Work Text:
Bright laughter intermixed with low giggles seeps through the wall breaking apart their two bedrooms and it takes everything in him not to start banging on the wall like a madman. It’s eight in the morning, sleep was painfully stolen from him by the construction that is happening outside, and now he is being forced to hear lovesick laughter from his roommate.
Living with Hinata was not supposed to go like this.
Sure, it was meant to be loud and grating, a little messier than preferred. Naturally, the living situation would grate at Kiyoomi’s nerves. That was the intention when Kiyoomi selected Hinata as his roommate. He wanted to push the boundaries of what he could handle—his therapist called it exposure.
Living with Hinata is, most definitely, all of those things. Hinata is a ray of sunshine on the court and a demon when he needs to be, but he is also impossibly energetic and messy and loud. Traits that surely follow Hinata into his home life. Though none of this ever really, truly bothers Kiyoomi—growing up with Motoya taught him how to deal with most of these little eccentricities.
Growing up with Motoya did not, however, prepare him for the way Hinata’s lovefest with Kageyama would grate at the very being of Kiyoomi’s soul.
Before living with Hinata, Kiyoomi never truly felt lonely. Yes, he knows that his “prickly” exterior is hard to get past, but he also knows it’s worth the work to get through. Kiyoomi cares, in ways that he cannot always express in touch and certainly not through words. But he cares. None of that matters, of course, when only a handful of people put in the work to get past the prickly exterior.
Despite knowing this—that people don’t want to work past that hard front he has up—Kiyoomi has never felt lonely a day in his life. Because those handful of people who put in the work matter and Kiyoomi would never discount the love that he has for them. So he keeps their love in his back pocket and when his brain wants to claim that no one is ever going to love him, he pulls those relationships out to look at. It’s comforting to know that he is loved, despite it all.
Love is neat like that—it doesn’t have to fit into one little prescribed box.
Romance, however, has always proved an issue for Kiyoomi seeing as he’s about as approachable as a feral cat hissing for you to stay away. Kiyoomi is intimately aware of his romance issues: everything needs to go at the pace of a snail, touching makes him panic, and he’s more cruel than kind right out of the gate. Not a whole lot of people are willing to put up with any of that. But really, he’s gotten used to it, gotten used to the failed first dates and snide remarks about how Kiyoomi’s such a tease. He’s especially gotten used to men whining about how he could afford to be a little nicer (he can’t, he just wasn’t built for niceties).
The scoffs, glares, and goodbyes don’t linger in Kiyoomi’s mind very long. There’s little sense in dwelling on why people don’t want to deal with him. If they can’t handle it, they don’t deserve him. It’s easy to write them off with that thought.
But therein lies the issue with the love and light in the next room over. Kiyoomi has never felt lonely—not until Kageyama showed up and turned Kiyoomi’s early mornings into this. Hushed voices reach Kiyoomi’s ears; the wall muffles what’s said, so he doesn’t even get the benefit of eavesdropping, but he does have to hear that wave of laughter again.
Loneliness and something more grating eat at his core now.
He’s not entirely sure what it is about the noise, but every time it sends his mind into a spiral. No one’s ever going to wake up next to you like that. They’ve never even wanted to. Who’d want to deal with all of your issues like that? You’re more of a pain than anything, really. Not to mention you practically bring more misery than joy. When was the last time you actually had a successful date? When the guy didn’t leave with the realization that you weren’t just mean as a joke?
And on and on it goes. The words eat at him because, despite the prickly outside and the initial aversion to touch, he so desperately wants to love and be loved. So when that laughter bubbles up again and again, Kiyoomi wants to tear his hair out because what if he never gets that? What if it’s just him in this bed, alone, forever?
When this happens, which is frequently since the couple just solidified their relationship at the end of the season, Kiyoomi plants himself into a routine. He shakes the angry thoughts away, pulls himself out of bed, and makes a fresh cup of coffee. While he waits for coffee to brew, he makes a light breakfast and scrolls through the news. Then with his coffee and breakfast and the distant sound of lovers’ laughter, Kiyoomi sends the invitation to Atsumu.
Give me some sets?
It’s always the same message and it always gets the same exact response.
see u there
Kiyoomi isn’t entirely sure when it happened, but somewhere between him signing his contract, moving in with Hinata, and finishing his first season with the Jackals, Atsumu became one of his closest friends. Or one of his friends in the sense that Kiyoomi was about two sly smirks away from pouring his love into Atsumu the way he always wanted to pour love into someone. It was sickening and frightening and Kiyoomi couldn’t stop the pull if he tried.
All signs point to Kiyoomi being a masochist, though, because he puts Atsumu into his life more than is expressly necessary. Doing so only leads to Kiyoomi finding out more and more dumb little facts about Atsumu that he stashes away in his little dragon hoard. Like the fact that Atsumu always scrunches his nose and gives a little shake of his head when he yawns. Or that, even though he moans and groans about being up early, he’s actually a morning person and loathes sleeping past nine. Or that when Kiyoomi texts him their little code, he always shows up at the gym with coffee just the way Kiyoomi likes it. Atsumu does this even when he knows that Kiyoomi has already had a cup.
Dirty little masochist that he is, every time this lonely feeling starts to claw its way up Kiyoomi’s chest, he falls back onto Atsumu. Sends that cry for help even though he knows that Atsumu is going to show up in those tiny little athletic shorts that practically cup his ass and show damn near every inch of his thighs. Masochist, masochist, masochist.
He’s not expecting anything different when he stalks into the gym and finds Atsumu with his back to the doors, swaying to the music playing overhead, coffee in hand. Of course, Atsumu is mumbling along to the words and looking positively adorable with his little dance. Kiyoomi wants to commit actual murder.
“You’re a terrible dancer, Miya.” He relishes in Atsumu’s little jump when he first speaks.
Atsumu doesn’t even fully turn, just twists enough to throw a smile back at Kiyoomi, “Yer one to talk. Ain’t ever even seen ya dance, but I can guarantee yer no better than me.”
That’s just a flat out lie. Kiyoomi loves to dance, but he’s loathe to do so in front of anyone but himself and a bottle of whiskey.
“Building your argument off of a lack of evidence?” Kiyoomi raises the question as he plucks the travel cup out of Atsumu’s hand. “Not off to a great start.” He pulls his mask down and drinks, something most would startle at. Sakusa Kiyoomi never accepts food or drinks from others. But Miya Atsumu has proven himself to be rather careful of Kiyoomi’s preferences, evident enough by the lingering scent of alcohol that trails from Atsumu’s hands.
Atsumu rolls his eyes, “Yer welcome. ‘N just ’cause I didn’t go to college don’t mean I can’t argue, Omi. I don’t need yer fancy bullshit, I got home trainin’.”
“Arguing with Osamu is hardly training,” he waits until Atsumu swings the gym doors open for them. “You devolve into a rabid beast in less than five minutes.”
The blonde shrugs, “Gets my point across and I win.”
“Osamu beat you the last three times,” Kiyoomi looses a deadly smirk when Atsumu cries in offense. He decides to move onto an even easier target. “Your hair is a mess today.”
Getting Atsumu to whine like a child is so easy, “Omi, quit bein’ so mean. I couldn’t get it to cooperate today. Ain’t my fault it wants to act like it’s never seen humidity before.”
Storms are coming into town and the air has been thick with moisture. It does wonders for Kiyoomi’s waves and wreaks havoc on Atsumu’s.
“Maybe it’s just so confused by the moisture. With all that bleach…”
“Yer a bastard,” there’s still a tint of humor in his voice as they begin setting up the net. “Ya love this bleach blonde and ya know it.”
Of course Kiyoomi loves it, it’s disgusting how much he thinks about running his own fingers through those locks. Instead of admitting that embarrassing tidbit, Kiyoomi latches onto cutting words. “I prefer brunettes, really, kind of like Osamu.”
Atsumu stops his movements and genuinely sputters, “Mean, Omi! Ya know I don’t like t’ask but damn what’s got ya all twisted up to be usin’ my brother against me not once, but twice?”
It’s true that Atsumu never asks about the secret SOS texts. Regardless of the time or the day, when Kiyoomi asks for his setter, Atsumu responds, no questions asked. But still, prickly Omi would rather die than be vulnerable before ten am.
“It’s not important,” he carts out the balls, takes one last sip from his drink, then places it next to his other stuff on the edge of the court. “Now toss me some sets.”
There just the barest hint of defeat in the way Atsumu’s shoulder pull down, but he nods and grabs the first ball anyway. And so it goes: Atsumu puts up perfect sets, Kiyoomi slams them down with freakish precision, they take a quick pause every ten spikes. With each slap of his hand against the ball, Kiyoomi can feel the irritation draining out of him. There’s no need to focus on the haunting bubbles of laughter when he can so clearly hear the slap of a volleyball against the court.
When the cart is nearing empty, Atsumu hesitates. “Yer hittin’ more today.”
“Yeah?” Kiyoomi crouches into something of a stretch. “What of it?”
“I dunno,” Atsumu tosses the ball up in front of himself, waiting until he catches it to continue. “Somethin’ wrong with bein’ concerned ‘bout my friend, Omi?”
“Oh, we’re friends?” This is a familiar game with the two.
“Teammates.”
Kiyoomi stands, lifts one of those deadly brows, “Acquaintances.”
“Strangers with the same hobby,” Atsumu smiles at him, but it’s not the same. Something about Kiyoomi’s mood really is bothering him. Kiyoomi moves on.
“Well, I’m finished now,” he’s not really. His skin is still crawling just a bit from the morning—it really is worse today.
“Omi,” Kiyoomi doesn’t want to look at him. Atsumu is many things. Brash, loud, annoying, rude, but the most terrifying of all is his insane perceptiveness. Kiyoomi looks and he sees that look in Atsumu’s eyes, the one that means he’s being read like a book.
The sigh the analysis produces sounds a lot like defeat mingled with acceptance, “One more, then I’m callin’ it for real.”
Atsumu is full of these small kindnesses. Even if he’s indiscriminately rude—telling teammates and strangers alike his honest to god thoughts with no sugar coating—he is incredible at providing the perfect remedy for whatever is bugging his teammates. Always claiming it has something to do with making sure his spikers are taken care of, but Kiyoomi knows it’s just because he has an immense amount of love for his team.
Such little bits of knowledge are unspoken between them. Mostly because they would both rather die than admit they have soft spots for anyone on their team.
Atsumu takes the ball one more time and lifts his brows, Kiyoomi nods and jumps, and the ball is just where it needs to be when he smacks it with all the force he can right into the corner of the court. While the itch might still be there, he feels much more at peace when he looks at Atsumu and sees that smug look he gets when his spikers nail a hit.
What comes next is one of their unspoken routines. They gather everything up and put it back in its proper place, shower in the locker rooms, exchange barbs while they dress, then they walk toward one of the restaurants between their apartments. Rarely is it quiet while they walk—Atsumu always has something to say. Today is certainly no different.
“I just think that if Bokkun would listen to me and actually ask Akaashi to marry him, he’d see that Akaashi’s just as obsessed.”
Kiyoomi resents that Atsumu’s brain has latched onto Bokuto’s recent proposal talk. This is the last thing his lonely heart needs.
“We both know he won’t.”
Atsumu’s persistence in this matter would be confusing if Kiyoomi wasn’t so aware of Atsumu’s need for his teammates to be as happy as physically possible.
“’M just tired of him lookin’ like a kicked lovesick puppy around his boyfriend. Like get it over with and just spend the rest of yer life together or whatever happy couples do.”
“And how would you know what happy couples are like?” Kiyoomi levels a devastating look to Atsumu who punches the air by Kiyoomi’s arm, always conscious of Kiyoomi’s bubble, even if he’s one of the favored few allowed to pop it.
“I’ve been in relationships,” his voice reaches that squawk that Kiyoomi knows means he’s mildly offended. “Not my fault they couldn’t handle the whole volleyball obsession.”
“Of course,” Kiyoomi stills his stupid beating heart when Atsumu opens the door for him, “the order of obsessions is always volleyball, yourself, then whatever Osamu has going on in his private life.”
“Ha, ha. Like yer any better, Omi.”
They pause their momentary bicker so Atsumu can order for them, as he always does. Kiyoomi isn’t exactly sure when Atsumu memorized his order, but he stopped questioning the act around the third time Atsumu stepped up and spoke for the both of them.
Once they’re seated and waiting for their food, Atsumu broaches the subject again.
“Why ain’t ya in a relationship, Omi?”
Being out with Atsumu was supposed to get him out of this line of thinking. He snaps without thinking, venom coating his words, “Why do you think, Miya?”
“Woah,” Atsumu puts his hands up in mock surrender, “just wonderin’, Omi. Didn’t mean to push any buttons.”
He lets out a controlled breath so he can calm his irritation. “Not many people are willing to deal with the… particulars that come with being in a relationship with me.” Kiyoomi hates talking about this. Mostly because whenever he does it’s with Motoya and Motoya loves to pity him for some god-awful reason. Out of habit, he begins to worry at the hem of his shirt. The last thing he needs is Atsumu’s pity.
“Particulars?” He sounds nothing but curious—typical Atsumu.
“You know,” Kiyoomi meets the blonde’s eyes, “the touching and the attitude.”
Atsumu laughs, “What? They can’t handle a little bullyin’? Got no patience?” When Atsumu sees that he’s hit the nail on the head, he softens just a little. “Ain’t that the stupidest thing in the world. They ain’t worth yer time then, Omi. Fuckin’ ridiculous.”
After letting out a little scoff, Atsumu blessedly changes the subject to the oncoming storms and how he doesn’t know whether his cat will be okay all on her own. Even with his propensity for annoying everyone around him, Atsumu can always tell when to leave things alone.
They end up out much longer than normal and Atsumu steers clear of any relationship talk. The afternoon ends as it always does, with the pair splitting ways with a vague notion that they’ll see one another once more.
“Soon, Omi!”
“Whenever, Miya.”
Then Atsumu moves towards his apartment and Kiyoomi goes the few remaining blocks to his own. Thankfully the time with Atsumu seems to do exactly what he wanted and Kiyoomi doesn’t feel himself dragging towards his shared apartment like he’d anticipated. He’s actually much more chipper than normal when he reaches the building. Hinata catches that immediately when Kiyoomi’s first question isn’t who’s home.
“Welcome home, Sakusa-san!” Sunshine incarnate calls from his perch on the couch. Kiyoomi’s mood only sours a little when he realizes that perch is Kageyama’s lap.
“Hinata,” he nods in greeting, “Kageyama.” The latter nods in return.
“Where’ve you been?” Like a puppy, Hinata’s head tilts. “I didn’t see you leave and you didn’t text.”
Kiyoomi slinks to the kitchen under the pretense of making tea, “I was getting in some extra practice with Miya.”
“Atsumu-san, huh?” The playful and accusatory lilt in Hinata’s voice does not go unnoticed.
“Mhm,” he sets up the kettle and prepares a mug for himself. “What are the plans for dinner?”
It’s a good thing it’s easy to lead Hinata off a subject. “Tobio promised to take me out.” His voice is sugary sweet and all too loving and that urge to bite someone or something comes back full force.
“Ah,” Kiyoomi steels himself in the cover of the kitchen.
Hinata, blithely unaware of Kiyoomi’s crisis just one room over, prattles on about potential places to eat to which Kiyoomi can only provide mild comments in turn. Though the whole process of getting the tea made up only takes a few minutes, it feels as though an entire empire has risen and fell in the time span. Mug in hand, Kiyoomi finally emerges to Hinata still seated in Kageyama’s lap.
“Well,” the straight tone stops Hinata’s babbling, “wherever you end up, I hope you both have a good evening. What are we watching?”
Kiyoomi will run from a good many things that drain him, but he refuses to do so in his home.
“Tobio wanted to watch one of the Haunting shows. Was it Hill House?”
It’s a good show. Kiyoomi knows this because he and Atsumu binged it on one of their free days during the season. Atsumu cowered 90% of the time and Kiyoomi wouldn’t stop making fun of him even though he’d been just as terrified.
“No, I’ve seen that one,” Kageyama finally speaks. “We’re starting Bly Manor.”
Kiyoomi just shrugs, settling himself into his chair. Hinata frequently makes fun of him for curling up like a cat in his favorite spot. But it’s his chair.
Right off the bat, Kiyoomi can’t help but notice how different it feels to be watching this. It doesn’t produce the same dread its predecessor did, and it certainly seems to be taking a different plot than the previous. But it’s not either of those things that truly bother him. What’s missing is the obnoxious commentary that came with the earlier series. The constant commenting on details and characters—Atsumu can’t watch anything in peace.
So when he hears whispering to his left, his skin starts crawling again. He loses focus on the show in the next few minutes. Despite all of his desire to watch, his brain latches onto the hidden whispers and playful conversation he’s excluded from just beside him. Would it be too soon to bug Atsumu again?
Kiyoomi bears it through two and a half episodes. He can only endure so much though, so he excuses himself to his room somewhere in the midst of the third episode. The only balm he has to soothe the strange ache produced by the new couple is the fact that they’ll be out to dinner soon enough.
The feeling continues to eat at him, though, even as he tries to put his head in a different place while reading. With a heavy sigh, he brings his phone out one more time.
Would it be too much to ask for you to set for me again?
After a few minutes his phone vibrates against his chest.
that bad? just come over then omi
Do you want me to bring over some food?
nah i’m cooking tonight
Should I trust that?
Of course Kiyoomi trusts Atsumu’s cooking. There have been a decent number of times that Atsumu has cooked for him and every time Kiyoomi has enjoyed it more than he expected.
fuck off. soon?
Soon.
With that, Kiyoomi finds himself prepping for a night at Atsumu’s which really just entails messing with his hair and changing out of the clothes he’s been in all day. If he happens to look more put together than a regular day, well that’s for no particular reason.
The only part he’s dreading is actually leaving and braving the living area with the happy couple filling the room to the brim with their romance. He slinks through the living room like a ghost, internally celebrating his ability to walk without a singular sound.
Once he shoots the text that he’s heading over, Atsumu responds to tell him the door will be unlocked—another familiar routine for the two. While he’s slipping his shoes on, Hinata finally catches onto his parting.
“Where you off to?”
Kiyoomi tosses a look over, “Dinner with a friend. Figured I would give you two some space.”
Hinata beams at that, calling for Kiyoomi to text him when he gets wherever he’s going safely.
With a mumbled confirmation, he steps out. The air has grown impossibly thicker, and the air feels tinged with an undercurrent of something. Maybe the storms are approaching sooner than expected.
He and Atsumu don’t live too terribly far apart. The latter took an apartment closer to their gym that had exclusively single bedroom units. If Kiyoomi hadn’t wanted to expand his horizons, or whatever his therapist called it, he likely would have ended up in the same complex. Regardless, the walk over is pretty painless despite feeling like he’s wading through an ever-present wall of wet.
The humidity is hardly a villain, though, when it makes Kiyoomi’s hair look like he’s just walked out of a salon instead of looking like an insane person like everyone else does. There’s the faintest hint of a smile on his face when he realizes this while glancing in the mirrors at the front of Atsumu’s complex. Nobody could deny that fact that Sakusa Kiyoomi looks good. A fact that shouldn’t put as much pep in his step as it does.
A quick elevator ride up and three doors down the hall, Kiyoomi reaches apartment 512 and enters without preamble. Whatever Atsumu is cooking smells absolutely phenomenal and already has Kiyoomi’s mouthwatering.
“Are you planning on poisoning me?” Is the question that falls out to announce his presence as he toes off his shoes in favor of the slippers Atsumu has specifically for him.
There’s a singular dry laugh from the kitchen. “Nah, I’d poison yer restaurant food. Harder to pin on me.”
Kiyoomi gives a thoughtful little hum before walking to the kitchen to examine Atsumu’s handiwork. Whenever he knows Kiyoomi will be eating with him, Atsumu always washes his hands about every ten minutes and wears gloves whenever he’s handling the raw ingredients. He has to hide his growing smile when he sees one ungloved hand stirring at something in the pan while the other gloved one sprinkles something in.
Catching his close observation, Atsumu shoots a side-glance over to Kiyoomi, “Meet yer standards, Princess?”
“Nearly,” Kiyoomi huffs and moves closer to inspect what’s being made.
“’Nearly’ he says.” There’s an incredulous laugh that follows and Kiyoomi knocks his hip against Atsumu’s in retaliation.
Kiyoomi ends his fake inspection seeing as they both know that Atsumu would never fail—not after he specifically asked Kiyoomi what needed to be done when they first started hanging out all those months ago and adhered perfectly. He texts Hinata that he’s alive while he questions Atsumu. “Well, where’s the woman I came here to see?”
“Around,” he gestures vaguely with the gloved hand. “Ya know she ain’t beholden to no man. She’s prolly hangin’ in her cat tree but yer free to look wherever. Sometimes she likes to hide when storms are comin’.”
“The poor scared baby,” Kiyoomi lets his voice get unusually soft and he catches the way Atsumu smiles at it. The smile that normally indicates that he’s learned something new to store away in the recesses of his mind. No time to dwell on that. “I’ll go find her. You know she’ll come to me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Kiyoomi leaves with a wicked smirk and a mission to show that Uni loves him more than her actual owner. The cat is, as her name suggests, rather prickly—a point that Atsumu loved to emphasize whenever Kiyoomi gloated about her favoring Kiyoomi over him. In fact, both of them knew that she was named after Kiyoomi and that prickly nature, though neither would admit it. Regardless of the name situation, Uni did really enjoy Kiyoomi’s company. While she shied away from others and actively hissed and swatted at those who tried to get too close too fast, she had strolled up to Kiyoomi after only a few hours of his being there and curled into his lap. Atsumu nearly died when seconds later, Kiyoomi reached to scratch behind her ears and the cat started purring like a motor.
That’s not to say that she doesn’t like her owner; she likes Atsumu well enough. Even when Kiyoomi is around, Uni will still sometimes choose to curl next to Atsumu instead and always butts her head against his legs when she wants attention. But they both know that she’s more likely to come to Kiyoomi’s call than Atsumu’s on any given day.
The cat tree is empty which can only mean that the storms have driven the poor thing into hiding. In an effort to speed up the search, Kiyoomi digs through the basket underneath Atsumu’s coffee table to find her treats. Victorious, he begins to shake the bag and call to her. There’s a distinct lack of her throaty meow that spurs him towards Atsumu’s bedroom.
He continues to call down the hall towards the bedroom, poking his head into the bathroom on the off chance that she’s made herself at home there. With no such luck he crosses the threshold into Atsumu’s room.
Though not the first time Kiyoomi has been inside, he still always marvels at what the space reveals. The blonde’s sentimental nature is plastered to the wall beside his bed—tens and tens of photos litter the space, from childhood photos to recent team pictures. On his bedside table are a small family portrait taken just before he and Osamu officially split ways post-graduation and a slightly larger team portrait from this season. Any space that can house little trinkets he’s received from friends or fans proudly display the tokens, a small shrine to his affection.
He revels, too, in the little pots filled with plants they’ve bought on excursions together interspersed throughout. They each have four, all different, but each of them thrives—a living testament to Atsumu’s dedication.
In his observation, Kiyoomi’s eyes catch a new framed photo along the windowsill, peeking out behind a monstera they’d purchased on their last venture. The picture only catches his eyes because he notes the familiar presence of Uni curled in his lap, a peeved look on his face while he and Atsumu dawn ugly green face masks, and Atsumu sits on the floor between Kiyoomi’s legs. The sight makes his heart stutter and renews his purpose in coming to Atsumu’s room to begin with, shaking the treats and hearing a distinct muffled meow.
Repeating the action brings Kiyoomi closer to Atsumu’s closet, the door cracked enough that Uni could push through if she wanted. But the girl turns into a princess when Kiyoomi is around, so he opens the door with a small sigh. Before the threshold sits one black and brown furry beauty, all long hair and big golden eyes. Bokuto joked when he first caught a glimpse of her and saw her personality that she was a perfect mix of Atsumu and Kiyoomi to the outrage of the pair in question. Sitting here now, Kiyoomi can hardly disagree.
“Hi pretty,” she coos in response, as if she knows praise when she hears it. “Why don’t you come say hi to your dad and me?”
She blinks and meows, stepping out to rub against his calves. Those big eyes still focus up on him as he tries to walk without kicking her since she finds it imperative to weave herself into his direct path.
There’s the faint mumbling of Atsumu singing to himself when Kiyoomi comes closer to the kitchen again. He seats himself at the small table separating the kitchen from the remaining space and finally gives the cat what she’s been after.
“Ya find her?” Atsumu looks over his shoulder to catch her munching on a treat, tail swishing languidly. “Ah, with bribery.”
“It’s not bribery,” he launches back. “It’s smart thinking.”
Atsumu laughs. “Smart or not, I know bribery when I see it, Omi. Don’t act like I ain’t ever used the same tactics on Samu.”
“Sure.” Kiyoomi rolls over with unusual ease. They’d normally bicker over this more, but his head is still… elsewhere.
Atsumu picks up on that all too quickly. “Dinner’ll be ready in just a sec. I, uh, I got ya dessert too? But it ain’t huge or anythin’ so ya don’t hafta like eat any less than ya normally would? It’s really just a small little thing, no big deal or anythin’ like that.”
Keeping his gaze on Uni, Kiyoomi narrows his eyes—Atsumu is nervous babbling for reasons beyond Kiyoomi’s understanding.
“Dessert? Are you trying to fatten me up for slaughter?” Another laugh.
“That’d take months, Omi-Omi.” He turns when something small hits him directly between the shoulder blades. “The hell?” Looking down he sees the small cat treat that Kiyoomi lobbed at his back and his precious cat trotting over to munch on it.
When he sees Kiyoomi half hiding the resulting smile and laugh, he can only give him a devious look in turn.
“Better watch out, I’m the one controllin’ yer dinner right now.”
“I could go on hunger strike,” Kiyoomi crosses his arms, small smile full on display.
Atsumu grins at that, “No dinner means no dessert.”
“And if I said I wanted some dessert now to make me feel better?”
He really only asks to hear Atsumu push back further, to keep the banter bouncing. But Atsumu’s eyebrows pull together for the briefest second before he eases back against the counter. “Ain’t ya ever heard that sweets before dinner ruins yer appetite?”
“Maybe.”
They stare at one another while Uni flicks her bored gaze between the two. Atsumu finally breaks with an exhale that might be a laugh while he rummages in the cabinet next to the stove. Finding what he’s looking for, he lobs the small thing straight at Kiyoomi’s chest.
The plastic wrapped little pebble falls perfectly into Kiyoomi’s hands.
“Just one,” he goes to the sink, washing his hands before returning to the stove. “Wouldn’t wanna spoil yer dinner.”
Kiyoomi returns the might could be a laugh before looking at the treat in his hand: a perfectly wrapped umeboshi candy. His gaze immediately falls back between Atsumu’s shoulder blades where it seems the man has returned to his singing and swaying. Knowing he’s safe from Atsumu’s gaze, Kiyoomi smiles at the candy before popping it into his mouth. A soft “thank you” coming out before his mouth is too busy. Kiyoomi almost thinks he hears a returned hum of “you’re welcome.”
Conversation is sparse after that, mostly just Kiyoomi talking at the cat and Uni responding with varying meows and chuffs. Sometimes Atsumu will pipe in as though the three are having a very serious, intelligible conversation. And so it goes until Atsumu asks for Kiyoomi to grab the bowls and then they’re side by side getting dinner ready for the table.
It’s oddly domestic with Kiyoomi being familiar with the location of dishes and utensils in Atsumu’s kitchen and with their innate ability to perfectly float around each other—no awkward bumping or hushed apologies for being in the way. They simply fit together in the space.
But then it’s on to actually dining which always becomes chaos because Uni thinks that the table is her bed only when food is there, and she seems to think that the food is also hers. Naturally, it devolves into lots of exclamations of Uni’s name until Atsumu grows tired of that and simply starts to bark at her. Even though Kiyoomi never stops giving him shit for it, the barking is the most effective method of keeping her away from the table.
This means, though, that when they begin talking about their New Year’s plans, Atsumu looks like a madman.
“Well, ya know, Ma is crazy about gettin’ the family together,” furious barking, “so we always end up back in Hyogo for a week. But ’s not just like me and Sam—" more barking “—Samu and the immediate family. She’s always gotta bring like cousins and everyone else—Christ’s sake Uni.”
Once he finishes this round of barking, Kiyoomi interjects.
“Do you have an issue with the cousins?”
“Nah, I ain’t got any issues with ‘em. ‘S just,” one loud bark, “they’re not like Samu or our side of the family, ya know? They’re different and s’ just hard to find common ground sometimes.”
“Well that I get.” They bark in sync when Uni next gets up and Uni looks to Kiyoomi in pure offense. Atsumu grins like a child. “Motoya and I come from drastically different families even though we’re related. My mother married into our brand of family, but she came from a very different one.”
“Yer brand of family?” They watch in silent victory as Uni trots off to her cat tree to glare in spite.
“Yes. We’re not particularly close but we still have strict social rules with one another. Not that I’m familiar anymore really, my father kicked me out when I decided to pursue volleyball as a career.”
Atsumu starts coughing on the bite of food he was working on. Between gasps and coughs, Kiyoomi manages to hear, “He what?”
“Stop choking.” The unimpressed glance at Atsumu is met with the finger and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. While Atsumu catches his breath, Kiyoomi continues. “My father decided I was being cut off from the family when I announced to pursue volleyball officially. He’d been hoping that through college I would end up loving business or law. That was never going to be the case, so I knew what was coming. I was warned several times.”
“And yer just fine with that?”
Kiyoomi shrugs and chews. “My father and mother are the only two who really don’t speak to me. I still have Motoya and his parents obviously think my father is ludicrous. But my father’s decreeing that I was a,” he puts on his best impression of his father, “‘Sakusa only in name’ was so dramatic it actually made my siblings start talking to me more.”
“Now I know where yer dramatics come from.”
“My dramatics?” Kiyoomi raises an unimpressed brow. “We both know the drama king here is you, Miya.”
Atsumu’s mouth flops open like a fish before he responds, “Yeah but I ain’t ever flung myself onto the court floor because I didn’t like somethin’ before. Yer like one rung below me, maybe, on drama king levels.”
Kiyoomi straightens up, pulling himself to full height. “That was exposure per my therapist’s request.”
“No, yer exposure that week was to touch things without sanitizin’ them an’ I know that ‘cause ya spent the entire time in the locker room yappin’ about it. Ya threw yerself on the ground in a fit of passion, ya drama king.”
“Whatevs,” Kiyoomi moves to clear their plates while Atsumu starts towards the kitchen with a bark of a laugh. The argument fades into nothing, another piece of unfinished and continued business between the two.
They’re relatively silent while they clean, Atsumu washing dishes while Kiyoomi dries. The familiarity of it wraps Kiyoomi in a blanket and soothes that hollow feeling Kageyama and Hinata seem to leave in their wake. Whether it be the company or the process, Kiyoomi refuses to acknowledge.
When they’ve nearly finished, Atsumu pipes up again.
“I know yer whole family’s in Tokyo.”
Kiyoomi waits for him to follow up the statement while he dries one of the bowls. When he receives nothing, he prods. “Yes. Brilliant observation, Miya.”
“Quit,” he sends a mild glare at Kiyoomi, “’s just I was thinkin’, if ya ain’t got any plans fro New Years, yer always welcome in Hyogo. I know Ma’d love to get her hands on ya.”
The kindness is so overt that his stomach drops and his thoughts flit to dropping the dish and running as far as he can. Instead, he stays, contemplates, and considers, “Would I survive a whole week with you, Miya?”
“Dramatic,” Atsumu rolls his eyes and wrings his hands on the clean towel by his sink. “Yer gonna survive. I’m the one who should be questionin’ my safety—Samu would get ya to turn on me so fast.”
“As if I’m not already against you,” the retort earns Kiyoomi an offended squawk. He dries the final dish and places it in its home before leaning against the counter, pointedly avoiding Atsumu’s gaze. “I’ll consider your offer.”
“No pressure, Omi.” In the silence that follows Kiyoomi feels the urge to scream. “So, ya wanna watch somethin’ or?”
“Bly Manor,” falls out without thinking.
Atsumu hums his approval, “Been wantin’ to start that. I heard it ain’t as scary as the first one.” He moves to the cabinet with the candies and grabs a handful to shove into Kiyoomi’s open palms.
“Is that right?” They make their way to the couch, Uni still giving them the cold shoulder even if they both know fifteen minutes in, she’ll leave her perch to cuddle up to Kiyoomi.
Atsumu is more wont to know the hype around certain shows or movies they watch—he’s the one who keeps up with pop culture. To the setter’s dismay, Kiyoomi only keeps up an Instagram which features zero photos of himself and instead various pictures of where he’s been. Motoya and Atsumu both comment all too frequently that volleyball courts are not the most thrilling of scenes, yet they renounce any picture that isn’t a familiar court. The pairs familiarity with one another has been Kiyoomi’s downfall, especially when Motoya makes sideways comments about Atsumu’s more flirtatious moods.
“That’s what they say. I read somewhere that it’s more of a queer romance? Dunno how true that is but lotta people said it’s good.” All too perceptive, Atsumu picks up on Kiyoomi’s extended sigh. “Issue with romance there, Omi?”
He nails Atsumu with a look—a warning, really—not to press. “We already talked about this today.”
“Ah,” he gets the show situated, turning to Kiyoomi one last time before hitting play, “thought I told ya they ain’t worth yer time?”
There’s no time to respond before the show kicks up and Atsumu’s commentary begins. He shouldn’t, but Kiyoomi can’t help the stuttering laugh that falls out when Atsumu loudly proclaims that the kids are “weirder than shit” and he “ain’t gonna do shit for those little freaks.” When the cook is introduced, Atsumu raises his brows with a suggestive little hum—a silent question. Kiyoomi only rolls his eyes.
“Not my type really,” Atsumu smiles, “I much prefer her little boyfriend, fiancé, whatever he is.”
Kiyoomi can only scoff, “Would you just pay attention to the plot?”
“What’s the fun in that?” He bursts into laughter when Kiyoomi feigns throwing one of the candies at him.
When the second episode finishes, they hear the rain pelting against the glass.
“Shit, ya wanna stick around ‘til it slows?” Kiyoomi only nods and watches the slight lift in the corners of Atsumu’s mouth. “Another episode then.”
They finish episode three and start episode four when a loud crack makes both of them jump. Were it not for the ball of fur in his lap, Kiyoomi would assume that it was Uni who caused the noise—a line of thinking Atsumu follows when he scrunches his brows up at the curled up cat. Their confusion is answered by the resulting thrum of the power cutting off.
“Oh,” Kiyoomi muses.
Atsumu is far more frustrated. “Oh c’mon get fucked, ya can’t be serious right now.”
“Miya, it’s fine,” Kiyoomi strokes Uni, “it’ll probably kick back on soon.”
“No, it ain’t.” He grumbles as he blindly gropes at the drawers of the nearest table. “Generator’s bein’ serviced or somethin’. They sent an email ‘bout it so we’ll be stuck like this ‘til they can fix whatever happened.”
Kiyoomi watches as he lights candles around the room at least providing some light.
“Yer phone doin’ alright with charge?”
A quick glance at the shrinking number makes Kiyoomi cringe. “No. It’s alright though. I’ll text Hinata and let him know what’s up. I doubt he’ll see it anyway.”
The last bit must sound a little more bitter than the rest as Atsumu’s brows shoot up. He makes no move to prod though even as he refuses to pull his prying gaze from Kiyoomi.
They sit in that silence for a moment too long. Kiyoomi can feel Atsumu building up to the question but there’s no way he can really avoid not answering it.
“Ya know I hate to pry,” that’s a lie—Atsumu loves prying, he just respects Kiyoomi’s boundaries more than most other people’s, “but ya’ve been askin’ me to set for ya more and more recently. I mean typically ya let onto whatever it is that’s makin’ ya so antsy when we meet. But I’ve gotten that text least five times the past week? Twice today? And ya haven’t said a word ‘bout yer predicament. That’s concernin’ behavior from my friend, Omi.”
“Teammate,” the response falls out naturally.
“Acquaintance.”
“Strangers with the same hobby.”
Atsumu smiles, a tiny little thing. “Well, I’m worried about my stranger with the same hobby.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Kiyoomi wouldn’t even be able to convince a brick wall that he’s being honest.
“Yeah, right,” Atsumu scoffs, “and I ain’t a self-obsessed prick. C’mon, Omi, what’s goin’ on?”
Honesty to a fault has always been Kiyoomi’s downfall. When in the face of a direct question, he can’t back down from answering. It’s one of the few quirks he sometimes wishes he could change. It would be nice to be a liar sometimes.
“It’s just-“ he runs a hand through his hair, nerves building, “it’s Hinata.”
He expects Atsumu to push but the man sits, waiting and watching intently.
“Well, him and Kageyama.” Atsumu just nods. It’s almost more difficult to continue without the constant prying. “I don’t mind them being around so often really. Kageyama is polite enough—quiet and respectful. But—” Kiyoomi takes a long slow breath, willing himself into vulnerability. “They laugh in the mornings.” It’s not what he expects to tumble out, but that’s how it comes. “I can hear it through the walls.”
The rush of confusion that passes over Atsumu’s face is just as soon taken over by his thinking face. Though rare, the face makes an appearance whenever he’s trying really hard to connect dots—when the insight fails to come naturally.
“Kageyama laughin’?” A grave nod from Kiyoomi. “He must be in deep.”
“He’s not the only one,” another sigh. “Hinata looks at him like he hung the stars.”
Something about the statement clears the thinking face up as Atsumu’s brows shoot up. With his mouth slightly ajar and eyes wide, he stares at Kiyoomi. A soft “oh” tumbles out of his mouth when he locks eyes with the man.
“Ya hear ‘em wakin’ up together.” A statement, not a question. Kiyoomi just stares back. But Atsumu has honed his skills in reading people like they’re books, soaking up every minor twitch and breath. He knows and Kiyoomi feels a cloud of dread washing over them. “Awful lonely wakin’ up alone.”
“That’s redundant,” the quip falls out without much thought. He takes a steadying breath before looking down at Uni in his lap, “I wouldn’t know the alternative.” The hushed softness of his voice is foreign to his own ears, a wave of shock passing through him the moment the words slip past his lips. It’s not exactly a bleeding-heart admission of his own loneliness, but it feels the same; it still grates at the nerves and makes his skin feel too tight and sends his thoughts reeling into nothingness, head screaming and silent all at once.
But then there’s Atsumu’s breathless laugh, the exhale that always seems a little condescending when first heard. Whipping his head to glare, Kiyoomi is met with a wistful smile directed at the ceiling. Atsumu’s familiar warm gaze dipped in something icy, foreign, but trained away from him.
“Me neither,” his voice just as soft and hushed as Kiyoomi’s. In his daze, Kiyoomi doesn’t register whether he asks for more information or not, but Atsumu’s brow dips in the way that makes his whole face seem to droop. The softness in his voice lingers but there’s a new hurt wrapped around it. “Ain’t no problem with a partner takin’ me to bed, just none of ‘em want me to stay.”
“But didn’t you,” the shift of Atsumu’s eyes makes him swallow to clear his thoughts. The sight of that hardened gaze throwing him for a loop and making his voice catch, “Didn’t you have that boyfriend at the beginning of the season?”
“Yeah, Haru. He, uh,” the short laugh that tumbles out is joyless and cold, “he never stayed. In the middle of the night, I’d hear him slide out and mumble somethin’ ‘bout work. I ain’t ever met someone who needs to leave for work at two in the mornin’.”
When he shifts his gaze back to the ceiling, Kiyooomi is helpless to do anything but stare at his profile. Never having had someone to wake up to and being deliberately left feel so vastly different that his own struggle seems to pale in comparison for a moment. Yet still his brain aches to tell Atsumu that he would stay—he wouldn’t walk away like the others have. To save himself the embarrassment Kiyoomi remains staring and silent, drinking in the side profile.
“It’s kinda funny, though,” he continues in the face of Kiyoomi’s silence. “I mean I grew up complainin’ ‘bout havin’ Samu all in my space every day for eighteen years. Never really thought about what it’d actually be like to wake up when there ain’t anyone there.”
Were it any other time, Kiyoomi would make a joke about how insufferable it must be to wake up beside someone like him. Even if it weren’t true, the urge to poke and prod runs so deep he would make the joke in a second. But in the face of this vulnerability, an occurrence rare for both of them, Kiyoomi can’t help when something soft comes out of him instead of his normal pins and needles.
“Someone will.” Atsumu turns to look at him again. “Want to wake up next to you, I mean.”
“Ya think?”
Kiyoomi allows himself a small smile before he returns the pair back to safe territory, “Probably. You’re not that insufferable.”
Atsumu softens again, ice melting from his gaze as he smiles in earnest. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Omi.”
“My pleasure,” he turns his widening smirk back to the cat in his lap, nearly startling when Atsumu’s voice slips back into that impossible softness.
“Yer gonna find someone too, Omi-Omi.”
The admission is so quiet, Kiyoomi can’t even tell whether he was intended to hear it. Instead of acknowledging the statement he does what he does best.
“Think I’m on my longest streak of being favored by Uni,” he scratches behind her ear while he casts out the distraction.
“Ya bribed her earlier,” Atsumu’s pitch returns to that high, squawk that Kiyoomi so loves to hear, “course she’s gonna be all over ya!”
The moment lets them slip back into a comfortable routine of playful bickering peppered with genuine conversation. Hours pass and the rain continue to pelt down, the backdrop of the late-night storm and candle-lit conversation making the pair oblivious to the world around them. Until Kiyoomi yawns and Atsumu finally checks the time.
“Shit, it’s awfully late, Omi.” Kiyoomi blinks at the harsh light being shoved at him. Well past midnight is late indeed and the roll of thunder outside only signifies the continuation of the storm. “Yer welcome to stay here.”
Kiyoomi’s heart slams in his chest, “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he begins collecting the various items he’d began messing with in the time of their conversation, “ya can take my bed. I’d hate for yer poor sensitive body to be crippled by my futon.”
“Miya, I can’t possibly impose on you like that.”
“Not imposin’.” Kiyoomi grates his teeth at the matched adamance.
“I’m fine taking the futon, Miya.”
Atsumu folds his arms in front of him after tucking a blanket away, “And I ain’t fine with ya takin’ the futon. My house, my rules.”
Then Kiyoomi makes the single most foolish mistake he thinks he could ever make. With the rain pelting away at the window, a warm cat curled up beside him, and the flames casting moving shadows on Atsumu’s face, Kiyoomi says exactly what he’s thinking.
“Why don’t we just share the bed, then?”
The man before him blinks one, twice, three times before his brows shoot up. “Ya wanna share a bed?”
“Want is a strong word.”
“With me?”
Kiyoomi folds his arms to match Atsumu, “You’re the only other person here.”
“I just,” Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, swallowing something hard in his throat, “yer so sensitive about, ya know, germs—not that it’s an issue or anythin’—but I just assumed ya’d never wanna share space with me like that. I mean yer so strict and I’m more than happy to do whatever it takes-“
“I’m fine, Miya.” Kiyoomi interrupts the nervous babbling. “I’ve seen the way you live. It’s not terrible.” He keeps the fact that his heart softens every time he sees the extra bottles of hand sanitizer around the house or the wipes Atsumu carries in his bag specifically for Kiyoomi or hears him ask what needs to be done to make Kiyoomi comfortable.
“Cool, cool.” Atsumu nods, smile barely held back through his nodding. “So ya need anythin’ special before we tuck in?”
There he goes again with that natural kindness and Kiyoomi is prone. He blinks once, twice. “Just a fresh pillowcase, if you have it.”
“’Course, Omi.” Then he’s blowing out candles until he holds just one at the rate of a competitive candle blower. Atsumu motions for Kiyoomi to follow with all the excitement of a child who’s just learned he can spend the night at a friends and Kiyoomi has to hide the smile it brings to his lips.
Despite the growing nerves at his prospect of sleeping next to Atsumu—of waking up next to him, which neither of them seem to acknowledge—Kiyoomi walks with purpose. Watches as Atsumu pulls out a fresh pillowcase and hands it back to him with a small upturn of his lips.
The candlelight throws curious shadows around Atsumu’s familiar bedroom, making the cozy space feel far more foreign than Kiyoomi’s accustomed to. In spite of that, the space still holds Atsumu’s warmth, drips with all the love he refuses to show in earnest.
He watches as Atsumu pulls the pillow—Kiyoomi’s pillow, for tonight—off the bed and slips the old pillowcase off. There’s no need to signal Atsumu’s next steps, Kiyoomi simply opens the pillowcase as Atsumu steps over to slip the pillow into its new home for the night. The act feels so domestic that Kiyoomi nearly trembles when Atsumu lets out a triumphant little huff when the pillow is in its proper place.
Then comes the predicament of what to wear. Atsumu slips into a pair of sweats, shirt abandoned with his other laundry. Kiyoomi takes the t-shirt Atsumu offers and slips out of his own pants, leaving him nearly swimming in Atsumu’s shirt. Without a proper light, Kiyoomi can’t tell if Atsumu’s eyes linger at the hem of his briefs or if he imagines the moment entirely.
They settle into bed wordlessly, Atsumu proffering a hand so Kiyoomi can put his phone on the bedside table. Atsumu blows out the candle and still darkness settle over the pair. Wind howls and rain pelts against the glass beside them, yet neither man speaks. Kiyoomi almost feels uncomfortable, tenses just a little until he hears a quiet, soft, drowsy, “G’night, Omi.”
“Good night,” Kiyoomi turns and blinks as his eyes adjust to find a sleeping Atsumu.
Who would have ever thought that Atsumu could go out like a light? Kiyoomi files the tidbit away into that hoard reserved for all of the precious little secrets he keeps on Atsumu.
Eventually, soothed by the rain and the even breaths on the man beside him, Kiyoomi drifts off. His dreams filled with sunshine and honey and something indescribably warm. When he feels them slipping away, he attempts to cling to them even though he knows it’s a futile endeavor. Regardless, the indescribable warm feeling lingers as he drifts out of his unconscious bliss and into reality.
In the drag from slumber to wakefulness, there are three sensations that Kiyoomi clocks, eyes blinking sleep away. The first is the distinct lack of rain pelting against the window—a good sign that he’ll be able to get home at some point today that he doesn’t quite register. The second is the constant warmth against his chest provided by the weight in his arms and whatever else is tangled up with his legs. The third is the rumbly vibrations of the weight in his arms that seem to coordinate with the raspy, sleep-riddled “Omi” that he keeps hearing.
Blinking a final time, Kiyoomi slowly puts the pieces together. He is in a room that is very much not his but is all too familiar, clinging to a very real person who is providing so much warmth he hardly wants to move, and that person is one Miya Atsumu.
“Omi?” The raspy question comes out again. When Kiyoomi hums in response, he feels the tension settle across Atsumu’s back. “Yer cuddlin’ with me.”
“Stellar observation,” he grumbles and pulls the mass a little closer, feeling Atsumu’s muscle jump at the gesture.
“Ya sure that’s okay? What with yer whole,” he fades into the obvious implication of the touching thing Kiyoomi hates.
If he were any more awake, he may have the decency to withhold himself from what follows, but Kiyoomi has never been the sanest person first thing in the morning. With the renewed closeness, he settles his nose right along the back of Atsumu’s ear, lips just brushing the lobe. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do, Atsumu.”
The figure in his arms melts like putty, making it far easier to pull him closer and settle Atsumu so he rests a little lower than normal, Kiyoomi’s chin resting closer to the top of Atsumu’s head.
Just as Kiyoomi is fading back out of consciousness, his eyes open once more when the puddle in his arm’s speaks up, a new soft edge to his voice full of wonder and something a lot like disbelief, “Ya want to touch me?”
“Duh,” Kiyoomi lets his eyes flutter shut again, voice tumbling out in a murmur, “you’re warm and I like you.”
The lack of distance between the pair means that Kiyoomi can feel the distinct and sudden swell of Atsumu’s chest. The sharp intake of breath bringing the smallest smile to Kiyoomi’s lips.
“Ya like me?”
Kiyoomi gives a deep sigh, “Look at me, little parrot.” The blonde tilts his head just enough that his eyes catch Kiyoomi’s. “No,” he pulls at Atsumu’s middle to signal his meaning, “all the way.”
For a brief moment, Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu will refuse, but then he’s untangling their legs with all the rush of a turtle and rolling so he’s facing Kiyoomi. With Atsumu’s bottom arm tucked between them, Kiyoomi grabs the other and drapes it over his own body, letting his own hand come to rest on Atsumu’s face. Atsumu who is still expertly avoiding Kiyoomi’s gaze. With his pinkie, Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu’s chin up, forcing their eyes to lock.
“D’you honestly think I’d’ve climbed into bed with you if I didn’t like you?”
“I dunno,” Atsumu’s smile almost trembles, “what if ya just wanna be real close friends or somethin’?”
Kiyoomi lets out an undignified snort, “I’m real close friends with Hinata and I would never get in his bed. I’ve never even shared a bed with Motoya.” Atsumu attempts a shrug and Kiyoomi rests his forehead against Atsumu’s with a gentle sigh. “I like you so much I’m almost willing to kiss you with your disgusting morning breath.”
The familiar squawk makes Kiyoomi hide a smile as Atsumu’s offended tone comes out once more, “It’s not just me! Yer morning breath is hardly cute. ‘Sides, who said I wanna kiss ya anyway?”
“You would though, wouldn’t you?” Kiyoomi isn’t entirely sure if he would, but Atsumu’s legs tangled with his and the hesitation to cross Kiyoomi’s boundaries sure seems like the hints he didn’t want to acknowledge before.
“Now I’m not sayin’ that,” he pulls back enough to lightly brush his nose against Kiyoomi’s, “but I am sayin’ I happen to have mints in my nightstand.”
“Oh, of course you do,” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.
Atsumu laughs and rolls onto his back to reach for the drawer. “It’s not for what yer thinkin’. I like to pop ‘em before I drink water at night.”
“That’s even weirder, weirdo,” Atsumu shakes his head as he offers the container to Kiyoomi.
“Yet here ya are,” he smiles as Kiyoomi pops one of the mints into his mouth, “takin’ the weirdo’s mints. ‘Cause ya wanna kiss him.”
“When did I say that?”
Atsumu taps his jaw in thought after tossing one of the mints in his mouth and tossing the container back into the drawer. “Think it was subtextual when ya offered to share a bed.”
With a hum Kiyoomi drapes himself back over Atsumu, droopy eyes still prominent as his brain starts its slow whir back into life. “Think it was a lot sooner.”
“Yeah?” Atsumu threads his fingers into Kiyoomi’s hair with some trepidation, but when Kiyoomi mirrors Uni’s push for more attention, Atsumu scratches his scalp with a little more intent.
Drawing closer to the blonde’s lips, Kiyoomi smiles, “Yeah. So, are you going to kiss me?”
“Thought ya wanted to kiss me?” Atsumu smirks up at Kiyoomi’s looming figure.
With a final hum Kiyoomi brings their lips together. Their lips are dry after having just woken and they laugh through the ill-fit of the first attempt, but they kiss once more and Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder why he didn’t push these boundaries before. It seems foolish to have waited so long when the plush warmth of Atsumu’s lips melts Kiyoomi to his very core. The resistance feels especially futile when he feels Atsumu’s hand curls in his hair just enough to reposition him and the other drags slowly down his back. Each kiss is slow and deliberate, as if they’re both trying to bask in the moment for as long as they can.
It’s everything Kiyoomi has been dreaming of until the slow whir of his brain becomes fully functional. Until his brain starts shrieking at full volume that there are germs, not to mention they haven’t brushed their teeth. He sits up with a sigh and a deep furrow in his brow, eyes screwed shut as he battles back the voices. The action knocks Atsumu’s arms down to his hips, where Atsumu rests them like feathers.
“Omi?” his voice is small when it comes out.
Kiyoomi shakes his head and grabs onto one of the hands on his hip, keeping his hold there. “Just,” he gestures around his head with his free hand, “loud voices freaking out about the germs.”
He can feel the shift in the mattress as Atsumu sits up next to him, “Ya want me to give ya some space? Can go make us some coffee while ya sort yer head out.”
Even though his tone betrays no hint of irritation, Kiyoomi unscrews his eyes to look at Atsumu in the face—to make sure there isn’t a single ounce of frustration. What he sees is a small, warm smile, one that yells in Kiyoomi’s face that Atsumu could never be bothered by something as trivial as needing a pause. With that reassurance, Kiyoomi nods.
“Good,” Atsumu shifts out of bed then looks to Kiyoomi, brows barely pulling together. “Kiss ya on the head?”
“Sap,” Kiyoomi can’t help but duck his head at the barb, cheeks warming. “If you insist.”
The satisfaction of permission rolls off of Atsumu in waves as he leans down and presses a firm kiss to the top of Kiyoomi’s curls. “Be back with yer coffee, Princess.”
“You offered!” Kiyoomi yells at Atsumu’s retreating back and is rewarded with a bright laugh that trails down the hall towards the kitchen. As the sound of coffee prep filters down from the kitchen, Kiyoomi rolls over to the nightstand housing the mints and sees his phone beside Atsumu’s charging away while Atsumu’s lay dead.
The small action shouldn’t make Kiyoomi feel warm from his toes to the top of his head, but it does. Though the power likely only kicked back on recently, since Kiyoomi’s phone jumped from its whole 2% to 37%. Unplugging his own and hooking up Atsumu’s, he responds to Hinata’s frantic texts about Kiyoomi’s safety, assuring him that he’s just fine, and replies to Motoya’s singular question about his safety in the storms. With the anxieties of others quelled, Kiyoomi scrolls through the news. He learns of the storm’s severity and a few updates on the latest current events he’s following while he smells coffee brewing down the way. The routine of it is so familiar—the catching up, the coffee—even in this new environment, with its slight changes, just another way that Kiyoomi’s life seems to fit so seamlessly into Atsumu’s. Halfway through an article on maintaining athletic performance in the off seasons, he hears the familiar footfalls of Atsumu and the accompanying voice he uses exclusively for Uni.
“Let’s go see him, sweetie.” A loud meow. “Yeah, I know ya love hi—shit—Uni don’t walk between my legs like that ya lil’ menace.”
There’s an extended chuff as the brown and black fur ball strides into the room launching herself onto the open space of the dresser presumably designated for her.
“Good morning, Princess,” he smiles at her and she mewls, spinning until she’s comfortable to plop.
“How come ya didn’t call me Princess, huh?” Atsumu settles the mug between Kiyoomi’s hands with a smile, playful and light.
“You’re not lofty enough to be a princess, more like a bastard than anything,” Kiyoomi grins at the squawk the quip produces even as Atsumu settles into the bed next to him.
Of course, Kiyoomi’s first sip is perfect, made just as he likes.
“I’m plenty lofty to be a fancy princess. Ya got no sense in that city boy head of yers.”
Kiyoomi blinks at him before settling his head against the other’s, “Plus, you called me Princess. I thought I’d be the princess and you’d be the pauper.”
“Pauper?” Atsumu feigns offense. “So because I grew up poor yer the one who gets to be the princess?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi laughs at the indignant gasp the response produces and nearly doubled over at Atsumu’s dramatic conjectures after. Their laughter mixes with each other’s as Atsumu devolves into giggles himself. As the laughter swirls together and warmth seems to fill every corner of the room, with their heads resting against each other’s, Kiyoomi gets why he felt so irate listening to this between walls. The joy is so palpable and sweet that it’s presence could rot the teeth out of an onlooker’s skull. But the crawling of his skin from the moments he’d heard Hinata and Kageyama wasn’t mere jealousy, there was the underlying feeling of invading something personal. This moment, with Atsumu’s bright giggling and Kiyoomi’s own gentle laughter, feels confined to them—like no one else in the world should be given permission to spy into it.
When the laughter dies, he find himself burying his face into Atsumu’s shoulder.
“You know sometimes it can only be like this?” His voice comes out muffled.
The closeness of their bodies clues Kiyoomi into the turn of Atsumu’s head, as if he’s trying to do the impossible and contort to see Kiyoomi’s face. “Easy mornin’s and laughin’?”
“No,” Kiyoomi stops himself, turning to peek at Atsumu, “well, yes, but that’s not what I meant.” They stay there in silence, Atsumu giving Kiyoomi the space to build his confidence to say whatever is plaguing he thoughts. With one lest steadying breath, he finally opens up. “I mean sometimes this is as much physical contact as I can give. Sometimes not even this much.”
“Omi,” when the call doesn’t make Kiyoomi look toward him, Atsumu puts on a grave tone. “Kiyoomi look at me.”
He leans back just enough to look at Atsumu in the face.
“I ain’t ever gonna push ya to do somethin’ ya don’t want. If bein’ with ya means sometimes ya need space, I can handle it. I’ve been handlin’ it all season!” There’s tension building in him as he lets out a sigh and runs his hands through golden locks. “I ain’t like yer past flings or whatever. Ya deserve yer space.”
“Even if you want more?” The question is in earnest, habitual in the face of his previous experiences.
Atsumu lifts his hand with caution, giving Kiyoomi ample time to protest before his fingers embed themselves into Kiyoomi’s waves and his thumb strokes below Kiyoomi’s temple. “I don’t want anythin’ more than what yer willin’ to give.”
Fighting the growing smile on his face, Kiyoomi locks eyes with Atsumu. Tar meets honey and Kiyoomi forces his smile into a lopsided smirk, “Who knew big, bad Miya Atsumu was such a softie.”
“Oh ya wouldn’t have it any other way,” he scratches at Kiyoomi’s scalp with a soft smile. “’Sides, yer the sap who’s lettin’ it happen. Stoic, stormy Sakusa Kiyoomi is eatin’ up this soft shit.”
“Maybe,” he kisses Atsumu’s palm before settling himself back next to him, burying his head into Atsumu’s shoulder once more. He looks at their legs entwined just so, the rumple of sheets half covering Kiyoomi’s calf. The sunlight filtering in through curtains just enough to light them like a movie scene. It’s so picturesque that Kiyoomi can’t stop himself when he opens his camera and snaps the casual knot of their legs.
With Atsumu scrolling on his own charging phone now, the fondest of smiles gracing his lips, Kiyoomi opens his Instagram—his log of places he’s been. He uploads the photo with one singular word, then relaxes further into the setter beside him.
The morning passes on like that, interspersed with chatter, small laughs, and a few meows. Kiyoomi doesn’t pick up his phone in the hours that pass, opting instead to bask in the warmth of feeling wanted. Choosing instead to look down at their entwined legs and feel that new feeling, the thing he’s sure now isn’t a place at all: home.