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2022
“I like you, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi said, and the world didn’t end.
2024
Even though Kiyoomi has a widget that tells him the current time in Paris pinned to his home screen, he hasn’t internalized the change. He sees it whenever he opens his phone, but they’re just numbers to him.
If he ever needs to know, he just looks at what Atsumu is doing.
“Have ya nailed that new serve yet?” asks the tiny Atsumu on his phone screen, blinking against the sun. It’s afternoon in Paris, and Atsumu still hasn’t figured out that he needs to sit with the window behind him to avoid squinting at the sun when he calls Kiyoomi. He has a break in his schedule around this time every day and he loves to multitask, so he calls Kiyoomi while he eats a cup of yogurt, because it’s late where Kiyoomi is and he’s not doing anything, right?
Kiyoomi sighs. Atsumu’s right on both accounts: it’s late and he’s cocoon curled up in his blankets in bed, carefully angling his camera to hide the Romero poster he hung up over the headboard and doesn’t want to get teased about.
Atsumu already makes fun of him enough for the number of pillows he has. “You could build a house with these,” he said, the first time he’d ever stepped into Kiyoomi’s dorm room, frowning at the mountain of decorative pillows.
Kiyoomi never built a house with them; instead, Kiyoomi took over Atsumu’s lease when Atsumu moved overseas. You can’t build when you’re borrowing someone else’s memories, and nesting in their furniture.
“No,” he grumbles. It’s impossible to hide his expressions around Atsumu, so he’s stopped doing that. “They’re still falling short.”
On the other side of the world, Atsumu laughs and Kiyoomi feels his heart clench. His phone is old, so the voice is tinny through the speakers, but Kiyoomi still remembers the sound of it from all the years he’d been on MSBY. The memory gets overlain atop reality, and suddenly it’s clear as bells in his ear.
Until it stops. “I bet it’s better than you’re thinkin’, Omi-omi, you always were a perfectionist.”
“You are too,” Kiyoomi snaps.
Instead of laughing this time, Atusmu looks a little fond. Even puts down his spoon. “Maybe I was wrong-”
Kiyoomi’s body tenses-
“About my word choice. You’re a completionist, aren’t ya? That’s what Komori calls ya, anyway.”
And it goes slack again.
“Maybe you’re right, Miya.” Kiyoomi yawns, and Atsumu frowns.
“Is it really that late? Do ya need your beauty sleep that bad?” Atsumu peers forward, squints at Kiyoomi’s face even though all he can make out at this point is his eyes and forehead, the rest of it tucked away underneath his blanket. “Hmm, maybe you do. I can see your frown lines, Omi-omi.”
“You’re one to talk. I see you haven’t been brave enough to find a stylist yet; your roots are so dark.”
“They’re not that bad!” Atsumu cards at his roots anyway. “It’s just the sun or the lighting or something, you take it back, Omi-omi!”
When Kiyoomi laughs this time, hiding away his delight and heartache in his blanket, he wonders how Atsumu hears his laughter: through the tinny microphone? Or in his memory?
“G’nite, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says around a mouthful of yogurt. He waves to the camera, just like he always does, and Kiyoomi waves back.
When he turns off the light in Atsumu’s old bedroom, the light from a nearby streetlamp floods the room.
He needs to get curtains.
2023
Kiyoomi had grown too content and comfortable with the status quo.
Four strong years on MSBY, one solid showing at the Olympics, countless JNT friendlies and international matches. He knew how to charm a variety show host — or at least bicker with Atsumu enough to distract them — and how exactly to shoot an ad with the fewest people touching him. And over endless practices and late night konbini runs, Higashiosaka had become just as familiar to him as the Waseda campus; Atsumu’s apartment was part of that known world.
He often joined him there. Atsumu had moved out of the share house just after Kiyoomi’s rookie year, needing to clear up space for the rookies they were bringing in and because “I’m gettin’ old, Omi-omi. Y’all are too much for me. I need my sleep and privacy!”
And it had almost made sense, until Kiyoomi did the math. “You’re barely five months older than me, you can’t call yourself old.”
“You should respect your elders, Omi-kun! I’m so full of wisdom.”
“You’re so full of shit, that’s what you are, Miya.”
But he knew the way to Atsumu’s apartment like the back of his hand, had mapped out the perfect path to get there before Atsumu even moved in. It was a brisk 25 minute walk — or a 15 minute jog, or a 10 minute bike ride — and Kiyoomi could make it with his eyes closed.
And it was one of those nights — towards the end of the season, the weather just starting to turn to spring and Kiyoomi switched to his lighter jacket — that Kiyoomi felt his foundation crumble for the first time.
He’d spent many nights on Atsumu’s balcony, watching fireflies dance in the treeline in summer, listening to the cicadas burst into fall, catching fat snowflakes on their tongues in winter, and thinking about the past year of volleyball in the spring. Discussing the team, the other players, whether or not Wakatoshi is human. A hundred inconsequential questions, but Kiyoomi was comfortable there.
Didn’t know, on that night, it’d be shaken.
“I’m putting out feelers,” Atsumu admitted suddenly, after Kiyoomi shared gossip — Motoya called it tea — about the new Hornets libero, leaning against the balcony wall, teeth chattering because he wasn’t made for cold but loved the fresh air anyway, “to play overseas.”
“Huh,” Kiyoomi said, unbefitting of the shock to the system it was. It took a moment to process, the admission seeping slowly through his body, because it felt so wrong. “You want to leave MSBY?”
Atsumu sighed, pushing against the balcony with his head down, not looking at Kiyoomi. “I don’t want to leave, you know? It’s good here. I like the new guys, I like Foster. It’s good to have you and Bokkun around, still.”
He paused.
There was always a but. A conditional. A moment when you realized that the world you thought you understood was actually not the whole picture at all.
The thing about Atsumu is that he’ll give you what you need. On the court, he’ll give you the perfect set, and if he fails he’ll try again and again until he gets it right. As his friend — maybe his best friend — he’d been able to read Kiyoomi like a book, cataloging every open page. Knew when Kiyoomi needed space and proximity, letting him come and go from the apartment like a cat.
But sometimes givers needed to take, too; in seeing what others receive, they could see so clearly the other paths that could open for them. Hinata went abroad again. Kageyama, too. Ushijima, and Yaku, and a dozen other players around Atsumu’s caliber.
“I need to get better, Omi,” Atsumu said, finally. “And I don’t think things are changing enough here for me to do it.”
MSBY was built around a core of veteran players, which included Atsumu and Kiyoomi and Bokuto. This was the longest Kiyoomi had ever spent on a team, and Atsumu had been here for twice as long; shifting his playstyle and getting better and better to suit all the new players.
Kiyoomi understood. “There’s a wall,” he said. “And the only way to climb over it is to-”
“Go somewhere else. Play with new people.”
The irony of proving your worth was that people stopped needing you to prove it. You could grow complacent, or you could do something about it.
“Where are you thinking, Atsumu?” Something inside Kiyoomi felt fragile, just like the wall Atsumu wanted to leap over. As if it was made of crumbling brick and ancient stone, like it was ready to crack away. You could climb over it, or you could knock it down. “I’ll confess that I haven’t paid much attention to the international teams.”
“There’s a team in France in need of a good setter. A few in Germany with freaky middle blockers, too. Some others I’ve been looking at.”
Kiyoomi was taken aback. Sighing, he joined Atsumu in draping himself over the balcony wall so he could look at him from the side. Although he’d come over earlier with drinks and snacks to watch a Hornets/Rockets match-up and figure out how to get past Goshiki’s defensive plays, that plan was in the wash. They could crack open their ciders to celebrate Atsumu’s decision, as earth-shattering as it was.
“That sounds like a little more than putting out feelers.”
For his part, Atsumu looked contrite, a little chastised, but it cleared from his expression soon enough. “Alright, well maybe I didn’t want to get too overexcited—”
“You once told me and Bokuto that Osamu was expanding to Tokyo when he was just meeting a potential supplier. You are the very definition of over-excited.” Kiyoomi had just made a note of it, intending to visit the shop whenever he was in Tokyo seeing his family, but Bokuto had told Akaashi who then tweeted it out to his professional twitter instead of his private account — the mistake caused, doubtlessly, by sleep deprivation — which had caused a professional mess.
“So I learned my lesson!” Atsumu huffed, pushing back from the wall. “I’ve gotten a little better at holding my tongue, Omi-omi!” He stuck his tongue out at Kiyoomi.
“It sure doesn’t look like it, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi gestured to his face.
A pause, before realization dawned. Putting a hand to his heart, Atsumu started laughing, loud and obnoxious and bright — the way Kiyoomi was used to — and Kiyoomi couldn’t help but follow along, dropping his head against the wall and snorting.
“Look, Omi,” Atsumu said eventually, leaning down so he could look Kiyoomi in the eyes again. “It’s not official yet. Maybe no team wants to take a chance on me-”
“Don’t say that.”
“Or maybe they already have their eyes on another setter.”
“But you’re the best one.”
“Hinata would disagree.” Standing up, Atsumu looked out onto the street; there were still lingering glimmers of sunset, and it painted Atsumu’s hair a soft pink, made his body relax into itself. “If I go abroad —”
“When you go overseas.”
“It’ll only be for a short time. Just long enough to learn new things. Figure out what they do differently out there. Get to the next level. And then I can come back better.”
When he turned to Kiyoomi this time, there was no trace of the sun in his eyes — he was lit by a fire all Atsumu’s own, one that, to his shock, Kiyoomi realized he hadn’t seen in Atsumu in months.
That crumbling wall inside of Kiyoomi? Dust.
“Do you believe in me, Omi? Do ya think I could do it?” Atsumu asked, but those weren’t the questions Kiyoomi heard.
Could you let me go?
“Of course, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi gulped. “Of course you’ll make it. Of course I believe in you.”
And those were the words Kiyoomi said, but they weren’t what he meant.
I like you enough to let you go.
2024
Kiyoomi still isn’t used to missing someone.
Before Atsumu left for France, they seemed to live in each other’s pockets, spending every waking moment together.
Well.
Not every waking moment; that would be impossible, since Kiyoomi still haunted the dorm like a persnickety ghost equally afraid of putting down roots and horrified by the possibility of the rookies accidentally making chlorine gas while cleaning —
“That was only once, Omi!” Bokuto yelped in protest, like clockwork, every year during their first sharehouse meeting.
“And once was enough,” Kiyoomi hissed.
— but it felt like it.
Kiyoomi has never had a friend like that before.
Motoya, bless him, had his own family. For all that Kiyoomi followed him around in middle and high school, at night and at home it would still be Kiyoomi, alone. Iizuna was always older and a little out of reach, and he and Wakatoshi were miles apart.
But Atsumu welcomed his company. Thrived in it, even, like being part of a pack was in his nature.
“You’re my rookie,” Atsumu’d said, right up against the brunt of Kiyoomi’s scowl when he first joined MSBY. “Whether ya like it or not! My sweet little kouhai!”
“Five months, Miya,” Kiyoomi reminded him, but he grew to appreciate the way Atsumu took him — and every new player — under his wing.
He misses it now, how he and Atsumu would go shopping together after practice. It’s lonely to look through the aisles without Atsumu egging him on into buying more and more expensive umeboshi, even though Kiyoomi has a preferred brand and sticks by it, or without making fun of the three different flavors of protein shake Atsumu gets, one for breakfast, one for dinner, and the third for dessert.
Do they even carry that brand in France? Maybe he’s found a new sponsor.
And it’s horrible — “Look, it’s you,” Kiyoomi snickers in the candy aisle, pointing at a limited edition pack of Anpanman gummies that he’s never seen before — to realize exactly how empty a space he’s left behind.
“Oh,” Kiyoomi says, echoing out in the empty aisle. He’s frozen there until a child walks into it, squinting dubiously at him, and Kiyoomi shakes his shoulders to leave.
He and Atsumu never get any extra candy, anyway. They just like to browse, and point out the new editions, and argue over which flavors sounded worse.
(And maybe, sometimes, when practice was especially bad or MSBY was at the bottom of the league, or Osamu was away on business for too long or Wakatoshi beat both of them into the dust during a match, they bought some of the weirder ones. They’d stay up for hours putting together Popin’ Cookin’ sets and grimacing at the texture, yelling at each other while they assembled their fake candy ramen or donuts or sushi.)
Before he leaves the store, he takes a picture of the candy.
[Omi-squared] 10:05 AM: this u? [img. Attached]
[The Better Miya] 4:33PM: LOL. do i taste good, omi-omi? :P
He has to go back to the store to find an answer.
[Omi-squared] 5:32PM: you taste horrible, miya
[The Better Miya] 5:33PM: >:(
Kiyoomi smiles fondly at his phone. Then he places it face down, carefully, and rests his head against his dining table.
It doesn’t fill the space, but it’s good to know Atsumu wants to.
2022
You could convince yourself of anything if the atmosphere was right, if the world colluded to keep you blanketed in ignorance.
Kiyoomi believed in Santa until he was ten years old, because no one ever thought to tell him otherwise, and there was always a present under the tree.
Motoya thought that he looked good in orange until Suna called him a clementine on an official EJP instagram post, and promptly threw away every shirt in his closet.
Monsters, all of them, believed that volleyball was their entire world, and they never stopped believing it, because all they did was surround themselves with other monsters, aiming for the top.
And Kiyoomi, adult Kiyoomi, had almost convinced himself that Atsumu wasn’t going abroad, when months had passed with no update.
“I don’t understand why ya drag me all the way out here—”
“It’s thirty minutes by bus, Miya.”
“To an overhyped, trendy cafe—”
“You are the one who has overwhelmed my inbox with posts and messages about this place. You are the one who has been whining and begging the entire team to come here. I am the only one who was willing to waste a day off to eat overpriced pastries with you.”
Someone gasped at the table behind him, and Kiyoomi shot them a glare before they returned their attention back to their overwrought concoction of patisserie — a nearly inedible, round croissant that Atsumu had been desperate to try for ages.
But Atsumu barrelled on without a care in the world, holding his — shitty, oversweet and tasteless — croissant aloft with all the grace and dignity a setter of his caliber had to offer — which is, to say, none. “A pretty little cafe and all ya get is an iced americano! Why are you so boring, Omi?”
Kiyoomi took a pointed sip of his drink. “It’s a classic beverage, Miya.”
“It’s a waste of our time and energy, is what it is.”
“You can judge the quality of a cafe’s roast by the quality of their Americano.” Kiyoomi didn’t know a thing about coffee, but Atsumu knew less.
Just as planned, Atsumu squinted down at his drink, looking back and forth between Kiyoomi and the cup like they’d tell him if Kiyoomi was full of shit or sugar.
“I’m sure the amount of simple syrup ya added disqualifies ya from discussing the quality of the coffee beans,” Atsumu grumbled.
“You’ll never know.”
Besides his horrible croissant — which Kiyoomi took exactly one bite of before vowing to never trust Atsumu’s taste buds again — he was also drinking something nightmarishly purple.
“It’s called butterfly pea syrup, Omi, get yourself educated.”
But despite it all — the croissant, his own aggressively sweet coffee, the neon signs and cutesy decorations that made no sartorial sense — Kiyoomi was having fun.
Atsumu was the friend on MSBY he most often went out with. The first time Atsumu brought it up — the entire idea of going out — Kiyoomi had prepared himself for one of the garish nightclubs in Shinsaibashi, and had texted Motoya for an escape plan.
But just as Kiyoomi was about to chug an energy drink and take a power nap to survive a late night out, Atsumu knocked at his door at a reasonable hour and dragged him to karaoke, where they rented a two-man room and sang out-of-tune Enka and 80s power ballads until midnight. And it was good, after a long run of losses, to let loose in the privacy of a booth.
“Wasn’t that fun, Omi?” Atsumu’d said, gleeful and a little tipsy, on the walk back. “Wasn’t that a good idea?”
That was when Kiyoomi realized that Atsumu — the giver of him, the guy who always knew what was needed — was the only one on MSBY he could trust to hang out with.
It had been the beginning of them living in each other’s pockets: Kiyoomi knocking on Atsumu’s door to spend the twenty minutes waiting for him to get dressed — “It’s the grocery store, not a fashion show, Miya!” “Aww, do ya really think I look good enough for a fashion show?” — so they could run errands, or get coffee, or jog together, no matter how much he preened and primped beforehand.
And that was why Kiyoomi had become the designated Atsumu-companion, always willing to go on one of Atsumu’s adventures as long as he begged enough.
Over the years they settled into a flow. Talk about volleyball during the entire ride or walk or jog to their cafe or store of choice. Bicker while they peruse the options and force each other to try on clothes, or buy their treats. Harangue the other over their taste in clothes or food even though Atsumu did always choose something flattering and Kiyoomi found Atsumu’s butterfly pea tea delicious.
Wait in companionable silence until something happened to shock the status quo.
Even now, it felt a little different; Kiyoomi knew he liked Atsumu, his feelings triggered by Atsumu’s decision to put out feelers, and that feeling — the giddy sensation of liking Atsumu and knowing it — settled inside him, stable. It warmed the core of him, colored his every interaction with Atsumu; or at least, colored his lenses.
Because now, whenever they went on outings like this, there was a foolish part of him — maybe the part of him that believed in Santa for so long, that thought the V-League was the height of volleyball for them both — that let him believe, even just a little, that this was a date. That Atsumu was here because he liked him too — liked, capital L Liked, just like in the confession notes stuffed in his locker that Motoya always threatened him to treat with more respect and dignity than he gave them.
But then —
“Holy shit,” Atsumu said, grabbing his phone as it buzzed with notifications and dropping his croissant like a child. “Omi, are you my lucky charm or what!”
“Or what?” Kiyoomi asked, leaning forward to look at the screen, the way a sunflower tilts toward the sun unafraid of the heat or the rain. “What happened, Miya?”
When he can finally see what raised Atsumu’s glee, his blood runs cold. Congratulations, he reads. Paris Volley agreed on terms-
Atsumu was going abroad.
Atsumu was spreading his wings.
And Kiyoomi—
“See, Omi? You believed in me, you knew this would happen?”
— His wrist held in Atsumu’s hand, his face warmed by Atsumu’s joy —
“I didn’t think I’d get Paris, I thought for sure they’d go for someone else in Europe. You know their libero, right? We went up against him two years ago, nearly impossible to get a service ace off of him.”
— His heart beating faster than it should —
“Well, Omi? Aren’t ya gonna congratulate me?” Atsumu leered at him, grinning, the expression nowhere close to falling off his face. “Maybe you could treat me to somethin’ special?”
His faith in Atsumu damning him and his affections.
Kiyoomi looked at Atsumu, the delight in his eyes unable to shake. He would be good abroad. He would soar. He would fly higher than MSBY could take him.
And he promised to come back, so Kiyoomi will hold onto that. He has to. He can’t ruin this for Atsumu.
Sending a pointed glance to the croissant lying on the floor, crushed underfoot, the flakes of its crust littering the floor, he sighs. “Congratulations, Atsumu,” he said, meaning it, missing the way Atsumu’s eyes widened at his uncharacteristic slip. “You’ve worked so hard for this. You deserve this, and you’re going to look great in blue” Not a lie. “But I’m not wasting my money on another disgusting pastry, Miya, no matter how talented you are.”
A lie.
Kiyoomi would buy him a hundred croissants if it would keep him here.
2024
It’s hard to get a good read on how Atsumu’s doing in Paris. His instagram is woefully blank; although there are the usual sponsored posts, and occasional pictures of team-mandated get togethers and highlights, the life is missing.
You know? All the little things that make a life, like the half-empty cups of coffee on a windowsill, or a picture of the trees changing colors, or dinners out in dark restaurants that Kiyoomi can scour for another hand, any sign of Atsumu making friends — or something more — outside of the team.
For all Kiyoomi and the rest of them can bluster about volleyball being their entire lives, reality has a funny way of catching up with them. It’s easy to see those little details slip into their social media, or conversations — a mention of a girlfriend in the groupchat, or a cat’s tail in the corner of a picture. They all help to form a bigger picture of a person, paint their lives with color. Kiyoomi is green and gold thanks to his outings with Atsumu, his vacations with Komori, the handkerchiefs he steals from Wakatoshi out of habit.
But Atsumu — in France — lacks color. He’s just the outline.
“How is it?” Kiyoomi asks, cringing at the ambiguity. “I mean, all of it. The team, your apartment, the neighborhood.”
Atsumu frowns. They’re on another video call, and Kiyoomi can make out the pale walls of Atsumu’s apartment, barely decorated, behind him. There’s a picture of MSBY on the wall, and another of the JNT, and a third of Atsumu and Osamu together; this one is folded and faded, a polaroid that’s traveled thousands of kilometers and nearly an entire lifetime. In the picture, they are children, with their eyes closed so they can’t even see the camera. Atsumu is laughing, and Kiyoomi knows it’s Atsumu because his laugh lines are the same. Osamu has the smallest smile on his face, a curious thing, like he’s waiting for his happiness to catch up to Atsumu’s.
In their hands, they hold matching toys from a gacha machine. “We got the same ones, so we didn’t have to fight over it,” Atsumu explained once, “and our dad was so happy we were calm he took a picture to celebrate.”
The toys have long been lost to time, and Osamu is as happy as he’s ever been, but the photo remains: a snapshot of two boys racing, frozen at the moment they tied.
“It’s, well, you know,” Atsumu says, waving his hand like Kiyoomi can understand. “It’s mostly volleyball, and French lessons. The lady at the bakery’s stopped glaring at me whenever I come by. Oh, and Ushiwaka’s weird friend, the scary one —”
“Shirabu?”
“Tendou, Omi-omi, get it together. He stops by sometimes. Says it’s outta neighborly goodwill or something, and he brings me chocolate.” Atsumu pauses. Stares off screen, eyes a little out of focus.
What’s he looking at? An empty box of candy? A half-eaten baguette?
Atsumu is the hungry one, but Kiyoomi suddenly finds himself greedy for it; those little crumbs of a life.
“Tendou isn’t scary, Miya, be serious,” Kiyoomi scoffs, when it’s clear that Atsumu isn’t going to say another word.
“How’s my apartment?” Atsumu asks, suddenly, and he’s staring through the screen at Kiyoomi.
Ah.
The apartment.
“I believe it is my name on the lease.” And it is, technically, but Kiyoomi and Atsumu have a gentleman’s agreement to return it once Atsumu comes back to Japan. “It’s good. The water pressure in the kitchen is still….”
“Persnickety?”
“If you call spraying me in the face persnickety, then sure.”
Atsumu laughs, and Kiyoomi’s almost forgotten the memory of it by now. It’s been replaced nearly entirely by that tinny, canned sound. A week ago, he considered buying new headphones on Bokuto’s recommendation; he claimed the audio quality was better, crisper. But he decided against it.
It felt a little too close to insane, even for him.
When Atsumu moved out he left all of his furniture, but packed the decorative items away. Even with a mattress pad, and a cover on the sofa — “It’s not you I distrust, Atsumu, it’s all of our teammates,” — and the plates Kiyoomi stole from his family home that no one has called him out on yet, it still does feel like Atsumu’s place.
“I’m pretty sure you can fix it, yanno? Call ‘Samu, he’s handy with a wrench.”
“I’m sure the proprietor of nationwide phenomenon Onigiri Miya is too busy to play plumber,” Kiyoomi says. “Why didn’t you ask him to do it before you moved?”
“‘Samu’d just make me learn.” Atsumu shifts, leaning forward, and Kiyoomi can see the edge of a blue curtain on the window. He didn’t have those up the last time Kiyoomi got a tour of the apartment. Who gave them to him? Who put them up? “And I didn’t want to watch a Youtube video when my brother could just do it for free.”
“So you let me suffer for it. I see how it is.”
Sometimes it feels like Kiyoomi’s living in the crater Atsumu left behind; the way asteroids crumble on impact, leaving fragments you find in places that don’t make sense. He picks up Atsumu’s favorite brand of dashi at the store, but doesn’t know when it became his preferred brand; he’s grown fond of fatty tuna; he haunts Onigiri Miya, and Osamu calls him a mooch.
“Hey, Omi…” Atsumu’s voice goes soft. He looks hesitant. He’s not looking at the camera, and he’s not looking in the middle distance. It’s like he’s looking across the continent entirely. “Are you… how are you doing?”
Kiyoomi is taken aback. “I’m fine?”
Atsumu shakes his head. “No, like… are you… is there, you know, anyone?”
It’s so sudden and insistent. It sounds like Atsumu’s been trying to be brave enough to force out the words.
Anyone. Kiyoomi thinks about the blue curtains. About how he hasn’t installed anything over the blinds in this apartment because Atsumu put his own into storage, too, but if Kiyoomi remembers right, they were light blue.
“No. Of course I haven’t.” He says it so sharply, but he doesn’t mean it.
Luckily, despite the months and the distance, Atsumu is still armored against his burrs. “Maybe… if you’re looking —”
“I’m not.”
“But if you were, you should maybe not try too hard, you know?”
If Kiyoomi were on a landline, he’d clench the cord. Instead, his eyes go wide, and he tightens his blanket around himself. “I won’t, Miya,” he promises.
Kiyoomi can’t make out the little fragments of Atsumu’s life, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t living. Atsumu is thinking, and breathing, and living — he’s growing outside of Kiyoomi’s notice. Maybe he’s talking to Tendou, maybe he’s talking to himself, but there’s an inner life that Kiyoomi isn’t privy to, no matter how hungry he is.
But maybe.
Just maybe.
Atsumu is hungry, too.
2023
It’s strange; Kiyoomi expected Atsumu’s going away party to be at Onigiri Miya.
“Nah, Omi, that’d be silly,” he said, dangling the neck of a cold beer between his fingers. “Not when I’ve got a nearly empty apartment. I don’t want my brother workin’ my goodbye party.”
Kiyoomi was lucky to be able to hide his face behind his own glass of wine. Knew that if Atsumu could see it, he’d question his grimace.
He’d been trying to think about it less.
The word goodbye.
“You know, it’s going to be my apartment soon enough,” Kiyoomi huffed, in mock dismay. “Please don’t ruin anything before you leave.”
“I’ll make sure to leave the dining table just as rickety as I found it, Omi-omi.”
“No, that you can fix. It’s alright.”
Atsumu laughed. “The leasing agency’ll clean it up for ya. I already let them know what I’m leaving behind, so they’ll make sure it’s spic and span when ya move in.”
Kiyoomi opened his mouth.
“I know you’ll just clean it on your own; there’s a box of supplies in the closet, and I told ‘em not to touch it, so you can add your own personal touch.
Kiyoomi’s jaw snapped shut.
From inside Atsumu’s apartment he heard a little bit of a racket. Meian — visiting from Hyogo just to say his goodbyes to his favorite former rookie — had probably convinced Barnes to play drinking games like they were still young guys with matching metabolisms. A raised voice that could be Aran’s or Inunaki’s protested, and a banging sound followed.
Kiyoomi emphatically did not want to know. Plausible deniability. It’ll be his place in two weeks.
They were out on the balcony again. Atsumu had tugged him out here, nodding at his brother who was straightening out the cans of beer and frowning at his sink, before closing the sliding glass behind him.
It’s quiet out here.
“I’m gonna miss this, you know?” Atsumu leaned against the thick wall of his balcony. With only a few street lights on, it was like his hair glowed, his roots freshly dyed.
Well.
Kind-of.
His stylist called it a lived-in blond and claimed it would help him survive the quest for a new salon in France.
“Miss what, Atsumu? Bokuto taking control of your Bluetooth to play DJ again? I thought you learned your lesson last time.”
Atsumu snorted. “Nah, you know that’s not what I mean.” He nudged Kiyoomi’s elbow.
While Atsumu looked out into the street, Kiyoomi looked at him. His silhouette, the cut of his jaw, the relaxed slant to his shoulders. He seemed peaceful for a guy with a one-way ticket to France and a 75 day Duolingo streak.
He was definitely more at ease than Kiyoomi felt.
“You’re going to miss…” Kiyoomi tapped his chin in thought; something about the alcohol and the muggy summer air must be getting to him, because it’s hard to latch onto anything in particular, “your brother’s food?”
“No!” Atsumu shook his head vociferously, but Kiyoomi only had to level a glare at him before he shrugged. “Okay, well, yes, I’m gonna miss ‘Samu’s food, but that’s obvious!”
“So I was right then, that’s what you’re saying?”
“That ain’t the point and you know it, Omi!” Atsumu elbowed him a little more violently this time, and some of his wine spilled. “You’d miss his food too if ya had to leave.”
Kiyoomi grimaced, pulling up his sleeve to wipe up the mess — this shirt had seen far worse that night alone, he’ll burn it when he gets home — but Atsumu already had a handkerchief out to mop it up.
“What are you going to miss then, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi asked, once Atsumu was satisfied with his cleaning.
Now that his eyes have gotten used to the dark, he could make out the faint flush on Atsumu’s face. His cheeks go pink from alcohol much more quickly than Kiyoomi.
Some men were cursed with honest faces; some were written in a script few can read. Kiyoomi’s grateful to count himself among the latter, but he wished that Atsumu were in his camp, too.
It’s cute, though; Kiyoomi could admit that much.
Sometimes he wished he could admit a little bit more.
“You know!” Atsumu leaned on the wall, resting his chin in his hand. He looked sideways at Kiyoomi; it pinned him in place, the butterfly of his body. “I’m gonna miss stuff like this. Hangin’ out with ya.”
Kiyoomi’s mouth went dry. “You mean the team,” he said — insisted, really, for his own sanity. “You’re going to miss hanging out with us.”
Atsumu shook his head.
“Nah, I mean you, Omi-omi,” he said, throwing his arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders. “It’s been nice havin’ ya here for so long, you know?”
Kiyoomi’s heart was not made for this. It was difficult enough on a good day managing how touchy Atsumu is; ever since Kiyoomi admitted, drunk on caipirinhas celebrating the end of his first season, that maybe Atsumu had grown on him, and he didn’t have to hold off on touching him like the rest of the team. At the time, he hadn’t made a study of Atsumu. Didn’t know that touching to Atsumu was as easy as breathing, whether it’s a slap on the back in celebration, or grabbing his wrist to protest something unjust, or joining Kiyoomi for stretches before practice.
Is this what growing up with a brother did to you? Or was this the fault of the Inarizaki dorms?
Either way, Kiyoomi’s thought it would be the death of him more than once in the past few months. Especially since Atsumu admitted that he was putting out those damned feelers, and Kiyoomi realized there might be a time when he wouldn’t feel it at all.
“Right, but-”
“Nah, I’m not done.” Atsumu squeezed his shoulder, and he smiled at him — and Kiyoomi, who could read him like a book, who had categorized his every expression out of a drive that was more than desire, more than need — something like wanting, plain and simple — thought that this might be new. “I think — and ya can’t call me a sap for this, you know, these are my real feelings here — you’re my best friend in Osaka. You get it.”
Kiyoomi exhaled. “Yeah, Atsumu, I do-”
“You know what it’s like to have someone to lean on, to trust. An ally. And ya thought it was good for me to go abroad.”
Kiyoomi wouldn’t necessarily say that; only that he agreed with Atsumu that it would be good for him.
“You’re going to be great,” Kiyoomi said, through gritted teeth. Atsumu’s hand on his shoulder was the warmest thing. He’d once touched an open flame because he didn’t believe it could hurt him, and even that was like ice in comparison to this.
Maybe he’d feel it forever, or for the two years of Atsumu’s contract, at least. Maybe, when he came back, he’d put his hand in the same place and Kiyoomi would remember everything, the shape of his hand, the weight of his grip, like a peculiar tattoo on his memory.
“Aw, hell, I’m thankin’ ya, Omi, this ain’t about me.”
Suddenly Atsumu hugged him, so tightly it shocked the breath out of Kiyoomi. With his arms wrapped around him, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but feel his heartbeat — so steady against Kiyoomiu’s pounding one.
Couldn’t help but raise his arms to dig into the warm muscle of his back. To hold on tight.
Kiyoomi didn’t want to think about goodbye, so instead he tucked his head into the neck of Atsumu’s jacket and breathed him in, the peach scent of his body wash, the faint linen of his detergent, the soft eucalyptus in his hair.
Don’t think about goodbye.
Don’t think about goodbye.
Don’t think about-
2024
The season ends. MSBY places third.
Their second string setter stepped up to the plate, but Kiyoomi wasn't as in sync with him as he was with Atsumu. None of them were, and it showed, until they caught their groove partway through the season.
But it proves one thing: even when Atsumu leaves, he's still a giver. They'd become too used to Atsumu, too complacent. Too reliant on his perfection, his impossible dedication to volleyball, the way he slips into the empty spaces and fills in the gaps. They had to get better to accommodate. Play differently. Learn and grow.
Atsumu will come back, and they'll have to soften their rough edges, but they'll all fit together better for it.
All that being said, Kiyoomi is glad the season is over. It's been long and arduous; Kiyoomi's had more PT sessions this year than in the last three combined, and he packs two different wrist braces in his suitcase for the upcoming rut of international games and competitions.
It all starts off with the JNT meeting in Tokyo, moving into their dorms and working together to be a team again, their members scattered around the globe. Kiyoomi's rooming with Atsumu according to Wakatoshi, who takes every responsibility of his captaincy seriously, including roommate assignments.
It's been nearly a year since they've seen each other. Atsumu couldn't make it back for the holidays, and Kiyoomi has no reason to go to France. Once, Atsumu sent him Lionceau truffles so they could video chat and pretend they were on the same outing, but It wasn't the same.
Kiyoomi tried too, sending Atsumu some of his butterfly pea tea and money to buy a croissant, and Atsumu looked at him through the camera for a long moment while Kiyoomi sipped his too-sweet Americano, stupid round croissant in hand.
But right now he's packing, flicking through his closet to figure out the formalwear he needs to bring. Can he get away with one tie, or will Atsumu make fun of him again for using the same one, over and over?
His apartment — Atsumu's apartment — will be uninhabited for two months.
"You could always get a subletter," Atsumu suggested. "Sorry," he apologized, at Kiyoomi's involuntary grimace. "You're right, the rookies would probably mess it up."
It's not that, though.
Kiyoomi just couldn't explain it to Atsumu without sounding insane. He didn't want the rookies to fill in the gaps of the spaces that he'd preserved from Atsumu. Didn't want them to feel comfortable in the apartment that still belonged to Atsumu more than it was Kiyoomi’s. Didn't want them to find the same home that Kiyoomi had found.
He finally put up blue curtains in the apartment. He couldn't tell Atsumu, and he knows he'll have to take them down before Atsumu moves back in. But if he didn’t, would Atsumu just assume they were the same ones he left behind?
Instead, Osamu has promised to stop in and make sure nothing horrible happens. "Maybe I'll even fix the sink," he grumbled, when Kiyoomi asked. "Lord knows I've been trying to get under there for ages."
No to this white shirt. No to the garish yellow Itachiyama tie. Absolutely not to the tie covered in Volleyballs the JNT gifted them all.
Maybe to the skinny, knit maroon tie in the back of his closet.
"When did I buy this?" Kiyoomi mutters, standing shirtless in his bedroom. His fist wrapped around the tie, the fabric soft and well worn.
He brings it to his nose and smells linen and the faint scent of peach. It's a sense so subtle that it shouldn't have lasted this long. But somehow, of all of the memories of Atsumu that the apartment could have possibly retained — his laughter, his touch, his voice — it was the scent of his detergent that remained behind.
Of course this tie is Atsumu's. It's too gaudy and fashionable to be anyone but his. It must have gotten caught in the back of the closet during the move — Kiyoomi knew the leasing agency didn't do a thorough clean — and somehow avoided Kiyoomi for months.
He should bring it, just to give it back to Atsumu.
But before he rolls it up and carefully tucks it into his suitcase, he holds it to his nose.
Maybe it's his memory. Maybe it's real. Or maybe it's just the fact that this is the last untouched crumb of Atsumu remaining in the apartment, but eventually the scent fades, and Kiyoomi can pack again.
2023
Tomorrow, Atsumu will fly to France, where he’ll meet the manager for Paris Volley who will learn that Atsumu is absolutely dismal at French and hire him a translator, because they’re that desperate for a first string setter.
Tomorrow, Kiyoomi will fall asleep with Atsumu almost ten thousand kilometers away.
Tomorrow, Kiyoomi might consider regretting this.
But right now, he became unglued in Atsumu's arms. Collapsed with the weight of his affection for Atumu.
"Y'okay? Easy, Omi!" Atsumu said, as Kiyoomi dropped his body weight into him, knowing Atsumu could hold him steady. "You're heavy!"
"You can bench twice my weight, Miya, be serious," Kiyoomi replied, but he stood anyway, meeting Atsumu's eyes while he pulled away from him, grabbing his upper arms to keep him in place.
"Omi? What's with you?"
Atsumu didn’t look scared or confused, because he knew that a goodbye, for them, was only temporary, even though Kiyoomi felt it was the end of the world.
In two weeks, the apartment will be his. In a day, Atsumu will be out of the country.
Right now, Kiyoomi realized that he had one last chance — one final moment — to see his own heart through, less he be forced to wait it out.
“I like you, Atsumu,” he said, drunk on wine and adrenaline, and the mere fact that he had nothing left to lose. Maybe the world didn’t quite end. Not yet, anyway.
“What? Omi, you don’t. You don’t mean that, do ya?” Atsumu still hadn’t let go of him, but his grip loosened, and Kiyoomi had to fight the urge to hold it still.
Strange, though. This might be the first time he hasn’t reached for what he wants.
“These are my real feelings, Atsumu,” he parrotted. He couldn’t still his heartbeat, nor his nerves. “I’m sorry for burdening you with them, but I needed you to know. I couldn’t let you go overseas without you knowing.”
He needed Atsumu to carry a piece of him to France — the little slivers of his heart, the edges rock-rough and untumbled — just so it could be returned to him.
“Omi…” His voice was so soft that the engine of a passing car nearly swallowed it whole, and this, too, was a page of Atsumu that Kiyoomi had never read before. “You can’t—” This time Atsumu swallows it down.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Kiyoomi said, even though he wanted to chase an answer. “I know it’s sudden. I know it’s unwelcome.”
“It isn’t not unwelcome.” When Atsumu felt something, he felt it with his whole body. Sank to the floor in embarrassment, settled into relaxation, puffed up with pride. Now, his entire body was tense, like he was poised between fighting and fleeing. “But Omi, I’m leavin’. This is my- It’s my goodbye party; that ain’t a proper goodbye.”
Bokuto gave him a travel pillow for the flight. Meian gave him a signed poster of Romero, and winked at him when Atsumu asked where he got it. Osamu will say goodbye when he takes Atsumu to the airport tomorrow, and the entire team signed a jersey for him and framed it so he wouldn’t forget them.
Kiyoomi was giving him his heart, or the remnants of it, and taking care of his apartment.
“I don’t have to say goodbye, Atsumu. You’re coming back. Look at me—” Atsumu turned for a second to the street, but his eyes snapped back to Kiyoomi. “You’re coming back. It’s not like you’re dying, or leaving Japan forever.”
“You don’t know that, Omi!”
“I have an inkling,” Kiyoomi said. A sneaking suspicion. Atsumu needed some time to fly, but he’d come back to them soon enough. “And that’s why I can’t say goodbye, and why I’m telling you this. Look, Atsumu,” he tightened his grip on Atsumu; he might leave bruises if he wasn’t careful, and Atsumu might feel them on the plane. “You don’t have to give me an answer. You shouldn’t, actually.”
“You’re not makin’ sense.”
“You’re making a major life change. There’s so much happening inside of you, you couldn’t possibly come up with an answer.”
Kiyoomi’s hands rose to rest on Atsumu’s cheeks. Squishing them together, he pressed his forehead to Atsumu’s for a brief second.
Beneath his touch, Atsumu didn’t flinch.
“Take your time,” Kiyoomi said. “Think about it, or don’t. And give me your answer when you’re back where you belong.”
Atsumu was silent, mouth gaping like a fish. Kiyoomi let go of him, grabbing his wine to chug the rest of it down. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t be able to tell you how it tasted, but he’d recall, so clearly, the way Atsumu’s eyes tracked the motion, grazing down his neck, before Kiyoomi set the glass aside.
“You’re a weird one, Omi-omi,” is what emerged from Atsumu’s throat, finally. He looked dizzy, almost confused; Kiyoomi should apologize for that, but he won’t. “Don’t ever change.”
That night, before Kiyoomi left — the last of anyone who wasn’t named Miya to leave, helping them clean up the sticky tracks of wine Aran left behind, and the weird shochu Suna preferred — Atsumu grabbed his wrist.
His touch was firm but loose; perfectly careful, just like Atsumu was with him, the way he always knew exactly what he needed.
“I’ll give ya your answer, Omi,” he murmured, close to his ear, while Osamu squinted at them both suspiciously. “Just be patient, alright? Wait for me?”
Kiyoomi gulped, but nodded. “Of course, Atsumu,” he said, and it wasn’t a goodbye, and the world didn’t end. “All the time you need.”
2024
Atsumu’s flight is late, so he shuffles into the izakaya thirty minutes into their Welcome dinner, rubbing the back of his head bashfully and waving off the ministrations of the rest of the team.
“Easy, easy,” he says, tugging off his light jacket while Suna — who definitely pre-gamed — barrels into his side with a hug. “I know ya missed me, but there’s enough of me to go around!”
There’s an empty seat next to Kiyoomi, and when Atsumu eyes it, Aran — on Kiyoomi’s right — nudges his side meaningfully. Kiyoomi straightens up, nearly jostling his glass of umeshu, as Atsumu shuffles in.
He puts a hand right below Kiyoomi’s neck as he settles in, and even that small touch feels unfamiliar.
Kiyoomi promised Atsumu he’d be patient, that he’d wait for him to come back; Atsumu has one more year left on his contract, and the hourglass is still top heavy. But even waiting through dinner, acutely aware of Atsumu’s warmth by his side, by the oddly knowing glances of some of his teammates, by the shock of Atsumu’s French, which is far better than Wakatoshi’s Polish but will never be as good as Hinata’s Portuguese, is it’s own specific kind of torture.
How will he survive practice? How will he survive being roommates for the next month? How will he manage to win by Atsumu’s side again, knowing it’s a precious resource and one that he’ll lose when Atsumu boards the plane back to France?
“Hey, Omi- here,” Atsumu says, tipping pieces of kabocha tempura onto his plate.
Kiyoomi stares down at it. “You remembered,” he murmurs. For a moment it’s like they’re the only two people in the room, especially when he turns to see Atsumu looking at him with something like fondness carved into his face, his eyes crinkled with his peculiar little half-smile.
He loves kabocha, but he came into it right before Atsumu left, his taste buds changing after decades of hating it. And he’d only mentioned it to Atsumu once, when he took a piece of simmered squash out of the nabe pot and Atsumu tried to warn him about it.
“Of course I did, Omi-omi.” His voice is soft, and he rests his chin in his hand while Kiyoomi eats a piece of the tempura.
This is still his Atsumu, for all that his hair is back to its natural shade — he never found a stylist he trusted, not with his mediocre French — and for how much broader he seems, like he’d found a new workout that made his muscles bulge out of the sleeves of a sweater Kiyoomi got him as a birthday gift.
Two cups of umeshu — and three-no-wait-four shots of soju for Atsumu — later, Kiyoomi swipes the last piece of fatty tuna sushi right out from under Gao’s nose, and puts it on Atsumu’s plate.
He needs fresh air eventually.
Only a small part of that is a matter of proximity. The rest of it is a natural concession to the crowd, the energy of all their friends and comrades in the same place for the first time in ages, the way the umeshu makes his head swim.
He should really just drink beer; it’s not as sticky.
“I’ll be back,” he mutters, pulling his seat out, absently noting the way Atsumu has already cleared some space for him to leave.
It’s late spring, and the air is sweet and clear. Kiyoomi has on a thick enough sweater so he doesn’t need a jacket and doesn’t find himself shivering, but when Atsumu joins him a few moments later he’s wearing his coat and Kiyoomi looks upon it with envy.
“Fancy some company?” Atsumu asks, slotting into place by Kiyoomi’s side. The alley is quiet, dimly lit from a streetlight and the neon sign of a karaoke bar across the street. Occasionally people pass by, but their conversation is muted.
“This is a far cry from your balcony,” Kiyoomi says, eying the nearby trash bin and the ancient posters stuck to the wall. One of them is for a band that broke up three months ago. Their rookie libero is a fan.
“It’s your balcony now, ain’t it?” Atsumu shrugs, leaning against the wall and laughing when Kiyoomi frowns at it. He stands up straight anyway.
“I’m just keeping it safe for you.”
“Yeah, ya are.” Atsumu looks at him with that same smile — mysterious, soft.
It’s strange.
He and Atsumu have talked most of the days he’s been in France — “More than I’ve talked to my own good-for-nothin’ brother, but I guess I can always look in a mirror if I miss him,” — but there’s so much about him that is new and different to Kiyoomi. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
How much of that will Kiyoomi get to discover in the next couple of months of practice and international matches? How much will be left for him after Atsumu comes back, like a treasure chest?
“You know,” Atsumu says, and he pauses. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it.”
“Pirates?” Kiyoomi asks, because he’s a little tipsy, and Atsumu’s words came out of nowhere.
Atsumu laughs. He turns to Kiyoomi, squaring up against the entrance of the alley, backlit by the ambient lighting. The neon doesn’t change the color of his hair; it soaks it up instead, and Kiyoomi wants to know what it feels like, because it must feel different now that it isn’t dyed, right?
He reaches out. Grabs a strand.
The hair is soft and strong.
When he tries to pull back, Atsumu reaches up and captures his wrist, and it reminds Kiyoomi of that last night. He’d been drunk then too, but on the verge of sobering up; now he was a sticky kind of tipsy.
“Umeshu always made ya touchy, didn’t it, Omi?” Atsumu’s thumb rubs at his wrist. His pulse is even and steady. Despite Atsumu’s absence, he’s gotten used to the reality of liking him. “I thought you stopped drinkin’ it after ya cuddled with Hoshiumi all night.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” There were so many pictures, and Kiyoomi had to threaten half of MSBY and all of the Adlers to stop them from being posted to social media. “It’s been a while since I’ve tried it, so I thought, well, maybe I’ve changed.”
“Well?” Atsumu’s peering at him, and despite how dark it is, Kiyoomi can make out the gold in his eyes so clearly. “Have ya changed, Omi?”
With his free hand, Kiyoomi presses his hand to Atsumu’s cheek, cupping it and watching Atsumu lean into the touch. His face is warm, and his skin is soft, but not as soft as the faint brush of his lips against his palm.
He pulls away. Lets it settle down by his side.
“Looks like I haven’t,” he says. Takes a deep breath. Knows Atsumu’ll do like he always does: read the play.
Atsumu blinks, and then the soft expression on his face curls into a grin. He’s still holding Kiyoomi’s wrist, and even though his grip is loose, Kiyoomi feels like he’s pinned in place.
“You know,” Atsumu says, “I know ya wanted an answer when my contract was up.”
Kiyoomi startles, and it nearly sobers him up. Or at least, his sudden alert makes him cross from pleasantly tipsy into just plain tipsy. “And that’s a year from now,” Kiyoomi says. “I can do math,” he insists.
See? Tipsy.
“Right, but I always was an overachiever—”
“Osamu says you barely did your literature reading at Inarizaki.”
“My filthy brother is a damned liar,” Atsumu hisses, before his expression softens. “C’mon, Omi, I’m tryin’ to confess to ya!”
Kiyoomi blinks.
Atsumu blinks.
And then the realization dawns.
“Dammit,” Atsumu curses. “I knew the soju went right to my head. I even practiced this! I planned for this! I knew what I was gonna do, what I was gonna say. But then my plane was delayed, and you looked so cute in your stupid little sweater—”
“It’s cable-knit.”
“It’s cute-knit is what it is. And Ushiwaka kept pourin’ these shots that taste like juice.”
That is exactly why Wakatoshi — who hates the taste of alcohol — likes them. Hopefully Aran has pulled the bottles away from him by now, or else half of the team will be too hungover for tomorrow’s afternoon practice.
“Soju is very dangerous,” Kiyoomi agrees.
“And! You’re a distraction, Omi, that’s what you are! Touchin’ my hair, and touchin’ my face, and lookin’ all sweet with your red cheeks and everything.”
“They are not red.”
“You blush when ya lie, Omi-omi, and I missed it,” Atsumu insists. “I missed a lot of things. I missed you, but I knew I’d miss you. I missed MSBY, but not as much as I thought I would. And I missed—” he pauses, taking a deep breath like he’s preparing to deliver a monologue. “I missed what I thought we could’ve had, you know? If I’d stayed. The dates we could’ve gone on, the nights we could’ve shared.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes go wide. “Atsumu-”
“No, I gotta finish. You said your not-a-goodbye last time, so let me say my not-a-hello.” Atsumu looks too proud for the bad joke. “It was torture, you know? Callin’ ya that often? Watchin’ ya burrow into blankets on my bed, drinkin’ tea with ya all those miles away? Remembering all the dates you took me on?”
“They weren’t dates, Atsumu.”
“But they weren’t not dates, Omi,” Atsumu says. “It’s different when you like somebody, I think; and while I’ve been in France, I spent so much time thinkin’ of all the stuff I missed because I didn’t know I liked you.”
When they were calling each other, and Kiyoomi was worried about Atsumu’s blue curtains, Atsumu was revisiting their past. While Kiyoomi carried a hundred pieces of Atsumu with him, everywhere he went, Atsumu was filling in the blanks with his memories.
“You know, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, “you’re very eloquent for someone who drank an entire bottle of soju.”
“Is that a lot?” Atsumu whines, and he teeters slightly. “It doesn’t matter, Omi. These are my real feelings. I’ve practiced them a lot.”
A year ago, Kiyoomi gave Atsumu the splintery fragments of his heart, expecting them to be worn down. But instead, Atsumu’s kept them intact. And over the year, Kiyoomi’s grown used to the feeling of loving someone, the comfort and the pain of it.
“You know Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, reaching out to grab Atsumu’s hand. “You mentioned a confession. I haven’t heard one yet.”
Atsumu steps into his space, crowding him. Presses their foreheads together, blocking out all the light but that which comes from his own two eyes, the gold like sunrise. “I like ya, Omi-omi,” Atsumu says. “And I appreciate your patience with me while I figured that out.”
“You could have taken all the time you needed, Atsumu. I didn’t need an answer from you, I just needed to say it.”
“But you wanted one, right Omi?” Kiyoomi nods, honest, now that he can be. “And ain’t it nice, reaching for the things you want?”
There’s very little in his life that Kiyoomi wants. He sees things through, he falls into things; he wants his volleyball to come to a worthwhile end, and he wants Bokuto to stop adding American pop music to their pre-game playlist.
Where Atsumu wanted to grow, Kiyoomi doesn’t know how he wants to shape his volleyball yet. Can’t quite figure out the next step, besides waiting.
Foster keeps making noises about needing a new captain. Bokuto keeps nudging him whenever he brings it up.
But right now, more than anything, what he wants is to agree with Atsumu.
That it’s nice, to reach for the things he wants. He needs proof, though.
He tips his head, just a little bit to the side, and just a little bit forward, and there, right there.
Kiyoomi lands on Atsumu’s lips, tastes the lingering remnants of grape soju.
Atsumu still smells like peach body wash and linen detergent.
But he feels like forever. He feels —
Kiyoomi pulls back, just a scant inch, close enough to swallow down his breaths. “You’re right, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, and as Atsumu opens his mouth to ask a question, Kiyoomi dives back in.
— Nice.