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Midlife crisis, the little words on the dictionary read, loss of self-confidence and feeling of anxiety or disappointment that can occur in early middle age.
It was three am and Sakusa Kiyoomi shouldn't have been awake. It was three am and Sakusa Kiyoomi had practice with the MSBY the very next morning at nine am sharp — he had to wake up around eight if he really pushed it. That gave him roughly five hours to sleep. He preferred getting eight. That felt like a silly pipe dream now; it almost made him laugh, cruel and sadistic even to himself. He supposed it was easier to make a mockery of your pains than indulge in the pathetic feeling of taking them seriously.
He glared at the tiny screen in his hands. It glared back. It was now three o’ eight am. He wondered if a mid-youth crisis was a thing. He shifted his legs again, searching for a new position, and settled back on lying straight and stiff. Again. He wondered if a midlife — mid-youth — crisis could last for fifteen years.
He twisted his wrists, moving them experimentally in circular motions. It didn't help because it never did. If his crisis had started at ten maybe it would have been promoted to a life crisis. But Komori didn't like the term promotion, kept snapping at him for being so cynical, so he assumed it wasn't the right word.
He looked at the tiny screen again. The definition was still open. The light was still glaring, starting to burn his eyes. He didn't turn it off. He looked at the blinking corner on the right: three thirty. Time really flew by when you were having fun, he supposed. How depressing.
Komori would probably scold him for that one too, and it was kind of stupid that he was basically talking to himself while having a whole person sleeping next to him if he wanted to talk so badly. That also sounded suspiciously like mind-Komori. But mind-Komori was also shit at lying and Kiyoomi knew his cousin would be laughing at his self-inflicted short temper. Small wins, he supposed.
He knew, objectively, that there was a series of things he was supposed to do; in order: get out of bed, eat something, take a pill — take two pills, actually, maybe one of them dissolved — maybe grab a heating pad while he was at it. Maybe text Coach Foster to let him know he wouldn't be making practice tomorrow. Probably turn off his phone. Definitely turn off his phone, that should've been first on the list, a tiny voice at the back of his head supplied. Tell mind-Komori to cut it with his attitude because Kiyoomi didn't appreciate his sass.
Go to sleep. Definitely go to sleep.
He considered, however briefly, waking up Atsumu. A small swell of pride rose in his chest, and mind-Komori patted him gently on the back. That wouldn't have even been a thought a few months ago. He barely even woke up his cousin when it got so bad he felt like he was on fire, and he'd grown up with the man.
Yet, like every time the thought popped into his head, he didn't. He was pretty sure he'd rather die than let another human being take care of him in his pathetic state, Komori notwithstanding (even then, his cousin had to shout and pound his door to dust before Kiyoomi gave into the same losing fight they'd been having since they were kids). The very thought made him wither and recoil.
He especially couldn't let Miya Atsumu take care of him when he was acting like an incapacitated eighty year old man. (He assumed that was a rather rude thought but pettily reserved his right to insult himself in his endless spiral of self-pity however he wished). Kiyoomi was old beyond his years — not wise, not an old soul, just old.
It was not a good thing.
But if Kiyoomi was old beyond his years, Atsumu was young beyond a timeline. There was no quantifiable age he could give: he was not young like a child and he was not young like the twenty-five year old man he was. He would remain young at sixty, and seventy and eighty. Miya Atsumu would feel young on his fucking deathbed, but Sakusa Kiyoomi would feel like he was on his deathbed while he was young.
Mind-Komori peeked back out again with that particular train of thought, ending in Kiyoomi getting out of bed with a sigh of resignation, which ultimately ended up in him waking Atsumu, who was an unfortunately light sleeper. Fucking Komori, he cursed, and then wondered how long he could keep blaming everything on the imaginary version of his cousin that lived in his head.
“Omi?” Atsumu rolled over, groggily rubbing his eyes and looking unfairly put-together for someone who'd been woken up suddenly and about four hours before schedule.
“Go back to sleep, Miya.” He muttered, trying his hardest to push back the feeling of being a small animal, clawing its way out of its cage. (Being taken care of isn't a cage, he told himself over and over again. The words left a bitter taste on the backs of his teeth. It didn't work.)
The Miya must've given him away, regardless of his subpar efforts, because Atsumu only pushed himself up the bed and stared at him worriedly. He hadn't called him by his family name in almost a year now.
“Omi— Kiyoomi, what's wrong?” He wasn't sure Atsumu had ever called him that, period.
For a split second Kiyoomi was encountered with the horrifying revelation that he'd have to choose between being caught in a lie and hurting Atsumu's feelings, or being honest and risking the closest thing he'd ever get to ripping his heart out of his chest and handing it over for someone do whatever they wished with it. Even more horrifically he found that the decision was an easy one.
“It's just my joints.” He muttered, almost thoughtlessly, effortlessly.
It was bitter and cold but for a brief moment he thought Atsumu saw every bit the small feral animal, miserably snapping his jaw at whoever got near — the primal creature he seemed to have reverted to. He looked almost amused by it — a sardonic flicker like a fly in the amber of his eyes — and Kiyoomi wasn't sure how to feel about it. He felt old.
“There's no just about yer joint pain, Omi. Ya know that.” Atsumu asked, repeating the words almost mechanically.
No, Kiyoomi desperately wanted to say, there isn't. Everything feels like it's on fire, it feels like my joints have grown so big they're hitting my bones, he wanted to explain like some sort of petulant child. It feels like they're thrumming against my skin, he wanted to add. I hate it.
But Atsumu would never understand any of that. He was perfectly healthy in every way to the point that Sakusa wondered how his check-ups came back so flawless with the amount of celebratory drinks he went out for with the team. The Jackals won a lot.
Atsumu would never understand it until he was maybe ninety and the inexplicable youth he had to him would be too fast for his body to keep up with. But that would be at ninety and Kiyoomi was twenty-five and he wanted to cry at the thought of it.
Atsumu hadn't even been there for the really bad flares: before he learned how to manage them and Komori would have to beg his mom to take them both to Urgent Care. It would happen over and over again until, eventually, Komori became more of an expert than the doctors after Kiyoomi was formally referred and diagnosed.
Needless to say, he wasn't quite sure the fountain of brash youth he called his boyfriend would be able to quite grasp what it was like to feel aged beyond your years. He always felt ridiculous for even thinking that; he couldn't fathom actually trying to explain any of it. He almost missed his cousin, then, like a lost child missing its mother. Kiyoomi always forgot that pain made him pathetically emotional. It felt like some sort of secret he hid from himself, one he was cursed to remember over and over again.
He considered saying any amount of that, entranced by Atsumu's big, golden eyes. He wanted to spill his guts out most desperately. He didn't because he never did, in the end. “I know.” He gritted out, instead.
Atsumu was gentle, and his touch was feather-light on Kiyoomi's phantom pains. He excelled even at this, even at the art of touching someone in the right way. It was infuriating. It made Kiyoomi want to cry tears of joy.
But because he was a weak-willed man, he fell back on the bed and curled himself around Atsumu's hands. He felt like a dog — beaten and bruised, the kind that hadn't been fed for days, the kind that would cling most desperately to any semblance of kindness. It was stupid.
“C'mon Omi, where does it hurt?”
He shook his head. “Everywhere.” Then, “It’s fine.”
Atsumu was a kinder man than Kiyoomi, wiser in his infinite youth, leaving Kiyoomi to question why he'd gotten the short end of the stick every time. He let it go. Kiyoomi was glad: pity made him feel even smaller; he didn't even allow himself the bitter luxury of self-pity.
Atsumu patted his curls out of his face and left. Kiyoomi ached. Atsumu came back with his beloved pills, and while Kiyoomi had never gone several days without anything, he imagined this is how stranded men felt when they saw water.
He swallowed it desperately. Atsumu joked he looked a bit crazy, and they both laughed about it. None of them mentioned the waiting game that was about to follow, Kiyoomi just drank more water and curled even tighter into himself.
“You should eat something with your medicine.” Atsumu’s face was scrunched at the edges where his eyes met skin. Worry. Kiyoomi’s stomach felt like it had physically contracted.
“I never told you that.*
“I know.”
Faced with a tray of leftovers and a gentle smile he wondered how he was meant to turn away. He didn't think he'd taken true care of himself once after that. Atsumu got him heating pads, and the calculated care he placed them all with made Kiyoomi think about his angry hands and fragile joints. He wondered if bitterness made recovering harder.
None of it mattered if he had Atsumu. Even the thought of him was sugary sweet; he'd get cavities from saying his name, he was sure.
He lied down and shut his eyes. Willed it all away. Opened them five seconds afterwards. It didn't work. Unsurprising. The bitterness came back.
His back arched upwards, in a misguided effort to push his knees down, to search for a more comfortable position. It was almost unconscious. It only made his back ache too. He didn't move. There was no point in it. His hands felt like they were throbbing and he dug them into the mattress too, even if he knew they weren't.
He felt gentle hands against his back, digging under him and onto the mattress, connecting them both.
A click of the tongue. “Ya know that shit's not good for ya, Omi-kun.”
A sigh. “I know.”
The hand stayed in place. His back relaxed slightly, falling against it. Kiyoomi never even dared to fantasize that someone would want to know him at all. He sighed. It was almost content.
“What time is it?”
“No.”
He’d forgotten that to be known is to be wholly messed with — he'd spent too much time away from Komori, then. Kiyoomi should call him instead of talking to the little version of him that lived in his head.
“What do you mean no?” He snapped.
“I mean I know yer gonna drive yerself up the wall trynna figure out how much sleep ya can get.”
That made him frown. It was not unusual. “But we have practice tomorrow.”
“I already texted Foster.”
Kiyoomi wondered if it was too early to get married.
The hand that rested so comfortably slid from under him. He almost complained, but its sudden presence against his neck soothed him. It guided him up, and against the headboard. Gentle, the touch was so gentle he could cry. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, even once he'd managed to sit up.
“I got ya some of the tonkatsu from dinner.”
“I thought we were only breaking our diet once.” He grumbled. “We're mid-season.”
He ate it anyway. Atsumu had warmed it up; there was no humidity or rubbery texture so he knew it must've been in the pan. He felt like he could cry all over again.
Atsumu grinned. “I know it's yer favorite, Omi-Omi.”
He kept his mouth shut after that.
A glass of water was put in his hands shortly after, switched out for the plate. They both lingered, and Atsumu's pinky settled on his. He felt his face heat up, suddenly grateful for the darkness.
"I already took a painkiller."
"I know." Atsumu sighed. "I fucked up the order but this is for yer stomach, ya know it always hurts after ya take yer pills."
At that, his eyes went so wide he was sure he wouldn't be able to open his mouth to retort. He squeezed Atsumu's other hand and hoped something got across. Atsumu squeezed back.
The medicine was bitter, but something settled a little bit after it. Maybe it would work. He leaned to the side, only to find himself falling against Atsumu. It was the first time he'd done that probably ever.
Gentle hands ran through his hair, combing through his curls. Kiyoomi was sweating. It was disgusting. Atsumu didn't move.
“Do ya want heating pads?”
He thought two years of dating was long enough to start looking at rings. He supposed he could always ask Bokuto.
He nodded, curling a bit more into himself. The posture was unforgiving on his knees. It almost felt like Atsumu hadn't left because next thing he knew they were relaxing easily and Kiyoomi felt like he was melting.
“C'mon, Omi, lie down, will ya?”
He almost didn't want to. He almost wanted to beg Atsumu to lie next to him, to hold his hand or hold the heating pads in place. To hold Kiyoomi in place, keep him from unraveling. He felt so old, then, ground down and worn out of shape. Atsumu felt brand new, sparkling in his packaging. Too precious to open, to tarnish at all.
“Tell me if I place them correctly.”
Kiyoomi almost wanted to correct him, guide him, but his voice felt like it would come out brittle — maybe he wouldn't find it — so he kept his mouth shut and focused on breathing. It felt pathetic. The shame washed over him all over again when he didn't have a single criticism of the heating pad placement.
He didn't miss the way Atsumu yawned, rubbing his eyes and looking away. He had practice tomorrow. It felt like Kiyoomi kept ruining everything. He wished he could've been more quiet in his misery.
Komori once said he was the loudest person he knew. Kiyoomi had looked confused back then because he was quiet, and frankly a bit brooding, and overall introverted. He wasn't anywhere near loud. But Komori said he brought attention to himself the way poisonous frogs did, with their bright colors and unsettling eyes. He looked at him like he was crazy back then, but years later, Miya Atsumu would comment on his neon tracksuits and suddenly he'd understand.
He felt like a poisonous frog then, and he wondered why his own body wasn't immune. He wondered what Atsumu would think if he said any of that — he thought he was hallucinating.
“Omi. Yer getting in yer head again. Tell me what's wrong?”
He pursed his lips, looking away. The worst of the pain was subsiding, almost enough to feel clear-headed. Almost enough to want to open up for once. But maybe it was the delirious exhaustion that followed the spike. He wished he could fall asleep.
But Atsumu's hand on his cheek, on the back of his neck, his hair — it was close enough. It made everything almost feel worth it, and Kiyoomi thought he might spill his guts at any moment, he'd open his mouth and everything would topple out. He'd do anything if it meant keeping Atsumu's gentle touch on him.
He curled himself into him. Maybe it would be easier to fall asleep that way, he was ready to reason. Mostly, privately, he knew it was just indulgence. But Atsumu didn't ask, so Kiyoomi didn't say any of it. Breathing came easier following another person's heartbeat. He settled into the soft haze of the moment, and wished it would swallow him whole.
He wondered how Atsumu managed to talk him down without words. There was something holy about it, about them. He didn't believe in God but divinity was present in every brush of Atsumu's nimble fingers, and Kiyoomi thought that was close enough.
A kiss to his temple. “Ya don't hafta tell me anything, but I'm here. I’m here.”
“I know.” And then, lighter, more unsure, “I feel old.”
Heavy, he wanted to say, he felt heavy. There was something about him that was hard to carry — he couldn't push it on others. He once heard that the youth weren’t burdened by the heavy worries of those older than them. Like little birds they took flight, light on their feet and fast on their wings. Kiyoomi had been glued to the ground.
“What?”
He sighed. “I feel like I'm burdening you.”
“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu breathed out his name with something like reverence, so soft it almost hurt, “you're the lightest burden I've ever carried.”
He sucked in a sharp breath; it felt like a puncture in his lungs.
Atsumu smiled. “Yer not meant ta be weightless. We're meant ta be burdens, all of us. It's called taking care of each other, ya big baby.”
And how was he supposed to respond to that? I love you wasn't enough. No expression was enough for the fireworks that burst in Kiyoomi's heart, warming him ‘till even his joints felt molten.
“You are mortifying.” He hissed.
Atsumu just exclaimed gleefully. “Are ya crying?”
Kiyoomi rubbed his eyes furiously, looking away. The warmth had melted him into something soft and gooey and wholly horrifying. Fucking Atsumu and his open fucking heart. He tried to glare, but Atsumu just smiled fondly.
“Aw, is baby embarrassed?” He cooed, and despite the mocking cadence his fingers pressed against Kiyoomi's face so carefully, he was sure the touch alone would turn him into something sacred. Something close enough to otherworldly that he could brush a fingertip against divinity, just once.
“I will actually murder you.”
“Oh my god, ya are.” He cackled, fully leaning more into Kiyoomi's space. He tucked his head under Atsumu's and, for a second, the thrumming under his skin that seemed to accompany his every move quieted down.
“I'm acting like the Charlie and The Chocolate Factory grandparents. It's disgusting.”
“Oh please,” he snorted, “ya mean regular human functions? Like illness?”
No, he wanted to insist, you're so young, so warm. He wanted to explain, I'm not like you, I'm heavy.
“Atsumu.” He sighed.
“I'm serious, Omi, I like takin’ care of ya, it's perfectly normal.”
“You're gonna have to do this our whole lives, Atsumu.”
A shrug, almost indifferent. His heartbeat didn't even quicken, he didn't even lie. “So? I will, then.”
And really, to that, there was nothing he could say. No protest he could make or remark he could snap. His heart was full, the hands on his neck kept him steady. Atsumu was steady too.
Maybe that was all he needed.
“Are ya crying again?” Atsumu laughed, choked and gleeful, pulling him impossibly closer, and tucking his leg behind his knees. It was almost uncomfortable
The heating pads weren't even warm anymore. But Atsumu's leg fit perfectly against his knee, and the rumble of his chest was more soothing than any blanket he could buy.
“Come ‘ere, ya wimp.” He was still laughing. “‘Course I’ll take care of ya.”