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Atsumu’s knee finally gives out during a game.
It’s loud when his body falls to the ground, echoes off the polished wood, and Kiyoomi doesn’t scream, but everyone acts like he has, as he runs toward where Atsumu is crumpled on the floor like paper.
It’s only later when he watches the game footage that he hears himself and understands.
Running from the back row to the front feels like a hundred meters, and when Kiyoomi gets to Atsumu’s side, he’s pale, a pale imitation of himself, his eyebrows aren’t smirking or glaring or asking a question, they’re furrowed in agony. He’s hissing through his teeth like he’s in pain, and he has to be, and Kiyoomi’s in pain, too, because he can’t bear to see Atsumu suffering so much.
The medics come and Atsumu gets to his feet, attempting to smile and wave to the crowd, an “everything’s fine here,” but Kiyoomi’s close enough to see nothing is fine. Even though the crowd cheers and chants Miya, Miya, Miya, deep down they know it, too.
It’s so obvious.
The team doctor advises the emergency room. Kiyoomi tries to go along on the ambulance ride, but he’s not family. Even though they’ve been dating for three years, they’re not married. Not allowed to be. Kiyoomi has no rights here.
He calls Osamu, since he does. Kiyoomi tells him he’ll meet him at the hospital.
He changes into street clothes. Maybe the game keeps going. Kiyoomi doesn’t know. Kiyoomi doesn’t care. How could he, when Atsumu’s hurting so bad? He can’t stop shaking, and he’s glad he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, because buttons or zippers would be impossible.
He gets to the hospital nearly two hours after Atsumu’s been whisked away by professionals and flashing lights. Osamu’s texted him that Atsumu’s in a room, that they’ve given him some pain meds, and he’s feeling a little better, joking that he wants to go home already.
When Kiyoomi makes his way there, Atsumu’s fighting with his brother. “How was I supposeta know it was torn? It was just a little sore!”
“Because y’re a professional fuckin’ athlete, y’dumbfuck!” Osamu’s yelling at him, so Atsumu must be feeling better. Osamu doesn’t kick Atsumu while he’s down.
Well, he does, but it’s more of a shove with his toe than a full-throttle roundhouse.
And when Osamu’s not needling Atsumu within an inch of his life, it’s because he’s really and truly scared.
Seeing them argue makes Kiyoomi think everything’s going to be okay.
“Heya, Omi,” Atsumu says, noticing him in the doorway, a sheepish smile on his face. Kiyoomi already knows whatever he’s about to admit to is not his finest decision-making.
“What did you do?” he deadpans. Osamu’s pacing, uninterested in sitting. Kiyoomi’s legs feel like they’re about to give out, so he takes a seat on the stool meant for the doctor.
“It turns out I have a torn meniscus,” Atsumu says.
“It turns out he’s had a torn meniscus for weeks,” Osamu mocks. “And it’s really torn now.”
Meniscus. Knee. Those damned low sets.
Kiyoomi wants to join in on the Atsumu clown hours, or get angry at him a little, for playing with an injury, but instead he finds himself blinking back tears.
“No, Omi, no,” Atsumu says, and makes like he’s going to swing his injured knee out of the hospital bed and come comfort him.
“Stop moving, you idiot dumb bastard,” Kiyoomi sobs, and oh God he’s sobbing, and it’s loud and ugly. He stands so he can grab onto Atsumu’s upper body, leaning into his solid weight, careful not to jostle his leg.
His leg, he needs his leg to play, how is he going to play—
“Don’t worry baby,” Atsumu murmurs, rubbing his back, pressing a kiss in the space behind his ear. “M’gonna be okay. A little surgery and I’m as good as new.”
The word “surgery” does not have the calming effect Atsumu may have hoped for. Kiyoomi cries into Atsumu’s shoulder and feels his arms squeeze him even tighter.
“It’s okay, Omi-Omi.”
“I just don’t want you to be in pain,” he sniffles, and Atsumu laughs. The fucker actually laughs.
“M’not in any real pain right now,” he says. “When the doc moved it around and it was poppin’ and lockin’, yeah, that sucked, but it turns out I’ve been playin’ with it already a little torn and didn’t even notice. So it’s not that bad. Y’don’t haveta cry for me.”
That makes Kiyoomi want to cry even more, but he holds in his tears and nods. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and stands next to Atsumu’s bed, grasping his hand with white knuckles. When the doctor comes in to talk to him about next steps, Kiyoomi tries to understand the words, tries to remember what’s said.
He fails.
Thankfully Osamu’s there, asking all the right questions about treatment and surgery and recovery and all Kiyoomi can do is squeeze Atsumu’s hand three times. I. Love. You.
Two weeks go by, and even though he’s limping around, Atsumu’s in high spirits. At least he’s pretending to be, and that’s what Kiyoomi tells the team when they ask how he’s doing, like Atsumu’s not blowing up their phones every minute he’s not sleeping or taking a shower.
Kiyoomi gets through practice without thinking, on autopilot. Their backup setter has nothing on Atsumu. Kiyoomi wants to talk shit, but his talking-shit-buddy isn’t at practice.
He keeps cutting his eyes across the gym, but Atsumu’s not there. He’s not where he belongs, Kiyoomi keeps thinking. And Kiyoomi’s not where he belongs, either. He’s misplaced, or missing.
At least a huge part of him feels that way.
Ten more days slide by in agonizing slowness, and finally, it’s the day of Atsumu’s surgery. He’s got a bag packed by the door, as if he’s going on vacation instead of recovering in a hospital bed for a few hours.
“What is even in here?” Kiyoomi asks, nearly tripping over the overstuffed duffle, as he looks for his keys.
“Bringin’ my Nintendo Switch, and a sketchpad, and a coupla books, and this cross-stitch kit I got online, and a volleyball—”
“Atsumu.”
“Hm?”
“Do you think you’re really going to have time to do… activities?”
Atsumu smiles with all his teeth and none of his eyes. “Sure, Omi, gonna be bored as hell.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to explain that he’ll be going home before he’ll get a chance to be bored. He looks over where Atsumu’s perched on the edge of the couch.
“Atsu, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Omi-Omi.”
Kiyoomi goes over to the couch and sits next to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him into an embrace. “Talk to me.”
Atsumu rubs his face into Kiyoomi’s sleeve and sighs. It comes out broken. “M’scared.”
“Of what, baby?”
“I never been under anesthesia before,” Atsumu says, and he’s crying now, in his fear and his confession. “I don’t wanna die.”
“You’re not going to die,” Kiyoomi said. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Y’promise?” Atsumu asks, curling into his arms. He’s huge, almost as big as Kiyoomi, but he feels so small. Precious, fragile.
“I promise, my love,” Kiyoomi says, pressing a kiss into Atsumu’s hair, and his lips, and his jaw, and his fingers.
Kiyoomi drives him to the hospital, pays for parking, checks him into the operating waiting room. Kiyoomi holds Atsumu’s bag for him and holds it out to the nurse who takes him to the back. She gives him a disbelieving look, and Kiyoomi shrugs his shoulders. He would have picked up the car and brought it, if Atsumu wanted it. She takes it with a bit of effort, since she’s not a professional athlete, and leads Atsumu to the back.
The surgery isn’t going to take long, maybe an hour or two. But time is meaningless, here in the hospital waiting room. Kiyoomi spends the time staring at the weft and warp of the carpet. It’s a grey, or maybe a purple. But if it’s purple, then the off-green it’s paired with doesn’t make any sense. Who even designed this place, the Joker?
There’s a voice calling his name. It’s the same nurse from earlier.
“Yes?” he says, his voice raspy as if he’s been crying. He hasn’t, not today. He’s being strong for Atsumu. He’ll save his tears for later.
“The doctor wanted me to let you know, she was able to shave it down, instead of having to sew it back together. Best case scenario.”
“That’s good,” Kiyoomi says. He has no idea what the nurse is talking about, but even in his idiocy, he knows ‘best case scenario’ sounds good. He expects the nurse to leave, but she is hanging around for some reason.
“He’s asking for you. We’re not supposed to… he’s not supposed to have visitors right now, but he’s…”
Upset? In pain? Hysterical? Kiyoomi finishes the sentence another half-dozen ways in the silence that follows the nurse’s words.
“He’s asking for you,” she repeats. “Follow me.”
They’re down the hallway, when Kiyoomi hears it.
“Omi-kuuuuuuun, Omi-Omi, Omiiiiiiiii.” A series of slurred syllables, at maximum volume.
Kiyoomi looks at the nurse and blushes. She smiles back. “He said he wouldn’t shut up until we got you,” she explains.
They walk into the recovery room. It’s not a busy day, so Atsumu’s the only one there. His knee’s all bandaged up and resting on a pillow. The head of Atsumu’s bed is raised, so he’s sitting up.
Kiyoomi’s first thought is that even in a hospital gown, Atsumu Miya is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
More than person, thing, entity, experience. A pristine white-sand beach or an amazing technicolor sunset don’t have shit on Atsumu Miya, as far as Kiyoomi’s concerned. He stands next to the bed and takes Atsumu’s hand in his own. He has a second realization, as he looks down into the beautiful face of the beautiful man that he loves.
Atsumu is as high as a kite.
“Omiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” he sighs, drawing out the last syllable for a while, for too long.
So long that the nurse pokes her head back into the room and Kiyoomi has to explain. “He’s okay.”
“Better’n okay,” Atsumu says, looking up at Kiyoomi with such love it makes his heart melt. “Now that y’re here. My Omi-kun. Baby. My darlin’. My love.”
Kiyoomi’s blushing. Sure, Atsumu’s said all these words before, but never all in a row, and never with that look in his eye.
“You’re going to get to go home soon,” Kiyoomi explains, repeating what the nurse told him. “They were able to shave it down, instead of having to sew it back together.”
“Omi, I wish we could get sewn together.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Kiyoomi stammers. He must have misheard. There’s no way—
“I. Wish. We. Could. Sew. Ourselves. Together,” Atsumu says, holding up their hands. He pretends he has a needle and thread, and sloppily runs it over where they’re connected. “Then y’d always be with me, Omi-Omi-Omi-Omi-Omi-Omi-Omi-Omi-Omi—”
Kiyoomi doesn’t want to find out how many times Atsumu will say it. He cuts him off. “I’m with you already,” he smiles. “You don’t need to sew me to you.”
“I wantcha forever,” Atsumu says, and oh no, his eyes are filling with tears. “Wanna be withya forever, my darlin’, my beautiful, my Omi, I love ya so much.”
The tears spill down his cheeks, and seeing them makes Kiyoomi want to cry, too. He’s been stretched thin, these past few weeks, and the time in the hospital waiting room wasn’t great for his mental health.
“Why are you crying, Atsu?” Kiyoomi asks, running his thumb over Atsumu’s knuckles, feeling the ridges of his skin, a faint line where he cut himself on accident once. “Are you in pain?”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says with a shuddering inhale. “Yeah.”
“Where, baby, where?”
“Just love ya so much it hurts,” Atsumu says, and he’s snotty and sobbing but smiling. Kiyoomi pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket and mops at his face. Atsumu takes it with the hand that doesn’t have Kiyoomi’s in a death grip. “Don’t ever wanna be withoutcha, Omi.”
“I told you I’m not going anywhere,” Kiyoomi laughs. His eyes are a little misty, but Atsumu’s got his handkerchief.
Atsumu wipes off his face and clears his throat. “Marry me.”
It takes Kiyoomi a minute to figure out what the words are. What they mean. For a second, his heart soars with the romance of it all.
Then he remembers Atsumu is under the influence of anesthesia and painkillers, and his heart flutters back down to earth.
“I would love to,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu looks like a happy puppy, as if he’d wag his tail with excitement. He makes to get up so he can jump for joy, maybe. Kiyoomi plants a hand into his chest and pushes him back into the bed. “There’s a couple of problems.”
“I don’t wanna hear ‘bout problems, Omi,” Atsumu pouts. “I wanna pick out dates and venues and tuxes.”
Kiyoomi laughs at his petulance. “You know we can’t get legally married.”
“Whatever it is, the thing the gays can do.”
“Partnership.”
“Yeah, that. Marry me, Omi.”
“I said I would,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu makes to get up again, and once again Kiyoomi has to push him down. “But I need you to ask me again.”
“Marry—”
“Not right now, baby. When you’re not…” there’s no parsing it, really, and beating around the bush isn’t going to work with someone so completely intoxicated. “When you’re not high.”
“Gotcha, Omi. Kiyoomi. The future Miya Kiyoomi. Baby. My love.”
Kiyoomi leans forward and shuts him up with a kiss.
Atsumu asks him to marry him seventeen more times over the next three hours.
He’s finally released. The nurse hands him the untouched duffle bag. Kiyoomi carries it, since Atsumu’s on crutches. He drives the two of them back to their apartment.
Atsumu’s quiet. A little too quiet.
“Are you okay?” Kiyoomi asks, stopping at a light, and looking over at him.
“My knee just hurts a li’l,” Atsumu says with a wince. “Meds must be wearin’ off.”
“You have a prescription at the pharmacy, I can pick it up after I drop you at home,” Kiyoomi promises.
“Sounds good,” Atsumu says, and lapses back into silence.
Kiyoomi drives as fast as the Osaka traffic allows.
Kiyoomi walks into their apartment first, to put down the accursed duffle bag, before going back to the doorway to help Atsumu into the house and over the genkan. But when he turns around, Atsumu’s on the floor. A flashback of the game where his knee gave out has Kiyoomi nearly screaming.
This time he hadn’t even heard him fall.
“Atsumu, are—”
“Kiyoomi Sakusa,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi realizes Atsumu’s down on one knee, the one that isn’t injured. The bandaged one is straight out in front of him, and once again Kiyoomi marvels at his flexibility.
Atsumu looks at him with an intensity that takes his breath away. “I love ya more than anyone or anythin’ in this entire world. I wantcha t’understand that I’m in a lot of fuckin’ pain right now—”
“Atsu, no!”
“Shuddup and lemme finish,” Atsumu smiles. Or maybe grimaces. “It’s good that I’m in pain, Omi. It lets me know I’m not under the influence, of any anesthesia or painkillers, or anythin’. So will ya make happy, happier, the happiest I’ve ever been, and marry me?”
Kiyoomi sinks to his own knees, in front of him, mindful of his leg, so he can hold Atsumu tight. He covers his face in kisses, and now he’s crying, but it’s okay, he’s home, he’s being held by the man he loves—
“If y’wouldn’t mind answerin’,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi realizes he’s still in his uncomfortable position, and now they’re both on the floor.
“Yes, of course, oh my God, let me,” Kiyoomi stammers, helping Atsumu to his feet, helping him walk over to the couch, helping him arrange his leg in a comfortable position. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Atsumu says, reaching up to tuck a curl behind Kiyoomi’s ear. “As long as I get t’marry ya.”
“You do, you do Atsumu. And I get to marry you.”
Kiyoomi leans down to give him a kiss, and they stay like that for a minute, grinning at each other like a couple of idiots.
“I love ya,” Atsumu says.
“I love you too.”
Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu’s smile officially becomes a grimace. “I’m in a lotta pain.”
“Oh! I’ll…yes! I’m going right now!” Kiyoomi exclaims, rushing to the door. “I’m sorry, I love you, shit!” he says, nearly tripping over the godforsaken duffle bag.
“Don’t fall,” Atsumu warns.
Too late, Kiyoomi thinks to himself, as he collects his keys and wallet, and heads to the pharmacy to pick up his fiancé’s! prescription. Fell for you a long time ago.