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one
Heat courses through Kiyoomi’s cheeks as the girl from class two pulls back. There’s probably a cute smile on her face, bashful and hopeful. This is the first time she hasn’t run away from a boy giggling about cooties.
But the place where her lips touched Kiyoomi’s skin burns.
“Was that okay?”
Kiyoomi can’t even look the poor girl in the eyes. At eight years old, this probably won’t linger in her memory, but the long pause before Kiyoomi tries to open his mouth is burned into his brain.
Tears well up as he fails to form any words at all. A sob chokes him but he swallows it down, determined not to cry in front of his classmate. Though she must see the pain in Kiyoomi’s eyes.
“Are you okay?” Her voice grows panicky. “What’s wrong?”
It wasn’t the same. Kiyoomi tries to get the words out, but nothing except a small squeak makes it past his lips. The silence continues and the girl before him starts to sniffle.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Kiyoomi shakes his head violently at that, though he can’t stop himself from rubbing his cheek. Her lips leave an acid print that still seems to burn. Every inch of his body tells him that he needs to get it off of his skin, that it isn’t right—that she isn’t right.
It hadn’t been like that with that boy from that camp his mom took him to. Kiyoomi could see his face clear as day still: big honey-like eyes, molten brown pools that sparkled in the sunlight, and rich brown hair that reminded him of the dirt in his grandmother’s garden. He was shorter than Kiyoomi, talkative but reclusive. Though he had hung around Kiyoomi every day of camp, the pair never spoke, never even introduced themselves.
Honey-Eyes surprised Kiyoomi on the final day by kissing him square on the cheek and then running off to find his mom. It was a fleeting moment that should have faded away into a distant memory. But Kiyoomi had been thinking about that kiss every week since.
There was a weightlessness in his stomach and the spot Honey-Eyes had kissed tingled.
But her kiss feels… wrong.
The girl lets out another small sob before quieting herself, balling up and rocking herself in a soothing kidn of motion. Both of them sit, staring at each other but saying nothing. The silence is broken by someone calling the girl’s name. Sakura forever remains tinged with guilt and unease.
When Sakura has left, he has no other company but his thoughts. A weight drops in his stomach as he thinks about the two kisses: one that filled him with butterflies and another that made him sick to his stomach. He’s only eight, but he knows something about that difference means something, that this will haunt him for the rest of his days.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes, maybe, pass before Kiyoomi hears his own name. His sister stands at the corner of the road, looking for him.
Wiping his tears, Kiyoomi tucks the feeling away, refusing to think about why a boy would make him feel different than a girl.
——
two
“Only one extra roommate?” Motoya adjusts the strap on his bag before turning to Kiyoomi. “Did you put in a special request?”
Anytime the JVA pairs them together, Motoya has something to say about it. Kiyoomi can’t help that they’re cousins; there’s nothing to be done about the fact that Motoya’s mom is one of Kiyoomi’s emergency contacts and Kiyoomi’s mom is one of Motoya’s emergency contacts. Yet, every time, Motoya asks if it’s Kiyoomi’s fault.
“No. We just got lucky.”
“Speak for yourself! I like meeting new people, not all of us are anti-social.”
Kiyoomi shrugs. This has been Motoya’s latest complaint: Kiyoomi doesn’t talk to enough people. It doesn’t matter, not really. He has his cousin and Iizuna. Ushijima texts him every week to discuss volleyball. Three people is enough for him. Ignoring Motoya’s dejected sigh, Kiyoomi checks the list himself. He finds room five, reading the three names: Komori Motoya, Sakusa Kiyoomi, and Miya Atsumu.
His heart sinks a little at the third name. He’s familiar with the Miya twins. Anyone paying attention to high school volleyball would know those two. They exploded onto the scene during their first year and have been all over the weekly magazines Kiyoomi reads. The trouble is he doesn’t know who is who.
One of them isn’t so bad, usually quiet unless he’s bickering with his twin. The other is the bane of Kiyoomi’s existence: loud, touchy, pompous.
It doesn’t matter if the setter twin has unbelievable skill, he doesn’t have to be such a braggart about it.
Plus, Kiyoomi would be loath to admit it, but his heart catches whenever he hears that loud braying laugh or when he chances a glimpse of the blond ripping his spikers apart. The feeling reminds him of a warm summer camp and a boy’s lips pressed to his cheek.
He shakes the thought away.
Motoya rambles on about the latest school gossip as they make their way to the room. The most recent drama is revolving around the student council, someone neglecting their job because their dating a delinquent. Just another reason Kiyoomi doesn’t try to make many friends. Nobody needs to know his business like that.
But Motoya loves to discuss, so he chats throughout the empty halls that wind to their room. Kiyoomi prefers to arrive at camps early so he can set up the room as he sees fit. There’s a certain order that things should be in, specific placements of people in beds. When Kiyoomi doesn’t get the bed he thinks is right, he feels like he’s losing his mind. So, Motoya indulges him and gets there hours before anyone else.
But when he opens the door, a shock of poorly bleached hair has his back to the door. When the worst possible Miya turns around, his eyes light up. Kiyoomi cages the butterflies that threaten to fill his stomach.
“Hey, the Itachiyama freaks.” Somehow his smile widens when he delivers the insult. “M’glad they put me in a room with y’all and not a couple of scrubs.”
Motoya grins in turn, chatting the setter up as Kiyoomi shuffles past to set up his area of the room. He’s not as frustrated as he would normally be. Despite knowing nothing about Kiyoomi, Miya seems to have picked what Kiyoomi would deem the right set up.
Motoya and him have beds side by side, while Miya takes the other side.
Peeking over, Kiyoomi notes that Miya organized all of his belongings with precision. Though he can’t determine the specific reasons why Miya would have them set up that way, it’s clear they have an order. His heart stumbles at the realization that the one Miya he hates to think about is organized.
Just as he tries to shelve that thought, bright laughter fills the room. Kiyoomi’s cheeks warm as he chances a look back to Miya. His cheeks round out as he smiles, eyes nearly closed. The sun looks dim compared to the way his face lights up.
Kiyoomi swallows and turns away when those sharp eyes catch his.
“Hey!” Miya calls to him. “Yer the one with those freaky wrists, ain’t ya?”
“You keep saying that.”
“Sayin’ what?”
“Freak.” The word feels heavy in Kiyoomi’s mouth. Long nights spent googling the one question banging around his head when he glances back at Miya have told him time and time again. To like other boys is to be a freak.
“Yeah, well, they’re freaky.”
Kiyoomi must make a face at the word because the blond tilts his head. There’s a brief lull before Miya speaks up again.
“Freaky ain’t always a bad thing. Yer cousin over here’s got freaky libero skills.”
Beside Miya, Motoya adds his two cents. “It’s a compliment, Kiyo. Not a bad thing.”
The stiffness in Kiyoomi’s shoulders melts away. Though his heart races when Miya smiles at him.
“C’mon, let’s get those freaky wrists to work.”
After finishing up putting things away, Kiyoomi follows the brasher of the Miya twins through the halls to the gym. Inside, the trainers and coaches mill about, talking with one another about things Kiyoomi couldn’t care less about. It’s easy to find a spare ball and warm up, though.
It’s even easier to get distracted when Miya insists on talking between every pass. Kiyoomi can hardly pay attention to the words themselves, enamored by Miya’s mouth. His lips are pinker than Kiyoomi’s seen, more full than any other boys. Kiyoomi thinks about the way they would feel pressed against his own and bumps the ball a bit too hard.
“Woah there Sakusa, ya wanna tire me out before we even get started?”
“Sorry,” Kiyoomi mumbles, “got a bit distracted.”
Miya fetches the ball with a wide smile. “No worries. M’sure it’s awful distractin’ to be facin’ me.”
Though Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, he knows it’s true. Miya Atsumu is a distraction.
More boys fill the gym, centering Kiyoomi. Thinking about how desperately he doesn’t want to interact with other people makes it much easier to not think about the way that Miya would kiss.
Those thoughts begin to get louder after dinner when only Motoya and Kiyoomi are in the room, Miya off taking a bath.
A soft thump next to Kiyoomi makes him look up.
“Where’s our commentary on the day, Kiyo? No scathing remarks?”
Kiyoomi shrugs, putting down his magazine.
“So something else is on your mind.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me, Kiyo! C’mon, you can trust me. When have I ever failed you?”
With a deep sigh, Kiyoomi starts to play with the edge of his blanket. “Do you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Promise.”
Of course, Kiyoomi knows that promise is conditional. Yet he still opens his big mouth.
“I can’t stop thinking about Miya.”
“Miya? Is it his sets?” Kiyoomi shakes his head. “His attitude?” Another no. “His terrible jokes?”
When Kiyoomi shakes his head again, Motoya taps his chin in thought. A moment passes, then another, then Motoya gasps loud as ever.
“You have a crush!”
“No I don’t!”
“You so do! You wanna kiss him!”
“Shut up, Motoya!”
“You have a crush on—“
The door starts to rattle as Miya tries to open it and Kiyoomi kicks into fight or flight. Before the door is even half open, Kiyoomi is straddling Motoya and holding a pillow to his face to silence him.
Miya doesn’t even blink twice at the scene before him. He does crack a smile that makes Kiyoomi’s heart work double time.
“Maybe I do miss Samu,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
Kiyoomi crawls back to his bed, sending daggers to his cousin who can’t help giggling every time. Miya makes no comment on the behavior, just smiles every now and then at Kiyoomi.
When they all fall asleep, Kiyoomi dreams only of honey eyes and Atsumu’s lips.
——
three
The hand wrapped around his wrist burns as this nameless man pulls him out of the club through a back door. His teammates insisted he come out with them tonight—a final celebration before they graduate.
Little did Kiyoomi know he’d end up with his back pressed against a brick wall beside a dumpster.
He’d be more grossed out about it if it weren’t for the hot mouth on his neck. His fingers find purchase in poorly bleached hair.
For a moment, he can pretend this stranger is a very different person. For now, though, Kiyoomi screws his eyes shut and allows the pleasure to overwhelm him as this man’s teeth sink into his neck.
“God you’re so pretty.” The stranger mumbles into his neck. “Can I take you home?”
“No.”
But Kiyoomi isn’t totally prickish. With the refusal comes a rough kiss, bruising and messy.
Those lips make his tingle, remind him of a long ago kiss to his cheek. A part of him feels the shame in making out with a stranger beside a dumpster in the middle of the night. But another part of him left shame behind when he started seeking out men who bleach their hair and workout.
So he relishes in the electric zing of another man’s mouth on his and thinks about a different man and how much he’s changed since their high school days.
——
four
There’s a hickey on Atsumu’s neck. Kiyoomi spotted it the second he walked into the locker room and hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away for longer than a few seconds.
“My eyes are up here, Omi.”
When Kiyoomi looks up, Atsumu has that lazy smirk on his face.
“See somethin’ ya like?”
“I see that you let another little harlot into your apartment.”
A bright laugh tears from Atsumu as Kiyoomi finishes wrapping his left wrist. It’s not a joke to Kiyoomi, but he appreciates the laughter anyway. Even after all these years, it still kickstarts Kiyoomi’s heart.
“Jealous?”
Atsumu’s shoes come into view as Kiyoomi focuses on securing his wrap.
“Hardly.”
“Yer an awful liar, Omi.”
“Not half as bad as you.”
Atsumu’s hand shoots out to grab Kiyoomi’s right wrist, turning it before he grabs the tape Kiyoomi uses for his wrap.
“Let me.”
Though Kiyoomi wants to fight it, he lets Atsumu wrap his wrist with precision. Like he’s watched Kiyoomi do it before. Like he cares about the way that it’s done.
The locker rooms are still empty when Atsumu finishes the wrap and bends down to press a firm kiss to the inside of Kiyoomi’s wrist.
His nerves explode at the gesture, his heart leaping to his throat, his mouth going dry. Still, he looks Atsumu in the eyes, likely looking perplexed and hopefully not entirely smitten.
“She didn’t mean a thing to me, Omi. Neither did the guy from last month.” It’s a whispered admission, one that has Kiyoomi’s cheeks flaring red.
He still holds Kiyoomi’s wrist when Meian bursts into the locker room with Hinata and Bokuto in tow.
“C’mon.” Atsumu pulls him up. “Let’s get some extra warm up time, hm?”
All Kiyoomi can do is nod, thinking about the way his wrist still tingles from the kiss Atsumu had laid so carefully. The ghost of his mouth lingers all through practice, past the time he’s spent on the train, after he takes the wraps off. The spot still sends sparks down his spine.
In the dark of the night, Kiyoomi lets his lips brush against that same spot. At least he can pretend that Atsumu’s lips have touched his own.
——
plus one
After a tough loss, the heavy thud of the hotel room door behind them feels a bit like a death knell. Though Kiyoomi hates to dwell, particularly when it comes to losses, it’s hard to put it behind him when Atsumu is fuming.
“I should’ve seen that block comin’ from a mile away. That was such a shitty play.”
“You were on set five and we were going into extra points, Atsumu. This isn’t your fault.”
“It feels like it is,” he grumbles as he throws his gym bag to the side and sinks down to the floor.
Kiyoomi sinks down in front of him, their knees barely brushing against each other.
“It isn’t. Bokuto flubbed three serves, Hinata got blocked twice as many times, and even I couldn’t quite connect.”
Atsumu huffs as he looks Kiyoomi in the eye. He of all people knows how selective Kiyoomi is with his words. It’s not a mere comfort to say Atsumu isn’t responsible, Kiyoomi means it.
He watches as the tension bleeds out from Atsumu. A soft smile takes the place of furrowed brows ever so slowly.
“Hey, Kiyoomi?”
Kiyoomi hums, smitten by the way Atsumu seems to savor the syllables of his name.
“Do you mind if I do somethin’ a little stupid?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
The slight huff of laughter makes Kiyoomi’s lips quirk up. But his face falls ever so slightly when Atsumu shifts so he’s resting on his knees and starts to lean forward toward Kiyoomi.
“This one might be really stupid. Might also be the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“You don’t know the difference?”
He mirrors Atsumu’s movements until they’re nose to nose.
“Won’t know unless I try.”
But Atsumu doesn’t get to try. Kiyoomi is so lost in the proximity of Atsumu’s mouth to his that he closes the gap. Atsumu’s laugh vibrates through his lips, but he’s quick to recover. Electricity runs through Kiyoomi’s veins as their lips properly slot together.
Each little kiss reveals something new. Atsumu loves it when Kiyoomi tugs at little strands of hair at his nape. Kiyoomi is weak to the way Atsumu cups his face. Atsumu loves to nip at his lower lip and soothe the bite with his tongue.
Their kisses are languid, far too slow for Kiyoomi’s desires. Yet he can’t make himself rush forward when he knows that Atsumu is analyzing every little heavy breath and twitch that comes from Kiyoomi.
For once, Kiyoomi basks in the electricity that runs from his lips to his heart when another man kisses him. Now, after years of waiting, he savors the feeling of corded muscles beneath his fingertips. This time, Kiyoomi revels in the perfectly maintained blond hair that runs through his fingers.
This time he gets kisses and each of them make him feel exactly how they’re supposed to.