Work Text:
A routine, according to the dictionary, is defined as a regular way of doing things in a particular order. It is a series of actions done repetitively in a certain period of time. It is procedural, like a carefully crafted list consisting of various instructions.
Sakusa Kiyoomi wakes up, eats, works, and sleeps. He does this everyday for three months until he becomes completely immersed in his own simple routine. Working all day at an office has its perks. He wakes up at 8 am, eats his own breakfast, goes out of his modest apartment, and heads to the building just two blocks away from his apartment complex for his office job. He keys in his reports, eats his packed bento lunch box he always makes for himself, and spends the rest of the time typing away until 5 pm. He does not interact with his coworkers, often finding himself too tired to even communicate with them. After finishing his required work for the day, he cleans up and boards the train by 5:30. He avoids the sweaty businessmen standing beside him and pulls his medical mask up the bridge of his nose. When he arrives home, he neatly places his shoes near the door and cooks a quick meal for himself. Then he sleeps. This cycle is repeated everyday except on Sundays. On Sundays, he buys groceries and sleeps the fatigue away.
There is nothing overtly meticulous about his established routine. Sometimes he forgets his keys, sometimes he forgets to buy the ramen that he’s been craving since the last week. Sometimes he forgets that he pulls out two mugs instead of one and fills them up with steaming hot black coffee. Nonetheless, those are still considered as parts of a normal day in the life of an office worker. Sakusa Kiyoomi is nothing but systematic. He is almost always on time. He shines his shoes regularly. He ties his crisp black tie with steady fingers, fastening the knot as an experienced businessman would. He puts on his mask and carries hand sanitizer inside his pocket at all times. He is what other people may describe as careful, perhaps a little too careful that to them it may seem a bit too wrong to assume that anything can be out of place.
So, he has resigned himself to following this routine until it has ingrained itself into his life. He does this until he loses count of how many days it has been since he began to execute this plain cycle. It’s effective and easy to get into.
Kiyoomi wakes up. It’s a Tuesday. He trudges towards the bathroom and freshens up before putting on his regular jet black suit and tie. He dries his curly hair with his favorite white towel before heading to the kitchen. As if by instinct, he naturally takes two mugs out of a drawer situated on the countertop. One of them is one of those temperature-changing ones, where the initial black color of the mug fades once heated up. The other one is coated with a dark olive green color. Kiyoomi doesn’t notice that he’s grabbed them at first, his body working on autopilot. They’re cold to the touch.
Kiyoomi fills the heater up with water and lets it boil for a few minutes. It doesn’t seem like he’s too conscious of what he’s doing, his hands too used to preparing coffee first thing in the morning. He pours the hot liquid into his own mug, and at that moment he blatantly realizes that he boiled too much water. Too much water for one person, but perfect for two. He blinks confusedly, heater in hand, before glancing at the other mug. It’s located just a few meters away from his toaster, its dark color a contrast to the whiteness of his countertop.
Often, Kiyoomi can be too particular with his deeds. He’s made a routine for himself, after all. He dutifully incorporates it into his days in hopes of making his life a bit more organized. A bit more fixed. A bit more unchangeable, so he doesn’t ever have to go through the tiring process of deciding what to do, what to eat, and what to feel. Although every day may seem lackluster, Kiyoomi finds comfort in his routine which is not ruled by bursts of spontaneity. He has created his own set of predetermined actions to observe, and he intends to do so until he disappears.
Yet, in unexpected moments like this, moments not included in his daily routine, he fumbles. In moments where he accidentally makes food for two, buys groceries for two, sleeps in another bed made for two, Kiyoomi is at a complete loss. His memory flashes so quickly before his own eyes. He remembers gorgeous honeyed skin, golden brown hair, and warm hazel eyes. He remembers the sound of genuine, joyful laughter. He remembers Miya Atsumu, who cared for him so beautifully and wonderfully. Miya Atsumu, who loved with all of his heart. Miya Atsumu, who was so impulsive that he lead his life so recklessly.
And Sakusa Kiyoomi, in the presence of Atsumu, had once been like that. Had once been impulsive as well, never really sticking to a fixed plan. He was used to letting Atsumu brighten their lives with dozens of unexpected situations.
Perhaps he had been too used to it, since Kiyoomi ended up like this. Ended up alone in his apartment, too apprehensive of following anything other than his own routine.
Kiyoomi grabs the other mug and fills it with the remaining water. Then he gets two small sachets of unfiltered powdered coffee and pours each one into both of the mugs. He watches the black color gradually disappearing because of the heat, subsequently revealing a small, cropped picture imprinted on it. It showed the both of them when they were on a vacation, with Atsumu’s arm wrapped tightly around his shoulder. He had sported an easy grin, the dimples on his cheeks appearing. His blonde hair was slightly hidden by his cap and his tan skin was further illuminated by the sunlight. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, had the lower half of his face covered with a black mask, yet anyone could tell he was smiling with the way his eyes were crinkling. He looked paler in comparison to Atsumu, but nevertheless they both looked incredibly healthy and happy. Kiyoomi had gifted him this mug during their anniversary as a joke, but Atsumu had surprised him as always when he constantly used it for his beverages.
Kiyoomi traces the photo lightly with his thumb, feeling a subtle ache in his chest. A feeling of regret settles deep inside him and he averts his gaze to the murky brown coffee in his own mug.
In this opportune situation does he remember the slew of memories flashing through his mind. Seeing any reminder of Atsumu sends him spiralling into a mixture of despair and longing.
Kiyoomi takes a sip. Then he lets out a bitter chuckle, bitter like the taste of coffee on the tip of his tongue.