Work Text:
If one more speck of flour gets in Kiyoomi’s hair, he’s going to burn down the apartment.
Okonomiyaki is supposed to be easy. Atsumu could probably have finished cooking in half the time, and they could be eating by now, discussing today’s practice game and arguing about whether or not the new combo they’re working on is still too risky to use in-game.
With a sigh through his nose, Kiyoomi turns the second dial on the stove. The ticking of the gas burner is annoyingly loud in the empty apartment. He watches the flames lick the underside of the skillet for a moment. Listens to them crackle.
He turns on the vent.
Two weeks ago, the Jackals lost the season semifinals to the Adlers by a full five points. It was a rough game, practically dragged to full sets and ended by a brutal sequence of dodged and tooled blocks. Everyone took it hard, but Atsumu seemed to take it almost personally. He went hard on his jump serves, stayed late after practice, even recruited Hinata to receive for him. Coach and Kiyoomi both told him to cool it, and did he listen? No, he injured his fucking wrist.
Today, two missed quicks in a row.
After that Atsumu got quiet. Kiyoomi had never seen him get quiet like that before.
“Go on ahead,” Atsumu told him when Kiyoomi came back to the gym looking for him, packed and ready to go. “I’m gonna practice serves for a bit.”
No smile. No jab. Barely looking him in the eye. Kiyoomi had wanted to say something like, are you fucking stupid? Isn’t this how you got injured in the first place? But he nodded like it didn’t feel like there was a stone in his chest, told Atsumu not to practice too hard, and headed home by himself.
Now, in the kitchen, he stands before a heaping bowl of sliced cabbage and carrots, probably too much of everything. But the batter is prepared accurately to the package instructions, and the oil is shimmering, which he knows from Atsumu means it’s hot enough. He pours a quarter of the mix into the iron skillet.
The second pancake is just about burning when the front door cracks open. There’s the sound of Atsumu shuffling out of his shoes, shaking out his umbrella, closing the door. “I’m home,” he says. He’s hard to hear over the humming fan.
“Welcome back,” Kiyoomi calls through gritted teeth, focused on salvaging his operation.
Atsumu drops his bag next to the couch and peeks into the kitchen. “Gonna shower,” he says before Kiyoomi can even turn around. Kiyoomi watches him go over his shoulder, swallowing an “is your wrist okay?”, and resumes picking off the charred bits.
Atsumu’s shower is fifteen minutes longer than usual. Kiyoomi makes two more pancakes with the rest of the batter that turn out okay, uses a toothpick to draw eight meticulously even lines in mayo. Atsumu slacks on drying his hair, so when he comes out, towelling it off, shirt collar damp, the okonomiyaki is still hot.
Kiyoomi tries to look busy and nonchalant, setting the table. Atsumu’s expression is dim as he watches him, but he looks grateful when the steaming plate is placed in front of him.
Atsumu briefly closes his eyes to murmur his thanks, and Kiyoomi finally gets a good look at him. The buzz of the vent starts to ring in his ears. When did his undereyes start looking…bruised?
Atsumu opens his eyes. Kiyoomi quickly tears off a couple of napkins, unneeded, and places them in front of Atsumu. “Eat,” he says.
A second passes, then Atsumu picks up his chopsticks. “Thanks,” he says, too quietly.
While Atsumu eats, Kiyoomi washes and dries, which is usually Atsumu’s job. But Atsumu eats with vigor, compliments the food even though Kiyoomi put too much sauce and realized too late that he shouldn’t have added carrots, and Kiyoomi is relieved.
After brushing his teeth, Kiyoomi closes the bathroom door gently, patting his face dry. He peers into the bedroom. The lights are off, and Atsumu is sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his phone but not really looking at it.
Kiyoomi steels himself and enters the room unnoticed. Immediately, he flinches at the cold. The hell? He pulls his hand into his sleeve and reaches through the billowing curtain to slam the window shut, muting the rain.
“Are you trying to give yourself a fever?” he mutters, climbing onto the bed behind Atsumu. At the dip in the mattress, Atsumu finally lifts his head.
Kiyoomi can handle outbursts. Atsumu gave him enough exposure therapy for a lifetime within their first season training together. He can even tolerate Atsumu’s sulking; it’s honestly kind of endearing sometimes, something Kiyoomi wouldn’t admit under torture.
But this? What the fuck is going on with you? Kiyoomi wants to say, watching Atsumu stare out the door. Is it your wrist? Is it something else? Can you at least tell me to fuck off, or something? The sheets crumple in his fist and he smooths them out.
Atsumu wouldn’t let Kiyoomi get away with this. Not the silence or the pointless extra practice. Definitely not sitting in the cold with wet hair like he’s trying to punish himself.
Kiyoomi leans forward and takes Atsumu's wrist. Atsumu blinks and half-turns to look at him. For a long second, he doesn’t move.
Pushing past the odd discomfort of breaking into his silence, Kiyoomi tugs at his hand. “Lie down,” he says. Another second passes, then Atsumu’s blank expression softens into a deep exhaustion. He lets Kiyoomi pull him down to the mattress, stiffens a little when his head touches Kiyoomi’s thigh. He rubs a hand over his eyes before letting it fall into Kiyoomi’s lap.
Kiyoomi breathes out slowly, fingertips hovering just away from Atsumu’s neck before touching his jaw. Atsumu’s eyes flutter closed. His face is shadowed, pale compared to his normally warm undertone, and his cheeks are cold from having the window open. Kiyoomi traces his pulse points delicately. “Did the extra practice help?” he murmurs, kind of afraid that Atsumu’s going to snap at him.
Atsumu nods, burrowing his face into the side of his stomach. “Tired,” he says, muffled, and there’s that pressure again behind Kiyoomi’s ribs that makes it hard to take an easy breath. He strokes Atsumu’s hair, letting his forearm rest lightly on his cheek. Atsumu leans into it, eyes still closed. His breathing quiets, slows until he’s very still.
With a shaky sigh, Kiyoomi leans back against the headboard, tracing the strip of light the cracked door casts on Atsumu’s face. He should probably go to sleep, too.
A couple of minutes later, there’s a soft sound from his lap. Kiyoomi opens one eye. Atsumu rolls over and sits up with a groan, propping himself up on his good hand. He yawns, head hanging under Kiyoomi’s.
The tension in Kiyoomi’s shoulders eases a little. He stretches, then scoots forward and lies down with his head on his pillow, turning his head toward Atsumu.
Atsumu is watching him, eyelids heavy. Kiyoomi holds his arm out, an invitation.
Instead of taking it, Atsumu climbs over him. Confused, Kiyoomi lets him tug the covers out from under him and pull them up to his face, gamely shuffling up so his head sticks out. Atsumu lifts the corner of the blanket and drapes it over his own shoulder, then lowers himself to his forearms, drops his forehead onto Kiyoomi’s sternum.
Ah. Ok. Kiyoomi rests his palm on his back, trying to reciprocate clearly. Atsumu’s arms and face are still cool, but heat radiates from the rest of his body, warming Kiyoomi. He smells comfortingly of his ridiculous apple-scented conditioner. “Is your wrist still bothering you?” Kiyoomi ventures, keeping his voice soft.
Atsumu slides his arms under Kiyoomi, who shifts to make room for them. Kiyoomi hesitates, then begins petting his lower back. “I coulda worked on my jump floater more,” Atsumu finally mumbles into his chest. “Maybe if I’d gotten a few more aces early on, then… maybe they couldn’t’ve pulled off that feint so many times in the last set.”
Kiyoomi almost gets up. “What?” he says. “That doesn’t make any sense. There were five—no, at least six other people on the court at some point. The team didn’t lose just because of your serve.”
Atsumu curls in on himself. Fuck. Kiyoomi settles back again. He searches Atsumu’s half-hidden face for something less shitty to say. “Every point is on all of us,” he says. “I mean…we can’t predict their attacks. You set us up for the best plays you could. We don’t expect anything more.”
Atsumu releases a shuddering exhale, hot through Kiyoomi’s shirt. His body feels heavier, like he’s given up on holding himself together.
Kiyoomi is trying to think of what else he can say when suddenly, a hot tear trickles down his neck and under his collar. He freezes. “Oh.” Part of him wants to push Atsumu up for a second and grab a tissue, even if just to lay it between them. But instead, he pulls Atsumu close and rests his cheek against the top of his head. Atsumu’s arms tighten reflexively around Kiyoomi.
“I wish I knew how to make you feel better,” Kiyoomi murmurs, stroking Atsumu’s back slowly, methodically. Atsumu hiccups, muffled by Kiyoomi’s chest, and Kiyoomi’s sinuses sting. He presses his lips to Atsumu’s hair. “Next season,” he promises, hand closing into a fist on Atsumu’s back. “Next season, we’re fucking destroying them.”
Atsumu sniffs and tilts his head over, tucking his face into the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck. “Yeah.”
Atsumu climbs off of Kiyoomi before falling asleep. Kiyoomi wouldn’t really have minded if he hadn’t, but he quietly pulls off his tear-stained shirt, then lies back, listening to Atsumu breathe.
“I can hear ya thinking,” Atsumu murmurs after some time.
Kiyoomi jolts. “Sorry.”
Atsumu shifts closer, searching for something under the comforter. “I only practiced regular floaters today,” he admits. He finds Kiyoomi’s hand and fidgets with it.
Good. “That was a good decision.”
Atsumu hums. “I could tell ya wanted to cuss me out but ya didn’t need ta worry. I wasn’t tryna hurt myself again.” He pulls Kiyoomi’s hand to his mouth, kisses the nearest spot, the edge of his palm. “Thanks for dinner, baby,” he says, laying their hands on the pillow between them. “I could tell ya tried yer best.”
Wow. “Okay, fuck you,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu chuckles. “I’ll show ya how to make it without carrots tomorrow.”
Kiyoomi’s shoulders ease for the first time since leaving the locker room. “Alright.” He tucks his cheek into Atsumu’s palm. “If you insist.”