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The realization doesn’t come screaming out of the blue. It’s not grand or dramatic. It doesn’t make Kiyoomi stagger and drop to his knees—that’s more of an Atsumu reaction, and Kiyoomi suspects Atsumu might, indeed, react that way when he reports his observations. But it does give him pause.
How it happens is this.
Kiyoomi wakes one morning, Atsumu’s arm slung warm and heavy over his torso. The sun bleeds through their billowing curtains, casting the room in a hazy, golden glow.
Kiyoomi shifts and turns to face Atsumu slowly, careful not to wake him—it’s a rare, lazy weekend morning, and Kiyoomi intends to spend it resting. He stretches his back carefully as he turns, frowning at an unfamiliar ache, then relaxes again, refocusing on Atsumu’s face.
Atsumu’s face is relaxed and open, hair tousled over his forehead. Kiyoomi hums softly as he gently brushes his Atsumu’s hair back, clearing his forehead so that he isn’t disturbed out of sleep by an errant strand. Then, as though magnetically attracted, Kiyoomi’s fingers naturally begin carding through Atsumu’s hair, shifting through the soft strands. Somehow, Atsumu’s face goes even slacker, and he sighs unconsciously. Kiyoomi can’t help a smile; Atsumu normally goes pliant in Kiyoomi’s arms when he’s awake, and to see him do the same while asleep is endearing.
Kiyoomi’s fingers catch on a knot, and he shifts closer, gently teasing it apart with his fingers so that it won’t hurt Atsumu. Something about the light glinting off the section of hair suddenly strikes Kiyoomi as odd, and he inspects it more closely.
It looks…lighter. Not light as in the colour of Atsumu’s hair dye, but more…
Kiyoomi’s fingers freeze.
More grey.
Kiyoomi breathes in and out, eyes fixed to the tiny, almost hidden patch of grey in Atsumu’s hair. There’s no way Atsumu has noticed yet; if he had, Kiyoomi would never hear the end of it. He’s been subject to enough rants about Atsumu’s competition with Osamu; Atsumu would certainly think of this as losing and would wail incessantly about it.
Kiyoomi resumes his ministrations, turning this new, unexpected information over and over in his mind as he fiddles with Atsumu’s hair. Slowly, he combs through his memories of the last few weeks. He thinks about the unexplainable new ache in his back; the subtle oofs Atsumu makes when he rises off the couch these days. He thinks about his recent appointment to get new glasses, and about Atsumu’s passing comment last week about joining Kiyoomi to maybe get glasses oh his own. He thinks about the recent string of retirements amongst his peers in the Monster Generation, about how Atsumu was near in tears watching Bokuto’s announcement last week, both from sorrow and joy. He remembers gripping Atsumu’s hand and thinking, that will be us, soon.
And faced with this new change in Atsumu, the realization hits Kiyoomi.
Oh. We’re getting old.
It’s a ridiculous notion—being in one’s early thirties isn’t old by any means. Kiyoomi knows this objectively, but as an athlete, he’s subject to the sports definition of old, and he and Atsumu are certainly up there. And it’s not as though the concept is new—they’ve discussed retirement plans. Atsumu wants to coach, and Kiyoomi wants to do the same. As much as Kiyoomi loves Motoya, he isn’t tied to his family the same way Atsumu is tied to Osamu or his other family or Aran, and he’s aware that wherever Atsumu goes, he’ll follow for the rest of their lives.
But somehow, some part of him hadn’t accounted for the fact that the rest of their lives would include…actually aging.
The weight of the future settles on Kiyoomi’s chest, and he breathes in and out. We’re getting old. I’m getting old. How strange.
He’s brought back to the present by the press of Atsumu’s lips against his jaw.
“Mmm…that feels nice,” Atsumu mumbles, leaning into Kiyoomi’s hand. His breath is stale against Kiyoomi’s mouth, but Kiyoomi kisses him back anyway, scratching softly at Atsumu’s scalp and enjoying his breathy sigh.
Atsumu presses closer, pushing his face into the space under Kiyoomi’s chin. Kiyoomi presses a kiss to the top of his head, close to that patch of grey.
“What’re you thinking about?” Atsumu asks, nosing at Kiyoomi’s throat. “Seems intense.”
“I was just…thinking,” Kiyoomi says vaguely.
“Anything I need to know about?”
“Maybe. You’re going to annoy the hell out of me when I tell you, though.”
“What? Me?” Atsumu pulls back to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes, affonted. “That’s so mean, Omi!”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. Atsumu rolls his eyes back. They lapse into comfortable silence.
“Hoshiumi-san is retiring at the end of the season, too, did you know?” Kiyoomi says, staring at the ceiling.
Atsumu, who had probably been falling asleep again given his dead weight against Kiyoomi, stiffens. “Huh?”
“Wakatoshi-kun told me. He’s announcing it after our game against the Adlers next week.”
Atsumu is quiet for a long moment as he rubs his eyes. “Is that what you’re thinking about? Retiring?”
“Among other things.” Kiyoomi tugs lightly on Atsumu’s hair, and Atsumu takes the hint, sliding up the bed so that Kiyoomi can take his place as little spoon. Atsumu’s arms close around his shoulders, and Kiyoomi exhales, letting his eyes drift close.
“I think,” Kiyoomi says, “that after next year, I’m done.”
Atsumu is silent.
“I’ve given everything I can to volleyball. I’ve seen it through. It’s time.”
“Huh,” Atsumu says finally. He sounds pensive. “You know, I was kind of thinking the same thing.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I love volleyball, but I’ve been feeling like…I can find it in other places, too. I think there might be some schools in Tokyo looking to give me offers. Probably some in Hyogo, too.”
“Itachiyama has floated some offers at me, too,” Kiyoomi offers.
“That’s something,” Atsumu says, a smile in his voice.
They spend another fifteen minutes just lying in each other’s arms before Kiyoomi sighs and sits up, pulling Atsumu up with him. Atsumu blinks at him.
“Don’t freak out when I tell you this,” Kiyoomi says,
“What?” Atsumu says, eyes wide.
Kiyoomi reaches out and touches the spot on his head. “You have a patch of grey hairs here.”
Atsumu stares at him for a long moment, his own fingers meeting Kiyoomi’s on top of his head. Kiyoomi squints at him, waiting.
Atsumu does not freak out.
Atsumu doesn’t squawk or scream or faint or anything else equally dramatic. He stares at Kiyoomi for a long moment, then ducks his head, a soft smile curving his mouth.
“Come with me,” he says, grabbing Kiyoomi’s wrist and pulling him to the bathroom. Kiyoomi watches bemusedly as Atsumu rifles through a drawer before pulling out a small hand mirror. He pushes gently at Kiyoomi’s head, and Kiyoomi takes the hint to bend his knees slightly so that they’re both squarely captured in the mirror.
Atsumu holds up the hand mirror behind Kiyoomi’s head, taking his time to angle it. He smiles again, eyes bright. “Look,” he whispers, soft and sweet in the same way he coos at the neighbourhood cat that often lounges in front of their building.
Kiyoomi looks. And he sees it
A tiny, curling lock of silver.
“I saw it for the first time two weeks ago,” Atsumu says. “I woke up before you and your back was to me, and there it was.”
“There it is,” Kiyoomi echoes.
Atsumu beams at him. “It’s kinda pretty, don’t you think?”
Kiyoomi turns his head this way and that. There it is, he thinks again: physical evidence of his mortality.
Ten years ago, with less time and experience managing his anxiety, this entire morning would have sent Kiyoomi spiralling. He would have been fixated on every change in his body and tried to take back control in increasingly desperate ways. But with time—with age—has come perspective and practice, and there is no panic. There is no fear. There is just a steady certainty that this is natural, that this is what time does, and he will give the rest of his life the same care and attention as he always has to everything else important to him.
“Alright, you’re being weird,” Kiyoomi says, sliding Atsumu a look. “Normally, you would be panicking right about now. Why aren’t you panicking?”
“I’ll have you know that I’m very mature—”
Kiyoomi arches an eyebrow.
Atsumu scrunches his nose and sighs. “Okay, fine. I did kinda panic-call Osamu when I saw your greys, but Osamu just laughed at me and hung up, the bastard. So then I called up Aran-kun and, I don’t know, just talked my heart out for, like, two hours.” He pauses. “It just kind of hit me that we were growing older, you know?”
Kiyoomi nods, silently applauding Aran for guiding Atsumu through what must have been a breakdown of epic proportions.
“But you know, Aran-kun said he’d had the same realization with Kita-san, and that it wasn’t really that scary to him. That it’s life’s gift to grow old with the people you love.” Atsumu’s grin widens. “And I thought, man, I’m the first person to see Omi-kun’s grey hair! And I’ll get to see all your laugh lines, and your wrinkles, and however else your body changes. It’s kinda exciting, isn’t it? To know that there’s a whole part of us that we haven’t unlocked yet? That we’ll grow together and learn new things about each other for the rest of our lives?”
Kiyoomi’s throat wells with sudden emotion. Aran is right—what a beautiful gift it will be to age, to learn something new about Atsumu every day, to face life and embrace change together.
He tugs Atsumu close and kisses him as an answer, says yes, yes, yes with each breath they share.
“Well,” Kiyoomi murmurs when they break apart, keeping his face carefully blank. “It’s certainly better than the alternative.”
Atsumu’s smile drops.
“Omi.” Atsumu swats Kiyoomi upside the head, scowling. “Are you serious?!”
“I’m just saying—!” Kiyoomi’s composure breaks and he bursts into laughter as Atsumu lets out an incoherent screech of rage.
“I was being romantic!” Atsumu shouts, continuing to whack him. “And the only response you have is ‘I guess growing old with you is better than dying?’ Omi-omi, you’re a fucking asshole!”
“It wasn’t my only response. I did kiss you,” Kiyoomi says, still chortling.
Atsumu crosses his arms and pouts, turning his nose up. “Not good enough.”
Grinning, Kiyoomi relents and pulls Atsumu into his arms.
“I am glad to share the rest of my life with you,” he murmurs, and Atsumu melts against him. “I’m glad that it’s you I get to grow old with.”
“Okay, okay, fine. I guess you’re forgiven, you sap,” Atsumu mutters, and his arms wind tight around Kiyoomi’s waist.
Kiyoomi pictures them decades from now—aged, spotted, wrinkled hands intertwined. They’ll be happy, and most importantly, they’ll always, always together.