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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. If it were Atsumu cooking, they’d be eating by now. Discussing today’s practice game and arguing about whether or not the 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.
On a usual day, Kiyoomi and Atsumu would get ready to head out together right after practice. Atsumu would rib him for being a slowpoke; Kiyoomi would flip him off and take his time wiping down and packing up. Joined at the hip, Meian says.
They’d pick up groceries for dinner—Atsumu likes to buy them day-of instead of for the week, which Kiyoomi finds inefficient and has said as much—then head back to their apartment for Atsumu to cook dinner while Kiyoomi commentates on review footage from recent games.
Kiyoomi is a diligent sous chef, when ordered. Just yesterday, he sliced cabbage for okonomiyaki. Atsumu had wanted to make an actual meal, but they’d forgotten to get groceries for anything else.
It doesn’t matter. Atsumu’s not cooking tonight. He’s not even home yet.
Two weeks ago, the Jackals lost the season semifinals to the Adlers by a full five points, in no small part due to Kageyama’s wicked new jump floater. It was a rough game, practically dragged to full sets and ended, after all, by an ace from Kageyama.
Everyone, Kiyoomi included, took the loss hard. But Atsumu seemed to take it almost personally. He went hard on his own serves, stayed late after practice, even recruited Hinata to receive for him. Coach told him to cool it and so did Kiyoomi, less kindly.
And did he listen? No, he went and injured his fucking wrist.
Honestly, Kiyoomi had been impressed with how calmly he’d seemed to be handling it. He’d joked around about it and even took it easy for the rest of the week, diligently resting as per his physical therapist’s orders.
And then today, two missed quicks in a row. It was his first day off the bench. No one said anything, but it was pretty obvious what was going on.
After that, Atsumu got quiet.
Kiyoomi had never seen him get quiet before.
After practice, Kiyoomi was ready to leave before Atsumu, a first. Atsumu hadn’t even entered the locker room yet. Wrapped in his coat and scarf, Kiyoomi went back to the gym and found Atsumu hitting serves to Hinata, who was receiving with gusto.
“Go on ahead,” he told Kiyoomi. “I’m gonna practice serves for a bit.”
No smile. No jab. No request for company. Kiyoomi had wanted to say something, like, are you fucking stupid? Isn’t this how you got injured in the first place? But that wouldn’t do either of them any good. Feeling like there was a stone in his chest, he nodded, told Atsumu and Hinata not to practice too hard, and headed home by himself.
Now, in the kitchen, he stands in front of a heaping pile of vegetables, including more cabbage and carrots that he bought on the way back from practice. He has it all sliced, 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’s incessant lectures means that it’s hot enough. He pours a quarter of the mix into the iron skillet.
The second pancake is just about burning (even though it’s raw in the middle?) when the front door cracks open. There’s the sound of Atsumu shuffling out of his shoes, closing the door. “I’m home,” he says. It’s hard to hear him over the vent.
“Welcome back,” Kiyoomi calls, focused on salvaging his operation.
Atsumu drops his bag next to the couch, peeks into the kitchen and gives Kiyoomi a little smile. “Gonna shower,” he says before Kiyoomi can say anything.
Kiyoomi watches him go, owl-eyed.
Atsumu’s shower is fifteen minutes longer than his usual twenty minutes. Kiyoomi makes two more pancakes with the rest of the batter that turn out okay. He sets those aside for Atsumu. On each pancake, he draws eight meticulously even lines across the mayo with a toothpick.
Atsumu slacks on drying his hair so when he comes out, towelling it off, shirt collar damp, his food is still warm.
Kiyoomi keeps the kitchen fan on, tries to look busy and nonchalant as he sets the table. Atsumu watches him, expression dim, but looks grateful when Kiyoomi places the steaming plate in front of him. He briefly closes his eyes to murmur his thanks, and Kiyoomi finally gets a good look at him.
The buzz of the vent seems to grow louder, irritating.
When did Atsumu’s undereyes start looking…bruised?
Atsumu opens his eyes. Kiyoomi shakes the thought away. He tears off a couple of napkins, unneeded, and places them next to Atsumu’s plate. “Eat.”
A second passes. “Thanks,” Atsumu says, too quietly, and picks up his chopsticks.
While he eats, Kiyoomi hangs around to wash the dishes. He dries, too, which is usually Atsumu’s job. But Atsumu eats with vigor, and compliments the food even though Kiyoomi realized too late that he shouldn’t have added carrots, and Kiyoomi is relieved.
By the time Kiyoomi has brushed his teeth, he’s on edge. He peers through the bedroom door, picking aimlessly at his cuticles. 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 downpour.
“Are you trying to give yourself a fever?” he mutters, climbing onto the bed behind Atsumu. At the dip in the mattress, Atsumu finally notices him, smiles faintly before his eyes flick down again.
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.
If it were Kiyoomi behaving like this, Atsumu would never let him get away with it. Not the pointless extra practice, or this sitting in the cold with wet hair like he’s trying to punish himself.
Not the silence.
Kiyoomi feels stiff all over, like he’s approaching a stranger. He’s never had to be the one to invade Atsumu’s bubble. He swallows dryly, then leans forward and touches the back of Atsumu's wrist.
Atsumu seems to blink back to earth and half-turns to look at Kiyoomi. There’s a mild question in the furrow of his brow, like Kiyoomi is about to ask to borrow his charger.
Pushing past the odd discomfort of breaking into his silence, Kiyoomi closes his hand around his wrist. “Lie down.”
Atsumu’s wrist flexes and Kiyoomi thinks for a second that he’ll take it back. Then his blank expression softens into a deep exhaustion. The line of his back goes slack and he lets Kiyoomi pull him down to the mattress, stiffening a little when his head touches his thigh. He rubs a hand over his eyes before letting it fall into Kiyoomi’s lap.
In his loose shirt and worn pajamas, tucked against Kiyoomi’s waist with his hands curled loosely on his shin, he looks young.
Kiyoomi breathes out slowly, fingertips hovering just away from his neck before touching his jaw. Atsumu’s eyelids drift closed. His skin is 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 tentatively, kind of afraid that Atsumu is going to snap at him.
Atsumu nods, burrowing his face into the side of Kiyoomi’s stomach. “Tired,” he says, muffled, and there’s a pressure growing behind Kiyoomi’s ribs that’s making 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 that the cracked door casts on Atsumu’s face. He should probably sleep, too.
A couple of minutes later, something shifts in Kiyoomi’s lap. He opens his eyes. With a groan, Atsumu rolls over and sits up, supporting himself with his good hand. He yawns, head hanging under Kiyoomi’s.
The tension in Kiyoomi’s chest 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 puts 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 cool, but heat radiates from the rest of his body, warming Kiyoomi. He smells comfortingly of still-damp hair and his ridiculous apple-scented conditioner.
“Is your wrist still bothering you?” Kiyoomi ventures, keeping his voice soft. It’s not as easy for him to turn on, but he can sound kind and gentle when he needs to.
Atsumu slides his arms under Kiyoomi, who shifts to make room for them, and noses against the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck.
Kiyoomi hesitates, then begins petting his lower back, waiting to see if he’ll say anything.
“I coulda worked on my jump floater more,” Atsumu mumbles into his chest, surprising Kiyoomi. He slows his motions on Atsumu’s back, listening. “If I’d gotten more aces early on, maybe… then maybe we coulda taken the last set.”
“We could have…?” Kiyoomi takes a second. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says, almost getting up before remembering he can’t do that with Atsumu lying on top of him. “That doesn’t make any sense. There were five—no, six other people on the court at some point. The team didn’t lose just because of your serve.”
He’s half propped on one elbow. Atsumu doesn’t retort, just curls into himself. Fuck. Kiyoomi settles back carefully. That wasn’t it.
He presses his hand to Atsumu’s back, searching for something less shitty to say.
“Every point is on all of us,” he finally lands on, ducking his chin awkwardly to better see Atsumu’s hidden face. “I mean…we can’t predict their attacks. You set us up for the best plays you could.”
Atsumu releases a shuddering exhale, hot through Kiyoomi’s shirt. Not that either? Kiyoomi tries to think of what else he can say. A hot tear trickles down his neck and under his collar.
Kiyoomi stills.
Atsumu is not a quiet crier. But his shoulders aren’t even shaking. The only sign of his distress is the tears now seeping through Kiyoomi’s shirt.
What is he supposed to do now? Kiyoomi’s sinuses sting. Atsumu is the one who knows how to handle these situations. And a small part of Kiyoomi wants to push him up for a second and grab some tissues to lay between them before his shirt becomes unwearable. But the desire to pull Atsumu close is stronger, so he pulls him close, rests his chin against the top of his head. Atsumu’s arms tighten reflexively around him.
“I wish I knew how to make you feel better,” Kiyoomi murmurs, stroking methodical lines down Atsumu’s back. Atsumu hiccups, small and muffled. Kiyoomi’s hand closes into a fist his back. He presses his lips firmly to Atsumu’s temple. “Next season,” he promises. It’s a cliche, but Atsumu needs this reassurance more than the cold logic Kiyoomi would prefer in his place. “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.”
Considerately, 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, lies back with it folded against his chest, listening to Atsumu breathe.
“I can hear ya thinking,” Atsumu murmurs after some time.
Kiyoomi jolts.
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 chuckles. “I could tell ya wanted to cuss me out but you didn’t need to 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. The faint pressure lingers warm on Kiyoomi’s skin. “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 laughs, proper. “I’ll show ya how to make it without carrots tomorrow.”
Kiyoomi grimaces at recalling his error, but for the first time since leaving the locker room, his shoulders ease. “Alright,” he says. He tucks his cheek into Atsumu’s palm. “If you insist.”