Chapter Text
The hotel alarm went off like it was mad at them.
Rintarou flinched, burrowed deeper into the duvet, and resented the sun for existing. His throat was a scratchy field of cacti; his nose had declared a national state of emergency. He sat up slow, hair crushed into a soft halo, black glasses crooked, oversized black knit sliding off one shoulder like it was trying to abandon ship.
“C’mere,” Osamu said from the other bed, voice like warm toast. He was already dressed (…if a black tank, low-slung wide pants, and too many rings counted as “dressed”), tying a bandana around his wrist. He looked like a man who could win a fight and then cook breakfast using only a lighter.
Rintarou scooted across the gap into Osamu’s lap without thinking, all sleepy and heavy. “I’m still sick,” he croaked into the tank top.
“Yeah,” Osamu murmured, palm big and hot between Rin’s shoulder blades. “And yer still comin’ because my brother bribed ya with churros.”
“Can’t even eat churros,” Rintarou mumbled, offended on principle. Celiac life.
“Which is why I made ya onigiri.” Osamu tilted his chin toward a tidy bento by the door: three fat triangles wrapped in parchment, labeled RIN with a heart. “Tuna-mayo, salmon, ume. GF soy packets. We’re not dyin’ on Mickey’s watch.”
Rintarou blinked at the little heart, then at Osamu, then hid his face again. “Shameless.”
“Accurate,” Osamu said, and kissed his hair.
The bathroom door opened with a blast of steam and fragrance-free sanitizer. Kiyoomi came out buttoning the cuffs of a pale blue dress shirt, trousers clean lines, black leather shoes mirror-bright. He looked like a brand campaign titled Date a Responsible Man. He also looked like he’d fought God and won because his fiancé had used his toothbrush cap for a hair gel spatula.
“Are we ready,” he asked, neutral as a knife.
Atsumu burst through the connecting door before anyone could answer.
“NO WE ARE NOT,” he announced, pink-and-yellow sweater draped over a white long sleeve, wide white pants swishing around his sneakers, headphones around his neck like a crown. “Samu’s half-naked. Rin looks like an indie poet with pneumonia. And Omi, babe, ya look like you’re doing my taxes. We aren’t even matching, not one bit!”
“Were we supposed ta?” Osamu asked, genuinely curious.
Atsumu clutched his chest. “I made a mood board!”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, ATSU. YOU FORCED ME HERE SICK,” Rintarou growled, hoarse, which only made him sound more like a gremlin trying to be threatening.
Kiyoomi pointed at Rintarou like a traffic cop. “Stay two feet away from me.”
Rintarou took a dramatic step back and threw his hands up. “You heard the emperor.”
Atsumu’s eyes glistened. “Yer so brave for comin’ even sick…”
“I’m brave for dating your twin,” Rintarou corrected.
Osamu slid him a mask. “Up, trouble.”
Rintarou looped it over his ears, sniffled, and tried to glare through watery eyes. He ended up looking like an irritated kitten.
“Adorable,” Osamu said, shameless, and kissed the edge of the mask anyway.
Kiyoomi offered a travel pack of tissues with a sigh that said I am someone’s father. “Blow. Hydrate. We’re leaving in six minutes.”
Atsumu, instantly soothed by being given clear tasks, saluted with his water bottle. “Aye-aye, Captain Dad.”
“Don’t,” Kiyoomi said.
They made it down to the lobby with only three near-disasters: Atsumu tripped over his own wide pants, Rintarou forgot his phone on the credenza (Osamu retrieved it with the resigned speed of a man used to this), and Kiyoomi had to physically turn ATSUMU around so he wouldn’t hug the man spraying the revolving door handles.
“Boundaries,” Kiyoomi said. “He’s working.”
“I respect him,” Atsumu said, eyes wet.
They trained it out to Maihama, the ride a blur of announcements and Rintarou’s head thumping softly against Osamu’s shoulder in a nap. Osamu ran one hand through bedhead curls and stared out the window like a smug cat in the sun. Across the aisle, Atsumu was attempting to play “guess the song” through his headphones; every time Kiyoomi guessed right, Atsumu kissed his cheek like a prize machine dispensing tokens.
By the time the monorail curved past the big white castle, all four of them had uncoiled a little. The world was shiny and ridiculous and tidy. Kiyoomi could work with tidy. Atsumu pressed both palms to the window and fogged it like a golden retriever. Osamu took one look at the Mickey-shaped hand straps and whispered, “I could fight a mouse.”
Rintarou blinked at the castle, glass fogging under his mask, and thought, traitorously: I want pictures of us here. I want to keep this.
He texted Akaashi.
Suna: teach me later how to write nice
Akaashi: Of course. Proud of you already.
Rintarou put the phone away quickly before he could cry about literacy on public transit.
The plaza outside the gates was a festival of squeals and popcorn smell, and Atsumu stopped dead, grabbed the air dramatically, and declared, “I am gonna be the cutest person in this entire park.”
“You’re already the loudest,” Kiyoomi said, tugging him out of pedestrian traffic.
An attendant scanned their tickets; Atsumu bounced in place. “CAN THEY SEE THE CASTLE FROM HERE? Oh my god—Rin, look! It’s like a giant cake!”
Rintarou looked. “I will eat the castle.”
Kiyoomi handed him a small bottle of water. “You will drink that and not die.”
Inside the gate, a Cast Member with perfect bangs chirped, “Welcome! Do you want celebratory buttons?” She held up a tray of small badges. Happy Unbirthday! First Visit! Happiest Celebration!
Atsumu gasped. “Rin. RIN. We gotta get ya a First Visit!”
Rintarou stared at the sharpie like it was a weapon. “Mm… I can’t—”
“I’ll do it,” Kiyoomi said smoothly, taking the marker. He printed RIN in neat, straight strokes, then added a tiny rice ball doodle. He did a second one that read ATSUMU—LOUD and stuck it on Atsumu’s chest before Atsumu could catch him.
Atsumu burst out laughing and then crying. “I love you.”
Kiyoomi pretended to adjust his cuffs so he didn’t have to say anything for a second. “I know.”
Osamu asked for a button, too, and wrote PROPERTY OF RIN in his own fast scrawl. He stuck it high on his tank like a dare and grinned when Rintarou made a choked noise.
“Shameless,” Rin whispered again.
“Accurate,” Osamu said again.
“Okay,” Kiyoomi said. “Plan.”
“NO PLAN,” Atsumu said. “Vibes!”
“Plan,” Kiyoomi repeated. “Vibes will get us norovirus.”
Rintarou peered at the park map and its dense paragraphs. The letters felt like a forest he could not walk through. He let the paper fold back in on itself and tilted his head toward the sound of excited children instead. “Follow the screaming,” he suggested.
“That’s literally my nightmare,” Kiyoomi said.
“Pirates first?” Osamu offered. “Shade, boats, I can cuddle ya in the dark.”
“You can’t swim,” Atsumu reminded him.
“I can hold onto the side real good.”
Rintarou, already drifting toward the smell of water and the promise of low light, nodded. “Pirates.”
They wound through the queue, Rintarou leaning full-body against Osamu like he was trying to merge with him. Osamu kept one arm wrapped around Rin’s waist, thumb rubbing circles into the sweatshirt hem, possessive and calm. Atsumu took about thirty photos of nothing (a lantern, a fake rope, his own shoe) and narrated each one to Kiyoomi like a tour guide to a blind man.
“This one’s us being adventurous,” he said, showing a blurry picture of a barrel.
Kiyoomi took the phone, binned the photo, and kissed the top of Atsumu’s head. “There. Better.”
They got a back-row seat. The air turned blessedly cool and smelled like chlorinated stories. As the boat slipped under the arch and into the dim, Rintarou let his forehead drop to Osamu’s shoulder.
“‘m awake,” he said.
“I know,” Osamu murmured. “I got ya.”
Gunshots. Laughter. Firelight on painted water. Rintarou felt like a tumbleweed rolling through someone else’s dream: safe, wrong century, obsessed with the way Osamu’s heartbeat felt against his ear.
Atsumu shrieked at every skeleton (“HE’S DEAD, OMI, LOOK, HE’S DEAD”), then apologized to the skeleton for yelling. Kiyoomi whispered, “He can’t hear you,” and squeezed Atsumu’s knee.
When the boat slid back into daylight, Rintarou sat up blinking, mask damp, and decided he could make it another hour. “That was… nice,” he said, hoarse.
“Yer nice,” Osamu said. “Next: hats.”
“What.”
“Hats,” Osamu repeated, already herding him into a shop.
The hat shop was a pastel battlefield: fuzzy ear headbands, caps with little plush characters glued to them, visors shaped like ducks. Atsumu put on a pink sequined bow, looked in the mirror, and announced, “It’s me. I’m her.”
Kiyoomi sighed, bought it, and, without breaking eye contact, turned the bow around so it faced the back. “You’re not blinding the parade with that.”
Osamu disappeared for a second and returned with a Donald Duck hat that looked like it had been designed by a mischievous god: blue cap, white plush face, orange bill.
“Absolutely not,” Rintarou said.
“Put it on,” Osamu said.
“I will look like a fool.”
“Correct.” Osamu slid it over Rin’s curls. “And you’ll be my fool.”
Rintarou stared at himself. The hat stared back. He looked like he’d lose a fight to a bread roll.
Atsumu burst into ugly laughter. “Rin—oh my god—”
Kiyoomi’s mouth twitched. “Keep it.”
“He looks cute,” Osamu said, smug, and kissed Rin’s cheek right beneath the plush bill.
“Public indecency,” Rintarou muttered, but he didn’t take the hat off.
Kiyoomi let himself get talked into a plain black cap with a tiny embroidered white glove. Atsumu tried to trade it for Minnie ears. Kiyoomi raised one brow. Atsumu put the ears on himself instead and kissed the air.
They found a bench in the shade near the World Bazaar and opened Osamu’s bento. Rintarou took one bite of a tuna-mayo onigiri, closed his eyes, and made a noise that Osamu was absolutely going to bring up in future arguments.
“Good?” Osamu asked, pretending he didn’t know.
Rintarou nodded with reverence. “Religion.”
Atsumu watched like a documentary host narrating a rare animal feeding. “Look at him,” he whispered. “Thrivin’.”
Kiyoomi handed out individually packed wet wipes like communion wafers. “Hands first. Don’t touch your face. Don’t feed the birds.”
A sparrow landed on the railing and looked directly at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi stared back like he was considering pressing charges. The sparrow left.
Osamu stole one ume onigiri for himself and got his wrist swatted by Rintarou, who was shockingly fast for a sick person in a hat. “Mine.”
“Gremlin,” Osamu said fondly, and handed over his own.
Atsumu wheedled his way into a churro picture (not into the churro—gluten), then immediately felt bad about eating it in front of Rin, and tried to hide behind Kiyoomi.
“Eat your stick of sugar, dear,” Kiyoomi said, sliding an arm around his waist. “He has rice.”
Rintarou gave a magnanimous nod. “I have rice.”
“See?” Kiyoomi murmured. “Rice King.”
Atsumu made a squeak and kissed Kiyoomi’s jaw. “Yer so supportive.”
“I’m trying to maintain peace,” Kiyoomi said, but his fingers lingered at the hem of Atsumu’s sweater, possessive and easy.
Pooh’s Hunny Hunt was Atsumu’s idea. “It’s cute,” he insisted. “We’re gonna bounce!”
They did bounce. Atsumu screamed like he’d been launched into space every time the honey pot skittered. Rintarou, midway through a fever sweat, giggled uncontrollably at a puppet he decided was named Melvin. Osamu filmed him.
“Delete that,” Rintarou said afterward, breathless.
“Never,” Osamu said. “Gonna play it at our weddin’.”
Rintarou short-circuited. “Bold.”
Kiyoomi steadied Atsumu outside, wiping a smear of fake honey off his cheek with one thumb. “You have… glitter on your face.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu said dreamily. “Love.”
“Glitter,” Kiyoomi corrected, but he didn’t wipe it away.
Big Thunder Mountain came next because Osamu claimed he needed “to feel somethin’.” Rintarou stared at the track and decided that, okay, if he was going to die, at least he’d die in a hat. Osamu tucked him into the seat, arm braced over his shoulders for the first climb, and the entire descent was just Rintarou laughing helplessly and Osamu yelling, “THAT’S MY BOY,” like he was running drills at nationals.
Kiyoomi visually audited the lap bars twice, then made sure Atsumu’s chain stayed tucked; Atsumu, predictably, lifted his hands at the first drop and screamed the entire time while looking sideways to see if Kiyoomi was okay. Kiyoomi was not okay. He was alive. There’s a difference.
It’s a Small World was the apology ride. They needed the air-conditioning and the hypnosis. Rintarou leaned back against Osamu and hummed quietly; Atsumu narrated the outfits (“Tiny lederhosen! Tiny hula!”) until Kiyoomi slid his hand over Atsumu’s mouth and begged for mercy.
Rintarou squinted at the animatronics. “If one of them moves wrong, I will punt it.”
“You will do no such thing,” Kiyoomi said. “We’re not getting banned on Day One.”
“Day Five?” Atsumu asked, hopeful.
“No days,” Kiyoomi said.
They got curb seats because Atsumu insisted and Kiyoomi, despite his protests, had already scouted the least chaotic vantage point with the best exit path. Atsumu made buddies with a five-year-old wearing the same sequined bow; they traded stickers. Rintarou stretched his legs out, head in Osamu’s lap, mask under his chin so he could breathe for a second. Osamu traced a thumb over Rin’s lower lip with the gentleness of a thief.
“Stop,” Rintarou whispered, eyes closed.
“No,” Osamu whispered back.
The parade marched by in a sugar rush: puppets, floats, people in giant heads living their best cardio life. Atsumu waved like he was greeting old friends. He booed (lovingly) at Donald and then immediately apologized to the Donald float for booing.
“Are you crying,” Kiyoomi asked under the music.
“No,” Atsumu lied.
Kiyoomi thumbed away a tear. “Okay.”
A performer dressed as a princess blew a kiss in their general direction; Osamu caught it midair and smushed it into Rintarou’s forehead. Rintarou cracked one eye open. “You just cursed me.”
“Already cursed,” Osamu said, all teeth. “Me.”
They spent sunset wandering the shops under the stained glass of the Bazaar. Atsumu tried on jackets; Kiyoomi checked price tags without blinking and paid anyway because it made his fiancé glow like a sign. Rintarou found a tiny plush of an otter holding a rice ball and stood there holding it like it had spoken his name.
Osamu tugged the tag off and paid in exact change. “That’s us,” he said.
Rintarou glanced up fast, went pink, and stuffed the plush inside his sweatshirt like he was smuggling a baby. “Shut up.”
“Can’t,” Osamu said. “In love.”
Kiyoomi pretended to be looking at mugs. Atsumu pretended not to hear and failed spectacularly, tearing up for the 27th time that day. “Y’all are so soft.”
“Data point,” Kiyoomi said calmly, handing him a fresh pack of tissues.
Rintarou faded hard around seven. The lights turned on along the street and his energy turned off. Kiyoomi noticed first, tapped Osamu, and the two of them executed a practiced sick-boy extraction: mask up, scarf, hands, water, slow bench, onigiri number two.
“Fever?” Kiyoomi asked, palm to Rin’s forehead like a real dad.
“Warm, not scary,” Osamu said, the same way he’d say medium heat, don’t burn the rice.
Rintarou coughed once. “I’m fine. I can do fireworks.”
“You can do bed,” Kiyoomi said.
Atsumu pointed at the castle, lip wobbling. “Fireworks are romantic, Omi.”
Kiyoomi met his eyes, then Rin’s. He exhaled through his nose. “Fifteen minutes, then hotel. Deal.”
“Deal,” all three chorused.
Osamu opened the soup thermos he’d hidden in his tote like a conjurer. He held the lid out; steam curled. Rintarou, who had not asked for soup but clearly needed soup, made a melted noise. “I love you.”
“Soup?” Atsumu asked, betrayed.
“Rice,” Kiyoomi said, as if that explained everything, which it did.
They sat on a low wall with a good view and a fast exit route. Atsumu curled into Kiyoomi’s side, cheek on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his lap like public transportation had ceased to exist. Kiyoomi let him, head tipped against Atsumu’s hair. Osamu stretched out, long legs crossed at the ankle, and settled Rintarou against his chest, broad palm covering Rin’s ribs like he could hold the cough in.
The first crack went up—white bloom blossoming behind the castle spires, gold rain falling. Atsumu inhaled like he’d never seen light before. Kiyoomi, despite himself, felt the small, childish awe of big, controlled explosions and let his mouth soften.
Rintarou watched with half-lidded eyes and decided, very clearly: I want more days like this, even if I complain the whole time. I want more of him.
Osamu pressed a kiss into Rin’s hair and, without looking away from the sky, said, quiet, “Me too.”
“Stop reading my mind,” Rintarou murmured.
“Hard when it’s written on your face.”
“Can’t read.”
Osamu huffed a laugh. “S’fine. I’ll read for ya.”
Kiyoomi pretended not to hear the way Atsumu’s breath hitched at that line. He rubbed circles into Atsumu’s knee, patient and steady, until the last spark burned out and the crowd clapped like a wave.
“Hotel,” Kiyoomi said, decisive.
“Hotel,” Rintarou agreed, already folding like a dying swan onto Osamu.
Atsumu wiped his eyes. “Best day of my whole life.”
“That’s not true,” Kiyoomi said, deadpan, and then, after a beat, softer: “Top three.”
Atsumu beamed.
The train ride back was sleepy. Rintarou nestled under Osamu’s arm and drooled a tiny bit onto his tank top; Osamu looked like he’d been knighted. Atsumu scrolled through the 500 blurry photos he’d taken and favorited 498 of them. Kiyoomi sanitized their hands every time anyone breathed.
At the room, Kiyoomi initiated the drill: shoes by the door, clothes into laundry bags, showers in assigned order (Atsumu had laminated cards; Kiyoomi had laminated the cards), fresh tees. Osamu ordered a kettle and made tea; Rintarou wrapped himself burrito-style and agreed to live.
“Temperature?” Kiyoomi asked, holding up the thermometer like he was offering a mint.
Rintarou presented his ear obediently. Beep. “Thirty-eight flat,” Kiyoomi read, not thrilled.
“I can still do Mario Kart,” Rintarou offered.
“You can do horizontal,” Kiyoomi said.
Atsumu perched on the end of the bed and held Rintarou’s hand. “I’m proud of ya,” he sniffled. “You were so brave on Thunder Mountain.”
“I screamed,” Rintarou admitted.
“So brave,” Atsumu repeated.
Osamu sat on the floor between Rintarou’s knees, forearms up on the mattress, head tipped back to look at him. “I had fun.”
Rintarou touched his cheekbone with one finger. “Me too.”
Kiyoomi slid onto the other bed with a sigh, tugging Atsumu into his arms. “We survived,” he said into blond hair.
“We thrived,” Atsumu corrected, already drowsy.
“Mm. Loudly.”
“Love you,” Atsumu whispered.
Kiyoomi kissed his temple. “Love you more,” he said, just to watch Atsumu freeze and then melt like butter.
Across the gap, Osamu tugged Rintarou’s blanket down just enough to peck his lips. “Tomorrow you don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want,” he said.
“I want you,” Rintarou said, eyes already closing.
“Got me,” Osamu promised.
Kiyoomi turned off the lamp between the beds. The hotel hummed. The city exhaled. Disneyland glittered somewhere not far enough and exactly far enough away.
“Two feet,” Kiyoomi said into the dark, out of habit.
Atsumu scooted closer anyway and tucked a foot between his calves. “Shut up and sleep, Captain Dad.”
Kiyoomi smiled where no one could see. “Goodnight, gremlin.”
“‘Night,” came Osamu’s low rumble.
Rintarou, muffled by blanket: “Soup.”
“Tomorrow,” Osamu whispered.
And Day One ended just like that—four boys in two beds, a castle’s echo in their bones, sanitizer packets on the nightstand, onigiri wrappers in the trash, and a heady, ridiculous certainty that this trip would be a story they’d tell for years.