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Kiyoomi only realises it’s Valentine’s day when he passes by the common room on the way to the lockers and sees a pile of chocolates on the table. Mika-san from Marketing is there with her clipboard, speaking to the postman who has a bag full of pink letters and paper hearts.
He suppresses a groan and tries to slink past without her noticing, and winces when he hears her call out to him. “Sakusa-senshu! Have you seen Atsumu-kun? Did you come in together today?”
“No, but I’ll let him know you’re looking for him if I see him,” he replies, hurrying away.
“Let him know he’s in the lead this year!” she yells after him. He doesn’t know what that’s about, but doesn’t dwell on it too much because there were more pressing things to worry about.
Fuck. It's Valentine's Day. How did he miss the pink decorations on all the cafes he passed by, or the massive ads for chocolates? It's only ever this bad on Christmas!
It's almost like he never left high school or university. Even without the tittering girls, Bokuto's a walking neon sign. There's absolutely no excuse for Valentine's Day to have gone over Kiyoomi's head when Bokuto's nearly vibrating with excitement.
Maybe he really needs to start paying attention when Bokuto rambles.
In Kiyoomi's defence, he's never bothered with the day before. The most he ever interacted with it is dodging gifts and using Motoya as a shield. And really, honmei? If those girls actually knew anything about him besides his reputation in the university circuit, they'd know honmei's the last thing he'd want.
Plus, he’s not obligated to get a gift — in fact, if he's being technical about it, guys aren't even expected to until a month later! Why should that change just because his significant other is a guy? Only Bokuto's sappy enough to want to exchange gifts on both days.
So there's absolutely no reason for Kiyoomi to feel guilty about forgetting about Valentine’s Day. He doesn’t need stupid cards and chocolates to validate his relationship!
But.
Well...
He opens the door to the locker room and Atsumu's grinning face is the first thing he sees.
The man's practically glowing with it.
Atsumu's got a healthy flush on lightly tanned skin, looking straight at him with the brightest eyes, and Kiyoomi feels his heart catch on his throat. His dry fit shirt feels too tight across his chest making it difficult to breathe, and he’s thankful he’s got a mask on because he knows his mouth is slightly ajar.
The moment’s broken abruptly when Inunaki shoulder checks Atsumu who stumbles off the bench. "Don't you start too. Bokuto's bad enough.”
Of course, Atsumu's never one to leave things alone so grabs the hem of Inunaki's shorts and tugs it down to trip him. From the side, Adriah lets out a long suffering sigh and tries to pull them apart.
Kiyoomi takes the ensuing scruffuffle to centre himself. Without prolonged eye-contact with stupid golden eyes, it's much easier to breathe. It's really too early in the morning for this.
Who the fuck does this dirtbag think he is, looking like that on a Sunday of all days? It’s so inconsiderate to be triggering pseudo heart attacks when they’ve got a game to play in a couple of hours, home court notwithstanding.
“--s’not a good look on ya, yer skin’s dry enough without the added salt, Wan-san,” Atsumu crows, laughing as he picks himself up from the ground.
“You’re only ahead of Meian by a couple of letters, and he’s married,” Barnes pipes in, rolling his eyes. “Bokuto and Sakusa are hot on your heels too. Don’t you think it’s too soon to be celebrating?”
At the sound of his name, Bokuto perks up. “I am? By how much? Do I get to count the letters from Keiji too?”
“What? Letters? Like, as in, multiple?” Atsumu asks, dumbfounded.
“Yeah! This year, we're having a Valentines Week instead and wrote letters for every day leading up to today since we have a game scheduled and can't spend it together,” Bokuto explains, getting that faraway look in his eyes whenever he thinks about his husband.
Gross, Kiyoomi thinks.
“Gross,” Atsumu says for him, and Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s acid reflux, that’s all. Just because capitalism arbitrarily decided this was a day for couples to be gross doesn’t give his heart the right to be disgustingly sappy about how in sync they are.
“And no, it’s cheating if we count the ones from people we know. Shouyo’s such a kiss up, I’m sure he’s gonna get tons of obligatory chocolates. Plus, I’d count all the post-it notes Omi-omi leaves me as love letters too and be leagues ahead of everyone.”
To be clear, the post-it notes are reminders, like telling him when they bought the leftover takeout so they know which one to eat first, or reminding Atsumu which coffee pod requires which setting, and he says as much.
“Yeah, but that just shows how ya care, Omi-omi. Comin’ from ya, they’re practically love letters!” Atsumu says, approaching him and nudging his side with is elbow. He’s beaming again, and Kiyoomi fights the urge to punch his stupid white teeth in.
Instead, he grumbles, “What’s this about anyway?”
“Every year, these idiots fight over who gets the most fan mail on Valentines. Winner gets veto power over how and where post-game celebrations happen,” Barnes explains.
Hinata whines, “Hey! I didn’t know about this! I could’ve totally done a little more during press interviews if I’d known!”
“It’s a dumb competition Atsumu started on his own. We only indulge this to stop his whining,” Inunaki says. “Who knows, maybe now that we have Sakusa, he’ll win and end this whole circus.” Inunaki turns to him and adds, “If you scowled less in interviews, you could beat Atsumu easy.”
Privately, Kiyoomi doubts it. The image of Atsumu smiling at him is fresh in his mind, and he doesn’t blame anyone for falling for his charms. It almost eclipses his loud mouth and shitty personality. Almost. Kiyoomi finds comfort in the fact that he’s not that far gone to overlook that.
Atsumu sits on the bench behind him and puts a casual hand on his calf and Kiyoomi feels the grip all the way up to his ribs, around his lungs, under his chest. Atsumu has no clue. The idiot.
“I’m not gonna dispute that, but it won’t change the fact that we’re not eating at Menya Joroku this year.”
“You have no taste. No taste, whatsoever. Uncultured. How are you and Osamu related?!” Inunaki exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he leaves for the gym.
Kiyoomi knows Atsumu doesn’t really hate Menya Joroku. They’ve eaten there together once or twice before, and Atsumu always leaves full and sated. He just does it to pick on Inunaki for who knows what slight from who knows how long ago. Atsumu’s probably forgotten already. He’s a petty bitch like that sometimes. Most of the time.
It’s not like Kiyoomi’s any better. Atsumu’s still banned from using the iron after he left it sitting on one of his dress shirts while turned on. He’s not allowed to bake or handle flour either because Kiyoomi found out he'd been compressing the flour down when he measures instead of scooping it loose. He’s also not allowed to log into Kiyoomi’s public social media accounts on his own phone because he forgets to switch out before liking questionable things like fanart and posts about some skateboarding anime — Kiyoomi isn’t obsessed with curating his feed, but he’s got a reputation for taste to maintain, thank you very much.
The point is, they’re both pretty petty. It's just one of the many ways they're compati — nope. He’s not going down this line of thought. He refuses.
Everyone else has trickled out of the room by the time Kiyoomi finishes his routine. Atsumu sometimes helps him set out all the cleaning materials he needs after practice, and Kiyoomi appreciates it, but he likes going through the actual motions himself. Rituals are calming especially when he feels as keyed up as he does.
Before they leave the locker room, Atsumu stops him with a hand on his arm. “He’s right, y’know.”
“About?”
“Ya'd win easy if ya smiled even once in interviews,” Atsumu replies softly. His mouth quirks up in a small smile. “But I’m glad ya don’t, because I like that those’re reserved for me. Ya make me work for it.”
“Is that a complaint?”
Atsumu laughs, the small and quiet one he uses when it’s just the both of them. “Nah. Yer worth the effort, Omi-omi. Or, it’s not really effort at all since I like doing it.”
Kiyoomi nearly groans. Atsumu’s on a fucking roll and his heart is suffering for it. He might actually gag at this rate. He clenches his fist and stuffs it into his pockets to stop him from doing anything patently stupid.
Atsumu moves his arm up and lightly squeezes the back of back of his nape, thumb scratching the fine hair there in a way he knows sends tingles down Kiyoomi's spine. “Kinda like volleyball, y’know? Except I get paid for it in amazing dickings instead of cash.”
It’s disgusting how his stomach’s still turning despite the absolute filth that's just come out of his mouth. Kiyoomi’s so fucking in love with this asshole, it’s almost painful. This. This is what his dumb heart has chosen to fall in love with everyday. His fifteen year old self had no idea what he was subjecting them to when he checked Atsumu out during training camp, piss hair and pretentious pre-service ritual and all.
“Why are you like this?” Kiyoomi winces, regretting the choice he makes every day and the choice he knows he’ll continue to make.
Atsumu only laughs in response before jogging past the double doors.
Kiyoomi tries to shake off the strange mood he’s in while he stretches, but it’s difficult when he keeps catching sight of Atsumu from across the floor. That’s an old, almost ragged white shirt he’s got on, but it clings to his muscles when he does his reps. Kiyoomi’s not sure if he’s imagining it, or if it really is almost see through? He can definitely see the outline of his figure from here, what the hell.
White shirts should be banned from practice. They’re professional athletes for fuck’s sake, they’re expected to sweat. He should write a strongly worded letter to Admin about clothing policies. White shirts should not be allowed.
He flubs three different services because he's distracted by Atsumu's flexed forearms, his thighs, his damn clavicles, before Coach finally ends his misery and calls for a break.
At that point, Atsumu's wide toothed grins are gone, replaced by deep scowls. He grumbles about how Kiyoomi's playing like a scrub, but all it does is make Kiyoomi want to pinch his scrunched up nose and poke at his puffed up cheeks.
He doesn't hide it very well either. Atsumu can definitely tell the direction of his thoughts becuse he huffs and grumbles even more and gives him the silent treatment. Kiyoomi brushes it off because he knows hell will freeze over before Atsumu can go a day without running his mouth.
It's just what he needs anyway. The space lets Kiyoomi get a little out of his head, enough to gather the focus he needs to get through practice, then drills, and then to play a good game against the Nagano Tridents that evening.
He started the day feeling very off-kilter, but makes up for it with a strong down spin during a spike that bags them victory.
When the sharp bell rings across the court, he seeks out Atsumu's gaze first and finds him already looking back. Kiyoomi can't help but feel his lips turn up a little, high on a win and sharing it with the one person he wants on his side. Atsumu laughs, and the crowd goes wild.
Atsumu seems to forgive him too, by the way he crushes him into a hug. Or the way he doesn't let go as the rest of the team surrounds them, gripping tightly on his jersey by the small of his back.
Or the way he hip checks him during the debrief, when the Coach compliments his spin.
Or the way he casually drags his fingers through Kiyoomi's wet strands when he passes by after they shower.
Casual touches are a core tenet of Atsumu's personality. Having shied away from it most of his life, each touch now is electrifying to Kiyoomi. It's impossible to get used to. He can't ever imagine not feeling like this. It's been years, and rather than fade, his touch, his attention, his everything is like a piece of the puzzle clicking into place. Atsumu just blends into Kiyoomi's life nearly seamlessly, so integral to the bigger picture that his attention isn't missed until it's briefly removed.
Even after only half a day of the silent treatment, the renewed touches unleash a dam. It immediately puts him back into the weird mood, and by the time they get home, Atsumu picks up on it and can't chalk it up to nerves for the game anymore.
While Kiyoomi goes through his evening facial regimen, Atsumu appears by the bathroom door and asks, “What’s up with you today?”
“Nothing,” he replies, putting a facemask on. “Sorry, if you were expecting anything today,” he adds softly.
Atsumu hums and approaches him, hooking his chin over his shoulder. His arms slip under Kiyoomi's loose sleep shirt, fingers mindlessly tracing patterns around his hip and stomach.
Kiyoomi leans back into his embrace and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Gross,” Atsumu says, but he’s got a small smile on his face and his eyes have gone soft. “We’re not really the chocolate giving type, are we? That's a Bokkun-type thing, and last I checked, I was datin’ someone hotter.”
He nudges Kiyoomi aside so he can wash his hands — twenty seconds, between his fingers, on the back of his hands, and around his thumbs, and then pat dry on the towel. Only then does he turn to Kiyoomi and starts massaging the air bubbles out of his facemask.
When he's satisfied with his work, he leans in and steals a quick kiss, making a face when he tastes the bitter serum.
Kiyoomi runs his knuckles on Atsumu’s jaw before cupping his cheek, nails scratching through his dark undercut. He delights in the way Atsumu’s eyes visibly dilate, and says with the most deadpan look he can muster, “Please, kill me before we ever get like Bokuto and Akaashi.”
Atsumu snorts, and it’s such an ugly sound but god help Kiyoomi, he likes that bit about him too.
Later, when they’re settling in bed, Atsumu hands him something from underneath his side of the bed before burying his red face against the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck. “Here. Happy Valentine’s Day. We won’t ever talk about this, okay? I’ll deny it if you tell anyone.”
"People will believe me more than you."
It’s a little difficult to unwrap the box with one arm around Atsumu, but he’s not really keen on changing that at the moment with how comfortable he is. He tries to lift the tape carefully — but Atsumu groans, lips brushing against his skin, “Please, do it quick. Put me out of my misery. Just tear it, damnit.”
Inside is a jar of loose leaf tisane mixed with fine cocoa nibs.
“This’ll hopefully last longer than a bar of chocolate, but who can tell with how much tea you consume, weirdo.” Atsumu mumbles something about why Kiyoomi couldn’t drink coffee like a normal person, but Kiyoomi can’t hear it over the thudding of his heart.
Kiyoomi carefully places the jar of tea on top of his night stand and not in the drawer where he stores the gift he's been holding onto for months now. For all that he's brash and rude, Atsumu is respectful about boundaries to a fault. It makes it so easy for Kiyoomi to hide things when he needs to because even after moving in together, Atsumu's never going to rifle through his stuff without asking.
He turns to fully face the man, cradles his head and kisses him, hard and chaste. They slowly part, but only far enough so Kiyoomi can mutter against his lips, “Disgusting.”
The morning after, he wakes up to kisses on his eyelids and Atsumu murmuring a soft “Good morning.”
Kiyoomi grumbles, but sits up anyway, tilting his head to the left. Predictably, Atsumu kisses him twice on the forehead right where his moles are. He hands him his favourite travel mug, and he realises it’s the new tea inside when he breathes in the steam.
“I let you sleep in a bit, so I made your morning tea, plain the way I think you’ll like it.”
He does like it. Atsumu put a little less milk and honey in than he normally does for his black tea to account for the lighter flavour profile of the tisane and cocoa. There's no reason for Atsumu to know how he would like to prepare some tea he's never had before, but the proof is in his hands.
Sonofabitch. It’s too early for this. His brain isn’t equipped to cope, and he’s really too close to doing something spectacularly stupid, like throwing a little box to Atsumu's stupid blond head, plans and romance be damned.
What is he supposed to do when recently Atsumu makes every small moment feel like the right time?
It's only with great restraint that Kiyoomi snuffles his impulses and only lets out a frustrated groan.
“If you don’t like it, leave it and get ready, I’ll make you a new one you can drink on the way,” Atsumu huffs, misunderstanding.
Kiyoomi curses the Osaka Women and Children’s Hospital. He knows how that sounds, but he does it in his head, where no one can judge. Well, actually, maybe he should just curse Hinata instead.
The health coaches and the Marketing team banded together to confiscate all the commercially made chocolates from yesterday for donation to the hospital’s paediatric ward.
It was supposed to end there, but Hinata went around and dropped his puppy dog eyes to everyone on the team and convinced them all to volunteer to distribute the chocolates themselves on their day off.
Well, for Atsumu, it wasn’t so much voluntary as it was guilt tripped, because he’s somehow able to be a jerkwad to everyone except Hinata. Naturally, he drags Kiyoomi down with him.
Now, typically, Kiyoomi would have no problem rejecting both of them outright, but he’s been a little more sensitive and averse to rejections these days for reasons he's not ready to voice aloud yet. He's simultaneously manifesting and trying to accumulate some good karma, which leads him to his current predicament.
Despite yesterday’s stressful almost-fiasco, and today’s continued high risk of it, Kiyoomi now finds himself in the Osaka Women and Children’s Hospital’s playroom, wearing a bunny-ear headband and two layers of facemasks, distributing candy to the long-term residents.
Bokuto’s got a Paw Patrol onesie — they brought their own costumes, and for the sake of their continued synergy on the court, Kiyoomi tries not to think too hard about why Bokuto conveniently had that on hand — and he’s reading some story books with Meian to some kids on one side.
Next to him, Hinata and Tomas are doing a weird puppet show for the younger kids. He’s pretty sure Hinata’s doing the voices for Adriah's puppet as well but in... stilted, accented Japanese. Is that meant to sound like Adriah? Whatever.
Inunaki and Atsumu are teaching some of the older kids how to handle a volleyball — this is an accident waiting to happen, which is probably why Mika-san from Marketing is hovering nearby, ready to do damage control. What she should be is doing damage prevention, but Kiyoomo gets it. No one appreciates maintaining peace, only reestablishing it, and it's not like they can cause too much trouble.
In any case, Kiyoomi is nearby to help, sitting next to Meian's wife as they engage the quieter bunch in activity books and casual conversation. He's talking to six year old Daiki about how his best friend Tetsu is really, really good at hiding, but still not as good as him at hide and seek overall.
“Tetsu can hide the best, and I’m the only one who can find him! Doesn't that mean I'm the bestest? Finding the best at hiding makes me bestest, right?”
Then, with all the precociousness and self-confidence only a five year old can have when all their worries end at naptime, Daiki says, “That’s kinda like love, you know?”
“What do you mean?” Kiyoomi asks, confused by the sudden turn of the conversation.
“Love will find you even if you’re trying to hide from it,” Daiki explains, dead serious. “It’s a foot tile.”
Stunned, Kiyoomi mindlessly corrects, “Futile.”
“Yeah, that. I’ve been trying to hide from it ever since I was five, but the girls keep finding me anyway," he says nonchalantly. "But if I’m in hiding and they find me, I lose, so I might as well be seeker, so I win.”
Kiyoomi looks around to see if anyone else is hearing this. He's a professional athlete in his midtwenties. He can hit balls going at the speed of a car in a freeway, but he can't keep up with a kid's train of thought.
He's totally lost. The conversation took a couple of unexpected turns, bypassed what-the-hell ward, and now he’s got no clue where he is anymore. What are they feeding the kids here?
“Omi!”
He’s drawn from his stupor by Atsumu’s voice. He turns towards it, only for his cheek to meet the finger waiting for him.
Atsumu breaks out a full hyena laugh, encouraged by a blond kid also cackling in his arms. It’s such a childish prank, there’s really no reason for him to be laughing this hard. There are tears forming in his eyes, and Kiyoomi is struck with physical evidence that his boyfriend has the humour of an actual child.
He watches Atsumu lift the kid higher up on his hip. Kiyoomi can't look away. There's just no possible way he can tear his eyes away from Atsumu, arms flexing to carry his little smug lookalike. Atsumu raises a high five that the kid matches, and they share matching grins, looking back at Kiyoomi, and —
Unfair.
This is just unfair.
What’s he supposed to do when Atsumu looks like this except —
Except to angrily demand, “Shut the fuck up and marry me already.”
A beat.
Two.
Three.
His heart's picking up speed.
Atsumu stands there, stunned, eyes wide open and mouth ajar. He says nothing.
In fact, no one says anything at all.
Dead silence follows his outburst, and Kiyoomi can only hear the drumming of his heart and the adrenaline rushing with the blood in his ears. It’s so loud, so he runs his mouth to drown it out.
“You’re annoying, an absolute little shit, and it’s so upsetting how stupid I am for you. I’m going insane. I thought I couldn’t love you any more yesterday, but clearly not, because I feel so sick with it right now. I was waiting, for a better moment, for some place quieter, for something better to say, but goddamn it, you make it so hard. It’s like you have a radar for things you absolutely have to upturn. My life’s definitely one of them. This proposal, another."
From the corner of his eye he sees Meian's wife cover the ears of the child next to her, and he thinks he can see the tight grip Mika-san has on her clipboard which promises hell to pay later.
He was waiting for the rght time, and a playroom surrounded by impressionable kids for a charity event definitely isn't it. But the dam already broke, so he lets all the words he bottled up inside for months finally flow.
“Who knew I was capable of feeling all of this? I certainly wasn’t, and I don’t think I’m very well equipped to do it either because it’s spilling over right now. But if I’m going to fall in love with someone, I want to keep falling in love with you. Because you remember to carry an alcohol spray with you even when you forget your own keys; because you say the stupidest things but it still makes me laugh; because you can tell how I like my tea even when I’ve never had it before.
“Because you learned me like you learned volleyball, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to do anything but fall in love with you. I chose you when I was fifteen, not knowing any better. I choose you now at twenty-five, knowing debatably better and I know I’ll choose you every day from now.
“If I’m going to be this deep in love with someone, I want to be in love with you and fucking win your stupid golden head for myself. So…” Kiyoomi’s voice breaks, but he’s already spilled his guts so he’s going to see this through.
He grabs the box he’s been carrying in his pocket and lifts it up. “So, marry —”
“Stop!” Atsumu screams.
He uses his free hand to cover Kiyoomi's mouth shut, looking manic. He drops to his knees to put the kid he was carrying down and doesn’t get back up.
“Oh my god, yer killin’ me here, Omi-omi. I- oh my god,” he says, burying his face in his hands. Abruptly, he takes an alcohol spray from his pocket, hands it to Kiyoomi, and...
“What,” he says aloud.
“I’ve been carryin’ a ring in there for god knows how long, I’ve jus’ been buildin’ up the guts to do it, but what the fuck, I can’t say anything after that. What the fuck. Except, no. Yer marryin' me, y’hear me? I fell in love with ya first an’ I wanted to marry ya first — no, don’t argue with me, ya can ask ‘Samu how long I’ve been throwing him photos of rings, it’s fuckin’ embarrassing.” Atsumu’s face is beet red as he opens the cap and tips the spray bottle over, and there, submerged in ethanol, is a simple golden band.
“So Kiyoomi, yer marryin' me, okay? Don’t take this win from me, asshole.”
Kiyoomi feels his face heat, and the churning in his chest is back, even stronger now, choking him. He doesn't know what to say, and they look at each other in incredulousness for a beat.
Two.
Three.
“I’m pretty sure someone’s gotta kiss someone now,” Daiki groans, exasperated.
It makes Atsumu throw his head back and laugh, and fuck, he’s gorgeous. It brings Kiyoomi to his knees. He takes Atsumu’s face in his hands, bringing their foreheads together. “You were supposed to kill me before we ever got to Bokuto's level, and I’m pretty sure we're leagues ahead now.”
Atsumu giggles, and he looks down at his mouth. “Can I take off the mask, Omi-omi?”
Kiyoomi huffs, pulls his mask and all his reservations and walls down, and kisses him.