto the court for the fifth and final set. 

Kiyoomi thinks he hears him wrong, that he’s made a mistake. He affixes an incredulous look onto him, wondering why he isn’t being replaced for the final leg of this match. Because in all honesty, he’s exhausted to the bone. Nevermind what Foster said the other day about him keeping up with the rest of the team, he feels like he’s running on nothing but fumes at this point. He hasn’t been subbed out even once this game, and Atsumu leans into his left hitters when cornered, meaning Kiyoomi has been doing a back-breaking number of jumps and swings today. 

He’s been run ragged, and mistakes are beginning to accumulate — receives that shouldn’t have been missed, blocks that should have easily been tooled, and a steadily declining vertical as his legs shake with the exertion of leaping again and again and again.

Foster meets his stare head-on, expression set and gaze unyielding. Minutely, he shakes his head, and it’s the silent confirmation Kiyoomi had been looking for: he hasn’t made a mistake, and Kiyoomi isn’t being subbed out. Are you sure? he wants to ask. But Foster’s gaze is unwavering, a message hidden behind the steel in his eyes, and Kiyoomi hears it loud and clear: go out there and play your heart out.

So he jogs back onto the court, and does exactly that.

The fifth set is one of the longest of Kiyoomi's entire career. 

The points have gone all the way up to the twenties, now a game of stamina as the deuce draws on. The server on the other team gets ready for a jump serve, and Kiyoomi grits his teeth in preparation — he’s drained, and his legs feel like lead. 

The ball goes up, a palm strikes it with all the force of cannon, and it flies in an unyielding line aimed directly between him and the player to his right.