Work Text:
The wooden windowsill creaks as the boy jumps, bracing himself against the floor with a loud slap of his palms for a moment before he straightens up. Blue light from the motel sign outside washes over his features, turning his bleached hair dark yellow and casting shadows beyond the callouses on his fingers. His palms sting from the awkward landing but he pays them no heed as he stretches out his legs, one after the other, rolling his right ankle with extra care. The air smells faintly of sweat and popcorn and plastic, settling around him like a particularly comfortable blanket; the rubber soles of his shoes squeak loudly against smooth, worn tiles as he takes a few steps forward.
The only source of light is the sign outside- it casts an otherworldly glow on the machines, turning his amber eyes an odd brownish green. He knows he should wait by the window like he'd been told to- lest he do something stupid and get lost, apparently- but he can't help taking one, two, three steps forward, drawn to the unfamiliarity of it all. There's something strangely homely about an abandoned arcade, he thinks as he wanders among the lonely machines, tracing his fingertips across worn glass and wincing when they come away black with dust. Rusted machine knobs with the paint chipping off, screens cracked with age, soot-covered buttons- the place has an abandoned feel to it that should be chilling, but bundled in his maroon track jacket and a scarf, he feels a strange sense of melancholy as he wanders between the isles.
The blue light streaming from the window reflects off of the machine monitors, turning the opposite wall into a kaleidoscope of aquamarine. It reminds him of late nights at home- six prefectures away, bags of chips lying opened between consoles long forgotten as their owners bickered with each other, camera flashing from the opposite end of the room. It reminds him of midnights spent staring at his phone, carefully hidden under a thick blanket as he watches six pixelated figures on an orange court become one and soar.
He wishes he was on that orange court right now. It should have been him, floating up into the air, haloed by the stadium lights as he conquered the world with a picture-perfect set and a smile on his face.
The air smells mustier the further behind he goes, and the darkness is stronger here, permeating through all his defenses and leaving him with a sense of nakedness. Or maybe it's just the lateness of the hour, playing tricks on his mind, surrounding him tightly, too much like a straightjacket for his comfort. For one, irrational moment, the boy thinks he's going to be swallowed whole by the darkness, stripped to nothing, left all alone-
"So there you are," a quiet voice states, and the boy whips around to face the person behind him.
"Kiyoomi," he breathes, forgetting himself, and the person's eyes crinkle at the edges.
"Atsumu," he says, simply, and Atsumu feels complete.
...
They sit cross-legged under the window to avoid as much contact with the dusty walls as they can, on a blanket Kiyoomi brought, in the middle of a patch of bright blue light. Atsumu wonders when Sakusa became Omi-kun, and when Omi-kun became Kiyoomi. He thinks it was somewhere between when glares brimming with loathing turned into longing looks stretched out across the length of a room, when sporadic texts turned into late-night video calls when he was all alone in his room. When video calls turned into shinkansen tickets, tracing a love line between Osaka and Tokyo, strong and sure. Carefully, Kiyoomi unwraps two protein bars and hands one to Atsumu.
Blue light isn't a particularly good look on Kiyoomi. Atsumu decides this as it plays out over Kiyoomi's features, making the hollows of his face look deeper and carving him into someone harsher than he already seems. They're dappled in shadows as they settle into the comfortable atmosphere, Kiyoomi's hair a mess of pitch black as it tumbles onto his ghostly white forehead.
Blue light isn't a particularly good look on Kiyoomi, Atsumu decides, but if this is the only way how Atsumu gets to see him, the real him- mask lowered to his chin, eyelashes black as ink and carved against his cheekbones, dark eyes boring into his with devotion so pure it makes his fingertips tingle- then, Atsumu thinks, he wouldn't mind watching Kiyoomi under blue light for the rest of his life.
Aquamarine shadows gleam over his features and Atsumu feels like he's in an aquarium, nose pressed to the glass wall of the tank, seeing a great whale for the first time. It's the same sense of wonder, the same feeling of being witness to something greater than yourself, something that's as ethereal as it is otherworldly. Kiyoomi smiles, and he feels a thousand fish swim in his stomach, heart beating too hard, too fast. He can't look away.
"What are you looking at like that?" he asks, quiet.
"You," Atsumu replies, and the blush spreading over Kiyoomi's cheekbones is darkly ruddy under blue. Atsumu feels like he's underwater, a layer of unreality over their very existence- which is why this must be a fever dream, he thinks, when Kiyoomi reaches out and traces his cheek with reverent fingers, gaze still locked onto his.
"I'm sorry we both lost," he says, and Atsumu shakes his head. Even though he still desperately wishes to be on that court of orange, soaring, this right now- what he has with Kiyoomi, a new reality under unearthly blue- isn't something to be wasted. Kiyoomi seems to get the message, because even though he falls silent, his hand stays on Atsumu's cheek, occasionally brushing the hollow under his left eye.
"I'm glad you're here," Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu dares to turn his face and press his mouth to Kiyoomi's palm. Kiyoomi jerks, stiff for a moment before he relaxes again, thumb now at the corner of Atsumu's mouth. "I'm glad you didn't get lost in here," Kiyoomi says, a laugh in his voice, and Atsumu laughs too, grins even as Kiyoomi's hand slides off his face and comes to rest in both of his. "Say something, won't you," Kiyoomi whispers, and even though he smiles, there's a nervous undercurrent to his voice. Atsumu wishes he could pull Kiyoomi into him, wash away all his worry and give him his heart. For now, he settles for Kiyoomi's hand between his and a smile.
"I missed you," Atsumu says, simply, and even in the semi-darkness he can see Kiyoomi's eyes widen. Kiyoomi raises his other hand and runs it through Atsumu's hair, his fingers a soothing pressure against his scalp, and it feels as if the earth is just a half-degree off-kilter, moving sluggishly. He opens his mouth, tries to say something, but Kiyoomi beats him to it.
"We'll make it," he says, resolute, and Atsumu knows this isn't just about their relationship. "We'll face each other next year, and I'll win, and I'll gloat in your face about it."
It's abrupt, refreshing, and so very Kiyoomi of him that Atsumu laughs wetly. "As if I'd lose against ya, scrub," he quips weakly. Kiyoomi smirks, and it feels like the world is back on its axis, spinning and spinning and spinning until Atsumu's heart aches. "We'll see about that," Kiyoomi says quietly, almost reverently, eyes shining; and this time, Atsumu can't stop himself from pulling Kiyoomi in, arms tight around his chest.
"I don't wanna leave," Atsumu mumbles into Kiyoomi's jacket, the metal edge of the zipper cool under his lips. Kiyoomi hums against the top of his head. "Neither do I. But I promise you, Atsu, we'll make it to center court next year. Under the spotlight, like we always said. We'll do it next time," he says again, voice hoarse. And when Kiyoomi wraps his arms around Atsumu's waist, burying his nose in his hair, the world slows to a near stop.
Kiyoomi's breath is soft against his neck, and Atsumu wishes he could live in this moment forever- just the two of them on a blanket under the window of an abandoned arcade, Atsumu's heart close to bursting.
Maybe it's okay after all, Atsumu thinks, if they aren't both on a court of orange right now, opposite each other. Maybe it's okay that they're both heartbroken, finding solace in warmth and the bright wash of a blue street sign. He thinks it's okay if he has to wait another year to conquer the world, because right now- right this very moment- this world of aquamarine is enough.