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1
When Sakusa Kiyoomi was eight, a door opened. Behind it was a lair. A cave. A gateway to the unbeknown and unconscious separation of reality. There was leather and plastic and the too-strong smell of wood. Sweat, minimal — but there.
(It’s a gym and his cousin is rocking back and forth on his heels in curiosity, looking at him and watching. Watching out for him, to see his reaction and determine the possible outcomes. A ball rolls to Kiyoomi’s feet. He picks it up and turns to look at Motoya. The older smiles. ‘Let's go.’)
2
‘There’s a new class! It’s boys only though,’ Motoya frowns as the words slip out of his mouth. Kiyoomi feels guilty. He can see it, the craving to join the new team. His cousin has always had an affinity for the new and fresh things. New beginnings.
He feels bad because he knows Motoya won’t join the team without him. Volleyball is their thing, and they do it together. Kiyoomi is nine and wants to yell, scream at his cousin to leave him. Go where you want. Do what you wish. Abandon me, please.
(A part of him feels selfish, too. Because he doesn't just want Motoya to do what he wants because he wants it. A part of him also wants to live vicariously through his cousin. At least you can play on the boys team, he thinks.)
He doesn't say that though. He doesn't say anything, really. Kiyoomi just shrugs his gangly nine year old shoulders and asks Motoya to toss him another ball.
3
“I want to play on the boys team.”
Five years later, he’s fourteen and making a declaration. A commitment. Somewhere, somehow, he’ll land on the boys team and become the best spiker nationwide. He’ll do it because he wants to. Because he knows he can.
Motoya is walking next to him, three steps to the side and one step ahead, and shrugs. He doesn't dismiss it, or laugh, or call Kiyoomi illogical. He just tilts his head and hums. “That’d be fun. Playing with you.”
4
“Good game.” Kiyoomi murmurs, sixteen years old and staring at his rival's outstretched hand in disdain. The door closes behind him as he walks to the locker room, and the guy's voice is a fading buzz shouting about how rude he is. Unsportsmanlike.
He grabs his bag out of his locker as his teammates trample inside, and Motoya slaps his back in pride as he walks to the bathroom. “You played well out there, dude.”
(The shorts he slips on are a bit too baggy around his hips and tight on his thighs, but he’ll take what he can get. They feel better than the shorts in the girls' section do, and these ones are neon yellow.)
5
He’s seventeen when a girl tries to kiss him as he walks out of practice.
Kiyoomi’s bag is digging into his shoulder blade as she approaches him, and it falls deeper between bone and skin as she pulls on his arm and asks him to follow her. He doesn't remember the name she gave him, but he does remember the letter in her hands and the flush on her cheeks.
That’s embarrassing, he thinks — but he doesn't know whether he’s referring to her confession or his sudden shakiness.
Kiyoomi is seventeen and a girl is about to kiss him. He should be happy, excited, but all he can think about is the fact that she doesn't know. She doesn't know, and she's leaning in, and he can only guess what would happen when she finds out and—
He asks her to stop. She does. He weighs his options and blurts out ‘I’m gay.’ The letter drops to the ground. She’s gone and he bends down, picking it up and wiping the dirt off of it.
6
His parents are stranded on a ship in the middle of the sea, evidently. He tries to throw a rope to them, to their shaking corpses and blue fingers — ones too cold to touch. They don’t reach out for it, the lifeline. A wave crashes. Kiyoomi slips back into the water.
(He remembers the swimming lessons his mother enrolled him in when he was little.)
(‘You were always a strong swimmer.’)
7
There’s a sort of secrecy to it. Fortunately, Kiyoomi is a master in the skill of keeping secrets. He’s told by the higher ups not to tell anyone. Keep it discreet, and you can play. It shouldn't be that hard, yeah? And it isn't hard. MSBY is far kinder to him than he expected, and he pays it back in the form of silence in regards to his ‘controversial lifestyle.’
His team members, oblivious to his secrets, try to coax him out of his shell little by little. Sometimes he relents and shares what he wants to, what he can, and doesn't say a word about anything else. When the team eventually thinks they’ve become close enough for them to ask why he always changes in the bathroom, he tells them he was in a fire when he was ten. No one brings it up again.
(Bokuto sees. ‘Why is your back unscathed, Sakusa?’ He asks. His shirt probably blew too high when he jumped, fuck. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kiyoomi replies. Bokuto deflates, but saves his question for another time. Kiyoomi wears a tighter undershirt the next day.)
8
(One more, one more, one more please— “Let’s stop for the day, Omi. It’s been a long week.”)
(A volleyball is kicked out of the gym, it reminds Kiyoomi of a door.)
It’s not a surprise when he tells Atsumu. It’s probably not a surprise to Atsumu either, but he doesn’t pretend to act surprised to cover up the expectancy either. What it is, though, is tiring — anxiety ridden fingernails digging into metal benches and locker doors.
He knows that Atsumu knows, but still — saying it out loud is different. Hard. Kiyoomi’s voice is nonchalant, however. A mask of lemon tea coating his throat allows him to spit up the words without much struggle. “You know I’m transgender, right?”
(He doesn’t even know why he feels the need to say anything in the first place. Atsumu doesn’t need to know. He’s just a teammate — maybe a friend, at most. But the words root at the base of his throat, and fighting off impulsivity is a feat in itself.)
Regardless, Atsumu coughs and spits into the trash can as he walks toward the locker room doors, ready to leave. He looks up at Kiyoomi and something softens in his eyes when he sees the way Kiyoomi is subtly side-eyeing him. Not yet sure enough to face Atsumu head on, but just enough to scope out his body language. “Yeah.”
9
The poetic dismay of a snail likes to present itself in trails of mucus. There are tissues lying in pristine white sheets and Kiyoomi can’t help but feel helpless after the storm he’s fought to prevent for so long catches up to him.
There are wooden planks soaking in warm salt water, he holds onto them with a too-hard grip and splinters start to grow in the prints of his fingers. Bokuto sets a cup down next to him, as well as a new box of tissues and soup his significant other made for Kiyoomi last night.
“How’re you feeling?” His words are rehearsed with care. Like he’s reading off a script with sincerity.
“Like shit.”
He laughs. “I wouldn’t expect anything else, dude. You look like it, too.”
Kiyoomi turns in his bed, his back now facing Bokuto. “Shut up.”
(There’s a specific vulnerability to be mentioned here: Kiyoomi is wearing an old, stained t-shirt. There’s a binder on the floor. Neither of them say a word.)
“Don’t take too long to get better, Hinata is already going through ‘Omi-san withdrawals.’” Bokuto pats his shoulder, far too hard and a little too soft.
Kiyoomi’s mouth turns curves into a queasy grin, “Of course.”
The door closes softly on his way out.