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“I can’t fuckin’ believe yer family doesn’t own a Nintendo. What, are they allergic to fun ?”
“Dontcha tell me ya haven’t played crane games either?”
Kiyoomi looks at Osamu like he’s just spoken to him in French. Actually, Atsumu thinks, he might’ve understood him if it was french. The only language Kiyoomi doesn’t seem versed in is slang, or speaking like a normal fucking teenager. “No fuckin’ way,” Atsumu mumbles, horrified.
At least Kiyoomi has the decency to blush a little at that. “Sorry that I spend most of my time not wasting money on rigged games.”
“Ya didn’t just say that,” Atsumu gasps, dropping the controller. “That settles it. Samu, ya look after the house. Omi-kun, yer comin’ with me,” he says, grabbing Kiyoomi by the sleeve and dragging him towards the door. He follows him blindly, too dazed by the sudden change of plans to have an opinion. Atsumu gives it two minutes tops.
“Why am I on house duty?” Osamu yells after them.
“Cause this is our first official date and ya were already third wheelin’!” Atsumu yells back, dropping Kiyoomi’s shoes in front of him and swiftly slipping into his sneakers.
“It’s my house, too! Ya asked me if I wanted to play!”
“Mhm, bye Samu!” Atsumu sing songs, and pulls a half-laced up Kiyoomi out the door with him, shutting it loudly. They managed to leave before Osamu remembered Atsumu owed him house-sitting for the last time he went clothes shopping with Suna, so they should be safe for now.
And then his two minutes are up, because Kiyoomi says, “These weren’t the plans I signed up for today.”
Atsumu grins. “Ya can bitch to me ‘bout it on the way and thank me later, Omi-kun!”
“I will bitch about it,” Kiyoomi says, going for gruff and landing on petulant. “Those things are filthy.”
It’s part of why Atsumu’s so endeared by the fact that Kiyoomi acts like snow on the beach – something that shouldn’t exist or make sense. Something that leaves Atsumu gaping a little everytime it dawns on him because somehow, Kiyoomi likes him back. The way he comes off as standoffish, yet Atsumu knows it’s a defense mechanism for when he’s feeling out of his depth.
Kiyoomi says all that, but his fingers are fiddling with the hem of Atsumu’s jacket. Atsumu grins and grabs his hand, weaving their fingers together.
“Not to worry, Omi-kun. I have yer favourite antibacterial wipes with me.”
“I still won’t enjoy it,” Kiyoomi says, like a liar.
Atsumu squeezes his hand and laughs.
~~~
One year into dating Sakusa Kiyoomi, they’ve visited most of the crane games in Tokyo and Amagasaki, because Kiyoomi’s competitive nature won against his disgust for the buttons that everyone has touched, and now he needs to prove to Atsumu that he always has the superior haul. Their judges claim to be unbiased, but about three months in, Atsumu knows Suna and Osamu rigged it and bribed Motoya to vote for Kiyoomi.
Atsumu should mind more than he does, but then Kiyoomi grins at him and hands him one of the matching Doraemon keychains, and all the fight melts out of him. Kiyoomi pulls down his mask to smirk at him when they compete for the same item and Atsumu makes a blunder. Kiyoomi links their pinkies and drags them to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant to eat after three hours spent in the arcade, and then lets Atsumu take them through the back alleys with their hands in his pocket, and that’s enough.
It’s enough because, while Kiyoomi’s brushing his teeth, his mother would say, “Objectively, Atsumu-kun, you probably got the better prizes. Don’t tell Kiyo,” she adds, a finger over her lips in a way that makes her look so much younger than she actually is.
“He wouldn’t believe me even if I did,” Atsumu fakes a sigh.
It gets Kiyoomi’s mother to laugh. “Thank you for taking Kyoomi out. I feel like he’s been too sheltered in his childhood, and he’s missed out a lot of well, this ,” she says, vaguely gesturing at the plushies and random snacks they’ve won, the bent movie tickets on Kiyoomi’s nightstand, the two shopping bags that resulted from Atsumu realizing that apart from formal events, where a tailor suit is his only option and thus he cannot fuck up, Kiyoomi has no sense of fashion.
Atsumu looks around at what Kiyoomi will surely call an absolute mess, Miya, I should ban you from my room , and feels the beginnings of a smirk creep on his face. “It’s fun,” he says lamely, because he’s not sure what else to say to his boyfriend’s mom – I like teasing Omi-kun about it seems somehow rude.
She smiles, and Atsumu thinks if he ever got Kiyoomi to fully let go of his inhibitions, this is what he’d look like. Pushing a huge Cinnamonroll plushie aside, she sits on the edge of the bed and points at the diplomas and medals in the showcase. “You know, Kiyoomi spent the past ten years getting those.”
“Yeah, it’s hella cool,” Atsumu says earnestly. He’s never really been interested in anything but volleyball, but he still thinks it’s amazing that Kiyoomi can play the violin.
“Mhm, they’re shiny,” his mother says, “but doesn’t that look more like a cage?” Her voice sounds blue. It kind of clashes with all of the gold on display.
“Ya think so?” Atsumu scratches at the back of his neck. “I mean, I know Omi-kun missed out on a lot of the fun things – ya really should buy a Nintendo switch, Sakusa-san, it’s never too late.” She cracks a smile at that, and Atsumu smiles back. Something about her smile reminds him of his own mother – the warmth in it, or maybe the crow’s feet. “But it made him Omi.”
She tilts her head, so Atsumu clears his throat and tries again. “I mean, he knows all these random things ‘bout wines, right? Like the differences and how they’re made and stuff like that. And he talked about it with Samu, uh, my twin brother, for a good twenty minutes. We were on a date ,” Atsumu huffs.
Kiyoomi’s mother smiles a bit wider.
“Or like, with Suna?” Atsumu continues. “He’s really inta fashion, and no offense, but Omi dresses like a highlighter.”
At this, she properly laughs. “His sister says the same thing.”
“‘Cause he does,” Atsumu says, trying to bite down on his own chuckle. “But he still had a whole conversation with Suna ‘bout the newest trends and colors of the year. Didn’t even know magenta was a made-up color till then. ‘Twas really cool. But like, yeah, he knows all these things, and he’s kinda prickly, but I never heard Suna talk for so long with someone. And Samu really likes him. And I obviously really like him, ‘cause all of these random things made him Omi.”
He’s rambling. Kiyoomi’s mother looks at him with something between affection and mirth in her eyes, and Atsumu clamps his mouth shut, feeling his cheeks go dangerously pink, which is a very real color. “Uhm, yeah,” he finishes lamely, and then wonders how long Kiyoomi’s skin care routine even is.
“You should call me Noriko,” is what she says instead of, Here’s a hole for you to hide in, Atsumu-kun . And then the second unbelievable thing happens: she ruffles his hair. Hands in his fringe, musing his hair type of ruffling. “Thank you, Atsumu-kun.”
“For filling my room with things we will never need?” Kiyoomi says. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a single eyebrow arched, and Atsumu really hopes he hasn’t been around for long enough to witness all of his embarrassing moments.
“For being a good boyfriend,” his mother – Noriko, Atsumu mentally corrects himself – quips back at him.
That flusters Kiyoomi, and Noriko-san gets up to ruffle his hair, too. The scowl he gives her is more of a pout, expertly curled at the corners in a brand of love that Kiyoomi only shows his mother.
“Good night, boys,” she waves at them, and her hair is darker and she’s a bit taller, but the cadence of her steps really reminds Atsumu of his own mother. Maybe that’s why being with Kiyoomi is so comfortable.
“Good night!” they echo back.
Kiyoomi finally steps fully into the room and closes the door behind him, seizing up the damage of their crane games escapade. “Gotta clean,” he says through a yawn.
Atsumu has half a mind to kiss him. His hair is mused and he’s wearing pink fucking pajamas and smells like eukalyptus and really, Atsumu wouldn’t mind their first kiss going like this, but Kiyoomi probably would, so he nods and says, “Sure, Omi-kun.”
In retrospect, Atsumu doesn’t know how they lost track of time. He just remembers asking about every little thing in Kiyoomi’s room as doors and drawers get opened to stash all of their crane game goodies in organized piles of disasters, and Atsumu finds that Kiyoomi’s kept most of the random shit from their dates, down to a receipt from Atsumu’s favourite restaurant in Amagasaki. In retrospect, that may be why Atsumu ends up with his feet in Kiyoomi’s lap – the closest he can get to not kissing him without going insane.
“It’s 2am,” Atsumu says, like it’s a revelation.
Kiyoomi huffs, throwing his newest Cinnamonroll plushie at Atsumu. “How did we end up on the floor anyway?”
Atsumu glares at the plushie like it’s their offender. “Fuck if I know, Omi-kun.” And then, because it’s actually 2:16am and he already dug a hole for himself to hide in while talking to Noriko-san, he says, “If I kissed ya right now, would ya make me sleep on the floor?”
He’s never seen someone blush so prufesly that it’s almost maroon. That’s a real color , Atsumu thinks. “Yer real pretty,” he says out loud.
“Shut up, Miya” Kiyoomi hisses, curling his hand in Atsumu’s red shirt and literally pulling him into a kiss. It’s the most violent first kiss Atsumu could have imagined – his mother’s dramas involved more panning shots and close-ups on the lips and tension , and he’s pretty sure it’s clumsy because none of them actually know what they’re doing, but would he be given a time machine, he still wouldn’t change anything about it. Not the way Kiyoomi’s nose bumps his, not the way his teeth catch on Kiyoomi’s lower lip, not the way his lips are maroon by the end of it, too.
When they break away, Atsumu finds enough air to say, “Do that again.”
Kiyoomi does it again. And then again. And again.
~~~
The last thing Atsumu would call his relationship is a whirlwind. It’s why, when the end comes, he can make a timeline of all the hints that should have clued him in.
He meets Kiyoomi’s parents two months after they start dating, and it doesn’t take much to identify the genes that make up his boyfriend and who he got them from. He meets his siblings about a month later, and realizes that Kiyoomi’s horrible highlighter slash pink Barbie girl fashion is a monster he created all on his own, but the skin care routine and copious amounts of sun cream applied even in winter aren’t.
A year into them dating, Atsumu is on a first-name basis with Kiyoomi’s parents, but still hasn’t met the rest of his family. “They’re stuffy,” Kiyoomi tells him.
“ Yer stuffy,” Atsumu protests. “Never bothered me, yknow?”
“No,” Kiyoomi says, rubbing his wrist. “They’re old money kind of stuffy. Suits and fancy dinners and oyster forks kind of stuffy.”
Atsumu shrugs, like that’s not really a problem, because it isn’t. Kiyoomi has seen him in underwear. Hell, Kiyoomi has seen Osamu in underwear. He doesn’t think meeting some stuffy businessmen is going to change much about their status quo. “Then teach me.”
The wrist-rubbing devolves into Kiyoomi bending it until it cracks. “... Maybe later.”
Atsumu drops it. His heart drops a little with it, too.
~~~
Two years into them dating, Aran gets scouted, and Atsumu talks Kiyoomi’s ear off about it.
“Which team wouldya wanna join, Omi-kun?”
Kiyoomi frowns over the phone call, spinning his pen as he crosses out another math problem from his textbook. “Isn’t it pretty early to be thinking about that?”
“Ya think so? But we’re also gonna be scouted this time next year.”
“I guess,” Kiyoomi hums, and something in Atsumu creaks, like he was opened in the wrong spot. It sounds like his heart, but Atsumu feels it in his stomach.
Atsumu knows Kiyoomi. He knows that they’ll sometimes have conversations where he’s talking almost alone, but Kiyoomi will give him these tiny sounds and nods, to show that he’s listening. This – this is not one of those times. He’s distant, more focused on his homework than he is on his phone, so maybe it’s Atsumu’s misstep, here, that he asks, “Ya’ve got a family dinner next week, right?”
The pen freezes, and Kiyoomi’s whole hand slows down with it. “Why are you asking?”
Atsumu tries to pretend it doesn’t sound like an accusation. “Should I join ya?” Kiyoomi looks like a deet caught in the headlights. “If it’s ‘bout the suits, I have one. And there’s youtube videos on table manners.”
“Atsumu-”
It was definitely Atsumu’s heart that creaked, because now it positively cracks. Because Atsumu doesn’t know if his heart is flexible enough to bend before it breaks, he decides to find an escape route. “Yeah, I get it, I don’t have an invite and it’s kinda short term,” he waves it off. “I was just missin’ ya, Omi-kun, so I made up an excuse to come see ya.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes soften at that, and he says, “I’ll take the first train afterwards.”
It’s a win , Atsumu tells himself. That doesn’t erase the taste of defeat from his mouth.
~~~
Later that year, in winter, Kiyoomi is the first person Atsumu calls after Osamu tells him he’s quitting volleyball.
Kiyoomi hears him out, listens to Atsumu biting his nails to the quick for the first time since he was eight and decided he wanted to be a setter, and says, “Hmm.”
“Say somethin’, Omi-kun,” Atsumu almost begs.
After a moment of silence, Kiyoomi says, “I think I get Osamu.”
It’s the day Atsumu finds out that he shouldn’t submit his heart for a gymnastics competition, because it breaks before it can ever make a proper, 180 degree split.
~~~
It’s late summer, and the sky is perfectly maroon and cloudless as the sun sets. It’s a perfectly beautiful day, like it’s celebrating someone’s new beginnings. Atsumu has to wonder if Kiyoomi planned it to be this ironic.
“Run that by me again,” Atsumu says, like his heart isn’t already in his stomach. He’s not sure it could sink lower.
Kiyoomi stands next to him, legs hanging over the ledge of the porch, hollow-eyed as he says, “I think we should break up.”
“Do ya want to, or do ya think we should ?” Atsumu asks, because this isn’t coming out of left field, but it’s a knock-out all the same.
“Do you really think I want to?” Kiyoomi shoots back, but it’s resigned rather than snappy.
“I mean, yer kinda springin’ this on me outta nowhere. I can’t even be angry at ya cause ya took the rug from under my feet.”
“It’s not out of nowhere,” Kiyoomi protests, with absolutely no conviction in his voice. “Atsumu, I’m going to university.” It’s like an arrow, and Atsumu’s standing so close that Kiyoomi can’t miss. The pain is physical, and it must show, because a flicker of emotion returns to Kiyoomi’s eyes and he grabs Atsumu’s hand. “Sports medicine at Waseda.”
“Killer uni,” Atsumu finds the spunk to say.
He must spit it out more than say it, because Kiyoomi looks like he’s been slapped. “I’ll join the volleyball team, but I don’t know if I want to play professionally afterwards, so.”
“So what?”
When Kiyoomi answers, it’s almost like he has a script. One of those flowcharts with questions that guide you left or right down the branching possibilities according to the reply. Atsumu wouldn’t put it beyond Kiyoomi to have created and memorized one of those. “We’ll have different goals. It’s not the same as high school, where we’d see each other at tournaments and training. Our schedules would be completely different, and we won’t even be in the same city.”
“And ya think that’ll break us?” Atsumu asks, like he isn’t already broken. Like he’s still got a pulse.
“Don’t make me say it,” Kiyoomi says, and his voice finally sounds bent, too.
“I just don’t get ya,” Atsumu says, too soft. He’s alway been too soft for Kiyoomi, always thought that if he asked for the moon, he’d probably figure out a way to ship it to earth. He just never realized that the moon would mean letting Kiyoomi go. “We’ve been doin’ just fine with long distance for the past three years. We could do three more.”
“Three more and then what? Three more and then another two, because maybe I’ll want to do a Master’s degree, and then another two because you’ll get a contract abroad. Seven years in which you could be dating someone else, closer. More convenient.”
“Omi-kun, I ain’t datin’ ya ‘cause yer convenient,” Atsumu huffs.
“Then let’s break up,” Kiyoomi says, and he sounds so tired. He sounds like he wants Atsumu to just go with it, but he won’t let go of his hand. Atsumu wants to scream, but instead, he feels like he might cry.
He closes his eyes and flops on the proch, back against the scorching August wood, and thinks about crying. Thinks about screaming, making a scene and scaring the cats away. He thinks about saying NO , seeing where that gets him. He thinks about telling Kiyoomi, I still like you, though. Don’t you still like me?
“You’re not sure if you’re going pro,” he says, slowly, like the words don’t fit right in his mouth. / Because / the words don’t fit right in his mouth, he realizes. Kiyoomi’s one of the top three spikers in high school. He practiced receiving Atsumu’s serves without a peep about how much pain his wrists were in that day, because he’s a competitive asshole like that. Motoya told Atsumu he once found Kiyoomi doing the one thousand wall drills at 8pm in the empty gym.
“No,” Kiyoomi says, and it makes no sense. “It’s painful, Atsumu.”
Without thinking, Atsumu presses his thumb to Kiyoomi’s pulse point and rubs comfortingly.
When Osamu announced he was quitting volleyball and Kiyoomi said he understood, Atsumu should’ve figured it out. Instead, his heart broke miserably, like it was made out of cheap china, and he hung himself onto the fact that Kiyoomi was still playing. “It’s gonna be lonely without ya,” Atsumu mutters, and wonders if Kiyoomi knows just how much he means it.
“Yeah. I got used to… you.”
“Ya say that like I’m some sorta weird animal ya tolerate and like investigatin’.”
“Hmm,” Sakusa hums, with a lopsided smirk on his face. It doesn’t even look smug, and Atsumu wants to curse him – if he suggested breaking up, the least he could’ve done was look happy about it, so Atsumu could let him go.
Yer making us both miserable , Atsumu wants to tell him. Instead, he wonders if Kiyoomi’s right, and is saving them from being miserable in the future. Could Atsumu love someone who gave up on volleyball? Could someone who stopped loving volleyball ever love Atsumu?
He stamps on the sliver of voice in his head that whispers, “If it’s Omi-kun…” and says, “Should I take ya to the train station?”
Kiyoomi’s shoulders drop, and Atsumu assumes it’s relief, or something like it. Despite his better judgment, he doesn’t let go of Kiyoomi’s hand. Despite his better judgement, he lets Kiyoomi kiss him, lets his hot breath fan over his cheek, lets him suck a maroon hickey into his collarbone, where everyone can see it.
In the setting sun on the scorching wooden porch of Atsumu’s childhood home, Kiyoomi kisses him again. And then again.
And again.
(When he comes back from the train station, drenched to the bone and shuddering with a realization he would’ve rather not had, his mother’s arranging a vase of red flowers in the living room.
“Oh dear,” she says when she sees him dripping all over the floorboards, “go shower!”
“Those aren’t roses, are they?”
His mother looks at him like she dropped him on the head when he was a baby. Atsumu might’ve been better off if she had. “They’re carnations,” she says.
Atsumu huffs, and trudges himself to the bathroom. Carnations that he thought were roses – there’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but he’s too tired and cold to think about that. He’s too tired to talk to Osamu about it, either, so he climbs into bed well before Osamu’s study lamp is turned off, and passes out instantly.
It’s worse in the morning, he finds out, when he wakes up with the memory of Kiyoomi in between his toes, with the realization that he loves him heavy in his stomach, with the ghost of his lips on his collarbone. It’s hard to breathe.
Atsumu pulls the covers higher over his head, and prays that Osamu sleeps in today.)