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“Tell me again ‘bout the spermy frog babies.”
Kiyoomi sighed. Why he’d allowed Atsumu to sit right next to him was one of life’s greatest mysteries. There were enough seats on the train for everyone to have plenty of breathing room. An even greater mystery was why Kiyoomi had agreed to come out with Atsumu to Onigiri Miya in the first place.
“Are you referring to tadpoles?” Kiyoomi deadpanned. “They’re not sperm. They’re juvenile frogs.”
“I like the part where they get two legs,” Atsumu grinned. “Look like a snake finally able t’do pushups.” He demonstrated, as if Kiyoomi didn’t do pushups every other day. It made Atsumu’s pecs swell through the thin layer of his white t-shirt, clearly visible from where his jacket was flung open, even in the cold weather. Not that Kiyoomi was looking. He pulled the collar of his jacket up over his mask, as if he were hiding his face with another layer.
Atsumu might be attractive, but he was seriously lacking in most general knowledge. Science, history, geography, mathematics: all were unknowns as far as the setter was concerned. The first week he joined MSBY, Kiyoomi found himself explaining how the parliamentary system worked, and that seemed to be the opening Atsumu needed to ask increasingly elementary questions.
Scratch that. An elementary school student would be embarrassed by the questions Atsumu had been asking lately. Spermy frog babies hadn’t been the worst. Last Wednesday he’d insisted chocolate milk came from brown cows.
Kiyoomi patiently explained the life cycle of a frog again, and didn’t pay attention to how Atsumu hung on his every word, his golden eyes glittering with intense focus. He must really care about amphibians, Kiyoomi thought. Maybe I’ll tell him about axolotls, that would blow his mind.
“This is our stop,” Atsumu said, jumping up from his seat. Kiyoomi followed him through the train station and down the street, drawn into an explanation of how trains and cars and internal combustion engines worked, which led to a discussion of fossil fuels, which led to a definition of fossils, which led to a mini-lesson on dinosaurs. Atsumu attempted to add his own knowledge, but most of it seemed to be based on the movie Jurassic Park.
“And we’re right back t’frogs, Omi!” Atsumu cackled triumphantly, as they arrived at the restaurant.
Truly, Kiyoomi wondered what kind of backwater Inarizaki was, if Atsumu was so stupid he didn’t know truth from science fiction.
“‘Samu!” Atsumu crowed, walking into the restaurant like he owned the place. When Osamu popped up from behind the counter with a scowl, it was almost as if he did. It was strange, to almost see Atsumu’s face on a slightly different body, now that he knew who Atsumu was on a personal level.
The difference between fraternal and identical twins had been one of their earliest “lessons.” Atsumu had been insufferable, talking about sperm and egg with a plethora of eyebrow waggles, until he’d realized he was talking about his own conception, and his parents conceiving him, which shut him up.
An embarrassed Atsumu was even more fun than an attentive Atsumu, as far as Kiyoomi was concerned. His cheeks blushed, and he picked up a stammer that shouldn’t be endearing.
Nothing about Atsumu should be endearing. No matter how much he enjoyed their conversations, Kiyoomi knew he could never be attracted to such a beautiful idiot.
“This is a restaurant, y’donkey,” Osamu said, walking over to hug his brother. There was no real fire in his reproach. Lunchtime was long over and it was too early for dinner. They were the only two customers.
“Miya-san,” Kiyoomi said, bowing slightly.
“Call me Osamu,” Osamu said. “Nice t’meetcha, Sakusa. I’ve heard alllllllll ‘boutcha.” He ignored the punches that Atsumu started peppering over his upper body, as well as the hissed “shut ups” that accompanied the blows.
Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Y’ll wanna wash y’r hands,” Atsumu said, even though it sounded like a plea instead of a question. “Right this way,” he added, motioning to a short hallway.
Kiyoomi recognized that as soon as he left, the brothers would be talking about him. He shrugged and walked into the restroom, determined to both scrub his hands the minimum twenty seconds and catch the tail end of whatever Atsumu wanted to discuss with Osamu.
He stole back into the dining room with the silence and grace of a cat burglar. From his spot in the hallway opening, he could hear them clearly, where they were making onigiri at the counter.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he heard Atsumu say. Or maybe it was Osamu? It was hard to tell.
“Well the short grain’s better, since the amylopectin makes it stick t’gether,” the other one said. “Can’t have onigiri with rice that don’t stick.”
Okay, so that must be Osamu, Kiyoomi thought. He’s the food scientist.
“Amylopectin, wonder how that’s related t’ regular pectin, like, the fiber in fruits n’veggies?”
While the question made Kiyoomi think of Atsumu, there was no way the Atsumu he knew would have made such a connection. Or be able to pronounce amylopectin.
“There’s actually a few differences,” the first voice rattled off, and now Kiyoomi found his curiosity piqued by the science of it all. “Amylopectin has both 1-6 glycosidic bonds and 1-4 glycosidic bonds, making it a highly branched molecule of glucose. Pectins, on the other hand, have a backbone that consists primarily of a linear chain of d-galacturonic acid units interrupted by occasional l-rhamnose residues.”
Glycosidic? Galacturonic? Damn, food science was… scientific. Kiyoomi turned the corner so he could listen to Osamu some more.
Only it wasn’t Osamu who was waxing poetic about cellular structure.
“Atsumu?” Kiyoomi said, his mouth opening and closing like a spermy frog baby learning to breathe air.
“Kiyoomi?” Atsumu said, looking up from where his gloved hands had been forming perfect equilateral triangles of rice. His face blanched, a look Kiyoomi had never seen before.
“Don’t mind him,” Osamu said, waving a hand. “He likes t’nerd out ‘bout all sortsa scientific shit.”
“Oh, does he?” Kiyoomi said, taking a seat at the counter, where a glass of water was waiting for him. He took off his mask and folded it, putting it in his pocket carefully.
“M’surprised he didn’t tell ya all ‘bout his time in school—”
“‘Samu, m’sure Omi don’t wanna listen t’any of that,” Atsumu protested weakly.
Osamu was undeterred. “President of the science club, even though he was volley captain his senior year—”
“‘Samu, please.”
“I’m listening,” Kiyoomi said, folding his hands beneath his chin. He couldn’t tell which emotion he was feeling more: delight at Atsumu’s squirming or shock at Osamu’s revelations.
“I mean, Inarizaki’s the top school in the greater Osaka area, an’ ‘Tsumu graduated, what, sixth in the class?”
“Fifth,” Atsumu whispered, still avoiding eye contact.
“And it wasn’t just science, neither,” Osamu said with a smile. “Remember that history project y’did, where y’made a replica of Samurai armor outta cardboard?”
“Oh, really?” Kiyoomi smiled. “Atsumu?”
“M-hm?” Atsumu answered, his voice cracking as if he’d start crying.
“Didn’t you ask me last week if katanas were made out of cats?”
Atsumu moved to an open chair, away from the food, taking off his gloves. He sat down and buried his face on the counter.
“That don’t make any sense,” Osamu laughed. “Cat ain’t even a Japanese word!” He put a plate of onigiri in front of Kiyoomi and went to go poke at Atsumu, who was trying to suffocate himself somehow. “What the hell, ‘Tsumu?”
“Kill me,” Atsumu mumbled into the stainless steel.
Kiyoomi took a bite of the onigiri, the salty-sour ume bursting over his palate. Perfectly balanced with the sweetness of the rice. “Delicious,” he said, taking a sip of water. “Osamu, please go on.”
“‘Tsumu’s basically the smartest person I know,” Osamu shrugged. “Why he ain’t been tellin’ ya all ‘bout himself is beyond me. He usually never shuts up about how great he is.”
This was a far cry from the Atsumu Kiyoomi had been spending time with for the past few months, who asked questions instead of answering them, who listened more than spoke. In fact, Kiyoomi hadn’t ever talked so much in his life. After they’d heard him explaining where rainbows came from, Bokuto and Hinata started asking Kiyoomi questions, too. Kiyoomi found himself the smartest person in the room, and he hadn’t minded it. He’d never fit in so easily with a group before, not as the MVP of Waseda, or even with his cousin at Itachiyama. Atsumu’s idiocy had brought Kiyoomi closer to the entire team.
But if Osamu was telling the truth, Atsumu wasn’t a moron after all. He took another bite of onigiri as Osamu went on about all the scholarship programs and university acceptances Atsumu had turned down to pursue volleyball right out of high school.
“Between the smarts, the arrogance, an’the fact that he pushed everyone around him t’breakin’, ‘Tsumu had more enemies than friends,” Osamu said, shaking his head. “Everyone hated him, I swear.”
Kiyoomi looked over at where Atsumu was still face down on the counter, turned away from him. Studied Atsumu’s blonde hair, his dark undercut. His broad shoulders beneath his gold jacket. They seemed to be shuddering.
Kiyoomi finished his delicious onigiri and took another sip of water. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to him, these past few months,” he said softly.
“Oh yeah?” Osamu said. “He lets y’get a word in? What d’y’all talk about? How great of a setter he is? How he won the debate championships our second year?” He slapped Atsumu on the shoulder. “How ‘bout when y’were ten and ya—”
“That’s enough,” Atsumu declared, sitting up and slapping his hands on the counter. “See ya at practice, Omi.” He walked out of the restaurant, most likely headed back to the train station.
“Y’haven’t eaten!” Osamu said, packing up the remaining onigiri into a box with a speed perfected by many a lunch rush. “D’ya mind?” he said, holding it out to Kiyoomi.
“Are there more of the ume ones in there?” Kiyoomi asked, getting up from his chair and putting on his mask.
“Sure are,” Osamu laughed. “Nice meetin’ ya, even if it was cut short,” he said, waving goodbye, as Kiyoomi chased Atsumu out to the street.
The walk wasn’t a long one, and even though Atsumu had a head start, he was stuck waiting for the next train, not due to arrive for another four minutes. Kiyoomi found him leaned against a pillar, his hands jammed in his pockets.
Kiyoomi stood next to him. Waited for Atsumu to ask a question, to start a conversation. Like he usually did.
Atsumu was silent, his gaze focused on his feet as if they were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Maybe as interesting as a snake doing pushups.
The train arrived, and they filed inside, sitting side by side. Kiyoomi looked around, at the shiny metal poles, the plastic of the chairs, the fluorescent lights. One was flickering.
After spending a full ten minutes in silence, Kiyoomi couldn’t take it anymore. “Why do you think that one’s not shining like the other ones?” he asked quietly.
Atsumu’s eyes flitted up from the floor, to where Kiyoomi was looking. “Could be the ballast, or the circuitry,” he mumbled.
“I’ve always wondered how fluorescent lights work,” Kiyoomi said.
“Y’don’t have t’do this,” Atsumu sighed.
“Why?”
“Y’don’t have t’pretend t—”
“No,” Kiyoomi interrupted. “Why have you been pretending to be dumb?”
Atsumu’s second sigh was even more dramatic than the first. He threw his head back, and rubbed his hand over his face. “I dunno, Omi.”
“Was it a test?”
“Huh?”
“Were you testing me?” Kiyoomi asked gently. He wasn’t mad. He was still more confused than anything. “You always make fun of me for being a ‘college boy.’ Were you checking that my degree was, I don’t know… deserved?”
Atsumu laughed. “Kiyoomi, y’re smart as hell. No doubts there.”
“Then why?”
Atsumu’s hands were in his hair now, as if he’d start pulling it out. The last time Kiyoomi had seen him in such agony, he was trying to understand how magnets worked. That was an act before, Kiyoomi now understood. This, this was true despair.
“Y’heard what ‘Samu said.”
“Definitely. According to him, you’re ‘smart as hell’ too.” Kiyoomi smiled as he affected an approximation of Atsumu’s Kansai-ben.
“Yeah, okay,” Atsumu said. “But didja hear the other part?”
“All the awards and competitions you won?”
“No, Omi. The bit where everyone hated me.”
He sounded vulnerable, and sad. Kiyoomi hated it. He much preferred it when Atsumu was loudly declaring that “life finds a way” in his best Jeff Goldblum impression.
“I don’t hate you,” Kiyoomi said.
“And I didn’t wantcha t’start.”
“How would being smart make me hate you?”
“I can be passionate, and annoyin’, and I didn’t wantcha t’get annoyed with someone debatin’ political theory or discussin’ the finer points of ecology, when they didn’t go t’college like y’did.”
Kiyoomi enjoyed learning things, more than any other experience in life. Winning a game, enjoying a meal, perfecting a skill, it all paled in comparison to the illuminative ecstasy of sudden understanding.
A light that now flickered on, just like the train car’s defective fluorescent bulb.
“Were you intimidated by me?”
“Nah,” Atsumu answered, maybe a little faster than he meant to. “Prob’ly jealous, more’n anythin’,” he admitted.
“You could have gone, too, you know,” Kiyoomi said, knocking into his shoulder.
“Wanted t’get outta the classroom and onta the court,” Atsumu said. “Especially after…”
“After everyone hated you,” Kiyoomi finished for him.
Atsumu nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled, bittersweet. “At least in volley I ain’t gotta do anythin’ except play, and that speaks for itself.”
“You can speak for yourself, too,” Kiyoomi said. “I like talking to you.”
“Y’r patience is unparalleled,” Atsumu laughed, finally getting back to his usual self. Not his usual self, Kiyoomi thought. I don’t know who he really is, after all.
“When you asked me how unicorns had gone extinct, I wondered if you’d heard of Google,” Kiyoomi agreed. “But I didn’t mind your… stupidity.” He took a chance. “I don’t think I’d mind your intelligence, either.”
Atsumu’s eyes lit up with the same fire they had whenever he listened to Kiyoomi explain the intricacies of geopolitical socioeconomics. “Y’mean it?”
“I do.”
Atsumu’s shoulders relaxed, as if a huge burden had been taken from him. “Alright, Omi.” He gave him a brilliant grin. “Y’want me t’tell ya how fluorescent lights work?”
“Go for it.”
Atsumu went on about electrons and mercury and ultraviolet radiation and Kiyoomi corrected him twice, which led to an argument, a lot of Googling, and a furious debate that took them all the way back to the MSBY dorms.
As they ate their onigiri and discussed the best ways to combat climate change in a back-and-forth that anyone else might have just called bickering, Kiyoomi found himself laughing.
Atsumu’s smile was wide and inviting, his brows waggling as he made a clever pun, his brilliant eyes glowing with intelligence and curiosity. Even though a wayward grain of rice stuck to his chin, Kiyoomi couldn’t look away.
He liked it better when Atsumu was less of a beautiful idiot.
Now? He was just beautiful.