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Kiyoomi feels restless.
More accurately, he has been feeling restless. As in, restless has been his continued, sustained state of being for the last few weeks and he can’t place a finger on why. Restlessness is outside of his comfort zone. He’s felt... pent-up. Not pent-up energy or pent-up frustration. Those are all feelings with targets.
Pent-up energy means he hasn’t been working hard enough. It means he needs to step up his training. Run further, lift heavier, more reps, more serving practice. Pent-up frustration usually has a target with a name, like “mom” or “dad” or “Bokuto”, and working that frustration out means skipping Sunday dinners or having a firm talk about boundaries within the locker room.
But this is different. It’s left him feeling a lingering sense of discontentment that chases him into bed at night, into his dreams, and greets him when he wakes up the next day, too.
He’s examined it at a micro level. His daily routine hasn’t been interrupted. His body is still responding to his current training regime and on the days he’s tried to push himself harder to chase away the feeling, he’s only managed to add an overworked soreness to the relentless feeling haunting him.
He’s examined it at a macro level. There’s no reason he should be feeling this level of… dissatisfaction. He’s more than accomplished his goals. He has a spot on a division one volleyball team with one visit to the Olympics under his belt already and another only two weeks away. His finances are squared away, with the majority of his money put into accounts that are actively making him more money. The biggest decision he has beyond his volleyball career is whether he’ll take up gardening or knitting as his retirement hobby.
“Maybe it’s the stability that’s the problem,” Motoya suggests over coffee. He pours another sugar packet into the pale concoction he’s still trying to pass off as a latte and misses Kiyoomi’s sideways look. “Maybe you need a little disruption in the routine. Maybe you’re bored, Kiyoomi.”
Kiyoomi scoffs. “I’m not bored. I like my routine.”
Motoya raises a brow and takes an exaggerated slurp of his drink before replying. “Maybe you’re lonely.”
“I’m not. Try again.”
Motoya rolls his eyes heavenward as if Kiyoomi is the one being stubborn and Motoya isn’t beating the same dead horse he’s been assaulting for the last three years. “Ki-yoo-mi,” he says, emphatic. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
Kiyoomi sips his coffee this time and it isn’t because he’s stalling. “A while,” he says evasively.
“Maybe we were off base with thinking doubles,” Motoya muses. “What else? A pair? A pair of what? Maybe your soulmate is a cobbler.”
“The dessert?”
“No, like shoes. Like a pair of shoes. A shoemaker.”
“Maybe they make pants,” Kiyoomi says dryly.
“Pants!” Motoya snaps his fingers. “Good idea, that’s another pair. Maybe a twin - like a pair of people? Ooh, or a pair of glasses-”
“Motoya,” Kiyoomi interrupts, trying to exude patience and landing closer to constipation. “I don’t care. I’m not looking for my soulmate.”
“Kiyo-”
And he really doesn’t. He doesn’t care about the soulmate thing and even if he did, it’s not like his mark is particularly easy to interpret. Two dots on his forehead could mean a whole lot of things - or a whole lot of nothing. He’s stopped caring.
Sure, maybe he used to pay attention to people born in February or on the second day of the month. There was a period of time where he looked for birthmarks like his on the visible skin of his classmates. He even went so far as to allow Motoya to convince him that maybe it was a code for the second child or someone from his second grade class or from class two in high school, or even someone on the second string team-
But it was no one, because it meant nothing. His soul mark is completely meaningless. It isn’t simple like Bokuto, who has Akaashi’s literal name written on his chest in clumsy Romanji. It isn’t something cute like Motoya, who has the imprint of a lipstick kiss on his shoulder - it's a real hit at parties.
It’s a pair of dots. It doesn’t mean anything. And anyway, he has-
“Miya.”
Atsumu looks up from his locker, shaking out a clean white t-shirt. He’s already pulled his jeans on, even though his hair is still dripping wet. Kiyoomi notices that his roots have grown out, a sharp contrast to the pale corn-silk blonde of his ends. “Omi-Omi! What’s up?”
The nickname lost its sting years ago. Now it’s familiar enough that the whole team calls him by some iteration. If anything, it feels odd when he’s around people who call him by his full name.
He shakes himself internally. The internal dialogue has been an unfortunate side effect of the whole dissatisfaction thing. He hasn’t figured out how to get that to stop either. And he’s been quiet long enough now that Atsumu is giving him an odd look.
“What are you doing tonight?” Kiyoomi looks away, checking his phone for no reason other than to look the fuck away.
“Before or after I rub my whole body down with salonpas?” he jokes. When Kiyoomi looks back up, his shirt is on and he’s pulling on a hoodie, too. “Nothing. Wanna hang?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
They walk out together once Atsumu has his shoes on. Kiyoomi lets himself fall into the routine. Atsumu’s rambling provides a comfortable, familiar background to the cool evening air on their commute back to the dorms.
“You used to do your hair, right?” Kiyoomi asks, cutting between two of Atsumu’s sentences.
“So I-” Atsumu stumbles to an awkward stop, blinking at him before lifting a brow. “Yeah?”
“And Osamu’s?”
“Yeah?” Now both brows are up. Kiyoomi tamps down a smile. “Why?”
“I want you to do mine.” Kiyoomi has to wrestle down a laugh when Atsumu sputters and stops mid-step. “Something wrong?”
“What do ya mean, you want me to do your hair?” Atsumu does a funny little half-jog to catch up, shoving their shoulders together. “You don’t let people touch your hair.”
“Not often.” Kiyoomi shrugs, looking forward again. “Motoya said I need a change.”
“So what?” Atsumu’s sleeve is brushing against Kiyoomi’s hip with each step and Kiyoomi tunes into it, finding the rhythm of fabric-on-fabric, settles his breathing to it without much thought. “You wanna go blond?”
Kiyoomi scoffs. “No.”
“It’s my specialty.” The rhythm of his arm disappears as he reaches up to pluck one of Kiyoomi’s curls. “I could probably get ya pretty blond if you wanted.”
“You mean yellow?”
“Hey-”
“I want an undercut.”
Atsumu hums and the quiet brush of his sleeve returns. “Like, a fade, or what?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “Not a skin fade. Like, here.” He gestures along the curve of his ear. “Just a little buzz here, maybe some in the back. I’ve got a picture.”
Atsumu hums. “I reckon I can do it. What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll order dinner.”
“-and pay for it,” Atsumu interjects quickly.
Kiyoomi smirks. “It’s good that you’re learning.”
—
They eat first and wash it down with a six pack of the only light beer they can agree on. By the time they make it to the bathroom, Kiyoomi feels a bit light headed and Atsumu’s cheeks and ears have gone pink.
It takes longer than Kiyoomi expects to really explain the look he’s going for and double that for Atsumu to section his hair. Atsumu argues that he’s making sure it’s “just right”, but Kiyoomi has a feeling it’s more so that Atsumu was taking the opportunity to fuck up his hair as much as possible. He’s pretty sure he’s right, since Atsumu has portioned his hair into four fluffy pigtails on each quadrant of his head.
“Okay. Alright. I’ve got this.”
Kiyoomi watches Atsumu in the mirror. He has the clippers in one hand and his beer in the other and he’s shifting from foot-to-foot anxiously. He sets down his beer, and then the clippers, and says, “Okay, wait, no, I need to redo-”
“Get on with it, Miya,” Kiyoomi says. He takes a sip of his own beer to hide a smile.
“If I fuck up your hair, you’re not gonna be happy with me, so just-”
“Pick up the clippers.”
Atsumu picks up the clippers and swallows. He’s more flushed than he was when they arrived, which is probably fair to blame on the fourth beer he’d downed while fussing. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly, as he would to a child. “Now shave.”
Atsumu gulps again, then takes a deep breath and leans down. He’s eye-to-eye with Kiyoomi’s ear, leaning closer than any barber Kiyoomi’s ever had. “Okay.”
He turns on the buzzer and slowly shaves away the curls around Kiyoomi’s right ear. They drop in clumps onto his shoulders and then to the floor and from the first pass, the weird feeling in Kiyoomi’s chest begins to ease. Maybe Motoya had been right all along. Maybe all he needed was a little change.
He resists a shiver when Atsumu brushes a detached curl away from the shell of his ear.
“Okay,” Atsumu turns off the clippers and lets out a huge sigh. He reaches for his beer immediately and gestures towards the mirror. “Check it out.”
Kiyoomi turns his head, examining Atsumu’s work in the mirror. His hair is dense and dark, and the visible scalp under the short buzz is a shade paler than the rest of his skin. It’s soft to the touch and it looks better than he’d expected. Atsumu had done a good job; the outline is a clean, neat curve from the front of his hairline to his nape.
“Okay,” he sits back. “Now the other side.”
“I’ll do the back first.” Atsumu tips his head back and drains his beer. He crushes the can in his fist and tosses into the sink.
Kiyoomi gives him a look. “You’re cleaning that up-”
Atsumu flicks the clippers on again and loudly says, “Sorry, can’t hear you!” over the buzz.
The back takes less time. Atsumu is obviously more relaxed. He chats as he carefully carves a fade up the back of Kiyoomi’s head, just to the ridge of his skull. He dusts the hair off and moves onto the next side, rambling about a recent call with Hinata.
The activity of the day and the buzz of the alcohol settles over Kiyoomi like a blanket. He lets Atsumu’s voice fade into the background and mmhms at regular intervals, focusing instead on the soft press of Atsumu’s fingers and the steady hum of the buzzers.
Then Atsumu jumps.
It’s enough to startle Kiyoomi out of his daze, eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed snapping open.
“Miya-”
“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mess up-”
“You almost took my ear off-”
“Sorry, I just- I didn’t know that- I didn’t know your mark was-”
“What are you talking about?”
Atsumu turns off the clippers and swallows. He looks a bit like he’s seen a ghost, most of the color gone from his face. “Your, you know. Your mark. I didn’t know it was. Here, like. In your hair.”
There’s being still and then there is the feeling of stillness. Everything around Kiyoomi and inside of him feels like it grinds to a halt. He isn’t even sure if his heart is still beating. He moves his eyes up slowly to meet Atsumu’s reflection and has the disorienting feeling that he can hear them shift in their sockets.
Then everything picks up again. His heart isn’t just beating - he can feel it throbbing in his fingertips.
“What the fuck are you talking about? My mark is right here.” He gestures to his forehead, sending hair flying from the towel draped around him.
“No, uh. But. You have-”
Kiyoomi tosses the towel off from his shoulders, ignoring Atsumu’s alarmed yelp, and leans into the mirror, turning his head to inspect the left side of his head. He bends his ears out of the way with fingers that feel too hot and- there.
On his scalp, hidden just inside his hairline, is a neat kanji barely obscured by the remaining fuzz left behind by the buzzers. Kanji is hard to parse out, when it’s written by itself, without further context. For example, this kanji could just say U. It could be part of a name, or even the whole name Iku. Depending on the sentence, it could mean hunger.
But Kiyoomi is most familiar with this kanji from the team roster, where it’s usually immediately preceded by Miya.
He has Atsumu’s fucking name on his head.
Kiyoomi releases his ear and straightens. Atsumu takes a half-step back. They speak at the same time.
“Omi-”
“Get out.”
“Omi, wait a minute-”
“At-” Kiyoomi cuts himself off and Atsumu draws in a tight breath. Kiyoomi can’t look at him.
“Miya,” he corrects. The floor looks disturbingly wavy. “Leave. Please.”
It’s quiet for a moment, just the two of them and the sound of Kiyoomi’s pulse, which he’s sure even his neighbors can hear. Then-
“Kiyoomi, are you okay?”
“Please.”
There’s another moment, just a fragment of time, where Kiyoomi hopes that Atsumu will be typical and insist on staying, on talking about whatever bomb had just been dropped in Kiyoomi’s bathroom.
Instead, there’s the quiet shuffling of Atsumu’s feet retreating down the hallway. A few minutes later, he hears his front door close, and then the soft click of Atsumu’s key turning in the knob, locking up behind himself.
Kiyoomi lifts his head and turns back to the mirror, tipping his head to the side to look again.
“Fuck.”
–
Kiyoomi calls out of practice the next day, lying about an impending cold he’s hoping to ward off before Friday, when they’re due on a plane to Paris.
He spends the full day on his couch, watching a random anime Motoya had recommended months before. He finishes off the last of the beer he and Atsumu had brought home the night before rather than eating breakfast or lunch. For dinner, he rummages through his cupboard and finds a bottle of wine from his parents and a tin of tuna alarmingly close to its expiration date that he eats directly from the can while standing over his sink.
Forty-two minutes after midnight, he calls Motoya.
“What's happening?” Motoya slurs on the second ring.
Kiyoomi waits patiently, listening to the follow-up yawn and the disgusting lip-smack that always follows Motoya’s first waking words, then says, “My mark is a birthmark.”
“What?” Motoya, at least, sounds a bit more awake this time. “Well, duh, everyone’s mark is-”
“I mean they’re just fucking moles, Motoya.”
“Well, they-”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and hangs up. He dismisses Motoya’s return call and goes to the bathroom for better lighting and takes a photo of his newly revealed, actual soulmark. He dismisses yet another call in order to send the photo to Motoya.
He answers on the next ring.
“When did you get a tattoo?”
“I didn’t, moron.”
“Well that’s- I mean- but your parents should have-”
“I was born with a full head of hair, remember?”
“Yeah but… no way, right?”
“Tell me about it.”
“So… like- what do you think it means?”
Kiyoomi tips his head back, draining the last inch of wine from his bottle. “I think Miya Atsumu is my soulmate.”
—
Here’s the thing about Atsumu.
Kiyoomi has known him for almost half of his life. Kiyoomi has hated him for almost half of his life, or- maybe hate isn’t the right word. Atsumu has annoyed him for almost half of his life. He’s messy, he’s crass, he talks too much. Half of the time his mouth is open, his foot is lodged so deep in there Kiyoomi’s shocked he can even manage to get words out. Kiyoomi had considered not taking the Jackals deal because he knew Atsumu was on the team.
But. Here’s the other thing.
Atsumu is his best friend.
Atsumu, in his own way, was the teammate to go out of his way the most to make Kiyoomi feel welcome. He was a major pain in the ass about it, of course, but he was there to help Kiyoomi lug his boxes upstairs when he moved in and he’d been around ever since. At some point, Kiyoomi got used to having him there.
More than that, sometimes… often, he misses him when he’s not around. When Atsumu is there things are just… better. And with recent events, his absence feels even worse.
When Kiyoomi calls in to practice for the second day in a row, he’s half-sick with missing him. The rest of the sick would be from the wine and the questionable tuna.
He spends most of the morning with his face in a lined trash can, heaving until the only thing still coming up is stomach acid and the water he’s managed to keep down. He’s just convinced himself to try eating a bowl of oatmeal when there’s a knock at the door.
He opens it fully expecting Motoya or maybe someone from the team staff and instead finds Atsumu.
Kiyoomi swings the door closed in his face and Atsumu makes a triumphant noise when he manages to wedge a sneaker past before it latches.
“Hold on, Omi!”
Kiyoomi jerks the door back open, doing his best not to wince at the unfortunate combo of the harsh hallway light and Atsumu’s voice. “What do you want?”
“I- yikes.” Atsumu winces, then furrows his brows in something between revulsion and concern. “You look like shit.”
Kiyoomi reaches for the door again.
“Okay wait!” When Kiyoomi winces, Atsumu winces back and continues at a lower volume, “You don’t look like shit. I mean, you do, but uh- can I come in?”
“Just. Stop yelling.” Kiyoomi retreats into the apartment and leaves the door open behind him. He returns to his kitchen where his pot of oatmeal is just starting to boil. Atsumu follows a few moments later, having paused to switch his sneakers for the pale blue slippers Kiyoomi bought for him a year before.
“What happened to you?”
Kiyoomi pours a splash of milk into the pot and adds a light sprinkle of salt and sugar from the respective pinch jars on his counter. “Did you forget the other night? Shaved my head, found my soulmark, it’s your name, I kicked you out? Seems memorable to me.”
“No, I-” Atsumu fumbles over his words and when Kiyoomi glances up, he looks a little flushed, eyes avoiding Kiyoomi completely. “Uh, no. I remember that. I’ve been thinking about it. A bit.”
“That makes two of us,” Kiyoomi says blandly. “Get me a bowl.”
Atsumu turns without hesitation to grab a bowl and a spoon from their respective places. He moves around Kiyoomi’s kitchen like it’s his own, which makes sense. He’s here almost as much as Kiyoomi is.
“So you’ve, ah. Been thinking about it?” Atsumu sets the dishes on the counter for him and Kiyoomi pours his breakfast in, ignoring the way his stomach turns at the scent.
“I just said I have.”
“Right.” Atsumu clears his throat and hoists himself up onto the counter. Kiyoomi represses a smile. If this wasn’t the most awkward conversation he’d ever been subjected to, it would be cute how casual Atsumu is trying to be. “What, uh. What do you think?”
Kiyoomi leans against the opposite counter and blows on his first spoonful. He swallows it before looking up at Atsumu again. “I think it’s your name.”
“Right. Yep, it. Yes, so-”
Kiyoomi spoons up another bite and says, “Show me yours.”
Atsumu, if possible, looks more uncomfortable. “Oh, uh- yeah, that makes sense.” He slides off of the counter, hands going immediately for his fly.
Kiyoomi’s pulse jumps, setting off a chain reaction in his gut that nearly makes him gag mid-swallow. He manages to choke out, “Stop that,” before forcing the bite down. “Water,” he adds.
Atsumu moves immediately to the fridge. The button and fly of his pants are already wide open, making his pants sag around his ass. “Sorry-” He falls silent while retrieving a glass. He delivers it to Kiyoomi with an awkward little smile that makes Kiyoomi’s heart kick again. “Sorry.”
Kiyoomi shakes his head and sets his meal aside, calling it a loss. He takes a few swallows of water to chase it down, then sets the glass aside too. “Why are you taking off your pants?”
“You told me to show you my mark!”
“And your mark is what?” Kiyoomi raises a brow. “On your ass?”
Atsumu looks away mulishly. “So what?”
Kiyoomi shocks them both with a short laugh. “You’re kidding-”
“Shut up!” Atsumu turns his head back with a scowl. “Why do you think you haven’t seen it? Stop being an asshole! This is supposed to be- nice, or something!”
“When have I ever been nice?”
“Just look at my ass.” Atsumu spins around and shoves his pants down without giving Kiyoomi an opportunity to protest.
He wasn’t going to anyway. He already spends plenty of time looking at Atsumu’s ass. The experience is notably better with the cheeks fully on display. They’re just as pert and round as his athletic shorts have always promised, with a light dusting of dark hair and- ah, yes.
Right at the bottom of his left cheek, just above where ass meets thigh is a delicate kanji. It’s small enough that Kiyoomi isn’t surprised he’s missed it in the locker room. But it’s there, proudly representing the kiyo half of Kiyoomi’s name
Kiyoomi’s lips twitch. He takes a small breath to smother a laugh and it escapes as a strangled chuckle.
“Shut up-”
“Holy. It says holy. Two inches from your-”
“From my asshole! I’m aware!” He yanks up his pants and Kiyoomi is too busy laughing at him to mourn the loss. “Shut up, it’s not funny!”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Do you know how long I- how long ‘Samu and I were convinced I was gonna marry a nun or monk or something?” Atsumu spins back to face him. Even his ears have turned bright red. “Do you know how hard it was when Ma wanted to go to church?”
Kiyoomi snorts and leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is that supposed to make it less funny?”
“It wasn’t funny! And then we thought maybe it was gonna be some witchy girl or something, and then-” His mouth snaps shut and if he gets any redder, Kiyoomi is concerned he may pass out.
Kiyoomi, for once, chooses to give him a little mercy. He brushes a hand over his mouth to dismiss a smile and tilts his head. “And then what?”
“This is fuckin’ embarrasing, Omi.” Atsumu puts his hands over his face with a groan. “Don’t make me say it.”
“You just showed me your ass and now you’re embarrassed?”
“I was embarrassed then too!” He groans and drags his hands down his face. “Fuck, okay.” He lifts his head and meets Kiyoomi’s gaze, his eyes determined and a little combative, as if he’s daring Kiyoomi to mock him. “I thought it was about some monk or something until I saw your name on your practice jersey in high school, and then I kinda thought and kinda hoped it could be about you.”
Stillness descends. It’s just like it was in the bathroom two days ago, only this time instead of a sense of dread, it’s realization that overwhelms him. He feels catapulted back in time, out of his kitchen and into a gym miles and years away. He remembers the first time he’d ever seen Atsumu, of course - and that of course should have clued him in on things a long time ago.
Atsumu had been standing in the corner with his brother. He’d been practically shouting about how mediocre everyone else in the gym looked, his face split with a cocky sneer. Kiyoomi hadn’t been able to look away, just for that moment. He can picture it clearly even now, nearly fifteen years after the fact, down to the swoop of Atsumu’s hair and the color of his shoes.
There hasn’t been a moment since he’d met Atsumu that he hasn’t felt important.
“Ah,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu lets out a puff of air. “Ah? Ah! That’s all you’ve got to say?”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “It really is you.”
Atsumu stills, his arms half-raised in the beginning measure of a full on hissy-fit. He slowly lowers them, one moving habitually to the back of his head to scrub at the short hairs there. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Kiyoomi repeats.
Atsumu nods slowly. “Right. And, it’s you.”
“It’s me,” Kiyoomi confirms.
Atsumu keeps nodding, stepping forward to close a bit of the space between them. “It’s us. Right?”
“Right.” Kiyoomi shifts to let him step closer, tipping his head forward to compensate for the meager difference in their height from this range.
“So we’re soulmates.” Atsumu’s hand tentatively finds Kiyoomi’s hip and- Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. It feels nice, actually. If he was as big of a sap as Atsumu, he might even admit that it felt right.
“That seems to be the shape of it,” he agrees. He cups the side of Atsumu’s neck in his hand, internally marveling at the mild scrape of his growing stubble. “Atsumu?”
“Yeah, Omi?” Atsumu leans a little closer.
Kiyoomi tips his head, leaning in until his lips are nearly touching his ear. “I need to go barf now.”
“Fuck-”
—
Atsumu stays the rest of the day and waits on Kiyoomi hand and foot, which Kiyoomi could certainly get used to. By dinner time, his stomach has settled enough for a small meal. An hour passes where it doesn’t try to claw its way back up, and he declares himself well again.
“Good, because you look like death,” Atsumu says, gathering up their dinner dishes from where they had been abandoned on the coffee table. “Go take a shower, you reek. I’ll do the dishes.”
“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi says mildly, and does as he says.
When he comes back out, freshly washed and in clean pajamas, Atsumu is hovering by the door with his shoes already on.
Kiyoomi arches a brow and joins him near the door. “Leaving already?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m headed out.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t want to admit to the quiet disappointment that stirs in his chest so instead he says, “Okay.” And then, because he figures being honest may be important in this life-long relationship they’re starting, he adds, “I thought you would stay.”
Atsumu looks away, rubbing at the nape of his neck again. “Well, I mean. I could-”
“So take your shoes off.”
“-but I thought before I start, uh. Staying over that maybe… could I take ya on a date first?”
Kiyoomi smirks and tilts his head. “Awe.”
“Fuck you. I’ll pick you up at eight, tomorrow.” Atsumu turns away with a huff, ears practically glowing even in the low light.
“Make sure you bring me flowers.”
“I hate you.”
—
Atsumu brings him flowers.