Chapter Text
“Dad?”
“What is it, Akiko?”
“Why did you marry Pa?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”
“Hikaru’s snoring.”
“You can sleep with Suzuhime.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Your Pa gave you another slice of cake behind my back, didn’t he?”
“I promised not to tell. So, how did you marry him?”
“I thought the question was why .”
“You could answer both and then tuck me into bed.”
“You really are your Pa’s daughter. Come, follow me to the living room – we should at least let Hikaru sleep.”
🌲🌲🌲
Kiyoomi is not an optician, but he’s pretty sure that staring at his taxes has wrecked his eyes. “I should’ve hired someone for this,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“ I said that,” Motoya says, something that reads like I told you so in his voice, “and you said that letting someone else do them is like asking to be ripped off.” Kiyoomi doesn’t want to look up from his screen and watch his smug eyebrows do a biology-defying dance. “You should’ve asked Atsumu for help.” Kiyoomi grunts. “He’s doing both his and his brother’s tax deductions. He definitely knows how it works for bigger companies.”
“We are not a company.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to.”
“I’m not going to ask Atsumu to do my taxes when they are not our taxes.”
“Ah,” Motoya says – this time, Kiyoomi does look up. The eyebrows are doing biology-defying flips. Kiyoomi pinches the bridge of his nose tighter. “So the proposal planning is still a bust?”
“As my cousin, should you be this gleeful about my distress?”
“At work I am a nurse and you are my boss, but that doesn’t make you any less of a blunt jerk, so why should being cousins make me more understanding?”
A chuckle finds its way on Kiyoomi’s lips. “For someone who calls me a blunt jerk, you sure have a warped set of morals, too.”
Motoya puts the chart on his desk and drops into the spinning chair across from him. “Our mothers are sisters, Kiyo.” Like that is any form of definitive answer – it is not; Kiyoomi’s mother is an angel, while his aunt is downright scary and her stare can pierce your soul, scientific proof be damned –, Motoya claps his hands. “Update me on the proposal front. You’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped.”
This is not a subject that Kiyoomi is much fonder of than taxes. “Akaashi and Hinata have the worst ideas.”
“And yet, they are both married and you are not.”
“And despite being a love guru, you are somehow still single.”
“By choice,” Motoya says breezily, glancing at his nails. “You should’ve listened to my idea.”
“Motoya,” Kiyoomi grits through his teeth, “I am not proposing after he wins a volleyball game, on live fucking TV.”
“Atsumu loves big romantic gestures,” Motoya pouts.
And the worst part is, Motoya is right – Atsumu would absolutely love that. Kiyoomi would hate the pictures going viral, but he could put up with it if it meant Atsumu’s happiness would be immortalized and publicly available for everyone to know that he is spoken for.
It’s because it’s a good idea that Kiyoomi cannot use it. It’s not his good idea.
Because Motoya is apparently not pulling any punches tonight, he breezily adds, “Y’know, if you don’t hurry up, he’ll propose to you before you get to.”
Kiyoomi knows that too. Atsumu is terrible at hiding objects and even worse at hiding secrets. He keeps a red velvet box next to the condoms and lube, like that drawer is not lovingly used every time Atsumu visits. For some godforsaken reason, Atsumu chose to leave a perfectly incriminating golden ring in Kiyoomi’s apartment, in the second drawer of his nightstand, where Kiyoomi can glare at it every evening like it’s a ticking time bomb with an invisible timer.
It’s been two months. At this point, Kiyoomi wonders if it’s a red herring, or some sort of reverse psychology bullshit. Whichever it is, it’s working.
Kiyoomi’s velvet box is better hidden – in his medicine drawer, under the masks – but he glares at it just as often. Atsumu loves chick flicks, so it’s not like Kiyoomi doesn’t have at least ten different Isn’t that so romantic, Omi-kun? proposals running through his head. It’s not like he hasn’t booked a table for Atsumu’s favourite restaurant after his match in Tokyo in two weeks. He hid a bottle of Atsumu’s favourite wine in his fridge, in case the restaurant is a bust and an emergency home proposal must happen. Kiyoomi even bought scented candles – lung cancer in wax form, smelling like sandwood. Motoya almost called the psych ward when he saw them.
“Well,” Motoya says abruptly, pushing the chart towards Kiyoomi, “you can have your crisis after you see your outpatients. I’ll even drop by with cookies so you can eat the weight of your worries in sugar.”
“Not today,” Kiyoomi says, flipping through the patients’ charts. “Atsumu is supposed to come over.”
“What happened to bros before hoes?”
“Don’t even dream of being my best man,” Kiyoomi snorts. The amusement dies on his lips when he sees the next file. “Actually, go back to being my nurse. Kaede-san is coming in today.”
“She’s 30 weeks along and has shown no sign of complications so far,” Motoya says, suddenly a lot softer. “I am sure she’ll reach her term just fine.”
Kiyoomi scans Motoya’s impeccable notes and tries to fool himself into believing him. His stomach curls, anyway. “Twins are always hard on the mother.”
“You cannot show that face to your patient, doctor.”
In the monitor which has long since gone into standby mode, Kiyoomi can see the pull in the tight line of his lips and the frown digging over the bridge of his nose. Next to his laptop, he can see his father smiling at him inside a picture frame, forever frozen in a moment of genuine happiness.
He breathes in, forces his professional poker face back into place, straightens his back.
“Call in the first patient.”
🌲🌲🌲
As soon as Kiyoomi cracks the door to his apartment open, the smell of curry fills his nose. Atsumu’s shoes are neatly arranged in the cubicle labeled with his name. His backpack is leaning against the wall, the well loved vabo-can keychain hanging from one of the zippers together with the penguin charm from their aquarium date.
Kiyoomi slips out of his coat and shoes in record time. One year ago, rushing into the kitchen to bury his face in Atsumu’s back would’ve been mortifying – it still is embarrassing, but it is also so comforting that the embarrassment is almost worth it.
“You took the earlier train,” Kiyoomi says – it’s meant to sound accusing, really.
“Don’t pout, Omi-Omi.”
“Am not.”
“Then let me see yer face.”
Almost worth it.
“Focus on cooking.”
Atsumu laughs as he wraps one of his hands over Kiyoomi’s, and the sound rumbles through them both. He smells like the cologne he’s being sponsored by, and a freshly taken shower with Kiyoomi’s bodywash, and curry. Kiyoomi breathes it all in and feels some of the nerves thawing. He doesn’t even have the energy to shoo Mimi out of the kitchen when she rubs against their legs.
“Mimi, I love ya, girl, but ya gotta leave before Omi-kun has an aneurysm ‘boutcha being in the kitchen.” Kiyoomi hides his smile in the nape of Atsumu’s neck when he half-heartedly attempts to get her out and not give in to petting her. Eventually, he peels himself away from Atsumu’s warmth to do that himself, and closes the kitchen door on her protesting meows.
Atsumu smiles at him and cups his face, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “These eyebags ain’t good news, Omi-kun.”
“Are you only dating me for my looks?”
Atsumu laughs. His fingers are so gentle, tracing the outlines of Kiyoomi’s jaw, that he feels like he’s going to be melted by the warmth of it all. It’s unbearable in the same way that basking in the sun in spring is, when walking back into the shadows makes you feel like your fingers will freeze off. Kiyoomi lets Atsumu kiss him even at the risk of his fingers falling off once he needs to go back to Osaka. He just hopes Atsumu won’t lose his fingers – he needs them to play volleyball.
“I missed this smart mouth of yers so much,” Atsumu sighs, pressing his forehead to Kiyoomi’s. “And given how clingy yer bein’, ya either missed me even more or had a bad day at work.”
“Can’t it be a secret third option?”
“Both?” Atsumu grins.
Kiyoomi shakes his head, but it doesn’t make the smile tugging at his lips subside. “Remember Kaede-san?”
“‘Course I remember Kaede-san. Ya only talk about her every other week. I swear, if she wasn’t pregnant, I’d think she was yer secret affair.” Kiyoomi raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I know I’m too good of a catch fer ya to have an affair–”
“I am also too gay to be involved with a woman. I just deliver the babies, Atsumu.”
“Ya know, ya could stand to compliment me more often.”
“I did miss you,” Kiyoomi says, nosing at Atusmu’s collarbone.
Atsumu knows him inside out – it’s surprisingly more comforting than it is scary. “Is something wrong?” he asks as he wraps his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist. “I thought her pregnancy wasn’t bein’ too hard on her this time around?”
“Just her regular checkup. It’s just…” Kiyoomi still vividly remembers Kaede-san, laying in a hospital bed two years ago, crying her eyes out while clutching her bump which was never going to become a baby. He remembers the way her voice echoed in the salon, and the way her husband hugged her like he could absorb all her hurt, but Kiyoomi could see it all seeping through his fingers and clinging onto the bed sheets, the hospital gown, his lab coat.
Kiyoomi swallows. His throat is dry. “Do you think I’ll be able to help her this time?”
Atsumu hugs him closer – he can’t absorb all of Kiyoomi’s hurt and fear either, but at least he won’t let it crawl into the curry. Kiyoomi appreciates sanitarily prepared food. “Omi-kun, ya left me during the off-season for a whole two weeks to go to a conference in the States about low amniotic fluid pregnancies. Hell, I even know what low amniotic fluid means ‘cause ya talked about it so much. Ya ignored me when I was trying to flirt with ya so ya could study.”
“Was that flirting?” Kiyoomi snorts. “You were so bad at it, I couldn’t tell.”
Atsumu dodges his attempt at a deflection. “Yer a great doctor, Kiyoomi. That’s why she chose you again. I bet she’ll name one of the twins Omi-Omi.”
“That’s terrible.” Kiyoomi laughs wetly – if Atsumu feels his shirt dampen, he hides it well. “You should never name our children.”
“Because Mimi is better? Wait, our children?! Omi-kun, do ya wanna have kids with me?”
Kiyoomi lifts his head from the crook of Atsumu’s neck – half the surprise on Atsumu’s face seems to be genuine. It’s the other half that makes him smirk and say, “Not if you name them Omi-Omi.”
“You wound me,” Atsumu pouts. “I’d choose pretty names like Hikaru.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
Atsumu holds up both arms like he’s trying to defend himself from the implication that he is a marriage-obsessed freak. “Hey, I had to think about names when Suzuhime was born, yknow? Speakin’ of which, Samu wants us over this weekend to plan the Christmas-cum-birthday party.”
“Sure.”
“Are ya hungry?”
“Starving. All Motoya got me today was pretzles.”
“Were you stress munching while looking at the patient charts again?”
Kiyoomi squints and pokes his chest. “Stop having Motoya spy on me.”
“He literally works for ya, Omi-kun. Am I not allowed to ask yer cousin how yer doin’ at work?”
Atsumu probably uses his pouts strategically – still, Kiyoomi is fine with playing the fool every now and again. He presses a kiss to Atsumu’s puckered lips before pushing him back to the stove and busying himself with setting the table.
It’s only when they both have dug into the curry that Kiyoomi says, “I like Hikaru if it’s a boy. Akiko would be pretty for a girl, I think.”
Atsumu chokes on his food. Kiyoomi silently passes him a glass of water and smiles innocently when Atsumu glares at him.
🌲🌲🌲
Apparently, being a Nitori wizard is the implicit manifestation of Atsumu’s general talent for DIY projects. Kiyoomi would like to think that it’s some sort of setter bullshit, except Kageyama would hammer his fingers into the floorboards if given nails. It would be in the Miya bloodline if Osamu was good with anything other than a sharp blade. It even had the potential to be a Hyogo thing, until it turned out that Suna is just as helpless as Kiyoomi without an instructions manual – and even when in possession of one, he still can’t get much further than page 2 without assistance.
What Suna has going for him, instead, is an ungodly amount of hours spent on Instagram, which apparently qualifies him as a party planner and gives him the right to boss others around – Kiyoomi has a feeling that has more to do with being the host, but he can’t deny that Suna has a good eye for decorations.
That leaves a what’s-the-difference-between-baby-and-electric-blue and instructions-manual-dependent Kiyoomi on kitchen duty with Osamu.
Despite only testing the party menu and not actually cooking for half the block, Osamu has an opening-day type of seriousness hanging around him. It’s a good thing that Himari is visiting a high school friend in Osaka, because she’s too sharp to be fooled by any excuses when Osamu is making devilled eggs.
Prior to meeting Osamu, Kiyoomi would’ve called himself a decent cook; standing in the same kitchen as Osamu, however, makes Kiyoomi humbly self-aware of the way he holds the knife. It’s not that Osamu is loud about his discontent with things others do in his kitchen – as long as others does not include Atsumu , in which case, Osamu is almost the louder twin –, but his eyes linger on the way Kiyoomi slices onions. Kiyoomi is braced for the “Yer doing it all wrong” to drop out of Osamu’s mouth any second.
He is not braced for, “So, when are ya gonna propose?”
Kiyoomi almost cuts his finger. “Is it that obvious?” he hisses.
Osamu finally looks away, a smirk pulling at his mouth. Foxes, both twins. “Yer fidgetin’ outta yer skin.”
“Do you think Atsumu knows?”
“Tsumu’s stupid,” Osamu snorts. He steals a glance at Kiyoomi’s face and snorts again, “I can’t believe Tsumu was right about ya poutin’.”
“I don’t–”
Osamu waves him off like the pouting debate is useless; Miyas – 2, Kiyoomi – 0, or something. “He’s too blinded by his own plan to woo ya,” Osamu says instead, and it almost feels like a peace offering. At least it does until he looks at Kiyoomi and makes a wretching sound. “Wipe that lovestruck smile off yer face in my kitchen. God, I swear yer made for each other.”
Kiyoomi hasn’t bonded with Osamu, like Atsumu insists every time they end up next to each other at volleyball games. At best, Kiyoomi and Osamu have second-hand knowledge about each other – Kiyoomi knows that Osamu once faked being sick to get his hands on the limited edition sakura deserts which sold-out before lunchtime; Osamu knows that Kiyoomi allegedly has a pouting history, apparently. It’s the type of nuggets of knowledge that usually makes people call each other best friends, except Kiyoomi and Osamu have never had an uniterrupted conversation longer than ten minutes. They sometimes make fun of Atsumu together, and that feels like some badge of approval, but other than that, Osamu is “Atsumu’s twin”, and Kiyoomi is likely “the guy my twin is dating”, and that’s fine.
Except if Kiyoomi is going to propose, Osamu is going to become family. “Brother in law” is just a title only before marriage – Kiyoomi’s sister got married to a man Kiyoomi spoke to at most twice before his sister took his name, but within a year, he became the man who cried on Kiyoomi’s couch about becoming a father. There’s no going back once someone cries on your couch.
Kiyoomi guesses that Osamu’s equivalent of crying on the couch is cooking together.
“Hey, Osamu-san? How did you and Suna get engaged?”
“There are at least ten versions to that story.”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Are any of them true?”
“Perhaps,” Osamu smirks. “I’m guessing ya wanna hear the romantic one?”
“I want to hear the one where you realized it was the right time.”
Osamu stares at him for a moment so long that it becomes almost uncomfortable, then he puts his knife down. “It was anticlimactic. Rin asked if we should get married while we were watching a movie at home.”
“Uhm…?”
“Why does it need to be a big thing? It’s whatever feels right and works for ya.”
“Atsumu likes big, romantic gestures.”
“Yer smarter than this, Kiyoomi-san.” Osamu slides the onions Kiyoomi was cutting into the sizzling oil, and it almost feels like some sort of validation. “Tsumu likes ya. He’d probably say yes if ya asked him while sorting out the trash.”
Kiyoomi can’t help the choked out chuckle. “Atsumu should rethink his best man if these are the standards you are setting, Osamu-san.”
Osamu shrugs like he couldn’t care less about the standards Kiyoomi is trying to impose on him. “Is it worth fussin’ over if ya both know ya want it? Usually, people fuss over proposals ‘cause it’s easier ta pretend yer nervous about askin’ than yer ‘bout the implications of bein’ married.”
Kiyoomi is glad that the task Osamu entrusted him with no longer involves knives, because his hands still under the water. Osamu glares at the vegetables, then at Kiyoomi. “They’re not gonna wash ‘emselves. And I am not gonna be yer therapist.” Osamu raises an eyebrow as Kiyoomi resumes mechanically washing the carrots. “Is this gonna hurt Tsumu?”
“No.” The conviction in his voice eases the tightness in Osamu’s shoulders. Osamu is not his brother in law yet, so Kiyoomi doesn’t feel like he has to tell him something he hasn’t even talked about with Atsumu, but Osamu did entrust him with cutting onions in his kitchen. “No, it’s just… a personal hangup. I’m dealing with it.”
“Huh.” Osamu’s hum is noncomittal at best, and the silence they lapse into isn’t heavy. Still, he breaks it regardless, “When Himari-chan got pregnant, Rin and I talked about legally adopting Suzuhime.”
“You did?” Kiyoomi asks dumbly – he’s not sure what to do with this information, neither as the brother in law to be, nor as Himari’s obgyn doctor.
“We got married when Onigiri Miya was just startin’ to do better and Rin made it onto the national team, so kids weren’t really on the table. But then when Himari-chan got pregnant, we were a bit more settled down, so it was like a sudden reminder. Turns out, Rin really did want kids.”
“And you?”
“I wanted to take care of Himari-chan’s baby. I didn’t know much about kids, and I didn’t know if I’d do a good job raisin’ them when I was runnin’ a chain of restaurants. We talked about adopting Suzuhime because I wanted this kid, but Himari really wanted to raise her on her own. It’s not like she doesn’t accept our help – she lives with us, for fuck’s sake. Rin and I are still as much Suzuhime’s dads as we’d be if she was legally ours. But Himari and Suzuhime are still Sunas – she said at least one Suna should have a happy childhood.” Osamu looks equal measures pained and proud – if this was Atsumu, Kiyoomi would hug him. As it stands, Kiyoomi passes him the carrots, and Osamu says, “Turns out, sometimes ya gotta do the scary thing.”
Kiyoomi wants the scary things with Atsumu – marriage, officially moving in together, kids. He wants them so much he aches. But then he thinks about the picture frame on his desk of his father smiling on paper because he no longer can do so in his own body, and the terrifying thought that Atsumu might once become a picture frame spills out of his open mouth and crawls between his fingers.
“Yeah,” he croaks.
Because Atsumu loves and lives to prove that Kiyoomi’s worries are unfounded, he waltzes into the kitchen wearing a pair of reindeer horns and the most fox-like grin Kiyoomi has ever seen on his face. “New retirement plan: Rin and I open a party plannin’ agency.”
“Ignore him,” Suna drawls behind Atsumu, “I don’t intend to put my talent to the general public’s use.”
Atsumu’s eyes sparkle as he keeps arguing with Suna and trying to rope Osamu into catering for their pretend business. The reindeer ears are ridiculous.
Ridiculous must be contagious, because Kiyoomi wants to get on one knee for this man he’s only been dating for one year and his reindeer ears.
🌲🌲🌲
“Call me when you arrive.”
“Omi-kun, it’s gonna be 4am when I arrive. Yer not human before 8am. Even saying that yer human after 8am is a stretch.”
Kiyoomi pinches the back of Atsumu’s hand. “At least text me, asshole.”
“Ya always get so crabby when we gotta part ways. It’s kinda sweet.” Atsumu weaves his fingers through Kiyoomi’s and pulls him closer, until their elbows knock and Atsumu’s insane body heat permeates through his jacket. “I’ll miss ya too, Omi-kun, even tho it’s just one week. Maybe I really should take the Adlers’ offer.”
“Weren’t you complaining about them seeing you as Kageyama’s substitute?”
“Some things are worth putting up with,” Atsumu smirks.
It’s not that Kiyoomi doesn’t want Atsumu to take the offer – having Atsumu in Tokyo all the time is the sort of happiness that would make him greedy for the things he aches for. It’s that Kiyoomi knows what it’s like to love your job – he could never leave the clinic Foster entrusted him with, so he cannot ask Atsumu to leave a team which he made into one of the top two first division teams in Japan. Osamu may be in Osaka just as much as he is in Tokyo, but Atsumu’s mother, grandmother, an entire hoard of cousins and ever-growing family of cats are in Amagasaki.
“I’ll come down for the match next week,” Kiyoomi says instead. The smile Atsumu gives him is so radiant that it beats the winter wind lashing at his cheeks. “You’re going to be so smug when you win against the Adlers after they sent you an offer.”
“Ya say that like yer not smug in the slightest.”
“Why would I be?”
Atsumu squeezes his hand. Kiyoomi wonders if that will feel any different with a ring on. “Ya said when , not if. ”
“I was protecting your ego.”
“Since when are ya managing my ego?”
“Since it started taking up space in my house. You walk with your pockets full of it and it’s starting to fall into clumps on my floor.”
One of Kiyoomi’s uncles has an apiary in the Tama area. Kiyoomi has always liked helping there in summers – the pristine white beekeeping suits feel only one step away from the hazmat suits, for one. Kiyoomi has always liked bees, for two – the work ethic, the impeccable architecture of the hives, the societal hierarchy, the way they communicate through the waggle dance – everything about the honey-making process left toddler Kiyoomi in awe. The honey itself, however, was something Kiyoomi could only admire conceptually – he’s always found it too sticky, too dense on his tongue, the taste too overpowering.
Last summer, he took Atsumu and Osamu with him to his uncle’s apiary, and got a good giggle out of Atsumu running away from a particularly pesky bee. That day in Tama was simultaneously the most disgraceful he’s seen Atsumu and the most starry-eyed he’s seen Osamu. It was also the day that Kiyoomi gave the honey a second chance, and begrudgingly had to admit that he had judged it too harshly – the sweetness coats his mouth pleasantly, and Kiyoomi finds the taste familiar, despite not having put honey in his mouth for over twenty years.
When Atsumu throws his head back and laughs in the middle of the bustling train station, Kiyoomi feels like his insides are sticky with honey, and finds that he doesn’t mind.
“Man, Omi-kun, I really fuckin’ love ya.”
Kiyoomi’s smile is buried in his muffler, but he’s stopped trying to hide it from Atsumu when he realized that Atsumu always, always mirrors it. It’s too cold to pull down the muffler, though, so Kiyoomi just leans against Atsumu’s shoulder and trusts that he’ll get it. “Me too,” he mumbles, and watches as Atsumu’s smile grows over the edge of his own muffler.
Kiyoomi likes it when Atsumu smiles so much that he doesn’t mind having to wash honey off his clothes. Kiyoomi likes Atsumu so much that he’s fine with waking up at 7am to untangle himself from Atsumu and let him go on his morning run, then wake up again at 8:30am to eat breakfast with him. Kiyoomi loves Atsumu, even though he uses those words sparingly, because the last time he overused them, they ripped a hole in his heart that’s going to poke through him for the rest of forever.
Kiyoomi loves Atsumu enough to breathe in and still say, “I fucking love you too, I guess.”
The train screeches to a halt in front of them. Atsumu’s fingers curl around the handle of his luggage. Kiyoomi feels his fingers curl around his hand. It’s only one week until he sees Atsumu again.
Atsumu presses a quick kiss to his forehead and gives his hand another squeeze. The people start rushing out of the train, pushing against everyone like billiard balls headed for the stairs. “Don’t miss me too much,” Atsumu smirks, the way he does every time.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, the way he does every time.
The rest is a well-practiced routine: Atsumu gets on the train. Kiyoomi watches him find his seat and waves as the train starts moving. He stays on the platform until Atsumu is out of sight, and then one minute longer, just to recalibrate. To anyone else watching, it’s probably a waggle dance.
It’s a whole week until Kiyoomi sees Atsumu again.
🌲🌲🌲
“A kid stuck a train piece in his nose yesterday.”
Hinata has at least one kid per week swallowing or sticking little toys in places they don’t belong, and yet Kiyoomi is still surprised by – and recoils at – the creativity every time. He hopes Suzuhime will grow up to be the princess that her name implies and never have the urge to put playdough in her ears. Then again, Suzuhime is a Suna, so she might egg on other kids to do it.
Completely unbothered by the fact that toys being inserted into mucus-coated places is being discussed over burgers, Akaashi dips a fry in the mango mayo. “You should buy the poor pediatrician a drink.”
“Sadly, Ennoshita-san doesn’t drink. I brought him a lemon tart yesterday, though!”
“You’ve been baking an awful lot since Kageyama moved to Italy.”
“I get boooored,” Hinata whines, smushing his face against the table. Kiyoomi would like to argue that he spends too much time around toddlers, except he’s known Hinata since before he became a preschool teacher, and he has always had a penchant for acting like a hyperactive child. “The new house is too big for just me, and Tobio’s things are everywhere, and I miss him. You should understand, Sakusa-san.”
An exceptionally emotionally intelligent, hyperactive child.
“Sakusa-kun has it worse,” Akaashi argues.
Both Hinata and Kiyoomi stare at him like he grew a second head; then again, Kiyoomi looks like that at most people all the time, and especially at Akaashi. “I get to see Atsumu every week.”
“Precisely. You’re like a drug addict – every time you almost quit, you get another dose. At least Hinata-kun gets six months of rehab; you just relapse every other week, Sakusa-kun.”
Hinata claps like Akaashi has just made some mindbending observation.
“Why are we talking about this like Atsumu is my toxic ex?” Kiyoomi dips his fry in Akaashi’s mango mayo – retribution tastes like artificial flavoring and more calories than Kiyoomi wants to count.
“Why is he not taking the Adlers’ offer?” Hinata is not countering – not intentionally –, but Kiyoomi feels the beesting regardless.
“Why did Kageyama go to Italy?” Kiyoomi counters. He realizes it was an asshole-ish thing to say as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but he can’t swallow the words back.
Hinata doesn’t even startle when he answers, “Ali Roma is a team he can learn a lot on, and the Italian League is one of the most competitive ones in the world. But if Atsumu is staying in Japan, there’s really not much difference between the Jackals and the Adlers. According to Tobio, at least.”
“The difference is in his pride,” Akaashi says. He’s always had beautiful cursive, which means he’s always known how to dot his I’s and cross his T’s. Kiyoomi has always both admired and hated that about him.
“Atsumu loves the Jackals as much as I love my clinic.”
“You mean he’s comfortable,” Akaashi calmly counters.
Kiyoomi clicks his tongue and stabs his fry into the pool of mango mayo. “Are you actually picking a fight with me about my boyfriend’s life decisions right now?”
“I don’t think he is–”
“Yes. He’s too comfortable to move to Tokyo.”
“Because coming up to Tokyo every other week is comfortable?”
“And you’re too comfortable to propose to him.”
“How is that–”
“You’ve both been single for a long time. You’re not accustomed to taking other people’s needs into account when making decisions.” The annoying thing about Akaashi is that his tone is not a know-it-all’s, but someone’s who thinks they’re objectively right in a factual, non-negotiable way. “You make room to calculate for Atsumu when it comes to how many tubes of toothpaste you should count, but not when it comes to where you’re going to live or when he wants to get married.”
“And you know so much about being single, given how you’ve been dating Bokuto since high school,” Kiyoomi grumbles.
“Uhm,” Hinata awkwardly tries. “I think Akaashi-san is worried for you.”
“Weren’t you two the ones who were egging me on to date someone last year?”
Akaashi sighs and pushes the bucket of fries towards Kiyoomi, almost like it’s a peace offering. Kiyoomi doesn’t even like the damn things, but he sticks three in his mouth in one go. “Let me preface this by saying that I think Atsumu-san is good to you, and good for you. But Sakusa-kun, you never settle. When Ushijima-san made you choose between your relationship and med school, you didn’t hesitate. It’s not like you to stay in poorly defined frameworks. So why are you hesitating with Atsumu-san?”
Becoming Kiyoomi’s friend is a year-long process involving a lot of frowning, nose-scrunching and “have you washed your hands?” reminders, but once he sticks the friend label on someone, it might as well be a life sentence. It’s why Akaashi can be this honest in the first place; it’s why Akaashi knows him annoyingly well.
It’s why Kiyoomi can drop his guard enough to say, “If Atsumu and I were any closer, losing him would be unbearable.”
Akaashi’s face darkens, and Kiyoomi sees the way he opens his mouth to apologize in slow motion, but waves him off before he has a chance to. “You might be right – subconsciously, I probably like the distance between me and Atsumu. It’s… there’s a chance it’ll hurt less if we don’t live together, if he–if something happens.”
“Sakusa-san.” It’s Hinata who pats the back of his hand. “Isn’t always assuming the worst exhausting?”
“I’ve lived my whole life like that, and it’s saved me from a lot of pain.”
“And also deprived you of a lot of joy. Is your fear bigger than your love for Atsumu-san?” Kiyoomi is scared of digging deep enough to find the answer to that question. “If something did happen, wouldn’t you regret not having made the most of it with him?”
“I’m sorry.” Akaashi pats his back. “I didn’t realize that it was related to your father. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“No, you were right,” Kiyoomi says, and his eyes are blurry. He blinks the pain away and squares his shoulders. “You both are. My brain knows that, too.”
“You should be happy, Sakusa-san. It looks much better on you than the eyebags.”
Kiyoomi snorts. “Say that after you plan my wedding.”
Hinata’s jaw drops. “Me?”
“Akaashi almost got an ulcer planning his own wedding,” he says around a smirk.
“Low blow,” Akaashi whistles. “That’s more like the Sakusa-kun I know. I call dibs on being the best man.”
“Unfair,” Hinata whines.
“Motoya called dibs on that way before any of you.”
“Cousin privileges,” Hinata grumbles. “Did he also get to give you your anniversary gift first?”
“Anniversary gift?”
“The truth is, Hinata-kun and I wanted to get you and Atsumu-kun an anniversary gift, but then we realized we don’t actually know when that is.”
It is in the middle of a restaurant in Ginza that Kiyoomi has the sudden realization that moving in together and a proposal might not be the biggest of his worries when he also does not know, in fact, when their anniversary is.
In his head, a voice which sounds eerily like Motoya’s whispers, And that’s when he knew he fucked up.
To:
Motoya (Nurse)
(21:36)
you’re a terrible friend
From:
Motoya (Nurse)
(21:42)
why is it always MY fault??