Work Text:
(then)
Kiyoomi spent his whole life being a Sakusa, which is a not-so-subtle metaphor for saying he’s used to the crushing weight of expectations. His whole childhood was spent in the gym of raising the bar.
Sakusa’s are expected to have beautiful handwriting, so Kiyoomi wins the calligraphy contest in his first year of primary school. Sakusa’s are expected to be presentable, so Kiyoomi attends etiquette lessons even when the way he’s supposed keep his back poised sends sharp pangs of pain down his spine, branching out into his lower back and caging his shoulders in a position so stiff that Kiyoomi wants to hiss. Sakusa’s aren’t supposed to hiss, though, so Kiyoomi bites his tongue and shakes his head when his mother asks him if he has a stomach ache at dinner.
Sakusa’s are expected to be well read, so Kiyoomi has devoured half of Jules Verne’s books, even though he’s only actually enjoyed The Will of an Excentric . He’s seen the classics, old black and white movies like Casablanca, even though his mother has asked him if he wouldn’t rather watch the newest Ghibli movie with her. He’s struggled with French pronounciation in the darkness of his room, where the way words slur into each other instead of reaching the musicality his teacher masters is muffled under the blanket. It only makes Kiyoomi feel marginally better about failing.
Sakusa’s are expected to be able to play an instrument, so Kiyoomi plays first violin until the pain in his neck becomes unbearable. His mother calls her best friend in the most uneven voice Kiyoomi has ever heard thin its way out of her throat, “Mio-san, could you find some time for us in your busy schedule? I think my Kiyoomi might–well, this is just a hunch, but he might have hypermobile joints. Mhm. Yes, Saturday is fine.”
Then his mother put down the phone, squeezed her eyes shut, and took Kiyoomi’s wrists in her hands, gently rubbing at the sore spots around his pulse point. “Are you in pain, sweetheart?”
Sakusa’s are expected to keep up appearances, according to Kiyoomi’s many aunts and uncles. Kiyoomi is the youngest in the family, so he’s supposed to fulfill and surpass the expectations his siblings and older cousins have defined.
His mother wasn’t born a Sakusa, so she’s had to work twice as hard to bear the burden of the name – get into medical school on a scolarship, because her family couldn’t afford it. Fall in love with a man who saw her , but whose family saw rebellion from the middle son. Finish at the top of her class so she’d mean anything to the Sakusa’s, whose names weighed ten times more than hers. Raise three children in a family where parenting was left to nannies. Keep her job as the head of the pediatry department all the same.
Kiyoomi grew up watching his mother lift the Sakusa surname all on her own like it weighed nothing. His older brother picked up a backpack and left to see the world without much preamble after graduation, his sister flew all the way to Europe to study Fashion, and Kiyoomi hugged his mother tightly and decided he’d be the Sakusa’s perfect child.
And then, aged ten, his body feeling like an overstretched spring, his wrists heavy and his back so tense that Kiyoomi’s afraid one day he’ll wake up and it’ll snap, he feels something hot ludge itself in his throat.
“It’s okay, Kiyo,” his mother says, cradling the back of his neck and pulling him against her chest. The hot thing is now in his nose, behind his eyes, on the tip of his tongue. “Your Dad and I will keep you safe.”
Kiyoomi wants to ask Safe from what? , but the hot thing is threatening to spill over every edge in his body and smudge everything, so instead he gulps and nods.
The following week, Kiyoomi starts seeing a kinetotherapist and, instead of his violin lessons, his mother asks him if he’d like to play with his cousin.
“What about the lessons?” he asks.
“Do you want to do the lessons?”
Kiyoomi opens his mouth to say, Of course , then catches himself. There’s nothing odd about the way his mother phrases the question, but while he mulls it over, she picks him up in her arms, even though Kiyoomi is ten years old and Sakusa’s aren’t supposed to be babied, and rubs her nose against his.
His arms snake around her neck, and his head still fits in the crook of her neck like it did when he was two. It’s the first time his entire body hasn’t throbbed with pain in as long as he can remember. “Mom,” Kiyoomi mutters. She hums in his hair. “I don’t really like French.”
His mother’s laugh sounds startled, but genuine. She kisses his moles, the ones Kiyoomi got from his father, and sits him down on the bed. “Then I’ll call my sister tonight, and we’ll see if Motoya-kun wants to play with you.”
~~~
Motoya-kun, it turns out, changes the course of Kiyoomi’s life with a single question.
“Would you like to join my volleyball class today?”
“Sure,” Kiyoomi says, because he can be good at anything he puts his mind to. It’s high time he learned how to play a sport, anyways.
His kinetotherapist has taught him how to stretch properly, so Kiyoomi sits in the corner of the gym and folds his hand under his arm with as much care as his mother does.
“Dude, that’s crazy!” Motoya says in his ear. Kiyoomi startles, and Motoya laughs, still too loud and too close to his eardrum. “Can you do that with your other hand, too?!”
“... Yes.”
Motoya’s eyes sparkle. “Man, you’ll probably be able to hit such wicked balls, I’m jealous!”
“Jealous?” Of what, Kiyoomi thinks, the pain? Waking up feeling like a cutting board? “It’s not that amazing,” Kiyoomi says instead, because Motoya may be his cousin, but he’s not a Sakusa, and it shows. Really, Kiyoomi’s the jealous one.
“Just try!” Motoya insists.
And well, Kiyoomi’s never stepped down from a challenge, so he steps up to the white line and throws the ball in the air.
That night, he comes home sore all over, but it feels good , having an ache in his muscles instead of his joints. It’s the type of pain that makes him itch to touch the ball again, the type of itch that makes him ask his mother if they can buy volleyball shoes that very same night. Kiyoomi has never seen his mother smile so deep that her cheeks dimple. When he mirrors it, he finds that he’s inherited the dimples from her.
Sakusa’s are meant to be good at everything they try – it’s just that with volleyball, Kiyoomi experiences the first time he wants to be good at something.
~~~
Everything that happens afterwards can be traced back to volleyball, like a domino effect.
Kiyoomi makes his very first best friend thanks to volleyball. Up until then, cousin always meant “a person you respect, but who you can’t call a model in life because you have to surpass them.” With Motoya, cousin means “this annoying kid my age who wants to do sleepovers and eats fried chicken with his hands and who I really want to spike past".
In middle school, it's thanks to volleyball that Kiyoomi finds someone an year older, with an equally wicked spin, who folds his handkerchief with the wet side in, and swears to play at the same level as this person that he ends up respecting more than his cousins.
It's thanks to volleyball that Kiyoomi gets a scholarship at the Itachiyama Academy. The Sakusa's greet his mother with a polite smile and his father with a more respectuous nod than ever when Kiyoomi attends the family gatherings with them. He's at the age where he understands this is called hypocrisy, and that the weight of being a Sakusa stems from the pointless hierarchy of academic smarts over everything else. He's also at the age where he decides that's bullshit, but that he can put on a smile and nod if that makes it easier for his parents to breathe.
It's because of volleyball that Kiyoomi meets the bane of his existence in middle school, spends a week trying to rub the Kansai-Ben out of his curls, and then asks his mother whether it'd be alright to spend two weeks of summer break in Amagasaki in his first year of high school. She pushes the plate of peaches she was slicing up his way and smirks. "It's the Miya boy, isn't it? The setter?"
Kiyoomi bites his tongue. "How?" he asks in between coughs.
"Mother's instincts," she says, grin growing as she pats his back and hands him a glass of water. "Ah, young love."
"I am not in love with Miya!" Kiyoomi protests, his voice proportional to how hot his cheeks feel. His mother wriggles her eyebrows in that way she does when teasing his father - Kiyoomi has always found it funny, but for the first time, he finds himself commiserating with his father. "Mother," he groans.
"What, are you too old to call me mom ?" she pouts. Kiyoomi must be pouting right back, because she ruffles his hair, cracking a smile when his curls stick out in all the wrong places. "Well, you should ask him what his parents like - it's only polite to bring a gift when visiting. Do you want me to call his mother?"
Kiyoomi feels the dimples in his cheeks.
~~~
Two months later, it's because of volleyball that Kiyoomi gets his first boyfriend. It's a pretty unromantic affair: Atsumu blurts it over a skype call. Kiyoomi says it back. Then Osamu walks in the room, sits on Atsumu's back and argues that his one hour using the laptop is up so now it's his turn. The call ends with Atsumu kicking Osamu mid-swear.
That night, Kiyoomi pulls the blanket over his head like he used to when practicing his French, and wonders if this is going to be even easier to tell his mother than the fact that he didn't actually like the language classes.
~~~
Three years later, it's because of volleyball that Kiyoomi goes through his first heartbreak.
The official reason is that Atsumu wants to go pro, while Kiyoomi wants to go to university, and it's unfair to both of them to ask the other to wait for four years.
The real reason is that, for the first time in years, volleyball has nothing to do with it. Instead, Kiyoomi remembers that he is a Sakusa with startling clarity at one overly luxurious family party. He remembers his mother having to lift the Sakusa name all alone, and his brother being ostracized for wanting the freedom to not pack a suit and a tie, and his sister for doing something as uncertain as fashion.
Kiyoomi needs all of two days at the training camp to find out that Atsumu has two cats, that his twin brother is actually seven minutes younger, that his favourite food is fatty tuna. The Sakusa's would tear him to shreds.
that his brother is seven minutes younger than him and that his mom makes the best apple pie in the world. Atsumu is all bark, a gossip central who loves to diss, but he’s also a performer – he wants the cheers or jeers. He’ll take them earnestly and take himself apart to put a better version of himself back together, except no version that the Sakusa’s would be happy with is a better version for Kiyoomi.
In the end, it all boils down to Kiyoomi loving Atsumu too much to make him go through the same sneers, the same judging looks, the same remarks. Atsumu is too soft for all of that. Kiyoomi is too soft for him.
They break up in the winter of their first high school year. Kiyoomi buries himself in his blanket for a whole week, and can’t bring himself to talk to anyone about it. His mother leaves a plate of sliced up peaches on his desk, and as Kiyoomi muches on them, something hot lodges itself in the back of his neck.
Sakusa’s aren’t supposed to cry. Kiyoomi can’t really bring himself to care about that.
~~~
The years between breaking up with Atsumu and saying fuck it all to kiss him in the middle of a MSBY party are a stiff blur.
Kiyoomi feels like a cutting board all throughout university, hissing every time he gets out of bed, cursing under his breath as he trudges to the kitchen to boil water for hot compresses. He’s a tight spring, waiting for something – the next deadline to be over, the next volleyball match, Bokuto’s next visit and more of Akaashi’s food, getting his heart broken again, visiting home, burying himself under a blanket.
Throughout it all, though, Kiyoomi is the perfect Sakusa – he’s at the top of his classes. He’s the intercollegiate MVP. He wears his suits and ties to the family meetings, shakes sponsors’ hands even though it makes him squirm, washes his hands properly but discreetly afterwards. Listens to his uncle saying, “You did good, choosing Waseda. We were scared you’d give up on your future to play volleyball.”
Kiyoomi grits his teeth so hard that he hears them crunch.
That evening, his mother waits for him to come out of the shower, and pats the seat next to her on the couch. Kiyoomi’s hair is still dripping wet, but he’s missed the feeling of his mother’s thumbs rubbing into his wrists, has missed hearing her voice like this and not through a telephone.
“Kiyo,” his mother says, and Kiyoomi melts into the cushions. He feels like he’s ten again, his mother promising to keep him safe. “You don’t have to attend the parties anymore.”
“But-”
“Sweetheart,” his mother has always been gentle but firm. It’s why she makes such a good pediatrician. “You don’t like them. Why are you pushing yourself to hear their praises?”
The last time Kiyoomi’s heard his mother’s voice this bent was when he was diagnosed with hypermobility. He can’t even look her in the eyes, so he ends up staring at a cushion as he mumbles, “Because everything I do reflects on you and Dad.”
His mother sighs, and her hands cup his cheeks, so Kiyoomi has no choice but to look into her eyes. It’s one of the few features he inherited from her, but he’s always wondered if his can be as kind as hers. “You’ll forever be our baby, Kiyoomi. Before you’re a Sakusa, you’re our son. You’re my son, which makes you as much a Watanabe as you are a Sakusa. So you don’t have to give up the things you like. And the same is true for me.”
“But you married Dad.”
“I married your father, not his family,” she smiles. “And they’re still human.”
Kiyoomi feels the bite in his voice when he says, “They talk shit behind your back.”
His mother nods, “A few are very loud, and they don’t very much like that my family isn’t an industry name, but did you know? When your cousin Takumi was little, your aunt brought him to my hospital in a frenzy because he had pneumonia. She could’ve gone to their family’s doctor, but she said at that moment, it didn’t even occur to her.” Kiyoomi frowns. “It’s not that she sees me as a sister, but that in a moment of weakness, she seeked comfort in someone who felt familiar.
“And your uncle Tadashi? He’s got a big mouth, but he was actually the one who wrote your sister’s recommandation letter when she decided to apply for universities in Europe.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi whispers.
“Your grandfather actually sends your brother letters every month, and he sends back postcards from wherever he is. Your grandfather’s awfully fond like that. He’s the one who cried the most on my wedding day.”
Kiyoomi’s throat is dry. “Why didn’t I know this?”
“Because you weren’t ready to listen?” His mother rubs circles in his cheeks. “The Sakusa name is a heavy name to carry, Kiyo, but the expectations aren’t placed on you unfairly. Some people weren’t happy when I married your father because they wanted an easy life for him, and he chose the path where we’d both have to work hard to prove ourselves. They have expectations of you because they think if you’re strong, you won’t feel the hardships of life.”
“But that’s not how it works.”
“Mhm,” she hums. “They’re harsh because they think it’s better to be judged by your family than by the world. But you’re a Watanabe as much as you’re a Sakusa, so you know what it’s like to be supported by your family, too.” She’s bathed in the blue light of the TV, so maybe that’s why there’s something magical around her, like if Kiyoomi told her all his worries, she’d make them melt with the wave of a hand. “So, Kiyoomi – what do you want to do?”
“Volleyball,” Kiyoomi says without thinking. “I want to play professionally. I got a call from the Schweiden Alders.”
His mother waits, like she knows there’s more. Kiyoomi gulps, “I broke up with Atsumu at the end of highschool.” She tucks his bangs behind his ear. “I thought I liked someone else for a while last year.”
“Did you?” she asks, and Kiyoomi hasn’t felt this safe in so long that he almost forgot what it’s like to not be a human cutting board.
“Maybe? Maybe I did, but I think I was mostly just looking for someone to validate me. Because if someone I respect liked me, I thought–”
There’s the hot thing in the back of his throat again. Sakusa’s don’t cry, because the world is a scary place to those who are too soft, but Watanabe’s hug you when you’re fraying at the edges, so he lets his mother pull him in her arms and says, “Mom, I want to join the Black Jackals. They have tryouts in March. Bokuto-san is there.”
“Mhm.”
“... Atsumu probably doesn’t want to see me, though.”
“Hmm.”
“Say something,” Kiyoomi huffs, poking her waist.
“Atsumu-kun has more spunk than you give him credit for.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” Kiyoomi laughs as his mother kisses his moles, and takes a deep breath.
He’s sore all over. It’s the good kind of pain.
(now)
“What did yer Mom say?” Atsumu asks when Kiyoomi walks back into the kitchen and hooks his chin over Atsumu’s shoulder.
“Smells good,” he sighs. Atsumu pokes his nose with the laddle’s tail, but Kiyoomi doesn’t even have the energy to bat him off. “She said you have a lot of spunk.”
Atsumu frowns, like he’s not sure that’s a compliment. “This wouldn’t be a good thing if my Ma said it.”
“Well, it’s high praise from mine.” Atsumu’s lips relax into a smile, and Kiyoomi loves it. His joints hurt today, so Atsumu takes small steps when they crab-walk to the cupboard – the Miya’s put coffee in curry. It’s such a simple trick that it should be unfair how much better it makes the food. Kiyoomi reaches for a spoon and Atsumu kisses his cheek when he passes it over.
Kiyoomi’s sore all over, and it’s not even the good kind of pain, but all his brain registers is a fuzzy sort of haze. “Mom said you should come to the next family dinner.”
Atsumu drops the spoon in the pot, cursing under his breath when curry splatters on his shirt. “This is what you get for not wearing an apron.”
“Fuck off, Omi-kun,” Atsumu mumbles, reaching for the kitchen towel. “By family dinner, ya don’t mean just yer parents and siblings, do ya?”
“I mean the Sakusa family,” Kiyoomi says, and lets Atsumu search his face for whatever he’s trying to find. Maybe it’s the fact that his nose doesn’t look like either of his parents’, because he got it from his grandmother – a Sakusa thing that could scare Atsumu away. “If you don’t want to-”
“Don’t ya dare,” Atsumu warns. “Ya’ve broken up with me over yer stupid family name, so I gotta give ‘em a piece of my mind. I’m not lettin’ history repeat itself.”
“I got over myself,” Kiyoomi shrugs.
Atsumu looks at him like he’s the most endearing liar in the universe. Kiyoomi should probably take offense, but then Atsumu says, “Yer too soft, Omi-kun,” and he’s just left baffled instead. “Man, I really do gotta make a good impression. I sure hope they ain’t readin’ the tabloids,” he chuckles, in that way he only does when he’s nervous.
Later, Kiyoomi will tell him that it’s the other way around – that while the same people who talked shit behind his mother’s back will do the same behind Atsumu’s, because that’s just what they do, his uncle Tadashi has asked him why he hasn’t married Atsumu yet, saying that will silence all the tabloids. His cousin Takumi has asked him if Kiyoomi wanted him to have a word with the gossip magazines. His grandfather has been pestering him to bring Atsumu over for dinner for three months now, and even sent a formal, handwritten invitation letter.
For now, Kiyoomi just pulls Atsumu by the collar of his stained shirt and shuts him up. “Stop worrying,” he says when Atsumu smirks up at him. “They’ll be embarrassing me .”
“See, Omi-kun, yer soft,” Atsumu says. “Ya love yer family more than ya can stomach.”
Kiyoomi wants to argue that Atsumu’s the one who has pictures of him and Osamu on the fridge, that Atsumu’s the one who asks his mother for pictures of their cats daily, that Atsumu’s the one who took the whole team to the opening of Onigiri Miya. That between the two of them, Atsumu’s the one with more love to give.
Except Kiyoomi texts his mother daily. Except last month, Kiyoomi sent his cousins tickets to the Black Jackals’ match. Except he rented out his aunt’s restaurant for a team event.
Except right now, Atsumu’s pinning him against the kitchen counter, and all Kiyoomi can do is kiss him back. He’ll be damned if he cares about the Sakusa’s give them shit for not making their relationship public, or if they’ll ask Kiyoomi why he’s been dating Atsumu for two years and hasn’t even brought up marriage, or if they try to make it seem like volleyball isn’t a real job.
He’ll be damned if he cares about anything but this dizzying feeling right now. Kiyoomi once read that this is called a lavender haze – with the curry simmering next to them and Atsumu sweetly getting him to open his mouth, Kiyoomi thinks he gets it.