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Would it be crazy to get up right now and clean that? Kiyoomi thought, lying on his side as he watched a passing headlight filter through a translucent streak on the window. Soap, probably. It wouldn’t be hard to remove.
His fingers threatened to pierce his pillow. In the middle of the night? What’s wrong with me?
It must have been well past 1 AM. Kiyoomi didn’t know. He’d been lying awake for what felt like hours. Thinking. If you could call it that.
First it had been the odd texture of the wall. He’d noticed a ridge in the spackle, then another, then been overcome by a hatred for the carpenter and had to close his eyes and imagine repainting. A sudden, uncomfortable warmth from the sheets had him kicking off his blankets even though he hated sleeping cold, and now. The window.
He ran his index fingernail over the edge of his thumb. That restlessness was creeping over him again that no amount of four-count breathing had been able to soothe. Ow. He made himself pull his hand into a fist. He tried to avoid picking at his nails unless it was absolutely necessary. Only on a catastrophically bad week.
Kiyoomi tried not to have bad weeks. Or good ones, though those were nice when they happened. Normalcy was enough for him. Preferable. Practicing diligently and getting better at whatever he was working on. Playing well in games and winning, ideally. Taking care of himself and his apartment—his and Atsumu’s apartment. Was it Atsumu who had cleaned the window? No, it would have been Kiyoomi. Maybe the fever had made him sloppy.
He grimaced at the memory. Bokuto had given him the fucking flu (caught from the unfortunate Akaashi Keiji, who always looked a little under the weather whenever Kiyoomi saw him at post-game drinks, though he seemed cheerful enough in spite of it). Bokuto had grown on Kiyoomi by now; he really meant no harm, and he was so genuine it was kind of dangerous. But he was also too full of camaraderie and high-fives to social distance effectively. Despite taking every precaution and driving every sneezer out of the gym with venom, Kiyoomi was soon confined to his bed for a week with a horrific runny nose and a grating cough that he still hadn’t shaken.
Atsumu hadn’t caught it, lucky bastard, even from taking care of him. Kiyoomi had tried to evict him into the dorms as soon as the headache surfaced. Obviously Atsumu had ignored him, smugly claiming an immune system of steel, and made him a new flavor of soup each day. By the fourth night, Kiyoomi was actually able to taste. It was just a clear broth with vegetables that day, but delicious.
Now it was their first week back with the full roster, and everyone who had been out seemed to be coming up short somewhere. Coach was trying to ease them back to their usual standard of play, which only meant that each day there were new, sharper critiques on form, timing, and coordination.
Kiyoomi’s timing seemed to be especially off. Still recovering and determined not to overwork himself and catch something else, he found himself, for once, struggling to keep up. Today he’d caused more misses than anyone else during the practice game. Just barely, but still—a full day of being the weakest link had him replaying it on loop, zooming with perfect clarity into the moment he would miss his mark.
It unsettled him more than he’d expected. Pressure in high doses was usually useful for him. And risky for Atsumu, but Atsumu had taken the setbacks in stride, ribbing his hitters for each fumbled combination without making too big of a deal of it, still as demanding as he could reasonably be. He was pushing himself as hard as always without a second thought; harder, even. He’d finally beaten Kageyama for best setter this year, maybe that’s why it all seemed so much easier for him to handle.
He’d taken to falling asleep earlier and earlier. Not intentionally. It was more like he just… gave in to his body’s demands. Just that night, Kiyoomi had caught him dozing off at 9 PM during their nightly routine of piling on the couch and scrolling through one of their Instagram reel feeds. Five loops into a mesmerizingly pink barbie-themed cake decorating video, he’d woken Atsumu to hand him a string of floss and a toothbrush with paste on it. He’d tried to keep watching after, but without Atsumu in his ear telling him that all the food coloring would make it taste like disinfectant, it was boring.
Careful not to jostle anything, he shifted onto his other side to face Atsumu. Atsumu was in the exact same position he’d fallen asleep in: sprawled on his stomach, one hand off the edge of the mattress like he’d dropped something. He’d stopped snoring and his breathing was deep and even, hair soft and sticking to his forehead without any gel. He looked… steady. Like he thought everything would work out. That was the thing about Atsumu: he talked big, but it was because he absolutely knew he could back it up.
A smile pulled at Kiyoomi’s lips. When they did perform well, Atsumu bragged about his teammates as much as he did about himself, with the exact same cockiness and volume. Kiyoomi always rolled his eyes; he preferred to let his performance speak for itself. But there was something nice about having a good spike broadcasted by the best setter in the country (yeah, Kiyoomi does think it’s Atsumu) between a “LET’S FUCKING GO OMI!” and several obscenities toward the other team that had Atsumu apologizing to the TV crew afterward.
Kiyoomi reached out slowly and let his fingers touch Atsumu’s hand, which was curled next to his face delicately. With his fingertips, he followed a line over the back of Atsumu’s hand down to his wrist, prodding at the protruding wristbone. It suited Atsumu to have nice hands, being a setter. He took good care of them.
“Mm…” Atsumu’s hand twitched, then closed loosely around Kiyoomi’s. Shit. Kiyoomi stilled and didn’t draw his hand back, afraid of actually waking him.
“Omi?” he muttered, barely intelligible, voice soft and rough with sleep. “Y’okay?”
Kiyoomi winced. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
For a second, there was no movement or reply. Then Atsumu’s thumb, roughened palm-side, brushed the inside of Kiyoomi’s fingers. He cracked open one eye and squinted through the dark. “Why’re y’awake?”
Kiyoomi met his eyes guiltily. It was too late to pretend he had been sleeping.
Atsumu studied his expression for a couple of seconds, then gave a soft, heavy sigh. With effort, he rolled onto his side and shifted closer so they were face to face. He smelled like shampoo and a little minty, still. “C’mere,” he mumbled.
Before Kiyoomi could protest, Atsumu’s arm slid around his waist and with a grunt, he used Kiyoomi’s stiff torso as an anchor to pull himself closer. Kiyoomi shivered, suddenly warm along one side and chilly where he didn’t have the extra body heat, and remembered that he had discarded his blanket.
“Ya didn’t sleep at all?” Atsumu murmured, beginning to trace some lazy pattern over Kiyoomi’s shoulder blades. “What were ya doin?”
“Nothing,” Kiyoomi said, picking at a loose thread on Atsumu’s shirt and fighting the urge to shrug off his hand. The contact was nice, but his movements were so light, almost ticklish. It would be nice if Atsumu just went back to sleep. Staying up tired wasn’t in his repertoire. “Thinking. I didn’t want to bother you.”
Atsumu hummed questioningly, then yawned so widely it seemed like he would have preferred going back to sleep right then. “Yer not bothering me.”
Heat prickled on the back of Kiyoomi’s neck. Atsumu wouldn’t be saying that in an hour when Kiyoomi still hadn’t fallen asleep. Or in the morning, when they were both sleep deprived.
Irritated by his own inability to accept a good thing, he pressed his face to Atsumu, inhaling the scent of warm, clean cotton. He followed the rise and fall of his chest and tried to let his own breathing fall into sync. Absently, he scraped at the cuticle of his own thumb, barely noticing the sting.
After some minutes, Atsumu muffled another yawn into the pillow, hand pausing momentarily like he was losing the battle with sleep before tensing and resuming the motions on his back. “Omi?” His voice was low, like he was checking to see if Kiyoomi was asleep yet.
“Yeah?” Kiyoomi said quietly, lifting his head.
Atsumu had been watching him, eyelids heavy and brow furrowed drowsily. He released a defeated sigh upon seeing Kiyoomi still wide awake. “Damn,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up wryly. “Had to be tonight, huh?”
Kiyoomi's chest tightened and he looked away. He’d tried to tell Atsumu not to bother.
Atsumu’s expression softened. “Ya really can’t sleep?” he murmured. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking as exhausted as he probably felt, then let his hand drop back onto the pillow. He nudged Kiyoomi’s knee with his own. “Turn over, drama queen,” he said with no bite. “On yer side.”
Kiyoomi slowly turned to his side. Like a trap, Atsumu snaked an arm around him and yanked him back until there wasn’t an inch of space between them, knocking the air from his lungs.
Kiyoomi let out a choked cough, then another that left his throat sore. Atsumu was so fucking touchy. Why did he think a hug, of all things, was what Kiyoomi needed? Let alone this straitjacket situation.
“Hm?” Atsumu asked against his shoulder.
Goddamnit. Kiyoomi took in a deep, controlled breath and counted to four. Do not be a dick right now. Atsumu barely woke up to brush his teeth, but he’s up with you now. It’s the middle of the night. Stop fighting. With a slow, equally controlled exhale, he let his shoulders go slack and relaxed into Atsumu’s hold.
Oh. “Mhm,” he said, embarrassed to find that the straitjacket situation was exactly what he wanted.
Atsumu made a satisfied sound and took the next step in his entanglement scheme, tangling their legs and linking their free hands. “S’alright, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
A hot blush crept down Kiyoomi’s neck, followed closely by shame. He’d been so judgmental of Atsumu. Atsumu probably knew it, too, and was still holding him like this.
Before Kiyoomi could ruminate on it, he was sputtering a laugh and curling inward as Atsumu brushed his lips just below his ear. That is so unfair…
“Gotcha,” Atsumu chuckled, voice still thick with sleep. He gave Kiyoomi a firm squeeze using his whole body, tight enough to make him brace for impact. Startled, Kiyoomi coughed out another helpless laugh. His mind was going blank, all of his thoughts stamped over by Atsumu’s and his own laughter.
“Okay,” he gasped. “You got me.”
Apparently having achieved his goal, Atsumu loosened his hold a little and let his head fall into the curve of Kiyoomi’s neck. Kiyoomi dropped his chin to his chest and caught his breath. “Love you,” he told Atsumu faintly, surprising himself with how little effort it took. Atsumu kissed his cheek and repeated it into his skin, muffled, as easy as breathing. It was so easy for him to give Kiyoomi these things.
In spite of himself, Kiyoomi let an apology die in his throat and found himself swallowing his thank you, too. He squeezed Atsumu’s hand.
Atsumu hummed into his neck. “Y’can wake me up next time yer driving yourself crazy, ‘kay?” he mumbled, slower than usual. “And I’ll just cure ya like this.”
Saccharine. Kiyoomi couldn’t help smiling into the pillow. “‘Kay,” he muttered.
A couple of cars sped by, their lights momentarily casting a shadow of the window frame onto the wall. Atsumu’s breathing was deepening again as sleep pulled him under, a slight snore creeping into his inhale.
Kiyoomi tucked his face into Atsumu’s collar, flexing his fingers in his grip. It would be nice to have his blanket back. But Atsumu ran hot, so it was probably fine. Warm, cramped, and finally quiet in his head, he closed his eyes and dreamed of them scoring the winning point in perfect sync, over and over.