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Kiyoomi’s breath felt short. His pulse was racing. His hands slipped off the ball. The last few rallies went so long, he couldn’t get full traction on the court. Each step risked landing in sweat. 

His body didn’t feel right. Kiyoomi could expect that. It was inevitable. Every player on this court had worn themselves to their breaking point. He wasn’t an exception. They were already in the final set, with each score in the twenties. Try as they might, no one team got a lead. 

Kiyoomi landed a hit. The ball tipped off an opponent’s arm. Where they almost managed to spike it, the ball tipped to the side. The break point went their way. 

The referee wiped the ball with a towel. That only did so much. There was still sweat on Kiyoomi’s hands. That wouldn’t matter, soon. 

One more serve. That was all Kiyoomi had to do. One more perfect serve, where the other team couldn’t rally, and they’d win.

Kiyoomi looked across the court. Sweat stuck in his eyelashes, the court fading to a blur. He centered himself, and his breath, and focused. Tough as the match had been, that didn’t matter, either. Kiyoomi knew what to do. He threw the ball into the air, at the same pace, and sent it straight into the seam between two players. 

Both players scattered. The libero charged in. He slipped to his knees, but not before he spotted where it was going. 

“Free ball!”

Kiyoomi tried to charge into position. He told himself to move. He sprung towards the trajectory. He missed.

His knees sank to the court. His breath fell with it. 

One more rally. That’s all he had to do. One more rally. 

He couldn’t tell why he was facing the ceiling. 

The lights burned on his face where the ball should have been, the flat fluorescents all but glaring. The ball landed on the court. Kiyoomi heard the thud. He couldn’t tell where. 

“Coach!” Someone yelled. “It’s Sakusa!” 

He couldn’t tell who took his arm, only that it was someone. The contact made Kiyoomi shake.

“I’m fine,” he said, forcing words between gasps. “Stop.” 

“Hinata. You’re in,” the coach said from the sideline. “Sakusa. See the doctor.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Then let the doctor tell you that. Go,” the coach told him. “Rehydrate. You look like you have the flu.” 

Kiyoomi wanted to argue. He didn’t have to. One of his teammates did, first. 

“Omi-Omi? The flu?” Bokuto added. “Nah. That’s impossible. He hasn’t touched a germ in years! He’d wear gloves to pick his nose!” 

It didn’t take long for Atsumu to add in. “I saw him disinfect a faucet before washing his hands, once. It’s wild.” 

As far as Kiyoomi could tell, it was the opposite of wild. 

Kiyoomi heard Hinata cross the court. He stopped behind Kiyoomi. 

“Are you okay?” Hinata asked, his sympathy clear. “I’ve been there, too.” 

Kiyoomi felt sweat pour down his neck. He forced his focus to stay standing. 

“I’m fine. I just need water.” Kiyoomi could still hear himself, insisting. “It’s in my bag. I’m fine.” 

—---

No one let it be fine. 

“How long has he been in this condition?” 

Kiyoomi didn’t know the voice. He did, however, know enough to at least try insisting. “I’ve overheated. I’m fine.” The fact that the two statements were a contradiction, Kiyoomi knew not to point out. He also knew that not everyone with him agreed. 

“Like, how long has he been sick? Or how long has he been super clean?” Atsumu asked, speaking over Kiyoomi. “He’s been flushed for like an hour. Everything else, since I’ve known him–so, a decade, at least.” 

The doctor leaned closer to Kiyoomi. “I’d like to check your breathing, next.” 

Kiyoomi kept his head down. He knew which one of them would win. It wasn’t him. He muttered, far too quiet to hear. “I’d like you to stop.”

The doctor brought his stethoscope to Kiyoomi’s chest. He somehow found more room to lean in. “Breathe in. Then, out,” the doctor said clearly.  “In, and out.”

If Kiyoomi took the time to mention he knew how breathing worked, he would have failed to follow the instructions. He kept the words to himself and did what he was told. The monitor at his side beeped, a persistent, mild annoyance. It wasn’t the only one. 

Atsumu, bowed over the bed, twice as close and three times as loud as he should have been. “What’s up?” 

The monitor beeped louder. 

The doctor turned to Atsumu. He pointed at Kiyoomi, specifically at his arm. “How long has he been like this?” 

“Like what? In the hospital? A few hours,” Atsumu answered. “Took a while to get someone.” 

The doctor shook his head, dismissing the dumb if accurate answer. He gestured down again, at a specific patch of Kiyoomi’s skin. Kiyoomi moved the hand that wasn’t tied to an IV. Where the rest of him was pale, his arm was red. 

“It happens after playing,” Kiyoomi said. “It’s from the impact of the ball.”

“You might assume so, but, no. Not that kind of chapping. Blood from bruising wouldn’t present this way. It’s from over-washing,” the doctor explained. “It’s a common issue for OCD patients.” 

If there was an exact moment when Kiyoomi knew he was screwed, that was it. 

“I don’t have a disorder. I have order . I’m clean.” Kiyoomi tried to defend himself, already aware it wouldn’t help. 

To his complete lack of surprise, the doctor didn’t listen. “The fever may well be an overreaction to a mild pathogen.”

“A path to what?” Atsumu asked, oblivious. 

Kiyoomi barely moved. He strained not to sigh. 

“A germ,” the doctor answered. “He’s been exposed to so few bacteria, his immune system has adapted defenses to far fewer of them. When there are times he is exposed, he has fewer defenses built up. His body becomes overly responsive.”

In other words, Kiyoomi slipped up. The only possibility in which what the doctor said would be an issue is if a contaminant got to Kiyoomi in the first place.

The doctor kept his clipboard close to his chest. “The good news is, it’s treatable. There’s a few ways to approach managing this. Sometimes, OCD patients have unusual autoimmune responses, which can be managed with medication. We’ll test for that, if you’d like. When those responses are present, the success rate of medicinal therapy is quite high.”

As much as Kiyoomi didn’t like what he was hearing, it made sense to a point. That point was when the doctor looked at him directly. “You’ll also need to be  reintroduced to non-sterilized environments. Cleanliness itself isn’t an issue, but the body’s response to an extreme is. It’s called gradual exposure therapy.”

Whatever exasperation Kiyoomi was ready to shout, Bokuto did, first. “Great! He’s used to exposing himself. He just doesn’t know it.”

Kiyoomi turned in a snap. He could barely hiss a warning. “Bokuto.”

“We’ve got a team shower! Everyone does it,” Bokuto added, as if it were a completely normal thought process. “Not like we shower in jean shorts. It’s either water or compliments.” 

As ridiculous as Bokuto was, his presence did have a benefit. It shut the doctor up enough for Kiyoomi to stand and insist. “I’m fine.”

Kiyoomi held out his arm, to keep the IV still. His expression stuck, unchanging, as he looked to the doctor. 

“Take this out. It’s just saline. I don’t need it. I’ll drink water.” 

As soon as he spoke, a nurse offered Sakusa a cup. He didn’t take it. 

“I’ll drink water from my bottle,” Kiyoomi corrected. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“It came from the faucet,” the nurse said. “It’s water. It’s clean.”

“If the pipes aren’t corroding.” 

The nurse didn’t seem compelled. She handed him the paper cup. “Drink.” From the challenge in her eyes, Kiyoomi could guess what happened if he didn’t. The more he tried to resist, the more he’d prove he had a problem. 

Kiyoomi picked up the paper cup. He brought the brim to his lips, to drink it. The water almost reached his tongue. He felt the damp spot pull up to his lip. 

He brought the cup back to his lap. The cup was still full. 

The doctor held his clipboard tight. He looked to the group, and not at Kiyoomi, specifically. The line of focus made Kiyoomi’s skin crawl. “He can do additional testing when his symptoms subside. For now, he should rest and recover. Then, when he’s up to it, you can start slowly introducing touch and objects he hasn’t sterilized.”

Kiyoomi felt the urge to argue. His thoughts spiked, ready to speak. There was plenty of contact Kiyoomi had with things he hadn’t cleaned. It wasn’t like he could stop a game to disinfect a volleyball. Once he was on the court, the cleanliness was outside Kiyoomi’s control. That was when the risk was worth it—when he was already on the court. 

The point had never been to stay in shape because he was afraid of what happened when he got sick. It was to stay on the court, to not miss a game when his team needed him. 

Kiyoomi lifted the paper cup once more. He crouched over the cup, pulling himself towards it as much as it towards him. Before he could start to recoil, he forced the water down. 

If it was possible for water to clog someone’s throat, Kiyoomi felt it. He swallowed. “I mean it. I’m fine.” 

No matter how strongly he insisted, it didn’t feel like the staff was understanding. Hinata nodded in sympathy. “It’s the worst, right? Not being able to play.”

The doctor looked far more stern. “If the only time your mask is off is when you’re competing, then during competition is the only time you’re exposing yourself to oral pathogens. It makes your most vulnerable time be when you can least afford it,” the doctor explained. “Wouldn’t it be better to build yourself up, so you can avoid being at higher risk, then?” 

As much as Kiyoomi didn’t want to be wrong, he understood. “Like building a muscle,” he said, still processing. “The immune system’s a muscle.” 

The doctor pushed their hand to the back of their neck. “It’s really more like a sequence of internal responses. They’re interconnected, so triggering one will start the rest.” 

“Oh! Like, a fire alarm!” Bokuto added, far too loud to be helpful. “Once one sprinkler goes off, they all do!” 

Atsumu looked to the side. “There something you wanna tell us?” 

Bokuto didn’t return the eye contact. He just shrugged and said, “No.” 

“And you’re the fire alarm sprinkler expert because…?” Atsumu started to ask. 

Whatever answer Bokuto could have given, it wasn’t one Kiyoomi needed to hear. He turned away from whatever catastrophe that would have been, back to the doctor. “I’m fine,” Kiyoomi insisted. “I’m not sick. I overheated. It could happen to anyone.” 

It might have been compelling, if Atsumu didn’t speak, too. “You’re definitely sick. Your nose is dripping.”

“But, cool sick!” Bokuto gave a thumbs up. “Like, bro, that’s so sick!”

Atsumu smirked. “With a cold.”

Before Kiyoomi could answer, Hinata leaned in, too. “Do you need a tissue?” he asked, concerned. 

“No. I need to leave.” Kiyoomi didn’t budge. He held back a sniff, to pretend his nose wasn’t still dripping. 

“If you leave, it’s against medical advice.”

“I don’t need advice. I need sleep. The last place I should sleep is a hospital. It’s full of contaminants. I could contract something else,” Kiyoomi knew what was wrong. He needed to rest, and hydrate. In a day or two, he’d be fine, as long as he avoided anything else going wrong. Most of the time, he was good at that. 

The doctor turned to their computer. They typed something into the chart. What it was, Kiyoomi couldn’t see. “Your pulse and oxygen are stable. If your bloodwork comes back clear, we can discharge you for outpatient care.” 

For a second, what the doctor said seemed to be just what Kiyoomi wanted to hear. What he wanted didn’t last. 

“Go see the specialist. Until then, rest. You’ve reduced your immune system’s efficiency. You’ll need to build that up over time.” 

It was fine, Kiyoomi thought to himself. Whatever he had to do to recover, he could manage. It would be easier to rest outside of the hospital. It wasn’t as good as his apartment, but the hotel should be peaceful. 

—-

It wasn’t. 

The room that Kiyoomi had been staying in wasn’t his room. At least, it wasn’t only his room. Another futon was rolled across the floor—and Atsumu flopped himself across said futon, taking up as much space as his body was capable of. 

Kiyoomi stood in the doorway, watching in disappointment. “I had a private room.” 

“Not anymore! Once Coach heard from the doctor, he almost sent you right back to the hospital. We compromised on having you be supervised.” 

However confidently Atsumu spoke, it didn’t make Kiyoomi any more assured. He looked at Atsumu just as flatly as before. His tone stayed the same. “Who’s we?” 

“Me and Coach. That we. According to us, I’m keeping an eye on you. I’m almost your boss, now!” From how loud Atsumu was being, he was also almost the cause of a migraine.

Kiyoomi tried to hold his ground, and weigh the options presented to him. As much as he hated sharing his space, being watched in a hospital was worse. 

“Almost means you aren’t.” 

“ But I’m close!” 

“Close also means ‘aren’t’,” Kiyoomi said, his exasperation growing by the second. “You’re not my boss.”

Atsumu stretched up. His hands flopped over his head as he rolled back into the wall. “Fine, fine! Roomie, then!” 

“No. Cohabitant.” Kiyoomi felt the words sting in his throat. He didn’t let the strain show. If Atsumi heard the rasp, he at least had the courtesy not to bring that part up. 

“Pretty sure that’s a fancy way to say ‘roomie’,” Atsumu teased. 

Kiyoomi shifted the straps on his face mask, adjusting it as best he could. “I’m sick,” he said, as clearly as he could. 

Atsumu shrugged just as plainly. “And?”

“You could catch it.” 

Atsumu shook his head, and his wrist. “Nah. I don’t catch; I serve.”

There was something so casual about Atsumu’s blatantly incorrect statement that Kiyoomi couldn’t help but understand. “My mistake. I forgot. Idiots don’t catch colds.” 

“Yeah, yeah. That, too.” Atsumu started to nod proudly. That pride was so instinctive, it took until the third nod for him to sit up and snap, “Hey, wait!”

“For what?” Kiyoomi asked, his voice dry. Atsumu wasn’t impressed. 

“Don’t insult me for a favor! I help you heal up, you’ll still get to play!” 

Atsumu’s point was fair enough that Kiyoomi didn’t argue. He also didn’t agree. True as it might be, it didn’t feel like a favor. 

Kiyoomi wasn’t used to sharing rooms at the team hotel. It was set up fairly decently, except for the futons. When Kiyoomi stepped inside, both mattresses were already laid out. He assumed the disarray was Atsumu’s work. 

Kiyoomi fought his own urge to throw the second futon out into the hallway. Of all the things wrong with Atsumu, Kiyoomi didn’t know him to be a liar. That meant the coach agreed. If the choice was between having a roommate and not getting cleared to play, that choice was, unfortunately, clear. 

“It’s too close,” Kiyoomi muttered at the futons, speaking quietly enough no one else should’ve heard him complain. Atsumu turned into the sound, nonetheless. 

“Close to what?”

“Me.” 

Kiyoomi leaned against the wall. He pressed his sleeve against his nose, holding his mask even closer. He strained to speak past the scratch in his throat. 

“Put it there,” Kiyoomi ordered, as clearly as he could. It wasn’t enough to keep Atsumu from squinting. 

“Put what where?” 

Kiyoomi didn’t say. He pointed at the futon like he was trying to stab it from a distance. Then, he gestured towards the next door. Atsumu blinked, still confused. “You want your bed in the closet?” 

“No. Bath.”

Atsumu squinted. 

“I don’t think that’s the kind of exposure the doc was looking for. You seeing me naked.” Atsumu paused, like he was considering it. He tapped a thumb against his chin. “Well, you could—“

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” 

Kiyoomi forced a breath. He swallowed the soreness. “Separate rooms,” he said, as clearly as he could. “That’s what I want.” 

“Nope! Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me. That, or a doctor, and there’s a lot worse stuff for you in a hospital,” Atsumu taunted him in a tease. “All that coughing. And breathing…” 

Kiyoomi’s stare stayed flat, unimpressed. “You’re breathing.” 

“Sure. They breathe more.” Kiyoomi’s expression didn’t budge. Atsumu raised a brow. “If you think I’m that bad, I can get someone else to stay,” Atsumu dismissed. “I could get Bokuto. He said he’d do it. I’ll go room with Hinata. We’ll have a slumber party! And you–” 

Kiyoomi threw a pillow at Atsumu’s head. Atsumu chucked it right back. Kiyoomi caught the deflection. The pillow flopped. His expression fell with it. “Go to bed.”

“How? You took my pillow.” 

Kiyoomi pointed towards the door. “Leave.”

Suddenly, the choice between not playing and putting up with Atsumu felt a lot less clear. 

Atsumu crossed his arms, clearly thinking. His head tilted to the side. At the end of that thought, he pointed back to Kiyoomi. 

“My head’s been on that, you know. You’re pretty much touching me. Indirect head pat.”

Absurd as the thought was, the suggestion made Kiyoomi look down. A straw yellow hair stuck to the pillow, a single, straight line of evidence that Atsumu was telling the truth, again. 

An instinctive shudder ran through Kiyoomi’s spine. He launched the pillow across the room. Atsumu sprang into the way to catch it. His shoulders knocked against a lamp.

“Hey!” Atsumu shouted. “Watch the glass! You could’ve broken that!”

“With a pillow?” Kiyoomi asked dryly. 

“You don’t know what’s in that pillow!” 

Somehow, Kiyoomi’s stare found enthusiasm to lose. His gaze turned from flat to flatter. Though he could have guessed pillow fillings and played along, he settled for a stare. “Watch your back.”

Atsumu didn’t get the message. “Nah. You watch my back! It’s a good back! Nice view.” Before Kiyoomi could point out just how absurd that sounded, Atsumu kept talking. “Besides. That’s what teammates do. We watch out for each other.”

Kiyoomi’s suspicions stuck. “Right. Teammates,” he repeated, less assured than sore. He wasn’t sure what he’d done in a past life that made his teammates this exhausting. “What do I have to do for you to leave?” 

“Nothing!” Atsumu said proudly. “I won’t!” 

If the volume of Atsumu’s shouting wasn’t an issue, then what he said sure was. “You know, that’s called home invasion.” 

Atsumu shook his head. “No, it’s not. You’re not at home.” 

The fact that the statement was technically true made Kiyoomi’s head pound all the more. He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Get better, then,” Atsumu added. “Show me you only need me on the court. That’d do it.” 

“I don’t need you.” 

“Great! Prove it.” 

The fact that Atsumu sounded so cheerful about it made it all the more frustrating that Kiyoomi didn’t know how he could prove something so obvious. He grabbed all of the bedding he could fit in his arms. His pillow squished into his chest. “I’ll take the tub.”

“Take it, where?” Atsumu asked. The question was so ridiculous, Kiyoomi assumed it was sarcastic until he saw the alarm on Atsumu’s face. He didn’t bother to clarify, though, shutting the bathroom door, then locking it, without another word. 

He was, unfortunately, the only one to understand the ‘silent’ part of this exchange.

Atsumu kept on staring. It took the latch flipping for his thoughts to click, too. “Hey, wait! Omi!”

Kiyoomi sat down by the tub. Atsumu pounded on the door. Kiyoomi saw the frame shake. He didn’t move. 

“Omi-omi! Stop!” Atsumu’s voice called through the cracks. “What if I need to pee?” 

Kiyoomi didn’t answer that. He burrowed inside his blanket, climbed in the tub, and laid down. 

—— 

The next few away matches went the same way. Kiyoomi lost his private room privileges. At each stop they made, he was paired to stay with Atsumu. At best, it was an invasion of Kiyoomi’s space, and a disruption in routine. Unfortunately, things didn’t stay ‘at best’.

Atsumu used a single towel. He didn’t keep on his side of the room. He touched the same door handles, and turned the faucet on with his fingers, and grabbed the soap with his bare hand, not a washcloth. At one point, he’d left his laundry directly on the floor. When Kiyoomi tried to bring it up, Atsumu just smiled. 

“It’s progress!” 

“It’s being a slob.” 

“A helpful slob.” Atsumu folded his arms across his chest, his pride clear. It only made Kiyoomi’s stare dull. 

“It’s underwear,” Kiyoomi said. “It’s not helpful.” 

Atsumu sent Kiyoomi a look. What it meant, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure. “Oh, that? It helps way more than you know.” From the tone in Atsumu’s voice, all but begging Kiyoomi to ask, he could tell he didn’t want to know. 

He turned his back to Atsumu and headed out of the hotel, desperate for some personal space. Atsumu followed two steps behind, giving him none of it. The lack of distance alone was reason for Kiyoomi to snap. “Why are you like this?”

“Good question!” Atsumu raised one hand. He lowered his fingers one by one. “Solid looks. Stable family. My folks have a good marriage, even.”

Kiyoomi wasn’t impressed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not bird poop. You can stand me.” Kiyoomi’s expression didn’t budge. Atsumu’s did. Atsumu laughed at himself. “Ok, fine. You almost stand me. You sit me.” 

Kiyoomi thought better of it than to mention how that sounded. His judgment stuck in his stare well enough.

“Why are you even helping me? If this could even be called ‘helping’.” As far as Kiyoomi had felt so far, it was closer to torment than assistance—but that didn’t mean Atsumu meant it that way. It was an inconvenience at best for Atsumu to stay with him. Kiyoomi doubted this was his best. 

Atsumu shrugged. “We’re teammates. Why wouldn’t I help?”

“I have other teammates.” 

A rare second of silence crossed between them. For a moment, Kiyoomi wondered if his reasonable questions could have broken through. 

Atsumu’s hand pressed behind his neck. His eyes shifted just off center, close enough to see Kiyoomi, yet just adrift enough not to meet his eye. If Kiyoomi didn’t know better, he might’ve mistaken it for concern. 

“Does it matter why I’m here for you? ‘Cause I’m here. You can’t stop me,” Atsumu said, instead. 

“Yes, I could.” 

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine. I’m helping, cause I want to. That’s enough, right?”

“No,” Kiyoomi said just as flatly. “I wouldn’t do that for you.” 

“Yes, you would. If I needed a favor, you’d be there.” Atsumu didn’t speak like he was arguing; he spoke it like a fact. “You’d act like you wouldn’t help to fake me out. You’d hate it the whole time. But, you’d show up for me. I know it. You’re as in on a win as anyone. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t fight through it like that.” 

Kiyoomi could guess what Atsumu meant. His only defense was ignorance. “Fight through what?”

“You know.” Atsumu barely finished speaking before the wrong thought seemed to click. “Did you want it to be special? Like, I’d only help if it was you?” 

The “no” Kiyoomi answered was as harsh as he could make it. Atsumu ignored that. 

“Do you wanna take a bath?” 

The subject changed so abruptly, Kiyoomi didn’t understand. “In general? Yes.” 

“Great! Let’s go!”

“Go?” Kiyoomi repeated, still confused. “Go where?”

“The bath!” 

It would have been easier to accept if Atsumu was being sarcastic. He wasn’t. “Sounds like a good first step, right? I’ll wash your hair.”

“No. You won’t.”

“Or, I won’t!”

The more Atsumu seemed to accept Kiyoomi’s suggestions, the more Kiyoomi’s suspicions swelled. “Are you trying to get me naked?” 

It should have been an easy denial. Kiyoomi expected the implication would make Atsumu back off. Instead, he looked forward. “Would that bug you? Like, you’d care what I think?” 

Somehow, Kiyoomi found new disapproval to stress “ no.” It still wasn’t enough to stop Atsumu.

“You care that much about what I think, huh?” Atsumu teased. “You like me that much?”

The more Atsumu spoke, the more convinced Kiyoomi became that there were infectious diseases he liked more than this man. He kept that to himself, and settled on another “no.”

“Then, just take a bath with me. It shouldn’t matter that you’re naked! You don’t like me!”

Whatever warped logic Atsumu thought he was following, Kiyoomi could only ask, “You get naked with people you don’t like?”

For one merciful second, that shut Atsumu up. It didn’t last. 

“Okay. Okay. That’s too much. Let’s try dinner, then!” 

Kiyoomi didn’t argue. He picked up his phone, and started to type. He barely opened the delivery app before Atsumu leaned over his shoulder. 

“I mean with everyone.” Kiyoomi’s stare sunk, the rings under his eyes turning deeper. He barely started to lock eyes with Atsumu before Atsumu kept talking. “Your mask came off. That means you’re feeling better, right? You should be up to dinner, too.” Atsumu opened the door. He waved, beckoning Kiyoomi. “C’mon!” 

As much as Kiyoomi didn’t mean to admit it, he’d turned a corner—if not metaphorically, then at least literally. “Fine.” 

Kiyoomi followed half a step behind Atsumu, down the winding path. As shaded as it was, or as unsteady as the stones were, Kiyoomi didn’t take Atsumu’s hand. He watched the shadows and his step, moving with care. The shadows watched back. 

A blur passed in front of Kiyoomi. Something scattered by his feet. 

Kiyoomi backed up. He flipped his phone into flashlight mode and recoiled. 

Atsumu, meanwhile, barely bothered to blink. “You good?”

“I saw …something.” What that something was, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure. 

Kiyoomi turned his phone. The beam ran across the walkway, searching the stones for a sign of that something. Something saw him right back. 

A rat stood on the pathway, directly across from Kiyoomi. The beads of its eyes flashed white in the light. Kiyoomi barely processed the sight before he took another step. His heel rocked against a crack in the stone. 

“Oh, look at that—“ Atsumu pointed, casual as could be. “Don’t see many of those.” 

The rat tilted its head, its whiskers twitching. Kiyoomi backed up—and pushed Atsumu in front of him.  

Atsumu turned his head over his shoulder, still casual. “What’s up, back there? I make a good meat shield?” 

Kiyoomi kept himself behind Atsumu, stepping to the right. The rat did the same,  the black beads of its gaze stuck on Kiyoomi. 

“It’s looking at me.” 

“Yeah. So are you.” The way Atsumu spoke, he seemed just amused enough for it to be unclear if he was joking. 

Atsumu started to duck. Kiyoomi held tighter. He followed the bob, and did the same.

Atsumu snatched a pebble from the cobblestone. He tossed it over both of them, into a wall, directly behind the rat. The wall shook. The rat dashed into the bushes, the leaves rattling in its wake. 

Kiyoomi froze in place, his hands stiff on Atsumu’s back, his posture worse. He couldn’t see where the rat had gone. All he knew was that the leaves were shaking, and that he pulled Atsumu in the way.

Atsumu took a breath. “There! That’s better.” 

Kiyoomi stared ahead, less sure. “That’s the restaurant.” 

“It is? Looked like a bush, to me.” 

“No. Behind it. That’s the restaurant.” 

The bush wasn’t shaking. The leaves had gone still. As far as Kiyoomi could tell, there weren’t any signs left that the rat was in the plant. It was far more likely to be in the building, and thus, in the exact same place they were about to go for food. 

If Kiyoomi hadn’t already stopped walking, he would have, now. “I’m not eating there.” 

Atsumu snickered. “Why not? It could be Remytouille in there.” 

“Ratatouille.” 

“Bless you,” Atsumu said, too sincere. 

“Not a sneeze.” 

Kiyoomi started to step back, his hands leaving Atsumu’s shoulders. It wasn’t until he retracted himself that he realized what he’d done. In the panic of seeing the rat, he’d touched Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi kept his hands in front of himself, frozen in realization. He watched his fingers as if they’d detached from his body completely. 

Atsumu turned to face Kiyoomi, the same realization settling in. Where Kiyoomi looked horrified, Atsumu’s eyes lit up, instead. He reached past Kiyoomi’s hands to shake his shoulder. “Hey! Look at that! Good job! You touched me!”

“In self-defense.” 

“Still touching!”

Kiyoomi turned his shoulder and leaned back, retracting himself. “Not, now.” 

“Whatever! You don’t need self-defense. I’ll defend you! The big, bad rats are no match for me!” 

The sheer joy Atsumu seemed to get in posturing about this made Kiyoomi all the more sour. “One rat,” Kiyoomi corrected him. “One time.” 

“One time still counts! It counts to one. And you survived!” 

“No, I didn’t,” Kiyoomi said, unconvincingly.

Atsumu ignored that Kiyoomi had spoken completely. “You’ll do me again!” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Yeah, cause I did.”

“I didn’t ‘do you’.”

The phrase felt stiff when Kiyoomi said it. Atsumu snickered. It didn’t help. “Are you dying? You look like you’re dying.”

“We’re all dying.”

“Dying fast, then.” Atsumu smiled. “You’re death-dying. I’m hair dying. That’s different.”

“Badly.”

“The rat thinks otherwise.”

The way Atsumu smiled was too bright to look at closely. Kiyoomi turned his back. His expression stayed flat. His mood dropped with it. “I’m going to bed.”

Atsumu clapped his hands. “Great! Take me with you!”

Kiyoomi turned his head. His gaze flattened. “Alone.”

Atsumu stretched an arm into a flail. “Omi-omiiii—“Atsumu’s fingertip brushed Kiyoomi’s wrist. 

Kiyoomi pulled back. “Stop.”

“But, Omi—“

The playful whine cut short. Kiyoomi grabbed Atsumu’s wrist. “I mean it. Stop.” 

Atsumu’s hand stuck in place. He stopped trying to reach Kiyoomi. His smile stretched even further, new pride rising in. “You touched me again. You know that, right?” 

Atsumu shook his wrist, calling attention to his hand. Kiyoomi stepped backwards, moving well out of Atsumu’s reach. 

It took longer than Kiyoomi meant to spare for him to remember how to speak. “It’s your fault.” 

Atsumu’s expression barely cracked. His lip curled. “Oh, no. How will I ever take responsibility for basic human contact?” 

“You could get your own room.” Kiyoomi started to walk past Atsumu, back towards his own room. Just as his foot raised, the rat ran across the pathway. 

Kiyoomi’s instincts pulled him back, retracting straight into the Atsumu. He grabbed Atsumu by his waist and shoved him back in the way. 

Atsumu laughed, stumbling back into place as the human barricade. He raised a hand in a wave.  “Oh. Hey, buddy—“

Kiyoomi glowered. “Don’t encourage it!” 

The rat vanished against the wall. Where it ended up this time, Kiyoomi couldn’t tell. He couldn’t guess how to avoid it and get back inside. 

Kiyoomi kept Atsumu one step ahead of him as they marched back towards the room. His hands stayed planted on Atsumu, one on his back, the other on his shoulder, if only to use Atsumu as a shield. Atsumu blocked the path ahead. The path turned brighter. It wasn’t long before they were safely back inside. Kiyoomi kept Atsumu in place, directly ahead of him; the person-shaped blockade kept Kiyoomi safe. It also kept Kiyoomi from seeing just who else was coming. 

The lack of sight didn’t stop Kiyoomi from knowing the voice. 

“Don’t you want meat? After a practice like that, you gotta have meat!” Bokuto shouted, as if this was some absolute truth. 

Hinata argued right back. “But, fish is meat! Sea meat!”

Whatever blathering they’d been doing, they weren’t watching close enough to keep from running into them. Atsumu stopped, first. He raised his hand. “Hey, guys!” 

Bokuto and Hinata stopped dead. Their looks froze. “Oh, my God–” 

From the way Bokuto was staring, it looked like he’d walked into something obscene. The collar of the hotel bathrobe puffed around him. The sleeve flared as he jabbed into a point. 

“You touched him!” Bokuto shouted, pointing harder, as if his finger alone could stab through him. “You’re touching him, on his skin! That’s like third base for you, right?!” 

It wasn’t until Kiyoomi heard the horror that he understood. As far as his teammates understood him, this was something obscene. Kiyoomi snapped his hand behind his back. He rubbed his palm against the robe. His skin crawled. 

Hinata smiled. “Congratulations!” 

“For what?” Kiyoomi felt himself shrink. 

However much he meant to look away, Atsumu faced forward. He raised his hand. “Thanks!” 

Hinata turned towards Kiyoomi and Atsumu. His smile stuck, excited as could be. “You’re dating, right? That’s why you’ve got his hand, like–?” 

Kiyoomi didn’t listen to the rest. He pulled his hand behind his back. “Rats.” 

Bokuto covered his mouth with his hand. He cackled. “Hoh hoh, thwarted again!” 

The mocking tone of the laughter was enough for Kiyoomi’s expression to sour. “No. Literally, rats. There’s rats in the garden.” 

Bokuto pointedly ignored this. He raised his hand in a swat, his hand arcing towards Kiyoomi to try and slap him on the back. Kiyoomi ducked. Bokuto did, however, hook his arm around Atsumu. “You’d better take responsibility and marry that boy!” Bokuto joked. “You touched his wrist! Total scandal!” 

Kiyoomi walked away. “I’m going to bed.”

If his teammates said a word, Kiyoomi didn’t stop to hear it. Before his brain could process a sound, he shut the door. He set the chain from inside, then the latch, locking himself in completely. 

It only took a few seconds for someone to knock. 

“Omi!” Atsumu pounded his fist. The doorframe shook with the impact. It didn’t give.  “Omi-omi, oxen free!” 

Kiyoomi considered asking what that was supposed to mean. He thought better, and stepped back. It wasn’t quite far enough to keep from hearing Hinata, too. 

“Did you get locked out?”

What Atsumu did, Kiyoomi couldn’t tell. He only heard him in triumph.

“Nah. I can’t get locked out. I’ve got a key!” 

Kiyoomi could guess what came next before it happened. 

Atsumu put his key into the doorknob. The first lock turned, the latch coming undone. Atsumu cracked the door open. The doorknob turned. The hinges squeaked. The chain snagged.

“Huh—“

Atsumu pulled on the door. The chain pulled right back, snapping the door into place. It jingled as Atsumu shook it, trying, and failing, to knock the chain loose. On the third pull, Atsumu flicked the chain. He stepped back.

“I can’t get locked out!” Atsumu repeated. “There’s a window!” 

It was such a horrible idea, Kiyoomi answered through the crack. “You won’t fit.”

“Not with that attitude!” Bokuto added, popping up behind both of them. 

Kiyoomi stared back, flat and unblinking. “Windows lock.”

Bokuto met his stare, without any hesitation. “Sure, sure. They break, too!” 

The implication was so strikingly dumb, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but add. “My card’s in the room. You break something, they’ll charge me.”

Atsumu grinned, as if Bokuto’s brazen stupidity had been part of his plan all along. “Well, then. You’d better let me in, yeah?”

In any other circumstance, it would have been against Kiyoomi’s better interest to move. In this one, he unlatched the door. The chain fell against the doorframe, loose and clinking. 

Bokuto ran towards the door, his arms outstretched. “Woo! Group hug!”

Kiyoomi grabbed Atsumu, and only Atsumu, by the collar of his robe. “No.” Before anyone could argue, Kiyoomi pulled Atsumu in with him. He shut the door. 

Bokuto knocked on the other side. “Hey! Out here!” 

Atsumu stood upright. He looked down, towards the bunch in his shirt, and the hand holding it. “Huh. Look at that,” he marveled. “We’re touching again.” 

“That’s not you. It’s the bathrobe,” Kiyoomi corrected. 

“Eh. Still touching.”

“I washed the bathrobes. Twice.”

However Kiyoomi corrected him, Atsumu stayed unconvinced. “It’s been outside. Still counts,” he dismissed. “Slow progress is progress, too.”

Kiyoomi felt his stomach drop, dread settling. To his absolute horror, something Atsumu said made sense. He vowed never to tell him that. 

“Can I pat your head, now?” Atsumu asked. 

Kiyoomi stared back. “No.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll pat you, later. I’ll shower, first.”

While Kiyoomi said “no”, he could see Atsumu thinking—and be absolutely sure he wouldn’t like what he said. 

“Wait! We haven’t eaten yet.” 

As far as Atsumu’s suggestions went, that one wasn’t that bad. Kiyoomi let out a breath. “I’ll order.”

“From where? You going back to Chef Remy’s?” 

“No. Delivery.” It wasn’t until Kiyoomi finished speaking that he realized he didn’t know what Atsumu was talking about. He didn’t get to ask. 

Atsumu pointed at the door. “I could go grab it, if you won’t lock that again.”

The suggestion was so clear, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but answer. “That could happen.”

“Sure. And you could go to hell.”

“You’re assuming hell’s real.”

”You think I can’t make it real?” The way Atsumu spoke, he almost seemed serious. Worse, Kiyoomi could almost believe him. At the end of that stare, Kiyoomi faced Atsumu, just as clearly. “So, stay. If you’re here, I can’t change my mind.”

“About what?” 

The way Atsumu asked, he was either oblivious, or pretending to be. Whichever it was, Kiyoomi reached out. His pinkie brushed the back of Atsumu’s hand. It was barely a poke, but it was something.

The way Atsumu moved, he looked ready to jump up and hug him. Kiyoomi leaned back. 

“It’s a finger,” Kiyoomi said, as dryly as he could. “Don’t get too excited.” 

Atsumu squirmed all the more. “But, it’s your finger!” Just as Kiyoomi feared, Atsumu’s arms flung wide. He sprung into a would-be embrace, practically shouting. “Can we hug?” 

“No. Not yet.” If Kiyoomi put any more strength in that denial, he would have cracked his voice. 

Atsumu’s brow raised with it. “Yet?” The way he repeated the word, he seemed to barely understand it. Unfortunately, he’d heard it just enough. 

Atsumu let go completely. Where he could have been touching Kiyoomi, instead, he grabbed his own head. He pulled at his hair, locked in shock. “Oh my God, I should marry you!” 

The enthusiasm behind that conclusion only made Kiyoomi more tempted to sigh. He stared at the back of Atsumu’s head, his eyes as blank as possible. “You should date first. Don’t jump right to marriage.” 

However dry the suggestion was, it did, unfortunately, sound like a suggestion. 

Atsumu let go of himself, too. His hair stuck in spikes, looking as shocked as the rest of him as he added. “You’re so right, Omi-omi! Let’s date, too!” 

Kiyoomi stared into the distance, his gaze growing more hollow by the second. Whatever it was he could have said, it was eclipsed by understanding. He knew what he heard–and he knew it too well. Whatever else it could have been, he only had one conclusion that mattered. 

“I’m going to bed.” 

Atsumu’s head turned on a swivel, his eyes practically snapping open. “On the first date? That’s forward!”
The eagerness in Atsumu’s tone was all the more reason to sour. “Not with you.” 

Atsumu’s expression wilted. The disappointment was so clear, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but to sigh. “Fine. Five service aces.” 

“Huh?” Atsumu turned to face Kiyoomi clearly.

Kiyoomi didn’t budge. “Get five service aces tomorrow. Go ‘all out’. Then, I’ll go out with you.” 

The light that had left Atsumu’s eyes before snapped right back in place. He pumped his fist in front of himself. “No! I’ll get ten! I’ll service you better than anyone! You’ll see!” 

There was a chance that Atsumu’s terrible phrasing was intentional. If it was, Kiyoomi didn’t take the bait. He was too tired. 

Kiyoomi laid down on the futon. His head was pounding. Each throb was so strong, he felt the comforter shake. 

The futons should have been evenly spaced, as far apart on the bedroom floor as there was room to put them. There was a gap between Atsumu’s futon and the wall. It was clear from the space that Atsumu was laying closer than they’d agreed to be. 

Another night, Kiyoomi would have told him to move it. Today, Kiyoomi watched. He let Atsumu stay a few inches closer, beside him. 

Atsumu rolled on his side, staying beside him. “You wanna watch something?” 

“No.” Unfortunately, he already was watching something. Where Kiyoomi could have watched TV, he watched his teammate instead. 

Atsumu seemed to understand. He also didn’t respect it. “Great. Game tape, then.” Atsumu leaned off the bed, enough to grab the remote. He shifted the settings on the DVD player, and muttered to himself the whole time. “I’m gonna show you. Five aces? Psh. Like I’ll stop there. Tomorrow, it’s all service aces. You won’t even touch the ball. If you score tomorrow, it’s gonna be with me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Kiyoomi said dryly.

“Already did.” 

The TV turned blank, still lit, but loading. Kiyoomi didn’t watch the screen. Atsumu settled back in place. He leaned against the wall, leaving distance for Kiyoomi—present, but close. 

The recording loaded. The TV turned bright, stuck in the slightly crooked angle of covert camcorder footage from the sideline of a game he hadn’t seen. Their next opponent’s uniforms stood out instantly, the electric green so bright it practically burned into the screen. 

Kiyoomi paused, considering. There was no reason he had to move–but also no reason he had to stay still. 

At the end of his silent debate, he raised his hand towards Atsumu’s head. His fingers brushed Atsumu’s hair fleetingly, not long enough to touch it, but enough to tell it was soft. Considering the color, Kiyoomi thought it would be coarser. 

Atsumu felt the brush. He ducked. 

“Oh, my god.” Atsumu raised his hands, too. He gripped his hair on either side. “Oh my god. Is the rat back?” 

“No.” 

“Then, did you touch me?” Atsumu asked. “You touched me. On purpose?” 

Kiyoomi put his hand down. He hid his hand under the comforter and lied. 

“No.” 

“Then, what was it?” Atsumu asked. Kiyoomi didn’t say. 

It was his own fault that he had to endure this. For the next six months of the volleyball season, if not more, he’d be stuck with Atsumu’s stupidity. As much as Kiyoomi would never admit it, there wasn’t a better kind of stupid to find. This was the best of a list of bad scenarios. 

They were far from the next match. They weren’t even a good match. Even so, Kiyoomi could understand how they would win. 

Atsumu raised his hands in victory. “Who knew the key was bribery, huh?” he asked like he was boasting. 

Kiyoomi bore his stare into Atsumu’s skull. “Shove it.” 

“Oh, shove you? Gladly! Or, better, hug you. You couldn’t stop me.” 

“Yes, I could.” 

“Nope. You can’t. It’s the treatment plan.” 

Kiyoomi held back a sigh. He settled in as best he could, lying down across the bed. He turned onto his shoulder, towards the TV and the game. A wave of warmth rose up Kiyoomi’s neck, then settled in his cheeks. He didn’t mention it. If Kiyoomi gave any sign he wasn’t at his best, there was a chance Atsumu might assume he was sick again. 

If Kiyoomi was honest with himself, he probably was sick–just not in a way that could get better, and certainly not better because of Atsumu. If anything, he’d make it worse. 

Kiyoomi turned his head against the pillow, catching a cool spot on his cheek. His breath felt short. His pulse was racing. The hotel room felt like a blur. He was far from being in optimal condition, stuck in the kind of sickness Kiyoomi thought he knew better than to catch. Now that he had, there was a chance it would be chronic. 

Kiyoomi resigned himself to whatever sickness let him stand Atsumu–or even worse, to like him. Even when it felt like he was dying, he’d have to live with that.