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The clinging heat of a post-sex room always makes his skin crawl just a little. Germ-conscious as he is, Kiyoomi always seeks out cool air before he showers after a long (or, more often, short) escapade in bed. The lingering warmth and smell make him feel dirtier somehow. In the recesses of his mind, he convinces himself that cooling his skin and airing out the room is always the most important first step.
Watching his latest one-night stand trudge off to the bathroom, Kiyoomi lets out a long breath as he takes in his tonight’s choice in lover’s form again. Naturally, it’s just like his—they always are—broad shoulders, impressive back, killer thighs, blonde hair. But the shade of this guy’s isn’t quite right, not toned to the same pale shade they’d finally worked out together.
Memories of familiar ashy blonde hair between his hands and small gasps falling through parted lips push him out of bed—little hauntings that have him searching for any kind of distraction. A cigarette. What Kiyoomi needs is a cigarette.
There’s a tiny stoop outside of his apartment window that he shimmies his way onto, grateful for the lingering summer warmth since he’s clad in little other than his briefs and a thin tank top. Even if it’s warm out here, it isn’t the same heat that clings to him and reminds him just how much his pick of tonight’s litter isn’t the person he actually wants.
In his old apartment, the one that had once been closer to a shared home, Kiyoomi had a real balcony—well, half of one anyway, enough to house a couple of plants and one and a half bodies. On clear, warm nights like this, he’d slip out and stare at all of the lights. As he shuts his eyes, a clear picture comes to life: plush, pink lips pressing into the line of his shoulder, creeping up his neck; strong arms bracketing him against the grate as calloused palms skim over the backs of his hands; tendrils of bleach blonde hair tickle the back of his neck. When he makes an errant comment about wishing he could see more stars in the city, the blonde behind him whispers that he only cares for the constellations on Kiyoomi’s skin.
Looking up reveals that the stars are still not visible, and this time there’s no warmth behind him.
The familiar flick of the lighter and the first inhale of smoke clear his mind a bit, distract him from the swirl of the past he all too easily finds himself sucked into. As he watches the smoke in the air drift into nothing, a sense of comfort washes over him—reminders of temporality soothe him these days. Kiyoomi hadn’t always been a smoker, not until he needed something that would distract him from swirling thoughts.
“Mind if I join you?” The sound of the guy’s voice jolts Kiyoomi a bit, lost in the haze of his own thoughts. Motioning for the stranger to sit, Kiyoomi offers him a smoke in silence, lighting it for him when he accepts.
The lingering figure is a bit of a shock; his hook-ups never actually stick around for too long. Not that Kiyoomi really kicked any of them out, he was just so cold and unwelcoming that they understood that it was time to leave. And while he would never hesitate to kick out an unwanted guest, this guy sits in companionable silence, so Kiyoomi lets him stay. Even when his guest looks like he wants to say something, Kiyoomi can tell he values their silence and the beauty of the dying twilight too much to say anything.
Though his lingering provides Kiyoomi with the chance to spy his features a little closer. A similar nose and lips to the blueprint as well, but he seems to be lacking the same strong brow. Kiyoomi moves his gaze back to the cityscape before him, comforted by the thriving city sounds—so full of life yet so detached from him.
“So,” Kiyoomi meets the guy’s gaze when he pipes up, “we gonna talk about what happened?”
Rolling the cigarette between his fingers, Kiyoomi can feel the way his brows tug together out of instinct, “The sex?” Not many men stick around to chat, let alone talk about if it was any good or how to improve for next time. There weren’t many follow-ups, after all.
“No. You-“ his eyes bore into Kiyoomi’s—not the same warm hazel Kiyoomi was once accustomed to, either, another deviation—searching each eye for something but coming up empty. “Holy shit did you not notice?”
Rather than answering, Kiyoomi lifts a single brow and takes a long drag off his cigarette. A prompt for the stranger to keep going.
“You said some other guy’s name.”
A stuttered breath has smoke hitting the back of his throat in the worst way, his voice straining with effort, “Shit.” He coughs a little, choking on the smoke and shock.
Muffled laughter from the stranger lets Kiyoomi choke in relative peace as the guy takes a long drag from his own cigarette, “Figured I’d ask about him.”
Silence passes between the two as Kiyoomi steadies his breath. A deep sigh eventually pulls its way out of Kiyoomi’s chest. There’s no escaping it now, he supposes. The look on this guy’s face all but screams he’s not going to drop it, “Atsumu, huh?”
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi’s eyes trail along building tops until he starts focusing on the barely visible stars. When they were younger, Atsumu would sit out under the sky with him like this in what Atsumu called Nowhere Town, Hyogo, joking and laughing and being too rude for anyone else’s liking. Happiness used to be at the core of those memories, tainted with too many emotions to parse now. How Kiyoomi wishes it could be just like that again—carefree, happy, easy.
“One hell of a guy to have you moaning his name like that.” Despite the odd circumstance, not-Atsumu doesn’t sound all that offended which surprises Kiyoomi. Most people would, understandably, freak out when you moan someone else’s name in bed. As much as he wants to fight it, Kiyoomi sort of likes the fact that this guy isn’t giving him too much shit for the slip-up. It makes the whole situation feel a little less shitty.
A small scoff falls from Kiyoomi’s lips, “I’ll be honest. I don’t even remember your name.” The way the stranger feigns offense reminds him more of Atsumu than anything else. Familiarity seeps into the tiny laugh and eye roll from Kiyoomi.
“It’s Unmei,” Kiyoomi crinkles his nose at the strange name, “but you can just call me Mei. And to be fair, I don’t think we really introduced ourselves. It was more tongues down each other’s throats, then we’ll talk.”
“You’re funny,” he smiles at Mei and takes another short drag. “You can call me Sakusa.”
“Sakusa?” With nothing more than a nod from Kiyoomi, Mei chugs along. “No fun nicknames for your newfound friend?”
“We’re not friends.” The blunt response earns another feigned sound of hurt from Mei, but that’s nothing Kiyoomi is surprised at. Mei seems to handle it better than others, at least. “Besides, I’ve only ever had one nickname, and no one uses it anymore.”
Even the thought of someone else uttering those two syllables has Kiyoomi’s head straining to burst. “Omi” had never been intimate, never been exclusively for Atsumu’s use, but it belongs to Atsumu all the same. Hearing it on the lips of a stranger would be salt in a wound he refuses to acknowledge still festers below the surface.
The silence between them settles again as Mei bounces another question on his tongue, “Is it what Atsumu called you?”
“No,” that’s a lie, but Mei doesn’t need to know that, “he called me a prickly bastard.”
And that makes Mei start choking on the smoke he inhaled as he struggles with containing his laughter. The interaction fills Kiyoomi with a small spark of something for a moment. For the briefest second, Kiyoomi reaches for that spark, but it disappears, extinguished the moment it tries to ignite. That’s how this always goes. He feels the twinges of something maybe romantic, anything other than the sinking loneliness he’s come to know, but it just vanishes. After all this time, Kiyoomi has learned.
Nobody does it like Atsumu does.
While Kiyoomi stares at the moon thinking about the way Atsumu’s arms felt around him, the way he would whisper sweet secrets into the constellations on Kiyoomi’s skin, the way he did everything, he can feel Mei’s eyes on him. When he looks to meet them, he expects pity, but what he gets is a gleam of laughter.
“You look awfully thrilled at my sorrow.”
Mei shrugs, turning his gaze back out to the city, “It doesn’t seem like sorrow. More wistful than that.” There’s a pause where Kiyoomi feels his skin crawl, hating being seen. “You still love him.” That makes Kiyoomi snort.
“No shit.”
With one long, final drag, Mei crams the dying against the metal they’re sharing as a seat. Tossing it down to the streets below. “I’m a hopeless romantic, so I really do hope you find your way back to one another.”
Kiyoomi shoots him a curious glance, “Why?”
“The smile you had when you moaned out his name,” a blush rises up on Mei’s cheeks making him look almost bashful, “that’s the kind of shit people dream about.”
The thought of anyone dreaming about what he and Atsumu had is laughable. What people saw on the streets probably half terrified them—joking arguments often looking more violent and heated than the ones they had behind closed doors. What was really dreamlike about life with Atsumu had been what was hidden from the public eye. The slow and quiet mornings when he succumbed to Kiyoomi’s begging and slept in, the early nights where Atsumu would wordlessly cling to him and drift into dreams, the look Kiyoomi would give him when Atsumu laid his head in Kiyoomi’s lap while he read, the feel of Atsumu’s fingers carding through his hair, the whispers, the kisses, the laughs. Everything that was kept between them like a secret—for their eye’s only.
With one long, slow drag left in the cigarette that’s burning down in Kiyoomi’s hand, he takes his time pulling the smoke in, letting it out in a slow stream until he has to breathe real, whole oxygen. Still, Kiyoomi makes a show of putting the embers out in the ashtray on the window sill when he huffs out the remaining smoke. “Didn’t have to throw the butt off the rails like an animal,” he mutters, unsure of what to do with the sentimental turn the night has taken. Vulnerability has never been one of Kiyoomi’s strong suits, and certainly not with strangers he met in crowded clubs he was trying to get out of as quickly as possible.
“Chronic litterbug, sorry,” something like sadness stirs in Kiyoomi when Mei heads toward the window without him. “I’ll head out now. I’d leave a number, but I think we both know you won’t text.”
Despite the sardonic tone, Kiyoomi lets a low laugh, “How honest you are.”
For a moment there’s no sound, nothing besides the rise and fall of Kiyoomi’s breath. Mei’s eyes on his drill him into the spot, a look so serious he fears he’s actually done something wrong.
“You deserve happiness, Sakusa.” The shift in tone startles him, the look leveled at him even more stern. They both stare at one another a little longer.
“Good night, Mei.”
Just like that, the energy dissipates, Mei’s voice warm and full of mirth once more, “See you around.”
Footfalls precede the distant, faint click of his door soon after. Those words ring around his head; he’d been happy once, really truly happy. The click of his door leaves him on his stoop alone, hugging himself in a terrible attempt to recreate any kind of intimacy, remembering the boy he’d loved since they were teenagers.
***
If someone looked Kiyoomi in the face at sixteen and told him that he would be in love with Atsumu, he would have laughed in their face. Nothing could have ever convinced him that they would become an inseparable pair. Where Atsumu was fire—vibrant, loud, and endlessly energetic—Kiyoomi was ice—incredibly cutting, quiet, and chilling. Not to mention that they both had walls around their hearts that were miles high and shot at anyone who dared to get close. But for some reason, ice always seemed easier to manage than fire, so it shocked others when they would spot the pair together during their third year.
With their fire and ice personalities, Atsumu’s antics hardly ever got under Kiyoomi’s skin and Kiyoomi was able to bounce some of his own aggression back to him. Eventually, their insults stopped being genuine and started being jokes.
By the time the two made it out of high school, Kiyoomi was different—still cold and a little crass, but more welcoming underneath. Atsumu had grown to be a little more sure of himself, stepping into his own because he knew someone out there could tolerate him in all his glory.
Kiyoomi never stopped encouraging to embrace the parts of himself that others rejected. And Atsumu encouraged him to open himself up to what others could offer, to make a friend for once in his life. Somehow, the pair managed to thaw some part of each other that they both kept hidden away. When people asked how Kiyoomi managed to handle all of Atsumu, he would just shrug, acting like he had no clue what they were talking about. But Kiyoomi knew exactly what he’d done. Instead of expecting something of him, Kiyoomi met him on Atsumu's own terms. Meanwhile, Atsumu didn’t force Kiyoomi into things before he was ready. They never tried to change who the other was, they just embraced it.
They loved the parts of each other that people made seem like a problem.
***
Fate has a shitty way of laughing at him, especially when he’s already plagued with reminders of how much he misses Atsumu after his latest jaunt with Mei. Just three days after their little chat, Kiyoomi is standing in line for coffee before work, a Tuesday morning staple. Every Tuesday previously was uneventful—he showed up, ordered his coffee, and left. But fate has other plans, regardless of what he wants.
Out of habit, his eyes shift to the door when he hears the bell chime at a new guest, and lord how he wishes they hadn’t. A familiar shock of black and grey hair has him averting his eyes as quickly as possible, but that would never work. Not with the heat-seeking missile that is Bokuto.
“Holy shit,” somehow Bokuto manages to keep his voice quiet, surely brimming with excitement, so Kiyoomi looks up with a timid smile and meets Bokuto’s gaze. “Omi.” That combination of syllables has Kiyoomi struck still, unable to move away from the colossal unit striding his way. Frozen in place, Kiyoomi has little time to prepare for the onslaught of affection Bokuto always brings. Though he must still remember some of Kiyoomi’s quirks, a solid arm pat with a heart squeeze replacing the bone-crushing hugs he normally deals out. A sigh of relief accompanies a small bow of his head. Is it really okay to interact with one of his best friends like this?
“I’ve missed you so much, dude.” The heat of Bokuto’s hand reminds Kiyoomi just how much he misses the friendly touches that were once so common, and not just from Bokuto. Strange that something he once dreaded has left a permanent hole once it was ripped away.
It’s a gift that Kiyoomi has always been able to mask his pain so easily.
“It’s been a while, huh?” There’s no telling how much Bokuto does or doesn’t know about the split, so Kiyoomi sticks to safe territory, avoiding the topic altogether.
Those ever-emotive brows tug down, eyes shining with his woe, “It’s not the same without you around. Akaashi misses you like crazy.”
“Ah, the only other sane man,” the mention of Akaashi brings a more genuine smile to his face, “I’ve missed our chats.”
“Then why do you never text? Or call?” Bokuto always had the same brash honesty as Atsumu and him, he’s just such a gentle giant that it comes off so much kinder. “We haven’t talked for over a year. And nobody has seen you in at least two.”
The ground becomes more enthralling than any other part of the store, “I think we both know why.”
“C’mon, I don’t care about whatever Tsum-Tsum did.” The phrasing of that throws Kiyoomi off, it almost seems like Bokuto doesn’t know what happened. “He was the idiot that screwed things up I’m sure. We shouldn’t have to suffer for his sins,” his eyes are just as pleading as a puppy’s when Kiyoomi look up to him.
It’s a godsend that the barista calls his name out at that moment, yanking him away from the swirling vortex of questions rising in his brain. Why wouldn’t Atsumu tell Bokuto what happened? Or was Bokuto just trying to be nice? When he collects his drink, Bokuto’s still in the same spot, waiting for him.
Once Kiyoomi is back in range, Bokuto scratches the back of his next, an almost bashful expression taking over his features, “Hey whatever did happen with you guys? One second everything was fine and then we just never saw you again.”
“He never—” Kiyoomi feels an even bigger wave of confusion wash over him at the confirmation that Bokuto doesn’t know, “he didn’t say what happened?” Bokuto shakes his head. “Not even to you?”
“Nope, not a word. Why? What happened?”
Kiyoomi stares helplessly at him, “I wish I could tell you.” Bokuto fixes him with a stern gaze for just a single moment. “No, I mean literally. I wish I could tell you. I don’t really know what happened.”
Bokuto never much liked thinking traps, so Kiyoomi is hardly surprised when he lets out an aggrieved sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We gotta talk about this more. Do you have time? I can push my meetings back today for a little.”
There isn’t a whole lot on Kiyoomi’s plate at the moment—nothing major coming up and really just some polishing to do on what he does have. Work has been slow going for the past couple of weeks. With a nod, Kiyoomi insists Bokuto get his coffee while he texts his boss that he’ll be coming in late. She would hardly care if he made up the hours later this week or next. The only reason it was so slow for him right now anyway is because he finished a project two weeks ahead of the deadline—something his coworkers hated him for. With his productivity, Tanaka never has to worry about him.
Finishes at the register, Bokuto wanders back over to the table Kiyoomi’s settled into.
“So, can I know, like, what exactly led up to… everything?” Despite being just as open as Atsumu or Kiyoomi, Bokuto still softens the edges of his blatant intrusion. Avoiding the word “break-up” almost makes Kiyoomi laugh.
Instead, Kiyoomi lets out a quick sigh, “I wish I could say what it was. You were right when you said everything seemed fine. We got into a spat one day, something stupid over misplacing a bowl he’d brought to my apartment if I remember correctly. But it was far from one of our blowouts.”
Bokuto lets out a soft laugh at that; all of their friends had witnessed one of their screaming matches before. While those all-out screaming matches never happened very often, they almost always happened in front of their friends. He’s sure Suna still has the recording of the time Atsumu poured water over Kiyoomi’s head so Kiyoomi dumped his entire plate of food over Atsumu’s.
“It was one of our quiet, private ones. We said some mean shit to one another, going for one another’s weak spots. It was one of those kinds of fights.” He pauses, drinking some of his coffee. There’s something so detached about the way he presents the information as if he was a third party in the situation and not at the heart of it. “There was nothing new about it. I called him a self-absorbed asshole, told him he needed a therapist. He called me a control freak, said I was overreacting.” He conveniently leaves out when he insinuated that Kiyoomi only pushed so hard against the way Atsumu wanted things because it wasn’t the way he wanted. And that Kiyoomi had only ever gotten things handed to him on a silver platter just the way he wanted. It was a sore spot—one that Atsumu knew hurt more than the rest. That same insecurity was the very reason Kiyoomi worked his ass off at his job. Nobody was ever going to see him as a product of nepotism or someone who got somewhere because of mommy and daddy’s prestige.
The second Atsumu stooped to that level, a new low for him, the fight was over. Kiyoomi had told him that was too low a blow over a lousy bowl and locked himself in his room, effectively kicking Atsumu out. It’s not like he’d known it was the last time he’d see him.
“My memory of the fight is pretty hazy. I didn’t commit it all to memory, you know? It just felt like a normal fight. I didn’t realize it’d be the last straw,” sipping from his coffee, he becomes aware once more of how detached he sounds. The way he shares the information feels almost nonchalant—as if Atsumu leaving hadn’t snapped him in two, drained him of all of his light, and left him hollowed and raw.
Hearing the call of his drink, Bokuto excuses himself to grab it. When he returns, he looks deep in concentration, “He never said anything about it. Not a single word. No matter how much I pry.”
“Oh to be Miya Atsumu, ever elusive and such a wonderful liar.”
“It’s shitty though, Sakusa. You don’t deserve to just be left like that.” The way Bokuto stares at him leaves Kiyoomi feeling itchy. He has no way of knowing that Kiyoomi threw himself off the deep end after their break-up, but those eyes show that Bokuto knows Kiyoomi still hurts from how everything went down. “You deserve an explanation or something. I mean you were together for almost three years—friends before that, too.”
“I know all that.” Playing with the lid of his cup distracts Kiyoomi from the way Bokuto’s words have made that wound a little more noticeable like he needs to take a look at it and treat it. “But what am I supposed to do? He never responded to my texts then, not like that’ll change two years later.”
The sigh Bokuto heaves oozes frustration and makes Kiyoomi itch for a cigarette—there’s too much hidden in that sigh that Kiyoomi doesn’t want to parse through, “He’s ridiculous.” Bokuto turns his irritation into a smile quickly, “Enough about him, how are you?”
While he’s never one to talk about himself, Kiyoomi’s almost grateful for the subject change, “Good enough. Making intelligent decisions by day and poor life choices by night.”
The bright laugh that produces reminds Kiyoomi of just how lonely the past two years have been. Why had he forced himself to suffer without the light of his friends, even if they were Atsumu’s too?
“Isn’t that what your twenties are for?” Kiyoomi smiles and sips from his coffee once more. “You seein’ anyone?”
The question almost makes the liquid come out of Kiyoomi’s nose. He coughs a little, eyes wide with surprise.
“Shit,” ever the apologist, Bokuto flutters his hands trying to soothe Kiyoomi without actually getting his hands on him, “sorry, I was just curious!”
Even if he was just choking in shock, Kiyoomi still raises a brow, “Why? Are you interested?”
Booming with laughter, Bokuto smiles as broad as ever, “Even if I was, Atsumu would kill me.”
“Possessive little shit,” he tuts, sparking another laugh from Bokuto.
The warmth of the moment fills one of the many holes Atsumu’s departure left. For the first time in months, maybe even a year, Kiyoomi is smiling with ease. Motoya has tried for the past two years to help Kiyoomi fill each hole that cropped up, but he alone wasn’t enough. Sitting here with Bokuto, laughing before tumbling headfirst into work feels right, a missing piece slotted back into place.
“I’m having a get-together on Friday, you should come!”
“Oh,” the invitation is startling to say the least, “I don’t know.”
“C’mon! Akaashi will be there and if he knows that I saw you and didn’t drag you along, he will kill me.” That makes Kiyoomi laugh, hiding it behind his fist. Despite that, Bokuto can still sense his apprehension, sees the tense lines riding along Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “He probably won’t come,” like Bokuto could read his mind. “I mean I invite him every time. He never shows. Too busy for us or whatever.”
“Really?” It doesn’t sound like him to bail on his best friends like that; Atsumu always loved spending time with them. It was Kiyoomi who always hated parties and social gatherings altogether when they were younger—he really only ever made the effort to go when Atsumu made him.
Bokuto shrugs, “Swear it—right around when you two split, he just sort of dropped off from those larger gatherings. And even if he does show up by some miracle, you don’t have to talk to him. Hell, you could leave.”
“Hmmm,” he looks down at his coffee cup. The offer is really tempting. Since the breakup, he really hasn’t seen any of them and since he spends most of his time editing at work, it’s not like he made any new friends to replace them. The only social interaction he really has outside of work and stores are the hook-ups he brings home. “Will Hinata and Inunaki be there?”
“Yeah, of course!” The prospect of seeing them makes the idea a little more appealing, even if there is a slight risk of seeing Atsumu. “And you know Hinata will be just floored to see you. He has a new boyfriend that I think you’ll get along with.”
“A boyfriend? Our little demon child is dating?” Incredulous as it is Bokuto nods. Kiyoomi always had a soft spot for Hinata—he was precious and so easy to adore. Finding out someone is dating him makes Kiyoomi’s eyes harden, they’ll have to be up to standard.
Bokuto laughs at the glare, the whole body movement reminding Kiyoomi what it feels like to be surrounded by warmth and not the cool feeling of loneliness, “Our little boy is growing up. I’m sure Inunaki will be thrilled too. He was asking about you the other day. Said he missed your mixology skills.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Kiyoomi can’t help the way his lips tilt up into a smirk. Memories of a long-forgotten night resurface where he got Inunaki plastered off of two drinks that tasted nothing like alcohol yet contained only a small percentage of anything but. Atsumu had been there then, too, trying to tell Kiyoomi how to make the drinks, laughing and booing whenever Kiyoomi wouldn’t follow his instructions.
“I’ll go,” the answer comes out quieter and softer than he anticipates. Even so, Bokuto’s excitement is the exact opposite. In an instant, he pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously, probably informing Akaashi of his decision.
His similarity to a child on their birthday makes Kiyoomi laugh a little more and soon his phone is vibrating so much it feels like a continuous string of vibration, texts from Akaashi, Hinata, and Inunaki pouring in. Akaashi’s are a mixture of anger and excitement—mad that Kiyoomi ignored him for two years, elated that he’s decided to join them on Friday. Inunaki’s is just emojis and one singular text that says, “Get me fucked up out of my mind, I am begging.” Hinata’s are indecipherable but there are lots of exclamation marks which must mean that he’s excited to see Kiyoomi.
The ghost of a smile creeps up his lips while he looks at the screen. It’s been ages since he’s received a text from anyone besides his boss or his cousin. Perhaps the lonely lifestyle he’d been living wasn’t enough after all.
“I should get to work,” he shoots a sad smile to Bokuto, genuinely missing the opportunity to sit with him a while longer. “We can catch up more Friday, right?”
“Yeah, of course.” His fingers twitch as if they itch to reach out again, to pull Kiyoomi into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you so much, Omi-Omi.”
Those four syllables nearly send him to the grave—echoes of Atsumu’s voice bouncing around his head. The nickname never belonged to Atsumu alone, but it’s his voice that’s branded into Kiyoomi’s brain all the same. Despite the earth-shattering moment happening inside his head, Kiyoomi smiles at his old friend.
“I missed you too, Bokuto.”
Today, fate looked like a familiar shock of hair upending Kiyoomi’s routine and felt like warmth he hadn’t realized he missed as much as he did. So maybe fate isn’t so shitty—not if it brings that fire back into his life.
***
It was hard to tell when it had started—when the bickering shifted from genuine to joking to flirting. Was it when they’d met in high school? After graduation? When he started tutoring Atsumu in English while he helped Kiyoomi with history in college?
There was no telling when, but it happened. And then his lips were on Kiyoomi’s and he felt like he was seeing stars. That first kiss was so starved, like neither of them had ever drunk water in their lives and just found a spring. It was frantic hands grabbing and pulling, tiny whines, and quieter moans, and it left the pair speechless and breathless. Even as they broke apart for air, neither of them could really pull away, hands and lips always somewhere.
Kiyoomi knew then he was done for. No one else was going to do this to him. Make him feel so ravenous when they were right in front of him.
Did Atsumu think the same?
***
Friday comes quicker than Kiyoomi would have liked. Though it would be a lie if he told anyone that he wasn’t looking forward to the night—not that there was anyone to really ask in the first place. Motoya noted the excited pitch of Kiyoomi’s voice during their weekly catch-up, but aside from him, there wasn’t anyone else left.
Though it appears the lonely hull of a life he was living is soon drawing to a close. Akaashi and Hinata text him nearly every day leading up to the night just to talk about life and how much they’re looking forward to seeing him. The reminder that Kiyoomi is actually wanted and valued serves as a balm for wounds that lay long forgotten.
Even Bokuto sends his usual texts and pictures updating Kiyoomi on what he’s doing in his life—mostly post-work gym selfies. It’s inane, but heartwarming.
Each interaction feels like stepping into a time machine, transporting Kiyoomi to a time when everything made sense. When life was as easy as coming home to a loudmouth bottle blonde with no sense of decorum. So while he’s elated to have the warmth of their friendship back in his life, an underlying sense of anxiety tinges the whole affair. An inescapable question of whether every interaction will remind him of Atsumu bouncing around his head.
That little bit of anxiety grows bigger and bigger, though, as the time to go over to Bokuto’s draws closer. Bokuto, Akaashi, Inunaki, and Hinata all reassured him that Atsumu wouldn’t show throughout the week. He’d stopped going a while ago. But with the way fate was drudging up the past right now, Kiyoomi couldn’t be positive.
Despite the funny tight feeling in his chest and the need to constantly remind himself to breathe, he resolves to go and enjoy the time he has to reconnect with people he’d once been begrudgingly inseparable from. These aren’t just Atsumu’s friends. They were Kiyoomi’s for years too. And they were letting him pick right back up from where they all left off. Such an opportunity is a blessing he never would have dreamed of.
Before heading out, he slides onto the stoop for a quick smoke hoping to tame at least some of his nerves. The sun is fading into nothing, twilight settling upon the buildings around him. Lights begin to flick on here and there and the sky is the most beautiful shade of purple and pink, soon it will bleed into the deep dark blue that’s indiscernible from black. He takes a drag.
In college, when Kiyoomi would tag along to visit Atsumu’s family in Hyogo during summer, Atsumu would drag him outside and lay outside with Kiyoomi to look at views like this. His voice would always be so much softer when he pointed out how the changing colors bled together to create such a beautiful image. Kiyoomi loved to bicker with him then. With no heat, he’d always say they it was a waste of time to admire—the sunset would be the same tomorrow. Atsumu would argue that wasn’t the point of looking at them, that each one was never truly the same. Every time it would devolve into a completely different argument and then devolve further into a wrestling match with shouts and laughter—Atsumu even let Kiyoomi win a couple of times. When they’d come back into the house, Atsumu’s mother would always have the kindest smile, offering a ruffle of their hair like they were children once more.
A tiny huff of a laugh falls from his lips before taking another drag. Always so competitive Atsumu was, Kiyoomi would guess he still is. Maybe that’s why they clicked so well back then. Atsumu was always offering a challenge, pushing Kiyoomi to grow in all the right ways.
Their relationship oftentimes felt like a challenge in and of itself, though never in a bad way. There was never a day when Atsumu wasn’t trying to push Kiyoomi to chase after his dreams. Certainly there were moments that Atsumu unconsciously pushed Kiyoomi to be a better partner as well. But it was never just Atsumu, he supposes. Kiyoomi always challenged the way that Atsumu thought about the world, how he should approach people and new opportunities. The whole thing had been mutually beneficial once they worked past their own stubbornness. Or so Kiyoomi had thought.
With another drag from the cigarette, another memory from their youth bubbles in his mind.
They were nineteen, just starting their second year of college and Bokuto convinced the whole gang of them to come out and drink and be merry with alcohol he’d stolen from his sisters. It took a lot of convincing to get Kiyoomi out that night. As much as Kiyoomi enjoyed his friends, they were often a bit much—especially under the influence of alcohol. But Atsumu all but begged and the way those warm brown eyes got all round like a puppy’s made him give in. He would do anything for Atsumu. Only for him.
Upon reflection, Kiyoomi realizes that he most likely, subconsciously, realized that he was stupid in love with Atsumu. After exactly one beer, Kiyoomi’s head drifted up towards the clouds, feet lighter than they ever were, as if helium had been injected into his bloodstream. Not even the constant teasing about being a lightweight could make him falter. Laughs and giggles came more willingly, and he looked more like Bokuto or Hinata with the way he casually brushed and touched Atsumu. Were it anyone else Kiyoomi would have bristled whenever his skin rubbed against the others, but with Atsumu it felt electric.
There was just enough light left in the day and he marveled at Atsumu’s profile—so striking even when they were young. He was beautiful. Kiyoomi said as much, in what he thought was a whisper only to himself.
But alcohol is a great fuel for delusion, so Atsumu heard him loud and clear. With Kiyoomi all but curled into his side, Atsumu tilted his head to look at him, the smuggest look in the world painting Atsumu’s features. In better light, Kiyoomi would have been able to see the faint hints of a blush high on those cheekbones. Atsumu stared at him with those beautiful brown eyes, warm like honey and reading him like a book, and Kiyoomi was done for.
Maybe that’s when he knew that the playful banter wasn’t just playful anymore—that they both wanted something more. A flash of Atsumu’s tongue darting across his lips made Kiyoomi blush. The muttered response about how it takes one to know one sending Kiyoomi’s heart off to the races. Then Hinata spilled a beer in his lap.
How different things might have been if they acted on their feelings then instead of waiting for two more years.
One last drag and Kiyoomi would be leaving. Being a little late wouldn’t kill him, but Kiyoomi would hate the thought of them thinking he’s ditching them again. Their smiling faces and bright laughter was something he missed more than he ever actually realized. Atsumu eclipsed everything when he left, even Kiyoomi’s memories of their friends. But the group of them always felt like a warm blanket.
He crushes the remaining tobacco down into the ashtray, slipping back in and heading out for the station.
There are new memories to make, after all.
***
The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. Atsumu was making dinner, with a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, those broad shoulders and beautiful arms on display in his little black tank top. Friends were coming over tonight so they could have one of the Miya twin’s famous cooking—even if Osamu was really the professional. The night wasn’t anything special or different. But the thought crossed his mind and Kiyoomi couldn’t filter it before the words tumbled out.
“I love you.”
Atsumu stopped instantly, turning to look at him. He expected smug confidence, that hint of arrogance that Kiyoomi grew to love. But Atsumu looked pissed.
“The hell did ya hafta say it first for?” He crossed his arms and furrowed his brows.
Kiyoomi opened his mouth to apologize, of all things, but Atsumu cut him off when he turned back to the stove.
“I love ya too, prickly bastard.” Turning the nobs off, Atsumu came around to Kiyoomi with those big honey eyes and soft lips tugging into a smile. “Kiss me, before I start screechin’ like a maniac 'cause I managed to make ya fall in love with me.”
Kiyoomi smiled a lazy, dopey little thing, and kissed him, slow and sweet, everything that stayed behind closed doors. This moment was for the two of them alone. Not for anyone else’s eyes.
When Kiyoomi pulled back, Atsumu dropped his kisses down to Kiyoomi’s jaw, to his neck, then to that soft spot right by his ear, “I love ya so much.”
***
With the new door of Bokuto’s apartment looming over him, Kiyoomi almost thought he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to knock, anxiety reaching a fever pitch. But he managed to do the impossible, so now he stands, heart racing and reminding himself to just breathe. Waiting with his heart slamming until someone opens the door is a whole different feat. Now if he can get his legs to work, that will make him a close second to Heracles.
A bit of that anxiety dissipates when Akaashi swings the door wide open and with a familiar, tiny smile.
“Sakusa,” for once, Akaashi sounds very nearly thrilled—his steady voice edged with excitement, “it’s been far too long. We’re so glad you could make it.” The fingers holding onto the door twitch, almost as if Akaashi is suppressing the urge to reach out and make sure Kiyoomi is real. When he walks forward, though, Akaashi seems to relax, an easier smile spreading across his face as Kiyoomi passes the threshold.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Akaashi.” There’s no missing the way Akaashi’s eyes shine, it really has been too long.
Those eyes turn devious on a dime, the small smile becoming cutting in a flash. “You have some catching up to do.”
“Do I?” The question earns him a nod and a gesture to follow.
“Hinata is on shot number three and already on the verge of being a mess.” The laughter in Akaashi’s voice brings a warm smile to Kiyoomi’s face. “I’d hate for him to be the only one drunk off their ass.”
“Still so kind, Akaashi.” Dry sarcasm pulls a short laugh out of him before he steps smoothly out of Kiyoomi’s path.
When Kiyoomi is about to question the move, he spots a flash of ginger hair and knows exactly why he moved. Hinata bullrushes him, leaping up and clinging to Kiyoomi like a koala while Kiyoomi stifles a fit of laughter while holding him up.
“Don’t ever leave me like that again,” he’s fully whining. A grown man, whining in Kiyoomi’s ear and clinging to him. While this is normal behavior for Hinata, he is definitely drunk.
“You have my sincerest apologies, Hinata,” Kiyoomi rocks him gently, the only other person who’s allowed to be in physical contact with him like this. “But where’s this boyfriend of yours? You know he has to have my approval.”
Hinata gets down, bemoaning the loss of his commandeered vehicle while Akaashi reappears with a drink and shot in hand. It’s a silent command that Kiyoomi can appreciate. He downs the shot and uses the drink as a chaser—not the best idea seeing as it sears his throat—how much did Akaashi put in there? Satisfied with his work, Akaashi hurries back to the kitchen, likely to pour more while Hinata drags Kiyoomi to yet another head of dark hair.
Hinata drapes himself over his boyfriend’s shoulder and turns his head, earning him a small smile from the man, “He’s here.” While he’s busy eyeing his boyfriend, Kiyoomi settles his features into their usual daunting look, making no move to soften the glare when Hinata’s boyfriend does finally look. The stiffened shoulders a good indication that Kiyoomi has struck at least a little fear into his heart.
“Kenma,” he raises a hand in greeting.
Running his eyes along Kenma’s form, Kiyoomi tilts his head, “You can call me Sakusa.”
“I know you all said he was intimidating but was anyone going to tell me he’s ten times more intimidating than Atsumu?” He turns his attention to Bokuto and Inunaki, who stiffen like rods, eyes going wide. Even Hinata jolts up and eyes Kiyoomi with care.
Letting out a small laugh eases the room a touch, “I’m far worse.” He tries to infuse his tone with as much levity as possible to soothe the tense energy. “But I am nowhere near the same pain in the ass.”
Kenma’s small smirk lets onto his opinions of Atsumu, blissfully unaware of what he’s stirred up, “So you’ve met him before?”
“You could say that,” Kiyoomi hides his own little laugh with a cough, the awkwardness seeping back into the air.
Meanwhile, Hinata bends to whisper something in Kenma’s ear. Information acquired, Kenma straightens up. Kiyoomi can’t help but smile a little at the way Kenma’s eyes bulge out when he turns to look at Hinata.
The air becomes too stifling, the lingering taste of Atsumu too much to handle. So, Kiyoomi switches the subject.
“Inunaki! I’ve been standing here for a whole of three minutes and I haven’t heard a word from you. I thought you wanted me to get you fucked up?”
Beaming, he hops from his seat, “I have missed you, little spitfire. To the kitchen with us.”
“Bokuto, I’ll be looking to chat later.” The specific call out earns him a beaming Bokuto grin and an elbow from Inunaki.
The next hour is a lot of making drinks, taking shots, and dancing. As the time passes, Kiyoomi remembers just how much more fun this all is when he does it with friends. When it isn’t in some loud, overpriced club where he barely knows anyone and dreads entering in the first place.
While he’s taking a break from dancing around with Hinata, Kenma approaches him almost sheepishly.
“Hey, I’m really sorry,” when Kiyoomi raises a bro, he tacks on quickly, “about the whole Atsumu thing.”
With a swig of his newest drink, Kiyoomi makes a motion to brush it off, “It’s nothing.” It isn’t nothing, but Kenma didn’t know. “We broke up ages ago anyway.”
“Still, I’d hate to stir up bad memories.”
At least Hinata picked someone with sense, “I assure you, it’s not a big deal. I don’t have any bad memories with him.” That’s mostly true. “Plus, everyone here knows what happened—“ they don’t—“and I’m over it.” He is not. “So, really, there’s no need to worry yourself about it. Besides, I think your attention would be best suited for whatever that demon-incarnate is up to,” he gestures to Hinata who, despite being drunk off his ass, races about the room between guests.
He smiles fondly at the carrot-top, “He’s a handful.”
“But you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Kiyoomi can’t bear to look at anything but the floor. “I know the feeling.”
Before Kenma slips off, Kiyoomi grabs his wrist, “You keep making him happy, okay? He’s the best of us.”
As he nods, the twinges of a smile appear at the corners of his mouth.
“He’s missed you, you know?” The statement catches Kiyoomi off guard, Kenma’s eyes boring into him. “They all have. Hell, they’ve even mentioned it in front of Atsumu, which is why I had no clue…” he drifts off, glancing back at Hinata for a moment.
The idea of Kiyoomi being a topic of conversation around Atsumu feels strange—did his heart clench when they’d talk about how much they wanted to see Kiyoomi again? Did he have to excuse himself from the room to clear his head? Did he think nothing of it at all?
Kenma seems to hesitate before speaking again. “It’s not my place,” when he looks back at Kiyoomi, everything else seems to disappear for a moment, “but from when those conversations happened, I’d say Atsumu does too.”
With that he turns and moves to Hinata, sweeping the drunk into his arms. Everything around him seems to be still yet swirling at the speed of light, Kenma’s words ringing in his ears.
“They’re cute,” Bokuto’s voice garners Kiyoomi’s attention, “aren’t they?” Kiyoomi hums absently, still mulling over Kenma’s final comment. After a brief silence, Bokuto tries again, “Have you seen anyone else since…”
“No,” the answer is quick, as if cutting off the thought would prove Kiyoomi’s devotion to a man who dropped him like it was nothing. “Well, not anything serious.”
Bokuto hums beside him. “Neither has he.”
Even though Kiyoomi knows exactly who he’s talking about, he refuses to dive into what that means. That doesn’t stop his brain from storing the information away for safekeeping, though. Silence passes between the two as they take in each of their friends—Hinata and Kenma twirling around one another, a rare laugh falling from Kenma’s mouth; Akaashi tucked up onto the seat of Inunaki’s armchair as he shows off something on his phone; Kuroo taunting Iwaizumi as they head into the kitchen.
“Well,” when Bokuto next speaks, his voice is much brighter, “let me give you a tour while everyone else is distracted. We can catch up as we go.”
Together, they discuss the mundane parts of life: family, milestones, work. Apparently, Bokuto received a pretty hefty promotion and was now able to afford a life of small luxury, including a real balcony and everything. He makes that comment with a jab to Kiyoomi’s side—the half balcony of his old apartment not yet forgotten.The first stop on his tour is his home office. Just as Kiyoomi would expect, photos of his friends and family litter the walls along with little trinkets he’d received from them cluttering the space. They reminisce over the pictures in the office space—photos from their time in high school bubbling up old remnants of joy and love; he’d been so against befriending anyone then. Some shots from college make Kiyoomi and Bokuto chuckle, swapping memories about late nights studying or partying.
Then he guides Kiyoomi to the bedroom, showing the door to the balcony.
For the briefest moment, as they step onto the balcony, Kiyoomi is whisked away to a different time and place. Some long-passed summer trip they had all taken to the mountains. A balcony just like this, overlooking mountains and forests so stunning they’d taken his breath away. A very different person stood beside him that summer.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bokuto’s voice startles Kiyoomi back to reality.
Offering a small smile, Kiyoomi turns back to the city lights below him, “It really is.”
There’s a brief pause between them before he knocks into Kiyoomi lightly.
“I’m glad you came.”
“Me too,” this time, Kiyoomi grants him one of his smaller genuine smiles. “But we should head back. I want to dance with Akaashi more. I forgot exactly how much I love dancing with him.”That makes Bokuto beam and he throws an arm over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, chattering about how excited he is to see the two together again. For the first time in years, the closeness doesn’t bother him all that much.
When Akaashi catches the pair coming out from the hallway, he drags Kiyoomi back to where they were dancing before and begins moving with him. Head thrown back in pure bliss, Kiyoomi lets himself feel free once more.
With his body moving easily around Akaashi’s, Kiyoomi realizes that this is so easy. Everything from joking with them and dancing with them to making too strong drinks and bullying the new lightweight to take shots. Not to mention that it’s so fulfilling. For the first time in what feels like ages, Kiyoomi feels a touch of wholeness. Those tiny holes that had lingered for so long finally start to close up. But still, one hole lingers, something missing, incomplete. Kiyoomi tries to dance it off, moving along with Akaashi and serenading him, even if it only results in Akaashi laughing.
But fate put that nagging feeling in Kiyoomi for a reason, it seems. While Akaashi is twirling him around, they hear the banging on the door behind them. It’s Bokuto who rushes over this time, the low tug of his brow making that pit in Kiyoomi’s stomach feel a little heavier. He disregards it at first, Akaashi pulling him close and singing right back in his face as the pair move rhythmically with each other. It’s almost like he’s trying to soothe Kiyoomi too—an act of service to show that he isn’t on his own in this.
Each little step and sway seems like enough to make it all blow over.
The voice is what stops him. For a brief moment Kiyoomi thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s hallucinating. The sound is slightly muffled but how could it not be him? Kiyoomi could pick that voice from a line-up even if he had concrete hindering his hearing. Akaashi shoots him a worried look when he stops moving.
The footsteps come next and that’s definitely him. There’s no way to deny it. Kiyoomi memorized the way those steps sounded when he was seventeen, catalogued the slight changes all the way into their twenties. Time stands still for just a moment when the steps pause as they enter. Hesitation, probably, when Atsumu catches sight of his body huddled against Akaashi.
“I’m going to go have a smoke.” It’s loud enough for everyone to hear. Kiyoomi moves forward without looking back at him, but he’d know those eyes on him even if he was in a room with a thousand people.
***
The scene replays over and over in Kiyoomi’s head while he cries until there’s nothing left, staring at the screen of unanswered phone calls while Motoya tries to soothe him, to stop his hands from yanking out his own hair.
“Oh my apologies, princess,” he spat the words out like they were venom. “Things don’t go yer way and suddenly ya wanna end the conversation.”
Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes at Atsumu, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t act like ya haven’t had everythin’ handed to ya on a silver platter.” Kiyoomi leaned back and crossed his arms, brows furrowed and challenging Atsumu to continue. “This apartment, this relationship, hell, even yer fucking job.”
“Are you kidding?”
Even with the cool tone, Atsumu barreled forward, oblivious to the cold rage building up in his boyfriend.
“Yer nothin’ more than a little trust fund kid who’s never had to work for anythin’ in his life.”
Kiyoomi could feel the way the knife sank into his back, the tip just barely scratching his heart. When his voice finally decided to work, it was chilling, icy to the core, “Is that really all you think of me?”
“Fuck, ya really were spoiled rotten. Can’t even take the barest hint of criticism.” The twisting of the knife hurt just as much as the initial wound.
Pushing up from the table, Kiyoomi strode away from him, “Get the fuck out, Atsumu.”
“Why?” The fire still left in Atsumu brought Kiyoomi to a halt, turning so he could see the rage himself, “So ya can wallow in self-pity because yer boyfriend called ya out for bein’ a privileged brat?” He spat the last words out like they were poison on his tongue.
“Yes. That’s exactly why. Because my boyfriend took my biggest insecurity and twisted it into a fucking dagger to stab me with.” Atsumu’s eyes lost a bit of their fire at that and he stepped forward, “Don’t even think about touching me.” Kiyoomi glared at him, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The words were even more venomous than Atsumu’s, but he was so angry, so hurt, there was no controlling the way he lashed out.
He stormed to his bedroom, slamming the door so Atsumu’d get the hint. The front door slammed shortly after. But nothing blew over like it normally would.
How did it get here? It was a fucking bowl that Atsumu lost. And now Kiyoomi hadn’t heard from him in two weeks. Another pained sob spilled from his lips, the desire to tear through his own skin making him stifle a scream.
Everything felt hollow.
***
With anxiety pouring through his system, Kiyoomi’s hands shake while he pulls out a cigarette, cursing as he tries to light it. The thought of having to go back in there and see his face makes him want to scale the side of the building instead. But that would be insane. In reality, he knows he could just stroll through the apartment, say his goodbyes without even stopping. Everyone would understand. But that would make him feel like shit.
Finally successful in lighting the damn thing, Kiyoomi takes a long pull. Just one drag soothes the nerves a bit. Then there are the steps.
“Those things’ll kill ya, ya know?” His voice was so much softer than it normally was. Still that heavy accent that made Kiyoomi crazy, the same dialect he’d memorized just for Atsumu.
He offers one in silence, knowing Atsumu will take it—a social smoker like his twin, a useless factoid he’s kept tucked away for years. As Atsumu takes it between his lips, Kiyoomi leans forward to light it, staring into Atsumu’s eyes. They’re still warm as honey, still reading him like a book, like it’s easy.
Silence pervades the spaces between the pair blowing out smoke. Kiyoomi has never been one to break a silence and he’s sure Atsumu doesn’t even know where he would begin. But it should be him that starts this, that tries to make things right—it’s not Kiyoomi’s responsibility. Even if half of him is screaming to just reach out and touch him, to make sure this is real, not a dream. Or a nightmare.
Anger, hope, sorrow, and joy all battle around in the pit of his stomach. Nights when he’d lie awake dreaming of this moment could never have prepared him to be face-to-face with Atsumu in real life. Everything feels turned upside down.
The sound of his voice, shakes Kiyoomi out of his stupor, “We just gonna stand here in silence?”
Leaning against the railing, Kiyoomi shuts his eyes, as if that will make the whole situation disappear, “What is there to say, Atsumu?”
And he can hear the small little breath Atsumu takes at the sound of Kiyoomi’s voice curling around his name. It always made him feel so much in ways he couldn’t describe, Kiyoomi knows that.
“Shit, I dunno.” The familiar rise and fall of his voice makes Kiyoomi grip the railing with his free hand. “Maybe ‘hey, how’ve ya been?’”
Rage makes the grip even tighter.
“How have I been?” Ice-cold anger coats the words.
Atsumu’s irritated sigh is the fire to Kiyoomi’s ice, “Yeah. It’s been a while.”
“Been a while?” He rubs at his temple with one hand, a disbelieving laugh tumbling from his mouth. Still, Kiyoomi avoids his gaze, staring at the cityscape below instead. “Don’t fucking ask how I am. Been a while—fuck off.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Kiyoomi.” A hint of desperation seeps into Atsumu’s voice, his voice far gentler than Kiyoomi would expect. The sound of his name nearly makes him jump. Atsumu has always been one of the lucky few allowed to call him by his given name. And he always says it so perfectly, like he’d practiced and worshiped the way it fell off his lips. The heat it sparks in Kiyoomi’s stomach only makes everything more confusing.
Kiyoomi lets the silence drag on for a moment, giving himself a second to calm down before drawing the cigarette to his lips again, “You could start with telling me why.”
Neither of them has to even specify what it is, the elephant in the room large enough to suffocate them both.
“We’re gonna do this here?” That warm gaze never strays from Kiyoomi’s face—he can feel the heat of it, even as he looks pointedly away.
“Well,” smoke huffs out with his speech, “seems like I’ve finally got you around after two years. So yes, I think we will.” He doesn’t mean for it to come across so calloused, but with everything that he went through, Kiyoomi can’t stop the way his hurt is on display. Atsumu disappeared without a word and just took everything with him. Left a carcass of a person in that old apartment and never sent word for a proper burial.
Atsumu takes a long drag of his own cigarette before putting it out, half smoked, and faces him fully, “I was a shitty boyfriend.”
“Fuck off,” a cold, joyless laugh rips from Kiyoomi’s throat. “That was my decision to make.”
“Ya did make it.”
That gets Kiyoomi’s attention, finally earning Atsumu the privilege of Kiyoomi’s eye contact once more. He raises a brow and take a slow drag, a sign Atsumu already knows how to read.
“I have the way ya asked what the fuck is wrong with me burned into my head, ya know that?” It’s not fair that Atsumu sounds so broken when he says it, like it wasn’t him who shattered everything when he walked away after that.
Kiyoomi blows the smoke away from Atsumu’s face, making sure he’s looking him in the eye when he responds, “I was angry. We say shit when we’re angry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It doesn’t matter how ya meant it.” Part of Kiyoomi wants to rage at that, but he keeps himself silent, staring. Atsumu takes a hesitant step forward, closing the already small gap between them. Kiyoomi makes no move to getaway. “I completely ruined yer trust when I stooped to yer insecurities. Ya had every right to be pissed at me for what I said.” He’s still just as brash, but this is more words than he’s ever been able to string together in an apology.
“When did you get so good at talking?”
He smiles a little at that and Kiyoomi can feel the wall between them cracking, “Started seein’ a therapist.”
The admission causes smoke to hit the back of his throat all too quickly, forcing Kiyoomi to choke on the smoke, hardly wheezing out a “what” in response.
“That fuckin’ surprisin’, huh?” He slaps Kiyoomi’s back a couple of times, firm and not totally unwelcome. Each little slap creates another crack in the wall.
“I just never expected thee Miya Atsumu to ever take that piece of advice,” his voice is so much smaller than he wants it to be and Atsumu still hasn’t taken his hand from its resting place on his back.
A little huff is accompanied by a stupid smirk that Kiyoomi wants to smack right off of Atsumu’s face, “Well I probably should’ve listened sooner.”
And that wall is completely crumbling now. Kiyoomi can feel himself wanting to reach out, to hurry the process along. Maybe it’s the knowledge that Kenma had shared with Kiyoomi earlier—that Atsumu misses him too. Or the way Bokuto had informed him that Atsumu never tried to date anyone else. But something makes Kiyoomi want to fight that crumbling, to put it back together piece by piece because what does Atsumu know?
Ice seeps back into his voice, but Atsumu’s hand only slides from his back to his hip, “You don’t get to just walk back into my life like this, you know?”
“I don’t wanna.” The world stops and Kiyoomi hears his heart shattering until Atsumu opens his mouth again. “I wanna work to be back in yer life, Omi. I fucked it up and I wanna prove that I’m worth yer time.”
So much for trying to maintain any resolve. Under that honeyed gaze and with the surety in Atsumu’s voice, Kiyoomi crumbles to the touch.
“You know I wasn’t perfect either,” he looks up at Atsumu from where he’s hunched over the railing.
Atsumu answers with a shrug and a grin as he trails the features of Kiyoomi’s face, “I never needed perfect.” There’s a moment of silence while Kiyoomi takes a final drag off his cigarette. “I just need you.”
The smoke tumbles out of his mouth and he drops the cigarette over the edge of the railing. Warm tracks of tears falling are the only notification that he gets that he’s going to cry—is crying. Worse, Kiyoomi can’t tell what kind of tears they are. Is he angry? Pissed that Atsumu can just waltz in and think everything can be fixed with a few sweet words? Is it that sorrow? The knowing that all this loneliness was a waste of time when Atsumu had loved him all along? Or is it hope and joy? Finally knowing that, yes, Atsumu still loved him, and, yes, he could have him if he wanted?
“Aw c’mon, Omi. Gonna cry on me now?” Kiyoomi can feel the smile on his face and the teasing glint in his eye down to his soul. It’s so overwhelming that Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to choke, the pressure of it stifling his airways.
So he turns and grips Atsumu as close as he possibly can, heaving his sobs into the crook of Atsumu’s neck. And how could he have forgotten what Atsumu smelled like? An old fireplace and whiskey and aging leather books. No, Kiyoomi couldn’t be angry at him. How could he?
Shock must be the reason Atsumu’s grip around him is so weak at first. It takes a moment for one of his hands to snake its way into Kiyoomi’s hair, a sigh of relief spilling out of him, “Ya know I meant it when I wanted to show ya I’m worth yer time? I’m stayin’ ’til these tears dry.”
An ugly wet laugh rips out of Kiyoomi’s throat.
“Always trying to prove that you’re the best, huh?” It’s a miracle that Atsumu can even understand what he said since Kiyoomi mumbled it into his shoulder.
“I always wanna be the best for you.”
And that just makes Kiyoomi’s shoulders shake even more. While anger still simmers in his core, relief at being back in Atsumu’s arms cools it enough to be inspected at a later time.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” The question is still mumbled into Atsumu’s neck, “Why did you just torture me with silence?”
Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s grip tighten before he responds, “I didn’t want ya to fight me on it.” That remark earns him a light smack on the head. “What? Yer one stubborn bastard, ya can’t deny that.”
That doesn’t quite feel like enough; the explanation is shallow, a poor excuse that shoulders the blame onto Kiyoomi. For once, Kiyoomi wants Atsumu to just take responsibility.
“And,” Atsumu hesitates, “I knew I needed to do this alone. I had to heal and fix my own mess by myself. And I wanted to tell ya but I couldn’t get it into words. So I’d just stare at my screen thinkin’ how the hell am I supposed to explain that bein’ apart is eatin’ me alive but I gotta do it? A couple of weeks turned into a couple of months into a couple of years and now,” his fingers scratch lightly at Kiyoomi’s scalp, “well now yer cryin’ in my arms.”
Despite himself, Kiyoomi lets out another wet laugh.
The anger in him begins to dissipate just a touch—not enough to be ignored, but enough that Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’ll want to slap Atsumu across the face when they pull apart. There were a million ways Atsumu could have handled that situation better, but Kiyoomi at least gives him credit for wanting to do better. Hopefully, there will be time to discuss how they could handle that later.
There’s a stretch of silence as he steadies his breathing, still clutching tightly to Atsumu. The constant up and down slide of Atsumu’s hand across his back works wonders to help him center himself and get his head screwed back on straight.
“I’m sorry,” the words are so quiet Kiyoomi would have missed them if the side of his face wasn’t pressed against the side of Kiyoomi’s head. “I’m sorry for leavin’ ya like that. And for not comin’ back. I was afraid ya would hate me.”
Raw honestly makes more tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, Kiyoomi willing them away with all his might
One of his hands slides into Atsumu’s hair instinctually, “Never. Not you.”
Like the best moments of his relationship with Atsumu, the exchange is personal, private, shuttered out from the world; so quiet that no one else could have ever heard it. It feels right—to be in his arms, whispering apologies and long-held confessions. And just like always, Kiyoomi swings back into normalcy with him.
“Now what’s fuckin’ crazy, is that I had no intention of comin’ here tonight. But I guess I got my train lines mixed up or misheard and got on the wrong train going the opposite direction of my apartment and it’s the last train of the night. So I’m here.”
“With me,” Kiyoomi moves his head so his lips are closer to Atsumu’s bare neck.
The brush of those lips against Atsumu’s neck makes his breathing falter, “Yeah, Omi. With you.”
Pulling away to look at him properly, Kiyoomi notes that he hasn’t changed at all, yet everything is different. He’s the same as always, but there’s something in his eyes. It’s a different way of looking at him—softer, more full of the things Atsumu was always afraid of, that they were both afraid of.
Vulnerability. That’s it, the look they never really showed to one another.
“Ya look ugly when ya cry,” though he has a playful smirk, the tone is so gentle Kiyoomi could scream. The thwack at his chest is warranted and Atsumu can’t help but morph the smirk into a devious grin. “Ya like my honesty, ya can’t lie to me.”
“You should be on your knees begging for me to take you back,” Kiyoomi huffs out, voice still hoarse from crying and far less intimidating than he wants to be.
When one of those strong brows tugs up, Kiyoomi knows he’s in trouble, “As ya wish, yer majesty.”
As he sinks down onto his knees, Kiyoomi wants to kick him and kiss him all in the same breath.
“Omi, please I’m beggin’ here,” those wide eyes are useless when his mouth curves up into that wicked grin. “I’d do anythin’ for ya, promise. Some haste in takin’ me back would be great though ‘cause this ground ain’t too forgivin’ on the knees.”
“Oh, so you’ll do anything besides feel discomfort, hm?” Toying with one another becomes so natural, like breathing.
“I mean I’m not opposed to some discomfort,” the accompanying wink earns Atsumu a roll of Kiyoomi’s eyes, “but I could think of some better uses of our time right now.”
“Is that right?” Atsumu nods, reaching up for Kiyoomi’s hips to stabilize himself as he rises up. “And what could that be?”
“Honestly,” Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu’s tongue darts to his lower lip, “we could be kissin’ and makin’ up. I ain’t been able to stop lookin’ at those cry swollen lips ya got.”
“You fucking asshole,” Kiyoomi laughs, warm and something he thought he forgot how to do, “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” Atsumu grins.
“I do.”
But Atsumu’s leaning closer and Kiyoomi’s smiling like he’s never experienced joy before this moment. It’s impossible to insist that he hates Atsumu when their lips slot together and it’s just as intoxicating as their first kiss. Without any thought at all, Kiyoomi’s hands tangle into Atsumu’s hair, tugging him even closer.
There’s something about the way Atsumu’s lips fit against his, the way his hands know exactly where to go. And that feeling in Kiyoomi’s chest flickers back to life and it stays. The last hole in his chest fills up as Atsumu presses tender kisses to his lips. Ringing in the back of his head, Kiyoomi hears a familiar voice.
“You deserve happiness, Sakusa.”
Right here, in Atsumu’s arms with their lips moving together, pulling apart and coming together over and over again, he’s certain that happiness is his to keep this time.