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Kiyoomi lets out a deep sigh. The Starbucks is really busy today; he can hear the chatter even over his music. He cranks up the volume a bit and tries to refocus. He’s ahead on his work, but Kiyoomi refuses to go even one day without studying a bit for each class. The constant maintenance of his knowledge is the reason that Kiyoomi is eligible to graduate with highest honors, and there’s nothing more important to him than his education and budding career as a researcher.
Classical music blares in Kiyoomi’s ears as he flips through his chemistry notebook, textbook in his bag in case he needs it. He doesn’t like having his music this loud, but he has to drown out the sounds of people talking, lest he get distracted and fail to study. Kiyoomi wishes he could smack everyone over the head with a brick, or something. Whatever would make them shut up. If he didn’t need caffeine so bad, he would study somewhere else. Alas, with his double shot espresso in hand and the full intent of buying another, Kiyoomi has to finish his studying in the overcrowded coffee shop.
From across the room, Kiyoomi hears raucous laughter and turns to glare at the offender, who turns out to be a muscular man with bleach-blond hair. Kiyoomi’s glare remains unchanged, because attractive men don’t get special treatment. Everyone should keep their noise level politely low in a space that students are obviously using to study, even broad-shouldered men with gleaming, golden eyes and a smile that makes Kiyoomi’s heart skip a beat — oh, shut the fuck up , Kiyoomi thinks as he returns to studying.
Kiyoomi makes it through exactly one page of his notes before he’s interrupted — lo and behold, it’s the guy that Kiyoomi glared at a moment ago. The guy pulls out the chair across from Kiyoomi and sits with legs spread wide and forearms on the table, encroaching on Kiyoomi’s space. The store may be crowded, but there are certainly other places to sit. Why is this bleached-blond, muscular, cocky-looking guy sitting here, of all places? Wasn’t he with friends? Can’t he see that Kiyoomi is busy and doesn’t want to be interrupted?
Kiyoomi takes out an Airpod as the blond guy stares at him, and it feels like he’s staring through every layer and shield straight into Kiyoomi’s soul. The guy seems to take the Airpod removal as an invitation to start talking even though Kiyoomi has no intent of entertaining this man for even a second.
“Lemme guess: classic literature major? Or art history?” The guy cocks his head expectantly, leaning forward onto the table.
“Do I really look like a liberal arts major?” Kiyoomi replies, sparing a single glance for the guy before returning his attention to his notes. He doesn’t have time for this — besides, who the hell just starts talking to a stranger without even introducing themselves? Kiyoomi could never .
“Ya had me fooled with the whole… dark academia kinda look. Y’know, the turtleneck an’ dark curls an’ stern glare… y’know? Made ya look like one ‘a those cute book-lovin’ classical music types,” The guy gestures towards Kiyoomi. There’s a lot to unpack there, but Kiyoomi doesn’t even know where to start. He opts for ignoring it all and continuing to study. “Alright, anyways, so you’re one of those STEM typa guys? I gotcha. Theoretical mathematics?” The guy continues.
“Nope,” Kiyoomi replies, highlighting a couple of words in his notes.
“Biology?”
“Closer,” Kiyoomi keeps going over his notes and refuses to look back up at the guy intruding on his study session.
“Physics?”
“Nope,”
“Chemistry?”
“There you go,” Kiyoomi replies. Maybe now the dude will leave.
“Chem? Seriously? Isn’t that, like, one of the hardest majors?” The guy looks bewildered.
“It’s not that bad if you pay attention and study,” Kiyoomi replies. Like I’m trying to do now , he doesn’t add.
“I’m takin’ a chemistry course right now,” The guy says. “For my kinesiology degree. I have no idea why I need a chem credit for this stupid major, an’ chemistry makes absolutely zero sense. I can’t imagine actually bein’ good at chemistry enough to major in it,”
“I like chemistry,” Kiyoomi says, finally looking up at the guy. “It makes sense, to me at least. Everything follows the rules of nature. Everything behaves the way it’s supposed to, and if it doesn’t, there’s a good reason. Well, sometimes that isn’t true, but it’s alright. Nature isn’t supposed to make complete sense.”
“Wow,” The guy almost looks contemplative. “That’s the most words I’ve heard ya say so far… uh, I dunno yer name. I totally forgot ta ask, which is super embarrassin’ fer me — I’m Miya Atsumu. Jus’ call me Atsumu. What’s yer name?”
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Kiyoomi replies.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Atsumu repeats, drawing out the syllables like he’s savoring them. “Oh! I know! Omi-kun,”
Kiyoomi really wants to be annoyed that this random stranger has decided they’re on a first name— a nickname basis already. He wants to be annoyed that this random, blond, athletic stranger sat down at his table without even asking and is now distracting him from studying. When the irritation doesn’t come, Kiyoomi wonders what the hell is wrong with him.
“So, Omi-kun.” Atsumu continues. “Two questions. One, can I have yer number? Two… do ya think maybe you could help me out with chemistry a bit? I’m seriously about to fail an’ I need this credit…”
Kiyoomi has a rule: never get sucked into tutoring people. He’s top of his class; of course people want his help. If he starts helping people, they’ll never let him stop. He needs that time for his own studies.
“Sure,” Kiyoomi replies. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m tutoring you.”
“Awesome,” Atsumu replies, handing his phone to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi punches in his contact information and hands the phone back. Wait— he didn’t even disinfect— Kiyoomi lunges for the hand sanitizer in his backpack as Atsumu keeps talking. “I’ll text ya so we can schedule somethin’, okay?”
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi responds, rubbing the alcohol into his hands meticulously. “But seriously, don’t tell anyone. I can’t have people breaking down my door begging me to tutor them like I did last semester,”
“Wow, yer that good?” Atsumu asks. Kiyoomi stares at him blankly.
“I’m graduating with highest honors this spring. After that, I’m starting my Ph.D.”
“Holy shit, score!” Atsumu exclaims. “I’m gettin’ special chemistry lessons from the smartest man in the whole school!”
“Special chemistry lessons?” Kiyoomi asks. For some reason, that sounds really suggestive. Shut up, Kiyoomi, shut up! It only sounds suggestive if you let it , he thinks. “You make it sound like we’re going to run a meth lab together.”
“Is that what chem majors do in their free time?” Atsumu asks, expression playful. He’s really cute , Kiyoomi thinks. He immediately banishes the thought.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi replies. “When a chemistry major says “research project”, they really mean secret drug lab.”
Atsumu laughs, and his smile is radiant. Kiyoomi finds himself wishing Atsumu would just keep on laughing and never stop, because no other beauty could possibly compare— he stops himself. Kiyoomi hates having lame, sappy thoughts. He never should’ve taken that classic literature class; his thoughts have sounded like sonnets ever since. Kiyoomi ignores that fact that no, they haven’t actually, and the lyrical thoughts seem to be an Atsumu-exclusive phenomenon. He’ll blame the literature class. He does, however, suppose that sappy thoughts are better than horny thoughts; the latter are beginning to surface in his brain and Kiyoomi is desperately trying to suppress them.
“Well, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says. “I gotta go ta practice. I’ll text ya later! Have fun studyin’ ‘n makin’ meth an’ all that,”
“Practice?” Kiyoomi asks before he can feign disinterest.
“Yeah,” Atsumu replies. “I play fer the university soccer team. I was only able ta come ta such a prestigious school because of a sports scholarship. Anyways, I really gotta dip. See ya, Omi Omi!”
Atsumu walks out the door. Kiyoomi watches him the whole way (Atsumu has a great ass, not that Kiyoomi notices), until Atsumu is finally out of sight. Despite being out of sight, Atsumu is not out of mind. Kiyoomi thinks about Atsumu as he continues reading his notes. Even when he’s done studying and leaves the Starbucks to spend the rest of his Saturday curled up in bed, he still can’t shake the image of Atsumu from his brain.
When Kiyoomi gets back to his dorm, he immediately changes into sweats and collapses onto his bed. He turns on the true crime podcast he’s been into recently and closes his eyes, still sleepy despite the espresso. He quickly discovers that he isn’t able to focus on the podcast much at all. His brain is too busy recounting every second of his interaction with Atsumu over and over, on an endless loop. He has so many questions. What possessed Atsumu to sit down at Kiyoomi’s table and act all friendly when all Kiyoomi did was glare at him? Why wasn’t Kiyoomi more bothered? What the hell is dark academia? Did Atsumu really call Kiyoomi cute, or is Kiyoomi somehow fabricating that detail all by himself? What on Earth has he gotten himself into? Kiyoomi keeps his eyes closed, but he can’t sleep at all. He’s far too busy overthinking.
At some point, Kiyoomi must finally manage to drift off, because he finds himself waking up to his phone buzzing incessantly. It turns out he’s getting a call, and Kiyoomi’s first instinct is to decline the call, because he has no interest in hearing about his car’s extended warranty— but as his thumb hovers over the red decline button, Kiyoomi has a change of heart. This change of heart has absolutely nothing to do with a certain bleach-blond soccer player. Nothing at all. Kiyoomi’s just very interested in the extended warranty on the car he doesn’t have.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” He answers the phone, trying not to sound like he just woke up.
“Whoa, did I wake ya?” Atsumu asks, sounding worried. “You can go back ta sleep, if ya want…”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Kiyoomi replies. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes.
“Sure, sure,” Atsumu laughs. “Ya just got that husky mornin’ voice twenty-four-seven, that it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kiyoomi says.
“Mhm,” Atsumu teases. “Well, anyways, I know this might be a bit short notice, but my friend Rin’s jus’ informed me that we actually have a chem test t’morrow, an’ then promptly refused ta help me study at all. The problem is that I don’ know exactly what I’m s’posed ta be studyin’...”
“Fine, come on over,” Kiyoomi sighs. He does his damndest to sound inconvenienced, despite the fact that he would very much like Atsumu to come over, chemistry test or not. No, you wouldn’t. Stop it, Kiyoomi , he chastises himself.
“Awesome! What dorm are ya in? Oh— do ya live off campus? I live on campus b’cause the soccer field is right by my dorm so I can sleep in more, but I always forget that most seniors live off campus—”
“No, I’m on campus. Smith Hall, room four seventeen.” Kiyoomi interjects. “I like living close to my classes and work.”
“Wait, I’m real close to there! I’ll be over in a moment,” Atsumu hangs up, and Kiyoomi stares at the wall, processing. He’s only able to process for about three minutes before a loud bang on his door forces him up and out of bed.
“Omi-kun!” Kiyoomi opens the door to a grinning Atsumu.
“Hi,” He says. Good one, Kiyoomi , he thinks.
“Whoa, you have a single too?” Atsumu’s eyes are wide as he checks out the room, which, indeed, is Kiyoomi’s and Kiyoomi’s alone.
“I’m an RA. The college pays me for it, I don’t have to have roommates, and I get to live two minutes away from the lab I work in. It’s a good deal,” Kiyoomi responds, leaving out the part where he’s always had a single because his parents paid extra for it in order to placate him, up until the shit that went down last year. Atsumu doesn’t need to know about Kiyoomi’s rich-kid-disowned-by-parents complex.
“That’s so cool,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi stares at the floor, cheeks growing warm. He mentally slaps himself for reacting to that like it was praise.
“Okay, so,” Atsumu slips his shoes off and bounces over to the desk, dropping his bags on the floor with a thunk. It’s at this point that Kiyoomi realizes Atsumu is still in his soccer uniform, and he’s damp with sweat. He pointedly does not look at the way Atsumu’s shorts hug his ripped thighs or the way his shirt seems to be slightly too small on his broad shoulders or the way that when he idly stretches an arm, his shirt rides up and Kiyoomi can see a sliver of impressive midriff.
“So,” Atsumu continues, pulling out a textbook. Kiyoomi does not stare at Atsumu’s ass as he leans over to rifle through his bag. “I have no idea what the hell I’m s’posed ta be crammin’. Rin jus’ said chapters twelve through fifteen, but I can’t remember what those chapters were about or when we did them. He wouldn’t tell me, the dick.”
“Let me see,” Kiyoomi says, and snatches the textbook, wiping the covers with a disinfectant wipe. He sits on his bed and flips through the book, looking for chapter twelve and hoping it’s something he’s good at (he’s good at everything chemistry related, but still, Kiyoomi worries). He finds it, and sighs in relief. He’s really good at equilibrium calculations (surprise, surprise). It’s just basic math, so he has no chance of fucking it up and making a fool out of himself.
“Alright,” Kiyoomi starts. “So, equilibrium. You know what that is? Don’t look at your notes. You’ll need to know that off the top of your head.”
“Ah…” Atsumu trails off, and Kiyoomi swears he sees the athlete’s cheeks going red. He can’t imagine why. If anyone in this situation should be embarrassed, it’s Kiyoomi.
“That’s alright. Do you know what the word means?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Yeah,” Atsumu says, grimacing when Kiyoomi makes a go on motion with his hand. “It’s, like, when things’re all in balance with each other, right?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi smiles. What the fuck? He never smiles. Kiyoomi quickly wipes away the offending expression and files that bit of information away for later. “In chemistry terms, you’ll need to be a bit more specific…”
They continue like that for ages: Kiyoomi asks a question, Atsumu answers, or Atsumu doesn’t answer and Kiyoomi explains, then makes Atsumu repeat the explanation until he’s sure he understands. Atsumu holds his notebook in his lap and highlights bits of his notes, adding onto sections that he learns more about and doing practice problems on a spare page, and at some point, he migrates from the desk chair to the bed beside Kiyoomi in order to see a diagram from the textbook better. Kiyoomi lets Atsumu sit so close that their shoulders and thighs touch, and doesn't push Atsumu away even though he would normally be aching for some personal space. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t flinch when Atsumu leans his head in closer to look at the book and Kiyoomi can smell Atsumu’s lemon verbena deodorant and his hair gel and something musky and delectable that must be his sweat. Kiyoomi makes his way through four chapters, over a month’s worth of chemistry lectures all crammed into one night, and swears he must be losing his mind. His dreams that night are filled with Lewis structures and numbers and a very irritating grin framed by a very irritating head of blond hair.
“Omi-kun!” Atsumu’s voice rings loud, even through the phone. Kiyoomi blinks sleep out of his eyes. It’s… seven in the morning. Once again, Atsumu’s woken him up. Why does Kiyoomi keep answering the phone even when it’s woken him up?
“Yeah?” Kiyoomi grumbles.
“Oh shit, did I wake ya up again?”
“No,” Kiyoomi flips over, still tucked neatly beneath his covers.
“Sorry,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi can almost see his sad little pout.
“Don’t be. What’s up?” Kiyoomi asks. What’s up? Since when do I say what’s up? Kiyoomi wonders.
“Well, I was jus’ goin’ over my notes one more time after my run b’cause studyin’ after workin’ out’s s’posed ta work really well, an’ I was like, wow, I actually know all this stuff! So I guess I was jus’ callin’ ta thank ya, I guess.” Atsumu rambles, clearly not realizing he’s said I guess more than once in the same sentence.
Kiyoomi certainly doesn’t smile. He absolutely does not think that Atsumu’s the cutest thing ever.
“You’re welcome,” Kiyoomi replies through his not-smile. “Good luck on your test, Atsumu.”
“Thanks, Omi Omi! Yer the best,” Atsumu says, hanging up before Kiyoomi can answer. That’s probably for the best; Kiyoomi was about to say something really stupid like You too or I love you or Dear God, please marry me right now .
It’s Friday morning, which means it’s not one of Kiyoomi’s early days; he did this on purpose when he designed his schedule. He doesn’t have class until eleven, but Kiyoomi finds that after an early morning call with Atsumu, he’s irreparably awake. He can’t find it in himself to be annoyed as he fiddles with his almost-defunct coffee maker that he’s technically not even allowed to have.
Ten minutes later, Kiyoomi has a cup of subpar coffee in his hand and papers spread out across his desk. Tutoring Atsumu in basic chemistry had been good review, but altogether insufficient for the course load that Kiyoomi’s currently taking. He needs to study for his advanced organic chemistry class— the one that literally only the chemistry majors and a couple of ambitious biology majors take. It’s a notoriously difficult class, and Kiyoomi is only barely pulling an A. He clicks the end of his mechanical pencil, allowing himself to get absorbed in the work.
Right as Kiyoomi’s in the middle of drawing an overly complex and downright frustrating compound, his phone rings once more. Unfortunately for Kiyoomi, he can focus very deeply, but once that focus is disturbed, it’s hard to get back— although, looking at the time, Kiyoomi’s glad he got distracted. He’d gotten very into his studying, and he may well have missed his eleven o’clock calculus class.
“Hello?” Kiyoomi answers his phone.
“Omi-kun! I just got out of chem— I think I did good! I knew all the words that were on the test. That’s good, right?” Atsumu sounds like he slammed four Red Bulls before going to class, and maybe he did. He seems like the type.
“Yes, that’s good.” Kiyoomi replies.
“Awesome! An’ I knew how ta do all the math problems! I finished the whole test! I’ve never done that before,” Atsumu continues rambling, and Kiyoomi isn’t inclined to stop him.
“I'm glad, Atsumu. I’m glad I could help,” Kiyoomi says, knowing he sounds dumb but also knowing anything else he says will be dumber.
“Hey, speaking of which— actually, not speaking of which, because this is a total non sequitur, but whatever— I have a game day after t’morrow; ya wanna come?” Atsumu asks.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says, before Atsumu’s even done speaking. “What time is it?”
“Oh, uh, it starts at six. Make sure ya sit in the front so I can see ya!” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi can picture him bouncing on the balls of his feet with a cute grin— Kiyoomi mentally slaps himself. Shut up, brain .
“I will,” Kiyoomi replies.
“Watch closely! I’m number thirteen, the one that’s gonna score all the goals.” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi’s heart skips a beat.
“I’ll watch carefully,” Kiyoomi responds. “Wouldn't want to miss a single moment,”
Did he just say that out loud? Yeah, he totally did. Idiot , Kiyoomi thinks.
“Aw, Omi-kun! That’s so cute! You’re so adorable— uh, I mean—“ Atsumu hangs up. Kiyoomi sighs. At least he isn’t the only one too awkward for his own good. The time flashes on Kiyoomi’s phone screen as the call ends, and he realizes he has seven minutes to make a twelve minute walk.
He’s late to class. The professor gives Kiyoomi a weird look as he rushes into the lecture five minutes late, flushed and sweaty from attempting to run to class while wearing a sweater. He slides into his seat as the professor continues to lecture, and Kiyoomi does his very best to catch up. Yet, despite his love for calculus, Kiyoomi keeps finding himself distracted, thinking scattered thoughts of soccer and sweat and blond hair. He takes less than a page of notes.
The game, as Atsumu said, starts at six. Kiyoomi gets there at five twenty, securing himself a seat as close to the field as possible. The other upside to his early arrival is that he can whip out his Lysol wipes and disinfect the section of bench that he’ll be sitting on without neighboring attendees giving him weird looks (he still gets a couple of weird looks, which he dutifully ignores like he always does).
In the forty minutes before the game commences, Kiyoomi alternates between reading an interesting study on the medical applications of protease-activated bacterial toxins and watching the soccer team warm up. Far too late, Kiyoomi recalls that Motoya is on this team. Kiyoomi considers ducking his head to avoid getting spotted. Hopefully, his cousin is too focused on the impending match to look out into the crowd and recognize Kiyoomi’s unmistakable stature and hair.
Besides, Kiyoomi isn’t really watching Motoya. He loves his cousin, but when Atsumu is on the field, who else could Kiyoomi watch? He’s enthralled as Atsumu jogs a couple laps of the field and works his way through a series of stretches; even from this far away, Kiyoomi can see the way Atsumu’s legs ripple with pure muscle, the way his calves bulge with sharp angles and the way his quads shift under his shorts. Damn it , Kiyoomi thinks, stop thinking about fucking his thighs. I mean, stop thinking about his fucking thighs. Fuck!
Kiyoomi can feel himself going red. He swiftly returns to the study he’s reading, because nothing kills a boner better than anthrax toxin— and this study is complete with images. One look at a lung tumor excised from a mouse has Kiyoomi’s thoughts firmly back in the realm of un-horny. He keeps reading as the minutes creep by, although he takes a break every few sentences to peek at Atsumu. Kiyoomi keeps having to look at the tumor pictures for the sake of his own sanity.
The seats fill up as six o’clock draws near, and Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose in distaste at a group of people who cram in way too close to him. He’s reminded of why he never goes to sporting events. He is then immediately reminded of why he now goes to sporting events as Atsumu jogs across the field to take his position right in the center of things. Kiyoomi barely notices Motoya standing in the goal, even though some tiny, sane part of his brain is thinking that he should watch his cousin, too. He’s fixated on Atsumu.
The match begins, and Atsumu immediately begins moving. Kiyoomi doesn’t know shit about soccer, but based on Atsumu’s position on the field and the fact that he’s currently in possession of the ball, Kiyoomi can guess that Atsumu plays an offensive position, rather than a defensive one. He’s sure that Motoya has said the names of those positions before, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. It doesn’t matter, anyways. All that matters is that Atsumu can run so fast, and it doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat yet, and Kiyoomi’s beginning to notice that his arms are just as ripped as his legs.
Kiyoomi can barely track Atsumu’s movements. One moment he’s in one spot, receiving a pass or poised to kick, and the next, he’s all the way across the field. If Kiyoomi didn’t know better, he’d think Atsumu was teleporting. At one point, Atsumu takes a ball to the face (Kiyoomi refuses to allow himself an innuendo. He refuses), and Kiyoomi gasps inadvertently because he’s worried that Atsumu just broke his nose, but somehow, the ball goes right to Atsumu’s teammate and Atsumu seems fine. He even flashes a giant grin at no one in particular before taking off again. This is how Kiyoomi learns that soccer players are allowed to hit the ball with their heads. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention when Motoya tried to explain soccer to him.
The first point isn’t scored by Atsumu, but that head of blond hair bounces around excitedly anyways. From what Kiyoomi can tell, Atsumu was instrumental in scoring that point, even if he didn’t make the actual shot— or, at least, that’s the story Kiyoomi’s going with. Whatever.
Kiyoomi doesn’t notice the time passing; he’s transfixed by Atsumu’s lethal grace and intense power on the field. Over an hour goes by, and Kiyoomi’s eyes and brain hurt from trying to keep up with Atsumu, but it’s extremely worth it. Atsumu scores point after point, and intercepts the ball from the other team countless times, and once, Kiyoomi thinks he sees Atsumu intentionally trip someone, but the referee seems to think that isn’t a foul. Maybe it isn’t; Kiyoomi doesn’t actually know.
By the time the match is over, the air has grown chillier, and the sun has almost fully set. There are still hints of the sunset lingering, wisps of dusty pink and orange intertwining in the darkening sky. Goosebumps rise on Kiyoomi’s arms even under his jacket, but he hardly notices, because now Atsumu is lit up by the soft sunset and the harsher fluorescent lights surrounding the field, which somehow don’t wash out his complexion at all. Even under the white light, Atsumu’s skin looks as sunkissed as ever, and the planes of his muscles are still harshly defined. He’s drenched with sweat, and the amount of physical exertion it takes for Kiyoomi to keep his thoughts PG is staggering— because, what if someone in this stadium can read minds? Kiyoomi’s lifelong habit of censoring his own thoughts has never been so hard to uphold.
Atsumu takes a victory lap, as is his right, considering he scored the majority of the points tonight. Kiyoomi hangs onto his every step. He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning forward on the railing, doesn’t even care that he’s touching something that hasn’t been sanitized. He’ll shower when he gets home— keep it PG for the mind readers , Kiyoomi thinks as his thoughts begin to stray once more.
Kiyoomi is deep in the throes of trying to control his own thoughts when his eyes meet Atsumu’s. Immediately, every single thought leaves his brain. If there are, indeed, mind readers present tonight, they would probably think Kiyoomi just died. How did Atsumu even see him up here? How can he see at this angle with those giant lights shining in his eyes?
Atsumu waves. Kiyoomi waves back, and then immediately questions his own existence because he may be a lot of things, but he has never been the type of man to wave back at someone— especially not with a stupid little smile on his face that he can’t seem to get rid of. None of that matters, though, because when Atsumu sees Kiyoomi waving and smiling, his grin grows impossibly wider. Kiyoomi decides that he is now the type of man to wave back and smile.
Atsumu flashes one more sparkling smile, and he gestures at Kiyoomi before sprinting off. Kiyoomi has no idea what those hand movements meant, but he’s hoping they meant Stay right there and wait for me or perhaps Take me home . Kiyoomi goes with the former (for now, he hopes).
Waiting for Atsumu, Kiyoomi pulls back up the study he’d been reading. He makes it through about a third of a section before his phone pings.
Miya Atsumu : wait right there omi! i’ll be up in just a sec
Sakusa Kiyoomi: Alright, see you soon.
Kiyoomi stares at his phone, noticing that these texts are the first between him and Atsumu. Come to think of it, all the other times that Atsumu had contacted Kiyoomi, it had been via phone call. Kiyoomi ponders this for a moment, then decides he doesn’t mind, because he’d rather hear Atsumu’s voice than have to imagine it. Even if he generally hates talking on the phone.
Sure enough, Kiyoomi is pulled from his reading when Atsumu sits down next to him on the bench, leaning back on a hand and spreading his legs out after slinging a duffel bag onto the ground. Kiyoomi has to focus in order to breathe.
“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu says, out of breath and still damp with sweat. He clearly chose to forego a shower.
“Hey,” Kiyoomi replies. You sound so fucking stupid right now, Kiyoomi , he thinks.
“Whatcha readin’?” Atsumu leans closer to look at Kiyoomi’s phone, and Kiyoomi catches a whiff of his sweat. Fucking delicious , he thinks, and then he’s imagining licking Atsumu and he has to look back down at his screen and stare at images of an artery that has been removed from a mouse.
“Oh, uh,” Kiyoomi falters. What is a succinct way of describing what he’s reading without sounding nasty and scaring Atsumu away?
“Is that some medical stuff? You premed or somethin’?” Atsumu presses.
“No, I just work in the biochemistry department,” Kiyoomi replies. “This is just reading for fun, though. My supervisor sent it to me since it’s in an area I’ve expressed interest in and it’s related to what we do in the lab.”
“You look at that gory stuff for fun?” Atsumu asks, but he doesn’t seem disgusted at all. More intrigued, if Kiyoomi had to guess.
“Yeah, this study is about inhibiting angiogenesis using anthrax toxin. It’s really quite interesting,” Kiyoomi stops himself before he starts info dumping. The last thing he needs tonight is to talk Atsumu’s ears off about proteases and kill any interest Atsumu could ever have in him, platonic or otherwise.
“Whoa, you can do that? How does that even work?” Atsumu asks with wide eyes, and Kiyoomi gives into his urge to ramble about science.
“Well, anthrax toxin can’t enter the cell and cause damage unless it’s bound to a specific receptor and cut by a specific protease, and the proteins that the toxin’s protective antigen binds to are factors in the growth of new arteries stimulated by chemical signals from tumors, so scientists have engineered the toxin to require the presence of two specific proteases that are more concentrated in cancerous tissue, so the toxin can kill the arteries that tumors create and starve the tumors. It’s even better because the tumor itself isn’t being attacked, so it can’t develop resistance— but, anyways, uh… yeah.” Kiyoomi stares at the ground.
“And?” Atsumu gestures for Kiyoomi to continue. “Has it worked?”
“Mice with metastatic melanoma and lung cancer have gone into almost full remission as long as they were kept on immunosuppressants to prevent the synthesis of antitoxins,” Kiyoomi responds. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble like that…”
“I asked, though,” Atsumu cocks his head, a confused expression twisting his brow. “Do people tell ya ta shut up when ya talk about science, or somethin’? Because I’ll never do that. I wanna hear as much as ya have ta say.”
“Uh,” Kiyoomi grimaces. How did Atsumu hit the nail on the head like that? “Yeah, my family. The only person that doesn’t outright tell me to shut up is my cousin, but I can still tell that he isn’t that interested. He just listens because he’s nice.” Shut up, shut up, stop talking about your family , Kiyoomi thinks.
“Well, they’re all idiots. I can’t imagine not wantin’ ta listen ta every word that comes outta yer mouth.” Atsumu huffs.
Kiyoomi realizes that he can see Atsumu’s breath in the air; the sun has gone fully down, and the fluorescent lights are probably about to turn off, and it’s remarkably cold. Kiyoomi shivers inside his track jacket and wonders how Atsumu isn’t dying of hypothermia in that thin, small uniform.
“Oh, are ya cold?” Atsumu asks. “Let’s go, then. Lemme getcha somethin’ ta eat; ya gotta be hungry. I’m starvin’, too.”
“Alright,” Kiyoomi replies, and lets Atsumu lead him to a parking lot.
In the car, Atsumu prompts Kiyoomi to keep talking about science things, and Kiyoomi indulges. He keeps talking as the pair makes their way into a restaurant, and only pauses to order a bowl of ramen. It feels incredible. Kiyoomi hadn’t realized how starved he’d been for attention— real, uninterrupted, caring attention, not begrudging attention— and Atsumu’s interested gaze locked onto Kiyoomi’s feels like basking in sunshine after spending years trapped in a stuffy basement. As he keeps going, he gets more animated, and emotion seeps into his voice until he sounds like a middle schooler talking about a video game. He only stops to inhale his ramen.
When Kiyoomi looks up from his finished food, Atsumu’s still looking at him.
“What?” Kiyoomi asks, dabbing at his face with a napkin in case he has food on him or something.
“Nothin’,” Atsumu replies.
Kiyoomi narrows his eyes and sips his water. Nothin’, my ass , he thinks.
“Did I talk too much?” Kiyoomi asks. I fucked it up somehow, I fucked it up and now he’s gonna leave me here and never contact me again and I’ll deserve it because I just talked his ears off about my stupid research for the better part of an hour—
“No, no! Nothin’ like that. Like I said, Omi, I could listen to ya talk fer hours an’ never get bored. Yer just…” Atsumu sighs and gestures with his free hand, though the gesture does nothing to clarify the meaning of his words.
“I’m just what?”
“Yer just… perfect. That’s all.” Atsumu says.
Kiyoomi stares, wracking his brain for anything to say, anything at all, anything that won’t sound dumb and scare Atsumu away or reveal too much about Kiyoomi’s inner workings.
“Perfect?” Is what he settles for because anything else would come off as tacky, or inauthentic, or it would fling open the curtains that Kiyoomi’s had drawn shut his entire life, and Kiyoomi isn’t prepared to live unapologetically like it seems Atsumu does.
“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, head resting in one hand. “Lemme drive ya home, Omi. It’s late.”
“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, dazed. Atsumu pays the bill and Kiyoomi doesn’t even realize until he’s already sitting in the car with his seatbelt buckled.
Maybe it’s the full stomach, or the late hour after a long day. Maybe it’s the pitch darkness of the night and the twinkling lights of the city. Maybe it’s the chilly, autumn air, or the fact that it’s been a long time since Kiyoomi felt truly cared for. All he knows for sure is that in this moment, his chest is filled with emotions he can’t describe, and he wants to do something cliche like lay on the roof of the car and cuddle up against Atsumu’s side and stargaze, or open up and spill his guts and tell Atsumu all about his childhood and his deepest fears and darkest secrets.
When Atsumu walks Kiyoomi to the door, Kiyoomi nearly invites him in. Atsumu lingers like maybe he’s waiting for something, hoping for something, but he doesn’t say a word. The moment stretches, sinking into Kiyoomi’s very bones, but, as do all moments, it eventually comes to an end. With a smile, a wave, and a Good night, Omi , Atsumu is gone. In his wake he leaves a swirling tempest of feelings, which doesn’t settle when Kiyoomi showers and brushes his teeth and doesn’t settle when he lays down to sleep.
The next day is Saturday, which means Kiyoomi gets to sleep in. Yet, he manages to wake up when the sun has barely risen, which is odd, considering the late hour at which he got to bed— and the amount of time he spent staring at the ceiling, sleepless, wondering why the hell he felt so… something. He still can’t describe it beyond the pressure in his chest and the intensity rippling through his body in waves.
When Kiyoomi goes to work in the lab for a bit, as is dictated by his schedule, the feeling subsides ever so slightly, but when he leaves the lab and sees a text message from Atsumu, that feeling crescendos and everything in the world around him seems brighter, louder, more vibrant and overwhelming. It knocks the wind out of Kiyoomi and leaves him on the metaphorical ground, gasping for air.
It turns out that Atsumu’s invited Kiyoomi out for coffee. Kiyoomi accepts with no hesitation and heads off in the direction of the cafe (because, of course, Atsumu’s already there). He doesn’t think twice about the fact that he’s just agreed to a spontaneous meetup, something that Motoya’s been trying to get Kiyoomi to do for years to no avail. When it’s Motoya, Kiyoomi requires a few days’ notice in order to even make coffee plans that fit into his packed schedule. Right now, Kiyoomi is ditching his pre-scheduled organic chem study time in favor of coffee with Atsumu.
Kiyoomi arrives, and nearly stops dead in his tracks. Atsumu looks heavenly. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and sweats, and his hair is messy, but his skin practically glows, and the planes of his body are as mesmerizing as ever, and his eyes seem to stare straight into Kiyoomi’s soul. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and walks to the counter to order his coffee, snorting when Atsumu swoops in to pay for the drink.
“You don’t have to pay for everything, you know,” Kiyoomi says. “I can pay for things, sometimes.”
“I want to,” Atsumu says. “I like payin’ fer things, when it’s you.”
“Alright, then,” Kiyoomi concedes. “I should have gotten a more expensive drink.”
“I’d let ya drain my bank account if ya wanted to,” Atsumu says as the pair wait for Kiyoomi’s coffee.
“If all it takes to drain your bank account is a more expensive coffee… well, that’s just sad,” Kiyoomi replies.
“Omi! I’ll have ya know that I’m not that broke,” Atsumu replies, indignant.
“Mhm,” Kiyoomi hums. “Sure.”
The barista hands Kiyoomi the coffee, and Atsumu leads him to the table he’d claimed. His own drink sits on the table, momentarily forgotten.
“So, how’s yer day been so far?” Atsumu asks, leaning across the table and sipping at his drink.
“Alright,” Kiyoomi says. By keeping his response short and sweet, he prevents himself from saying something stupid like Better, now that you’re here .
“Yeah? Whatcha been doin’?” Atsumu inquires.
“I worked in the lab for a few hours,” Kiyoomi says. “That’s about it. I had some mediocre coffee on the way there.”
“Aren’tcha glad I gotcha this far superior coffee?” Atsumu grins.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi allows himself a small smile. He hides it with a sip of his coffee.
When Kiyoomi looks back up, Atsumu is staring again, just like he had been right before calling Kiyoomi perfect and sending Kiyoomi down a rabbit hole of feelings he couldn’t explain. His eyes are wide, lips parted like he’s in awe of something. What he could possibly be in awe of, Kiyoomi can’t imagine.
“What?” Kiyoomi asks, wondering if this is going to be a repeat of last night.
“Oh—” Atsumu blinks. “Sorry. It’s just, you have the prettiest smile. Ya don’t smile all that much, but when ya do, it feels like ya shot me or somethin’. I didn’t mean ta stare.”
“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi says, then realizes that could possibly be taken as It’s fine, but don’t do it again , so he clarifies. “You can stare. As much as you want.” He looks down at the table, his moment of confidence already long gone.
“Alright, Omi,” Atsumu says, leaning his forearms on the table like he did the first time Kiyoomi met him. “I will.”
There’s that weird feeling again. Kiyoomi can almost feel cold tendrils writhing in his thoracic cavity, pressing against his ribs from the inside and threatening to crush his lungs. Yet, for some reason, despite all those unpleasant images his mind provides, it doesn’t feel like pain. It’s more like… a flood of sensation, and Kiyoomi’s scared of it, but he doesn’t exactly want it gone.
He says something to Motoya, after a week full of classes and work and talking to Atsumu in every free moment. Kiyoomi had shown up to the pre-planned Official Monday Cousin Coffee Meetup dazed and stuck in his own head, and Motoya, of course, had picked up on this immediately and pushed until Kiyoomi talked.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Kiyo. Tell me now. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell—”
“Oh my God, fine, if it’ll shut you up,” Kiyoomi interrupts.
Motoya smiles sweetly, sipping his drink and propping his elbows on the table like a heathen (when Atsumu does it, it’s fine. When Motoya does it, he’s a heathen. That’s just the way things are).
“I’ve just been… feeling weird, lately,” Kiyoomi starts.
“Weird how?” Motoya asks. “Because if it’s your stomach and a slight headache, you probably got food poisoning from the salad in the dining hall. Word on the street is someone accidentally contaminated a bunch of lettuce.”
“That is absolutely horrifying,” Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “But you know I don’t eat dining hall food. I just feel weird. Not in a sick way.”
“Then, in what kind of way?” Motoya’s brows scrunch.
“Like… weird. I don’t know. My chest has been feeling tight, and I’ve been… I don’t know, melancholic? Something like that.” Kiyoomi sighs.
“Ooh, big fancy words,” Motoya says. “Any particular reason for feeling weird, or just, like, idiopathic weirdness?”
“Well…” Kiyoomi stares at the table. He’d been hoping to get through this without mentioning Atsumu at all, because he knows Motoya won’t ever let him live it down.
“Go on,” Motoya smiles.
“I think it started after— God, this is stupid,” Kiyoomi glares at his coffee cup. “I met this guy, and… yeah.”
“Oh,” Motoya’s eyes are wide now, and he’s lifted his head and straightened his back. “So… what you’re telling me is that you’re pining.”
“No, I am not,” Kiyoomi retorts. “My chest feels weird when I’m around him, too, not just when we’re apart, so it can’t be that.”
“Hate to break it to you, Kiyo, but that’s pining. Your insides probably get all fluttery when he says something nice to you, too, right?” Motoya grins.
“Well—” I wanna hear as much as ya have ta say. You have the prettiest smile. Yer just… perfect. Kiyoomi groans. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, that’s pining. You’ve got it bad for this guy. Poor, unfortunate soul. Who is this guy, anyways? You got any of his social media? Not that I’m going to stalk him, or anything.” Motoya smiles again, but it looks more evil this time.
This is when things really start to go wrong. Kiyoomi is distracted, thinking about Atsumu and feelings and late night ramen runs and all that. It slips his mind that Motoya is on the university soccer team, even though it’s all he ever fucking talks about.
“His name is Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, and in doing so, he opens the gates of hell.
“Oh my God , you don’t mean Miya Atsumu, do you? Oh my fucking God . Holy fucking shit , fucking hell!” Motoya starts cackling. “I— I can’t believe this! You’re sitting there with this dreamy-ass look on your face, getting all fluttery and pining over some mystery guy, but that guy is Miya fucking Atsumu ! Oh my God , I have to tell Suna—” Motoya manages between gasps, reaching for his phone.
“Fuck, please don’t tell anyone,” Kiyoomi stares at his cousin, panic rising in his chest, because apparently now he feels all his emotions as physical sensations in his chest. Somehow, this is Atsumu’s fault.
Motoya freezes in the act of typing what is more than likely a damning text. He must see something in Kiyoomi’s expression, because he holds down the backspace button for a few seconds and sets his phone back on the table.
“What’s wrong? Is it…” Motoya stares over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, probably searching for a tactful way to finish his sentence. “Is it one-sided?” There it is.
“No, I don’t think so,” Kiyoomi says. “Unless I misread things, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t. He approached me first, after all. And he asked for my number, and asked to come over to my dorm, and asked me to come to his game, and took me out for dinner and insisted on paying, and…” Kiyoomi trails off, a traitorous blush rising in his cheeks.
“And? Keep going, Kiyo.” Motoya grins. It’s less evil this time, more genuine.
“Well,” Kiyoomi smiles. He just lets it happen, because he’s getting worse and worse at repressing his smiles. “He said my smile is pretty, and he asked me to talk about the study I was reading, and he listened the whole time and asked a bunch of questions like he actually cared. I think he did actually care. He said I’m perfect, and… I think he wanted me to kiss him, a little while back. I should have kissed him.”
“Oh,” Motoya says. “Wow. So, he likes you too. What’s the issue?”
“I just… I don’t know.” Kiyoomi sighs again.
“Don’t know if you like him? Because boy, do I have some news for you—”
“No, I do like him. I just… don’t know how to be in love. Or something.” Kiyoomi grimaces. He’s rapidly approaching his yearly maximum amount of opening up. “I’m not exactly the ideal boyfriend. I don’t even have words to put to the things I feel. I’m kind of shit at communicating, and I’m boring, and he’s… such a free spirit. I don’t want to hold him back.”
“Oh, Kiyo.” Motoya holds Kiyoomi’s gaze. “You’re not going to hold him back. You can tell him those things; he’ll understand you. He’s not the kind of person to run away when things aren’t perfect. And honestly, you’ll never figure those things out if you don’t try. It’s like… learning to swim. You get thrown in the deep end, and you struggle for a bit, and somewhere in there, you figure it out and start swimming, and maybe you’re not perfect, but you’re afloat, and there’s always time to improve. That’s what it feels like to love.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi replies, and the pair remain silent for a few heartbeats before the conversation shifts to something a little less bone-rattling.
Motoya’s words echo in Kiyoomi’s ears the rest of the day. You’ll never figure those things out if you don’t try. He’s not the kind of person to run away . Kiyoomi stares at the ceiling, bed feeling markedly less comfortable than it did the previous night, although that may be because Kiyoomi’s back, shoulders, and neck are all tenser than they’ve ever been before. Next time he sees Atsumu face to face, he’ll say something.
“I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you,” Turns out to be what Kiyoomi says when he next sees Atsumu, between his classes on Wednesday. He and Atsumu are sitting on a park bench some time past noon but before golden hour, chatting about life and school and whatever else crosses their minds, and Kiyoomi’s talking more than he usually talks with other people, and then he says it out of the blue and Atsumu just looks at him for a moment, brow furrowed in confusion.
“What?”
“Friday night, the week before last, after your game. I should’ve kissed you. I didn’t. I’m sorry.” Kiyoomi casts his gaze to the ground and observes a ladybug crawling up a blade of grass.
“There’s no should’ve about it, Omi,” Atsumu replies. “I waited ta see if you were ready. Ya weren’t, an’ that’s okay. I don’t wantcha ta kiss me before yer ready.”
“What if I’m ready now?” Kiyoomi asks, unable to tear his gaze from the grass.
“Are ya?” Atsumu cocks his head.
Kiyoomi sighs. “I have no idea… this is all kind of new to me. Sorry,”
“Don’t apologize, Omi. I’m perfectly content ta talk to ya every chance I get, an’ buy yer coffee, an’ take ya ta all the nice places I can think of. I’d like ta kiss ya one day, but I care far more about gettin’ ta know ya an’ hearin’ all the smart things ya have ta say an’ lettin’ ya navigate yer own feelin’s. I get the impression yer not used ta this kinda attention.” Atsumu replies.
“I’m not,” Kiyoomi says. “But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. You make me feel… cared about.”
“Good, b’cause I care aboutcha.” Atsumu says. “I sat down at yer table that first time b’cause you were super cute and yer glare made my heart flutter, an’ I’m real glad I did, cause yer the best thing ta happen ta me in a really long time. I could tell the second ya started talkin’ that I was gonna fall head over heels.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi replies. “I kind of just thought you were annoying. And then I was annoyed at myself for not being more annoyed with you. And now… well. You know.”
Atsumu laughs— a full-body, tears-in-the-eyes laugh, not one of those polite laughs that Kiyoomi forces himself to give sometimes. Not that he ever has to do that with Atsumu.
“Yeah,” Atsumu says when the laughter wracking his body subsides enough. “I’ve heard that before. I’m self aware enough to know I come on a lil bit strong.”
“I like it,” Kiyoomi says. “I certainly wouldn’t have approached you, so I’m glad you approached me. I’m not… sociable.”
“Ya seem plenty sociable ta me,” Atsumu replies. “Maybe that’s just my innate charm, though.”
“Something like that,” Kiyoomi says. “You’re easy to talk to. Most people aren’t.”
“Yer easy ta talk to, too,” Atsumu says. “Really. I mean that. Ya light up when ya talk about things ya care about, an’ yer a good listener, too. Yer super funny; a lotta people try fer the deadpan sarcasm bit but no one does it as naturally and seamlessly as you. I think my thesis statement here is that yer fuckin’ hilarious an’ super fun ta talk to.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, because he’s a little busy turning bright red and trying to keep a single thought inside his brain beyond Oh my God, I’m going to fall in love with him, aren’t I .
Talking has never been Kiyoomi’s strong suit. He stumbles on his words, or he says the wrong thing, or he bores people to death, or he pushes people away until no one will talk to him and he’s all alone. Talking doesn’t serve him, so he doesn’t talk.
Kiyoomi’s earlier apprehension melts away, and in another one of his increasingly common, momentary surges of confidence, he turns to face Atsumu on the park bench, lifts his hands to Atsumu’s warming cheeks, and kisses him.
Atsumu lets out a minute gasp, and for a split second, he’s completely still, and Kiyoomi thinks that maybe he’s overstepped his bounds or done something wrong— but then Atsumu is kissing him back, and there isn’t room for thoughts inside Kiyoomi’s head anymore. Atsumu tastes like pumpkin spice, and the glide of his lips against Kiyoomi’s is intoxicating. Kiyoomi regrets not kissing anyone earlier than this, then thinks that maybe kissing is only this good with Atsumu, and not with other people. He almost regrets not kissing Atsumu any earlier, but in this moment, with the warm sunlight and the chilly breeze and the scent of autumn in the air, with leaves falling and every sensation heightened beyond what Kiyoomi thought was possible, Kiyoomi can’t imagine a better first kiss.
When Kiyoomi finally pulls away to catch his breath, Atsumu’s expression is unlike anything Kiyoomi has seen before. His pupils are blown wide, and his entire face is flushed, and he has this look of wonderment about him— it’s almost as if he’s regarding Kiyoomi with reverence. His parted lips are slick with spit and rosy from the kiss, and Kiyoomi finds that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t tear his gaze away from Atsumu’s face. He can only admire Atsumu’s features, one at a time and with great depth. Kiyoomi can’t even get his breathing under control, much less the hurricane of feeling and sensation in his chest that has now expanded to his entire body. The tendrils of indescribable feeling stretch all the way to Kiyoomi’s fingertips— but they aren’t indescribable anymore. Kiyoomi watches Atsumu’s lips widen into an earth-shattering smile and thinks that maybe this is just what it feels like to be falling in love.