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Everyone knows.
Kiyoomi knows everyone knows. He feels eyes on him the moment he walks into the locker room alone, and eyes on him again when Atsumu walks in fifteen minutes later, making a beeline for his own locker without acknowledging Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi takes a long swig from his water bottle, and pretends to fiddle with his shoelace - the oldest trick in the book.
There’s silence for a heartbeat.
Atsumu sighs, loud and noisy. “Yeah, we’re through,” he snaps. “You can all stop staring now.”
...
The beginning of the end isn’t a collision, or an explosion of any sort. The beginning of the end is Kiyoomi opening the door to an empty apartment and a sock on the floor for the second time in the week. It is Tuesday.
The beginning of the end isn’t an act but an omission. Absence rather than presence, and it permeates through both their apartment and Kiyoomi’s chest. He passes through the hallway like a ghost and steps over the stray hanger on their bathroom floor without even looking down. He goes through his nightly routine without thinking of how they have yet to reply to their joint invite to Bokuto and Akaashi’s wedding. Then he sits on the edge of their bed and watches the cars zip by on the road below until his sleep cycle app reminds him that it’s bedtime.
There are no texts waiting on his phone. Kiyoomi doesn’t wait up.
The next morning, Kiyoomi wakes up to an empty bed and snoring on the couch. There is a crumpled t-shirt and dried soup stains on the kitchen floor, and a pot in the sink. Kiyoomi picks up the t-shirt, mops up the stains, and does the dishes. Then he checks his calendar and sees that their electricity bills are due, so he pays it out of the joint account for household expenses. He doesn’t mention it - any of it - on their drive to work.
He meets Motoya for dinner that night and listens to him rave about his holiday in Thailand for the better part of the meal. Motoya finally runs out of synonyms for “awesome” and remembers to take a bite of his food. “How’s Atsumu?” he asks through a mouthful of egg.
“Fine,” Kiyoomi says. It’s a safe assumption, since Kiyoomi doesn’t actually know. He tacks on, “We haven’t responded to Bokuto’s wedding invite, though,” both as an elaboration and a segue, of sorts. He figures the joint pronoun will quell any suspicions of unrest.
Motoya takes the bait. “Who does weddings on a weeknight, anyway?” he complains. “Like, fifty percent of us have practice at seven in the morning the next day.”
Kiyoomi lets the conversation drift in that direction, and makes the appropriate remarks as required. He and Motoya part ways at the end of their meal with KIyoomi’s halfhearted promises to go home and visit the family sometime. He drives home, and opens the door to an empty apartment and a sock on the floor for the third time in the week.
It is Wednesday.
...
Practice goes on as per normal. The team runs through their drills and stretches with only a few furtive glances at Kiyoomi and Atsumu when it’s time for the partner stretches, when Atsumu decisively turns to Bokuto and says, “Make sure you pull my arms further back on the third stretch.”
Hinata is waiting when Kiyoomi turns away from them. “I think I overexerted my hamstring yesterday, Omi-san,” he says, as if they’ve always been paired up for stretches. Kiyoomi makes a mental note to bequeath half of his trust fund to Hinata. “Go easy on it, please.”
They end up on the same team during the three-on-three matches, and the mild discomfort on Inunaki’s face dissipates when Atsumu makes the first set to Kiyoomi and he smacks it into the opposite court, effortlessly. They end up losing by a small margin to Meian’s team, but no one can find a technical fault in their gameplay. There is no stumbling, no crash in the middle of the court, no outburst of tears. Kiyoomi and Atsumu move around each other seamlessly- because they are professionals, and also because they’ve had plenty of practice perfecting that particular art form over the last few weeks. They’ve done the same dance over and over- some twisted version of a line dance where they oscillate around a fixed point in a room so they’re always at an equidistance, but never close enough to touch.
At some point in the game, Atsumu goes to set the ball to Kiyoomi, from one end of the court to the other. It drops just out of Kiyoomi’s reach, and everyone in the gym watches as it bounces down on their side of the net, and rolls away.
“Don’t mind,” Inunaki says.
...
On Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s first (official) date, they end up in a drive-thru movie screening of the 1993 Jurassic Park. If someone were to ask, Kiyoomi would not be able to tell them a single thing about the plot beyond the fact that dinosaurs are somehow involved. He could, however, come up with enough material for an essay about the way Atsumu tilts his head a little whenever he laughs, or how his grip tightens on the armrest at the suspenseful parts.
The only thing he does remember about the movie itself - mostly because Atsumu briefly left in the middle to get popcorn - is Jeff Goldblum telling Laura Dern about something called the butterfly effect. It somehow sticks with Kiyoomi, enough for him to Google it when he gets home that night.
Life is unpredictable. A butterfly flaps its wings, and somehow causes a rainstorm. The convenience store around the corner runs out of Super Cup 1.5x Tonkotsu Ramen, and Kiyoomi walks out of their apartment after telling Atsumu, evenly, There’s nothing between us.
It turns out that falling out of love is exactly the same as falling into it; it happens slowly, then all at once. So it takes some time for Kiyoomi to connect the chain of events between Atsumu returning from the store without Kiyoomi’s favourite brand of instant ramen and their break up, but he can probably outline it as such:
1. The store runs out of the only brand of ramen Kiyoomi eats on their weekly movie night
2. Kiyoomi drives out to the megamart a few blocks away to try and find a cup, only to return to Atsumu fast asleep, the movie still paused on the opening title
3. “You know, we don’t really have to do this every single week.”
4. They don’t have another movie night for weeks. On the night they’re supposed to finally watch The Notebook, Osamu drops by Osaka unexpectedly and Atsumu goes to spend the evening with him. Kiyoomi makes plans to meet an old college friend instead.
5. A voice message sent at 3 a.m that night: “Hey, I think I’m not gonna make it back in time to go up to Tokyo for your cousin’s wedding tomorrow. We bumped into Gin and Akagi, and you know how they drink. Anyway, these bastards are set on driving up to Kita-san’s farm in Hyogo, like, right now so someone has to chaperone them. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
6. Kiyoomi’s favourite author is in Osaka for a one-day only book signing on a Saturday they initially planned to drive up to IKEA to look at plant stands together. Kiyoomi doesn’t feel too bad about cancelling at the last minute, especially given the whole wedding thing. They can always order the plant stands online, in any case. He does ask if Atsumu wants to come along to the book signing, though.
7. “Nah, you know I haven’t picked up a book in years. You go ahead, though.”
8. A girl sees Kiyoomi alone at the book signing and takes pity on him. She introduces him to her book club, the first new friends Kiyoomi has made on his own in the two years since he graduated and joined MSBY and started dating Atsumu. And then he agrees to join their book club meeting the next weekend, and the weekend after next.
The next thing he knows, he can’t remember the last time they spent an entire weekend in each other’s company. But even then, it doesn’t feel disorienting like he woke up one day with everything shifted two centimetres to the left. No - the worst part of it all is that it feels as easy as breathing, like it was a natural consequence that they grew together, and then grew apart.
He accompanies Atsumu to an Inarizaki reunion some time later, one weekday night. Kiyoomi had assumed Atsumu would be attending alone, but apparently Suna had suggested for everyone to bring their significant others so Akagi would feel more comfortable about introducing his new girlfriend. So Kiyoomi goes. He doesn’t have anything else to do, anyway.
“And then I told Gin,” Atsumu says between gasps for air, holding onto Aran’s shoulder. His cheeks are flushed red from the alcohol and the stuffiness of the izakaya. “I told ‘im I wasn’t talkin’ about the chickens.”
Everyone around the table bursts into raucous laughter. Kiyoomi cracks a smile and pretends to be in on the joke.
“What about the tattoo?” Aran says. “Tell us about the tattoo.”
Kiyoomi’s glass freezes on the way to his mouth. No one seems to notice, thankfully. All their attention is on Atsumu.
“Well, ‘Samu dragged us into a stupid bet with those two. Obviously no one can beat them when it comes to drinking, so now we have to get Idiot 1 and Idiot 2 tatted on our backs.”
Later, in the dimly lit bathroom at the back of the izakaya, Kiyoomi emerges from the cubicle to find Atsumu stumbling in.
“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu says, vowels slurring a little but his eyes still bright. He reaches out to grasp at Kiyoomi’s arm to steady himself. Kiyoomi misses when they used to touch just to feel close to each other. “Ya good?”
Kiyoomi almost doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to wipe out the bright gleam in his eyes from the alcohol and being in his friends’ company. But the words are already spilling out before he can stop himself, so -
“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting a tattoo?”
Atsumu lets go of his arm. “What?” his brow furrows. “I told you. Coulda sworn I told you ages ago.”
He definitely didn’t. Kiyoomi tells him as much.
“I did tell you- can this wait until later? I really have to pee now.”
Kiyoomi lets him pass with a sigh, and goes back to their table, where Suna is giving him a conspiratory look. “What’s up?” Kiyoomi asks warily.
“We were just saying,” Suna says. “Bokuto and Akaashi are getting married. Hinata and Kageyama have practically been married since high school. When is it gonna be you and Atsumu’s turn, huh?”
To think Kiyoomi had been worried that Suna would have picked up on the tension between him and Atsumu. He laughs, shaky, and waves off Suna’s questions. Atsumu comes back, then, and starts to tell another story from their old high school days.
Kiyoomi had quietly excused himself, and went out the back door to feel the cold night air on his skin. Then he squatted down, put his head between his knees, and traced the unravelling threads of their relationship back to that cup of tonkotsu ramen.
...
Komori Motoya [20:19]
is it true you and Atsumu broke up????
and why did I have to find out from Suna of all people
Missed call at [20:20]
you can’t avoid talking about it forever, Kiyoomi
...
It turns out that silence feeds the proverbial elephant in the room. They don’t talk about the night of the Inarizaki reunion, or about the other nights that came before that.
The thing about falling apart is that it happens physically, before anything else. So even when Atsumu doesn’t text at all while on a boys’ trip to the hot springs, Kiyoomi still picks up Atsumu’s favourite brand of peanut butter at the supermarket. When Kiyoomi misses out on the release of the latest movie in Atsumu’s favourite franchise, he comes home to find their practice jerseys for the next day ironed out and hanging by the bathroom door, as always.
When Kiyoomi finally realises that they’re never going to talk about it, he still packs their lunchboxes for the next day, making sure to put an extra octopus sausage in Atsumu’s bento because he likes it. He packs a bag with just his essentials, and texts Coach Foster to let him know that he’s missing practice tomorrow. Then he picks up the stray sock on the floor, puts it in the laundry basket, and sits on the sofa and waits.
Atsumu blinks at him in surprise when he opens the door around midnight. “Hey,” he says. He doesn’t make eye contact with Kiyoomi as he shuffles to the counter to plonk his duffel down on it. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”
Kiyoomi has never been one to beat around the bush. “This isn’t working out.”
Atsumu does look at him then. “What?”
“This isn’t working out,” Kiyoomi repeats steadily. His hands aren’t shaking. He’s rehearsed this at least a thousand times in the last two hours. “You had to know that.”
“I did,” Atsumu says quietly. “Obviously things between us were wrong. But don’t you think we can - don’t you want to try and fix it?”
“Don’t you get it?” Kiyoomi says. “There’s nothing between us. Not anymore.”
Atsumu doesn’t say another word, just like Kiyoomi knew he would. There really isn’t any appropriate response for something like that, in any case. So Kiyoomi stands up, and picks up the overnight bag at his feet. He feels Atsumu’s eyes follow him to the door, where he pauses briefly on the threshold.
He feels like he should say something. But the irony would be too great, choosing to speak now when all they’ve done the past couple of months is stay silent.
So he lets the door fall shut behind him with a quiet click. Atsumu doesn’t follow him out.
...
Motoya comes all the way from Nagano, and forcefully extricates the exact location of Kiyoomi’s Airbnb from Hinata.
“Hello, I have a delivery for Sakusa Kiyoomi,” a gruff voice comes through the intercom when Kiyoomi finally gives up on ignoring its incessant ringing. “Five kilograms of low sodium umeboshi - ”
“I know it’s you,” Kiyoomi says flatly. “You’d make a terrible spy.”
A pause. Then, “Damn it,” Motoya says in his normal voice. “Let me in.”
“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi says. “I don’t need coddling.”
“Not what Hinata said.”
Kiyoomi regrets ever making Hinata his temporary emergency contact. The guy is a sieve. “Well, excuse me if I miss a team outing or two because I don’t want to play laser tag with my ex-boyfriend of two years - ”
“You really want to air your issues out over the intercom? ‘Cause there’s a bunch of people sitting around the lobby, and they all look way too interested in whatever’s going down.”
Kiyoomi pinches at the skin between his brows and takes several deep breaths before pressing the button to let Motoya up. Minutes later, he is standing at Kiyoomi’s door with a grin and a six-pack.
“If you thought getting me drunk is going to get me to spill my deepest, darkest secrets, you thought wrong,” Kiyoomi says mutinously as he lets Motoya into his apartment. He’s tempted to let him stay out on the corridor, but he doesn’t put it past Motoya to throw a fit loud enough to wake up their grandma all the way in Tokyo.
Motoya kicks off his shoes in the genkan, and lifts up the six-pack to reveal cans of sparkling grape juice instead of beer. It’s Kiyoomi’s favourite brand, so he almost forgives Motoya when he says, “I was lying earlier, by the way. There wasn’t anyone in the lobby.”
Motoya makes himself at home on the floor of the living area before Kiyoomi can show him the exit, and draws out a pack of umeboshi from his backpack and wiggles it in Kiyoomi’s direction.
“I don’t want to talk about feelings ,” Kiyoomi grumbles, but goes to join Motoya at the coffee table anyway. He did come all the way from Nagano, after all.
“We don’t have to,” Motoya says easily. “Is there Netflix on this TV?”
Kiyoomi and Atsumu share a Netflix account under the username “MSBY #1 Couple”, which Motoya thankfully does not remark on as he scrolls through the selection of movies and puts on Barbie: Mermaidia. Motoya is also kind enough not to remark on the fact that The Notebook is a recently watched movie.
“Just like the old times,” Motoya crunches happily on his popcorn as the opening credits start to roll. “Hey, remember when we dressed up as Laverna and Fungus Maximus for Hallloween?”
“You painted that large wart on my face because you said you were too good looking to be Fungus,” Kiyoomi says sourly. “ You got to wear fairy wings.”
“You used to listen to me all the time,” Motoya sighs and wipes at a fake tear. “Look at you now. So rude and argumentative.”
They don’t speak again until Barbie and the blue mermaid are swimming through a pitch black sea, when Motoya turns to Kiyoomi, and asks, “Was it a really bad fight?”
Kiyoomi chews on an entire umeboshi before replying. “We never fought.”
“What?” Motoya turns around to face him. “What do you mean, you never fought?”
“Obviously we’ve fought before.” All the time, he wants to add. “But not towards the end. We hadn’t fought in the past three months.”
“I did notice that you were bickering less,” Motoya says. “I thought it was a sign of progress, or something. Thought you were both maturing.”
“I wanted to think so, too,” Kiyoomi says quietly.
“But?”
Kiyoomi shrugs, and Motoya takes his cue and falls silent. He doesn’t ask Kiyoomi any more questions after that.
The truth is, in the week since he and Atsumu broke up, he’s had a lot of time to think. And as much as Atsumu may have been the one to start spending nights away from home and stop giving frequent text updates like ‘ Samu brought cheese sticks to the family dinner why would he do that he knows I hate cheese or Saw a cat steal someone’s noodles reminded me of you, Kiyoomi never exactly talked about any of it either. He never told Atsumu that when he’d ditched on attending Kiyoomi’s cousin’s wedding Kiyoomi had to deal with five different aunts and uncles muttering, I knew they wouldn’t last. He never stopped Atsumu on the nights he went out with his friends, never told him The bed is too cold without you.
He can’t remember the last time he told him, I love you. Or more importantly, I still love you. It had been on the tip of his tongue on the night he walked out the door. But weighed in the balance with everything left unsaid, saying it would have been almost comically pointless. So instead he’d said -
“There’s nothing between us,” he tells Motoya later. “There’s no reason for us to still be together.”
...
“Hey.”
Kiyoomi has to make a concerted effort to school his expression into something neutral before turning around to face Atsumu. The locker room is completely empty, most of the team having already left for dinner. He thought Atsumu had gone with them.
“Hi,” Kiyoomi ventures.
Atsumu isn’t looking at him. “Just thought I’d let you know,” he says, staring at a fixed point somewhere over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, “If you want to collect your other things I’ll be out of town this weekend. I’ll leave the keys under the shoe rack. And don’t worry about the utility bills for the month. I’ll cover it.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what he had been expecting Atsumu to say, but he finds himself feeling disappointed anyway. “That’s,” he says, then stops. “Thanks. Yeah, that sounds fine. I’ll drop by.”
“Yeah, um, no problem,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi has never heard him sound so formal or so unsure in all the years he’s known him. “It’s- I’ll make sure to leave by Saturday morning.”
...
The apartment is dark and quiet when Kiyoomi lets himself in.
He flicks on the lights, and stares. It’s completely clean - no dishes in the sink, no stains on the floor, no socks lying around. The pillows on the sofa are straightened out and there is a faint scent of pine in the air.
In fact, if Kiyoomi hadn’t lived there for over a year, he wouldn’t have thought there was anything wrong with it. But he did, so he stops in his tracks when he realises that all their photos on the TV cabinet have disappeared. Their ceramic figurines of a fox and a porcupine - prickly like you, Omi-kun! - are gone too.
Kiyoomi forces himself to keep walking. They’re broken up, he reminds himself. Atsumu is allowed to redecorate their - no, his apartment however he likes.
There’s only one pillow on their bed. Kiyoomi sleeps with a mountain of pillows, but Atsumu is the kind of person who can fall asleep standing up. The pile of throw pillows and cushions Kiyoomi once kept on their bed is packed neatly in several vacuum-sealed bags in a corner of their room.
Kiyoomi realises two things at the same time. One, Atsumu is indeed doing better without Kiyoomi in his life. Two, Atsumu has clearly already moved on. Or, more plausibly, he had already left long before Kiyoomi had even walked out the door.
“- And then the book just stopped in the middle of the sentence. No resolution. The author just ended the whole series there,” Kiyoomi says. It’s a rare night that they’re both free, and Kiyoomi is driving them to a restaurant for dinner, some Mediterranean place Atsumu had wanted to try. “Can you believe it?”
“Atsumu?” When he doesn’t get a response, he turns to look at him in the passenger seat. Atsumu is typing rapidly on his phone, a broad grin on his face.
Kiyoomi clears his throat. Atsumu finally looks up, then, and seems to register that Kiyoomi had been saying something. “Shit, sorry,” he says. “Just- ‘Samu found this ridiculous photo of us and Aran from elementary school and- okay, you probably don’t wanna hear about that. What were you saying again, Omi-kun?”
Kiyoomi suddenly doesn’t feel like talking much. “I was just saying that traffic looks heavy. It’ll probably be a while before we reach.”
“Oh,” Atsumu says in a small voice. He knows that Kiyoomi hadn’t been talking about traffic. “Yeah. Looks like a really bad jam.”
For some reason, that’s his breaking point. He curls in onto himself in a corner of their bathroom, breaths coming in rapid gasps as he haphazardly crams his toiletries into an empty suitcase he brought, and tries to control his shaking hands as he gathers up all his clothes from their wardrobe. He can’t bear to gather the rest of his belongings from the living room and kitchen, and instead all but flees the apartment.
He thinks, hysterically, that it is kind of funny, the way his suitcases rattle along on pavement behind him as he drags them to his car painting a perfect tableau for some comic at the corner of the Sunday paper.
The title in blocks: EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE.
It’s not until Kiyoomi is two streets away from Atsumu’s apartment that the tears start to fall in earnest. He has to pull over to the side of the road because his vision has become so blurry that it’s a safety hazard to other cars, and causing some kind of road accident wouldn’t be good for his finances especially in view of his house-hunting endeavours.
He clenches his fists so hard that his nails create crescent-shaped indents on his palm, and doesn’t move for a long time.
...
“I’m sorry, but that won’t do,” Kiyoomi tells the housing agent on the line. It’s the third apartment he’s rejected this week. “I’m looking for somewhere with a higher ceiling. And with a concierge.”
“I will try my best to find somewhere that meets your requirements.” The agent’s voice is more than a little weary. Kiyoomi makes a face - there’s no one around in the corridors to witness it, since most of the team are still at lunch in the cafeteria. “But Sakusa-san, I must warn you that the housing market isn’t at its best. It will be difficult to find such a place that is within your budget.”
“That’s fine,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m willing to stretch it a little if it meets the requirements.”
He notices Meian coming down the corridor towards him, and hangs up quickly. “Meian-san,” he greets, a little stiffly.
“Sakusa-kun,” Meian starts. He looks more than a little uncomfortable. Kiyoomi can guess why. “I know you’ve made it clear that you would like for everything to - well, go on as per normal.”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says warily.
“Your performance on the court has been largely consistent,” Meian says. “Which is good. I didn’t expect anything less.”
Kiyoomi waits for him to continue, because he knows there is more. The team has been walking on eggshells around them even though they’ve both made it a point to stay as civil as possible in front of them. There’s something humorous about how they’ve exchanged more words in their attempt at normalcy than they did towards the end of their relationship, but Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to identify it at this point.
“I wanted to know how you were doing on a personal level.” There it is. “I know how tough breakups are, especially when your former partner remains your colleague. So - I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to come to me.”
Kiyoomi likes Meian. He’s a good captain, and he seems like he’d make an even more reliable friend. But Kiyoomi is historically catastrophic at expressing his emotions. Just ask Atsumu.
“I’m fine,” he tells Meian. “Please don’t worry about me.”
Meian doesn’t look too convinced. “We’ve missed you at team outings, Sakusa.”
“I was busy,” Kiyoomi says. Busy feeling like shit, he means. “I’ll try to make it to the next one,” he offers, by way of apology.
Meian brightens visibly, and Kiyoomi instantly feels bad for lying to him. “That’s great! Uh, don’t feel pressured to come, or anything. Just come whenever you’re comfortable.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Kiyoomi says. Satisfied, Meian gives him a double thumbs up and backs away into the locker room.
Kiyoomi is fine. He has settled into a new kind of routine which isn’t plagued by uncertainty - he no longer has to wonder if he would have to eat dinner alone, or whether he should wait up for someone who might not return home. He’s started making plans to meet old friends from university, and even agrees to go on a winery tour with his friends from the book club. Ironically, his life is fuller than ever.
He heads back to the locker room, slowly, but for some reason finds himself pausing just around the corner when he hears Bokuto say, “What about you, ‘Tsumu? You wanna join Keiji and I for mini golf tonight?”
“Nah,” Atsumu’s tone is light. “I’ve got a date.”
Kiyoomi freezes.
“A date?” Inunaki’s voice joins in. “With who?”
“A girl from Onigiri Miya,” Atsumu says. “Sorry, Bokkun. Maybe next time.”
Kiyoomi has heard enough. He does a sharp 180 turn and heads straight for the gym. He doesn’t make conversation with anyone for the rest of the day.
If it were anyone else, it would be easy to turn the sting of betrayal he feels into resentment and bitterness, and then channel those negative emotions into getting over them. But even when they’re barely talking, Atsumu silently passes him towels during time outs and makes his sets just a little easier to hit when he notices Kiyoomi wincing and flexing his fingers out of the corner of his eye. Kiyoomi can’t hate someone whose every action is underlined by love, even if the person in question is no longer in love with him.
In any case, he shouldn’t be feeling bitter. They’re broken up. Atsumu is allowed to go on dates with other people, even if it’s only been two weeks. It is no longer Kiyoomi’s business.
Theoretically, Kiyoomi could do the same. He knows he isn’t bad looking, and could probably start seeing others too. In reality, he still cooks for two on reflex, and always ends up with enough food to last him till the next meal. A handsome man had approached him at the café over the weekend and asked if the seat opposite his was taken, and Kiyoomi had answered “yes” before remembering that he was alone. As in, alone alone. And when the weather forecast predicts heavy rain in the evening, he wonders if Atsumu will remember to drive safely before realising that he himself didn’t bring an umbrella out.
Physically, Kiyoomi has moved on. Emotionally, he’s still arriving back home to find Atsumu asleep after driving twenty minutes to find a brand of ramen he now hates.
The thing is, it turns out that an understanding of the butterfly effect based solely on Jurassic Park (1993) is potentially a flawed one. Had Kiyoomi bothered to look up the actual explanation of the butterfly effect, he would have found out that it had less to do with a seemingly insignificant event resulting in a chain reaction of larger events, and more to do with how even accounting for all possible insignificant events ultimately doesn’t help much in trying to predict the future. The central tenet underlying the butterfly effect is just that: life is unpredictable.
So even if Kiyoomi had told him, Stay, on any one of those long nights Atsumu spent away from home, he might have still ended up falling out of love with Kiyoomi. But Kiyoomi will never know, because he never said it.
Kiyoomi can count the number of regrets he’s had in life on one hand, and they all begin and end with Miya Atsumu.
...
Miya Osamu is the last person Kiyoomi expects to run into at the grocery store.
The two of them stand completely still for a moment, both at a loss for words. Then Osamu says, “Long time no see, Sakusa.”
“Osamu,” he greets in response. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
There was a time Osamu had called him Kiyoomi-kun, and smiled at him with almost as much affection as he did towards the rest of his friends. Just another thing Kiyoomi has lost.
“Well, the guy in charge of delivering vegetables is sick today, so I’m stocking up on supplies for Onigiri Miya.” Kiyoomi has to physically restrain himself from blanching at that. He wonders if the girl Atsumu went out with is on shift right now, and whether Atsumu is with her. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m…” Kiyoomi trails off, suddenly all too aware that his grocery basket is filled with ingredients for spicy tuna, and Atsumu’s favourite caramel pudding. There is no way Osamu, who is fluent in both the language of food and his twin brother, doesn’t see it for what it really is. “I’m making dinner,” he finishes lamely.
“Mm,” Osamu hums thoughtfully. His gaze is piercing, and Kiyoomi has to look away. Their faces are too identical, Atsumu and Osamu, and too different at the same time. “Enjoy your dinner. See you around, Kiyoomi-kun.”
...
“Omi-san!” Hinata greets him brightly. “I heard you finally found a new place.”
Kiyoomi will never underestimate the V-League grapevine again. Motoya really is a terrible gossip. “I did. I’m signing the lease tomorrow.”
“That’s great!” Hinata’s excited voice echoes throughout the gym. “Are you going to host a housewarming party?”
“Over my dead body,” Kiyoomi tells him flatly.
Hinata is not fazed in the least. Kiyoomi supposes it’s a side effect of having spent one’s formative years around the likes of Kageyama Tobio. “Well, then you should at least come out with us tonight. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever, Omi-san.”
Kiyoomi refuses to succumb to Hinata’s puppy-dog eyes. “We see each other every day.”
“Come on,” Hinata wheedles. “You know what I mean! Plus, team bonding outside of practice helps to improve teamwork on the court.”
“Is that what Karasuno preaches?” Kiyoomi can’t resist poking at him a little. “Teamwork makes the dream work?”
“You’re deflecting,” Hinata says severely. Kiyoomi forgets how intense the guy can get sometimes. “Don’t say no before you’ve tried it. Plus, Meian-san’s buying everyone their first round of drinks.”
“When you put it like that,” Kiyoomi sighs.
Hinata takes advantage of this momentary lapse in judgement, and swoops in like a vulture. “Yay!” he cheers. “I’ll text you the address of the club. See you at eleven!” Then he leaps away before Kiyoomi even gets a chance to protest that eleven p.m. is when the night ends for him, not when it starts.
Me [22:15]
(2 photos)
Is this too much?
Komori Motoya [22:16]
omg ur gg out???? fuckin finally
not slutty enough tho
always leave at least 4 buttons open kiyoomi
how else will the lads know ur dtf
Me [22:19]
…..
I am no longer speaking to you
A pop song with a heavy bass beat is playing when Kiyoomi enters the club close to midnight, and he approaches the table that his teammates are sitting at to general cheers and whoops.
“Finally!” Bokuto bellows. “Thought you’d bail on us again!”
“You look really good, Omi-san!” Hinata beams, all pearly whites and innocence like he didn’t just threaten Kiyoomi’s life via text when he saw him chickening out right outside the club. “I see you followed the four-button rule!”
“Motoya forced my hand,” Kiyoomi says. “It’s a stupid rule. It doesn’t even make sense.”
“No, it definitely works,” Meian pipes up unexpectedly. “Got me my wife.”
That leads to another round of hoots around the table, and Kiyoomi takes advantage of the team’s attention on Meian to sneak a glance at Atsumu.
He looks good tonight. He always does, but tonight he’s in a maroon shirt tucked into tight black jeans and folded to his elbows. His eyes crinkle up at the corners the same way they used to whenever he looked at Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi wonders if the girl Atsumu is seeing can leave him breathless the way he could.
He forces himself to tear his eyes away from Atsumu before anyone can notice, and kind of zones out from the conversation until he notices that his glass is empty. He isn’t sure what kind of drink Hinata had pushed into his hand when he first arrived, but he does know that he needs another if he has to remain in Atsumu’s proximity for the rest of the night when he’s dressed like that .
Kiyoomi murmurs something under his breath and heads across the club to the bar, going the long way to avoid the dance floor and its mass of writhing bodies. It’s not vulgar or tacky, by any means; the cover charge for this club isn’t exactly cheap, so its patrons are well-dressed adults looking for a much-needed break from work rather than teenagers or university students about to make unsavoury memories. Still, Kiyoomi doesn’t particularly want to be dragged into a dance right now, because he really needs a drink.
“Whiskey on the rocks, please,” he tells the bartender. Then he leans back onto the counter and looks back across the room. Most of the more energetic members of their team have headed for the dance floor – he spies Bokuto whirling Inunaki around in some kind of chaotic version of the foxtrot that Kiyoomi wants no part in, and Hinata cackling madly as he films them – but Atsumu remains at the table, arms stretched out on either side of him as he chats with Barnes.
Kiyoomi doesn’t want to head back to the table, because the small number of people at the table creates a more intimate atmosphere. He’s not ready to be in that kind of proximity with Atsumu just yet. So he remains at the bar, nursing on his drink until someone clears his throat beside him.
“Hi.” An unfamiliar man smiles at him in greeting. He’s about Kiyoomi’s height, and his light brown hair is partially slicked back to reveal an attractive smile. “Are you here by yourself?”
“No,” Kiyoomi says. Then he follows it up with, “I’m here with my team.”
“Ah,” the man hums. “Had me thinking you were here with someone for a moment. You play sports, huh? I can tell.”
They exchange names and fall into some kind of conversation about their jobs, which Kiyoomi only half pays attention to. He’s been hit on by plenty of men and women, so he knows exactly where this is going. He has half a mind to steer the conversation to a close when the man says, “– might be wrong, but do you wanna dance?”
Sorry, no is on the tip of his tongue, but then he glances back at the team table and sees Atsumu throw his head back and laugh at something, the picture of someone totally carefree, and his resolve hardens within him.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Yes, let’s dance.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t really know how to dance, per se. But that doesn’t matter in a club since he knows dancing is just a flimsy excuse to get close to someone, maybe a prelude to something more later. True enough, the guy – Kiyoomi has already forgotten his name, and he’s willing to bet he barely remembers Kiyoomi’s too – lays a hand on his shoulder as soon as they get to the dance floor, and starts swaying along to the beat. He dances well enough that Kiyoomi doesn’t really have to put in much effort, just lets him inch closer with each bass drop until they’re practically pressed flushed up against each other.
It’s been years since Kiyoomi has last done something like this. Even back then he didn’t do it much, not liking the way people’s elbows constantly shove into his back and the occasional shoe on his foot. But he desperately needs a distraction from his own thoughts, and the loud music of the club and the slide of a body against his is as good of a distraction as any.
The man slips a hand around his neck, and the hand that was previously on Kiyoomi’s shoulder slides down to rest on his waist. Then he nudges a knee in between Kiyoomi’s legs, all while still swaying somewhat to the beat of the song currently playing, which is pretty impressive. Kiyoomi just lets it happen, and lets his head fall back.
Then he meets Atsumu’s gaze. Somehow, they’ve danced right into Atsumu’s line of sight, barely ten metres away from him. If Atsumu hadn’t been meeting Kiyoomi’s eyes earlier, he’s definitely looking now. And Kiyoomi’s next breath catches a little in his throat at the way he sees Atsumu’s white-knuckled grip on his glass and the deep crease between his brows.
It’s the biggest reaction he’s gotten out of Atsumu in months. He can’t remember the last time Atsumu stared at him with that much passion, even if it's underpinned by something dark Kiyoomi doesn’t quite understand, since Atsumu has long made it clear that he’s moved on. Still, feeling emboldened, Kiyoomi parts his lips slightly, and lets his eyes flutter shut. The man’s lips ghost over his jaw, and he starts to trace a line down Kiyoomi’s throat. It doesn’t feel bad. But the only thought in his head is –
Atsumu would have done it better .
Then there’s the sound of shattering glass, and Kiyoomi’s eyes pop open. He sees shards of glass in a small pool of red wine on the floor, and suddenly Atsumu is roughly shoving the man away from Kiyoomi.
“Get your hands off him,” he snarls.
“Wait, what?” The guy raises an eyebrow at Kiyoomi. “You know this guy?”
“He’s mine,” Atsumu says.
Kiyoomi stares at him. The guy raises both hands placatingly. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. Trust me, I would never have hit on you if I knew, man.”
He backs away, and then Meian is beside them, furious.
“– how old are the both of you, seriously. The bouncer is coming over, and you better leave before he kicks you out. Go and talk like adults.”
Meian clasps a firm hand on their shoulders before either of them can protest, and steers them towards the exit. They step into the cool air of the night, and Kiyoomi feels the light alcohol-induced buzz evaporate as soon as he takes his first inhale. Then he turns on Atsumu.
“You had no right to do that,” Kiyoomi says, low and incensed.
“I know,” Atsumu hangs his head. “‘M sorry. Shouldn’t have done that.”
This isn’t the reaction Kiyoomi wants – he’s backing away again, retreating behind short sentences and avoidant gazes. He catches Atsumu by the front of his shirt, and pulls him close so their noses almost touch. Atsumu’s eyes widen in surprise, honey gold as stunning as ever. Kiyoomi’s heart aches in memory of when they’d once been full of adoration for him.
“No, listen,” Kiyoomi says, voice breaking a little. “You have no right at all. I did you a favour and let you go. Why won’t you let me move on, too?”
Atsumu is staring at him. He licks his lips, slowly. “Who says I’ve moved on?”
“I heard you,” Kiyoomi says bitterly. “In the locker room. You told Bokuto you had a date. And the next morning you showed up late and your hair was a mess, so I assume it went well–”
“I didn’t go on a date,” Atsumu interrupts. Now he’s seething, too, glaring right back at him. “I spent the night at home. Alone. My hair was messy because I fell asleep on the couch after watching three seasons of Friends. And all this talk about you letting me go is real rich, since you were the one who left.”
“I left because you gave up on us!” Kiyoomi shouts. “You were always leaving. Even when you were present, you were never really there. You clearly wanted to be anywhere else – I couldn’t be enough for you, so I did you a favour and let you go, even though I’m still in love with you.”
Atsumu looks like someone knocked all the breath out of his lungs. “ What?”
“I’m still in love with you,” Kiyoomi says, quieter this time. “What, you think it’s that easy for me to forget about someone like you?”
Atsumu is still gaping at him. Kiyoomi kind of wishes he could take it back, but also doesn’t. He lets go of Atsumu’s shirt, and steps away from him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to burden you like that. You don’t have to do anything. Just – ” He takes a few steps back. “Just leave me be. Please.”
Then he’s spinning on his heel and heading for the curb, sticking his arm out and flagging down an oncoming taxi. He yanks the door open and collapses in the back seat, and doesn’t look back as the taxi speeds away.
His hands are still shaking, but he feels like a crushing weight has been finally lifted from his shoulders. It feels good. He thinks he lets out a delirious laugh at some point, throwing his arm over his eyes, and hopes the taxi driver isn’t too spooked out.
That’s not to say Kiyoomi’s fine now. He knows a part of him will always be in love with Atsumu, and seeing him with anyone else will always feel like the sharp twist of a knife in his gut, a knife that doesn’t dull with time. But now he can meet his own gaze in the mirror, and know he’s said whatever he’s meant to say.
It’s a little late, but he owes it to himself. And to Atsumu, too.
Back in his Airbnb, he stands under the showerhead for a full twenty minutes until he gets wrinkles on the pads of his fingers. Then he shuffles out of the bathroom, throwing a towel over his damp hair as he surveys the house, and thinks about packing. He is meant to move out the next day, after all, as soon as he signs the new lease. Not that there’s much to pack – most of his things are still in the suitcases he’d brought from Atsumu’s place.
He wanders out to the living area, and gives his phone a cursory glance. Then he does a double take when he sees 10 missed calls from Miya Atsumu.
Kiyoomi’s hands are shaking again. His mind is completely blank, and he has to sit down before his knees give way. His finger hovers over the ‘call back’ button, and then his screen lights up again.
Incoming call from Miya Atsumu.
Before he can think the better of it, he picks up. “Hello?” His voice comes out as a croak.
“Oh my god, I finally got through,” Atsumu’s voice is frantic on the other end of the line. “Thought you were never gonna pick up – ”
“Are you okay?” Kiyoomi cuts in, just as urgent. “Are you hurt?”
“What?” Atsumu says. “No, I’m fine.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi sags back onto the couch. “Then – then why? Why did you call?”
“Okay, scratch that,” Atsumu says. He sounds slightly winded, like he’s been running a marathon. “I’m not fine. You told me you’re still in love with me, and then you fucking left me on the sidewalk before I could even say anything. Who does that?”
“I, uh,” Kiyoomi starts faintly. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk.”
“And isn’t that the whole fucking problem in the first place,” Atsumu lets out a noisy exhale. “You, making these assumptions in your head, and not saying a word of it to me? I know you like no one else does, but I can’t read minds.”
“I know,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “I realised that, recently. I should have just talked to you. But it felt like you weren’t even interested enough to ask about the small things in my life. To bring up something huge – it wouldn’t have been easy.”
“I know that, too,” Atsumu says, his tone lowering to match Kiyoomi’s. “And I’m sorry. I let you slip from me because I thought I could stop fighting for you, just because I already had you in my life. I fucked up.”
Kiyoomi weakly lifts a hand to scrub at his face, overwhelmed. “What’s the point of saying all this now?”
“I should have stopped you from leaving. I should have fought you on it,” Atsumu says. He sounds breathless again, and Kiyoomi kind of feels that way too. “You’re worth fighting for. I’d fight for you every single day for the rest of my life if I could keep you by my side.”
“What are you saying, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi whispers, hardly daring to believe it.
“Open the door, Kiyoomi. Please.”
Kiyoomi’s gaze snaps to the front door, and then he’s crossing the room in two large strides and yanking on the door handle.
Atsumu stands there, phone still pressed to his ear. His chest is heaving like he’d run all the way here, but his eyes are as alive as Kiyoomi has ever known.
“I didn’t know where you were staying,” Atsumu says. “So I just started – running. In whatever direction. I couldn’t reach you for a while, but I got Motoya to tell me your address, and. Well. Here I am.”
“Why?” It’s Kiyoomi who’s dazed this time. “Why did you come?”
“Come home with me, Omi-kun,” Atsumu’s eyes are shiny and his cheeks are pink with exertion. The idiot, Kiyoomi thinks, with a rush of affection. “We can take things slow, I promise. You can move into the spare bedroom, and – and I can take you out on a date, or ten. Only if you want.”
“If I want?” Kiyoomi repeats. His vision is getting blurry, too.
“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “I want to fight for you. I may screw up again every now and then, but if you give me time,” he inhales shakily. Kiyoomi has never loved him more. “If you can give me time, I’ll prove that I never stopped loving you.”
“Sounds like a pretty irresistible offer,” Kiyoomi says, and cracks a shaky smile. “And a pretty tall order.”
“I meant it,” Atsumu says fiercely. “I still love you, too.”
Then Kiyoomi opens his arms, and they surge towards each other, closing the distance until there is nothing left between them.
Atsumu kisses him like a promise – no, a vow – with raw sincerity and tenderness all at once, cradling Kiyoomi’s face in his hands like he can’t believe he’s real. Kiyoomi’s hands come to fist at the back of Atsumu’s shirt, too, and he’s not sure whose tears he’s tasting, but it doesn’t really matter.
“Hey.” Atsumu pulls back a little, and Kiyoomi chases his touch on instinct. “Hey,” Atsumu laughs. “Kiyoomi.”
Kiyoomi draws back just enough to meet Atsumu’s eyes. “What?” he says, grumpily.
Atsumu cups Kiyoomi’s cheeks and brushes his lips over his forehead, once. “Been wanting to do that for ages,” he says. “The past few weeks have been hell, I’m not even kidding.”
In lieu of a reply, KIyoomi turns his face into Atsumu’s touch, and kisses the inside of his palm. Then he notices that there’s a small cut on Atsumu’s hand, presumably from the shattered glass. “Does it hurt?”
“Nah,” Atsumu’s eyes are warm, but his gaze is sharp as always, focused entirely on Kiyoomi. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Well,” Kiyoomi smiles back at him, small but real. “I have a first aid kit somewhere, in any case.”
“Yeah? You gonna nurse me back to health?”
“Of course,” Kiyoomi tugs on Atsumu’s hand, and draws them through the doorway into the warmth of the house, pinkies linked together. “Of course we'll fix it.”