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Like most people on his side of the world, four is Atsumu’s unlucky number.

It has nothing to do with stories in a building or characters on a license plate. He’s not worried if his jersey number happens to be stitched with a four or if his home room is classroom number four. If someone served Atsumu four gyoza on a plate, he’d rather risk food poisoning than leave a precious, fried dumpling behind. No, his contentious relationship with the number four has more to do with patterns of behavior or events, rather than the number itself.

For instance, between a dropped cake and a scraped knee, Atsumu remembers his and Osamu’s fourth birthday being an absolute disaster. On the first day of the fourth grade, Atsumu sprained his wrist so bad he couldn’t play volleyball for a month. And in his last year of junior high, Atsumu experienced his first heartbreak when his girlfriend broke up with them at the end of their fourth date, after he’d paid for a very expensive ice cream sundae with his full weekly allowance. He never went back to that ice cream parlor again.

So Atsumu avoids doing important things four times if he can help it. Osamu thinks it’s silly and tells him such on a monthly basis when Atsumu says he avoided going to the same fish market for the fourth time in one month or that he turned down meeting Suna for drinks because, “that means I’d drink four nights in one week an’ that would probably lead to disaster,” he says to Osamu over the onigiri counter while gulping down a soda.

His brother stares at him, flatly. “Yer literally insane to think like that.”

When he accepts a position on Japan’s Olympic volleyball team, Atsumu knows they have to play a fourth match to even have a chance at the podium. He’s played fourth matches and fourth sets for years. But each time that checkpoint came around, Atsumu gave everything his body had and still kept a wary eye out for any possible mishaps. Their fourth match is against France and Atsumu has never pushed himself so hard in his life. The adrenaline keeps his eyes wide and alert, his footwork is quick, and his sets are so precise, even Kageyama notes so at game’s end. Team Japan wins and Atsumu is so relieved that when his body finally crashes from the high, he sleeps for twelve hours straight.

Then they place fourth.

They lose against Argentina, place fourth, and Atsumu mentally kicks himself because he should have seen it coming. He says as much in the locker room after their losing match — “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s like a curse! I shoulda been benched and maybe we woulda had a chance!” — as he dramatically and pitifully huddles in a corner with the logical Aran and Kiyoomi, both soothing his bruised ego and lecturing him on the dangers of arbitrary superstition. The excuse is a coping mechanism of sorts. If he can blame the cosmic powers of the universe then Atsumu doesn’t have to face the fact that they weren’t on their A game or that the other teams were simply better.

Usually, Atsumu moves through his stages of grief quickly. We don’t need memories is still carved into his bones like a lifelong incantation. But the game against Argentina is different.

The loss cuts into Atsumu at an angle, the knife aimed right at his soft, insecure center. Osamu, Aran, and Kiyoomi’s usual placating only makes Atsumu feel babied; even talked down to. He knows that isn’t their intention and that, under normal circumstances, such mollifications would have done the trick. But Atsumu hurts. He aches. He’s terrified that he’s hit the height of his career; that everything has led up to that one game and he’s botched it. Dramatic, of course, but that’s Miya Atsumu’s modus operandi.

He wants, desperately, to express that profound sense of failure to his brother, his friends, and his boyfriend, but he doesn’t know how. Each time he tries, Atsumu feels disregarded.

“If ya say ‘nother word about yer unlucky number four, I’m gonna come down to the village myself and smack ya upside the head,” Osamu says.

“You’ve done all ya can, Atsumu. We all have to accept this,” Aran says.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Miya,” Kiyoomi says.

His boyfriend says.

The boyfriend who still calls him by his last name when he’s annoyed.

So, Atsumu packs it all up and mourns like they expect him to: like a big damn baby. He cries a little bit. He pouts a lot. He clings to his teammates whenever given the chance and makes big shows of his sorrows in fits of theatrics that borderline a comedy routine. Because, funny enough, the more ridiculous Miya Atsumu is with his grieving, the more at ease his teammates seem. They sound their grief of his own and his spectacle helps them forget about their own regrets and heartache. It makes him feel better; that he’s being helpful in some way. Then, a few hours later, he pretends that their defeat means nothing.

But when Atsumu lays in bed and clings to Kiyoomi, he wants his boyfriend to read his mind and ask him how it really feels about it all. He wants him to see through the act, do the arduous work of prying Atsumu from his anti-vulnerability shell, and have a serious, life changing conversation about how important an Olympic medal actually is to him. Instead, Kiyoomi is sitting up and reading the crime novel on his tablet while Atsumu lays curled against him. He rotates through his social media accounts, spiraling. His feeds are inundated with sports and Olympic news — constant reminders of their loss. But Atsumu can’t help himself and keeps scrolling.

A hand rests on his shoulder.

“Shh,” Kiyoomi says.

“I didn’t say anythin’,” Atsumu retorts, crinkling his nose.

“You’re thinking too loud. I can’t focus.”

Sometimes, Kiyoomi can read his mind.

“Put your phone down and close your eyes,” Kiyoomi says, leaning over to dim the lights, “Get some sleep. We’ve got a press conference tomorrow. I don’t want to hear you whining about how bad you look in photos because you have bags under your eyes.”

“Omi-Omi, you’re so cruel to me,” Atsumu pouts, but tellingly lays his phone down on the bedside table.

Miya Atsumu notoriously loves press conferences. All those cameras and faces turned his way, asking him questions about himself and the thing he loves most. Mostly, he loves making a scene. He enjoys dropping a bomb of an answer on the room and basking in the chaos that follows. He never says anything crazily inappropriate; just something that elicits a surprised, perhaps mildly scandalized response. If he hears the sound of Aran’s hand smacking his own forehead, Atsumu knows he’s hit the sweet spot.

This morning, he has no intention of even speaking. Atsumu enters the press hall the next morning like a guilty man headed for trial. He has no reason to peacock; no insane thing to announce today. The energy he woke up with went into styling his hair and, unfortunately, his battery got depleted when he ran out of product. He might have had a breakdown in the bathroom. Atsumu is of the mind that the sooner they can get the press conference over with, the sooner he can crawl back into bed and melt out of existence.

The room full of reporters with notepads and cameras applaud as the team files into the hall and up onto the platform. They stand to attention in a line, bow, and Atsumu swallows down a lump in his throat. The applause is out of respect — a ‘you’ve made us very proud’ sort of applause — but Atsumu’s ears can’t help but hear the pity behind it. A woman near the front wipes away a few tears from her cheeks as she smiles and claps and the bitter, mean part of Atsumu can’t help but recoil. He’s got way more reason to cry than her.

Atsumu slumps behind his nameplate — between Kiyoomi and Aran’s — and grabs the water bottle in front of him. If he doesn’t busy his hands, he’ll probably start chewing on his cuticles and the last thing he needs now is a picture like that circulating the internet. Atsumu picks at the bottle’s label as team captain Ushijima Wakatoshi makes a polite introduction and woodenly recites a canned announcement. Cameras flash, keyboards click-clack, and someone quietly dictates something into a recorder. Atsumu zones out most of it and just stares at the water bottle label.

Under the table, Kiyoomi’s knee brushes against his.

“— We thank everyone for their continued support as we strive toward our next goals,” Ushijima finishes. “We will now be taking questions.”

Hands fly into the air. It’s the usual set of questions.

What’s next for Team Japan?

Will you be returning to your other professional teams?

Have you been scouted for other countries?

Hinata, Hoshiumi, and Aran — those in the best spirits and with the best attitudes — take the majority of the questions. Atsumu admires how level headed Aran is, how easily Hoshiumi can shut down insensitive questions, and how bright Hinata still shines in the face of utter defeat.

Kiyoomi switches his water bottle with Atsumu’s. Spaced out, Atsumu failed to notice that he had removed the label and shredded it into a little pile of trash. He watches as Kiyoomi covertly swipes all the minced label bits into his hand and pockets them without a word.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi—”

They both sit to attention.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” the reporter repeats, “You’ve become something of a fan favorite as of late. The court has been covered in flowers after every match.”

Ugh. Atsumu slouches back down.

“Yes, well, I’ve learned a very valuable lesson,” Kiyoomi says, wryly, from behind his black face mask, “If you like something: never tell the public. Or you’ll get sick of it. In this case, it’s peonies.”

The spiker is being serious, but those in the room who don’t know his real personality take it as a joke. A soft, charmed laughter rolls over the crowd of reporters. Kiyoomi sighs.

“What do you do with all those peonies?” the reporter asks.

“I throw them away.”

Aran leans into his microphone. “He’s been givin’ ‘em away,” he says, in an attempt at recovery. Though no one really seems offended by Kiyoomi’s too blunt answer. He smiles, “My mom’s over the moon. Been giving her flowers every day. I’m definitely in the running for The Best Son of the Year award because of Sakusa-san.”

A light wave of ‘aww’ makes Atsumu sick.

The reporter continues on the same train: “Some newspapers and magazines are even naming you ‘Japan’s Most Eligible Bachelor’, Sakusa-san. What do you have to say to that?”

Usually, such personal, salacious questions are Atsumu’s favorite. They keep press conferences from getting stale. But this question rubs his sensitive state the wrong way. Atsumu sinks further into his chair. It’s his own fault for agreeing to a private relationship with Sakusa Kiyoomi. He had hoped one of their friends or teammates would have leaked the information on accident, but everyone had remained stalwart for three years — probably under Kiyoomi’s death threats. Atsumu himself had come close to blabbing their secret in interviews, but he was so afraid of losing Kiyoomi that he stopped himself.

Furthermore, Atsumu is just a little sour that ‘Japan’s Most Eligible Bachelor’ title isn’t his. How Kiyoomi gained such popularity with that piss poor attitude, he has no idea. Even if hard-to-get is his type.

Kiyoomi leans toward his microphone and clasps his hands together on the table. “To that I would say: I don’t meet the qualifications. I am not eligible.”

Atsumu’s soul nearly leaves his body.

Murmured noises of surprise echo through the press hall. Reporters scoot to the edge of their seats and fingers fly over computer keys like raindrops pounding the ground during a tropical storm. Which is a bit how Atsumu feels — like he’s just been bodily thrown a couple yards by a big gust of wind and rain.

Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi and the masked man is unwavering — eyes forward and sitting tall but relaxed. Atsumu, in contrast, has eyes wide as saucers. Now?? You want to do this now??, is what his expression relays. Whatever modicum of delight Atsumu could pull out of his depressed funk is overshadowed by sheer panic. He wasn’t prepared for this. He isn’t prepared for this. Today of all days?

“Do you have a girlfriend, Sakusa-san?” the one reporter presses.

“No,” Kiyoomi says.

Atsumu holds his breath.

“I have a fiancé.”

Atsumu almost passes out right there on the press table.

So.

Back to the number four:

Miya Atsumu has asked Sakusa Kiyoomi to marry him three times.

Knowing Kiyoomi would likely break up with him if he made any flashy public proposal, Atsumu was subtle with each attempt. Despite every attention seeking fiber in Atsumu’s body wanting otherwise. He’s made plenty of concessions to be with the more reserved, more mature, more private Kiyoomi. It’s worth it because Atsumu is head over heels in love and ever since the day they crashed together, Atsumu’s eyes have never wandered to anyone else. So he’s learned to approach Kiyoomi with important matters of the heart like one might approach a skittish, stubborn house cat: gently, and with an air of indifference.

Atsumu’s first attempt happened over a dinner date. They sat outside on a romantic patio with twinkling string lights, enjoying post meal coffee when an older couple passed by their table walking arm and arm. Atsumu watched Kiyoomi’s eyes follow them and he seized his chance.

“Say Omi-Omi, ya ever think ‘bout gettin’ married? What that might be like?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes snapped back to his espresso cup. “No.”

Cut off at the knees, Atsumu got the message loud and clear. It took him several weeks to lick his wounds and recover from that attempt.

The second proposal was even more spontaneous and direct. Atsumu figured the more casual he was about the whole affair, the less the rejection would sting.

A young, courtside fan asked for an autograph and shyly gave Atsumu a gacha capsule in return. When the team retired to the locker room, he opened the capsule to find a plastic ring. With the press of a button, the comically large, plastic gem set into the band flickered to life. It was a very cute token, he thought.

In a flash of bravery, Atsumu turned to Kiyoomi — who stood in front of his open locker wiping his sweaty face — and got down on one knee.

“Hey Omi, will you do me the honor?” he asked, offering the plastic ring with both hands.

Kiyoomi stared at him for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and saying, “That cute act might have worked for all those girlfriends of yours, but you’re gonna need a nicer rock to pin me down, Miya.” Then he returned to his business like nothing happened.

Clearly, he didn’t think the proposal was serious. But Atsumu sulked about it for months.

The third and final time, he waited until Kiyoomi was drunk. Not because he was more likely to say yes (consent and all that), but Atsumu surmised his real feelings would reveal themselves with a little liquid encouragement. A chance arrived when they attended a MSBY sponsor party and one particularly aggressive benefactor kept shoving drinks in Kiyoomi’s hands. Kiyoomi was beautiful that night; his slender body framed by a bespoke, black velvet jacket, vermillion turtleneck, and immaculately pressed trousers. His hair was just the right amount of styled and tousled and Atsumu could barely take his eyes off him — so handsome and refined.

Before the overeager sponsor could make the mistake of making a move — and undoubtedly get shredded to pieces by Kiyoomi’s razor sharp tongue and wit — Atsumu covertly stole Kiyoomi away. He pretended to be even drunker than Kiyoomi when they tumbled into the elevator.

“Hey Omi-Omi,” he grinned.

Black curls fell over Kiyoomi’s pretty face when his head lulled to the side. “Hm?”

“I wanna marry you, ya know.”

Horrifyingly, the other man laughed. He laughed like Atsumu made a joke and not like he just opened up his chest and bared his heart.

“Your skills of seduction are getting rusty, ‘Tsumu. If you want to get into my pants, you can just go for it,” Kiyoomi slurred. He crowded Atsumu into the corner, the heat behind his heavily lidded eyes all too clear. “I won’t need much convincing tonight.”

They made out in the elevator and fell into bed without another word. It made Atsumu feel desired, of course, but when Kiyoomi fell asleep next to him and Atsumu laid wide awake, mostly sober, and staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the nauseated, disappointed sink in his stomach.

Atsumu knew better than to ask a fourth time, incur the wrath of the gods, and risk losing the love of his life. He resigned himself to a lifetime of pining and came to the conclusion that, while Kiyoomi loved him (despite his hot and cold nature, he said the three magic words at least once a week), his boyfriend didn’t see him as marriage material. Each proposal was met with a look of disbelief or a laugh or a scoff — Kiyoomi just didn’t think Atsumu was serious.

And that kind of distrust stung.

Suffice to say, Sakusa Kiyoomi’s announcement comes as a complete shock.

It ignites the room. Reporters are scrambling over themselves in a flurry of questions and flashing cameras. They throw out names of popular actresses and female athletes Kiyoomi has been seen with, but the raven haired spiker remains mute. The mask over his face hides his expression, but Atsumu senses the secret delight in Kiyoomi’s body language. He won’t give them the satisfaction of a name. He’ll walk away from the press conference with an even thicker air of mystery around him and have people clamoring for more. He’s taken a page from Miya Atsumu’s Guide To Press Conferences and clearly enjoys the results.

And people call Atsumu the manipulator.

Kiyoomi’s pretty black gaze slides sideways and he catches Atsumu’s stare. They share a look, ever so briefly, and Atsumu can see the grin underneath the black mask. Atsumu's tongue is suddenly three sizes bigger in his mouth and he can’t speak; not a single word comes to his mind anyway. Except:

Bastard.

The press conference quickly unravels. Kiyoomi refuses to answer any more questions and the reporters have lost interest in anything sports related. Thankfully, an Olympic representative takes the stage, announces their allotted time is over, and that they have to bring in the next team. Atsumu is in a daze for most of that business. Only because he’s been trained to do it, he bows with the rest of his team and files out into the hallway they entered from.

He barely registers the congratulations that follow. There’s some lecturing about appropriate press conference behavior, but mostly it's hugging and large hands clapping him on the back and a lot of them saying, “You should’ve told us! We would’ve thrown you a party!” And all Atsumu can do is just stare at Kiyoomi, who takes everything in stride with calm ‘thank you’s and polite nodding. Atsumu feels like he’s in the twilight zone. He doesn’t even remember traveling down the hallway and into the large lobby of the Olympic press building. He just remembers staring at the back of Kiyoomi’s black curled head and thinking:

Bastard.
Ya absolute bastard.

Atsumu isn’t mad. He’s in shock. In another time and place, Atsumu would have been over the moon at such a proposal. How romantic — Kiyoomi letting the whole world know he’s taken. How sexy — to keep the details to himself so they can keep their secret for a little bit longer. Maybe it was Kiyoomi’s plan to elope right after that press conference. Maybe there was a car waiting downstairs and he was going to wisk Miya Atsumu away so they could flip the bird to propriety and be the scandal of all Japan.

How fucking romantic.

But Atsumu is full of contradictions and hypocrisy, and the situation is further complicated by his grief and quiet longing for someone to see him. To really see him.

So when he suddenly finds himself alone with Sakusa Kiyoomi in the empty expanse of the lobby — where had the team gone? He can’t remember — something just snaps.

“So, uh, who are ya engaged to?” Atsumu asks.

He’s sitting in one of the many rows of gray, leather chairs, bent over with his hands clasped together and staring at the tile floor. To his right is Kiyoomi who lingers at the face of a vending machine, wallet in hand. He just barely looks over his shoulder to say, “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“I’m bein’ serious, Omi.”

Kiyoomi turns to face him. “Really?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Come on, don’t make me say it.”

Red lines Atsumu’s vision. “Would it be too embarrassing, hm? Too painful?” he asks.

His tone gets Kiyoomi’s attention and the black haired man turns his body completely. “What?”

Atsumu shakes, like a pot ready to boil over. “I’m not worth the words, that what you’re sayin’?”

Kiyoomi removes his face mask and he’s frowning. “Atsumu, wait a second—”

“Fuck!”

Atsumu rises suddenly and Sakusa freezes at the outburst; pretty, long-lashed eyes staring.

He paces away, toward the tall, floor to ceiling windows and looks out into the deserted Olympic campus. All those new, pristine buildings and the merchandise tent and the flags and the big, fancy screens erected for outside viewers — all the excitement of it is muted now. Everything feels empty.

“Atsumu—”

The blonde hooks his hands on his hips and turns on his heel so he can face Kiyoomi head on. “I’m so tired of bein’ the butt of the joke,” he says, anger and frustration dripping from every word.

“I am tired of bein’ the last one to know. I’m tired of everyone thinkin’ I’m lyin’ or manipulatin’ or jokin’. Not everythin’ rolls offa me, ya know? I’m made of the same stuff as everyone else.” He pounds his chest with a palm to drive the point forward.

Atsumu’s loud voice echoes off the tall ceilings and walls. Anyone down any of the many hallways could probably hear him and his big confessions, but he doesn’t care. Kiyoomi’s gaze is fixed on him, but he makes no move to speak. He looks like he’s been slapped across the face, and is processing the blow. Atsumu has plenty more to say anyway.

“I am all in with ya, Kiyoomi. All in,” he confesses. “I’ve tried to tell ya that so many times. When we were drunk or in the heat of the moment or whatever — I meant it. I was jus’ tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal so I wouldn’t get hurt each time ya said no.” Atsumu laughs, something between pained and nervous because now that he says the sentiment out loud, it’s a bit pathetic. “Because I know ya don’t take me all that serious.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “That’s not—”

“But, despite what ya think — or anyone else for that matter — I ain’t interested in goin’ anywhere.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth is pulled into a taut, thin line. His eyes are steady and Atsumu sort of wishes he would show a little bit, well, more. Because Atsumu is pouring out his soul, gesturing wide, and he feels like he might be on the verge of tears. Not because of Kiyoomi’s lack of foresight, but all of it combined. The loss, the sudden proposal, the lack of sleep, his aching muscles, his lack of hair product — it all presses down, threatening to suffocate him. Atsumu is a man on a ledge and he looks like it. But Kiyoomi doesn’t have a hair out of place.

So Atsumu takes a second to breathe. He looks down at the floor, sniffles, swallows the rock that formed in his throat, and chooses his next words more carefully.

“I know that you were talkin’ about me in there,” Atsumu says, quieter. “I know what that was. But I wanna hear it straight from your lips, Omi, because I am so fuckin’ fragile right now.” His voice cracks and he clears it with a cough.

“Ya can make a joke ‘bout my big ass ego or whatever, but I wanna hear ya say it first. Right to my face.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi is rarely taken by surprise. He hides weaker and more vulnerable emotions behind his literal and figurative mask of haughty callousness. But Atsumu can tell his eyes are a little wider than usual, that his body is tense, and that he breathes sharply through his nose. Something has gotten through.

“That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Kiyoomi finally says.

“Yea, well, desperate times or whatever. However that phrase goes.”

Kiyoomi shuffles his feet.

“I thought you might like a public proposal like that.”

Atsumu makes a high pitched sound of disbelief. “I mean, yeah, but—fuck, Omi, your timing—”

“You were sad about losing! I thought this would—”

“I’m not sad. I’m fucking devastated.”

A wave of relief washes over him — he needed to let that out. He didn’t mean to be so loud but, damn, did it feel good.

Kiyoomi casts his gaze down at the marbled ground. He stands ten paces away, wringing the strap of his mask between slender fingers. There’s a lull where Atsumu thinks he’s gone too far. Like he’s projected his anger on the wrong target.

Finally, Kiyoomi says, “I know.”

“Do ya?”

Black eyes connect with Atsumu’s, “Yes, I do.” And there’s sincerity behind them.

Sometimes, he and Kiyoomi feel like strangers. Other times, it feels like Kiyoomi can see every nerve and fiber of his being — his thoughts, weaknesses, insecurities, and deepest desires. Even more than Osamu. Sometimes, it feels as though he and Kiyoomi have always been, and then Atsumu turns around and there’s an ocean between them.

Atsumu crosses his arms to protect himself and bitterly says, “Well, ya have a piss poor way of showin’ it and makin’ me feel better.”

“I’ve been trying to—I don’t know how to—” Kiyoomi sputters, rubbing the back of his neck. He lets out a big, aggravated sigh. “We are very different people when it comes to comfort and grief. Need I remind you, we all lost, Atsumu.”

Atsumu has always been selfish. He gets accused of that character flaw on a weekly basis. But instead of the insinuation glancing off him this time, it lands heavy. Because it dawns on him that Sakusa Kiyoomi isn’t as bulletproof as he thought. And while Atsumu has been so caught up in himself and his own needs, he’s completely neglected Kiyoomi’s. Guilt seeps into Atsumu’s skin.

“Yeah, I guess so, huh,” is all the blonde can think to say and avoids eye contact by looking out the window.

The ocean feels wider and wider by the second. They’ve fought plenty during the course of their relationship. Petty disputes, knock down drag outs, and tearful feuds that end with no resolution. Often, Kiyoomi gets so upset he has to remove himself from the situation and leave the apartment, slamming the door in his wake. That would drive Atsumu insane. He would rather duke it out than be ignored. He grew up physically fighting Osamu in their altercations. He’s used to screaming and crying and wrestling his way through interpersonal problems, where Kiyoomi does the adult thing of walking away, thinking about the problem, and coming back to have a sit-down conversation about expectations and healthy communication.

Though Kiyoomi is hardly guiltless of injury. While Atsumu fights like a bomb or a shotgun spray, Kiyoomi fights like a poison shiv. One eviscerating, malicious comment from him can leave Atsumu incapacitated, wound up and anxious for days afterwards.

But the good outweighs the bad. Kiyoomi always comes home, sometimes with an olive branch – like a carton of Atsumu’s favorite fruit (peaches in the summer and strawberries in the winter). And Atsumu always apologizes when he knows he’s acted out of turn. They never hurt one another. If anything, a good fight reignites something between them and the inevitable make up sex they have afterwards is kind of spectacular.

But Atsumu knows, in order to have a real future together, those are the kinds of things they will have to navigate.

Starting today.

Thankfully, Kiyoomi is in a better place to take the first leap. He moves to meet Atsumu near the windows, steps careful and slow as he navigates his way through the minefield Atsumu has thrown at his feet. He stops at the blonde’s shoulder, fiddling with his mask. They both look out at the Olympic village, unable to face one another.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says, “For that time when I laughed at you. In the elevator.”

Atsumu scuffs the ground with his shoe. “Wasn’t even sure if ya remembered that one.”

“I remember them all,” he says. Atsumu lifts his surprised gaze to Kiyoomi’s silhouette. “I remember telling myself not to fall for it. You’ve got this easy charm that’s so— I told myself that you weren’t being—”

“Serious?”

Sakusa nods.

“Yeah, I’m just one big joke to everyone, ain’t I?”

“No. No, that’s not it.”

Kiyoomi faces him. There’s a hue behind his dark eyes that slices right through, but his words are soft and thoughtful. The approach is clearly a foreign flavor on his tongue by the way he stops and starts, but that’s how Atsumu knows he means what he says. “It’s that… you have your ways to hide and I have my ways to hide. Ways to protect ourselves, I mean.”

Atsumu doesn’t like being called out like that, so the defensive part of him flares up. “Damn, what is this? Therapy?”

“There. It’s that right there,” Kiyoomi says with a finger pointed at Atsumu’s chest. “You tell me to take my wall down, but then you put yours right back up.”

“Feels like you’ve always got the upper hand. I gotta defend myself somehow,” Atsumu argues back.

Kiyoomi grins and it feels like history repeating itself.

“You gonna laugh at me again?”

“No, I’m… I think our predicament is funny.”

Clearly, the humor is going over his head.

Kiyoomi looks out at the landscape. “Have you ever fenced?” he asks, out of the blue.

“What?”

“Have you ever practiced fencing?”

“No.”

It’s a weird deflection, but Atsumu decides to roll with it.

Kiyoomi pockets his mask and crosses his arms. “I did. When I was younger. Right before I made the switch to volleyball.”

“Alright, rich boy.”

Kiyoomi grins, taking Atsumu’s tired accusation in stride. “What we have— it feels like a fencing match.”

Atsumu blinks. “Is that good or bad?”

“I loved fencing,” Kiyoomi says.

In all of their time together, he’s never mentioned this part of his life, so he has Atsumu’s attention. There are so many parts of Sakusa Kiyoomi that are still a mystery, whether he keeps it to himself on purpose or because he simply doesn’t think to mention it. Though Atsumu is probably guilty of not asking enough questions.

“It’s so fast,” he continues, “You can lose or win in the blink of an eye. It’s tense and heart pounding. Feels like a life-or-death situation even though you’re using fake weapons. It’s you against just one other person and it feels so personal. Now that I’m an adult, I think it’s pretty safe to say it feels a bit like sex. Not in a pleasure sort of way but…”

“In a dueling swords sort of way?” Atsumu asks, unable to stop the 15 year old boy inside his head.

“... in an intimacy sort of way,” Kiyoomi corrects. He’s being genuine, so Atsumu doesn’t draw out the joke.

Kiyoomi’s eyes slide sideways and meet Atsumu’s. “We are evenly matched, you and I. Different styles and different schools of thought, but we match each other point for point. Always at the ready. Masks on. It’s exciting. Keeps me on my toes. But do you know why I left fencing?”

Atsumu echoes a humoring, “Why?”

“It’s not a team sport,” Kiyoomi says, “This may surprise you, but I was lonely.”

“Really?” He can’t imagine.

“Yes. I do like working by myself. I also don’t like being around a lot of people. And I also can’t stand people who don’t pull their weight,” the spiker says, bitterly, “But… I do like to know that someone has my back.”

While the glory and the spotlight appeal to Atsumu, he understands what Kiyoomi is saying. That indescribable feeling of breathing through the same set of lungs and the beat of synchronized hearts. Atsumu didn’t really experience that high until he joined MSBY, grew up a little, and realized that instinctual support brought him a sense of comfort. And while he discovered himself to be a pack animal, he had always assumed Kiyoomi as a lone wolf. He assumed wrong.

“I want to be on a team with you, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, “I don’t want to always meet you at the end of a foil.”

He’s very serious and his eyes are shining, and it’s making Atsumu feel very loved and very uncomfortable all at the same time. Atsumu is so unaccustomed to it, he doesn’t know how to respond properly. So the fifteen year old takes the wheel.

“Is this a weird way of tellin’ me ya don’t wanna have sex with me anymore?” he asks.

“Oh my god, would you please—”

Atsumu gathers his wits about him.

“—I know what yer sayin’, Omi,” he says, holding up his hands. “I get it. It’s all sophisticated and metaphorical-like.”

Kiyoomi smiles. It’s that pleased little smile that he usually saves for when he thinks Atsumu isn’t looking. It’s the ‘I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of admitting your joke was actually funny’ or the ‘Atsumu you’re such a dork, but I’m really in love with you’ smile. It sticks Atsumu in the heart like Cupid’s arrow.

Atsumu carefully takes Kiyoomi’s hands in his own. “I want to be on a team with ya too. Ya know, other than the teams we’re on together already. Which makes three now.”

“Four.”

Atsumu’s chest fills with genuine dread. “No it ain’t.”

“You’re forgetting that charity tournament. For that children’s hospital—”

“Oh shit.”

“—The Tsurukaze Society Sea Stars was our team, if I remember right.”

“Why’d we have to be starfish—”

“—sea stars—”

“—when the other teams got to be things like the Triceratops and Snow Leopards?”

“The kids got to name the teams, Atsumu. You know, the sick kids we were playing for.”

“...yeah well, the sick kids could’ve chosen something cooler than a starfish.”

“Sea star.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu sighs, “You know this means we’re doomed right? If you and me team up again, that makes four and that—”

Kiyoomi grips Atsumu’s hands tight and tugs him closer. “I swear to god, if you reject me because of an idiotic superstition, I’m going to lose it,” he says, “I’m serious about you too, Atsumu. Always have been.”

How could he ever say no to that? How could Miya Atsumu ever look such a talented, intelligent, lusciously curled, beautiful man in the eyes and do anything except leap in his arms and ride off into the sunset? His instincts are so much weaker than his heart.

“Okay,” Atsumu swallows hard. “What now?”

Thumbs brush over his knuckles. “Now I ask you to marry me. Properly.”

Kiyoomi’s body begins to shift, knees bending just slightly, and Atsumu squeezes his hands to keep him from going too far. “Don’t—don’t get down on one knee. I don’t think I could take that right now.”

“Alright," Kiyoomi smiles, “Miya Atsumu—”

“Fuckin’—Ugh, stop!”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” Kiyoomi says, flatly.

“Gimme a second, wouldja?” Atsumu complains. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes. He was afraid of this — of looking like a fool. He’s so in love. He’s wanted this for so long. Now his eyes are going to be red, puffy, snot is going to start pouring from his nose, and he’s going to look very not sexy for one of the most important moments of his life.

“This is bullshit,” he sniffles and wipes the back of his hand over his cheek, “Why am I the only one cryin’? If ya cared so much, shouldn’t you be blubberin’ too?”

Kiyoomi hesitates, eyes unsure. Then, he releases his grip and lifts a hand between them.

It trembles.

“You’re not the only one scared of being vulnerable.”

They will likely spend a lifetime figuring each other out. It’s not going to be easy. Atsumu sees plenty of fights in their future. Couples’ therapy, for sure. An almost divorce, perhaps. But everything between that is going to be fireworks. It has been ever since they met and Atsumu is ready to shovel through the crap and his own problems to have that happy ending.

A voice outside his head hopes that maturity will eventually grab them and give them both a good shake. That he and Kiyoomi will eventually become functioning adults who can show their feelings in a normal way. Unlikely, but a guy can dream.

Atsumu sucks in a deep breath and grasps Kiyoomi’s fingers tighter. “‘Kay. I think I’m ready.”

“You sure?”

“Quit stallin’.”

“Don’t be such a brat, or I’ll change my mind,” Kiyoomi threatens.

“Like ya would. You’ve already announced it to the press.”

“Unlike yours, my reputation can take a scandal.”

“Oh, ouch.”

There it is.

Maybe they never have to grow up. Maybe they can just keep that fire blazing forever, adding fuel and wood and whatever kindling they can get their greedy little hands on so they can outrun the fact that they should never work. Their love can be immature, even strangely toxic at times. It can be love between words. A mystery to everyone else. A red string. A neverending thrust and parry that has their chests heaving, eyes alert, and adrenaline rushing.

“Atsumu, will you marry me?”

The blonde doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I’ll marry ya. Who else is gonna put up with all yer weird habits?”

Even though he’s smiling, Kiyoomi raises his brows in mock disapproval. The two moles (Atsumu loves those fucking moles) on his forehead shift with his brows. “This is you being serious, is it?”

“Yer gonna have to get used to my hypocritical nature.” Atsumu was able to pull back the waterworks, but his lips quiver when he says, “I’m all yours, Omi-Omi.”

“And I’m yours.”

Holy shit.

“Despite yer best efforts?”

This is real life.

“I’d like to think I went down kicking and screaming.”

This bastard.

“Aw, fuck it.”

Atsumu reaches out, grabs a fistful of Kiyoomi’s jacket, and yanks him close. They collide in a kiss that knocks the wind from both their lungs. One of Kiyoomi’s hands cards into the short locks on Atsumu’s nape and the light scrape of nails sends a shiver up his spine. He swipes his tongue over Kiyoomi’s bottom lip in return and is rewarded with a playful nip to the corner of his mouth.

Atsumu feels himself being moved, urged back, and turned sharply. Suddenly, his back is pressed up against a cool, glass window. Kiyoomi crushes him against the pane with another bruising kiss and Atsumu idly thinks — between the pleasure receptors sparking in his brain — that being sandwiched between Kiyoomi and a hard place is a nice place to be.

But he’s got fire of his own. Atsumu turns the tables, flips them over, and Kiyoomi is the one trapped. The curly haired spiker makes a sound of approval between the slide of their lips as his back curls away from the glass and into Atsumu’s touch.

It does feel like a duel.

Atsumu’s hands explore lower and he wonders if there is a supply closet nearby that they can borrow. It’ll take some convincing, but Kiyoomi appears to be in the giving mood—

A cough breaks the quiet.

They fly apart, panting.

Aran stands at the far end of the lobby, looking very tired. “Bus is here, guys,” he says, “Pack it up, wouldja?” Then, he turns and disappears around the corner with a sigh.

Atsumu and Kiyoomi share a look, knowing and mischievous. The blonde breaks out into a wide, wicked smile and wipes away some spit the edge of his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. Kiyoomi pretends like he’s being the bigger person by rolling his eyes and stepping away first. He heads for the vending machine and Atsumu nips at his heels like an excited puppy.

“Yer gonna regret goin’ public as a taken man,” Atsumu says, “Yer gonna lose all those lovestruck fans.”

“Oh, that’s what I was hoping for,” Kiyoomi says. He bends over, sticks his hand into the vending machine tray, and rises with two cans held in one big hand. “I’m sick and tired of them.”

The blonde laughs. “Yer a bastard.”

Kiyoomi grins and offers out one of the drinks — Atsumu’s favorite brand of ice coffee.

“But I’m your bastard.”