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Memories and thoughts age, just as people do.
But certain thoughts can never age, and certain memories can never fade.
(The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, H. Murakami)
There was this time, during a training camp, that led to Kiyoomi’s first realization of what a crush is. Osaka is not exactly known as the city of love, and when he steps down from the bus he and his cousin traveled on for most of the day, all he hears is the traffic rushing on the street opposite the hostel they’ll sleep in for the following days.
Since it’s almost evening, they get to the gym just to know the coach and their company, but as soon as thirteen-year-old Kiyoomi steps into the changing room, he’s greeted with insults in Hyogo’s accent flying from one side of the gym to the other, while the grey-haired guy traveling on their same bus gets to the loudest of the two with a grin, asking for his “perfect timed sets” as soon as their gazes meet.
He can’t say he missed training camps, coming with the unbearable weight of having to share them with people that couldn’t be described as anything other than loud, and annoyingly overwhelming.
As Motoya, terrible people-lover he is, gets to the loud side of the gym to catch up with some of his acquaintances, Kiyoomi heads to the bench, near two teenagers who’ve been passing a volleyball since they got there and talking in between, carefully watched by a third boy that sat in silence. It’s him who notices Kiyoomi first and when he sits beside him, his stoic expression softens just a little.
“Hello, Sakusa.”
“Hi, Ushijima-kun.” the younger looks at him with a bit of a surprise, then nodding in the direction of Kiryuu and Iizuna, “you’re not joining them?”
Miyagi’s almost-fifteen-year-old prodigy’s eyes divert to the two again, as their passes get lazier and their conversation more interesting, but as his mouth opens he’s looking at Kiyoomi, “I’m more interested in practicing my serves.”
“That killer serve of yours?” a distracted Kiryuu asks, before he receives Iizuna’s last pass with his head, getting a small laugh followed by the setter’s excuses. Kiyoomi hears a huff coming from the boy at his side, then the voice of the coach calls for them to round up and quit it with the bickering, Miya.
It’s on nights like this Kiyoomi ends up sitting on the bench at Wakatoshi’s side, waiting for practice to start, or for his cousin to leave the changing room Kiyoomi entered and left before anyone else because he has to. It’s okay if Wakatoshi beats him to the changing room sometimes, though, and when the gym is too hot, they get to sit outside. The older is not much of a talker, except for volleyball, which is extraordinarily nice because most of the time they just talk about it, as if nothing else really matters - even though sometimes Kiyoomi gets to listen to him talking about how different high-school feels from middle-school, if he’s lucky enough.
Sharing a room with Motoya doesn’t stop Kiyoomi from spending most of his time with other people, as Motoya does with the small circle of friends he also made from their previous camps together.
Most of the time, Kiyoomi gets to sit and stay with the so-called “quiet ones” even though Osamu Miya exits this category when his twin is around; but he’s endearingly interested when he talks about food which, to everyone’s surprise, gets Wakatoshi to get closer to him by asking about the best way to cook a demi-glace. Kiyoomi’s attention is caught by Iizuna’s pretty immersed gaze fixated on the two discussing, only looking away when Motoya calls for him from the other table.
At night he and his cousin share back and forth comments about their days at camps, at times they resemble their very own mothers, who they always looked at as nothing else but tattlers.
During the very last time the two of them look at the moon from that room, Motoya confesses to him that he might have a crush on a girl at school. Kiyoomi knows her, she’s a very timid and reserved classmate of his, and he gets that they might’ve met on one of Motoya’s trips to his classroom, either to borrow one of his notebooks or just mess with him when bored.
“Was that the reason why your face went red last time you came to me?” Kiyoomi’s question wasn’t intended to be as sharp as his tone lets it sound, but Motoya replies with a testy voice.
“Yeah, the same way you did when Ushiwaka beat your ass on the last set…!”
Kiyoomi notices it for the first time after a practice set he won beside Wakatoshi, along with his cousin and other known faces.
“I’m not that good with sets,” Motoya admits at the end of the set, then turning to the older boy stretching a few meters from him, “but your receives got even better, Ushiwaka!”
“It’s not Ushiwaka-” the boy tries to correct, interrupted by a scream on the other side of the gym. The losing team apparently didn’t like the result very much, and the energetic Kourai is making it clear to his teammates.
“Huh?”
Motoya tilts his head to the side when Wakatoshi repeats himself, face stoic as the samurai portrayed in the old books of Kiyoomi’s parents back in Tokyo, although the intentions were softer.
“Call me Wakatoshi.”
Then, Kiyoomi notices it again when they’re lazing around the gym during a pause, eating on some snack bars when Wakatoshi gets approached by a brunette.
“There are leftovers, ya want some more, Ushiwaka?” Osamu asks as he takes one snack from the box the coach left for them, fully immersed in the role of distributor.
Wakatoshi sits on the same bench as ever - although it’s not the same gym, he and Kiyoomi have established their tradition by now, regardless of the city - looking away from Kiyoomi as he eyes the name of the brand on the box before meeting the so-called sane Miya’ s kinder expression.
“Call me Wakatoshi. And, yes, thank you.”
Then Kiyoomi hears it from Koutarou, whose energetic attitude makes its way from one side of the gym to the other.
“Ushiwaka, do you want to try some of Tsum-Tsum’s sets?”
“I’m coming,” the boy replies, and his lips hesitate for a bit before opening again, “but it’s just Wakatoshi.”
When the training camp ends, and the first boys start leaving, Kiyoomi catches a running Aran turning in their direction as he sprints to his leaving bus, followed by the twins.
“See you at nationals, Ushiwaka!”
“It’s Waka-” he tries to correct the running boy, but before he even gets to finish, Wakatoshi finds himself sighing beside a listening Kiyoomi.
“You don’t like to be called Ushiwaka?”
The question comes out of Kiyoomi’s mouth like a bubble would leave the soapy stick to fly away, softly popping into Wakatoshi’s ears.
“Not really,” he replies, “but it seems I’ll be stuck with it.”
Kiyoomi’s curiosity leads him to ponder the origins of the other’s consolidated nickname, but he’ll preserve that question for another day, asking, instead, “would you like to be called just Ushijima, then?”
“I’d prefer Wakatoshi, honestly.”
Kiyoomi feels like the “first name basis” is way too far, but when he’s close to replying, his cousin’s voice calls for him, signaling that the bus directed to Tokyo is leaving soon, so he has to join him, along with a few other companions waiting for him.
He has to get up from the bench he once again sat on along with Ushijima and, as Motoya calls for him again, he has the time to turn to look at Miyagi’s prodigy and wave his hand as he calls.
“Until next time, Wakatoshi-kun!”
The bus leaves alone a pondering boy, whose usually stoic expression is revived by a gentle tint of red Kiyoomi won’t know about.
The next time they see each other, Wakatoshi is surrounded by many other “first name basis” people that Kiyoomi doesn’t feel so out of place anymore. At the Spring National tournament in Tokyo, a purple jacket from Miyagi travels alongside a bright yellow jacket from a nearby district.
“We are on opposite tiers.” Kiyoomi points out, standing beside Wakatoshi.
“That means we have to meet in the final.”
As granted as Shiratorizawa’s win back in Miyagi was, so uncertain was their stay when facing the whole country’s best teams.
And, no matter how many times the coach would scold them for their errors, no matter how many service aces they had from either Semi or Wakatoshi, when fronting a black-wearing team with incredibly talented first years (two of them were so hard to tear apart that it felt like there were only five people at times), the sour feel of loss ultimately fell on them.
Itachiyama’s players were able to persist to the last set, and still running on the adrenaline high from their win, they occupied the bleachers near the hallway. As the referee whistles the end of the match, Kiyoomi gets up and storms out (“Is he okay?” second year Iizuna asks to a concerned Motoya, who shrugs him off - “I’ll go get him.”)
Needless to say, as he encounters Shiratorizawa’s libero on his way to the snack machines, Motoya’s endless sociality trays him into conversation with Hayato. He eyes his cousin a few meters away from him, but his attention goes to the libero, when a shower of advice on how to receive Inarizaki’s meanest hits floods from his mouth.
Kiyoomi doesn’t even notice their talk, despite the loud hallway he stays near an empty corridor where Wakatoshi met his confused look a few seconds prior.
“We lost,” he states, without any visible sign of discomposure in his manners.
“I know, I’m not here to pick on you.” Kiyoomi tries, “it’s just that…”
“I was supposed to lose to you, if anything, Sakusa.”
Wakatoshi’s voice has never been as unsteady as it sounds now, when he offers his defeat to Kiyoomi, who stands in front of him but feels light years away. How is a challenge even determined when the inability to perform it is faster than they could grasp, Shiratorizawa’s blessing wonders.
His confession is not enough to change how the world turns: if the sun rises in the east, Wakatoshi still stands with the losing team.
The word “loser” is not one of his favorites, if anything he finds it rude, as rude as Kiyoomi’s tone when he sets forward their steps.
“Then make sure to be here next year to lose properly.”
Itachiyama’s players stand in the spotlight as winners that day, and even with the shadow of loss still over his own team, Wakatoshi’s heart secludes itself in silence, weighing Kiyoomi’s words as a believer would do with their prophet’s sayings.
Apparently, Kiyoomi asks to be depicted in a soft light that highlights his dark eyes and hair, and by the time Wakatoshi reaches age twenty, he gets to see him standing in the sunset for the first time. Eyes wandering between the busy streets longing in Tokyo - his uniform’s tie is loosened up every time they meet - Wakatoshi notices before he’s asked what he would like to eat for dinner.
“Don’t you have to study for exams, Kiyoomi?”
“If this was our last time meeting, would you like me to put school over you?”
The orange-ish cheeks hide the blush Wakatoshi doesn’t notice as he stands, parted lips, a few steps behind the younger.
“I wouldn’t,” he says. “But this isn’t our last time meeting, right?”
Promises waiting to be fulfilled lie in Wakatoshi’s inquiry. Like Miyagi used to set him up for bigger, more rewarding accomplishments in the following years, Kiyoomi’s initial silence makes him tense up before the third-year smirks at him.
“Would you fancy getting some crêpes? I heard there's a crêperie near Shibuya station.”
Wakatoshi will cheat on his diet, for an evening, and on his self-imposed vow of never ruin your relationship with Kiyoomi, ever. Wasn’t he crushing on his captain, anyway? That’s what he heard from Hayato, last time he and Motoya talked.
“But that place is full of couples.”
He’ll also have to ignore his teammates’ friendly reminder not to have a dating scandal, at least until his late twenties.
“And?”
Wakatoshi kisses Kiyoomi goodnight that evening and, a few days later, he loses his year-long scolding-free streak when his coach sees a photo of them, spotted hand in hand in Harajuku.
Lucky him the Adlers’ PR is so good and the photo goes unnoticed, at least in Japan.
(01:23 - From: Satori Tendo
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um??? excusE ME??????
SOOOO… you finally made your move wakatoshi??
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anyway this is how i’ll be dressing for your and kiyo-chan’s marriage
(don’t make your audience wait another seven YEARS for a proposal. gn !!!!!)
“And Schweiden Adlers won the last match, despite the first set being dominated by the game’s hosts, EJP Raijin…”
The news goes on to analyze each player’s actions during the game, but it is barely heard by the actual winners, sitting around a table and exchanging as much food as happy words. Ecstasy floods the already full table, with professionals forgetting about their diet for one night only, at the expense of their captain and coach.
The season was over, and Adlers ruled over their opponents for the last, necessarily important time: that was what counted for the night.
Adlers’ opposite, comfortably eating his rice as his teammates speak animatedly among the chattering table, was the one to score the last point and earn a thunderous chant from the team’s fans. It wasn’t any different from his high-school days, Wakatoshi pridefully admitted to the microphones of one of the few networks who could catch the team, before the coach asked for their well-deserved rest.
Every volleyball fan would now be talking about Wakatoshi, who almost risked getting into the losing team’s changing room to go to his partner, who had been waiting right in front of it, and invited him to dinner with the rest of the team.
Despite his cousin always approving of them, Kiyoomi could tell Motoya was at least irritated at the sight of him following Wakatoshi to go outside, so he mimicked a little “sorry” with his mouth and wrote him a text from Fukurou’s car promising to be at his apartment the next morning.
The news would now recite the athletic records of Wakatoshi, who accidentally peeked, and, at the sight of Kiyoomi’s texts, offered a few embarrassing old tales he and Motoya could, word by word, use to “shit-talk about Ushiwaka”. He earned a good laugh from his captain and a delighted kiss on the cheek from his boyfriend.
And here Wakatoshi is, offering a sip of sake to Kiyoomi who’s sitting next to him. The younger politely declines, only for the offer to be accepted by an already drunkenly loud Kourai.
This is not the first time Kiyoomi is tagging along with the Adlers, and by now he’s talked to most of the players and met bits and parts of their outside lives.
Wakatoshi had the pleasure to see him worn out by Fukurou’s younger brother’s wordiness, climbed by Romero’s little boy, and meeting a few of Sokolov’s girlfriends (Kiyoomi really liked the last one he met, he told Wakatoshi, but her absence tonight and the unknown woman sitting by Tatsuto’s side are signs the both of them catch on quickly.)
Someone Kiyoomi never thought he could live for long enough to see, though, was a plus one for Tobio Kageyama himself.
Wakatoshi dropped the news the night before the match, and whenever Tobio went for actions during the match, he mechanically looked for someone who cheered particularly loud, or who could be waving a fan with the setter’s name glittered over.
No one of the sorts fitted the criteria, and as soon as Tobio sits down at the table alongside his partner, Kiyoomi understands why.
He realizes it while experiencing a glare so cold both he and Kenjirou could find a rival, for once - Wakatoshi won’t know about the comparison, despite being the reason why the “Sakusa glare” and the “Shirabu evil eye” were patented to hit on every evil tongue.
“Kei was funny.” Kiyoomi tells him when they get on a taxi directed to Wakatoshi’s apartment.
“Kei?”
“Oh, yeah, Tsukishima-kun. We are acquainted now,” Kiyoomi casually drops, “might shit-talk about you and Kageyama sometimes.”
(“Huh? What does Sakusa-san mean by that?”
“They’ll be talking badly about us.”
“Ah. Well, Kei’s been doing it since we first met, so…”)
Airports, packed with people leaving, arriving, and transiting through different cities and countries, mean only one thing: upcoming stressful situations.
Wakatoshi has been staying in airports more hours than his concealed eyebags show to his friends and relatives, and, despite the hassle of going through a jet lag of seven hours at every travel, he’s by now well acquainted with Warsaw Chopin’s duty-free and the neverending security check in Narita International Airport.
He’s never been one to let stress weigh him down, if anything he’s never been as vigilant as when he has to board a plane.
Was it to Warsaw, San Francisco, or Paris, airports were by now a second or even third home to him. He once visited Tobio in Rome, sitting beside his blonde and silent boyfriend for a day-long flight Wakatoshi spent trying to talk to him, only finding Kei to be responsive when a shady offer from a JVA Associate he seemed to know well was brought up. It started a chain of not-so-nice appellatives Wakatoshi had a good laugh hearing.
The thing is, no matter how strong or unfazed someone appears, the emotional strain derived from traveling hits its hardest, sooner or later. Wakatoshi was no exception.
A week prior to his booked flight, he didn’t get much sleep after a loss and didn’t answer two, maybe three calls from Kiyoomi, which wasn’t that out of the ordinary because of their not coordinated routines. To add to that, let’s say MSBY also had a rough time in their last few matches, so none of the two athletes were at their best, emotionally speaking.
Add that to the fact their main topic of conversation has always been, to no one’s surprise, volleyball, and it came almost as natural that the first call Wakatoshi had the courage to make started with Kiyoomi’s grievances, which then eventually led to a fight caused by nothing but fatigue.
If Kiyoomi was the first to snap, he was also the first to apologize, leaving a text for Wakatoshi to read when he woke up the morning after their angry exchange, and receiving a heartfelt apology from Orzel’s hitter after his morning run.
Despite the resolved tension, the awkwardness was still lingering over the two of them and, this time, going to the airport was a challenge Wakatoshi had to prepare for.
As seventeen hours wasn't enough to soothe the nerves, sleep-deprived Wakatoshi is now wandering through the airport, luggage in his hand as he searches for a sign that would lead him outside, where he could take a taxi.
Going to Kiyoomi’s is, at the moment, both his biggest wish and strongest fear, and Wakatoshi ponders if he should just head to Hoshiumi’s, or a hotel room, and see his boyfriend when he has the time to enjoy his presence without the risk of another fight occurring.
As his tired mind pictures Kiyoomi’s frown, Wakatoshi feels like a thirsty man that hallucinates an oasis of drinks when lost in the middle of the hostile desert. Except, he bumps into his oasis a few seconds later.
“Wakatoshi!”
Three different voices reach Wakatoshi’s ears, and suddenly he’s aware of his surroundings again, finding himself to be standing in front of his boyfriend and two of his former teammates. Reon and Eita were told just the day before not to worry about his arrival but, like any other time, they ignored Wakatoshi’s wishes and showed up anyway - they would be claiming they had a few things to take care of in Tokyo, the next day.
And if the sight of a 6’2 feet tall athlete dangling around the airport wasn’t enough to catch a few interested looks, the same athlete letting his luggage fall at his feet as he melts on his boyfriend’s chest surely makes a few heads turn around in curiosity.
Kiyoomi was quick to catch Wakatoshi in his arms, despite the surprise of seeing him so defenseless for once, and wholehearted laughs were heard from Semi and Reon, now taking care of the man’s baggage.
“Please Kiyoomi, I don’t want to fight.” Wakatoshi blurts out before any greeting, eyes closing as he rests his head on the younger’s shoulder.
“What?”
“I was a jerk, let’s not fight anymore, please, let’s make up... I missed you.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so tired after a flight,” Kiyoomi admits with a relieved smile, as he goes for the older’s lips, whispering over them, “I missed you too, my already forgiven jerk .”
On the ride home Wakatoshi sleeps on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, instead of telling him and his two friends about his Polish life, any player to keep an eye on, or interesting places he visited. Warsaw’s review of the month has always been an anticipated event, but the three of them understand his delay, for once, and Reon drives the long-but-quieter way to Kiyoomi’s apartment to avoid waking up the sleeping man.
“See what I told you?” Eita asks from the passenger seat, looking at Kiyoomi from the rearview mirror, “Wakatoshi’s never been one to hold grudges for long. Especially if it’s about you.”
Kiyoomi, at the dawn of twenty-five, sits in Wakatoshi’s bathroom with his head buried deep in his own arms covering the lack of color on his face while he rests, embarrassed and repenting on the toilet seat.
He’s been there for about ten minutes when Wakatoshi makes his way to the counter to look for some medicine, listening to the breath of the younger slowly getting steadier.
The shirt he’s wearing is also one of Wakatoshi’s, a stolen property from his closet which is gracefully hiding Kiyoomi’s less toned body behind a pleasantly crumpled fabric.
“How are you standing there like that?”
Kiyoomi’s voice comes out in a timid whisper, but the cabinet is so full of names that Wakatoshi has to take a few seconds to recall what each medicine does, and almost misses his question.
“Like what?”“Like you didn’t drink almost a bottle by yourself last night.”
Wakatoshi pulls his fiancé’s chin up with two fingers, gesturing for him to open his mouth before he places a little white pill on his tongue. As Kiyoomi closes his lips again, Wakatoshi helps him drink a sip of water that gets him to swallow the medicine, while tenderly stroking the younger’s dried-out curls with his fingers.
“Polish training.” Wakatoshi states, and a little smile makes its way on the tired face of the guy sitting on the floor as he mumbles to fuck off, kindly. “You wouldn’t like it.”
His tired mind pictures a drunk Kiyoomi accompanied by his teammates back in Warsaw for a few seconds. Wakatoshi wouldn’t mind taking care of him again, after a night spent in a club with the bunch of tall guys who, he learnt, almost venerate the mythical figure of “Sakusa from Tokyo city” - but he wouldn’t wish for Kiyoomi to live through the worst hangover he himself had to experience, all alone, a few months prior.
“Is there anything I’d like about that ass-end city…?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t look up from his position, the fear of throwing up again not letting him get up or move in the slightest, while Wakatoshi hums deep in thought.
“The cafés.”
When asked about anything, Wakatoshi’s answer would usually raise a bunch of other questions.
Satori, who prides himself as a living Wakatoshi encyclopedia, has definitely gotten rid of any kind of doubt when understanding the process he followed, but curious questions were still there, sometimes. Kourai looks at him for a second or two, and what generally follows is a bunch of profanity. Romero usually goes for other answers just to laugh and say he was muito peculiar .
On the other hand, Kiyoomi stays silent.
May it be from the sharp headache Wakatoshi believes he’s suffering from, may it be because he recalls how their first official dates consisted in going out for drinks in all the fancy cafés Kiyoomi knew in Tokyo. The habit of checking any coffeehouses or tearooms whenever they’re in new cities together eventually replaced sitting on a bench.
“You haven’t seen them, yet,” Wakatoshi continues, crouching down to look the ailing in the eyes, while a hand makes its way to his cheek, “there’s a matcha house I want you to review.”
Silence ensues.
“I missed you.” Kiyoomi blurts out in a so innocent tone, Wakatoshi feels his heart twirl.
“You said it a lot last night,” he answers with a soft smile, “I believe Hinata has a video.”
The panic that rises from the younger’s pale face is enough for Wakatoshi to comfort him with the promise it’s not going to be spread around the gossipy assholes they have as colleagues and, fortunately, friends. (In saying so, Wakatoshi also avoids confessing that he himself became a little less aware of the people around them, and might have placed a few kisses here and there, might have hugged Kiyoomi more than usual.)
“You might say I extorted him since I had a long talk with a rather intoxicated Miya.” He goes on, “he told me lots of… private matters about the two of them I think no one would like to get exposed to.”
“That’s sick.”
“Indeed.”
Soft chuckles attach themselves to the bathroom’s walls and, despite Kiyoomi pondering his interest in asking Wakatoshi more details, by the time they get to the kitchen their discussions have diverted elsewhere. Two cups of tea are served at their four-chaired table, and Kiyoomi’s gratitude lies in a soft kiss on the palm of his lover’s hand as he sits in front of him.
“Are you feeling better?”
When the question pops out of Wakatoshi’s lips, onyx eyes go to his figure. His dominating shoulders and arrogant hits always embraced a tenderness in words, a courtesy in every touch. Kiyoomi first saw it at age twelve, and the recall hits on a hungover morning, about thirteen years later.
His light nod precedes a shy demand, “can we stay home for today?”
“Of course.”
“And tell me more about the cafés in Warsaw.”
Maybe Japan’s pride isn’t properly depicted in its volleyball national team because, as they call their trainer, Kiyoomi and Wakatoshi find out they’re not the only ones who called for a day off - in fact, most of the team did.
Despite Iwaizumi’s scolding, the two men forget about it as soon as they get off the phone, returning to their own little space in the world, where kisses and memories are exchanged while sipping tea.
“Wakatoshi!” a young voice calls for the boy fresh out of the bathroom, “we are going to be late, c’mon!”
Semi has always been the anxious type when it came to matches, Wakatoshi learnt in the previous two years spent together.
He gets to him as soon as he individuates the boy standing between other middle schoolers, who are messily wandering around the corridor. Turning for a brief second to look for a black-haired guy, Wakatoshi looks at his teammate again when he asks him.
“What took you so long?”
“There was a boy in the bathroom stall.”
“Huh? Did he pick a fight?”
“No. He was just looking at me.”
The bathroom guy, Wakatoshi will find out, is from Dosho middle-school, and other than a piercing achromatic gaze, he hides a sick spin on his wrist. Shiratorizawa scores the two points that lead them to victory almost by chance.
When it’s time to shake hands, Wakatoshi stops in front of the bathroom guy (what an ugly name for such delicate features) and lends him his hand.
“You are strong, Sakusa.”
The words slip from the back of his mind, where they stayed for most of the time of the match.
The kid’s eyes are once again on his hands, and by the time he looks at his face, Sakusa leaves Wakatoshi with a promise. Or a curse, depending on the point of view of whoever is watching their young lives slowly blooming.
“Let’s play again soon.”