Archive of Our Own

Sakusa Kiyoomi found himself in a real pickle. He’d been suffering through his last year of University. He’d been freshly cut off from his parents, who strongly disagreed with his choice to go pro as graduation approached. He thought they'd see reason, and that their threats of financial independence were just that: threats. 

How wrong he'd been. 

No longer able to count on his parents' money, he was forced to get a job. Something he'd never ever had before. 

He tried working at the library on campus, but the pay was barely enough to cover food, let alone rent. He tried to be a barista at the small Cafe near his apartment and quickly learned customer service was not for him. He nearly threw a venti 7-shot breve latte with 5 pumps vanilla, 5 pumps caramel, 4 Splenda, and light ice right into the face of a demanding salary man.  

His saving grace, unfortunately, came in the form of his cousin. Motoya had sent him a Glassdoor ad for Home Cleaning Service, looking for "Diligent workers with a keen eye for detail and a militant regard for cleanliness." 

That's practically his M.O. 

He applied. His interview consisted of various cleaning tasks, all of which he was, annoyingly, excited to complete. 

The manager of "You've Got it Maid" is a five-foot-nothing woman, with a slick back so severe Kiyoomi’s sure it's given her a face-lift. 

When she offered Kiyoomi the job and a pair of rubber gloves, Kiyoomi shook his head and set down the duffle bag he’d brought. He slid on his neon yellow ones. 

"I brought my own." 

Her grin was sharp. 

Kiyoomi is now her new elite employee. 

Kiyoomi was provided with all the tools he'd needed to complete his jobs, and even better, he was able to use the almost empty bottles to clean his own apartment. He could no longer afford his preferred brand of bleach, but as fate would have it, You've Got It Maid uses the exact same one. 

His clients' homes are usually big and gaudy, but he cleaned every overpriced floor until it gleamed. He'd gotten several sparkling reviews, and most of his clients typically asked for him to return on a semi-regular basis. 

When he checked his schedule for the day, he saw the home he was supposed to clean today was not a repeat customer. This particular client was new to You've Got It Maid, and Kiyoomi, a now seasoned employee, was sent to scope the place out. 

It wasn't a house this time, but instead an apartment in a high-rise located in the middle of the city. Prime real estate for a young up-and-coming. 

Kiyoomi was told the client wouldn't be in and was to let himself in. He used the code to enter the building and again to access the elevator to the 15th floor. He found the key under the rug where his manager told him it would be, but knocked three times for good measure before letting himself in. He took one step inside the apartment and froze. 

Maybe it wasn't too late to go back to being a barista. He'd always had a temper, and what better way to work on taming it than immersing himself in professional-level rage bait each day. 

It had to be better than cleaning the absolute pigsty in front of him. 

He wasn't even out of the genkan, and he could already feel his blood pressure rising. Multiple pairs of shoes had been kicked off and left messily over the floor, ignoring the perfectly good shoe rack sitting empty beside them. Particles of mud and dirt could be seen by the visible eye. 

When was the last time it had been swept? Or mopped. Or fumigated. 

A short hallway gave way to the living room and kitchen, and a half-empty duffle bag had been chucked against one wall, its contents spread out all over the floor. Kiyoomi noticed the volleyball equipment almost immediately and felt rage build inside him. Who treated their training material with such disgrace? Nice, high-quality training material, no less. 

A stray kneepad was falling halfway out of the bag, two crusty gym socks were a foot apart each, like they'd tried to get up and crawl away from the scene. A black plastic water bottle sat on its side, spout open, leaking a hazardous red liquid onto the floor and pooling against the adjacent wall. Shorts and shirts and various other articles of clothing littered the cramped hallway. 

Kiyoomi felt ill. 

He pulled out a fresh pair of gloves and guest slippers from his bag with the knowledge he would be throwing them out after this. 

His only hope was that the rest of the apartment wasn't as bad as the hallway. Maybe it was a Red Herring. Something meant to divert his attention away from the weird sex dungeon that was probably stashed away. He hoped there was a weird sex dungeon, but if there was, he absolutely was NOT cleaning it. 

His hopes were crushed. 

Walking into the kitchen, his stomach churned. He was already wearing a mask, but he quickly pulled another disposable one and layered it on top. He might need a respirator. 

Whoever lived here didn't need a maid. They needed an intervention. 

And potentially an episode on Hoarders: Buried Alive that featured this apartment. 

Dishes were piled high in the sink, some crusty, some crustier. The counters were covered in to-go containers, various protein shake cups, and the remnants of crumbs past. Kiyoomi couldn't be certain, but there was a suspicious powder on the counters that he thought was whey protein. 

A lazy athlete. 

He wants to be surprised, but he is decidedly not. 

The floors are sticky and unmopped, and he can feel crumbs sticking to his slippers as he walks further into the room. 

He chances a peek at the stovetop and is disheartened by the sauce stains that cover its surface. He can't even bring himself to look at the unwashed pans right now. 

He simply cannot. 

He heads to the lounge area, hoping to get the image of dried-on food out of his head. The lounge is not as bad as the kitchen, but there's still clutter and takeout containers on the coffee table and floor. Clothes cover one end of the couch, and there’s a laundry basket next to it, like they tried to do laundry, but gave up halfway. 

A fine layer of dust covers every surface. 

He sighs. 

Heavily. 

He takes a single step into the bathroom, and steps right back out. 

Absolutely the fuck not. 

No. 

He won't.  

He shan't. 

He refuses. 

That's a biohazard and an encroachment on his human rights. 

That violates the Geneva Convention, he's almost certain. 

He steps back into the hallway and calls his manager. She answers, and she's just as scarily

intimidating as usual. 

“I'm not doing this,” he says before she can even get a greeting out. 

“What happened?” she asked immediately, tone strict and unforgiving. She knows that Kiyoomi doesn't complain about the jobs he's been given, so he's hoping for some understanding. 

“It's a fucking biohazard, is what happened,” he says, telling her what he's seen so far. She asks for pictures, which he gladly provides, and then tells him to give her ten minutes. 

Five minutes later, she texts him back offering a number with far more zeroes in it than normal. 

He's got rent to pay and gear to buy. 

He tells her he's going to need more supplies. 

…and a new pair of slippers. 

Kiyoomi arrives back at the house of horrors, bright and early the next day. It’s his one day off from school and practice, and he’s about to spend it expelling demons from the apartment 15 floors up. He was prepared this time. Well, as prepared as he can be. He’s got a duffle bag full of cleaning supplies, and the techs for You’ve Got It Maid should have dropped off a cleaning cart for him last night. If all else fails, he’s decided he’ll torch the place and act like it was an accident. The neighbors would understand. In fact, the thinks they’ll thank him. 

Dread and disgust are swirling in equal measure as he presses his desired floor into the elevator. 

Walking into the apartment is no easy feat, and Kiyoomi has to take twelve deep, calming breaths of fresh, clean air before he unlocks the door and lets himself in. The client is not here again, and it’s a good thing, because he’s sure his customer service skills would be lackluster, to say the least. He’s not sure he’d be able to hold his tongue and refrain from asking who the fuck lives like this? 

The genkan is still a mess, but his cleaning cart now resides in the hallway. His eye twitches when he notices that either the techs or his client parked it on top of the mysterious puddle of red liquid. Now he’d have to clean it or risk tracking it through the rest of the house. 

No matter, he’d have to clean it anyway before the day was over. He cracks his knuckles, grabs a large black trash bag from the cleaning cart, dons the actual hazmat suit he’d brought, and says a small prayer to whoever is listening. He will need not only patience, but an incredible amount of strength to get through this day. He’d do well to remember the amount of money he’s getting paid. He can do this. 

Approximately six hours later, Kiyoomi is on his knees, rearranging and scrubbing the bottom cabinets, when something large, brown, and furry squeaks angrily at him and darts into the abyss of the cabinets. He rears back so fast he slams his head on the wooden ledge of the counter. He curses as his eyes water from the impact. 

He can’t do this. 

He absolutely cannot fucking do this. 

Dirt and grime are one thing, but vermin is something completely different. 

He scrambles to his feet and takes a few shaky breaths. His ears are ringing, so he hopes he hasn’t wacked his head too hard. The apartment is much cleaner than it was hours ago, but he feels fucking disgusting. He’s sweaty, his hazmat suit is covered in dirt and crumbs, his hands are cramping, and the apartment smells so strongly of bleach that he started feeling lightheaded an hour ago. His newly injured head only makes the feeling worse. The sink, now shining in the afternoon sunlight, is free of dishes and food, and Kiyoomi throws open the window above the sink and breathes in the fresh air greedily. 

He closes his eyes as the early Autumn air ruffles his hair and cools down his heated skin. He’s almost done for the day. There’s no way he could clean all of this in an eight-hour shift, but he’d made a substantial dent. Eight loads of laundry, the bathroom, genkan, hallway, and lounge are cleaner than Kiyoomi assumes they ever have been. He’d saved the kitchen for last as it was the worst room and he had no desire to clean crusty dishes. Anything growing mold had been thrown into the garbage with his manager's permission. The floors still needed to be vacuumed and steam mopped, but he wasn’t doing that until every surface had been cleared. 

He was so busy breathing in fresh air and panting that he hadn’t heard the key turn in the lock or the sound of someone making their way down the hall. 

“Jesus Christ,” a voice called from behind him, making Kiyoomi jump and whirl around. “Did you spill an entire bottle of bleach in here or somethin’?” 

The man standing in front of him had the collar of his shirt pulled over his nose in a makeshift mask, and he was squinting as the fumes made his eyes water. 

Kiyoomi huffed, not expecting his client to return today. His manager said he was going to be away until tomorrow night. If he knew he would have been returning sooner, he might not have been as heavy-handed. Maybe. 

“Three, actually,” Kiyoomi said, trying to keep the ire out of his voice. 

The man looked around, nodding appreciatively, “May not be able to breathe, but I gotta say, it’s never looked better in here.” 

Kiyoomi leaned against the counter and attempted to swallow down the bite, “I’m sure.” 

The man finally pulled his shirt down from around his mouth and nose as he acclimated, and Kiyoomi froze. You had to be kidding. His life was a joke, and the universe was out to get him, just knew it. The man standing in front of him was the MSBY Black Jackals’ setter, Miya Atsumu. 

Talk about never meeting your heroes. 

Kiyoomi knew that whoever occupied this apartment played volleyball, but he never would have guessed it was anyone on the Jackals. As a rule, he didn’t snoop through his clients' homes. He didn’t look at photos or personal items. He cleaned their houses and put clothing away in their drawers, but he didn’t allow himself to look beyond the surface. Perhaps that was a mistake. Maybe he should have snooped to see who owned the dirtiest house in existence. 

“Uh,” Miya said, taking a step closer, “Yer kinda bleedin’.” He motioned to his head. 

It took Kiyoomi a moment to understand what he was talking about, but then he felt it. Something warm and wet was trickling down his forehead, and he had to refrain from touching it with his disease-ridden gloves. 

He cursed under his breath and began sliding his gloves off his hands. He brushed past Miya to go to the newly shining bathroom. “That’s because you need to hire an exterminator. Quickly.” 

Once his gloves were off and the sleeves of his suit were rolled up as far as they could go, he washed his hands, internally singing his ABC’s six times before he was satisfied. He could see the blood had reached past his brow bone and would be in his eyes before too long if he didn’t hurry. 

He turned to grab a clean rag out of his duffle bag, but Atsumu was behind him, holding out a white rag that Kiyoomi knew was freshly washed, as it was in the basket on the couch that still needed to be folded. 

Kiyoomi eyed him wearily, and Miya huffed, “I washed my hands in the kitchen if that makes ya feel better.” 

It didn’t. Not really. But he could feel the blood pooling lower, and he really didn’t feel like dealing with a bloody eye, so he reluctantly accepted the rag with a nod of his head. He ran it under warm water and began gently wiping the blood off of his face. He tilted his head to the side, trying to see exactly where it was coming from, but before he could, Miya was wrangling the rag out of his hands. 

“Here, let me,” he said, parting Kiyoomi’s hair and applying the rag directly to the gash. He whistled, “Ya might need stitches for that. It looks kinda deep.” 

Kiyoomi groans. He can’t afford stitches right now. Literally and physically. He has practice tomorrow, and there’s no way his coach will let him play with stitches. 

“I’ll be fine,” he counters. “Head wounds always bleed a lot.” 

Miya nods, “I know, but there’s a pretty big gash here. How’d you hit your head, anyway?” 

Kiyoomi can’t help but glare. He’s hot, he’s tired, and his fucking head hurts. “I hit it because I decided that cleaning this god-forsaken apartment was a good idea despite every instinct telling me to burn it down.” 

He’s going to get fired. He’s going to get more than fired. His manager is going to bury him alive, and bleach his bones. 

Instead of the outrage he expects from his outburst, Miya snorts and applies more pressure to his head. “Yeah, to be honest, I was surprised anyone agreed to clean it. My brother told me I was going to have to hire a hazmat team.” 

Kiyoomi’s eye twitched, and he wondered if that was a sign of concussion or his patience running out. 

“You should have,” Kiyoomi huffed. “I was cleaning under your cabinets, and something angry and furry was living under there. You need to hire a pest control company as soon as possible.” 

Miya frowned, and Kiyoomi could relate. If his apartment was taken over by rats, he’d also be upset. That was, of course, until: 

“Oh, that’s just Nezumi-chan,” Miya says, like he’s not ruining the last shred of Kiyoomi’s sanity. 

“Come again?” Kiyoomi says darkly. 

“He’s the rat that lives under the counter. He was here before I moved in. I slip him some cheese or crackers every now and then, and we stay outta each other's way. He’s real partial to tuna, too.” 

Kiyoomi’s head pounds, and he has a feeling it has nothing to do with where he hit it. “You feed the rat living in your cupboards?” 

Miya shrugs, “I mean, he ain’t hurtin’ anyone. Other than you, of course. Probably should have told your agency ya didn’t need to scrub the cupboards.” 

Kiyoomi’s knees are starting to feel weak, and he sags heavily against the counter. 

“Woah,” Miya says, steadying him with a hand on his waist and arm. “We should probably take ya to the ER or somethin’.” 

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I can’t afford a medical bill right now.” 

Miya grins, “No worries, I’ll pay for it. S’my fault ya hit yer head, anyway.” 

Kiyoomi wants to protest, but his head is pounding, and he’s fighting the urge to throw up. He’s not sure if that’s from hitting his head or knowing that Miya feeds the rodent living in his house. 

Fourty-Five minutes and one car ride later, he finds himself sitting on a bed in the ER’s medical bay. True to his word, Atsumu had offered up his credit card when the woman at the window had asked for it. Kiyoomi insisted he didn’t have to stay with him, but Atsumu was adamant that he’d take Kiyoomi back ot his apartment for his things, and then give him a ride home. 

To his surprise, Miya’s car wasn’t anything like his house. It looked almost new. The interior was nice, and it smelled like leather and something spicy. He’d stripped out of his hazmat suit, leaving him in his sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, and the cool air felt good on his skin. 

Miya had to keep reminding him to apply pressure to his wound on the way over, and judging by the state of his bloody rag, he’d smacked his head harder than he thought. Fucking Nezumi-chan. 

Miya was sitting in one of the chairs next to the exam table, and whether it was the blood loss making him loopy, or perhaps the bleach fumes, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How does a professional volleyball player let it get that bad, anyway?” 

Miya’s eyes widened, “You know who I am?” 

Kiyoomi nodded, “I play for Osaka’s University’s team right now. We analyse most of MSBY’s games.” He doesn’t tell Miya he’s been a fan of the team since he was a kid, and even more so after he joined the lineup. He was the best setter MSBY had had in a decade. 

“Well, damn,” Miya grumbles, “This is even more embarrassing. I feel like ya got a real bad impression of me right now, and I just wanna let you know, the state of my apartment is not my fault.” 

Kiyoomi tries to raise a skeptical eyebrow, but it makes his scalp sting, so he ends up wincing instead. “Oh yeah? Whose fault was it then?” 

“Ya know Bokuto and Hinata?” 

He nods, “I know of them.” 

“Their apartment’s had the water turned off for a couple of months while they did maintenance or sum shit. They were complainin’ about hotel prices, and I felt bad. I told ‘em they could stay at my place, and I’d stay with Samu, my brother, till they got it sorted out. I love ‘em both, but I can’t handle the constant noise, so I left ‘em to it. I knew they were messy, but when I came back last week and saw the state of it, I had a meltdown. Cussed em up one side of the court and down the other. They’re the ones paying your substantial, but fully understandable fee.” 

Kiyoomi takes this under consideration, eyeing him wearily. “So, you don’t normally live like this?” 

Miya snorts, “Fuck no. Don’t get me wrong, I can be a little messy, but I would never, ever, ever let my apartment look like this. I haven’t set to them in a week. Told them I wouldn’t talk to them until my apartment was back in peak condition.” 

A weight lifts off of Kiyoomi’s chest, though he doesn’t know why. There’s something to maybe be said about parasocial relationships, because Atsumu living like a slug dimmed some of the respect Kiyoomi had for him. He was still a great setter, but at what cost? 

“But you feed the rat under your sink?” 

Miya laughs, “Yer not lettin’ that one go, huh? Look, he was there first. I barely ever see ‘em and when he ain’t makin’ the pretty boys who clean my apartment slam their heads on my cabinets, he’s kinda cute lookin’.” 

Kiyoomi works hard to control the heat rushing to his face. Motoya has told him often enough that his ears turn bright red when he’s embarrassed. Maybe he can blame it on the blood stains. It shouldn’t matter that Miya called him pretty. He barely knows the man. 

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Kiyoomi says, thinking back to the angry squeaks of the rat. 

The doctor walks in after that, bringing their conversation to a halt. 

“You really hit it, didn’t you?” The doctor said, parting Kiyoomi’s hair to the side and whistling at the gash on his head. “Yeah, it’s probably a good thing you came in. You split it right at the crown. We’ll get ya fixed up with some staples. You won't be able to get your hair wet for 24 hours, so if you shower tonight, you’ll need a shower cap.” 

How could this day get worse? Kiyoomi needed to take a shower more now than ever, hair included. 

The doctor relayed some more information to him before he stepped out and a medical student replaced him. 

“This might sting a bit,” she said, holding the long needle in the air. “If you need to hold your boyfriend's hand, I definitely wouldn’t blame you!” 

Kiyoomi looks at Miya, and instead of looking embarrassed, he looks smug. He holds his hand out to him with a cockly smile, “Whaddya say, sweetheart, wanna hold my hand?” 

Kiyoomi grits his teeth and intertwines their fingers. Miya’s not smiling once Kiyoomi starts using him as a stressball. The numbing needle hurt bad enough, but with each staple that enters his scalp, he squeezes harder, until the tips of Miya’s fingers are purple. 

“Jesus Christ, Omi,” Miya squeaks, trying to wiggle his fingers. “I need my hands to set. At this rate, yer gonna crush my bones.” 

“Your rat crushed my skull,” Kiyoomi’s words are punctuated by the sound of the stapler driving another piece of shrapnel into his skin. 

Miya sighed, “Fair enough.” 

“Okay,” the med student said, stepping back, “You should be good to go. There are instructions on what you can and can’t do in that pamphlet the doctor gave you, and I wouldn’t recommend participating in your practice tomorrow. If you have questions, or if you start to feel worse, you can give us a call!” She exits the room, and Kiyoomi can’t help but be thankful no more stapes were coming his way. He’d received ten, and that was ten too many by his books. 

Kiyoomi sighs, then stands up. He sways dangerously, and Miya steadies him. 

“Ya okay?” He asks. 

Kiyoomi nods, “Yeah, I think it's my head combined with not eating anything yet. Once I get home, I’ll make something, and I should be fine.” 

Miya shakes his head, “Let me take ya to get some food. My brother owns a shop not too far from here.” 

He tries to protest, but the loud growling of his stomach drowns him out. Miya laughs, and with a hand on his elbow, guides him out of the ER. 

Kiyoomi relaxes into the passenger seat as Atsumu drives them to his brother's restaurant. Luckily, his head was still numb, so nothing really hurt at the moment. 

“I wondered how your car was so clean when your apartment looked like that,” Kiyoomi mumbled softly. 

Miya chuckles, “I told ya it wasn’t me. I don’t know what Bo and Shoyo were doin’ in there, but I was not cleaning it up.” 

Kiyoomi nods, “Truthfully, it was the apartment I’ve ever cleaned. I told my manager no in the beginning, but your second offer won me over.” 

“Courtesy of my dumbass teammates,” Miya supplied. “Told them they were footin’ whatever the bill was and they were too scared to deny me. How long ya been working for the maid company anyway? I know yer in uni, so we gotta be around the same age.” 

“We’re the same age. I think you’re older, though. I’ve been with the company for around seven months now.” 

“You been stalkin’ me?” Miya winks at him, and Kiyoomi pretends it’s not stupidly attractive. 

“More like I have a subscription to volleyball monthly and you happen to be in it more often than not.” 

“Sure,” Miya laughs, “Whatever you say.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and bites back his grin, “Ugh, you’re such a Libra.” 

Miya splutters, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you’re fucking annoying.” 

“Alright bastard, what’s yer sign then?” 

Kiyoomi smirks, “Guess.” 

Miya studies him the best he can while keeping an eye on the road. Squinting, he clicks his tongue, “Yer kinda givin’ Capricorn, with all the judgemental bitchiness, but that doesn’t seem right, I don’t think. Could be an Aries, maybe?” 

“Definitely not a Capricorn,” Kiyoomi corrects, “I’m on the brink of being an Aries, though.” 

Miya groans, “Don’t tell me yer a Pisces.” 

“Guilty as charged,” Kiyoomi confirms. 

“Aren’t Pisces supposed to be empathetic? Yer mean and judgemental.” 

“Aren’t Libras supposed to be charming and charismatic? You’re about as charming as a headache. And believe me, I have firsthand experience regarding that right now.” 

Miya laughs, “Ya know, I think Pisces and Libras are supposed to be compatible…” 

Kiyoomi can feel another traitorous blush heating his cheeks. “And why would that matter, Miya Atsumu?” 

The setter shrugs, but his sharp smirk would make Kiyoomi’s knees weak if he were standing up. “Just food for thought, is all. Somethin’ to chew on with yer dinner.” 

Atsumu pulls up a block away from his brother's shop, and he keeps a hand firmly planted on the small of Kiyoomi’s back the whole walk there, as a “safety precaution, Omi-kun.” 

The sign hanging above the building is clean and well designed. It’s a simple design, an onigiri carved into wood, with “Onigiri Miya” in bold letters below it. 

Kiyoomi’s roommates were talking about this place a few weeks ago, and Kiyoomi had meant to stop by and try it when he had the extra money. He supposes he could have put two and two together and figured out that the shop had something to do with Miya Atsumu. He knew he had a twin, since he never failed to bring him up during interviews. 

The smell of Mirin and rice greeted him as they swung the door open, and his stomach let out another ferocious growl. Miya laughed at him and led him to the barstools at the counter. 

Atsumu’s mirror image was standing at the counter, shaping the rice into perfect triangles when he looked up to see who entered. 

He sighed, looking aggrieved, “I just saw ya yesterday, scrub, can’t ya go find some friends or somethin’?” 

Atsumu huffed, “I brought ya a new customer, ya bastard. The least ya could do is be grateful. Samu, this is Omi.” 

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, “Sakusa Kiyoomi. You can call me Kiyoomi, though.” 

Osamu snorted, “Name’s Osamu. Unfortunately, the bastard I share a face with is incapable of callin’ people by the names they were given. So, did he threaten ya or somethin’? Blink twice if ya need me to help ya escape.” 

Kiyoomi snorted, sliding into the seat next to Atsumu. “Your brother did cause me to have a head injury, so it’s possible I’m not operating using sound judgment right now.” 

Osamu’s sleepy gaze slides to his brother, “The fuck did ya do?” 

Atsumu opens his mouth to protest the claim, but Kiyoomi beats him to it. 

“He hired me to clean his apartment, and while I was dealing with the biological warfare, his pet rat decided I had encroached on its territory.” 

Osamu closed his eyes slowly, like he was in pain. “Don’t tell me yer talkin’ about fuckin’ Nezumi-chan.” 

Kiyoomi nodded, “Oh, but I am.” 

Osamu leaned over and slapped Atsumu on the back of the head, “I told ya to call an exterminator months ago!” 

Atsumu bats his hand away and then crosses his arms over his chest, like a petulant child, “He’s not hurtin’ nobody!” 

Osamu stares at him, like he’s disappointed beyond all belief. He turns his gaze to Kiyoomi, “He’s always had a soft spot for animals, and apparently rats are no fuckin’ exception. You’ll have to forgive his stupidity.” 

Kiyoomi sighs, “It’s fine. Well, it’s not, but it seems this is a deep-seated issue that I’m not paid enough to handle. I’m going to assume you don’t feed rats here, though?” 

Osamu looks offended by the accusation, “Fuck no. My brother's the crazy rat lovin’ freak, not me.” 

Some of the apprehension Kiyoomi felt about eating here abates. 

Osamu takes his order, and as he’s shaping the rice, asks, “So, yer the unlucky one who had to clean Tsumu’s apartment. Did ya pass out upon enterin’?” 

“It was by far the worst mess I have encountered so far. I almost didn’t do it, but Miya’s friends offered more money, so I decided to take on the burden.” 

“Good,” Osamu says, “Hope they paid ya an arm and a leg and gave ya a fat ass tip. I couldn’t believe the state those two left it in.” 

Kiyoomi hums, “So, can you confirm that Miya’s apartment doesn’t typically look like that?” 

Atsumu scoffs beside him, “I told ya it doesn’t! Not my fault I tried to be a decent person and got done dirtly. Both literally and figuratively. And call me Atsumu, s’weird bein’ called Miya when Osamu’s a MIya too.” 

“Whatever you say, Miya.” 

Osamu snorts, “Other than the apparent rat issue, Tsumu’s apartment is always real clean. Ma was real strict about cleanliness growin’ up, so ya shouldn’t have to worry about it lookin’ like that again.” 

“Well,” Kiyoomi says, relaxing into his seat, “That’s good. I don’t know if I could survive a round two of that.” 

Atsumu snorts, “Tellin’ me. My whole apartment smells like a bottle of bleach exploded. Surprised ya weren’t high as a kite in there.” 

Kiyoomi’s stomach growls again. He shrugs, “Maybe I was.” 

After dinner, Miya drives him back to his apartment so Kiyoomi can grab his cleaning supplies. It still smells strongly of bleach, but with the window still open from earlier, it had time to air out, so it’s not as suffocating. 

“I haven’t finished the laundry or had a chance to vacuum or mop,” Kiyoomi said, picking up his duffle. “Since I can’t go to practice tomorrow, I should be able to come by and finish up provided you’re okay with that.” 

Atsumu shakes his head. “I can do all that. You should stay home and rest.” 

“I have to finish the job in order to get paid,” Kiyoomi says, “Plus, it’s not like either of those tasks are particularly hard on my head.” 

“Nah,” Atsumu denies. “I’ll tell yer manager it was a job well done. Wouldn’t be a lie either. This place looks a million times better than it did. I didn’t know if I’d be able to move back in before, and now all it needs is a quick sweep, and it’ll be right as rain. I can handle that, no problem.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t like not finishing a job. One of the reasons he loves cleaning–despite the obvious, of course–is that it’s so satisfying. The before and after. The feeling of accomplishment he gets after a job well done. 

“What if I text you in the morning? If I feel up to it, I’ll come by and finish up.” 

Atsumu smirks, “I get the feelin’ ya just wanna hang out again, Omi. If ya do, ya just gotta say so.” 

He bites back his grin, “I get the feeling your head might explode if it gets any better. I have a job to do, Miya.” 

“Gimme yer phone, then,” Atsumu says. 

Kiyoomi hands it over and watches as Atsumu enters his contact information. 

“Text me tomorrow, and I’ll let you know that everythin’s been taken care of, but maybe we can go get breakfast together instead.” 

“You don’t give up, do you?” Kiyoomi asks amusedly, pocketing his phone. 

“When someone looks like you? Absolutely not.” 

“You just met me,” Kiyoomi says. 

“And I’m already half obsessed, Omi. Gonna watch some of yer college matches tonight. I just know that yer weird twisty wrists gotta mean trouble for your opponents.” 

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu for a moment, taking in his sleepy, golden gaze, the soft smile on his face, and his stupidly attractive body. It wasn’t fair, not really. He was so weak to him, and they’d just met. 

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says. “I’ll text you in the morning, and we can hang out… or something.” 

Atsumu’s thousand-watt smile lights up his face. “Are you gonna be offended if I tip you?” 

Kiyoomi sighs, “After today, I’d be more offended if you didn’t.” 

There’s a violent squeaking that comes from under the kitchen counter that startles Kiyoomi, causing him to drop his heavy duffle full of chemicals. His glare is icy when he aims it at Atsumu. 

“I’ll–I’ll work on gettin’ him rehomed,” Atsumu says, looking sheepish. 

“Good,” Kiyoomi says, “Otherwise, this tip will be the only kind of tip you ever give me.” 

Atsumu splutters and Kiyoomi smiles, though he’s not joking at all. 

Kiyoomi might be the one with the head injury, but Atsumu’s the one left feeling faint. 

Image description: 

Miya Atsumu has left a five-star Yelp review on the cleaning service You’ve Got It Maid with the following comment: 

“Friends messed up my apartment. Maid service sent out the hottest man I've ever seen. The hot man agreed to be my boyfriend. I would recommend this service to anyone who needs their house cleaned or who might be in the market for a new life partner. I recommend the company bring back traditional maid uniforms, for purely practical reasons. Of course. Nothing nefarious going on here at all. 👀”