Chapter Text
“Do ya know why I named ya two?”
“Pa, ya tell this story every. Year. ”
“Because it’s a hella good story.”
“Stop him, Dad!”
“So it all started ‘cause yer Dad’s technologically illiterate–”
“It all started because your uncle lives to torture me.”
“Don’t listen to them, kids. It all started because Christmas miracles exist!”
“I hate this family.”
“So yer Dad used ta have two loves in his life: his cat and his job. And then I showed up and had a marvelous time ruinin’ everything.”
🎄🎄🎄
Kiyoomi has two loves in his life: his cat and his job. They say three’s a crowd, and since Kiyoomi would rather give up cleaning his house every Saturday than abandon Mimi, and what kind of selfish monster doesn’t want to bring babies into the world – well, Kiyoomi has two loves. The math is simple.
December has the talent of being the one month of the year that makes him want to learn non-eulerian maths, though, and that’s all because everything becomes an excuse for romance. Cookies are sold in pairs of snowmen holding hands; All I want for Christmas is you takes over every single store’s radio; his recommended feed is littered with ads for ‘the perfect gift for your partner this holiday season!’ – and through all the jingles and bells and decking the halls , Kiyoomi delivers baby after healthy baby.
“Sakusa?” comes Foster’s voice, followed by a courtesy knock on his door. “Got a minute?”
If he’s not Kiyoomi-kun , then it means business. “Always for you, Dr. Foster.”
“Spare me the flattery, I’ve seen you after two back to back night shifts,” Foster laughs. Kiyoomi hates his laugh a little, because it sounds just like his father’s. “I’m here to tell you that Chiyo finally decided to put her plan of sleeping on the couch until I retire into action.”
Kiyoomi can’t help the chuckle. Despite having retired for two years now, even the way she organized her pens was passed onto the next managing director – which is to say that Chiyo is a whirlwind of a woman, and probably the only one who could devise a plan to force Foster into retirement and then deliver, too. “I should have lunch with Chiyo-san one of these days.”
“Sometimes I really think you’re playing favourites.”
“Perish the thought,” Kiyoomi says lightly, letting a smirk tug at his lips. “Congratulations are in order, Foster-san.”
Foster pulls the chair facing Kiyoomi and is accompanied by a ballad of popping bones when he lowers himself onto the cushion. “I’ll book a massage appointment as soon as I retire,” he sighs, and Kiyoomi nods sagely. “But I’m not here to tell you my retirement plans.”
“Of course. I can just discuss them with Chiyo-san over lunch.”
‘I’m assuming I won’t be invited to this lunch?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “Both Chiyo-san and I are busy people. It might prove difficult to align our schedules with yours, director.”
Foster laughs, and Kiyoomi hates it a little less, because he looks so genuinely happy. “You know, Kiyoomi-kun, when I hired you five years ago, I didn’t think I’d ever get a joke out of you.”
“What is this, my eulogy?”
“Brat,” Foster says, so fond that Kiyoomi wonders when he took over the paternal figure role. Better yet, Kiyoomi doesn’t remember putting that position up for grabs, not when there’s still a picture of his father and him from his graduation day on his desk. Not when Kiyoomi still remembers his father’s laughter. Not when he still hears him in his head, where his voice is starting to merge with Foster’s thicker tone.
“I’m just trying to tell you I’m looking for someone to entrust the clinic to.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi mouths. “I consider myself trustworthy.”
“Of course,” Foster laughs again. “As do I. But you’re also speedrunning burnout.”
Kiyoomi frowns. “I sleep eight hours a day. I exercise. I have very balanced meals.”
“You stress eat cookies. You need Motoya-kun to remind you to take breaks. Half of your very balanced meals only exist because your mother makes sure to send you food.” Foster is wearing his disappointed father look, and Kiyoomi can’t even bring himself to resent him for it. “I’m talking about emotional burnout, Kiyoomi-kun.”
“Foster-san–”
“I’m not asking you to get married tomorrow. But I also don’t want to entrust you with my clinic and watch you run yourself ragged.” Foster gets up and throws a glance at the framed picture on his desk. “I’ll be thinking about who to hand the clinic down to, so you should do some thinking too, Sakusa.”
Kiyoomi swallows, but his mouth still feels dry. “Yes sir.”
🎄🎄🎄
“I don’t mean to play devil’s advocate, Sakusa-kun, but I think I agree with Foster-san on this one.”
Hinata nods vehemently, then dumps half of his sweet potato fries on Kiyoomi’s plate, like that’s enough to absolve him of agreeing with Akaashi. “We just wanna see you happy.”
“A relationship doesn’t equate happiness,” Kiyoomi blurts, and then remembers that he’s talking to Akaashi, who goes down to Osaka every other week to cook for his husband, and Hinata, who is about to get married in less than two months. “For me, I mean.”
“We didn’t take that personally,” Hinata assures with his megawatt smile that makes Kiyoomi want to wear sunglasses.
“I agree,” Akaashi says, in that matter-of-fact voice he says almost everything in. “You don’t need a romantic relationship to feel fulfilled. But I’ve been your roommate for four years, Sakusa-kun. I know you secretly love romantic comedies, and that you have an ideal date planned, and that you want someone to come along and guess what you’re thinking.”
As if Kiyoomi’s cheeks aren’t warming up at an alarming speed, Hinata, the picture of innocence, says, “Were the romcoms supposed to be a secret guilty pleasure? I thought everyone knew.”
“I thought we were here to discuss Hinata’s wedding?”
Hinata smiles, unphased. “I trust your planning skills, Sakusa-san. I even trust that you could fit a plus one for yourself at one of the tables.”
“You know what, I’ve just changed my mind. Make Akaashi your best man.”
Akaashi winces. “No thank you. No offense, Hinata-kun.”
“Are you kidding?! You almost got an ulcer planning your own wedding, I’m not about to make you take care of mine. ”
“Oh, but you’ll push that responsibility on me?”
Hinata levels Kiyoomi with his most unimpressed look and glances at the pastel pink folder sitting blamelessly between them. “You plan for fun , Sakusa-san. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you monologue for as long as you did with the florist last week.”
“Flower arrangements can make or break a wedding,” Kiyoomi mumbles, chewing on his sweet potato-peace offering.
“Your plus one could make or break my wedding,” Hinata counters, tugging the snack plate back towards his side of the table. “Look, I don’t actually care about whether you’re dating or not. I just want to see you smiling.”
Kiyoomi bares his teeth, and earns a kick in the shin for it. “A genuine smile.”
“You always keep yourself busy.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. Akaashi rolls his in return, and unlocks his phone to show Kiyoomi their shared calendar. “We had to pen the date in just to have lunch . Sometimes, I think you’re running away from yourself, Sakusa-kun.”
“Are you two here just to gang up on me?”
“Pouting won’t get you out of this,” Akaashi says, although he sounds much more mellow.
Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s pouting – Hinata, however, could give a masterclass on persuasive puppy eyes. “Akaashi-san is right, though. I want to hang out with you more, too.”
Becoming Kiyoomi’s friend is a year-long process involving a lot of frowning, nose-scrunching and “have you washed your hands?” reminders, but once he sticks the friend label on someone, it might as well be a life sentence. It’s why Kiyoomi can count his friends on one hand, and also why he’d rather leave Mimi with Motoya for a night than hurt them. It’s also why he knows Hinata wouldn’t guilt-trip him, which is why the feeling that gnaws on his insides is hungry and loud.
He glances at his clock and immediately hates himself for it. “Let’s have dinner together on Friday.” Hinata’s lips pull into a too-bright smile; the guilt is now nibbling on his vocal chords. He remembers Hinata asking him to hang out in September, cancelling on him last-minute because of a client he voluntarily took on, and then waking up to a text saying, I proposed to Kageyama last night. How Hinata still trusted him enough to ask him to be his best man should be one of the seven wonders of the modern world.
“Really?” Hinata asks, basically vibrating in his chair. “Oh, we should all get together! Kageyama is coming back to Tokyo tomorrow!”
“Koutarou should also be in Tokyo at that time.”
“Sure,” Kiyoomi smiles – it feels much more real than baring his teeth stubbornly. “I’ll ask Motoya if he’s available.”
Hinata claps his hands happily and pushes the sweet potatoes back towards Kiyoomi. “We should have a game night!”
“No,” Akaashi and Kiyoomi say at the same time, shuddering in horror. Hinata’s cheeks are rounding up in that way that spells puppy eyes incoming , so Akaashi rushes to add, “Only if there are no drinks involved. I am never putting any cocktails of yours in my mouth again.”
“But Bokuto-san loves them!”
“That’s only because Bokuto could drink someone twice his size under the table.”
“What about my bachelor party?”
Kiyoomi rubs the bridge of his nose for a long minute before he eventually says, “I guess if everyone sleeps over and I don’t have to drive anyone home or rub vomit off my carpet–”
Hinata giggles, actually giggles , and Kiyoomi knows he’s already lost. He’d probably end up rubbing his carpets at the end of it all anyway, but he knows Hinata will help, all while putting on uncomfortably loud Spanish music and dancing to it annoyingly well. Kiyoomi will snap a picture of it even as he pretends to grumble over it, and Akaashi will wax poetics based on that one silly moment to include in his book, and Kiyoomi will proofread that, too.
“To more spontaneous meetings,” Akaashi says, holding up his orange juice.
Kiyoomi pulls his sleeve over his watch and toasts with his own kombucha.
🎄🎄🎄
Motoya’s idea of “blowing off steam” involves squeezing Kiyoomi into his car without telling him where they’re going, driving to an appliance store, pulling out the santizing wet wipes Kiyoomi approves of and then pushing a thoroughly cleaned scanner in his hands.
Kiyoomi stares at the scanner. Then he stares at Motoya, who he has known for a good 28 years and still cannot understand more than he could when they were toddlers fighting over their toys. “Enlighten me,” Kiyoomi eventually sighs.
Motoya picks up a scanner of his own and points it at Kiyoomi like they’re playing a shooting game. “Stress shopping!”
“I know we’re well paid, but I don’t think I can afford to go on a shopping spree of house appliances. ”
Motoya clicks his tongue like Kiyoomi isn’t getting it on purpose, and steps aside to reveal a computer with a registration form blinking at them sheepishly. “Motoya, no.”
“Motoya, yes ,” he cheers, and types Kiyoomi’s name in the first field of what is, black on white, a wedding registry account. “Come on ,” he whines, pulling on Kiyoomi’s sleeve with a very poor imitation of Hinata’s puppy dog eyes. “There’s no law against making a fake wedding registry to destress after your boss basically called you out on being forever alone and married to your job.”
“Somedays, it’s like you do this on purpose,” Kiyoomi winces. Just because Motoya’s known him for all his life and lived through the highs and lows of med school and cutting umbilical cords, it doesn’t give him the right to sum up Kiyoomi’s woes so succinctly and accurately. Being a rational asshole is more so Kiyoomi’s brand of dealing with others’ problems.
Shaking the scanner in front of him like it’s a metronome, Motoya says, “Trust me, cousin dearest. Scanning scratches an itch in your brain you don’t even know you have.”
“That sounds medically inaccurate.”
Motoya grins, like he got a pull when fishing. “But you love organized lists, don’t you?”
The cursor is blinking in the email field. Kiyoomi looks at the scanner, then at the french coffee press he never found a good enough excuse to buy, then at the fancy food processor he always wished someone would get him for Christmas. “At least don’t use my work email address,” he eventually says, dropping an elbow onto Motoya’s shoulder.
“Ah, is this the time to pull out [email protected] from the dustbin?” Because Motoya has known Kiyoomi for long enough to know about the existence of this cursed burner email, he grins and types away through Kiyoomi’s drown-out groan. “Ok. We need a name for your fake fiance.”
Kiyoomi opens his mouth, then promptly closes it and bites on the inside of his cheek.
“You wanted to use Ushiwaka, didn’t you?”
Frankly, Motoya deserves the forehead flick he gets for being so damn on-point all the time. “Don’t hurt the messenger,” he whines, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows.
“And what are you a messenger of, pray tell?”
“Your innermost thoughts?”
Kiyoomi levels him with a look that he only reserves for trying to freeze water when he makes an official call and gets the waiting music, periodically interrupted by one of our operators will be with you shortly . “Wakatoshi-kun and I parted on good terms.”
“The terms of him being an asshole about your career?”
“The terms of us agreeing to disagree on where we wanted to be in life,” Kiyoomi corrects curtly, and then, “What was that place we got lunch from?”
Motoya is at least graceful enough to sense the subject change and pretend it’s natural. “Onigiri Miya?”
“Yeah, put that in.”
“What, so your husband-to-be is called Onigiri ?” Motoya asks, barely stifling a puff of laughter.
Kiyoomi pulls out his phone, does a quick search, and shoves it in Motoya’s face. “Apparently the owner’s name is Miya Osamu.”
“Damn, you snatched a man who looks like he’s hauling rice sacks around all day and can cook,” Motoya laughs, typing the name in. “Are you sure you wanna keep this registry private? Maybe he’ll see it and you two can have a whirlwind romance.”
“Maybe I can drive away in your car and leave you stranded here.”
Motoya presses send registry and grins. “Let the shopping madness begin!”`
🎄🎄🎄
Kiyoomi may or may not be humming Deck the Halls as he walks into his patients room the next day and nods at Suna Himari – first time patient, despite being eight months into her pregnancy.
“Someone’s in a good mood today,” Motoya hums, wiggling his eyebrows. “Did the scanning spree work its magic?”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and takes the chart from his hands before sitting down next to Himari. “That’s Motoya Komori – he likes to think he’s funny and he’s going to be your nurse from now on. You don’t have to humor him.”
“And that’s Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, completely unperturbed. “He thinks he’s a smartass because he graduated at the top of his class – sadly, he’s right, so both of us have to listen to him.”
“I see that I’m in good, sassy hands,” Himari says, drawing a smile. She has a bit of a Kansai accent, light enough that Kiyoomi doesn’t think she was born there, but noticeable enough that she must have lived there for the better half of her life. She’s young, too – the chart says 21. Kiyoomi probably wouldn’t have given her more than 20 at first glance.
He sets the chart aside and pulls a pair of gloves on. “So, your primary doctor was concerned that your blood pressure was too high and he recommended you to me.” Himari nods. “Well, she made the right call.”
“He’s bragging,” Motoya says in his horribly high pitched stage-whisper voice.
Kiyoomi effectively ignores him. “We’ll get your blood tests, check for sugar levels and iron. Most importantly, though, we want you in a relaxed environment. Do you live on your own?”
“Oh no, I’m staying with my brother and his husband. Actually, my brother-in-law’s brother – what’s that, like a second order brother-in-law? Anyway, he’s here for my appointment today. He’s parking the car, but he should be up any moment now.”
“It’s good to have a good support system,” Kiyoomi nods, and decides to not ask about the father – it’s not really his business, anyway. As long as he’s not stressing Himari out, Kiyoomi should turn a professional blind eye to the situation and continue with Himari’s ultrasound. “ My blood pressure spikes whenever I need to hang around my family,” he bites, throwing a glance at Motoya, “but I’m glad yours seems willing to help.”
“We’re cousins,” Motoya helpfully supplies. “Don’t let him fool you – he still keeps the plushie I gave him for his fifth birthday.” Clicking his pen like he’s just had his eureka moment, Motoya gasps, “Maybe this is why you’re painfully single!”
Kiyoomi doesn’t even look away from the screen – he’s relieved to see that everything looks by-the book fine. “Maybe you won’t be complaining about how I overwork you tomorrow because you’ll be looking for a new job.”
“This is my first time seeing a single doctor,” Himari chimes in – she’s better at feigning ignorance than Motoya. “Thought those insanely high salaries were irresistible.”
“They are, but Kiyo’s cat is very picky when it comes to men.”
“Maybe that’s why she runs away when you visit,” he says, then to Himari, “Everything looks good here. How are you with needles?”
“A-okay,” she hums, making grabby hands for the napkins Kiyoomi is handing her.
“Great. Then Motoya will get your blood, and I will be on stand-by to make sure he doesn’t stress you out with his blabber.”
Himari laughs – Kiyoomi hopes her baby will inherit that clear laughter.
Motoya is wiping her arm when there’s a knock on the door. “That must be the brother-in-law-ish I told you about – come in ,” Himari shouts.
The door opens only for a man to walk in clumsily, covering his eyes. “Sorry, coach called and ya know how chatty he can get–”
Himari rolls her eyes and suddenly slips into much heavier Kansai-ben, “Stop bein’ embarrassin’. I’m decent so ya can watch where yer goin’ before ya bump into a table.”
The man lowers his arm, and Kiyoomi stares. First, he thinks he’s never heard such a heavy Kansai-ben sound so much like honey. Then, he thinks that must hurt his throat. And then , he squints and thinks, I’ve seen this face before .
“Ah!” Motoya gasps, and the realization hits Kiyoomi at the same time as he says, “Miya Osamu!”
Miya Osamu squawks, and Himari bursts into a fit of laughter that shakes her whole body. “Stop laughin’,” Miya squeals, even more high-pitched than Motoya’s horrible stage-whisper. “I can’t believe I’m benched for one season and my dumbass brother becomes more popular than me. I’m–” he turns towards Kiyoomi and Motoya, and effectively walks into the little table next to Himari’s hospital bed.
“I’m sendin’ this to Rin-nii,” Himari chuckles – that’s when Kiyoomi realizes she must have been filming the last few seconds.
“Where do yer loyalties lie, Mari-chan? Yer brother’s at practice, and Samu’s busy doin’ entrepreneurial shit, but I’m here, drivin’ ya to the hospital and buyin’ ya expensive tacos at 7:30am, and this is how ya treat me?”
“Stop playin’ the hero, yer only here cause ya fucked up yer knee.” Himari turns towards Kiyoomi and gives him an apologetic nod. “This is Miya Atsumu – Osamu’s twin. He lives to embarrass me every day of his life.”
“I miss when ya were little and used ta think I was the coolest person in the room,” Miya Atsumu, apparently, mutters.
“That was only when Samu-nii wasn’t in the same room as ya.”
Atsumu pointedly ignores her remark and extends his hand for Kiyoomi to shake. “Miya Atsumu. I better be named the godfather of this child.”
Himari rolls her eyes, but Kiyoomi has a feeling it’s akin to him rolling his eyes at Motoya. “Ya’ve got too much time on yer hands, Tsumu-nii. Why don’tcha use some of it to pay for Dr. Sakusa’s lunch so he’ll treat me the best?” she adds, a mischievous smile and a wink thrown Kiyoomi’s way. Maybe her child should only inherit her laughter, not her shrewdness.
“I’d treat you the best, regardless,” Kiyoomi says, shaking his head to chase away the smile pulling at his lips.
“Well, if ya don’t like that excuse, I’m sure I could find another one,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi’s attention snaps to him. Now that he’s not covering his eyes, he realizes those are honey-coloured, too. “I’d really like to take ya to dinner.”
“Sorry, I don’t do dinners on the first date,” Kiyoomi says – not because going out with someone in the patient’s family – distant as Atsumu might be – is unprofessional, which should really be the first thing he thinks about, but because Atsumu seems fun to tease.
Just like he expected, Atsumu bites. “Do ya do coffee? Or is that too indecent?”
“Depends. Are you going to pay?”
“That was the plan,” Atsumu smiles charmingly.
Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. “See, now I feel like you’re trying to woo me with your money.”
“And if I let ya pay for us both?”
“Taking advantage of me.”
“I see,” Atsumu plays along. “Then I guess we’ll just have to accidentally bump inta each other at the coffee truck next to the hospital tomorrow at eleven and each of us will buy a coffee before we engage in polite small talk.”
Kiyoomi grins, and pointedly ignores Motoya’s look of outrage and the shushed words he exchanges with Himari. “My idea of a perfect first date,” Kiyoomi nods.
Atsumu’s grin is equal parts wicked and enthralling. Kiyoomi doesn’t remember the last time he was genuinely excited to grab coffee with someone – much less someone whose roots desperately need to be touched up and who’s dripping honey all over the patients room’s pristine floor every time he talks.
🎄🎄🎄
“I suggested dinner tonight, so how come I’m the only one who doesn’t know where we’re eating?” Kiyoomi grumbles, shuffling uncomfortably under the scarf wrapped over his eyes.
“Just trust us ,” Hinata says, like that’s supposed to be reassuring. Like the last time he said that, Kiyoomi didn’t wake up with a headache and half of Bokuto crushing his windpipe.
“If this is a blind date,” Kiyoomi hisses, “I am deleting your phone numbers.” Akaashi chuckles. “I am so serious.”
“Sure, sure,” Hinata waves him off, which doesn’t make anything about this situation less stressful. “We’re here, Sakusa-san!”
The scarf gets untied, and Kiyoomi’s mind turns to static as he finds himself in the middle of an awfully familiar, overly bright room – Kageyama’s living room. The only reason why Kiyoomi doesn’t immediately recognize it is the overflowing amount of decoration – and that’s when he notices it: the banner, in Bokuto’s unmistakable, undecipherable chicken scrawl that (most likely) says Congratulations, groom to be!
“Did you… organize your own bachelor party?”
“No,” Kageyama blinks, looking about as confused as Kiyoomi feels.
Hinata looks like he’s going to vibrate out of himself with all the bouncing he’s doing. “This is for you , Sakusa-san!”
“For… me.”
“Hinata saw your wedding registry when he went to update his!” Bokuto happily explains.
“My wedding registry.”
Hinata nods so fast that Kiyoomi would be afraid his head would detach itself if he didn’t have more pressing issues. “Guys–”
“We know what you’re thinking,” Akaashi says.
Usually, Akaashi would be right – he has an uncanny sixth sense for reading Kiyoomi’s thoughts. “I really doubt it,” he says this time.
“That you want to celebrate with your mom!” Bokuto says, in the loudest voice that can’t quite be classified as yelling. “Well, surprise!”
As if Kiyoomi’s head wasn’t already throbbing with the mess he’d have to clean because Motoya decided fake wedding registries would be a good way to destress, he is now faced with his mother, in the flesh, rushing down the stairs to hug him. “Kiyo! I can’t believe this!”
“Neither can I,” Kiyoomi mutters, but still melts a little in his mother’s arms. The truth is, he never not misses his mother, and the comfort of hugging her overwhelms the mess his cousin dragged him into. “How did you get out of work?”
“Hana-chan filled in for me,” she winks, cupping his face in her always clean, always soft hands. “I can’t believe my youngest baby is getting married, too. Now all of you have officially left the nest,” she says, choking a little over the last words.
“Mom, I’m not really–”
“How did he ask you?” Hinata blurts, like he’s been fighting to keep in the question for the last decade.
“Did you say his name was Miya Osamu?” Kageyama frowns.
“ When did he ask you?” Bokuto joins in.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Akaashi asks, and he’s never been good at hiding his feelings, so Kiyoomi feels the needle of guilt right into his stomach.
He struggles to say, “Because I’m not–”, but then the music goes off, Kageyama mutters oops and Kiyoomi has to squeeze his eyes shut and let Grow As We Go wash over them.
“It’s your wedding song,” his mother whispers, because of course she remembers him crying to this song for a whole week after he broke up with Wakatoshi. Of course all his friends remember – after all, Kiyoomi has tested them for years before deciding to stick with them for life.
And now, he’s going to have to disappoint them for life. The banner has so much glitter glue on it that it’s blinding. Bokuto shoves a piece of cake on an overly fancy plate into his hands. In the corner, someone wrapped a bow over the french press that Kiyoomi’s been eyeing for a good few months now.
“Where’s your ring?” Hinata suddenly asks, and Kiyoomi wants to scream.
“When do I get to meet him?” his mother asks, still teary-eyed.
I’m going to hate myself for this. “It all just happened so fast,” he says, and instantly wants to hit his head against the wall.
There’s a collective aww screeching Kiyoomi’s brain, and he knows he has to get himself out of here before he digs his own grave so deep that he can’t crawl out. Pulling his phone out, he unlocks the screen and loudly says, “Doctor Sakusa here. Yes! Yes, I’ll be with you in ten minutes.” He slips his phone back in his pocket and tries to look as sorry as he can. “Sorry, baby emergency. Mom, can I borrow your car?”
“Of course.” She pulls out the keys with practiced speed, and Kiyoomi counts his lucky stars for making his mother a pediatric doctor. “Take care out there, get home safe!”
“I’ll return your car tomorrow,” Kiyoomi says, and kisses her cheek in a split-second decision – maybe it’s the guilt. Maybe it’s a silent apology. Maybe it’s just missing his mother. He can’t stand to look his friends in the eyes, so he’s mostly glaring at the glittery congratulatory banner when he says, “Thank you, everyone. Good-bye!” and rushes out the door.
Safely tucked in the driver seat of his mother’s car, Kiyoomi dials Motoya’s number. The phone rings once, twice, thrice. Kiyoomi’s looking at the family picture tucked into the glove compartment and trying not to feel like scum – it’s proving much more difficult than anticipated.
When the call connects, Motoya sounds so chipper that Kiyoomi wants to stuff a sock in his mouth. “Kiyo dearest, to what do I owe the pleasure–”
“I am calling to inform you that we are no longer friends.”