Work Text:
Kiyoomi saw it coming in a dream:
In the spaces of what’s supposed to be the place he finds comfort in, Kiyoomi couldn’t make the heater work. He eyes it for the fourth time, as if glaring would bring the temperature down enough to feel like there are arms around him, making him pause and breathe and stop from shaking.
Glaring doesn’t work; he knows. The digital numbers on the appliance were blinking perfectly green and the lulling of it filled the room. He couldn’t feel it, though, couldn’t hear it. Outside, the rain pounds against the cement enclosing his make-believe home, in symphony with his heart, in sympathy with Kiyoomi’s own rain—or the lack thereof.
His face numbs. Sometime ago, there were still pinpricks of needles piercing his skin. Comforting, really, because that meant he could still feel something. Now, there’s just nothing. His jaw has been clenched for so long that he couldn’t point where his tongue is in the cave of his mouth, where his throat falls beneath the soreness that’s crept up his cheeks and made a home in the back of his eyes.
Years ago, the doctor told him to never let his eyes dry out just as he shouldn’t rub them lest his eyesight gets worse. Kiyoomi isn’t sure if his optometrist would be proud that he isn’t rubbing them now, or if he would stare at him with pity because he couldn’t even feel whether it’s dry or not. He’s lost count of how long the rain’s been raging from them, if he’s still seeing right or if his suitcase has turned into a blob.
His lips twitch at the realization: he doesn’t have an optometrist anymore.
It was the Sakusa family’s optometrist.
He isn’t a Sakusa anymore.
--
At a young age, Kiyoomi had learned that the only way to get some kind of emotion from his parents was to bring them good news.
At six, he doesn’t know what ‘good’ news entailed. So, when he came home from the park, where failed to socialize with the other kids but befriended a cat, he showed it to his parents with a bright grin.
“Do you know how dirty that is, Kiyoomi?” His mother screeched, refusing to take any step closer to him.
Kiyoomi slowly lowered the cat whom he had already named Mimi, smile fading at the sight of his mother’s disapproval. That night, he lets Mimi go, tears falling onto its fur.
At 10, he becomes close with Motoya.
Kiyoomi was dropped off by their family driver, Itsuki, in the Komori estate. His parents were overseas, but it was Christmas. It was Christmas.
“Kiyo, what’s this?” Motoya points at the Tupperware he brought that was now sitting on the coffee table. It was a few hours before dinner, his parents—Kiyoomi’s aunts—were in the kitchen and had told the boys to watch a movie for a while.
He blinks. “They’re lemon bars. I,” he pouts, “baked them yesterday as a gift for Mama and Papa.”
Kiyoomi had asked their cook to teach him how to bake. Tamiko was supportive of him with his newfound hobby and taught him a few pastries.
He doesn’t hear how Motoya says, “Oh,” too preoccupied with thinking about what this means.
Sometime in the school year, Kiyoomi showed his parents his grades, thinking they’d be happy with him being on the top list. Except, they frowned at the fact that he didn’t have any extra-curriculars.
“They’ll help you gain connections in the future. Be known,” his father said. “What’s the use of the theories you learn if you don’t apply them in practice.”
Suddenly, Motoya crawls from his side of the couch and he’s in Kiyoomi’s face. Kiyoomi backs away with a frown, and Motoya does put more space between them, but he still has this scary grin. “Can it be my gift?”
Kiyoomi’s eyebrows furrow. “Motoya, stealing others’ gifts are bad.”
His cousin sits back on the couch, waving his hands and shaking his head. “I meant can it be your gift for me?”
“But I also baked something for you,” Kiyoomi said a-matter-of-factly, “it’s in the fridge.”
Motoya smiles, this time it was soft and reminded Kiyoomi of Christmas. “There can never be too many sweets!”
At 14, he’s awarded in junior high volleyball.
Flashes of camera lights obstruct his view from the stage, but he could feel Motoya’s presence from somewhere beside him as they’re both awarded, Kiyoomi with MVP and Motoya with Best Libero.
He tries to blink through the cameras to see if one of those holding them are his parents. When he comes home that day to an empty house, the house staff telling him that they were still out of town, the medal around his neck weighs heavily.
“Congratulations, Kiyo.” He looks up, but he couldn’t quite make out the people in the room. Kiyoomi didn’t even realize that he was guided to the dining room, an array of his favorite dishes lining the table.
Kiyoomi wipes his eyes to see Tamiko holding a lit up cake, Itsuki beside her with a poster that says MVP. Tamiko’s kitchen helpers, Kenji and Sakura, were also there with smiles on their faces.
“We’re sorry we couldn’t attend the awarding ceremony,” Kenji says, “Had to make a run for more pickled plums.”
Kiyoomi’s lips wobble at the sight, and when he’s awarded the same title at 17, he doesn’t even bother.
“What’re you guys gonna do after high school?” Miya Atsumu had asked their table at the All-Youth Camp in their third year.
Kiyoomi continued with his food but paid attention to each answer. Kageyama was scouted by the Adlers, Hoshiumi was still picking between the V. League or college, he knows Motoya was going to EJP, and, apparently, Atsumu was going to Osaka University for two years of college before signing with the MSBY Jackals.
“What about you, Sakusa-san?” Kageyama asked. Everyone was quiet, eyes on him, and waiting for the answer because he hasn’t told anyone about his plans, not even Motoya.
It’s not like he already knows.
The answer came in the form of three emails: one was an acceptance letter from Waseda and the second was a tryout invitation from MSBY. Nestled between them was a reply from Osaka University.
It was a passing thought that lingered until after the training camp. He made his research and asked questions, and everyone he’s talked to were accommodating of his interest in taking a part-time program. It would take longer, especially with his preferred degree program; he wouldn’t graduate in the normal four years.
Everyone he talked to was supportive of his plans to play in the pro league while in college. Motoya helped him with his applications, Itsuki oversaw whenever he had to send in physical copies of his papers, Tamiko brought him his favorite lemon bars, and Kenji and Sakura cheered him on as they helped him study. He even found another support system in Amagasaki, conversations connected by phone calls and hearts intertwined by red strings.
Everyone, except his parents.
“I don’t see anything better than the Waseda offer, Kiyoomi,” his father said in his office that night.
Kiyoomi tries not to sigh exasperatedly, keeps his voice level. “Osaka University also has my preferred program, and with them, I can play in the—”
He gets cut off by his father’s booming laughter. The sound made his stomach twist, it always has. It echoed in the room, and Kiyoomi faintly worries that his father’s being too loud too deep in the night.
“This is about volleyball again?” He says. “I thought you left that in high school.”
Kiyoomi’s jaw clenches. “I want to make a career out of it.”
His father raises an eyebrow. “What career?”
“Kiyoomi,” his mother says as she enters the room, “When we said you should pick up a hobby, we meant a hobby.” Her words were elongated, voice dripping with condescension as if she was talking to a child. It makes Kiyoomi taste metal in his mouth.
He looks at her from where she stands beside her husband, eyes piercing through her glasses. “You can’t play games forever, sweetheart.”
In his room, that night, Atsumu stays on the phone with him as he cried his heart out. The next day, he begins processing his enrollment in Waseda.
It isn’t until 22 that Kiyoomi allows himself to live. See, he went through hell and back, biting back words against his parents as he signed with the MSBY Black Jackals. It’s easier when he’s already moved out, at a legal age, and already has something to his name with his reputation in collegiate volleyball.
So, as he walks out of their recruitment office with a box of his new uniform, Kiyoomi sighs with relief and smiles, because his parents won’t have any choice on a matter they don’t even know to begin with until it’s too late.
Spending this chapter of his life with his new team is refreshing: new city, new apartment, but with the comfort of the one thing he loves more than his family.
Technically, there are two, but volleyball and Atsumu always came hand in hand.
It’s a no brainer for Kiyoomi when, at 25, he’s making his way into a jewelry store in Osaka with someone’s ring size in mind, when he’s making his way into Onigiri Miya with a pounding heart because Osamu instantly knows what he’s there for, and when he goes down on one knee before Atsumu, who bursts into tears before Kiyoomi could even utter a word.
“I told Samu it’d be alright if he had the family name,” Atsumu said one day as they lounged, on break after winning Silver in the Olympics.
Kiyoomi hummed, cradling his fiancé’s cheek. “You don’t need to give it up.”
Atsumu had turned his head to him, a question glinting in his eyes. He lifted his hand and rubbed circles on the back of Kiyoomi’s, humming himself before pressing a kiss on Kiyoomi’s palm. “I know, but it’s still an option.”
He smiled at him with that smile Kiyoomi had adored since they were 16, with so much warmth and love that filled the gaps in his heart just right. When he felt it the first time—love—he thought it was tragic that he didn’t recognize it at first glance, that it took many tries for the both of them to fall into the comfort of each other’s arms.
Atsumu never forgot to remind him, though, that it’s alright. He knows, of course, of how cold the house of cards he grew up in was. Of the holidays spent in relatives’ homes, empty gifts, and words used only to express disappointment. And so, he never forgets to remind Kiyoomi that it’s alright to either take his time or do it all at once, because they have the rest of their lives together, and that’s better than eternity.
That’s why it’s a no brainer for Kiyoomi to enter that same house of cards, steps careful and touches gentle as to not knock off the fragile excuse of a home. He’d told Tamiko and Itsuki the news, and they’ve promised to relay it to Kenji and Sakura who moved out to start a daycare center in their hometown. They were excited about the wedding, vowed to attend.
Tamiko had tears threatening to fall from her eyes, and Itsuki chuckled at the sight. Kiyoomi stood staring, baffled at the reaction. Having known him since he was a child, she pulls him down into a hug. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, and that’s when he realizes the tears.
Beside him, he hears Itsuki talking to Atsumu, pulling him into a hug too with Kiyoomi hearing only the last bit of a, “Take care of him.”
When his parents arrive and they’re seated around the dining table, it’s a no brainer for Kiyoomi to tell them the news altogether: the Olympics, the wedding, and taking the Miya name.
His mother drops her spoon, staring wordlessly at Kiyoomi. His father was in no different state, but he was gripping the silverware tightly. A deep breath, two, seconds-worth of glares, and there’s Atsumu’s careful hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh.
Kiyoomi had seen it coming, but he wasn’t sure which one of his life decisions would be the cause. With his parents, he never was sure of anything.
“We let you dabble with your volleyball,” his father finally spits out, “throw away your degree to play games, move to a different prefecture and away from the company, and now you want to what?”
With a clenched jaw, Kiyoomi lifts his eyes, staring straight into the elder man’s. “I’m giving up the Sakusa name and taking Atsumu’s when we marry.”
At the mention of his name, Atsumu draws circles with his thumb over Kiyoomi’s thighs, sometimes slightly putting pressure on them because he knows they ground Kiyoomi, drag him back to him when he soars too high into the sun and too deep into the flames.
His father laughs icily, shakes his head. “You can’t do that. You can’t even get married legally—”
“The wedding won’t be in Japan; you don’t have to worry about that—”
“That still does not warrant a legal change of your name,” Kiyoomi’s father insists, teeth gritting and he’s already seething with anger, especially with Kiyoomi cutting his words off.
But Kiyoomi had spent 18 years with this kind of treatment, had mastered the many shades of anger there is to squeeze out of the old man. For anyone else, being on the receiving end of his glares would be humiliating, but Kiyoomi has had enough.
His lips twitch into a smile not different from how his father looked when he said he wanted to make a career out of his love for volleyball: cold, unyielding, sarcastic. “I am familiar with the law, father, you made me study it.”
“Kiyoomi!” His mother scolds. Beside him, Atsumu chokes on a laugh. Kiyoomi leans towards him and says, “Sip your water, love,” loud enough to spite his audience.
When he returns to the conversation, his father still has a deadly frown plastered on his face. “As I said, you don’t have to worry about any of this. I was just informing you of my decision.”
“You’re our only son,” his mother says as if the statement made any sense to Kiyoomi’s ears.
He turns to her, pulls a more genuine smile because sometimes he still hopes she was better than her husband. “And I will continue to be,” he says.
“No, you won’t,” his father snaps. Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s hand freeze from where it still holds him; he feels his own heart stagger in its beats. “If you want to leave this family, then go ahead.”
“That’s not what I said—”
“It might as well be!” He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back and nearly causing it to topple. “No son of mine runs away from the Sakusa name.”
Kiyoomi laughs hysterically, the back of his eyes already heating up. “It’s just a name!”
“A name that raised you.” His father was shaking, and Kiyoomi’s mother was already up trying to calm him down.
Atsumu’s saying something under his breath, but Kiyoomi’s ears rang at his father’s words. Memories of a childhood spent with the Komoris, achievements attained but gained no word of praise, a life that was nearly botched because of—what, a fucking name?
Kiyoomi’s hands tremble, and he could feel Atsumu trying to enclose them with his own. He shakes his head at the man who he mirrors in looks and looks alone: “You did not raise me.”
--
Finally, Kiyoomi is 28 when he realizes a few things.
It all comes to mind gradually, truly. He would’ve expected them to approach him from behind, catching him off guard, but no.
It starts with slices of cakes: an array of them barging into their apartment like they belonged there. Flavors ranging from simple chocolate moist to an eyebrow-raising (but surprisingly good) wine chiffon. He was watching as Atsumu argued with his twin.
“Samu, matcha cake tastes fantastic, you just have a malfunctioning tongue,” the blond said, pointedly shoving the rest of the slice into his mouth. Kiyoomi wipes his cheek from where it was smudged with white frosting, and his fiancé presses a kiss onto the corner of his lips in thanks.
Osamu scowled. “I’m a fuckin’ chef; it’s you who was born with disgusting taste.”
“Down, Samu, Kiyoomi might be offended,” Suna teased as he eats the coffee-flavored slice. Kiyoomi chuckled, “I would if I didn’t agree with Osamu.” He turns to Atsumu. “Baby, we will not be having anything matcha in our reception.”
Before Atsumu could argue more, the door flies open and Motoya enters the apartment looking like a madman, a familiar box in hand. Kiyoomi would know what it was since there’s at least ten of them in his garbage bin.
“This,” Motoya says, “will be your cake.” Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow, watching as his cousin opens the box in front of them. Osamu and Suna were leaning on the counter, waiting eagerly, and Atsumu was already cooing and sniffing, trying to make a guess from a whiff.
Kiyoomi gets it first. “Lemon,” he points out. It was a familiar scent to him—of course it is, it’s only the first thing he and Atsumu had agreed on with the products they use.
“Yes, Toya-kun!” Atsumu’s already cheering before he could even taste the thing. Motoya’s laughing, chest puffed out and proud of himself before Atsumu tackles him into a hug, the both of them toppling over onto Suna and Osamu.
The table shakes as the twins start shoving each other, taking with them Suna and Motoya. The kitchen fills with curses and laughter, and Kiyoomi gets to watch with a fond smile and warmth in his chest before Motoya yells, “Kiyo, help!” and he shakes his head, standing up and leaving them behind, “I’ve got invitations to work out.”
Next, it was when he stood behind a huge mahogany door.
Kiyoomi could hear the piano playing on the other side, the hushed murmurs, and the stray laughs of pride. If he focused well, he would’ve felt the emotions overflowing from the room and seeping to where he stands.
Too bad he couldn’t focus on anything: the calm and cool Sakusa Kiyoomi is nowhere to be found, overcome by nerves and excitement; sentiment already threatening to fall from his eyes as he waits for his cue to walk down the aisle.
He stretches his fingers and takes consecutive deep breaths, but nothing works. There’s no way he wants to run away—that would be absurd. Nothing could make him walk from this, not when he’s just a door away from the life he’s been dreaming of since time immemorial. Nothing could make him walk from this, not even the fact that neither his parents were there.
The thought sunk into him, and it pauses his ministrations abruptly. He’s long accepted it, ever since they returned the invitation with an RSVP decline. It was an uncomfortable knowledge to have: your parents abandoning you just because you wouldn’t take their name in marriage. But, after everything, he couldn’t be faulted for wanting to leave that behind, right?
A hand slides onto the crook of his elbow, and as if getting his head out of water, Kiyoomi hears the music shift from the other side of the door. He smiles at the familiar tune. It was the song he and Atsumu had danced to a hundred times before in their apartment, one they know by heart.
The door starts to open, and there’s a tug at his arm. Tamiko’s eyes water, then she smiles and walks him down the aisle.
The last realization comes in spring.
Outside, the sun shines comfortably, gifts the entire street with all the love it has to offer. Flowers bloomed, the trees were lovely in green, and Kiyoomi is heaving and trying to catch his breath.
“Atsumu, can we take—” he groans “—a fucking break.”
His husband laughs, shakes his head, and pats Kiyoomi’s head. Kiyoomi scowls, knowing how dirty Atsumu’s hand must be, but he isn’t exactly the cleanest as of the moment. “We’ve got three more boxes we gotta move, love,” he says before grabbing Kiyoomi by the bicep and pulling him up.
Kiyoomi stops him, places a hand on his waist, and pulls him close. Atsumu raises an eyebrow, a playful grin already making its way across his face. “How about,” Kiyoomi drawls, “I stay here and unpack the first ones,” he leans in and whispers into his husband’s ear, “while you get the rest?”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Atsumu murmurs.
Kiyoomi presses a kiss into his hair, scrunching his nose as he pulls back. “You’re sweaty.”
Atsumu cackles. “Of course I am, Omi, and so are you.” He’s making his way to the door when he says, “You better be done with the first box when I come back.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but grabs the box cutter and crouches down. “You expect too much of me,” he mumbles.
“Love you!” Atsumu yells from the hall.
With a smile on his face, Kiyoomi begins unpacking. If Motoya saw him right now, he’d be teasing him for his sappiness, but his cousin cried during the wedding, so that probably won’t happen. If anything, Kiyoomi would be doing the teasing because at some point in the night, he saw Motoya with Osamu and Rintarou at the back of the hotel, slacks rolled up and legs submerged in the pool as they drank and cried about “how far Kiyo had come,” “I’m so proud of Tsumu, but don’t tell him that,” and “not if you don’t tell Kiyo”. Neither Motoya nor Osamu remember seeing him, though, because they were drunk out of their asses. It was a lesser drunk Rin who waved at him with one hand as the other continued to film his boyfriends.
Kiyoomi has a copy of the video, of course, because he and Atsumu has to have some leverage over them sometimes.
He laughs at the thought, makes a mental note to finally show it to his husband when they settle in for the night. Though, that reminds him that they need to unpack the bedroom stuff first, otherwise they wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep on. Kiyoomi looks around: there should be a couple of futons rolled up in one of the boxes, but he couldn’t remember where they were.
Atsumu steps back into the room, a box labeled with Bathroom in his arms. “Atsu, where’d we put the futons?” Kiyoomi asks.
His husband puts the box down before answering, “I think it’s still in the other car with Itsuki-san.” Kiyoomi pouts: “Do you think we can finish unpacking the bedroom first?”
With a thoughtful hum, Atsumu bends down. “Should be easy—“ he says before pressing a loud kiss onto Kiyoomi’s head and then standing back up “—I think that box you have is for the bedroom.”
Kiyoomi looks at the label and nods, “Thanks.”
He watches as Atsumu leaves the apartment again, their apartment—their apartment. They’ve lived together as boyfriends, but that was Atsumu moving into Kiyoomi’s. This was different.
Kiyoomi looks around, chest brimming with something he’s only ever felt when he’s with Atsumu or when he’s playing volleyball.
Here, in the spaces of what will be the place he finds comfort in and comes home to, Kiyoomi feels the refreshing heat of spring wash over him. The windows had been thrown open earlier to welcome the wind, and it ruffles his hair as if greeting him. He eyes the AC, wondering if he should turn it on after all, but his body was calm and content albeit sticky with sweat.
Fanning himself doesn’t work, but it doesn’t matter. The box cutter in his hand works perfectly, and he’s able to open one box after another smoothly, with only the hum of himself working filling the room. He could feel it: the excitement. It lulls the room with a familiar tune, in sync with the music from outside, as if the world shares his happiness in his newfound home.
His face aches. It’s something he should be used to, really, because ever since being with Atsumu, he seemed to be smiling and laughing extremely often. It happens easily that he sometimes forgets where the edges of his lips end and his ears begin, happiness settling on his face like a home.
A cloud of dust flies from the next box he opens, and a speck goes into Kiyoomi’s eyes. Instinctively, he rubs at it, but remembers how, years ago, his doctor had told him to never rub them lest his eyesight gets worse.
“Omi, don’t rub your eyes.” Suddenly, Atsumu’s in front of him. He’s prying Kiyoomi’s hands away from his face, calloused fingers gentle around his wrists, calloused fingers carefully holding his head in place before he’s blowing air into Kiyoomi’s eye.
A few seconds later and Kiyoomi’s blinking, Atsumu backs away. When Kiyoomi’s eyes focus, he finds his husband smiling, “Hey there.”
Kiyoomi isn’t sure if his optometrist would be proud that he isn’t rubbing his eyes now, or if he’d be prouder that there’s someone else who would constantly remind Kiyoomi to take care of himself. There were specks of gold in Atsumu’s brown eyes, and he’s lost count of how long, but Kiyoomi’s memorized them by heart.
Outside, the sun still shone and showered the street with as much love as it had to offer. Here, in the spaces of their home, Kiyoomi’s hands are held by gentle circles rubbed into his skin, eyes grounded by ones he’ll wake up to everyday. Here, in the spaces of a new apartment, Kiyoomi finds himself home.
He smiles, leans over, and takes his husband’s lips into his.
Kiyoomi has found a family.
He isn’t a Sakusa anymore.