Chapter Text
When it comes to the future, Sakusa is nothing if not exceedingly cautious.
This is exactly how he finds himself fooled into taking a train out to Nagano Prefecture to watch the EJP versus Black Jackals match in-person, despite his strict aversion to unnecessary crowds. Motoya knows him too well; he had presented Kiyoomi’s live presence at the match as a “better opportunity for scouting out his professional options,” where his own eyes could be the judge of the teams instead of the view chosen by the cameraman behind the livestream. He used Kiyoomi’s steadfast tendencies to his advantage, and Kiyoomi despises him for that.
After successfully glaring down anyone who attempts to sit within five seats of him, he shoves his hands into his pockets and squints down at the young men warming up on the court. Motoya’s light mop of hair contrasts sharply to the dark haired men around him, including the familiar outlines of the old Fukurodani and Inarizaki middle blockers. As if sensing his cousin’s gaze, the cheery libero looks up and catches his eye, giving him an enthusiastic wave. Kiyoomi shoots him a withering look.
His eyes trail to the other side of the court to scan through the Black Jackals lineup. Amongst the tawny gold track jackets, he easily picks out a head of blonde - not as long as it was in high school, and a shade more muted in color. Kiyoomi is a diligent researcher, so he isn’t surprised to see first-string Miya Atsumu setting up balls for the warm-up. Even from a distance, the undaunted arrogance is unmistakable.
Reckless, is how Kiyoomi would have described him in high school. His hunger for volleyball simultaneously lifted the greatest of their year to even greater heights and threatened to outstrip every last one of them. He was skilled, absolutely, but the chaotic abandon of his methodology was far and away a complete one-eighty from Kiyoomi’s own grounded approach.
With Motoya on the sidelines at the starting whistle, Kiyoomi figures he’ll watch the blonde – seeing as he’s the first to serve, he doesn’t really have a choice. Miya’s familiar silencing routine leaves something to be desired, but whatever disparaging thought Kiyoomi has disappears as Miya tosses his opening serve.
It’s like slow motion; his arms, his legs, the ball. Kiyoomi can see the arch of his back forming as his body inches up into space to reach the spinning orb. The ball hangs, suspended, at its apex before beginning its descent to meet the arc of Miya’s swing, the distance closing in intervals of stop-motion frames. And then, the setter unleashes a blast of a serve onto the court, shattering the illusion as soon as his hand makes contact.
It’s picked up, barely, by EJP’s defense, but the sheer force of the receive pushes it back onto the Black Jackal’s side of the court. Their back row bumps it cleanly, and there’s Miya again, no steps wasted and already in perfect position for the second touch. Flawless form turns it into a back-set quick attack, the ball hurtling straight into the ground before the blockers' fingers reach the height of the net.
“What a serve by Miya Atsumu for an explosive first point scored by Adriah Thomas!” The crowd roars while Kiyoomi adjusts his mask.
The match carries on at much the same breakneck cadence, but each consecutive point brings Kiyoomi’s attention back to Miya. His play style is nearly exactly as he remembers; precise, calculated, and always teetering at the edge of dangerous. Years playing with seasoned veterans has polished his more sophomoric gambits, transforming them into cleverly executed points despite EJP’s staunch defense. His freewheeling personality shines through it all, and it sucks Kiyoomi in more than he expects.
He pushes his arms further into his jacket pockets, suddenly disgruntled. That is a fact he is not going to include in his retrospective with Motoya later.
–
At his cousin’s insistence, Kiyoomi finds himself forcibly recreating at the most famous onsen in the area the morning after the match.
It takes him exactly two seconds to find out he (and Motoya, whom he’s abandoned in the changing room) are not alone.
“Well, well, it’s a surprise seeing you here, Sakusa,” a voice drawls out. He’s casually leaned over the edge of a bath, arms loosely crossed and tucked underneath his chin. His skin tone is a shade warmer than Kiyoomi’s own, the color stretching smoothly across broad shoulders and then graduating as it follows the curve of lean muscle built on years of drills and repetition. Specks of water glitter prettily in his hair, creating an illusion of gold. The sun still hasn’t risen, but his hazelnut eyes are as clear as if they were in a mid-day match. If not for him opening his mouth, Kiyoomi could’ve mistaken him for a god.
“Miya.” He acknowledges quietly as he surveys the baths, belying no sense of surprise at seeing someone else out this early in the morning.
“I wasn’t expecting to see your face here. On the Sakusa scale, I’d have classified this as ‘too much of a germ risk.’” He draws the air quotes in the steam around him.
“I was in the area to watch Motoya, and then he forced me to come here,” Kiyoomi replies, ignoring the jab - the ‘germ risk’ is exactly why he’s here pre-sunrise. He walks past the blonde, dipping his foot experimentally into one of the empty baths. Satisfied, he lowers himself into the scalding water. He feels Miya’s gaze even as he faces away, back leaning slightly against the edge of the bath. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply.
“How’d you like it?”
Kiyoomi pauses to contemplate the question and whether or not to continue the conversation.
“You played well,” he says, finally. It would’ve been prudent to keep Miya’s ego from inflating, but from what Kiyoomi saw, it was the truth. “You’re no less of a spectacle than you were in high school.”
A half beat of silence passes; then, Miya barks a laugh. “Komori-kun’s sharp as ever, and Suna’s gotten annoyingly good. Wouldn’t have beat ‘em if I wasn’t a spectacle.” The bath gurgles a little as he stretches.
“You should play for the Jackals after you graduate. Guarantee I’ll give you the best sets of your life.” His eyes narrow into fox-like slits. “That is, if you’re still up to snuff.”
The faintest wrinkle of annoyance passes over Kiyoomi’s brow; before he can retort, a heavy splash and footsteps signal Miya’s exit. His voice trails into the distance stretched between them.
“I’m not worried, though. If your last match was any indication, your spikes are as disgusting as ever.”
While Kiyoomi is determining whether or not this is an insult or a compliment, a revelation strikes him - Miya’s watching his collegiate games. The tiniest smirk settles underneath the cover of his mask.
“Was that Miya-kun I saw walking out?” The familiar voice of his cousin breaks through his train of thought.
Kiyoomi tilts his head in confirmation. He decides it is a compliment.
“You didn’t scare him away didja, Kiyoomi?” Motoya laughs as he slips in on the other side of the bath.
“...As if Miya could be afraid of anything.”
—
In the safety of his apartment a few days later, he throws all caution to the wind as his eyes drowse closed.
I’m going to join the Black Jackals.