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Sakusa Kiyoomi considers himself proficient at many things. He would even, if only to one-up Atsumu in an interview, claim his excellence in something like volleyball. Kiyoomi is not boastful but he is proud — of himself, of the life he’s created, of the way he’s dug his heels in and refused to flee from what he knows he wants.
That said, Kiyoomi is not good at resting. Taking a break. Some time off. Chillaxing , Atsumu insists, is not a word in his vocabulary. It pains him greatly that Atsumu is correct. Perhaps early retirement is the way. Or a team transfer. The MSBY was nice while it lasted.
A smile eases itself into the contours of his face. Transferring . Likely story.
The sun is almost visible in the sky, predawn hues mellowing into something softer. Kiyoomi shifts against the frankly absurd number of pillows stuffed behind his back and blinks heavy eyelids against the onslaught of daytime. He — no, just Atsumu — has practice in what cannot be more than two hours. Probably. What day is it, again?
Palms stretching, Kiyoomi’s fingertips brush against each other, a practice so ingrained it exists somewhere beyond muscle memory.
This is fine , he reminds himself with a slow exhale through his nose, the worst part is over . And, technically, it is. He survived the anesthesia required for surgery; tackled the fear — it was extraneous, anyway, for the life he intends to lead.
This is fine , and it is, except his muscles are tight and his joints are stiff from lack of stretching. Each day is another step forward , or whatever his informational pamphlet read before he tossed it on the kitchen counter and out of his mind.
Each day feels fairly repetitive to Kiyoomi: wake at an ungodly hour, so close to night’s dead hours that even the typical din of engines outside has lapsed into relative silence; wait pitifully — like a fucking child — for Atsumu to stir, eyes blinking slowly with one hand tangling in his mop of hair in a supposed attempt to tame it; wait pitifully (reprise) for Atsumu to bring him a bowl of plain rice and, if his stomach feels up to it, a singular egg, scrambled, so he has enough in his stomach to down his pain meds; shrink into himself as Atsumu handles him carefully, like something close to precious, undoing his wrappings and adjusting his drains; close his eyes and pretend not to feel his boyfriend press a barely-there kiss to his forehead, ignore the sound of the door knocking against the frame and the low click of the lock twisting; wait some more; struggle through one-word responses to Atsumu’s periodic texts; sleep, finally, at an ungodly hour, too early or too late; wake; repeat.
God bless Atsumu, honestly. Neither one of them is remotely religious, but Kiyoomi briefly wonders if he should reconsider because there has to be something holy in the way Atsumu keeps looking at him when he thinks his boyfriend’s fallen back asleep, with creases at the edges of his eyes and a smile just wide enough that the whites of his teeth poke through.
Distantly, Kiyoomi wonders what he’d done in a past life to deserve this one. Something long forgotten, jagged edges nearly rounded out, catches in his chest.
He almost turns, then, gathers just enough strength to twist his torso without collapsing back down, before remembering: Atsumu has practice . It’s off-season, sure but he also isn’t one to take breaks, and he’s already waking up earlier than usual to take care of Kiyoomi. And not faring entirely well, if the state of his hair and their bedroom is anything to go by. The dark shade of his roots has nearly overtaken the better half of his bangs, and at one point there were dye boxes huddled into the corner of a desk chair but they’re nowhere to be seen amidst stacks of folded laundry and pill containers.
In all honesty, he’s nearing matching-with-Osamu territory for the first time in a decade, give or take a few years. Kiyoomi begrudgingly keeps his mouth shut; he’s started to rely on his morning rice and egg (and smile, but that’s irrelevant).
A cursory glance at their bedside clock tells him it’s nearing time for him to change his bandages, but a much-less-cursory glance at Atsumu’s slumbering form warns Kiyoomi that waking him now would be akin to kicking a child’s puppy while eating their candy in front of them. Or something. Atsumu is better at metaphors. Kiyoomi tried to explain one of his own to Motoya once over the phone, and it resulted in the unrelenting buzz of a dial tone and multiple LINE messages boasting some variations of “HAHAHA” and “wtf kiyo.”
Flexing the sore muscles in his legs experimentally against the mattress, Kiyoomi reasons that he should be able to get himself a glass of water, at the very least. He’ll take his recovery binder off now and then see if he can change his wrappings. He’s a grown man, after all, and generally not a completely helpless one. There’s quite literally no need to wake Atsumu up for something this trivial. He’ll last five minutes without someone holding his hand.
The moment his bare feet touch the cool surface of the floor, Kiyoomi hisses, a wave of nausea settling into the fog around his temples. This is fine . He grinds his teeth together and focuses any strength he has left into his legs. It’s almost comforting, slipping into the same routine he follows near the end of a long-haul game to get one final kill, to push himself to new limits and watch his teammates’ eyes light up in time with the scoreboard. Sudden dizziness forces him back into reality; the uncomfortable knowledge that he has to expend intense energy to even stand up. How the hell is he going to be back in playing shape in time for the start of the season?
He rests the side of his head on the cool surface of the window for stability as he pushes the zipper of his binder down in stuttering increments and tugs it off, placing it on the cluttered surface of his nightstand. He doesn’t need to do this, not technically; his bandages can probably last for another few hours. But something inside him, something he’s startlingly unfamiliar with, revolts at the thought of walking around his own home in a binder even one more time.
Pressing one palm against the wall to steady himself, Kiyoomi takes uneven steps forward, pace agonizingly slow. He tries to get out of the bedroom without disturbing Atsumu, grimacing at every audible misstep.
Their kitchen is just past the bathroom; Kiyoomi can almost see it, and he silently praises the earlier version of himself that told Atsumu to leave the bedroom door ajar before they went to bed. This is the step he needs to prove that he’s genuinely recovering and not sweating through his sheets daily for no reason.
He pauses against the bathroom door frame to catch his breath and check in with himself. He may be impatient but he isn’t irresponsible; if there is one thing Kiyoomi knows other than volleyball, it’s health and safety precautions.
(He doesn’t know tenderness. It sits heavily in his palms, unfamiliar and awkward. He can’t bring himself to let it fall, though. Knows the fickle nature of sand-through-fingertips and finds himself unable to risk losing this thing he doesn’t know, this being unknown.)
The shower light is on, yellow and hazy from the darkness or the spots in his vision, he can’t be sure. Atsumu had insisted he wouldn’t have Kiyoomi knockin’ around the entire house at the ass crack of dawn to piss, ‘re ya kiddin’ me , and Kiyoomi almost took him at his word, almost let it rest. Almost.
Really, though, he can’t be blamed for his skepticism when Atsumu’s eyes were so warm they threatened to crack something in his chest.
He glances to the side, attempting to rub the sleep from his eyes with lethargic, uncoordinated movements. A figure’s reflection blinks back at him, unfocused and polarizing, and Kiyoomi belatedly realizes he’s probably staring at himself.
His curls are mussed beyond belief, matted to one side of his head and frizzing wildly on the other. Woe is his curl cream. There are deep bags settled into the cavities of his face; almost impressionist , he muses, before wondering if he’s really lost it. What the fuck does he know about art ?
Hair atrocities and sleep deprivation aside, however, Kiyoomi sees himself. . .shirtless. He sees. . . himself . . ? He isn’t entirely bare chested; there are worn bandages, fraying at the edges after a night of restless sleep, covered partially by clear drainage tubes with purple caps. The least surprising thing about his appearance is the pair of neon yellow sweatpants secured loosely around his waist, and yet— and yet.
It’s him. Fucking finally , it’s Kiyoomi the way he’s known he wanted — needed — to be since he was nine, hair grown out past his shoulders even as he cowered away from it.
Something does crack within him, now. It might be the stretch of his lips, spread to accommodate relatively even teeth and a held tongue and a few decades worth of longing. His mouth feels cotton-full but his head is abnormally empty, blinding sunbursts of something he might call joy if he is ever brave enough for honesty, glaring past any coherent thought besides finally , I recognize myself . Finally.
“Omi?” Atsumu’s voice is gravelly in the way it only gets right after heavy sleep, softened along the edges and rough in the center, where the words slide past his teeth. Atsumu’s voice. Atsumu, awake . Fuck.
Briefly, Kiyoomi considers if standing still enough would prevent Atsumu from seeing him. Less briefly, he considers how fucking stupid he is. Shifting his back slightly against the wall, he twists syllables around in his chest until they resemble words enough to climb up his throat. “‘Tsumu?”
And. Well. That, above all else, demonstrates how out of it he is. Kiyoomi does not make a habit of slurring any part of his speech. Either his Tokyo upbringing, his OCD, or some other inherently Kiyoomi idiosyncracy has forced his vowels into regimented spaces between stiff-standing and tight-lipped consonants. His diction is perfunctory and precise, and occasionally biting. And yet. ‘Tsumu.
It feels wrong, on some level, to Kiyoomi. Atsumu as opposed to Miya was a begrudging step, both for his pride and, according to Motoya, his so-called fear of connection . Regardless, ‘Tsumu is for Osamu and their parents, for people like Suna and Kita and Aran. It is for family.
If Atsumu is fazed by Kiyoomi’s nickname for him, he doesn’t so much as blink to display any sign of shock. There’s a slight upward twitch to the corner of his mouth. It looks like it’s spasming, and Kiyoomi makes a mental note to ask him about it when his thoughts are done dragging each other into the far recesses of his brain. They can’t both be out of commission; Meian will spam the team LINE chat (again) until they give him an estimated return date.
“-mi-Omi? Ya still here?” Here. Right. Atsumu. Their bathroom. Kiyoomi isn’t entirely sure he is allowed to be up and walking right now. What the fuck is Atsumu doing up? Conversing. Right. He manages a nod, slow for the sake of his perpetual headache. Close enough. “What’re ya doin’ up? Yer supposed ta be restin’, ya know that.”
“I was thirsty.”
“Yer drinkin’ tap water ?”
“What the fuck? No? I was walking to the kitchen, dumbass.” This— this is familiar. He can do this. Them .
“Good thing I’m the dumbass here, ‘cause only an intelligent uni-educated guy would be up at four am starin’ at our bathroom sink like it hung tha fuckin’ moon— ow , fuck off—”
Kiyoomi kicks at his shin one more time, just for good measure, and Atsumu crosses his arms and glares sharply enough to minimize the five centimeter difference in their heights. Kiyoomi blanches, slightly, because he can see, somewhere in the back of his brain, Atsumu squaring up to Osamu in the exact same way, simultaneously defensive and teasing and fond. Family , or something like it.
“I was checking my bandages.”
“In the doorway. Right.” Kiyoomi refuses to glance down, but he can practically hear the eyebrow Atsumu has raised in obvious disbelief. It’s always the left one for some reason, potentially a lingering habit from when he had those awful side-parted bangs.
“I was— I got— it’s me , Atsumu.”
“Uh, yeah? I kinda hope so, Omi-kun, ‘cause this would be a real bad time ta tell me ya also have a twin, I mean—”
Rolling his eyes, Kiyoomi slowly gestures at his frame with his hands, stopping mid-chest not to emphasize it but because he cannot, for the moment, lift his arms any higher. He’s tired and sore, sure. His fingertips twitch for the smooth material of a practice ball, the contrasting coarse fibers of an official ball. He could hate this, easily.
But, right now, he looks in the mirror and sees someone who is — inexplicably and undeniably — Kiyoomi . And, again, he sends a silent thank you to whatever spirit blessed him in this life because he gets to watch Atsumu, scruffy from sleep and softened around the edges, realize in real-time what the hell his boyfriend is referring to.
“Ya’re still tha same Omi, ya know. Ya better be ‘cause ‘m not doin’ this fallin’ in love bullshit again. I called Samu so many times that fucker has a complex now— anyway. Point is. Ya’ve always been here, Kiyoomi. It’s always been ya.”
“Wasn’t there some saying about having all your eggs in one basket?” Dodging the hands Atsumu pulls up towards his mouth in mock-shock, Kiyoomi continues, “But I’m from Tokyo, I don’t know shit about egg baskets. Maybe I’ll call Osamu-san to ask.”
It’s worth risking his balance to watch all the emotional caricatures Atsumu’s facial features twist into in the seconds between Kiyoomi’s comment and his own reply. It’s worth it and in this moment it’s his and his alone , and it’s something like love. Maybe. Eggs and baskets, etc.
Exaggerating a sigh, Kiyoomi raises his arm enough to grip his boyfriend by the far shoulder and pull him carefully to his side. Atsumu squawks slightly in surprise before his face splits into something far too joyful to possibly be sincere.
“C’mon, Omi, ya love me too and ya know it.” Kiyoomi’s eyes catch on Atsumu’s in the mirror and it’s. . .fine. His bandages are peeling up at the ends and Atsumu’s hair is streaked unevenly with a dark brown reminiscent of his baby pictures, and Kiyoomi does love him, and it’s fine. This is fine. He’s good. They’re good, except:
“Atsumu.”
“Hm?”
“I called you ‘Tsumu earlier.”
“Mhm.”
“I didn’t know. . .I wasn’t— I’ve only heard family members call you that. Bokuto and Hinata say Tsum-Tsum, but.”
Atsumu’s face changes again and Kiyoomi is momentarily afraid he’s fucked it up, broken this precious thing in his hands and now has to watch it crumble. But then a different smile appears on his boyfriend’s face; softer, slower this time, and he thinks: this is fine.
“Omi.” Less fine. He has the look on his face that means he’s trying (and failing) not to laugh. “Ya know. . .ya know ya call me ‘Tsumu in yer sleep, right?”
Not fucking fine. And it must show on his face, because Atsumu does laugh, then. “ What .” Kiyoomi manages, voice flat only so it doesn’t crack.
“I dunno what ta tell ya, Omi-Omi. I thought ya of all people knew how ya think about me all the time.”
“This dies with you, one way or another. Watch it.”
“Okay, Omi. But can we go back ta bed now? I need my nine hours of rest to maintain my perfect complexion, not that ya would know.”
They’re walking back to the bedroom, Kiyoomi’s arm still slung around Atsumu’s shoulders and Atsumu’s palm on his back to steady him, and Kiyoomi can’t resist any longer. “You almost look like Osamu with your hair like this.”
“ What?! Omi, baby, ya can’t be serious .”
Kiyoomi has to clench his teeth to avoid a smile, but it’s a difficult thing. They’re good. He’s good.