Chapter Text
At the ripe age of fourteen, Kiyoomi knew people were easier to tolerate from a distance.
Far enough and they became predictable.
His teachers expected high grades. His classmates expected silence. His family expected discipline.
Since he was little, he had given them exactly what they wanted. Not precisely because he enjoyed the praise his elders gave him, but because disappointing people sounded exhausting.
And that worked, for years actually.
Until middle school came.
Until classrooms became louder and everyone his age suddenly developed an unbearable need to speak all at once, in a rather loud tone of voice by the way. Until volleyball stopped being something he did and started becoming something people actually noticed. Until one spring afternoon, when Komori stayed home sick, and Kiyoomi ended up eating lunch alone behind the gymnasium.
Not because he disliked company.
Well, he did, but that wasn't the point…
The thing is that eating alone meant thirty uninterrupted, peaceful, harmonious minutes of silence before his afternoon classes.
It was a routine, and Kiyoomi liked routines.
Which was probably why he noticed immediately when someone interrupted his that day.
“Yer Sakusa Kiyoomi, right?” Kiyoomi looked up from the book resting on his knees.
The boy that was standing in front of him had brown hooded eyes, but despite that, he also had too many expressions at once. A smile that felt invasive, or rather cocky, and a side part that looked… interesting.
He stood there for a second longer when Kiyoomi didn't answer, balancing awkwardly on one foot before dropping onto the bench beside him anyway. Bold, and without permission.
Annoying.
Kiyoomi frowned, “Yes”
The stranger stared another second, then somehow grinned wider, as if Kiyoomi had said something interesting instead of a single syllable.
“Ya talk like an old man.”
Kiyoomi slowly blinked once.
“Excuse me?”
“Like an old man. Or a principal. Dunno.”
The kid leaned back against the bench with an ease that, from the outside, would look as if they were lifelong best friends, rather than the reality that they had met no more than a minute ago.
His lunch tray landed beside him; rice, tamago, with a side of umeboshi. Too much sauce, which Kiyoomi noticed because the smell reached him immediately.
“Komori-kun usually sits with ya, right?”
That caught him off guard to be honest. Kiyoomi lowered his eyes back to the book in his hands.
“He's sick today”
“Ahh.”
A short silence followed after that. Moments in which Sakusa thought the conversation was over, until—
“So ya like reading during lunch every day?”
Kiyoomi exhaled through his nose. Once. The universal sign for this conversation should've ended already. Apparently, this twelve-year-old guy didn't speak that language.
“Sometimes.”
“Doesn't that get lonely?”
The question sat somewhere strange between curiosity and concern. Too sincere to be teasing.
Kiyoomi frowned at the page he hadn't read in over a minute.
Lonely implied absence, as if missing something. But he wasn't missing anything. Eating alone had never felt empty, just… quiet. And he liked it quiet, that was all.
“No.”
Another pause, longer this time.
When Kiyoomi glanced sideways, expecting boredom or discomfort from the stranger next to him, he instead found him staring towards the court.
His expression looked different, less loud.
“Hm.”
The sound wasn't disbelief. Just thoughtful, kind of.
Then, almost immediately he continued “I think I could never do that.”
Kiyoomi blinked. “Being alone?”
“Nah.”
The boy picked absentmindedly at the edge of his juice carton.
“Bein' okay with it.”
…Weird.
That was Kiyoomi's first coherent thought about this kid.
Not loud, nor invasive, or annoying.
Although he was all those things too.
Just… weird. Because who admitted something like that to a stranger? Who looked at silence and decided to fill it with honesty?
Before Kiyoomi could answer, the lunch bell rang across campus.
Students nearby started gathering their things, and conversations resumed. Noise returned all at once.
The other boy stood first, stretching dramatically like he'd survived something exhausting.
“Guess that's me done botherin' ya.” He said with a grimace before adding, “Fer now.”
And he said that lightly, like a joke.
Still… something uncomfortable settled briefly in Kiyoomi's chest. Not guilt though, nothing as serious as guilt. Just something like awareness. The kind left behind when routines changed suddenly like his just did.
He grabbed his tray, then paused. “See ya later, Sakusa.”
Kiyoomi looked up. The certainty in his voice made his eyebrows pull together.
“Why later?”
The grin returned immediately. Too quick, too easy.
“Because we're in the same class, dummy.”
Silence.
For the first time since sitting down, the kid actually laughed a little louder. Open and unembarrassed, like Kiyoomi had accidentally said something funny.
“Yer kidding.”
Oh but he wasn't, apparently. The realization arrived all at once.
Same classroom.
Same year.
Same school.
Kiyoomi had simply… never quite noticed him. Which, judging by his expression, seemed impossible.
“Damn.”
The boy adjusted his bag over one shoulder, still smiling.
“That's kinda harsh, Omi.”
Omi.
Again.
Kiyoomi frowned automatically. “Don't call me—”
“Later, Omi-kun.”
And then he left, just like that.
Like he'd already decided there'd be a later together. Like getting close to people was that easy for him. Like—
Kiyoomi watched him disappear into the hallway before looking back down at his book. The page remained exactly where he'd left it. Unread.
The bell had rung almost two minutes ago, which meant that he was late.
For reasons he didn't understand, his fingers hesitated before turning the page.
...
That same day after school, Komori texted him asking if he could bring his notes after school. Attached underneath:
From: Komori Motoya
btw miya asked where u were during cleaning duty LMAO
Kiyoomi stared at the message longer than necessary. Then, after hesitating for a moment, he typed:
Komori Motoya online
btw miya asked where u were during cleaning duty LMAO
Who?
…r u kidding?
Am not. Who’s that?
bruh miya atsumu, osamu’s twin he’s
in our class… he told me he spoke w
u during lunch 2day idk.
Oh. So that was his name.
The strange thing about routines was that one never knew when they were changing, until they completely did.
One day, lunch meant silence and a book balanced over one knee, the next one…
“Omi, move over.” …and somehow Miya Atsumu was there.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At first, Kiyoomi assumed it was temporary. Some kind of phase that for whatever reason was happening right at that moment, to him. An unfortunate burst of extroversion directed at the wrong person.
Surely Atsumu would get bored eventually. ‘Cause at least, most people did. They usually lasted a few days before deciding Kiyoomi was too quiet, too serious, too weird, or too difficult to understand and get along with.
Atsumu lasted one week.
But then, that one somehow became a two. And just like that, three.
Then a month.
And somehow he still showed up every day with the same impossible amount of energy. Sometimes he talked enough for both of them. Actually, most of the time, and Kiyoomi learned a lot of things, mostly against his will.
For example, that Atsumu hated math, but somehow passed every exam. That he got into arguments with his brother at least three times a day. That he could never decide what to buy from vending machines despite choosing the same drink every single time. That he wanted to become one of the best setters in Japan…
He said the latter with unusual certainty. No jokes, nor laughter, just complete confidence and self-assurance.
Kiyoomi remembered staring at him for a moment before replying:
“Then become one.”
Atsumu had looked ridiculously pleased by that answer. As if Kiyoomi had given him something valuable. Which made no sense because people didn't usually care about his opinions.
He preferred it that way, nonetheless. Unfortunately for him, Atsumu seemed determined to care.
The messages started not long after. Most of them were nonsense though.
Pictures of food, complaints about homework, random observations.
Questions that didn't require answers, others that apparently did. (Kiyoomi ignored half of them, then responded to the other half hours later.)
Atsumu never seemed bothered either way. If anything, he acted as though receiving a reply at all was some kind of victory.
By the end of their first year, Komori had stopped asking why Atsumu was always around. Mostly because the answer was obvious, at least for him. Because nobody actually knew.
One afternoon after volleyball practice, Kiyoomi was changing his shoes when Komori casually dropped onto the bench beside him.
Too casually, and with that grimace that he did whenever he was up to something, which immediately made him suspicious.
“So.”
Kiyoomi sighed. “No.”
“I didn't even ask anything yet.”
“You were going to.”
Komori grinned. “Fair.”
He paused for a moment, making Kiyoomi think that he wasn't going to try anything else until— “You and Miya spend a lot of time together.”
There it was.
Kiyoomi continued tying his shoelaces.
“We're friends.”
“Right.”
“We are.”
“Mhm.” The skepticism in Komori's voice was unbearable.
Kiyoomi looked up.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Komori immediately raised both hands.
“Nothing.”
A lie. An obvious one, but not obvious enough for Kiyoomi to argue with.
Thankfully, Atsumu appeared before the conversation could continue.
The gym doors bursted open, because of course he had to make an entrance.
“OMI!”
Both cousins flinched.
“We're literally right here, idiot. You don’t have to scream like that”
But Atsumu ignored Komori completely.
“Ya ready?”
“For what?”
“I told ya this morning.”
“You tell me a lot of things.”
Atsumu stared, offended.
Genuinely offended.
Then he grabbed Kiyoomi by the wrist and started dragging him toward the exit.
“C'mon.”
“Miya.”
“C'mooooooonnn.”
“Miya.”
“Omi.”
“Miya.”
Komori watched them leave in silence, then shook his head while a soft smile spread across his face.
Some problems solved themselves. Whilst others clearly needed more time.
...
The months passed, and just like that another year went by.
Without noticing when it happened, Miya Atsumu became attached to nearly every part of Kiyoomi's life.
Since then, it wasn’t just lunch breaks or practices anymore. It was walks home from school, phone calls that stretched far longer than intended.
Sometimes they talked, other times they just sat in comfortable silence. Neither felt particularly strange. Which, in hindsight, should have been concerning. But Kiyoomi simply got used to him, that was all.
Used to Atsumu dropping into the seat beside him, to receiving messages before bed, to hearing his voice after difficult practices.
Used to looking for him somewhere in every crowd.
It became normal to the point where it was something that he already expected.
A new routine.
And because it was routine, Kiyoomi never stopped to question it.
Not when he noticed that Atsumu remembered things nobody else did, even when he looked for Kiyoomi first after their matches, nor when he started smiling differently whenever their eyes met.
Those things happened gradually. Slowly enough to escape notice, at least for a while.
Because one afternoon, Kiyoomi arrived at school five minutes before the bell rang, it was like any other day. Nothing unusual or important. And yet, as he stepped into the courtyard, his eyes immediately searched for someone.
More specifically, a boy with brown hooded eyes, a very loud voice, with too many expressions at once.
The realization struck a second later. It was small at first until he fully became aware of what he was doing, and the thought alone was embarrassingly uncomfortable.
Miya Atsumu wasn't there yet, and for reasons Kiyoomi couldn't explain, that felt wrong. Because, without noticing when it happened, Miya Atsumu had already become a vital part of his routine.
To no one’s surprise, being fourteen looked surprisingly similar to being thirteen.
It brought the same classrooms, the same gymnasium, and the same tired teachers assigning homework nobody wanted. Even the volleyball practices were as always, along with the constant presence of Miya Atsumu appearing wherever Kiyoomi happened to be.
Which was probably why it took him so long to notice that something had shifted—not around him, but around Atsumu himself.
It started small enough to ignore, enough to dismiss as if it was a mere coincidence. One day Atsumu started waiting outside Kiyoomi's classroom after lessons, then he started saving him a seat during lunch, and soon after, he somehow developed the irritating habit of texting him good morning before school and good night before bed every single day.
Kiyoomi never asked why, mostly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. By then, most of their friendship consisted of these routines. The unusual part was how intensely aware Kiyoomi had become of them; a missing text, an empty seat, or Atsumu being absent altogether felt jarringly noticeable. That last realization bothered him enough to pretend it didn't exist.
Things only became worse during the summer, because summer meant tournaments, and tournaments brought other schools, which meant other teams, therefore other people. Unfortunately, those other people seemed to like Atsumu a lot. I mean, it wasn’t surprising, Miya Atsumu could start a conversation with a brick wall if given enough time, but the problem was that Kiyoomi had never been forced to witness it for several consecutive hours.
Until now, and for reasons he couldn't explain, it was becoming more and more annoying.
"Omi."
Kiyoomi looked up as Atsumu appeared beside him, carrying two sports drinks and handing one over automatically, just like always.
"What?" Kiyoomi asked.
"Yer staring."
"I'm not."
"Ya are."
Atsumu sat down beside him, still smiling, still sweaty from their practice match, and still far too comfortable invading Kiyoomi's personal space. Across the gym, a group of students from the other school were talking near the entrance. One of them waved directly at Atsumu, who waved back without hesitation, causing the girl to immediately turn red. Kiyoomi instantly regretted noticing it.
"See?" Atsumu nudged his shoulder lightly. "Yer doin' it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where ya look annoyed but won't tell me why."
Kiyoomi opened his sports drink, staring down at it. "Maybe I am annoyed."
"Why?"
"...You're loud."
Atsumu stared at him for a second, then laughed. "That's the same excuse ya’ve been using for two years."
Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. A familiar, comfortable silence settled between them, the exact kind Kiyoomi never minded. But it didn't last since, from across the gym, someone called Atsumu's name again. It was the same girl from earlier, and this time she was approaching them, looking confident and smiling. Kiyoomi suddenly found the label on the sports drink in his hands incredibly interesting.
"Hi," she said.
Atsumu looked up. "Oh. Hey."
The conversation that followed wasn't particularly memorable; at least, Kiyoomi wished it wasn't. The girl introduced herself, complimented Atsumu's setting, and asked how he was doing at school and… if he had social media. They were normal, perfectly harmless questions, yet somehow Kiyoomi spent the entire exchange growing more irritated by the second.
It made absolutely no sense. Atsumu was allowed to talk to whoever he wanted; Kiyoomi knew that, obviously. The problem was that knowing something and feeling it were two entirely different things.
By the time the girl finally walked away, Atsumu looked thoroughly amused. He turned his attention back to Kiyoomi, who immediately frowned.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Omi."
"Miya."
Atsumu continued staring at him. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at his lips. "Were ya jealous?"
The world stopped. It was only for a second, but it stopped completely. Kiyoomi's grip tightened around the plastic bottle. "Don't be ridiculous."
Atsumu immediately looked delighted, which somehow made everything ten times worse. "Oh my God, ya were."
"I wasn't."
"Ya absolutely were!"
"Miya."
"Omiii."
"Stop talking."
"Omi was jealous," Atsumu teased, his singy-song voice dripping with satisfaction.
"I wasn't."
"Omi was jealous!"
Kiyoomi shoved his shoulder, pushing him harder than he had intended to. Atsumu laughed so hard at the reaction that he almost dropped his drink.
Idiot. He was a complete idiot.
And yet, the moment Kiyoomi's hand left Atsumu's shoulder, something strange happened. Neither of them moved. Atsumu's laughter faded into the background noise of the gym, and the distance between them suddenly felt much smaller than it had a few seconds ago.
Kiyoomi noticed stupid things he shouldn't have: like the specific shape of Atsumu's smile, the warmth left behind on his shoulder, and the way the afternoon sunlight reflected against his messy dark hair. For one uncomfortable second, neither spoke, neither looked away, and neither seemed entirely sure what had just happened between them.
Then, someone yelled from the court, and the moment shattered instantly.
Atsumu startled first, moving a little too quickly. "Coach is callin'."
"Yeah."
"We should go."
"Yeah."
Still, neither of them actually moved. After a second passed, finally, Atsumu rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, breaking the tension. "C'mon, Omi."
His voice sounded different. Not wrong, just... different.
Kiyoomi stood up wordlessly and followed him onto the court. Neither of them mentioned that moment again; not that day, not the next, and not for weeks. But something had shifted.
And for the first time since meeting Miya Atsumu two years ago in their first year of middle school, Kiyoomi found himself wondering whether friendship was actually supposed to feel like this.
They never talked about what had happened after the tournament. They didn't mention the kind-of-jealousy, the awkward silence, or the way neither of them had been able to look at the other for the rest of that afternoon.
Life simply continued. Volleyball practices resumed, homework kept piling up, and Komori remained blissfully unaware that something had shifted between his cousin and his best friend. Or maybe he wasn't, but Kiyoomi had stopped trying to figure Komori out a long time ago.
What surprised Kiyoomi wasn't that things eventually went back to normal; it was how completely different normal suddenly felt.
Atsumu still greeted him every morning before first period, still stole bites from Kiyoomi's lunch whenever he decided his own tasted worse, and still talked through half of practice, complaining dramatically whenever their coach made them run extra laps.
Nothing had changed, except… everything actually had. Somewhere along the way, physical touch had become natural—a hand around Kiyoomi's wrist whenever Atsumu wanted him to hurry up, a half-hug after winning a point, or their knees brushing (and them not pulling apart) whenever they shared the same bench.
There were things neither of them seemed to think twice about anymore, until one particular afternoon.
Practice had ended much later than usual. The streets were quieter by the time they started walking home, the heavy orange glow of the setting sun smearing across the sidewalks. Komori had stayed behind to help clean the gym and other things, so for once, it was just the two of them.
Atsumu was unusually quiet. Not entirely silent, just quieter than his usual rowdy self, which Kiyoomi noticed after about five minutes of walking.
"You've been thinking," Kiyoomi observed, breaking the silence.
Atsumu glanced sideways, a thoughtful look on his face. "...Can ya tell?"
"You haven't complained once."
"...Wow."
"You also haven't talked about food."
"...Ouch," Atsumu laughed under his breath, earning the smallest smile from Kiyoomi. "I talk about other things."
"You do."
"...Sometimes."
"You don't."
Atsumu laughed again, finally relaxing his shoulders. "There he is." Kiyoomi noted.
"What?"
"The scary face disappeared."
"I wasn't making one." Atsumu replied sheepishly.
"Liar."
Before Kiyoomi could continue, Atsumu reached over and absentmindedly tugged at the neck of Kiyoomi's school uniform. "There."
"What?" Kiyoomi asked, looking down at his shoulder.
"It was folded weird."
Kiyoomi looked closely at the fabric; it looked exactly the same. "...You made it worse."
"I absolutely did not."
"You did."
"I made ya look handsome."
"Excuse you, I already was."
Atsumu stopped walking in an instant. Kiyoomi took another two steps before realizing he was no longer walking beside him. When he turned around, Atsumu was just staring—not laughing, not teasing, just observing him with an unreadable expression.
"What?" Kiyoomi asked, a slight flutter in his chest.
"...Nothin'," Atsumu smiled to himself before catching up to match his stride.
They continued walking, and neither of them mentioned the moment again. A few blocks later, they reached a crosswalk just as the pedestrian light was about to change. "C'mon," Atsumu said, and without thinking, he reached for Kiyoomi's hand.
It wasn't dramatic or romantic, just completely natural, like he'd done dozens of times before whenever they needed to cross a street quickly. Only this time, when they made it to the other side and the light turned red behind them, Atsumu didn't let go.
Neither of them moved. Atsumu looked down first, staring directly at their hands. "...Oh."
Kiyoomi followed his gaze. Their fingers had somehow fully intertwined, though neither of them remembered doing it on purpose. For a split second, Atsumu looked like he was about to pull away, but instead, he asked very quietly, "...Should I—?"
Feeling the warmth of Atsumu's palm against his own for longer than necessary, Kiyoomi interrupted before he could finish the sentence, "No."
Atsumu blinked in surprise. "...No?"
"...No." and squeezed his hand lightly once.
"...Okay."
Without looking at each other, they simply resumed walking, hand in hand. The silence that settled over them wasn't awkward; it wasn't even particularly different from the hundreds of silences they'd already shared. It just meant something now.
About halfway to Kiyoomi's house, Atsumu finally spoke again. "...So."
"So."
"...Does this make us boyfriends? I mean y’know, with all the stuff we’ve been doing, I just—"
Kiyoomi’s heart felt like it skipped a beat, but couldn't help the small, breathless laugh that escaped him. "I don't know."
"Oh very helpful, Omi."
"I'm serious."
"I know," Atsumu took another few steps before asking the next question, his voice so quiet Kiyoomi could’ve missed it if it wasn’t for the silence in the streets. "...Do you want to?"
Kiyoomi didn't answer immediately. It wasn't because he didn't know the answer, but because he wanted to be entirely honest. "...I think I do."
Atsumu grinned. It was one of those smaller, rare smiles that didn't come with loud laughter. "I think I do too."
"...So?"
"...I guess we're datin'."
"I guess we are." answered Kiyoomi, looking a bit shy.
"...Well, that was pretty straightforward."
"It suits us."
Atsumu laughed again, squeezing Kiyoomi's hand once, very lightly. "...Hi, boyfriend."
Kiyoomi looked at him giggling, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
There was something embarrassingly sincere about the way Atsumu said it; no joke, no exaggerated expression, just pure happiness. Which led to him also grinning whilst saying "...Hi, Atsumu."
They never had a proper confession. There was no grand gesture, no dramatic first kiss beneath cherry blossoms, and no one ever formally asked, “will you be my boyfriend?” Somehow, none of it mattered, because from that day onward, they settled into those new roles as naturally as they had settled into friendship years before.
Holding hands became routine, goodnight texts became sleep well, and weekend plans automatically included the other. Don’t get it wrong though, it wasn't perfect; they still argued, they got annoyed, Atsumu remained unbearably loud, and Kiyoomi remained unbearably particular. But somehow, they fit.
Neither of them knew it then, of course. They were fourteen, almost fifteen, and still entirely convinced that adulthood was unimaginably far away. The future existed only as vague conversations about high school entrance exams, volleyball, and impossible dreams. Neither realized those conversations were slowly becoming countdowns. Because before either of them was ready, spring would end.
And with it, their last year together.
The transition into high school arrived much faster than either of them expected.
One moment they were sitting through their middle school graduation ceremony, sharing quick, hidden smiles through speeches neither of them had actually listened to, and the next they were standing outside the gates with acceptance letters to completely different schools tucked under their arms. It wasn't just a different school building; it was an entirely different prefecture.
"I still think ya should've come to mine," Atsumu complained, his voice lacking its usual bite, replaced instead by a quiet, lingering reluctance.
Kiyoomi glanced at him from where they were walking a few steps behind Komori, Osamu, and Suna. The reality of their fast-approaching separation hung heavy over the group.
"I got accepted into the school I wanted," Kiyoomi replied softly, adjusting the strap of his bag.
"So did I."
"...Exactly."
Atsumu clicked his tongue, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "I liked my argument better."
"You usually do."
"Hey."
"I'm kidding," Kiyoomi murmured, his fingers brushing against Atsumu’s jacket pocket for just a second.
"...Liar."
They made promises that afternoon, the kind fifteen-year-olds made because they genuinely believed wanting something so badly was enough to make it happen.
They promised to text every day, to call every night, and to watch each other's matches whenever schedules allowed. They promised to celebrate birthdays together and, above all, to never become strangers. At the time, none of it sounded unrealistic. They were young, stubborn, and convinced that a train ride wouldn't change what they had built.
And for a while, it didn't.
The first few months of high school went surprisingly well. If anything, the distance made them talk even more than before. There were phone calls stretched well past midnight, the low murmur of Atsumu's voice through the receiver filling Kiyoomi’s quiet bedroom in Tokyo, usually ending with one of them falling asleep before hanging up. Weekends belonged to them whenever they could manage it.
Sometimes Atsumu would drag Kiyoomi to a local convenience store near the station, where they would spend hours sharing a single box of meat buns while doing homework on a park bench. Other weekends were spent traveling to nearly empty gymnasiums, watching each other practice until coaches practically kicked them out.
But as the months bled into the competitive seasons, their reality shifted. Kiyoomi was adjusting to life at Itachiyama Institute, a powerhouse where the academic workload was brutal and the volleyball team felt like it demanded absolute perfection. Between grueling practices alongside Komori and late-night studying to keep his grades up, Kiyoomi was constantly exhausted.
Meanwhile, across the country at Inarizaki High, Atsumu was quickly establishing himself as a terrifyingly talented setter. His life was consumed by intense training camps, Osamu’s constant bickering, and the heavy pressure of a team aiming for the top of the nation.
They did encounter each other sometimes, but it was never the way they wanted. Instead of empty gyms and quiet walks, they saw each other across the net at massive national tournaments. They were surrounded by roaring crowds, flashing cameras, and the fierce tension of competition. There were no long conversations there; it was just brief, loaded eye contact across the court during warm-ups, or a fleeting, breathless greeting in the crowded hallways of the stadium before being pulled away by their respective teams.
Long distance was never easy, but eventually, it stopped working altogether. The change wasn't dramatic enough to notice all at once; it arrived little by little in the spaces between their routines. It was a missed phone call because Itachiyama's practice ran late. It was a cancelled weekend trip because Inarizaki had a mandatory training camp before exams. It was a message answered hours later, then the next day, then not until the following morning.
Neither complained, and neither blamed the other, because both of them understood the weight of the roles they were trying to fill.
Atsumu's volleyball was becoming more demanding with every tournament, his mind entirely consumed by the court. Kiyoomi’s new school expected more from him than middle school ever had, leaving him with barely enough energy to function by the end of the week.
Their schedules stopped fitting together as effortlessly as they used to. The time they spent trying to make room for each other slowly became the only free time either of them had left, turning what used to be a comfort into an exhausting obligation.
Still, they tried. They really did. Which was probably the cruelest part of it all, because love had never been the thing they were running out of.
Time was.
Winter didn’t arrive with a sudden drop in the temperature or anything out of the ordinary; it simply settled into the spaces they had left empty. The mornings grew colder, the afternoons darkened before sixth period even ended, and their daily phone calls somehow became shorter, tapering off without either of them ever consciously deciding to stop dialing.
It was halfway through their second year of high school when they had stopped asking when they would see each other next. Their grueling schedules answered that question long before they even could.
One Thursday evening, long after the Itachiyama gym had emptied and his muscles had grown stiff from practice, Kiyoomi sat on the bench and finally looked at his phone. Dozens of unanswered notifications were waiting for him, almost entirely from Atsumu.
There were blurry pictures of convenience store food, brief voice messages complaining about one of Osamu's settings, quick updates about Inarizaki’s training camp, and stupid jokes. Scattered between them were the constants: Good morning. Good luck today. Sleep well.
None of them demanded immediate answers. None of them complained about the silence. And somehow, that wordless grace only made Kiyoomi feel worse.
He stared at the glowing screen until it dimmed into black, his chest tightening. Then, he forced his thumb to type.
To: Atsumu :)
Can you come here this Saturday?
The reply came in less than a minute.
From: Atsumu :)
yeah, course :)
everythin okay?
Kiyoomi’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. Then stayed there, frozen in the quiet of the locker room for almost a full minute, before he finally forced himself to press send.
> We should talk in person.
Atsumu’s typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and appeared again.
< okay
Kiyoomi locked his phone and shoved it into his bag, unable to look at the screen anymore.
When Saturday came, the heavy grey sky matched the knot twisting in Kiyoomi's stomach. They met halfway between Tokyo and Hyogo, choosing the exact small station they always did, which by the way neither of them particularly liked, but one both could reach via the bullet train without having to ask their parents for favors.
Atsumu spotted him first in the crowd. "Omi!" he called out, a smile breaking across his face automatically. It was the exact same bright, easy smile he had worn every single time he had seen Kiyoomi for the past three years.
Kiyoomi tried, but he couldn't bring himself to return it. Watching the warmth drain from Atsumu's face as his smile vanished almost immediately was like watching a curtain drop.
"...Did somethin' happen?" Atsumu asked softly, stepping closer.
Kiyoomi looked away, focusing on the distant tracks. "...Let's walk."
They walked for nearly twenty minutes in near-total silence. The city moved rapidly around them, completely indifferent to the two boys walking side by side, their shoulders almost touching but never quite enough to close the gap.
Eventually, they reached a small riverside park. The benches were completely bare, cleared out because of the winter wind. Atsumu sat down first, looking up expectantly, while Kiyoomi remained standing, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
"...Yer scarin' me," Atsumu admitted, his voice small against the rush of the river. When Kiyoomi didn't answer, Atsumu swallowed hard. "...Omi."
"I'm tired," Kiyoomi whispered.
Atsumu frowned, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "...Yeah," he let out a breathless, forced laugh. "So am I."
"No." Kiyoomi’s voice barely rose above the wind as he struggled to drag the words from his throat. "I mean... I'm tired all the time. I feel like I can't keep up anymore."
Atsumu’s expression softened instantly, moving to comfort him. "Then don't. Take a break."
"But you know I can't."
"Then we'll figure somethin' out."
"We've been trying."
"We'll keep tryin', Omi."
Kiyoomi finally forced himself to look down at him. His eyes were entirely hollow—not from crying, but from the sheer exhaustion of pretending everything has been okay for months. "I don't want you waiting for me every night."
"I don't mind."
"But I do."
"I said I don't—"
"I know what you said!" Kiyoomi’s voice came out sharper than he intended, cutting through the quiet park. Immediately, a heavy wave of guilt settled in his chest. He closed his eyes. "...Sorry."
Atsumu shook his head, running both hands aggressively through his now dyed hair. "No. No, don't apologize, just... talk t’ me."
"I am."
"No, yer not," Atsumu said, the words landing harder than either of them expected. "Every time I ask if yer okay, ya tell me yer fine."
"Because I am."
"Bullshit," Atsumu snapped, and Kiyoomi froze at the venom in his tone. "You've barely answered my calls fer weeks."
"I've been busy."
"I know ya've been busy!"
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"'Cause you’re disappearin'!" Atsumu cried out, the sentence echoing painfully between them. He looked up at Kiyoomi, his eyes bright with frustration. "So tell me what I'm supposed to do."
Kiyoomi looked away, unable to handle the desperation in Atsumu's gaze. "I don't know."
"No." Atsumu stood up, stepping directly into Kiyoomi’s space to force him to look at him. "That's not good enough."
"What?"
"I asked what I'm supposed to do."
"I don't know!" Kiyoomi’s voice cracked for the first time, the dam finally breaking. "I don't know anymore!"
For a second, neither of them moved. Kiyoomi’s breathing had become shallow and uneven, the freezing air burning his lungs. "I can't do this."
Atsumu stared at him, his face pale. "...Can't do what?"
"This." Kiyoomi gestured helplessly between the space separating them. "Us." The word was so fragile it barely existed by the time it left his mouth.
Atsumu let out a sharp, mocking laugh—not because anything was funny, but because the alternative was letting the tears drop. "So... what? Yer breakin' up with me?"
Kiyoomi closed his eyes tightly. "...I think we should."
The silence that followed was suffocating. When Atsumu spoke again, his voice was dangerously quiet, tears already threatening to burst from his eyes. "...Is this what ya want?"
Kiyoomi answered almost immediately, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. "...No."
Atsumu's shoulders relaxed just enough for a cruel sliver of hope to slip back into his eyes. But before he could speak, Kiyoomi fractured it.
"...But I think it's what we need."
Something inside Atsumu snapped completely. "We?" his voice rose, trembling with sudden fury. "We?! Since when do ya get to decide what we, you and I, need?"
Kiyoomi flinched at the volume. "I'm trying to—"
"No," Atsumu cut him off, jabbing a finger toward him. "Don't—don't stand there tellin' me this is for both of us when ya never even asked me!"
"I'm trying to protect you."
"But I don't need ya to protect me!" The shout echoed across the empty park. A passing cyclist turned to look briefly at the two boys in school uniforms before continuing on, but neither of them noticed. "I can decide what's good enough for me!"
"I know!"
"No, seems like ya don't!" Atsumu’s breathing had become completely shaky now, his chest heaving. "If ya did..." his voice cracked, the anger giving way to pure heartbreak, "...ya would've let me stay."
Kiyoomi felt something vital in his chest split clean in half. "I can't keep asking you to wait for me."
"I never asked ya to feel guilty! That was never my intention, you should’ve told me before!"
"I would feel guilty anyway, Miya!"
The sudden shout surprised both of them. Complete, agonizing silence fell over the park. Kiyoomi’s hands were shaking so hard he had to ball them into fists inside his pockets.
"I wake up exhausted," Kiyoomi confessed, his voice dropping into a painful, raw whisper. "I fall asleep thinking about every message I didn't answer. I miss you every single day. I feel like I'm failing school, I'm failing volleyball, I'm failing you. So tell me... how much longer until you realize you deserve someone who can actually be there?"
Atsumu stared at him for a long time. It went on so long that Kiyoomi almost wished he would yell again, or shove him, or do anything other than look at him with that devastatingly soft expression.
Instead, Atsumu whispered, "...I already have that."
Kiyoomi looked down at his own shoes, his vision blurring. "...You don't."
Another silence settled over them, and this one felt like it would last forever. Eventually, Atsumu laughed once—a small, broken sound. "...Yer an idiot, Sakusa Kiyoomi."
"...Probably."
"I hate that ya think ya can decide this alone."
"I know."
"I hate that ya think lovin' ya is some kinda burden!"
"...I know."
"I hate..." Atsumu’s voice failed him entirely, catching in his throat. "...I hate that yer givin' up."
Kiyoomi couldn't answer him, because the truth was too heavy to speak aloud. He agreed with him. He was giving up.
Neither of them said I love you. They didn't have to; it was painfully obvious in the way they couldn't bear to look away from each other.
That was the real tragedy of it. The love hadn't gone anywhere; they had simply run out of the strength required to carry it across the distance.
Atsumu took one hesitant step forward. For one impossible second, it looked like his hand might twitch forward to reach for Kiyoomi's. Instead, his fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his own uniform sleeve, holding himself back.
"...Take care of yourself, Omi."
Kiyoomi swallowed the lump in his throat. "...You too."
Atsumu nodded once. Then, he turned around. This time, he didn't look back.
Kiyoomi stood frozen, watching until the afternoon crowd at the station swallowed the familiar, messy blond hair completely. Only then did he take his hands out of his pockets and realize how empty they felt.
After that, he would spend years convincing himself he had done the right thing. He would spend years believing that some people were simply meant to pass through your life instead of staying in it. Eventually, as time went on, he almost believed it.
Until…