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Atsumu shouldn't be surprised that Kiyoomi likes some rare-ass flower no one's heard of with lily-white petals like the spindly legs of spiders.

And yet when he coughs up an oblong petal into his sink and Google image searches it, he still finds himself floored that Kiyoomi even knew of such a plant.

The Queen Of The Night, epiphyllum oxypetalum, the Kadupul flower, elusive as it is beautiful for it only blooms for a short time after the sun sets. It's quite a romantic concept when you think about it. Less romantic when said it's covered in Atsumu's saliva, but whatever.

He guesses it's only natural - Atsumu's most prickly by far teammate has always been something of a botany fanatic. He takes great pleasure and satisfaction in spending his weekends caring for the plants that have nearly over-crowded his terrace (really the only chaotic part of Kiyoomi Sakusa's entire apartment). He refuses to name them because, "That's fucking stupid, they're just plants," and yet he can recite the exact date on which he brought home each of them like a proud parent.

Sometimes Atsumu even gets to see his soft, barely-there smile as he meticulously waters and cares for them, like he's happy just to be living in the moment, creases of worry or doubt gone from his beautiful face. He's the same way in-game; one hundred percent focused but one hundred percent enjoying himself.

Atsumu purses his lips a couple of times - is it weird that he actually kind of wants to keep it? But then he remembers that he'll likely be coughing up many more, spindly, spidery petals in the near future so he needn't worry about a one-time keepsake.

Who knows? He might even get a whole flower.

For now, he settles on washing the evidence of his traitorous heart down the drain with a resolute sigh. The petal disappears into the ether of his pipes as if nothing happened.

He's not going to tell Osamu about this. Not yet, at least.

Slapping his cheeks in the mirror, he nods to himself, half-determined. He doesn't know what about. Being determined about an incurable illness will just cause more pain in the long run (a heavy downside of hope) but Atsumu never gives up anything without a fight. Life included.

-

Atsumu supposes it's only natural that he fell in love with Kiyoomi Sakusa, that it was destined to happen from the very beginning even if, at first, it didn't register as fate.

At first, it was just a dull ache, the kind when you see someone really hot and can't stop thinking about them. The kind that lasts for, maybe, if you're really unlucky, a few weeks at most. True to a predefined course, Atsumu thought about him. A lot.

He thought about Kiyoomi Sakusa on almost a constant basis for weeks after the first time the spiker stepped into the locker room, mask pulled under his chin out of respect. He thought about Kiyoomi Sakusa before he went to sleep, thought about Kiyoomi Sakusa first thing in the morning, thought about Kiyoomi Sakusa at all hours of the day, most intensely during practice.

But, because he's gone down that rabbit hole about seven too many times before, Atsumu was good and cautious about the budding feelings - and by good and cautious I mean that he squashed them flat with the heel of his shoe before even giving them a chance to manifest.

It worked for a while.

But a while only lasts so long.

A while died on Kiyoomi's sixth month with the Jackals.

Atsumu got absolutely hammered that night. So plastered he could give dry-wall a run for its money. He was drunk enough that night to do any number of stupid things, and he went straight for the worst one - no, not grinding on a stranger or stripping down in the middle of a public bar. He didn't even do anything that could get him arrested. But maybe it would've been preferable.

In a drunken haze, he relaxed his body fully, relaxed his mind too, softened his walls and let down his guard because- well, what really is alcohol for if not that?

Bokuto and Hinata were too drunk to go anywhere, and Shion lived with a roommate at the time, basically leaving Meian, Barnes, and Kiyoomi to draw straws as to who would walk Atsumu the short distance to his apartment in the dead of night.

Evidently, Kiyoomi came up short-strawed and scowling.

A while died as Kiyoomi looped a strong spiker arm around his waist and practically supported all of Atsumu's weight with one side of his body. A while died as they walked a three-legged race, awkward and disjointed, with Kiyoomi grunting in frustration every few seconds. A while died as Atsumu leaned into the warmth and let himself drown in it, not bothering to come back up for air.

A while died when they ended up at Kiyoomi's apartment building instead of his.

Inebriated out of his mind, Atsumu had barely processed at the time Kiyoomi explaining that, no, he was not about to murder the setter, his apartment building was just closer, and, yes, Atsumu would be sleeping on the couch no questions asked.

"That's nice Omi," Atsumu had said, face already smothered in the cushions of the spiker's couch, legs sticking up and falling off at awkward angles, shoes only half off as he fell into blissful sleep. Kiyoomi said more stuff, but Atsumu wasn't around to hear it.

A while's official time of death can be ruled as the morning after, when Atsumu awoke to a soft blanket draped neatly over his body.

His shoes sat at the door, his jacket was folded and placed on the coffee table next to a glass of water and some Advil. A sticky note that was too neon yellow this early in the morning reminded him, 'Be out by ten' - Sakusa.

Fate, destiny, and any other things of the sort hadn't entered the equation as Atsumu reoriented himself languidly with little regard for the time. Instead, the feeling could be thought of as something heavy in his ribcage. It pooled molasses thick, stuttered his breathing, and had his ribcage aching.

Atsumu had ignored it. A foolish, yet ultimately inconsequential decision.

A year of development ensues like the backstory dump at the beginning of a spy movie.

They don't date and they don't kiss, and in all of twelve months, Kiyoomi Sakusa never touches him once. But they watch movies on Atsumu's couch because (after doing an extensively deep clean of his apartment) Kiyoomi finally deemed it worthy. And Kiyoomi introduces the setter to his plants (and tells him that if he ever touches them, not only will the spiker know, he will hunt Atsumu down mercilessly).

And every time Kiyoomi shows up at the door with no mask on, invites Atsumu in and doesn't force him to shower and wash his hands first, shares food without giving Atsumu that disgusted look as though the setter might indirectly give him a deadly disease, Atsumu falls a little bit deeper.

His standards have sunk so low. Or maybe raised too high.

One night, Kiyoomi cries in front of him, and it's not anything like Atsumu expected it to be, because he hiccups a lot and his nose is running and it's not quiet or subdued or neat. It's all messy edges and broken sentences.

They sit on the floor of Atsumu's apartment, smushed between the sofa and the coffee table, drinking sake and staring at a TV that was turned off two hours ago at one.

"No one's ever going to want me the way I am," Kiyoomi says through chokes and coughs. Atsumu looks at their reflections in the mirror-like screen of his TV.

I wantcha the way ya'are.

He's too drunk for this. So he drinks more as if divine inspiration will strike him.

"Well that fuckin' sucks fer them then, doesn't it?" Atsumu takes the whole bottle and holds it close like a tether to reality. "They're missin' out, honestly."

A pause.

"They won't getcher neat-freak tendencies'r yer plant husbandry'r yer horrible cookin'. But that's okay. 'Cause someday someone'll get all a' those things," he knows his speech is slurring, accent molasses thick. He'd be surprised if Kiyoomi even understands what he's saying at this point.

"An' they'll tell ya how much yer worth. 'Cause yer worth so much. An' they'll tell ya how much they wantcha. An' all those people who said they didn't wantcha don't deserve ya," Atsumu's sentence trails into a whisper.

Kiyoomi is asleep in the reflection of the screen, head lolled to the side, lips slightly parted. Atsumu doesn't have it in him to do anything but smile.

"I want you."

He says it in the same moment he realizes it.

"I want you," he whispers this time, a smile growing, wide and sleepy across his lips.

Atsumu lingers a moment, wondering if he can hold onto this feeling a little longer, how he would go about doing that. If he could bottle up the fondness in his chest and hold it as a keepsake, he might do it in a heartbeat. If he could immortalize what it feels like to confess even if no one will ever hear it, he would.

But he can't, so he doesn't.

His bottle of sake gets poured down the drain and disposed of. The blankets in his closet that he never uses, because he's a human heater, are pulled out - one is draped over Kiyoomi's huddled form, the other, still folded, is wedged under his head gently. He doesn't touch Kiyoomi, and it takes all his willpower not to brush away stray curls from his face or press a kiss to twin moles.

But the spiker would never allow it during the day time. The same rule applies when he's sleeping.

Instead, Atsumu leaves out a glass of water and a bottle of Advil and writes a note on blinding yellow paper - 'Be out by ten.' - Atsumu. P.s. jk you know I'd never kick you out Omi ;P.

Atsumu draws a little smiley face at the bottom even though he knows Kiyoomi won't appreciate it.

Atsumu will. Or at least, he'll appreciate the wrinkle of the spiker's nose and scrunching of his eyebrows when he sees it, even if Atsumu himself isn't around to witness it.

Atsumu coughs up the first petal two weeks later.

Fate laces their fingers, destiny puts a hand on his shoulder.

-

"Oh my god! Sakkun got so big!"

Atsumu gawks at the devil's ivy that sits on Kiyoomi's kitchen table, taking up two times the space of any of his plants on the terrace.

"Are you seriously still doing the name thing?"

Atsumu named the plant Kiyoomi gave him as a "get your life together" gift after his best-not-quite-a-friend. And oh, does Atsumu love that thing like an extension of himself - might love it more than 'Samu, which he, of course, makes sure to tell his twin at every opportunity.

However, plant husbandry is not something he is particularly skilled at. Which is why, when Sakkun started to look a little worse for wear, Kiyoomi made the executive decision to adopt the dying plant back into the safety of his home where he could "take care of it properly."

After a stupidly long "custody battle" overseen and judged by the MSBY Black Jackals themselves, it was finally decided that, while the plant would be housed and taken care of by Kiyoomi, Atsumu would receive full visiting rights.

Kiyoomi was, of course, slightly less than happy about the idea of Atsumu getting to barge into his apartment at any hour of the day or night. But Atsumu had promised, as his best friend, to not push boundaries too much.

Now, after four months of sharing joint custody, Atsumu uses it mostly as an excuse to see the man he may or may not be in love with (e.g. is definitely in love with), without needing an explicit invitation.

"Omi, I'm always gonna be on this "namin' thing" 'cause Sakkun's some cute motherfucker, y'know," Atsumu gives him the cheekiest smile he can muster, lacing his fingers behind his back in an attempt to suppress the urge to hug his teammate.

Of course, when he talks about Sakkun, he's really talking about his Omi-Kun.

The same Omi-Kun who kicked him out at ten that morning, who covered him up with a blanket. The same Omi-Kun who tells him everything but refuses to admit to such crimes in when it comes up. The same Omi-Kun who still lets him into his apartment at ten-thirty in the evening to "check up on Sakkun" even though they both know that's not the real reason he's there.

They lock eyes for a second, studying each other as if there's a panel of plexiglass between them.

Atsumu can't read what's in his teammate's eyes any more than he can read a book with no words. All there is is a quizzical sort of sparkle, like he's reflecting Atsumu's own interest - well, not like Atsumu's own interest, but...

Kiyoomi averts his eyes first - Atsumu expected nothing less, but it leaves a heavy feeling sitting on his chest in the moments after nonetheless. Everything with Kiyoomi is always heavy. Always hurting more than it should but making him happier than anything or anyone can make him.

What a bullshit contradiction.

"So, I'm going to guess you want Jasmine tea?"

"Ya absolute fucker, how'dja know?" Atsumu can't help the smile that splits his face, even if the pulsing in his chest, the pressure pushing against his lungs and sliding up his throat are ever-present.

"You badgered me about it every time you came over for the first three months of our friendship."

"Only 'cause ya refuse ta tell me where ya get it."

-

Bokuto has absolutely no right to be so perceptive, at least that's what Kiyoomi thinks.

If he wanted to sign up with a team that could read his every thought, he would have just gone to the Rajins. Komori can pull all the same mind wizard tricks as Bokuto, the only difference being that his cousin would at least be discreet about it. Bokuto, on the other hand, doesn't have a subtle bone in his body.

"You should stop beating around the bush and ask out Tsum-Tsum before someone else does," Bokuto says, slipping his shirt over a mop of limp, bi-colored hair. It never fails to catch Kiyoomi off guard how different he looks with his hair down. He looks like he could (maybe) be a functioning adult.

"What?" He responds dumbly. His evasion tactic works spectacularly badly.

"Aw, c'mon Sakkun. I know you like him. It's really obvious 'cause you stare at him in practice all the time," he does not.

Okay, well he might, but out of eight teammates to choose from, he's certainly not going to stare at any of the straight ones. And the non-straight ones would look at him weird.

He's not fooling anyone but himself and they both know it. Whatever. He's still not giving Bokuto the satisfaction.

"Okay keep telling yourself that."

"I'm not the only one who notices," Bokuto breezes past his bluntness with ease. "Actually, it's kind of everyone except Tsum-Tsum. And Meian, but he's oblivious to everything." Bokuto has the inane ability to run his mouth and text at the same time. One could almost consider it a skill if it had any real use.

"So I'm just sayin' you should snap him up. I mean, he's pretty much a favorite with the fans and you know how many hot people there are in Japan. There's probably a statistic for it. And that's before we even go to the Olympics- which we will. And then he's going to have guys crawling all over him-"

Kiyoomi slams his locker shut, effectively interrupting his teammate's ramblings.

He's well-aware of how attractive Atsumu Miya is. He's well aware that he's adored by the public as much as he is his own team (even if they give him more shit for it). Kiyoomi Sakusa is well-aware of Atsumu Miya as a person.

He doesn't need a reminder of what he's missing. Getting it feels like a punch to the stomach.

"Hey, where're you goin'?" Bokuto muses, puppy-dog eyes trailing Kiyoomi as the spiker heads for the doorway. Hinata's still in the showers and Kiyoomi does not want to be around for their combined ridicule of his love life.

"Home. Like you should be."

"But don't you wanna wait for Shouyou-Kun?"

"Not even a little bit," Kiyoomi says honestly.

The fresh air he steps into is of little relief. It's cold, damn near frigid, and he doesn't have Atsumu's inane chatter as they walk together to warm him up.

The setter wasn't at practice today. Kiyoomi can't fathom why because Atsumu never misses a chance to show off his skills, even if it's just in front of the team who already knows very well what kind of output he's capable of. And more than that, Atsumu never misses a day period. He doesn't take breaks or rests, even when he should. Kiyoomi knows because he's tried getting the man to do so and has come up fruitless every time.

So he's not worried, but in a deeper sense, he is.

He hates it because there's nothing to distract him from his thoughts spiraling and nothing to lure him back from the edge. Normally, Atsumu would be prattling on about the latest injustice his brother has dawned on the world, or complaining about Sunarin, or just being a brat in general.

But he's not today, so Kiyoomi is left with silence, which should be a positive, a moment to be savored because he might never get another one like it.

Instead, it feels empty and the walk back to his apartment feels like it lasts a hundred years.

-

Atsumu decides that Suna can make the trip. It's presumptuous and probably incredibly rude of him, but he figures this is important enough to warrant him a free pass.

Suna taking a three-hour train ride isn't for him though. In fact, if he didn't feel like his brother would need the emotional support, he might not even tell Suna at all. He's not even telling their parents - he knows he'll pay dearly for it, don't worry. The fewer people that know, the better.

But Osamu is already dealing with long-distance. Atsumu figures that this shouldn't be another heartache he has to pile on. Suna can make the trip.

To his credit, Suna does. And when he steps off the train onto the platform, Osamu doesn't exactly run into his arms, but he certainly doesn't walk.

They hug, and Osamu peppers Suna's face with kisses, and Suna looks so indifferent that one could think it was a completely emotionless experience for him if there wasn't a small smile on his lips.

And they're so happy that Atsumu almost makes the executive decision to swallow his words and pretend that they're here for a cursory get-together because Atsumu was lonely or some bullshit like that.

But he doesn't, because they'll be happy the next time too. And Osamu will be smiling like this the next time too. And Suna will be this fond the next time too. And the next and the next and the next-

Suna loops him into a one-armed hug, and Atsumu won't lie he missed Sunarin too. Maybe not as much as Osamu did, and definitely not in the same way, but he missed the guy. It's too bad that this how they have to meet again. It hasn't been too long, the three of them FaceTime often (maybe a little too often), but it feels like it's been forever.

"I see you're still ugly," is his greeting.

"Uh, ya just called yer boyfriend ugly, dipshit," Atsumu snaps his teeth at Suna's hand as the middle blocker pats him condescendingly on the head.

"Nah, 'Samu's beautiful." Atsumu wrinkles his nose at the smug smile his brother supplies him with.

"One, gross. Stop being in love, yer disease might rub off on me. Two, we have the same fucking face so which is it? Beautiful or ugly?" Suna just pushes his face away with his palm and Atsumu decides for both of them that he won that argument. He can debate logically sometimes (not often, but sometimes).

Atsumu drives the three of them back to his apartment, putting on water for tea when they step inside. Despite knowing the Miya twins for over a decade now and having been over at their respective houses an uncountable number of times, Suna still takes his shoes off at the door and neatly shoves them by the baseboards.

Osamu has no such graces, kicking off his sneakers and ignoring wherever they happen to land.

"Rude," he hears Suna snap. He cringes, almost able to see the affectionate smiles on their faces despite his back being turned - suddenly, he's regretting forcing Suna to make the trip.

"I'm a rebel withouta cause." Osamu's voice echoes.

There's silence for a moment as Atsumu goes about making them tea, Suna and Osamu likely exploring his apartment for the nth time to try and unmask any embarrassing details about his life. On any normal day, he might chide them for it and chase Osamu down with a spatula, but today he doesn't have the energy to interrupt their silent wandering.

"Why'd you even make us come up here anyway?" Suna peeks over Atsumu's shoulder as he extracts three tea bags from his kitchen cabinet, nearly startling Atsumu half to death. He's never been a big fan of tea, but 'Samu and Sunarin are, so he's decided to be a courteous host this once.

"What? I can't miss ya guys? What a low opinion of me ya have," he wants to say.

He wants to quip, to joke, to push away any bad feelings with the sting of humor even if he knows they'll return within the next minute. With a resolute sigh, he lines up the teabags the same way Kiyoomi does: side by side with half an inch in between, just so they don't touch.

"We needa talk about somethin'," he says instead.

Suna must hear whatever lies beneath his words because he takes a generous step back.

"Well...must be serious 'cause that's the same way you sounded when me and 'Samu started dating," Atsumu knows it is. But he didn't mean it that way. He doesn't want this to be...a thing.

And he knows that's not at all realistic because it absolutely is a thing. It's probably the biggest thing since the twins came out as gay. But he can still stave it off for as long as possible, even as a lump forms in his throat makes his eyes hot and stingy.

"I guess ya could say it is."

When the water is done heating, he divides it evenly into three mugs, taking great care with each teabag as he begins to steep the beverages. Atsumu's never been a particularly patient person which is why he makes full use of his coffee machine - press a few buttons, wait thirty seconds, and you have a steaming cup of caffeine ready and waiting for consumption.

But he's in no hurry to get to talking. In fact, he might waste a whole afternoon fucking around with Sunarin and Osamu, doing boring shit like playing Spot It and unironically watching K-Dramas just to put off talking. So he draws out the process of being a good host, reveling in the four minutes of nothing that it involves - no chance for him to mess something up.

Four minutes ends though, and with it his peace.

He sets the three mugs on the kitchen table because he thinks that, maybe, if he makes it more formal than it needs to be, it might make his chest feel less heavy. It doesn't. He still feels like he's letting them down, ruining a perfectly free day by being a depressing sad sack.

On the bright side (or rather, not), the sky is appropriately gray, devoid of sunshine to add insult to injury.

Atsumu sits down on one side of the table, Osamu and Suna on the other, the growing uneasiness between the trio as tangible as the paper beneath Atsumu's hands as he fiddles with a napkin. Fold, crease, fold, crease, fold until it's nothing but a tiny, shapeless wad in his hands.

How is he even supposed to approach this subject? Direct? Indirect? Does it matter either way as long as he gets his point across? But will it hurt the same either way? It's only after a long moment of silent fidgeting that an idea strikes him.

He spurs to action, pushing his chair back to the confusion of both Suna and Osamu, heading for his bedroom where he keeps the darkest of his very few secrets. It's in a small box made of cherry wood so dark it's almost black, engraved with ivory flowers - Atsumu, despite having never been a poetic man, found it morbidly fitting. He had tucked it away in his bedside drawer a few weeks back after he coughed up pale petals a second time. He opens the lid and finds them withering but still beautiful.

Why not keep them? Maybe they could be worth something someday. After all, a quick google search confirmed that Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is one of the most expensive flowers on the market.

He had chuckled to himself at the thought back then.

Now he looks at them and all he sees is disappointment - in himself, in his situation. He wasn't strong enough and now he's paying the price in pretty petals woven from fibers of moonlight. Beautiful and cold, so far away.

Whatever. Can't change it now, he tries to think lightly as he snaps the lid of the box shut. The thought still weighs heavy despite his best efforts of lifting it.

When he exits back into his open floorplan living room, he finds Osamu and Suna still sitting where he left them, still as statues. They're so unmoving it's almost unnerving. Neither says a word. They just stare at him quizzically, as if he's a puzzle they have yet to decipher. He doesn't blame them, although he'd be far more obnoxious and impatient about the whole ordeal.

He supposes that's why the universe gave him 'Samu and Sunarin, to teach him patience, or maybe to be the patience he lacks.

He sits back down with his best impression of a smile, but it feels all wrong-footed, like he forcing a square peg into a circular hole. So he drops it, setting the box on the table in front of his brother and long-time friend.

"'Tsumu, what is it? Seriously?" Osamu looks torn between exasperation and worry, expression constantly morphing at a rate Atsumu can't keep up with.

"Well, okay so like, it all started when-"

"Spit it the fuck out," Osamu seems to sense his delaying tactics before he even processes them himself. Atsumu's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. He stares down at his green tea as though it's betrayed him.

He doesn't want to say, doesn't want this to be real. But there's nothing to be done about it.

He can rise to the challenge. He knows he can. So why is this part so hard?

"I have Hanahaki," he says. There's no ceremony, no build-up, just a plain-stated fact said into stagnant air.

Osamu and Suna just stare, blank-faced and wordless. Suna looks completely indifferent, his natural state, and Atsumu almost finds comfort in it. Osamu's lips part before any actual sound comes out, like the audio is delayed from the picture.

His reaction happens slowly without a catalyst. Nothing to move it along its predetermined course faster. Atsumu has to watch it happen in its every painful detail, has to watch the crease between his eyebrows form, the downturn of lips so slow. Time moves so thick that Atsumu wants to scream at it, just do me a fuckin' favor this time and move yer ass.

It doesn't.

"'Tsumu is this one a' yer fucked up pranks?" his twin's voice is so rough, Atsumu barely recognizes it. But there's hope in it, which is the worst part. Like Atsumu could break out in a smile and confirm his suspicions, and he would cry happy tears.

Atsumu hates to break his heart like this.

He opens the box of petals to himself before he does Osamu and Suna, examining them as if they were ever meant to stay secret, before flipping the box around for them to see.

"Not quite."

There's a moment and everything is moving in slow motion again. And Atsumu feels like he wants to throw up because neither of them are saying anything and nothing can possibly be worse than the way they just stare at the box-

And then Suna reaches out to take it, and his hands are shaking, and for the first time since they arrived, it really hits Atsumu.

Oh, I'm dyin'.

Because Suna's hands are shaking, and Osamu's eyes look raw, like he's held them open for a hundred hours, too scared to close them. And they're not saying anything, just staring. For the first time in his life, all the attention in the goddamn world seems focused on Atsumu and all he wants to do is run from it.

The questions come in a hailstorm after that. Osamu doesn't cry. Instead, he yells. And he's angry, and Atsumu gets it, probably on a deeper level than either will understand. Suna stays silent, and he holds Osamu's hand through it. Atsumu sees how he almost reaches for the setter's hand too, tethering the three.

But he also sees how Suna reads his eyes - don't. It would be unnatural. It wouldn't be very Suna Rintarou of him, and right now, Atsumu just needs them to be them. He needs Osamu to be yell and be pissed about it. He needs Suna to be quiet and introspective.

"Didja talk ta the doctor about it?"

"No."

"Why the fuck not?!"

"Haven't had the time."

"How long?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"Can it be fixed?"

"Who is it?!"

Atsumu doesn't answer that last one. Mostly for himself, partially for Kiyoomi. It's not fair to put the burden of blame on him, and speaking it out loud would break the spell he's under that tells him it might all work out in the end.

When the questions run dry and Osamu's voice is too raw to keep screaming, they don't talk much at all, only speaking in small bursts when something too outstanding to ignore happens.

Instead, they unironically watch K-Dramas while Osamu holds him with all his strength, just like he used to when they were kids and Atsumu would have nightmares. Both twins have their heads on Suna's lap, but he doesn't complain, not even when it's been hours and all three of them know his legs must be dead asleep by now.

By some cruel twist of fate, Atsumu can't even find it in himself to be sad.

-

Kiyoomi touches him for the first time in December, just before they get a whole two weeks off for the holidays.

It's not weird or unpleasant. Atsumu is fresh out of the shower when Kiyoomi's hand ghosts over his shoulder in a touch so light it's almost nonexistent. Kiyoomi feels it though, and it rocks him to his very core.

"Good job," he commends - truly, Atsumu performed stellar. Of course, he always does. His sets are always executed to near-perfection (if not right on the money). But after missing him at practice the other day, Kiyoomi is feeling, for lack of a better word, needy. Not that he'll ever divulge such emotion to anyone.

He felt the setter's absence as a hole, one he couldn't seem to patch no matter how hard he tried or how aggressively he threw himself into routine. The ache persisted, the silent worry at the back of his mind that told him something was wrong, something was off, something needed to be fixed.

He still hasn't figured it out yet, but having Atsumu back feels nothing short of right. Like him having missed practiced was a little misstep and now they're all back on track.

His hand barely touches the smooth, tanned skin of Atsumu's delt in silent assurance, but both of them stop like they've been electrocuted. Even though his back is turned, he can feel Atusmu's eyes on him, tracing every line of his body like the answers are hidden somewhere along his spine or the curve of his shoulders.

Kiyoomi is the first to recover, stumbling his way to his locker and retrieving his gym bag and hoping that their interaction wasn't as awkward as it felt - it most certainly was, but, for once in his life, Kiyoomi Sakusa has decided to be optimistic about the situation.

"Omi?" His optimism feels misplaced at the softness of Atsumu's voice. "Did ya just-" he cuts himself off before he can finish his sentence, seemingly thinking better of risking it.

Kiyoomi whips his head over his shoulder and is graced with a sight he knows for a fact he doesn't deserve.

Atsumu is smiling in a way so tender that he looks like he might burst with affection. The soft curve of his lips and the downward cast of hazel eyes are so genuine that Kiyoomi forgets how to breathe and really how to think at all, all his brainpower supporting the act of committing this singular moment to memory.

Surreal.

Kiyoomi thinks this might be his favorite. Favorite what? He doesn't know, just that it is. Favorite smile, favorite moment in time, favorite person. Likely all of the above.

-

"I highly recommend you consider surgery."

Osamu dragged him to a doctor's appointment, forcibly, against his will, leading to him missing practice for the second time in two consecutive weeks. He would literally rather be anywhere other than the hospital with its sterile smell and hand sanitizer and latex gloves.

They all remind him of Kiyoomi. The flowers in his chest swell and grow. He coughs. It's a small cough, just into the crook of his elbow, but the hand in his squeezes tighter, so tight it almost cuts off his circulation.

"Ow, jesus, 'Samu. Ya tryina break my fingers?" Osamu sends him a glare so sharp it could cut diamonds but doesn't verbally respond.

His answer to an unasked question manifests in the obsessive bounce of his knee, the way his blunt fingernails pick at the seam of his jeans. Atsumu plasters on his best smile to make up for his outburst.

Doctor Kinana is undeterred.

"I know it...seems like an arduous process, but it will save your life," she doesn't mince words, something Atsumu can appreciate. But Atsumu frowns all the same because he knows what that means. He knows what it means. And he doesn't know if he wants to live in an Omi-less world.

"What are my other options?" Doctor Kinana looks disappointed, lips falling into a flat line, eyes dropping a bit. She heaves a heavy sigh.

Atsumu knows she's probably used to this exact question, probably hates having to answer it with the inevitable, you don't have any.

"Well, I hesitate to recommend therapy, because it's far less effective than surgical removal of the flowers, but some forms of psychotherapy have been shown to have...relatively satisfactory results," she frowns. Atsumu tilts his head in contemplation - okay, he's not exactly enthused about the idea of some shrink picking apart his brain, but maybe it would be preferable if- "That being said, we usually only use therapy for patients who can't get surgery."

"Why...?"

"It has the same results, the same end goal. The only reason we offer an alternative is for comfort. Some patients with severe anxiety disorders have problems with MRIs and anesthesia."

Atsumu's heart sinks in his chest, falling to the floor and causing goosebumps to rise up on every surface of his skin. Right. Okay.

"Which is ta say that...?"

"That our end goal with therapeutic treatment would be to remove or significantly lessen the feelings around the patient's object of desire," Atsumu bites his tongue to stop tears from welling up. He doesn't know why. Osamu's seen him cry, called him ugly for it a hundred-plus times.

But he can't stand to look at Osamu's face. Can't stand to see gunmetal eyes studying him.

So he looks at a poster on the wall about rheumatoid arthritis and whishes with everything in him that it was his career instead of his life.

"With surgery, it's a side-effect of removing the flowers. But with therapy, the goal is to stop the growth of the flowers early before they have a chance to become deadly. Without the feelings for the subject present, the flowers will eventually die off and be expelled from the lungs over months," Doctor Kinana explains. Atsumu blinks, aggressively holding back tears.

"Okay," he rasps out.

"We can give you a cough suppressant for now...but if it starts to get bad enough, we will have to hospitalize you," she says gravely. Atsumu bites the inside of his cheek at the idea, too scared to speak for fear of his voice breaking. "I strongly suggest we do the surgery. By getting them out before they become too deadly, we can ensure a clean removal with little complications."

"An' what happens if I don't?"

A pause.

"It'll become harder to remove and there's a chance they could regrow if given time and opportunity."

There's a long moment of silence after that.

"I don't want it," he decides finally. Or rather, he finally voices what he's known all along was going to be his decision.

He looks to Osamu, long overdue. His brother's face reflects none of the calm he'd been trying to project. In fact, he looks three seconds away from exploding.

"What the fuck d'ya mean ya don't want it?" Osamu's voice is barely a whisper, as if he's trying to hide from Doctor Kinana, as if it's just him and Atsumu. "Tsumu ta haveta get it-"

"I won't do it. I don't want it," he insists, his voice still level - he thanks any gods that may govern his life above.

"Tsumu- Ya don't have a choice!" Osamu's voice has risen two notches, ever climbing in volume. "This is yer fuckin' life we're talkin' about-"

"Exactly. It's my life, it's my choice. Wouldja do it if it was Sunarin?"

The words feel final on his tongue, the conclusion to an argument that wasn't really an argument at all. Doctor Kinana is silent but submissive, as if accepting that she couldn't change his mind even if he were lying his death bed, gasping for air.

-

Atsumu swears to every god he knows the name of that he's going to go down swinging.

Swinging the metaphorical sword against his illness (gross, he hates thinking of it like that). Swinging his real arm against the weight of gravity and smashing the striped volleyball to the other side of the net.

It hits damn near perfectly - maybe slightly to the left of where he'd like it, but in-game it'd be a perfect service ace.

The rest of the team is all but gone, even Bokuto and Hinata having decided that enough was enough (probably eager to get home to their respective partners). It's a day before their game with the Adlers and everyone's been working overtime, especially considering the Spring tournament is mere weeks away.

Atsumu, maybe to avoid having to confront reality, maybe to avoid having to go home to his empty apartment, has elected to work harder than he needs to.

It just feels right, easy, to go through with something he absolutely one hundred percent knows rather than diving headfirst into the deep end of a reality he can't make heads or tails of. It's so much easier just to sink into his world, fall endlessly into what is familiar, then face the unknown and get beaten down by it.

Bounce. Hit.

It's that simple.

Bounce. Hit.

Bounce. Hit.

Bounce. Hit.

Each time the ball hits the floor and sweat cools on his brow, he feels his lungs expand and breathing become a little easier. It all just becomes lighter. The pressure in his chest assuages, the air becomes less foggy and polluted, the tightness relieves, if only a little.

He's in his element. He's right where he needs to be and no one and no thing in the entire fucking universe is going to stop him. Even the flowers that grow and continue to thrive on his pain seem a minimal concern.

He's flying.

The locker room seemed empty upon first inspection, so Atsumu had given himself the liberty to sing as loud as his heart desired in the shower.

Which had (he now realizes) been a total mistake, because as he exits the showers shirtless with a towel hanging around his neck, he's met with the sight of twin moles and still-damp black curls.

Atsumu freezes where he stands, throat drying and the pressure on his chest returning with vigor. He feels it as a tickle first and foremost, then a sort of obsessive scratching, then a heavy, unhindered pressure pushing on his lungs and climbing his throat like a mountain climber.

Kiyoomi just stares, eyes apathetic as ever as he barely regards Atsumu above his phone.

"Yer...still here? Omi, it's midnight," he manages to choke out the first words, igniting the conversation with his usual brashness though he feels none of it crawling beneath his skin.

"Yeah, I was making sure you didn't overwork yourself before the game. You always stay too late. So I stayed to ensure you didn't push yourself past twelve. It's not healthy."

Kiyoomi pushes up from the bench and folds his arms, his presence looming as Atsumu tries and fails to gather his thoughts.

They're shattered - he's shattered. He doesn't know what to do, because all he can think about is how Kiyoomi cares. He ruined his perfectly crafted routine of being in bed by nine just to stay late and make sure Atsumu was okay. He stayed and now he's here and each successive breath Atsumu takes feels shallow and unfulfilling.

He can't get enough air, no matter how fast he allows his chest to rise and fall.

"Aww, Omi really does care," Atsumu manages through a throat that feels constricted to the size of a thumbtack.

"Unfortunately. And you're cutting it real fucking close," Kiyoomi holds up his phone, displaying the time - two minutes to midnight. Atsumu swallows around the lump in his throat, begging whatever malevolent deity runs his life to just give him a fucking break this once.

"Well, good thing I made it in under the wire then-"

His body cuts him off with a slippery sensation, as disgusting as it is foreboding, begging him to release himself into a flurry of dissatisfying coughs. Atsumu holds it in, digging teeth into tongue and suppressing to the point where it's painful, a horrible pressure building in his lungs.

It hurts. It hurts like fucking hell but all he can do is stand there and stare.

Kiyoomi looks at him strangely, all tilted head and puppy dog eyes, begging for answers Atsumu couldn't give him even if he had the words. Atsumu wants to reach out and cradle him, but instead he holds his hands in tight fists at his sides.

"At...Atsumu are you okay?"

There's a pregnant pause that rests between them, unhindered and speeding like wildfire through every crack and crevice their unspoken words leave.

Atsumu wants to nod, but at the first movement his marble facade comes crashing down.

The downward jerk of his head seems to open the floodgates, sending him into a hailstorm of coughs and chokes. Breathing labored and oxygen scarce to come by, Atsumu collapses against the polished veneer of the bench, a single forearm supporting him as a familiar slimy sensation is slow to make its way up the canal of his throat.

Agony tears through him, every nerve in fire as he grips at the bench with a callused hand. And it hurts and there are tears in his eyes, burning his retinas and stinging as they make their way down his cheeks. It hurts it hurts it hurts - that's all he can think of, that's all his brain supplies him with. That's all there is to it.

It hurts.

Kiyoomi's voice only registers as a distant sound, his ragged cries of Atsumu's name barely reaching the setter's ears.

In another world of his own entirely, Atsumu can't hear him. Nor could he respond if he did.

It could be hours or merely seconds, it could be any length of time and Atsumu would have no fucking idea because it only ends when there's a callused palm placed sturdily between his shoulder blades that burns more than any stupid petals crawling up his throat.

And then it ends, and there's silence, red like the blood that drips thick from his lips. In the middle of it all there's a flower, stained crimson, delicate white petals bleeding with him. It would be a perfect picture to paint - symbolism at its finest.

Atsumu doesn't dare look up, knowing exactly what he'll find - disgust, horror, something else along the lines of concern but not enough to override it all. He wishes anything that he could disintegrate into ash, melt into the floor and disappear.

The hurt in his chest doesn't go away. It burns a hundred times hotter, refusing to subside even in the moments after when it should be dying down. Even when Kiyoomi runs a gentle hand up and down the length of his spine, even when the man Atsumu can't help but love fits their hands together over the bench.

It should make butterflies roar to life within him and his heartbeat in his ears, a steady drumming. But it hurts. It just hurts.

"Atsumu...you-"

"Please don't-...Please don't say anything," he barely croaks out. The blood drying in his throat, on his tongue, tastes metallic and cracked. It scratches and grates against his words, forcing them to work overtime just to escape his mouth.

"I-... Let me take you home-"

"No!" Another sob wracks him but it's dry, only a few, barely-there tears able to escape now that he's seemingly used them all up. "No... Please go."

Kiyoomi's hands hesitate where they hold him, and Atsumu can't help the wave of guilt that cuts at his chest - keep holding me, don't let me go, please. But it just makes everything hurt more, it just makes the pain in his chest constrict, the air in his lungs deflate.

And he's trembling, they're trembling - he can't tell if it's him or Kiyoomi's hands against his shoulders.

"Atsumu...please, you-"

"I'll call 'Samu. He's in town," his voice shakes and suddenly, the fire behind his eyes has no regard for his dehydration. "It's not you." It is. "Just please...please leave me alone."

"I don't...Want to," there's desperation in Kiyoomi's voice - Atsumu heaves a horrible sob. "Atsumu I don't want to leave you here alone-"

"I don't care whatcha want, Kiyoomi."

There's a heavy pause - Atsumu's can't hear him breathing above the rush of blood through his veins and then,

"Well, that's too fucking bad. Because this isn't a discussion," the tone takes a shift as Kiyoomi moves to clean up the mess he left - blood and saliva, a mangled flower left in pieces. "I'm not going to make you get in my car but I'm not going to leave you here-"

"I don't want ya here Omi! Leave me the fuck alone!" His voice is hoarse, his words broken. They hurt to think, much less say, but it doesn't matter because they're out there now and he can't take them back no matter how much he burns to. So he hammers the final nail into the coffin and makes it all final. "Just go away."

Kiyoomi doesn't heed his request. But they don't talk as the spiker cleans up the mess. And they don't say a word to or even look at each other until Osamu arrives, eyes wide and panicked at the blood crusted on his brother's lips.

Atsumu can't help but look at Kiyoomi as Osamu pulls him to this feet, a stolen glance he has no right to. What he sees makes his chest ache, his fingers feel cold and numb - Kiyoomi wears, at all times possible, a marble mask of indifference. Now, it shatters, revealing something bleeding beneath.

And Atsumu aches to reach out and touch, wrap the spiker in his arms and promise him it was all I lie, that he wants him and he needs him, and he doesn't want him to leave.

But he doesn't.

Mindless, numb, he follows his brother into rain-wet streets that smell like spring - the scent once refreshing now registers an acrid burn.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I love you.

-

Osamu turns on the lights when they get back to Atsumu's apartment.

The setter wishes he hadn't but doesn't have the words to voice a complaint right now. The glow pouring in feels wrong, highlights every raindrop against his floor-to-ceiling windows and illuminates all the places in which he's cracked and broken. Under cover of darkness, he can pretend to be whole, but in a world bathed with luminescence, light seeps through the fissures..

The clinking of keys against his granite countertop is deafening, the slipping off of shoes near the entrance grating. Atsumu can hear the draw of breath, knows the words that are about to fall from his brother's lips, and still he feels alienated as Osamu says,

"'Tsumu...get the surgery."

This is different than all the times before. His twin's voice is hoarse, barely a cracked whisper, like dry earth crumbling apart. He's begging without the 'please'.

"'Tsumu. Get the surgery," he repeats, a demand this time. Atsumu shakes his head.

"No."

"Please," now he's begging properly. Good fer him gettin' over his pride, Atsumu can't help but think bitterly. "Please get the surgery. I'm...I- I need ya. I need ya alive. There are seven billion people in the world, whoever it is-" Osamu knows who it is. Atsumu doesn't need to tell him because if it wasn't obvious before, it is now. "-they ain't worth it. No one is worth it. Ya- Ya'll find someone else an'-"

"I'm not doin' it 'Samu-"

"Ya selfish bastard!" Osamu's voice is too rough to have the intended a fact, not loud enough to stab but still puncturing. "That's not fair! I'm not losin' ya fer him!"

"It's not yer choice! It's not his either! It ain't fer him! It ain't fer anyone 'cept me!" Atsumu angrily kicks at the wooden leg of one of his dining table chairs. The feeble furniture slides disjointedly across worn hardwood floors, sputtering a screech as it loses momentum a few feet away. "I don't want ta live without 'im 'Samu! I don't want ta be happy without 'im an' I don't care how much it hurts me!"

"That's fucking selfish. Do ya know how many people yer givin' up fer him?! Why're ya choosin' him over us?! Why're ya choosin' him over me an' Rin an' Ma-"

"That's not fair, 'Samu!" Atsumu turns around and his brother is crying - hot, heavy tears are leaving wet trails down his cheeks and falling to the floor like raindrops. His face is red, his eyes are bloodshot, Atsumu hasn't seen him break down so fully and completely since the time in high school when he and Suna broke up for a month.

Osamu always has it together, and knows what to do, and what step to take next, and what the right decision is. Atsumu is the idiot who follows his lead through it all. But now his brother just looks so...lost. And he's hurting, and Atsumu is causing that hurt, but all he can do is stand there and watch.

"That's not fair..." he repeats the only words he can manage at a whisper, as if maybe Osamu will get it. "That's not fair."

His apartment bathed in light is cold and dark and lonely as Osamu cries and Atsumu stands. In any other world, Atsumu would gather his brother between his arms and maybe they'd talk about it in voices not all used up, maybe they wouldn't.

In this world, though, they're ten feet apart while Osamu sobs, tortured and broken, into the hallow the words have left. Atsumu shows his solidarity only in the long over-due tears that wet his cheeks.

-

Atsumu is hospitalized within the week - they still haven't told their mother. Atsumu refuses to, knowing how it would send a shockwave through the family.

But more than that it's a procrastination game. Every time he says he'll call her, he forgets - which is code for him staring at his phone in his hands preparing a speech he'll never give. Ultimately, it always ends the same way, though, with his phone turned face-down on the tray of his hospital bed, his back turned as he watches the rain come down, heavy and merciless.

According to his primary physician - Doctor Himaldi - the flowers in his chest have expanded to cover almost fifty percent of his lung tissue ("We'll hope for the best, but if you're starting to have difficulty breathing, we're going to have to put you on a respirator." Atsumu was less than enthused about the idea).

Apparently, it becomes inoperable at seventy-five percent - something about not having enough salvageable lung tissue. Which consequently meant that they wanted to keep a close eye on him and thus, because Meian worries too much, in Atsumu's opinion, he was barred from playing any volleyball for the foreseeable future.

Which honestly kind of pissed Atsumu off because he's not falling apart - the stellar argument he'd made to his captain had not gone over very well.

It's not all bad, though.

For one thing, hospital food is surprisingly good - a little bland, but Osamu brings him onigiri from his Osaka branch whenever he visits (which is more than he has to), so he finds joy in the little things. And the true-crime documentaries the TV in his room seems to have an affinity for showing are, contrary to what Atsumu had thought before, quite interesting.

Then there's the fact that he doesn't have to do, well, anything. He's waited on hand and foot (even when he sometimes wishes he wasn't) and people are always supremely kind to a dying man - all in all, he's living the life.

Sometimes the lack of mobility gets to him - the doctors had imposed a strict 'no physical activity' rule to avoid strain on his lungs. Which apparently also means no pushups or sit-ups or anything up's or down's to pass the time. (He can feel his body wasting away where he sits.)

So he has to entertain himself with other things. His teammates have not failed to be one hundred percent supportive of him, always visiting immediately after practice - Meian with his favorite snacks, Bokuto and Hinata with an overabundance of enthusiasm - making sure he never spends an afternoon bored.

As for the extent of what they know, Atsumu it still in the dark. If his teammates know who's behind his traitorous feelings, they do Atsumu the courtesy of not mentioning it.

Kiyoomi doesn't come to visit him. Neither does Shion, but he has a thing about hospitals. Atsumu can understand.

The difference between the two is that Shion calls him daily. Kiyoomi doesn't even text.

Atsumu thinks about it too much. Him, I mean.

He spends long hours and longer mornings staring at the rain and thinking of all the things he could've said differently that night. If he had known it was going to get this bad this quickly regardless of what he did, he might've held on a little tighter, held his spiker's hand when he had the chance instead of exiling from his life like a criminal.

But the past is the past right. All he can do is live in the moment. Even if many of his moments right now aren't really worth it.

The thing about being taken out of your day-to-day and transplanted into a new one is that, no matter how often they visit you, the people you love are still living in your old one.

Atsumu spends the majority of his last days alone.

-

Kiyoomi used to hate being bothered on weekends. Now, a part of him is grateful for the distraction.

He used to spend weekends with Atsumu. They used to watch old movies. They used to eat vending machine food because 'fuck nutrition' - Atsumu had said that once. They used to be them.

Now, Kiyoomi scrolls mindlessly through Twitter and stirs at a bowl of untouched oatmeal that's long since gone cold. It's a rather bleak, depressing day outside what with the rainy season in Osaka hitting them full-force. But the lights are off in his apartment and Kiyoomi doesn't really have the energy to bother turning them on.

It sucks realizing how happy you were in retrospect. Wondering why you didn't do more when you could. Why you didn't appreciate it even though you knew you might lose it someday.

Guilt weighs like a stone around his ankle, weighing down his every movement day-in and day-out. He wants to visit Atsumu, he really does. He misses the man he loves, he misses the setter's smile, he the blond's laugh. Kiyoomi misses him. Kiyoomi would burn the world to ash just to have him back.

But Atsumu doesn't want him - around, near him, just doesn't want Kiyoomi in general. He's made it abundantly clear. Maybe it was the shame that had him pushing Kiyoomi away, maybe it wasn't even a conscious decision. But ever since that night, there's been complete radio silence. No FaceTime, no calls, not even a text. If that doesn't read stay away, then Kiyoomi doesn't know how to read.

And if Atsumu doesn't want him then he's not going to be forced to have him, even if Kiyoomi would break down any barrier just to hold his hand. The world without Atsumu seems a hundred shades grayer, feels utterly...pointless.

Why even bother?

His brain is numb enough that he nearly drops his phone when a heavy knock on his door startles him from his mindless scrolling.

Kiyoomi shakes his head, suppressing the adrenaline that perceives a baseless threat. Setting down his phone on the table, he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to his door - it feels like he's wading through molasses, all the eagerness he might've felt long since washed down the drain.

He doesn't know exactly who he's expecting at ten in the morning on a dreary Saturday, but when he opens the door to find Osamu standing in front of him, Kiyoomi feels his heart drop to his feet.

"Sakusa-San," Osamu's greeting is lifeless, flat words to match a flatter expression. Dark bags hang under his eyes - he's tired. Why shouldn't he be? His brother is in the hospital with a terminal illness. Kiyoomi feels the ache bone-deep.

"Osamu-San," Kiyoomi regards him out of necessity. "Is...is he okay?" His voice is rough to his own ears which means it's a hundred times more broken to Osamu, but he doesn't have the mind to fix it. There's pleading in it - please tell me he's okay.

"He's gettin' worse. He's refusin' ta get the surgery," Osamu says - Kiyoomi can tell he's cried tears over it. Then he looks up, something unnameable in his gaze as he stares at Kiyoomi. "I needja ta tell 'im ta get it. He won't listen ta me. Doesn't want ta. I needja ta talk ta him."

Kiyoomi shakes his head, the hot sting of tears already pushing at his throat.

"And what makes you think he'll listen to me?" He barely chokes out. "He doesn't want to see me. He made that abundantly clear."

"He does wanna see ya. He's just a stubborn bastard an' he doesn't know how ta say it," Osamu says too quietly, barely the hush of a whisper. "If ya can't convince him ta do it, I don't know who can...I needja...ta do this, okay? I need my brother."

Kiyoomi hears the words and tilts his head up as if to re-route the tears climbing his throat. They pour hot and heavy down his throat and he barely represses a sob as he scrubs a hand down his face.

He needs Atsumu too. He needs Atsumu's cocksure smile after a perfect set. He needs Atsumu's steady presence beside him when they're subjected to the horror of post-game interviews. He needs Atsumu's willingness to spend a night in with him because he can't bear to drag himself to a team bonding event. He needs Atsumu holding his hand when he's at his most vulnerable. Kiyoomi needs Atsumu like he needs air and water and volleyball- More than all those things.

But all that comes out is,

"Me too."

-

It's four weeks later when Kiyoomi finally makes good on his promise to talk to the setter. He doesn't like looking at him like this.

Atsumu has lost weight, the veins in his arms more visible than ever. Dark circles sit under his eyes, a clear sign that he hasn't been getting much sleep, and his lips are dry and chapped, a trademark of dehydration. He's not taking care of himself and it shows, or even if he is, it's not doing much.

His hair has grown out a bit too, falling in his eyes - more painful than the sluggishness of his movements is the way he doesn't try in the slightest to adjust his appearance. Atsumu Miya who pays extraordinary amounts of money to keep the golden bronze of his hair shimmering. Atsumu Miya who is shameless about getting his legs waxed regularly to save time on shaving. Atsumu Miya who is vain to a fault.

He's just given up. It hurts Kiyoomi to know more than words ever could.

And yet when the door of the hospital room swings closed behind Kiyoomi, Atsumu turns, his eyes widen, and he smiles.

He has the fucking audacity to smile when Kiyoomi is seconds away from falling apart completely. And he's still beautiful - even with pale skin floppy hair and tired eyes, Atsumu Miya strips the stars of their beauty and hoards it for himself. Kiyoomi's hands shake. He can't breathe.

"Hey, wouldja look at that," Atsumu's voice is so rough it hardly sounds like his own - in the back of his mind, Kiyoomi knows it's because it's been weeks for him. Weeks of coughing and crying and all the other horrible things that come when you begin to fade. But he refuses to acknowledge that because he feels like he can barely stand. "Omi-Kun came ta visit me."

He speaks slowly, like he's running out of energy. There's no trace of bitterness in his voice, merely muted joy.

"I-..." Kiyoomi's voice cracks, unable to support the weight of his words. "I'm sorry."

There's a pause, a consideration. Atsumu turns his head and stares at the rain.

"Now what're ya sorry fer, Omi?"

"For not visiting you. Or talking to you," Kiyoomi crawls closer to tears but doesn't dare take a step toward him. "I left you. Because I didn't want-...I couldn't see you like-"

"Like this?" Atsumu looks at him, tilts his head slightly as if gesturing to the entirety of his current state. He gives a lilted smile. "All shriveled an' fucked up?"

Kiyoomi doesn't answer but he doesn't need to - yes. It hurts more than not seeing him at all. The realness of it is like a knife to the chest, a painful reminder of the inevitable.

"It ain't that bad really," Atsumu seems to sense the melancholy hanging over them. "Man, y'all can't stop thinkin' 'bout how I'm dyin'. Y'know, the way I see it, I got two months left. Y'can win the Olympics in two weeks. I could win four Olympics with the time I got left. But I suppose when yer not...me, it don't seem like that long, huh?"

Kiyoomi doesn't say anything- Or rather, he can't around the lump in his throat that suffocates him. Atsumu releases a tired laugh that trails into a cough, and Kiyoomi starts crying for real. Hot tears, though delicate, burning him with defiance. Atsumu looks up at him and smiles again, barely, but it's there.

"Well don't just stand there an' cry, Darlin'. C'mere," he holds up his arms, an open invitation that Kiyoomi can't refuse even though he knows it'll hurt. And, fuck, will it hurt.

With shaky steps, Kiyoomi travels the short distance to the bed before nearly collapsing next to his setter. He doesn't realize how fucking weak he feels until he's falling into Atsumu's arms like they haven't seen each other in years.

And it feels so good. Way too good. But it also hurts - the bitter sting of jealousy and the salty aftertaste of guilt dance within him. The preemptive ache of loss that colors each a shade darker... but it feels good.

Even though Atsumu's arms are thinner and his strength is waning, even though his breathing is heavier and labored, even though it's not the same and Kiyoomi feels like there's a timer ticking above their heads, measuring how little they have left.

Kiyoomi knows he shouldn't be - he should be thinking about anything else - but all he can manage is to realize how much he'll miss this. How much he'll miss Atsumu.

Why did he have to meet him? Why couldn't it have been anyone else?

Atsumu's skin is cold on his lips as he sobs against the setter's neck, and his hands are trembling as he cards them through thick curls, and Kiyoomi feels so in love that the would is falling apart.

"You have to get that surgery, 'Tsumu," he sobs, arms too tight around his setter to the point where Kiyoomi is scared he'll crush him but he can't let go. "You have to get the surgery, okay?"

There's silence for a moment, a long moment that terrifies Kiyoomi. In absence of words, he holds on tighter.

He presses his face against Atsumu's skin, however cold it may be, his nose buried against grown-out blond locks. Beneath the sharp scent of hospital grade disinfectant, Atsumu smells like honey and lavender and home. Kiyoomi has never more wished to live in a moment for the rest of his life.

"Omi...I can't..." are the words muttered so soft against his jawline. Atsumu's lips are cracked and dry, they scratch against his neck along with the gravel in his voice. "I can't do that. I know ya don't get it. But I can't. I wish I could. 'Cause I'll miss ya. I really will..."

Kiyoomi shakes his head.

"No, no Atsumu you have to get it. I need you to get that surgery," he chokes out - they're barely words, more inhuman noises from the back of dhis throat than actual syllables. "Atsumu please I-...You have to. I know that's not something I'm allowed to ask of you but-"

"Kiyoomi I'm not doin' it," Atsumu cuts him off. The statement is final, ending, the underline at the end of the document. This is it. This is his final decision and no amount of Kiyoomi begging him to reconsider will change that.

All that said, Kiyoomi has always been a stubborn person at heart - maybe he gets it from his mother who refused for years to marry his father until she got her degree - and if there's one thing Kiyoomi refuses to give up, it's Atsumu.

"Why?! Why the fuck can't you just take care of yourself?! Atsumu people need you! I-" Kiyoomi manages to stop himself just short of a terrifying admission - what good is it going to do now? It'll only catalyze the ache, make everything worse. Why put Atsumu through that guilt? And yet the words fall off his lips anyway. Because he's selfish. Because he wants. "I need you. I love you and I need you here and I know that's fucking selfish of me..."

Atsumu's hand stills where it curls in Kiyoomi's hair. His chest stops moving, his breathing hitches. Kiyoomi waits for the anger, the outrage - why would you say that?! - but it never comes. There's no sharp words to bring about a downfall, no scene-closing statement. No ending at all, really, just,

"Say it again."

"What?"

"Thatcha love me," Atsumu's voice wavers, teetering on the edge of something Kiyoomi doesn't understand. "Say it again."

He doesn't think about it - not as much as he should anyway.

"I love you Atsu. I love you so much."

It's freeing, in a way, even if it's not right or what he should do. Even if this momentary peace is just a temporary glitch in the system, a bug that's bound to be fixed the moment Atsumu gets his thoughts sorted and neatly filed.

It takes too long for Kiyoomi to realize Atsumu is crying. Too long for him to register hot tears against his cheek and the shaking of Atsumu's chest against his own. His heartbeat is slow, sluggish, like it's struggling just to keep him running. Kiyoomi responds by allowing his trembling lips to steal a kiss against the crown of Atsumu's head.

With a wobbling voice, Kiyoomi pleads his last request.

"Just please tell me who could be worth all this?"

Atsumu's answer is one word and earth-shattering.

"You."

"W-What are you saying?"

"I'm sayin' that...I'm sayin' that it's you, Kiyoomi," Atsumu's lips are against his ear now, his entire body shudders, quivering for a reason Kiyoomi can only be scared of. "It's you. I love ya. I love ya."

Atsumu's arms tighten around him, heavy sobs shake them both. Kiyoomi feels himself fall apart a hundred different ways.

"I-... I caused this?!" His dried tears are replaced with fresh ones as he pulls back, the guilt in his chest dizzying. The world spins and his rib cage aches and his eyes burn. "Atsumu why didn't you tell me?! Why did-didn't you tell me?! I-"

"Because it's notcher fault, Omi!" Atsumu tries and fails to wipe the tears from Kiyoomi's eyes. His shaking fingers merely spread the salty droplets across flushed cheeks. "It's not yer fault an' I didn't wantcha ta carry around the guilt 'cause it wasn't yers..."

Atsumu's tongue darts out between cracked lips, hazel eyes flicking across the expanse of Kiyoomi's face as if memorizing every detail. With an index finger, Atsumu tucks a stray curl behind Kiyoomi's ear.

"I wanted ya ta be happy."

Kiyoomi releases an unsteady laugh, trembling, tender.

"Well I'm not happy without you, stupid."

In the seconds after, Atsumu smiles - his lips look painfully dry and tears still stream down his face, but he's smiling, and he's beautiful.

Kiyoomi isn't thinking - not as much as he should be - when he leans forward and slots their mouths together, hand cupping the setter's jawline. Their first kiss isn't anything quite like Kiyoomi expected it to be. It's not delicate or gentle or sweet.

It's salty because of the tears resting on their skin and Atsumu's lips are as dry and abused as they look and the setter's formerly blunt nails have grown out to the point where they're digging crescent moons into the skin of Kiyoomi's forearm- But it's perfect. He couldn't claim it wasn't better than every dream even if he lied.

It's trembling and tender and a little bit painful and awkward because Kiyoomi's never kissed anyone before. But it's perfect.

Kiyoomi keeps him close as they part, hand moving to card through grown-out blond locks as he presses Atsumu against his shoulder - his roots are showing, there's something oddly charming about it even though he knows Atsumu would complain about it in any other situation. Atsumu melts against him, one hand rumpling his shirt, the other still gripping his arm.

Kiyoomi memorializes every detail of the moment - it's not perfect because the sky is a depressing gray and Atsumu is still crying and the silence is punctured in places by the beeping of machines, but it's theirs.

And it's okay now. It's okay. Not great just yet, but okay. He wants to remember this forever.

-

[Three Weeks Later]

"Tsum-Tsum!"

Atsumu can't help but grin - with the start of the spring tournament, the team hasn't been around to visit often. Kiyoomi more than the other's, but that's just because he doesn't have family obligations outside of practice. But now they're all here (his baby included) and it feels like things are finally beginning to shift back to a state of relative normal.

"When Osamu said you were doing better, I thought it was because you caved and got your chest cut open," Barnes leans against the doorframe - the jest is appreciated. Mainly because Atsumu hates serious things and if there's one thing a bunch of emotionally anal-retentive atheletes have in common, it's using humor as a cover up.

"This stubborn bastard?" Kiyoomi's head rests on his shoulder from behind, legs framing him in the hospital bed as he scrolls absently through his phone. "You'd have a better chance of getting him to admit his hair is ugly."

"My hair is not ugly. Yer hair is ugly."

"Your hair is ugly. I love you but it's ugly." For that, Atsumu drives his soulder back against Kiyoomi's chest, earning him a perturbed huff. "You dyed it the color of piss, I don't know what you expected."

"Baby, there are other yellow things in this world, ya know that, right?"

"Right, my bad, like bananas and jaundice-"

"Are you guys gonna keep being this gross, because, if so, I'm outta here," a voice cuts through their back and forth - one Atsumu hasn't heard in person for weeks. His eyes widen as Shion shoulders his way through the corwd of their teammates clumped at the door, arms folded and knee bouncing anxiously.

He hates hospitals, always has. Probably why he insisted on re-locating his own shoulder in the middle of a game just to avoid the possibility. Atsumu gasps, paritally in mocking, paritally in genuine shock, a warm fuzzy grain of happiness growing in him.

"The Inunaki Shion came ta visit little old me?"

"I can just as easily leave-" Atsumu adamantly shakes his head. He's missed all his teammates, Shion included. Making grabby hands, he extends his arms.

"Nope, c'mere an' gimme a hug. Haven't seen ya in weeks. It's mandetory."

Immediatly, he feels Kiyoomi detach from his back flopping back onto the bed with a whine of what sounds suspiciously like contempt - never one for hugs, he's always hated the stipulations of affection that come with platonic friendships (probably why his only cedible link outside of Atsumu is literally his cousin, but they don't really talk about that).

Shion rolls his eyes but wraps an arm around his neck nonetheless. Atsumu can't help the grin on his face as they pull away - okay, so maybe that's not all that normal, but there are some upsides to almost dying. Like, for instance, your nutoriously hospital-phobic teammate breaking his own rule to come visit you. Or, if you're Atsumu Miya, getting a hot date.

"So you guys are like, together now? For real?" Meian is smiling too wide for his words to have the casual effect he was clearly hoping for.

"Me an' Omi?" Atsumu pats his boyfriend's knee, a cheeky smile stuck on his lips that's going to earn him trouble. "Nah, Omi-Kun's just my side ho-" Kiyoomi pinches the skin of his elbow between his second and third finger eliciting a pitiful whine. "Ow!"

"Consider that a warning."

Atsumu just flops back against his boyfriend's chest in retaliation, a blissful sigh of, "Y'can shove that warnin' up yer ass," accompanying his cloying smile. Kiyoomi grunts somewhere in the back of his throat but situates his arms around Atsumu's shoulders nonetheless, holding him, protecting him. From what is something Atsumu still hasn't gotten him to speak out loud.

"Well, I'm happy to see you better," Meian nods, his words fragmented, like he's barely holding them together. Atsumu stupidly almost asks him if he needs a glass of water before the realization hits him.

"Cap...are ya cryin'?"

Meian shakes his head vigorously as if he can make himself stop hiccuping through sheer willpower. Atsumu would laugh if he wasn't worried he might breakdown himself.

"N-No, I'm..."

"It's okay Captain. Ya can admit ya love me."

"Not of my own free will, but yes," Meian finally says after not so discretely drying his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.

After that it all becomes natural, normal. Bokuto jumps them both the first chance he gets, practically crushing poor Kiyoomi under the weight of two professional athletes - he gripes and groans about it the whole way through about how they're probably giving him some sort of disease. But he doesn't stop them.

In fact, he doesn't even say a word when Hinata sprawls across Atsumu's legs (and consequently Kiyoomi's own). And Atsumu can only think that the moderate nature of his usual sharp commentary is due to the softness of it all, the palpable relief that still seems to hang like a fog in the air.

Atsumu doesn't mind it really. It's not pity, it's not grief. Even if he's stuck in this bed for seven more days and he looks like he just got resurrected from a grave. It feels normal and easy. And the only tears that show their salty faces are happy ones.

Who is he to complain?

When the team finally leaves, persuaded out by the stern looks of his primary attending, Atsumu feels drained - he worries what it'll be like having to jump back into volleyball after a little over two months of hospitalization, but he sets that small anxiety aside for now.

Instead, he flops down on his side and watches Kiyoomi read a book through tilted glasses - they're coming off his face because the pillow pushes against the frames, but he doesn't seem to care, too immersed in whatever book he's reading to bother fixing it. He's really pretty, really fucking pretty. Atsumu is mesmerized just looking at him.

But there's also slight guilt.

Kiyoomi's been staying in the hospital an inordinate amount of time - which Atsumu knows can't be fun for him considering his pronounced distaste for germs - just to make Atsumu comfortable. The setter can't help feeling like a burden. Kiyoomi shouldn't have to make such drastic adjustments. Atsumu should be okay without him just for a few weeks.

"Ya don't gotta stay here jus' fer me, y'know," Atsumu whispers, the fondness stretching his words hardly concealed in the darkness of the room. Silver moonlight illuminates his boyfriend - his boyfriend, his spiker, his Kiyoomi. His.

Kiyoomi doesn't say a word as he reaches over his book with one hand and grabs Atsumu's own. Dark eyes still scanning the page, he presses a soft kiss to each knuckle then presses his cheek against Atsumu's palm, a silent display of I'm here anyway.

"I don't want to be anywhere else," Kiyoomi finally looks up, allowing his book to close - for his sake, Atsumu hopes he has his current page number memorized in that beautiful head of his otherwise he's going to be pissed in the morning. "You look tired." Atsumu shakes his head in protest but closes his eyes anyway. "Sleep."

"'M not tired, baby," Atsumu insists, curling against Kiyoomi's chest as the spiker sets his book aside.

Wrapping strong arms all the way around Atsumu, Kiyoomi chuckles light and sweet, "You're such a fucking liar." A hand cards through Atsumu's hair and the setter shudders contentedly, Kiyoomi places a soft kiss to the crown of his head. Atsumu feels too happy for it to be real, wants to live in this moment so he doesn't have to risk it being a dream. "Go to sleep.

"I love you." Kiyoomi speaks the words against his forehead, so gentle and genuine that Atsumu thinks he might fall apart at the seams with adoration.

Atsumu wants to shake his head, but it feels heavy, and the rest of his body doesn't particularly feel like supporting any movement at the moment. So he submits, allowing a bone-deep content he hasn't felt in too long to drown him.

"I love ya too," he whispers against Kiyoomi's jawline, soft and sweet and sincere. "The mostest."

"Mostest isn't a word."

Atsumu doesn't have the filter to stop his laugh, so he hides it against the crook of Kiyoomi's neck with a huffed out,

"Do shuddup, darlin'."

"Only for you, my love."