Archive of Our Own

It begins with the simplest of simple requests.

“Hey Tsum-Tsum! Can we swap seats on the bus later?”

They’re a few hours from traveling to this weekend’s away game in Nagoya, the one highlight Atsumu has been anticipating for weeks. Nearly a decade into his career, it’s seldom about the adrenaline from games these days - no, he’s more giddy for those few hours on a climate-controlled bus, sharing sanitized headphone buds and fresh pages in the latest Engei JAPAN with his forever seatmate. 

It’s a four year pursuit of friendship with Sakusa Kiyoomi, wrapped into eight years of volleyball highs and lows. Somewhere along the way, jibes had turned into dependency on each other’s whims, and routines had grown beyond minutes of traded banter. They now share hours upon hours together - meals, bus rides, one-on-one drills outside of practice - connected at the hip, even though Kiyoomi’s legs go on for eternity compared to his.

The issue of Engei sits in Atsumu’s bag, awaiting readership. Not many know that they had both picked up horticulture as their latest joint hobby, and even less know that they had already gone on an inaugural cacti shopping spree two weeks back. But moments like that shouldn’t have to be privy to the public eye, or even the team’s. They’re friends, after all, and encouraging each other to buy impossible-to-kill plants - since one of them will never remember the watering schedule - is just what good friends do on free afternoons.

Actually, he knows that they’re best friends, even if one of them might deny the fact to death.

As today’s best friend moment, Atsumu had been excited to peruse the special magnolias feature on page 59 together. But it seems, in the wake of a simple request, that will have to wait.

“Tsum-Tsum?”

“Oh, sorry.” He blinks conscious from greenery-filled reveries. “Why ya askin’?”

Koutarou’s sharp brows give a disconcerting wiggle, the movement setting off internal alarms.

“Well...you see…” Even as eyes brighten, a boisterous voice lowers into a whisper. “I’ve been feeling some... things, lately.”

“Things?”

“You know! I’ve been feeling... feelings.”

“What exactly does that have to do with ya wantin’ to swap seats?”

A frantic clutch takes hold of Atsumu’s slackened forearm. “Between you and me, Tsum-Tsum. I think Omi-Omi might be the reason for these feelings.”

At first, the nickname’s emphasis bothers him far more than the entire admission, and it prompts Atsumu to hiss another that has always belonged to him and him only.

“Omi-kun?”

“Yep. Kinda unexpected, right? Hahaha!” Koutarou unleashes a sheepish laugh. “You know, we’re both outside hitters, which means I’m rarely ever next to him in rotations. So I figured that the bus ride could be a few nice hours of alone time for us. You’re always sitting with him anyway...I’m sure you can spare one ride, no?”

“Yeah, sure I can.” He confirms, mostly - halfway, no, less than halfway - sincere. “If ya want me to spare more than that, I probably can, too.”

What’s a few lost bus rides between best friends? Nothin’. That’s what. Already, his mind begins to flip through a manual of reasons, keen to tame any bubbling disappointment. To sit next to Kiyoomi has never been a written law, just an unspoken habit - part of a friendship that has established traditions and privileges.

“Really? Wow! Tsum-Tsum you’re the best!”

A thankful slap lands on Atsumu’s back, its ecstatic force turning tradition on its head. However, it also knocks faint memories of glasses, well-ironed trenchcoats, and many, many Osaka visits from Tokyo back into Atsumu’s scrambled head. 

“Hey Bokkun,” His lips twist into a confused smile as a contradiction named Keiji emerges. “Aren’t ya already in a long-distance relationship?”

Atsumu swears that Koutarou pales for a second, but before long, a confident finger points to the dead center of that bulky chest. “Long-distance? Nah, don’t think so. No such thing as long-distance in my world! All my relationships are stored right here! In my heart!”

As passionate as Atsumu has always claimed to be, the resounding declaration makes him wonder if he could possibly feel the same for anything outside of volleyball. For now, his teammate has apparently managed to succeed, while he has been left behind in a field of envy.

“Sounds like ya kept a bit of that space for Omi-kun, then.”

“You bet! I got a hunch that it’s gonna grow bigger, too.”

Right then, Atsumu feels his chest tighten, as if something within is also expanding under phantom instruction. “Th...that’s good.”

Exactly how much does Omi-kun occupy here? Words hurtle from his head directly into that cavern between ribs, currently straining from new stretch and measure. The question is not one Atsumu has ever dared to pose, and one he does not know any formula to solve. But he does know how gravely it plagues him while he packs his belongings, and later on, as he willingly relinquishes his forever seat.

From the usual window-adjacent spot, Kiyoomi stares up at him when the swap takes place, as if asking for permission Atsumu has never needed to give. But as soon as his new neighbor slides in from the aisle, the hints of surprise dissipate, replaced by a flat nod of acknowledgement.

Hours trudge on, forcing Atsumu to adjust to a lonesome ride in the row ahead. He finds himself peeking back every few minutes, spying through the slit left between seats. The ongoing engine buzz prevents him from hearing any conversation, but Kiyoomi’s attentive look and Koutarou’s energetic smiles are a constant throughout the journey. The scenes they create are intimate and familiar, like those Atsumu had experienced firsthand from dozens of past trips.

On the interim, he curls up in his seat and tries to stream the latest weekly TV drama that has caught his attention. But he gives up when no dialogue registers through the hordes of distractions. When he attempts to flip open Engei, every page inspires a vision of the prickly cactus currently sitting at the middle of his dining table. Since the fateful afternoon that ended with two plant fatherhoods, he has carefully watered it, nurtured it, poured his whole heart out for it.

He has secretly named it “Omi-kun.”

Oh. Maybe.

Maybe he occupies a slightly bigger part than I thought.

==

A whole match later, he’s still mourning over the loss of Kiyoomi’s warmth for the trip. It creates an uncomfortable cold, only tempered somewhat by their dominant team victory. Though their in-game proximity had been close like always, dashing to and fro below a ball has never felt the same as coexisting within their private space.

As the team prepares to leave the locker room, and as he prepares for another few hours of solitary self-reflection, Kiyoomi appears out of the blue.

“O--Omi-kun! Nice job today.” Atsumu blurts the first words that come to mind, compliments that have never felt redundant due to their truth.

“Thanks.” Kiyoomi’s tentative stare is identical to earlier, during his initial discovery of the seat swap. “Hey, sit with me on the way back.”

Like many of his statements over the years - send me the ball or we should buy cacti - the request is Sakusa Kiyoomi-levels of blunt, almost cold in its commanding nature. By now, Atsumu knows that Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu will never refuse, much less argue. They’ve surpassed endless differences, and he’s at best friend levels of consensus, always agreeable at a moment’s notice.

“Of course! Was Bokkun too loud or somethin’?”

“No, I’m pretty used to someone loud next to me on the bus.” The burn of a reminder ignites. “But I know you have the latest Engei, so we should read it.”

“Always happy to share!” Atsumu beams at yet another request, before mustering up the energy to submit his own. “Hey Bokkun, gonna want my seat back!”

“Yeah, no problem!” A short distance ahead, Koutarou affirms with surprising ease, his grin the widest Atsumu has ever seen. The urge to reclaim his place, however, leads him to overlook the unusual sight. Instead, he pursues Kiyoomi’s shadow towards the exit, trying to recall exactly which sections they should digest first.

As they speed towards Osaka, two sets of fingerprints mar the glossy pages, denoting the return of traditions and privileges. But even as Atsumu cherishes the return of intimate warmth, partakes personally in familiar scenes - that strain between his ribs persists.

What’s one bus ride between best friends? Everythin’. That’s what.

==

One bus ride does make a difference.

In the few days since, Atsumu watches as Koutarou stands closer and closer to Kiyoomi with each practice, while Kiyoomi appears tolerant about allowing one more person into his sacred space. He can’t help but feel envious towards someone else getting to this point so quickly, whereas he had spent years progressing towards it. But at least, even if Kiyoomi returns Koutarou’s feelings, he trusts that they should still have enough buddy-buddy hours to themselves.

Today’s Thursday, which means tonight is the weekly oden outing at their favorite stall. They’ve been loyal to the kind owner who always sets aside a special section to cook Kiyoomi’s favorites, and spares them discounts for the gigantic portions they consume. Post-meal, Atsumu would return home in time for his favorite TV show, singing along to the opening credits with a satiated belly.

He doesn’t recall when exactly this particular devotion started, but channel surfing on random nights had always led him to the dramatics of fictional romance. All those stories, as redundant as they could be, had filled some sort of void. More often than not, there is one lead on the subdued yet snarky side, while the counterpart is the polar opposite in personality. The resulting push-pull of a relationship, the friction of conflict sparking something more - it possesses the same, delicious flavor as the best chikuwa in his oden broth.

Fielding both fond memory and fond anticipation, Atsumu glances at the corner of the gym, catching not only Koutarou but also Shouyou flanking his soon-to-be dinner partner.

In retrospect, Shouyou had actually beaten them both, breaking down boundaries on his very first day with respectful calls of Omi-san and his enthused admiration of every little thing Kiyoomi does. Those buzzy actions had always been innocent, reminiscent of a tiny crow fluttering around the nest that’s Kiyoomi’s hair. But as he and Koutarou both crowd Kiyoomi today, almost fighting for attention, Atsumu feels a tinge of unease.

“Hey! Atsumu-san!” A bright voice interrupts.

By the time Atsumu refocuses, a burst of orange is already within his vicinity.

“Yes, Shouyou-kun?”

Contrary to usual, his teammate approaches him with utmost caution. “Can I ask you something?”

It’s deja vu from not long ago, mirroring someone older than them both. Atsumu’s grasp on his volleyball tightens, fingerprints embossing onto rubber as he attempts to joke.

“If ya wanna sit with Omi-kun on the bus next time - I already promised Bokkun first dibs.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t going to ask that.” Shouyou denies with a fervent headshake. “You see…”

During the pause, an extra glint in that pair of vibrant eyes heightens Atsumu’s discomfort tenfold.

“Omi-san and I practiced our serves together last night! He’s so quiet, but so helpful!”

“Ya...ya did?” Atsumu had thought that those private sessions were their thing.

“Yeah!!!” Shouyou’s excitement amps up another degree, but quickly fades to a whisper. “You know, between us - my heart beat really fast when he readjusted my posture. Even if he didn’t touch me at all, there’s just something about Omi-san’s aura when he’s alone with you…”

A content sigh escapes at the tailend of the admission - too content for Atsumu’s liking, and also too familiar. He’s well-aware of what Shouyou describes, the way Kiyoomi’s stern advice on his aim births stomach butterflies on certain nights. The redhead’s expression is exactly what Atsumu sees of himself in the bathroom mirror, after those extra minutes spent in the gym, basking in that very same aura.

“You know him best, Atsumu-san. Do you think...Omi-san would ever be interested in me?”

Wait, wait. I felt all these things first.

“Of course! Why not?” He forces a smile anyway, not wanting to dampen Shouyou’s visible interest with unreasonable selfishness.

“Wow, you think so?” The yelp conveys exhilaration, fed by his encouragement out of all things. “Whew, I feel way better. Thanks!”

Enduring another set of constrictions in his chest, Atsumu can do little other than pry. “So what are ya gonna...do about it?”

“Hm, for now, maybe I’ll ask him to practice by ourselves more? Do you think he’ll be free tonight, too?”

Thursday nights have been their oden nights, but perhaps, Kiyoomi prefers hitting some extra volleyballs instead of downing fishballs with him. Perhaps, Atsumu actually doesn’t mind sacrificing the time. It’s just one bus ride, it’s just one night. What he and Kiyoomi have built is deeper than a few hours of one-on-ones, or even a romantic relationship soon to take root.

Dramas usually feature a third character on the side, constantly supportive of at least one of the leads, but often at the cost of--

“Ask him for sure. I think he’ll be free.”

With a quick thumbs up, Shouyou practically dashes back to Kiyoomi’s area. Seconds later, as with a previous instance, dark eyes seek out Atsumu’s from afar. He nods, masking all else with the support he’s obligated to give as a best friend, a skill well-learned from one TV drama to the next. But when Kiyoomi relays the nod towards Shouyou, Atsumu is left with one regretful thought.

Guess I’ll be having dinner alone tonight.

==

It’s a more isolated Thursday than he’s used to, with a much less extravagant meal. Come ten p.m., Atsumu’s heating up his third Cup Ramen with remote control in hand, ready for his guilty pleasure to drown any sorrows in scripted fluff.

But when his doorbell sounds, he scrambles to press the power off button, foregoing the opening credits singalong to keep this secret safe.

The face within the fisheye view is warped, but still handsome in all its distortion. As Atsumu gapes in shock, his view becomes obstructed by a raised plastic bag, clearly full of takeout containers.

With a deep exhale, he twists the knob.

“Omi-kun. Hey.”

“I got there right before the stall closed.” Kiyoomi shoves the bag into his chest, adding many more dishes to the night’s menu. “The owner sold me everything that was still left.”

Though already half-full, his stomach growls immediately at the delicious smell.

“It’s bad to eat so late, y’know.”

The air between them stills, before Kiyoomi blankly points to the object within Atsumu’s right hand. “Then what’s that?”

He glances down to see that third portion of steaming Cup Noodle, and a guilty grin surfaces in place of speech.

Dark irises perform a giant roll within their sockets. “Go get some bowls already.”

Like every other instruction received, Atsumu obliges, almost gleeful to be given the order at all. Behind him, the bag and its delivery boy settle in his dining area, prepared for their weekly feast - albeit a few hours delayed.

“Here ya go.” He soon lays down the cleanest of settings - plates, bowls, chopsticks for two.

“Much better.” Kiyoomi approves as he uncovers each course.

Atsumu’s three large bites into a daikon when he finally realizes that Kiyoomi is in his apartment, eating at his table with its prickly centerpiece. They’re even sharing containers, dipping chopsticks into the same broth time and again. It is another sign of their closeness, as Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to notice or mind. He only presents delicate chews and thoughtful swallows, like this is just another Thursday night on the side of a quiet Osaka street.

“Your cactus is growing nicely.”

“Yeah! The tips from the magazine are legit.” He exclaims, almost pleased for a change of topic. “Thanks for bringin’ all this food, Omi-kun.”

“Didn’t want to break our tradition.” Kiyoomi shrugs. “Plus, practicing with Shouyou again made me extra hungry.”

At those words, Atsumu’s hunger suddenly escalates - though not for any food.

“Ya know, I think my serves might also need some work again soon.”

Kiyoomi freezes, a fishcake held centimeters from his mouth. “Your serves are just fine, no? They always have been.”

It’s not one of those white lies told by pals - Kiyoomi would never humor him that way - but a plain fact, like how Atsumu’s serves are fine even if his heart is not. But with little excuses left in his arsenal, he can only accept the compliment.

“Yeah, guess yer right. They’ve always been pretty perfect.”

Without warning, Kiyoomi chucks - actually chucks - the fishcake at him. But barely after its inevitable splat onto the table, he also stands to gather it with a napkin, leaving no trace of the crime behind. It’s all terribly domestic, and an unnerving reflection of how far they’ve come since the days of trading snarks across high school nets. These are the moments that are purely theirs - no Koutarou, no Shouyou, no volleyball - just Kiyoomi resisting an amused smile, and the endless hunger in Atsumu’s stomach finally satisfied.

Thursday nights. Oden nights. Our nights.

==

He’s still content the next morning, in ways both related to food and not. The hours spent over meal and conversation had gone later than late, but Atsumu still wakes up extra early to be the first in the locker room - and not for reasons anyone is aware of.

“I’m truly happy whenever I’m with you, Tsutomu-kun.”

“I...I feel the same way.”

He huddles in the corner, streaming the romance drama he had willingly missed last night via phone. Like a rather recent experience, the episode concludes with a dinner scene that starts out platonic, only to end with an emotional confession that would break even the toughest shell. His walk from home had been drenched in sunshine, but as the credits roll between clammy hands, there’s now a storm in Atsumu’s eyes, and claps of thunder replacing his heartbeats.

“Are you alright, Atsumu-kun??”

He jumps at the accented Japanese, the phone nearly flying out of his grip as Adriah Tomas’ concerned eyes appear above him. Concealing the screen against his t-shirt, Atsumu gives a messy wipe to both eyes, coupled with an overdue sniffle.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine! It’s just this cute...cat video, ya know?” 

The taller man smiles genuinely, though his next words are nothing short of accusatory. “That’s funny, because I thought I heard the theme song to that drama everyone’s been raving about.”

The recognition gives Atsumu pause, as he hadn’t expected anyone within his immediate circles to have this unique knowledge. But all things considered, Adriah has never showed a blackmailer’s personality, so the secret might still be safe in his hands.

After brief pondering, he decides to drop the act.

“...alright, I confess. I was watchin’ it.”

“I’ve been following it every week, too! Aren’t the story and acting so great?” His teammate’s cheerful face enters into a daydream-like state. “Ah, the leads are so cute together.”

Definitely no blackmailer. “Mm-hmm.” Atsumu concurs simply, unsure of how else to respond.

“Which reminds me - since you enjoy these dramas, too. I could use your advice on something, Atsumu-kun.”

“On what? Actin’?”

“No.” A giant frame plants its whole weight next to him, as if emphasizing the owner’s seriousness. “On romance.”

The sudden proximity causes Atsumu to wince at first, before he gulps at the final word. “Romance? Me…? Ya should know, Adriah-san - I haven’t been in a relationship in years.”

To his dismay, the middle blocker shows no signs of giving up. “Well, it’s more about basic Japanese etiquette, because I think...I may want to confess my feelings to someone, very soon.”

“Oh? Who is it?” Even as he asks, Atsumu senses something foreboding for the third time in a week.

“Well, it’s a secret, so please don’t tell anyone for now.” Leaning closer, Adriah confirms those worst fears. “I’d like to confess to...Sakusa-kun.”

Atsumu feels thrust into a new television show, featuring himself in that role of supportive best friend - and almost-childhood-friend - currently forced to acknowledge several realities. Despite his many connective threads with the series lead, he’s also the one cursed with a fruitless storyline, prioritized below everyone else’s desires. On the sidelines is where he stands, coming to terms with the worst conflict possible: that discovery of Kiyoomi being so beloved by all, and the realization of how “all” very much includes his own name.

Meanwhile, Adriah, the other dashing lead, carries on.

“I’ve never done this to someone in Japanese before, which is why I’ve been watching dramas to practice. Since you two are so close, if you were me, how would you confess to him?”

The question is casual, but it also acts like a turn of fates, giving him the first podium and opportunity.

“Well, just be...direct, I guess?” He tries to recall the best confession scenes he has watched - maybe cried to while hugging a pillow - before he attempts an imitation of Kanto dialect. “Speak firmly and say, ‘I like you, Sakusa-kun.’”

“Hm, that feels a bit stiff.” Adriah knits his brows together. “Try again?”

Again? Despite finding the ask bizarre, Atsumu obliges with a clearing of his throat and a return to his natural dialect. “I like ya, Sakusa-kun.”

“Better.” A firm thumbs up appears between them. “One more time for me?”

The scene in front of him transforms gradually, replacing Adriah with an watchful Kiyoomi, wishfully anticipating his words. For months, he has been here - next to him on bus rides, at oden stalls, on the court, in his mind - the most important character in Atsumu’s unscripted life. But he is also the relentless plot twist, leaving a cliffhanger that no writer can resolve.

“I really like ya, Kiyo--Sakusa-kun.” For once, he speaks from his heart, baring a secret far deeper than his affinity for romance dramas.

I really like ya, Kiyoomi. Maybe more than just like.

“Oh! That was perfect! I totally understand how to do it now.” Adriah yelps with enlightenment. “You’re way better than any actors from these dramas, Atsumu-kun. It felt so real!”

Because it is.

Atsumu breathes.

==

When Kiyoomi arrives, he knows he’s in trouble.

He knows he’s staring much more than he should, vigilantly tracking his best friend’s every move from locker room to gym, even peeking between knees at Kiyoomi’s outstretched form during warm-ups.

I really like ya.

Without warning, tendrils of silvery hair enter Atsumu’s peripheral, while a sly voice enters his ears.

“If you don’t mind me asking.” As expected of a Libero, Shion unabashedly makes his presence known. “I heard from Adriah-san that you haven’t dated anyone in a while. Why is that?”

Wrestling his gaze off of Kiyoomi, Atsumu quickly finds Adriah on the far right side, shooting him a smile and a wink.

He sighs in defeat at how fast word can travel, but since those two are also the best of friends, the development doesn’t come as a total surprise. Not unlike himself and Kiyoomi, they’re another dynamic duo on the team - so close, in fact, that rumors of something more emerge as league-wide whispers every now and then.

Atsumu wonders if others have thought the same for his choice friendship - choice predicament, really.

“We’re too busy, ya know?” He calmly explains what has held true for the past few years, the only excuse he provides whenever family or old classmates begin to wonder. “Dun’ have time for relationships - not if we’re with the team 24-7.”

“There’s a way around that, you know.” As if expecting the answer, Shion responds instantly, all the while lowering his torso until it’s nearly flat against the floor. “Not sure if you knew, but my last boyfriend was on the same Hiroshima team as me. We had a great time together and are still on good terms today...so lately, I’ve been thinking how I wouldn’t mind giving that a try again.”

The last remark nearly makes Atsumu crack his spine beyond limits.

“What do ya mean?” He keeps his back rotated, not wishing to look Shion in the eye when the inevitable answer arrives.

“I mean date someone on the same team. Our team, that is.”

His ribs strain once again, and he knows it’s not due to any twists of the physical - but the mental.

“Is it me?” It’s a ridiculous notion, but also a last resort.

“No, of course not!” Shion laughs aloud. “Let’s just say that my ex was also a great receiver, and I think I might have a pattern…”

Atsumu feels his face pale to the same shade as Shion’s hair, all blood draining from an aghast brain.

“Shouyou-kun?” He grasps at straws.

“Nah. I like them tall. Very tall.”

As much as he wishes to laud the receiving abilities of every other Jackals member, Atsumu knows that only one teammate Shion would consider masterful remains to be named. He’s currently positioned opposite both of them, showcasing an ideal straddle stretch as he unknowingly contorts every detail in Atsumu’s life.

“O...Omi-kun?”

The one designating him as confidant lets out an enamored sigh. “Yes, Sakusa Kiyoomi’s perfect dig...what a dreamboat, don’t you think?”

Looking back at that receive from the net is also Atsumu’s favorite view - especially when they exchange secretive smiles once the ball’s arch ends in his setter hands. But Shion’s confession is a brash reminder that even on the court, it’s not only them who exist, and Kiyoomi has never been only his. No, he is - perhaps has always been - the object of many affections, including another confessed not too long ago.

“Wait, Adriah-san told ya about my datin’ history, but not that he also likes---” He starts, only to pause once he remembers the request to keep the detail clandestine. “Never mind.”

Oblivious to the dilemma, Shion rambles on. “Sakusa would look pretty good next to someone with light hair, don’t you think?”

The suggestion brings to mind certain photos currently saved on his phone. Sure, he may have taken five too many selfies of them showing off their plant children. Sure, he may have placed them into a designated folder and scrolled through it a hundred times since. And sure, he may have printed some out at the local LAWSON and taped them in less visible spots within his apartment. But he’s an adult, so he can spend his money on whatever interior decor he wants, cacti or otherwise.

“Yeah, the two of ya would look pretty good together.” Because the two of us do.

“I also haven’t wanted a serious relationship for a while. But since Sakusa and I are on the same team...this might be the perfect scenario for something without all the logistical concerns. Don’t you think?” The same question is posed thrice.

Dontcha think, dontcha think - dontcha think ya can be the one for him, too?

“Yeah. Knowing Omi-kun, he’d probably want easy access to his future boyfriend.” Atsumu mumbles, daring to place himself in that forbidden spot for a mere second.

“Glad to have that confirmed!”

Kiyoomi always receives impeccably, and more than deserves to receive all the affection in the world. But Atsumu has been at one position his entire life, as someone obligated to give away what’s most precious so that another can strengthen and perfect it. By all logic, it should be his responsibility to send the ball to the right spot - to send Kiyoomi to the right person.

No, I can’t be the one. Because I’m a setter.

==

Ironically, the mantra is what causes him to lose concentration for the majority of practice. He sets, and passes generously as he always does, but every ball has only a fraction of its usual momentum.

“You alright, Miya?” Partway through, Coach Foster questions him for the first time in Atsumu’s career.

“Sorry, coach. Just a bad day.”

He can feel Kiyoomi’s stare burning into him from behind, the blend of confusion and concern swirling into those black, circular backdrops. As much as he relishes the attention in silence, he also feels nerves jitter at being too well-perceived by his observant other half. Unlike everyone else, Kiyoomi will never outright ask about Atsumu’s condition. These days, as close friends are usually capable of, he always seems to know both the problem and solution no matter what.

Today, the latter comes near the end of their session.

“Hey.” A large palm pats against his shoulder, breaking through Atsumu’s clouded mind with a rare contact. “Send this last one to me.”

It’s the plainest of touches, but it stirs a wave of calm rushing through him, reviving any abilities lost to distraction.

When Kiyoomi digs the powerful serve, it’s exactly as Shion describes and Atsumu knows: perfect. The ball floats towards him like one of many gentle reassurances - can you sit with me on the way back? or didn’t want to break our tradition - but it’s wordless this time, a reminder that things will always be alright, as long as it ends with them side-by-side.

“Omi-kun!” He yells instinctively, right as his hands cradle and release.

On command, a beautiful form flies into the left side air, and delivers the powerful finishing touch of their combo.

It’s not match point, much less a match, but Kiyoomi dashes over like it’s the greatest of their victories. The gym echoes with the clap of their usual high five, while their teammates’ howls of awe serve as chorus. When Atsumu glances around, he senses that Koutarou, Shouyou, Adriah, and Shion are all flashing Kiyoomi different smiles than usual, but he takes solace in the fact that it’s their palms which meet first.

“Nice way to finish!” Coach Foster cheers from the sidelines, alleviated from his earlier worries. “One last rotation, then we’re done for today.”

They exchange satisfied nods before Atsumu moves off the court, his obligations fulfilled by the last-minute repair. The short trip brings him next to Barnes, who still looks beyond impressed at their recent play.

“Kiyoomi-kun gets close to you quite freely these days, Atsumu-kun.” His voice sounds as jubilant as ever. “You’re lucky.”

Still descending from his high, Atsumu wipes beads of sweat with the back of his arm. “Lucky?”

“Very lucky.” Stouter arms fold, giving Barnes an even more formal stance. “So how’d you two get here? I know you were pretty intense rivals in high school, so you didn’t exactly start off on the right foot.”

“Time and patience, I guess.” He mulls briefly on the years-long journey, especially his own recent efforts. “Dun’ actually remember when he started givin’ me high-fives back, if that’s what yer wonderin’.”

“Wish I could get one from him.” Barnes looks down with transparent intent. “But I’ll be patient, like you were.”

Once again, Atsumu’s heart skips an uncomfortable beat, almost afraid to ask for clarification. But from the conversational trends of this whole week, he knows it might all be rhetorical.

“Dun’ tell me, are ya…”

“Interested in him? Mm, I might be.” His teammate tilts his head, giving focus to Kiyoomi’s spot on the court. “There’s just something about Kiyoomi-kun, you know? He seems unapproachable at first, but is really very kind and hardworking.”

It’s another set of facts Atsumu already knows well, but never expected for others to appreciate to the same extent. “He is, yeah.”

“So you get me, right? I really wanna lift him into the air with a giant hug, and yell all the good things about him to the world!” 

Atsumu knows he can likely also manage Kiyoomi’s weight, and very much wants to perform that exact act. But after years of slowly breaking down barriers, his placid acceptance of how far they could actually go had fed doubt after doubt. Now, he’s left to confront all the new obstacles that have emerged during this reluctance.

“Barnes-san is probably one of few people who can physically do it.” He jests as solace for himself. 

“I’ll have to keep working for his permission, I think. But I’ll get there some day, like you.”

“He’ll open up to ya very soon, Barnes-san. I’m sure.”

As he speaks, a certain word rings like a warning bell.

Permission.

It’s only then that Atsumu realizes the crisis he has caused by inadvertently enabling five teammates at once, all without Kiyoomi’s knowledge or permission. If they decide to act simultaneously, tossing every emotion at the same, unsuspecting recipient, it’ll be nothing short of disaster. Within his mind, a frightening scenario plays out, featuring confession after confession being delivered to a flustered Kiyoomi, each one followed by claims that Atsumu had encouraged it.

Shit. 

As a result of his private strife, great consequences now lie ahead. Not only might this jeopardize the chemistry between everyone present, Atsumu has no idea how it may impact the roots of their friendship - what he has worked so hard to nurture.

Within the team, there’s only one person left to turn to.

==

As soon as they’re dismissed, he heads in the opposite direction from everyone else. No farewells, no accompanying Kiyoomi back home - just him and one lone thought as he wanders off.

When? How? Why has the entire team become my rival in whatever-it-is-I-feel?

In a moment of greed, he wonders if he can convince Kiyoomi to be traded to another city with him under the guise of friendship and inseparable partnership, but the wild notion gets tabled right away. The chances of Kiyoomi following him are zero to none, and if his current popularity carries over, that would only cause more suitors to appear.

For now, a much larger and immediate problem needs resolution.

He finds Meian exactly where he expects: in the backroom connected to their gym, a bowed head deep in thought as he scribbles upon whiteboard.

“Captain?” Timidly, Atsumu knocks on the opened door, drawing attention and a smile of acknowledgement.

“Yes, Atsumu?”

As always, Meian gives off an air of solidarity akin to all the leaders he has played under. It’s an invitation for him to go straight-to-the-point, and so he does - though he leaves any exact references vague.

“What would ya say...if two teammates wanna date each other?”

Across the room, his captain freezes in both motion and expression at first. Soon, a hand begins to replace the marker cap, the movement as tedious as his next choice of words.

“Hm, I think everyone should be free to do what they wish.” It’s a standard reassurance, followed by the necessary conditions. “But if I see anyone’s performance affected by the relationship, I’ll probably need to intervene.”

Atsumu immediately recognizes the remark as another reason he had suppressed what had been in front of him all along. It had always been easier to remain platonic in all of their contexts - those shared smiles at a growing plant, those conversations had across a dinner table, those unforgettable moments during a game. For him to step beyond such boundaries feels like risking years of effort as a professional athlete, and even more importantly, a loyal friend. It disturbs what has always been simple, comfortable.

Yet, despite never releasing that safety valve, he has still become the cause of many potential disturbances.

“And what if multiple people on our team wanna date...the same person?”

Meian’s serious demeanor ironically lightens, his brows arching in amusement. “Oh? Who’s the popular one? You?”

If this were still high school, he would’ve affirmed that guess with pride. But the Atsumu years older understands too well that popularity comes with a cost - and in this case, an unfortunate cost to him.

“No, it’s...Omi-k--Sakusa.”

“Ah, I’m not surprised.” The older man’s mirth fades into something softer, almost affectionate.

Atsumu has seen this subtle shift too many times the past few days. Five times too many.

“You, too, captain?” He identifies straightaway, no longer caring to dance around harsh facts.

For the first time since joining the team, Meian’s chuckles do little to soothe him.

“Well, I wasn’t going to share this with many people, but Sakusa would really be quite the catch.” The confession is so stark that it’s practically painful to hear. “He’s trustworthy, dependable - not to mention one handsome and talented guy.”

Kiyoomi - always his in theory, but adored by many in reality.

His face battles between paling and blushing, unsure of which state to adopt.

“Let me guess - I’m not the first to tell you that, am I?”

“No, or the second, or third…” A rough bite lands on his bottom lip.

“So there are several interested in him?” The marker taps against the whiteboard’s plastic, as if waiting to formulate a new plan. “Well shit, better move fast if I want a chance, right?”

On the court, speed has always been a required strength, but never has Atsumu felt more inclined to activate it. He is the one who has fostered this for years, brought his own patience to the brink as he resisted further steps forward. But as so many join his diligent, careful chase, he knows now that he should trust in this friendship, trust that Kiyoomi would never fault him for wanting to deliver some happiness - no matter the source it comes from.

“Yeah, gotta move fast.” Atsumu nods, bouncing in place as he initiates a light jog. “Bye, captain.”

==

The jog turns into a run, rushing him ahead of anything his teammates may attempt. Nimble footsteps usher him to the local flower shop, home of their cacti shopping spree.

Gotta move fast. Gotta move fast. His eyes dart around the collection of colorful flora, each communicating its own language. As many shows have declared, flowers are ideal for confessions, for moving things forward.

But as he reaches for a rose bouquet, Atsumu hesitates. To proceed now is to betray teammates, and to defy Meian’s precious authority that has always been worthy of respect.

Better not move too fast.

Displayed nearby are the pots of cacti, a group that hadn’t been chosen for their first adoption. Though never an expected gift in courtship, it’s part of this plotline starring them, and maybe Kiyoomi should interpret its meaning on his own accord.

Atsumu changes the direction his arm extends.

“Another one? I remember you and your friend from a couple of weeks back.” The shop owner notes minutes later, as he provides the register with an extra prickly choice, its rounded top decorated by two small buds.

“Mm-hmm.” He answers earnestly. “I kinda wanna watch this one bloom.”

==

His treads conclude in front of an unfamiliar door. Despite everything, Atsumu can count on one hand the number of times Kiyoomi has welcomed him into his household. This evening, he carries no invitation, just one heartfelt gift that can hopefully garner forgiveness for the spontaneous visit. Even through soil and pot, his palms tickle, as if scraped by the indiscriminate needles.

Shimmying away remnant nerves, he presses the doorbell before standing upright.

A shadow appears beneath his feet, holding still for elongated seconds before the knob finally clicks. Skeptical eyes peek over the vertical of wood, questioning the sight they behold.

“Omi-k--Kiyoomi.” He stumbles from the get-go.

Silence and hard blinks react to his stammer, but the door continues to swing open, eventually exposing a spotless foyer.

“Omi Kiyoomi?” The bearer of the unusual moniker snorts, stepping aside in welcome. “That’s a new one, even for you.”

“Kiyoomi. ” Atsumu regains enough composure to revise, and allows the cactus to enter before any part of himself. “This is for ya.”

Gifted hands take hold of the pot, gentle in the transfer of ownership. “Must be serious, if you’re saying my name like that on such a random visit.”

As he paces away, Atsumu follows, staring straight ahead as to not lose focus.

“So is this thanks for helping you with your toss earlier? Or are you here to give me...fresh plant care tips?” Kiyoomi’s tone is barely serious as he finds the cactus a home on the windowsill. “The one we bought together last time flowered, by the way. Look.”

He shifts to the right, revealing a slew of light yellow petals spreading across the top of a green bulb. Next to the timid new arrival, it looks well-cared for - almost joyful.

“Wow, it’s pre--” Atsumu starts to marvel, only to be distracted by the tender smile curving along Kiyoomi’s chin. “--tty…”

“Yeah. It reminds me of you a little - the color, that is.”

The overtly casual statement echoes multiple times before he comprehends it. When Atsumu remembers to react, Kiyoomi has already dashed past him, rushing into the kitchen to collect some water in a glass. It’s to fulfill the most basic of needs, to nourish something that has begun to bud.

He wrestles between critical decisions, attempting to hatch up a plan where there had been none. On the one hand, Kiyoomi seems to have paved a tiny path for him to stride upon, but on the other, there are several others who will intend on chasing. For whatever reason, they had confided the same exact secret to him, and now it is he who stands in the middle of Kiyoomi’s room, with the walls fortifying his own secret threatening to collapse.

This had not been a responsibility he wished for, but if it concerns the happiness of those he cares about - especially the one he cares the most about - he will, as always, accept the duty.

Because even if nothing ever blooms between the two of them, at least they’ll always have actual flowers.

“Kiyoomi.” He inhales deep, speaking over the sounds of splashing liquid. “I wanna ask ya somethin’.”

The faucet shuts off, just in time for his next words to become fully audible. 

“What do ya think about everyone on our team?”

An inquisitive look shoots back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...do ya...like any of ‘em?” Atsumu trains his eyes on the blossomed cactus, and his mind on its matching other half, currently sitting in his own apartment. “Like ‘em more than just as a friend, I mean.”

“Did you really come here today to offer me relationship advice?”

“No, ‘course not!” He protests, only to retract. “Well, wait - kinda.”

Kiyoomi wanders back in his direction, a mix of doubt and fascination across his face. A confrontation never occurs, however, as he heads toward the window instead.

Somewhat relieved, Atsumu continues. “I was thinkin’ that if ya ever wanna...date any of ‘em, I can help with that. As yer best friend and all.”

The glass tilts, soaking the soil below with its contents. The pace of the pour is steady, giving no indication that the unsolicited offer had bothered Kiyoomi in any way.

“You want to help? Why?” On the contrary, he sounds more intrigued than annoyed.

“Ya know - us two. Two peas in a pod, two Jackals on a court, right?” Atsumu scrambles for reasoning, in case of a reckoning. “I just wanna make sure to support ya, like I already do whenever we play together.”

Kiyoomi turns to regard him, gripping the now-empty glass with both hands. Silence drapes over the room, hushing any of the usual quips they exchange. For the first time in Atsumu’s memory, something communicates in the most subliminal manner, but he can’t be certain whether it is what he desires.

“What do you think about Hinata?” The name uttered is not his.

He sighs, and sets his own plans aside as Shouyou’s excited confession replays.

“Shouyou-kun’s so passionate about everythin’, so he’ll definitely be loyal to ya.”

There’s a pause, then another name. “Bokuto?”

“He always has such good energy, right? I wouldn’t be surprised if ya fell for him.”

“Barnes?”

“Sweet guy, nice guy.” By now, Atsumu has let his mind run free, spewing whatever feels most truthful. “Definitely gives the best bear hugs.”

“Tomas?”

“He’s someone who’d put a letter in yer locker askin’ to meet behind the gym.” For this one, he conjures up the most drama-esque scenario. “Cheesy - but every kind of lovable.”

“Inunaki?”

“Ya two are already so skilled at similar things. And ya’d look really good together, light hair-dark hair ‘n all.”

“Captain?”

“Captain wastes no time, but stays steady - I’m sure ya’d feel very stable around him.”

There, that’s all of ‘em. Now have yer pick.

“And?”

Atsumu stills. “And what?”

The contemplative gaze across the room softens, while the lanky body beneath leans against a wall for support. In the midst of these subtle shifts, Atsumu notices that the glass had not been emptied after all - a layer of clear liquid remains on the bottom, breaking any illusion that no more nourishment remains.

“What about yourself?” Three simple words also replenish whatever had been emptied of him.

“M...me?”

“You said ‘everyone,’ right?” Kiyoomi’s features land somewhere between a frown and a smirk. “I assumed that included you.”

“I--” Unprepared for the claim, Atsumu nearly steps backward in all his denials. “Nah, ya wouldn’t pick me. Not with everyone else as good options.”

“Try me.” A voice turns insistent, pinning him in place. “Tell me how you feel.”

This is far from any scenario Atsumu has witnessed within a romance drama, but he realizes that no script can ever compare. For days, he had played storage to so many devastating truths, but his own now rings with utter clarity: he wants their cacti to always be next to each other on the window sill; he wants to share dinner every single night; he wants to be the one chosen and loved.

“Okay...here goes.” Once more, he lets his mind run free - giving Kiyoomi the sincerity he has always deserved. “My feelin’s for ya might never be as intense as Bokkun’s, and unlike me, Adriah probably knows exactly how to dote on ya as a boyfriend. But...I really like ya, Kiyoomi, probably for longer than my idiot head ever realized. And even though ya might think I’m only good as a best friend, I wanna be a hundred percent honest to ya for once in my life. So if there’s a chan--”

“Yes.”

“--ce...wait, what?”

“Yes, of course there’s a chance.” Kiyoomi elaborates on the interruption, an infusion of sincerity in his own eyes. “This whole time, I thought we were doing all these things because you wanted to be more than friends.”

“I--oh.”

“I don’t think I assumed wrong.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“Plus, what you described about everyone else.” The not-empty glass comes to rest on the window sill. “You’re already all of those things, to me.”

Passionate, bear hugs, cheesy, stable, etc. etc. Atsumu’s chest tightens, but finally for much more uplifting reasons. “I am? Are ya sure?”

Kiyoomi moves closer, footsteps solid yet not imposing. “Why else would I tolerate you on the bus? Or bring you food late at night?”

“But everyone else--”

Before he finishes, Kiyoomi is somehow already in front of him. Atsumu almost stumbles in surprise, only to be rebalanced by a pair of firm grabs along his upper arms.

“Stop giving something away because you think it might fare better in another person’s hands. I’m not a ball, or a plant.” In the end, it’s Kiyoomi who stakes the claim on himself. “Keep this - keep me - all to yourself for once.”

There are a hundred buds within Atsumu’s heart, and every single one blooms right then, watered by another impassioned request he can never deny. He’s selfless, but he’s also love - and loved, apparently, by the one who matters most.

So he leans forward, settling himself against the comfort of a shoulder, relishing in the comfort of reciprocation.

“Then I’m never lettin’ this chance go.”

==

It takes some effort to gather all his teammates, save for one, into a single space the next afternoon. But a satisfied hope always leads to surprising amounts of motivation and strategy. After practice, he had convinced Kiyoomi to leave for the locker room first, before nudging - in some cases shoving - everyone else into Meian’s office.

While cherishing his honeymoon hours, Atsumu had also struggled with the prospect of his selfishness. So much had been entrusted to him, only for him to cross the line first, and even the fact that Kiyoomi would’ve chosen him back anyway hadn’t dampened any nerves. Rather than troubling them both with these concerns, he had taken one last responsibility to try and resolve things himself.

Once he squeezes Barnes’ giant frame past the threshold, Atsumu quickly shuts the door, before lowering into a deep bow.

“Sorry!”

The small commotion in front of him dwindles, replaced by the same question sounding from several mouths. “For what?”

He straightens his spine, but keeps both eyes shut as to avoid witnessing any disappointment. “I confessed to Omi-kun...ahead of everyone here!”

Dead silence trails the admission, lasting so long that he soon squints one eye open, just to check that nobody had left out of anger.

“See? I knew it would work.” It’s Adriah who pipes up first, addressing not him but everyone else. “So what if it’s a tactic from that old drama I watched?”

An ensemble of soft laughter fills the room, its carefree nature the polar opposite of what Atsumu had expected. Suddenly, Adriah’s exact meaning registers: a “tactic,” a conspiracy, a plot point from a script that had played out exactly as planned - and him, at the center of it all.

“So this...was all of ya schemin’ together?” He nearly yells the realization. “Fakin’ crushes on Omi-kun so I’d get antsy enough to make the first move…?”

Shion sends him an amused shrug. “Um, I don’t know about everyone else. But for the record, I actually do have a tiny crush on Sakusa.”

Like a chain reaction, Barnes raises his hand. “Me, too!”

“Same.” Adriah, self-appointed tactician, confesses rather casually. “But...I’m kind of attracted to half of the people here. So.”

“Who wouldn’t like Omi-san?” Standing front-and-center, Shouyou’s eyes are as round as oranges. “He’s such a catch!”

But of course, there must always be an odd man out - in the form of Koutarou. “Oh. I was actually pretending. Was it supposed to be real? Oops.”

“And um - I’m married, but I think you forgot, Atsumu-kun.” As conclusion, Meian pulls out the ring tucked into his t-shirt collar, a most blatant and silly reminder dangling down his neck.

Atsumu’s mouth goes dry. In all his nervousness, he had forgotten the most obvious fact of all.

“But Atsumu, we all figured your feelings extend far past all of ours...maybe combined.” His captain continues, caring and never critical. “I mean, we spend hours upon hours with you two, so we all know - we’ve all known. Anyway, a bit of teamwork, and some clever exaggerations later...”

He thinks back to each individual conversation, how one after another had gone just far enough to insert the right keys into his locked heart, without leaving him at a total loss.

“But if, for whatever reason, things don’t work out…” Barnes brazenly points to himself. “Then I’m next in line, alright?”

“Hey, I want to be next!” Someone objects, though Atsumu fails to identify the exact voice.

Instead of trying to, he steps towards the door as commotion starts again, awed by the hapless antics of a team that will forever have his appreciation.

“Sorry, everyone.” Instead of thanks, a second apology serves as his farewell. He knows now that letting this relationship flourish will be the best display of gratitude, and the best way to relay everyone’s feelings to their beloved Kiyoomi.

“Omi-kun and I have some plants to water.”

==

They’re curled up on the couch, after not oden Thursday but ramen Tuesday - one of many new traditions that Atsumu hopes will carry on forever. It’s also the premiere night of TBS’ latest drama, and he knows Adriah will text him with live reactions pretty soon.

Apartment visits are solidly part of their routine, no longer limited to spontaneous dinners or confessions. Since those few dramatic days a few months back, their cacti have all grown and flowered twice over, while their relationship has grown far beyond that - even if they constantly fight over who gets to read the latest Engei first.

“The main guy seems very popular.” Under their shared blanket, Kiyoomi gives his first commentary as the initial scenes unfold.

Atsumu presses a cheek into his boyfriend’s temple. “Yeah, like a certain someone I know.”

“Jealous?”

“Nah. Plenty of people have crushes on me, too - just not our teammates.”

“I would’ve been ok with being a third wheel.” Kiyoomi snorts, his tease biting and relentless. “Would you have been fine with being a seventh? ”

“Shh…look, Omi-kun. I think the best friend might actually win this time.”

“The best friend hasn’t even been introduced yet...which show are you talking about?”

Atsumu takes advantage of the confusion, snaking a hand to tilt Kiyoomi’s chin upward. With care, he plants the softest kiss, laying a new seed to be cultivated.

“This one.”

[Fin]