Work Text:
“And that’s it!” Ayane-san beams at him, her salt-and-pepper hair falling out of her messy bun as she patted the old, dull cash register. “Most our customers are regulars, and they’ll be fine if ya mess up the first few weeks.”
Kiyoomi nods, cramming the information into his overstuffed brain.
He regrets. Regrets choosing a university so far away from familiar Tokyo, straight to tourist-trap Osaka with heavy Kansai-ben that he sometimes struggles to understand. Regrets not making the choice to just relax and live off the family money, instead convincing himself he should be a productive member of society and get a part-time job.
At a fucking bakery-and-café.
What does he know about food service? Nothing. He doesn’t know how to deal with fussy customers, doesn’t know how to work the cash register, doesn’t know how to arrange the food in the display counters in an appetizing way that welcomed purchases. Thank god Ayane-san assured him they had actual chefs in the kitchen, because Kiyoomi also doesn’t know how to bake one of those fluffy croissants that the customer in front of him is currently ordering.
Like Ayane-san said, the regulars are very understanding, smiling brightly when he fumbles an order or presses the wrong button. Kiyoomi’s first shift passes by in a blur of ‘thank you very much’ and ‘I apologise for the inconvenience’. Soon, he’s bowing goodbye to Ayane-san and her husband, who smiles delightedly and ushers him out.
His first few days are sweaty palms and scrambled keigo, but he soon learns the register: the pudding-headed gamer (Nekoma’s setter, why is he in Osaka...what was his name again?), whose coffee is always ordered by his taller friend (Kuroo Tetsurou, with the same bad bedhead, whom Kiyoomi recognises from high school volleyball matches, what is he doing here as well?) — always asks for exactly two cubes of ice, while Kuroo gets a hot espresso, and then there’s the excitable owl-person (Bokuto Koutarou, also somehow in Osaka?) who bursts in right after and always gets a triple chocolate milkshake with extra drizzle, chocolate chips, and enough whipped cream to choke someone — and so on.
(The worst part is that Bokuto recognises him in turn. “Sakkun!!!”, he’s grown used hearing as soon as the guy bounces over the threshold.)
“Why is everyone in Osaka?” he gripes into the phone on his weekly voice call to Motoya.
“Woah, I’m not,” his cousin laughs, but he quickly follows with an innocent tone. “Who, exactly do you mean by that?”
“Kuroo-san from Nekoma, and Bokuto-san is also here,” Kiyoomi hisses as he sits up from his reps. Why he’s calling his cousin at the gym is beyond his comprehension too, but he’s found that tuning Motoya’s chattering out is better for his concentration than any workout playlist he makes.
“Do you not keep up with the volleyball news, Kiyo?” his cousin continues to laugh, and Kiyoomi can imagine those ridiculous eyebrows scrunching in on themselves as Motoya cackles away. “Bokuto-san signed with the Black Jackals right after graduation.”
“And Kuroo-san?” Kiyoomi demands, wiping his sweat off the machine he was using.
“Well considering he’s a regular, shouldn’t you ask him one day?” Motoya asks nonchalantly. “He didn’t go pro, so, well...”
“Hmm,” Kiyoomi replies noncommittedly, and Motoya proceeds to chat his ear off about the latest Raijin practice.
He supposes he should’ve prepared for it, the eventual arrival of the entire Jackals team at the café.
They’re a Division 1 team based in Osaka, and one of the reasons Kiyoomi chose to move to Osaka instead of staying in Tokyo. With their new coach, their play style has completely changed, and they’ve surged ahead in Division 1 rankings. Kiyoomi, planning to go professional after he gets his degree, has already been scouted by them multiple times, and he wants to see if the Black Jackals are worth the hype, and if they’ll actually help him grow.
He's organising the receipts from the breakfast rush when a rowdy group of athletes barge in, all wearing different variants of a gold-and-black team jackets.
Kiyoomi’s still wondering why Bokuto-san didn’t show up this morning when he hears his voice from beyond the glass door, leading the group in with a certain golden-haired smug setter.
Miya Atsumu.
He eyes that mop of hair as the Jackals crowd around the baked goods, picking pastries Kiyoomi watched Ayane-san pull out of the oven this morning. He thought he’d left the setter back in the past of his high school volleyball national tournaments when Itachiyama had won the Spring Cup. He’s discovered toner, Kiyoomi notes, or at least upgraded from that piss-poor high school dye job.
Out of anyone he knows, Miya Atsumu is at the top of a list titled People Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t want to serve.
The guy is an asshole, even more than Kiyoomi – their verbal spar back in Ajinomoto Training Center is still the topic of gossip between their generation of players.
He narrows his eyes at the receipts sprawled in front of him, hands moving to tidy them up before he has to print new ones out for the players. Long ones, it seems like – he glances up at the sheer volume balanced on each player’s tray, and winces as he prepares to click on the screen.
The first few don’t seem to recognise him, and Kiyoomi breathes a bit easier as he falls back into the now-familiar routine of manning the register.
Then come the two that make him wish he’d put in this day as ‘unavailable’ in the weekly shift assignment requests.
“Sakkun!” Bokuto greets cheerfully, putting in his usual order. Kiyoomi only grunts back behind his mask, hoping beyond hope that the nickname’s obscure enough that the blonde demon behind Bokuto doesn’t recognise him, but his moles give him away instantly.
“Omi-kun?” Miya’s mouth drops open, shocked, and he almost drops his tray – Kiyoomi panics internally, because he’ll be the one cleaning that mess up if Miya does drop it. “What are ya doin’ here?”
“I work here,” Kiyoomi replies dryly, the undercurrent of ‘obviously’ very clear. “Your drink will be prepared at the counter to the right, please wait over there.”
“Wait - ya’re not gonna -”
“Next!” Kiyoomi calls loudly, shoving Miya’s receipt at him.
Miya stubbornly refuses to budge – the customer behind him is one of the Jackals, and the light-haired man behind the setter only laughs indulgently. Kiyoomi, cursing his daily horoscope, looks up at Miya, preparing himself to answer nosy questions.
“Are ya not gonna go pro?” Miya leans across the counter, getting ever-closer to Kiyoomi. His hands plant on the counter. Kiyoomi cringes back, eyeing the shrinking distance between him and the blonde.
“University,” he grits out. The coffee machine hisses at the other end of the counter.
Miya leans back, smiling brightly as he lets the light-haired guy behind him – Inunaki Shion? Kiyoomi wonders – approach the counter. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ ya play in the uni leagues, Omi-Omi!”
“What makes you think you’ll see me play?” Kiyoomi says evenly, tapping in the breads he sees. It’s rude to not devote his full attention to the customer in front of him, but the Jackals’ libero doesn’t seem to mind.
“There’s not many unis in Osaka that can boast of havin’ a volleyball team good enough to get the nation’s number one high school ace,” Miya replies cheerfully. “An’ I’m sure ya’ll tell me if I bug ya enough.”
“No,” Kiyoomi simply replies as the barista on the other end of the counter shouts out Miya’s order, pulling his attention away from Kiyoomi.
“See ya later, Omi-kun!” Miya waves as Inunaki taps his card against the machine.
He keeps his eyes on the register, but his focus is shot. Miya’s laugh cuts through the hum of the café like static.
He can’t help glancing over at the noisy Jackals table though, once the Jackals-induced rush lulls. Despite being the youngest two on the team, Miya and Bokuto are the center of attention, the rest of the team watching them indulgently and laughing as the duo crack jokes.
Kiyoomi hopes this doesn’t become an everyday thing.
It becomes an everyday thing.
Bokuto and Miya always come in right after the breakfast rush, accompanied by different members of the Jackals every day. The group changes, but Bokuto and Miya are always there, in the periphery of Kiyoomi’s vision as he counts the money in the register before lunch.
Miya, true to his word, asks Kiyoomi where he attends classes every morning he comes in. When Kiyoomi steadfastly refuses, he upgrades to asking and dropping shitty puns and pick-up lines.
“Are ya a croissant? ’Cause ya’re flaky, warm, and I wanna butter ya up,” remains one of Kiyoomi’s personal favourites, and he doesn’t admit to anyone, not even Motoya, how Miya’s flirting causes his face to burn under his mask. It’s ridiculous, immature, and he likes it too much.
He hates himself.
He hates Miya Atsumu and his raffish charm.
“Omi-Omi!”
And there it is again.
A fresh morning, another hour of Miya Atsumu and his teammates.
Except this morning, the blonde isn’t as excitable. Sure, his words still end with obvious exclamation marks, and he’s got that easy-going grin on his face as he leans against the counter. But the light in his eyes is dimmer.
There’s no pun waiting on his tongue. No obnoxious pickup line.
Kiyoomi pauses in the middle of wiping down the coffee cups that are fresh out of the dishwasher.
He takes his time inputting Miya’s purchases into the register. There’s no quip this morning, just quiet fidgeting, and Kiyoomi can’t suppress the desire to change that.
“Kindai University,” he says as he takes Miya’s card.
The blonde looks up confused. “What?”
“You asked me where I go for university,” Kiyoomi mutters. Many times. “Kindai.”
For a second, Miya stares, and Kiyoomi can see the moment when he realises.
Miya turns into a literal puppy, with sparkles in his eyes. “I’m gonna come to all yer games, Omi-Omi, gonna cheer ya on -”
“No -” Kiyoomi protests, but he knows he lost the fight when he chose to reveal his university.
It seems worth it, from what Kiyoomi observes as Miya prances to the Jackals, smile returned to his face.
He knows what he’s signed up for, but it doesn’t make it any less...embarrassing when Miya shows up to the first game of the collegiate season, dressed in a Kindai merch jersey, shouting “Omi-Omi” at the top of his lungs.
No, embarrassing isn’t the best word for it. Every time he scores, or digs, he can hear that Kansai accent, louder than all the others in the stadium. It makes his chest go warm and fluttery.
He refuses to acknowledge its existence.
“Hey, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says on call, “you’re a bit...quiet today.”
“Hmmm?” Kiyoomi hums, distracted looking up ‘Miya Atsumu’ on his laptop.
“Yes! That!” Motoya loses volume control again, and Kiyoomi sees those eyebrows wriggle in his mind. “Everything I’ve said today, you’ve only given me those hmms and ahhs. And as your cousin, it is my responsibility to pester you until you divulge your secrets.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a cousin responsibility, Motoya,” Kiyoomi says drily, engaging properly for the first time that evening. He clicks the bookmark button on the page he’s on – he quite likes the pictures they have of Miya. “And if it is, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“What’s got your attention, Kiyo,” Motoya drags out the syllables of the nickname. “C’mon, just tell me -”
Kiyoomi eyes his turned-down phone, which is lying next to his laptop. “None of your business.”
He feels Motoya’s smile. “Would this have anything to do with Suna asking for your phone number after practice today?”
“…did he tell you why?”
“No,” Motoya answers glibly, sounding too cheerful. “Being the good cousin I am, of course I gave him your number! After all, it’s not like you have many friends to begin with –”
“Thank you, Motoya,” Kiyoomi deadpans into the microphone of his headphones.
“You’re welcome, Kiyo, and it’s not like he can do anything nefarious with it, right?”
Multiple pings. Sharp like the firing of a bullet, dulling Motoya’s voice in the speakers.
Kiyoomi freezes and eyes his phone warily like it’s a cockroach he has to exterminate. Then, carefully, he flips it over to see the notifications on the screen.
Unknown number: hey omi-omi!!!
Unknown number: just wanted to say u looked rly cool in ur game today!!!
He types the way Bokuto speaks, Kiyoomi reflects darkly as he opens his phone to continue reading the texts from Miya. The nickname is tell enough.
Unknown number: this is atsumu btw, totally not a creep pls dont block me
Kiyoomi doesn’t even know what Motoya’s yapping about as he slowly types a response and saves Miya’s number.
Sakusa Kiyoomi: Oh. Thank you.
He watches a speech bubble pop up next to Miya’s profile picture (him and his twin, how cute), disappear, then reappear again.
Miya: ur welcome!!!
Miya: whens ur next game?
Sakusa Kiyoomi: And why should I tell you?
“-yo? Kiyo!” It takes his cousin screeching in his ear for him to exit the messaging app.
“Hmm?” He can’t suppress the slight note of annoyance in his tone.
Fuck.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, a growing note of glee in his voice, “you were texting someone, weren’t you?”
The trap closes like a vice around Kiyoomi’s neck.
It takes four hours of grueling questioning by Motoya before Kiyoomi is free to check his messages again, because Motoya insisted on him turning on his camera to better see his reactions.
Miya: ya’re the coffee that i need in the mornin’, omi-kun!!!
Miya: WAIT OMI-KUN COME BACKKKKKK
Miya: OKAY i just wanted to watch ya play
Miya: NOT IN A CREEPY WAY
Miya: if im gonna claim u as my spiker after u graduate then ive gotta get used to ur playing style!!!
Sakusa Kiyoomi: Sorry for the late reply, Motoya was being an ass.
Sakusa Kiyoomi: What do you mean, your spiker?
He smiles down at his phone, watching the photo of the Miya twins bob with the speech bubbles next to it. And Kiyoomi knows, that whatever Miya replies with, Kiyoomi will still smile like this.
For all the love in this doomed world,
It is from the smallest encounters that the greatest stories unfold.