Archive of Our Own

Summer in Osaka was hot that year, an unrelenting heat reflected off of sidewalks and skyscrapers. It was trips to the seaside, shirtless, sweaty nights, afternoon ice cream trips, and evening exercise. It was Astumu learning all of Kiyoomi’s favorite poems, Kiyoomi making playlists for Atsumu for every occasion; it was too-warm body colliding into too-warm body, strong, calloused hands exploring the well-known hills and valleys of their physicality, palming into familiar flesh. 

Apartment hunting had been unexpectedly exhausting. Atsumu was pickier than he let on, and Kiyoomi wasn’t exactly known for his ability to compromise, and they should have really thought about that before deciding to nonrenew both of their leases. Atsumu talked with his hands whenever he was trying to explain his vision of their new, shared life together: something about a pet and a view of the city and walkability, at least to the training facility, and a soaking tub and a separate space for guests. Kiyoomi quietly rejected locations after viewing, not giving explanation about why it was unsuitable. Really, neither partner explained their reasoning, never needed to – if it wasn’t good enough, it wasn’t good enough. 

It took months to find a two-bedroom apartment that appeased both of their needs. Finally, the dream space was realized - a fifteen minute walk from the MSBY training facility, bright and airy with a separate kitchen space, a spacious balcony that would comfortably seat at least four Black Jackals, and two full bathrooms. It cost less than twice their current rent combined. It was, if not perfect, ideal. They filed their application immediately and celebrated the success of gaining the new space in each of their current domiciles. 

And then apartment hunting had turned to apartment filling, and they argued relentlessly, energetically about what to buy and what to keep and what to relinquish. Atsumu’s coffee table, Kiyoomi’s dresser, both of their collections of memorabilia, and that was the easy part. Whose cutlery to keep, whose rice cooker needed to be given away? Who had the better set of coasters?

It kept the two occupied for weeks. Summer was hot, and fast, and frustrating in the pursuit of homemaking. Kiyoomi’s eldest sibling sent a book of poetry as a housewarming present, proudly displayed on their coffee table after their initial housing application was accepted. Osamu sent the pair a cookbook (along with a note that read “Learn to cook, dipshit”) that had found its home atop the refrigerator. They’d hosted their first team gathering with half-unpacked boxes making for impromptu seating and tables, fridge empty but for takeout containers and beverages.

Eventually, the new place turned into an amalgamation of themselves. Kiyoomi kept his collection of records in a cabinet in the hall; Atsumu’s video games had a shelf of their own next to the television. Evidence of volleyball was everywhere. Cleaning supplies filled the spaces under the sink and the shelves of the linen closet. A combined photo album ended up as the primary art for the walls - mostly Atsumu and his family throughout the years, pictures of him and Osamu making faces at the camera and trying to outdo each other, but he was able to get Kiyoomi to add a few photos of his family. Staged photos, not candids. Kiyoomi the youngest in the center, bookmarked by significantly older brother and sister, both of whom resembled their mother, slight and mousy with a kind face and downturned eyes, Next to her was Kiyoomi’s father, and for all Atsumu and Osamu looked alike, Kiyoomi was a carbon-copy of his father, curls and moles and expression and all. 

It was quite literally domestic, and comforting in its domesticity, and easy in so little it changed. 

-

The new season of V-League began with new faces, new dynamics, new expectations. But volleyball remained volleyball, and as the leaves began to shift to warmer tones and the sunset reached the horizon more quickly each day, Kiyoomi found the most prominent worry on his mind regarding the season was what, exactly, to do about the fan gifts?

His phone buzzed; he fished it out of his pocket. A text from Atsumu - well, a few. First, a picture of a trash can, followed by the words “reminded me of u”, and followed again with “im kickin ur ass on the twitter poll btw” and finally a screenshot from the MSBY official account in which fans were asked who would have more service aces in the upcoming season.

Kiyoomi smiled, wide and open behind his mask, felt the tightness of his lips against his teeth and his eyes crease with it. He’s so annoying. His phone continued to buzz, unfiltered, unrestrained stream of consciousness updates. 

samu is expanding locations in a few months

Atsumu

we should get him something terrible as a gift and then act offended when he hates it

Atsumu

we can label it just from u, thatll make it worse

Atsumu

so anyhow all this to say onigiri for dinner

Atsumu

Sounds perfect. I’m in.

-

Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: a promotional group shot of this year’s MSBY Black Jackals, the season’s game dates and times.

A rare caption beneath: Thank you for your continued support. Looking forward to another great season. 

-

We are on fire today, baby, Atsumu thought to himself with a smirk as the ball hit the ground on the other side of the court, the whistle blew, and the score on the first set against the Adlers reached its final 25-22. They were. Hinata jumped across the court all game like he wanted to leap right over the net, Tomas was a blocking machine, and Omi, his Omi, was slamming balls down like he was furious with them. 

They needed this. After an early season loss to the Adlers, the Black Jackals were out for revenge, and Atsumu could see his team running like a well-oiled machine, building the kind of momentum that didn’t stop after just one set. Victory wasn’t ensured, but it was pretty damn likely at this point, and it was clear from his teammates’ faces as they joined their coach on the bench that he wasn’t the only one that thought that way. 

It wasn’t an overwhelming victory in the end - the Adlers came back in the second set with something to prove, and the combined force of Kageyama and Ushijima was one of the toughest to defend against, but there was something about the sound of his team’s sneakers on hardwood floor, the buzz of overhead lights, that left Atsumu buzzing, too. Optimism shined golden - no, not optimism: assuredness. Total faith in his teammates, and an unshakable confidence in himself. 

The fourth set clenched it, the Adlers’ defeat, just like last year, and Atsumu couldn’t help teasing Hoshiumi, just a little, just to provoke a reaction, at the center line as sportsmanlike mutters of “good game, good game” escaped everyone surrounding. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu asked as the team gathered their gear and started off towards the locker room, bumping his hip into the man beside him.

“You’d have won more service aces if you hadn’t tried to get fancy with your floaters, Miya,” Kiyoomi answered, looking down at Atsumu in the way he sometimes did, the way that was meant to make Atsumu wildly aware of the differences in their height. Ah, Atsumu recognized, gloating. He shouldn’t have shown Omi the Twitter poll, after all.

“Gotta give the audience a little show,” Atsumu grinned. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, a begrudging fondness in the act. “But fine, you win this one. I know that’s what ya wanna hear. It'll be the last time this season, though, so don’t get too comfortable.”

“Mmm, I’m never comfortable, you don’t have to worry about that.” Kiyoomi grimaced a little. “I can feel the sweat drying on my scalp. It’s disgusting. Hurry up.” He quickened his steps, marching towards the locker room’s showers. Atsumu followed behind, less concerned about getting in there quickly and more distracted by the broad lines of Kiyoomi’s back, the way the number 15 stretched across it. 

-

Kiyoomi made it a habit to be as efficient in the locker room as possible: get in quick, use the showers before anyone else could have the first round, dry, change, pack up, and leave. There was no dawdling involved, and there was no place less appealing for conversation. He’d rather wait in the hallway for the team to finish up, or outside if necessary. So, mask affixed across his face, gym bag zipped, and hand sanitizer applied, Kiyoomi exited the room, leaving the distant, joyful conversations of the showers behind. He settled in on a bench and took out his phone to pass the time.

Two missed calls from his mother.

Phone calls with Sakusa Aiko were not a rarity - they spoke once a month exactly, at an agreed upon time set up during the previous month’s conversation - but they were never an unplanned occasion. Curiosity welled in Kiyoomi, joined with a rising dread in his stomach as his finger hovered momentarily over the missed call notification before pressing down to return it. It took two rings before she picked up.

“Kiyoomi.”

“Sorry for missing your calls, we were in the middle of a game.”

“Ah, don’t worry, Kiyoomi. I just had some news I wanted to share. Do you have the time?”

News? Kiyoomi hummed in assent. “Yep, I’m just waiting for my team right now.”

The line was quiet for a moment, and Kiyoomi was just about to check and see if they were still connected when his mother’s voice returned. “It’s about your father.”

“Yes?” Kiyoomi’s father, Sakusa Itsuo, was a salaryman with whom Kiyoomi could count conversations since high school on one hand. 

“Well, you know how hard he works, how busy he is,” she started. Kiyoomi waited. “He’s not had much time to take care of himself, but he’s had this spot on his side that was bothering him for some time now.”

“Bothering him how?”

“Like a rash, I - I’ll spare you the details, Kiyoomi, you wouldn’t like it. He finally had the time to make an appointment for it, and a physical.”

She paused again, and Kiyoomi was growing impatient. He pressed his hands against his closed eyes, spots of color emerging behind his eyelids from the pressure. “And you have news about that, I presume?” He prompted her again, biting back a sigh of frustration.

A quiet, shaky inhale of the breath, a pushed-down sniffle. “He said they think it’s skin cancer.”

A dizziness struck Kiyoomi, sudden and whip-like, that would have threatened to topple him had he not already been sitting. “They aren’t sure?”

“There’s tests they need to run, but it’s likely.” He could hear the tears in her voice, the thick, damp tone of it clear despite the distance of their connection.

“Oh.” Kiyoomi sat with this for a moment. “Do you need me to come?” Technically, it wouldn’t be far. They were both in Tokyo, whether she knew that or not. He thought back to late nights, early mornings, times in which she had made herself indispensable to him. “It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to me if you need me to do so.”

His mother took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, shakily. “No, no, we are okay. It’s probably nothing, and we don’t have the place set up for you -”

“I’m in the city, Mom,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t have to stay over, I have a hotel room. I can be there in,” he glanced at the clock on the wall in front of him, “an hour, hour and a half.”

“Ah, no, that’s past our bed time, I’m afraid,” she replied. “You’re sweet for considering me, but I think we need just a bit of time alone to process and discuss our options going forward. Your sister will be able to help if we need it; she and her husband just moved into a new apartment just a few blocks from here.” He knew this - she’d mentioned it during their last call, just two weeks ago. Kiyoomi felt his jaw clenching, lips tight against his teeth as he fought the urge to chew on them. “And we don’t need you fretting about and worrying yourself sick over here,” she added knowingly.

“I don’t fret,” Kiyoomi responded automatically, wincing internally at the childish indignation in his tone. 

His mother huffed out a weak laugh. “I will let you know when there is more information to give. Take care of yourself, Kiyoomi.”

“You, too.” She hung up the phone, and Kiyoomi took it down from his ear, stared unseeingly at it. Skin cancer. The words were heavy, even saying them in his mind. A shiver ran down his spine, and he felt chilly even in his hoodie and overcoat. Maybe he needed time to process it, too. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” called Bokuto from the other side of the hall, waved widely as if they hadn’t been in the same series of spaces all day. Black Jackals started to create a small crowd behind him as they followed out of the locker room and joined Kiyoomi. “Where are we going out tonight?” Bokuto asked the team. Various suggestions shouted back to him at once, which fueled animated bickering over favored bars and restaurants. 

“Sounds like all of ‘em to me, whadda ya say, Omi-Omi?” said Atsumu, joining him on the bench.

“Mmm,” Kiyoomi pretended to consider. “Not tonight.” Absolutely not tonight.

“Oh, come on, yer no fun.”

“Documentably true,” he responded blankly. “Notoriously.”

“Yer like a 24 year old grandpa.”

“My joints agree with you. I overworked my shoulder, and I’m tired,” and it wasn’t a lie, not exactly. “I’ll be no fun at the bar. Go have fun without me.”

“Yeah, alright, alright. Just don’t get all pissy when I get back late.”

“I don’t get pissy,” Kiyoomi retorts, but his tone was undeniably pissy as he said it, so the laughing he received in response was probably warranted.

-

It was two in the morning, and Kiyoomi had sixteen separate tabs open, making mental notes of signs, symptoms, types, treatment, side-effects of treatment, treatability and recovery,  rarity, genetic probability. He could feel his spine aching from the hunched position he’d been frozen in and really, he should have actually iced his shoulder because it was throbbing, and he was only interrupted in his focus by increasingly incoherent text messages from Atsumu.

The first one had started at about ten: miss u, it said simply, then ice ur shoulder.  Next came a selfie, slightly blurry, Atsumu’s lips puckered up in a kissy face, Hinata shoving his way into the frame from the background to make a similarly kissy face. 

The next one came an hour later: idk id be having more fun if u were here :( 

Then there was a series of texts all in a row.

just found out meians got a gf ooooh

Atsumu

ur pretty. send me a selfie

Atsumu

the music is 2 loud here we r levaing to the next spot

Atsumu

we should get a cat

Atsumu

do u think we are ognna win this year???? i do

Atsumu

Kiyoomi ignored all of them, committed to learning everything there was to know about this new invasion of his reality. It was quiet, only the sound of the cars below filling it, and the room had long since darkened, illuminated only by the glow of his screen. He was about to start a video about melanoma when the latest text came his way.

u wouldnt lkie it here its sticky

Atsumu

can i call u

Atsumu

Kiyoomi realized it wasn’t going to stop until he shut it down. With a frown, he turned his screen to Atsumu’s messages to reply.

No.

aww y not

Atsumu

I’m sleeping.

no ur not

Atsumu

prove it

Atsumu

How???

And that’s when his phone began to ring. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, mentally cataloguing this as something to use against Atsumu next time they argued or Kiyoomi wanted a favor. Then he picked up, and it wasn’t that difficult to affect a sleepy tone, his voice hoarse as it was from disuse.

“Atsumu, it’s too late for this,” he started.

“Omiii I miss ya and it’s not as fun without ya and you shoulda come and you should come here,” Astumu’s voice nearly yelled in one long string of sentences. Loud, pumping music echoed in the background, tinny through the line. 

“You’re irritating,” Kiyoomi responded. “If you really miss me, you can come back to the room whenever.”

“I couuuld. Ya know, ya didn’t tell me whatcha wanted fer winnin’ the aces today, Omi, baby,” he slurred, Kansai accent more prominent than normal, and Kiyoomi could hear in his voice when he stumbled, wherever he was. “What would we be doin’ if I was there?”

“Sleeping.”

“What’re you wearin’?” 

In the background, Inunoka’s voice called out, “Atsumu, stop being a fucking horndog!”

“I’m not doing this right now,” Kiyoomi replied, and ended the call. Well, try not to be a liar then, he thought to himself, stretching out his arms above him before rolling more fully down the bed, pulling blankets up over him, adjusting the pillows until he was some semblance of comfortable.

And then he picked up his phone. And he continued to read.

- 

Sakusa Kiyoomi knew almost nothing about his father. He was at best an acquaintance, not quite a stranger, but conspicuously absent except for the more publicly noteworthy moments of Kiyoomi’s life. Promotions and graduations, award ceremonies - sure, his father was there then, but rarely at the kitchen table, sharing a meal. Never at a game. If asked, Kiyoomi could not give his father’s favorite color, favorite meal. Could not say if he watched sports, if he read fiction or nonfiction, or if they shared the same predilection towards anything. Kiyoomi, if asked, could not provide a single thing the man liked or disliked. Sakusa Itsuo was a constant in his life in his perpetual absence. His not being there for Kiyoomi was a given, not an outlier.

And so why, when faced with the idea of his not being there, was Kiyoomi affected?

-

Skin cancer was common, one of the most common types of the disease. It had a genetic component of about 10%.  He didn’t have light hair, and he stayed out of the sun to the point where he didn’t know if he got freckles, not really, but moles could increase the likelihood of skin cancer, were an indicator if anything. Kiyoomi looked so much like Itsuo, so much like his father - any time someone saw them together, saw a photo of them, they commented on it. There was no question of his parentage. 

He kept scrolling.

-

Atsumu came stumbling into the hotel room at four AM. 

“Hey,” he whispered loudly into the room, as if his entrance had been in any way discreet, “I’m here. You awake? We got lost. Bokuto got sad. Barnes lost his phone.”

“Mmm. Typical night out then,” Kiyoomi drawled, quickly closing the tabs on his phone. “Wash your hands and face, at least, and come to bed.”

“I knew ya wanted me, Omi,” Atsumu slurred. Kiyoomi could hear him struggle with his hoodie for a moment before items of clothing hit the ground one by one.

“Yeah,” he decided to respond. “I want you to get some sleep so tomorrow isn’t intolerable.”

The light from the bathroom glowed in the otherwise complete darkness of the hotel room. The sound of the faucet running, the noise of fumbling hands and drunken discoordination making themselves known in the adjoining room. Kiyoomi knew the process, the struggle - had helped with it and been victim to it many times since his tenure with MSBY. Atsumu kissing, then laughing at, his own reflection in the mirror. The sound of half-assed brushing of teeth - a nice gesture, if useless, for what it was worth. 

Kiyoomi wished he could get up and watch the circus performance Atsumu was attempting right now. Instead, his brain decided to replay the repeated reflections of funerals he had attended within his lifetime. 

He’s sick, Kiyoomi thought, the image of his father’s face clear in his mind. He’s sick, and he’s going to die. Sakusa Itsuo was practically a stranger to him. So Kiyoomi tried, really, desperately tried to not replace his father’s face with his own in the images that flashed unbidden in his mind. 

It was the same face.

-

Atsumu woke up in a mood, mostly due to the pounding hangover that resulted from a post-game night out. It had to have been Kiyoomi who woke him, abnormally noisy in the bathroom, the sink going forever, pacing, frenzied, loud. Atsumu tried to ignore it, really, he did, but it was Atsumu, and even when he didn’t want to hear anything, he couldn’t help but talk about it.

“Christ, Omi, it’s like a warzone over there. What are you doing, construction or some shit?” he bitched, his voice even whiny to his own ears. Omi’s head popped out of the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, gripped tightly by the long, pale fingers of his right hand, wide, actively perceptive eyes shooting towards him. He looked at Atsumu, considered something before simply turning back to the bathroom, choosing instead to ignore Atsumu, and how long exactly does it take for someone to brush their teeth? 

It clicked after Atsumu wrangled himself out of the hotel room’s sheets and prodded into the bathroom.

“Atsumu, do my lymph nodes look swollen to you?”

He gave Omi a once over. “No.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I dunno where a lymph node even is to check,” he admitted. He did fine in school, exactly fine, but it’d been years since high school biology. He felt he had an adequate working knowledge of the human body - he knew all of the major muscle groups and how to use them both on the court and in the bedroom - but Omi could obsess about it. Atsumu had flat out banned WebMD searches after 9pm after Omi spent hours one night getting sucked down a rabbit hole about Lyme disease after they had seen deer in a local park. 

Omi clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Neck. The sides of my neck. Do they look swollen or raised to you?”

Atsumu looked at Omi, took a real good look at the pale expanse of his neck. Was, in fact, so distracted by it for a moment that he nearly forgot the hammering sensation behind his eyes. “No.”

Kiyoomi sighed, a terse thing, and began packing up his toiletries, tapping each one on the counter thrice before putting it in its designated location in Omi’s bag. Sometimes they were endearing, these little idiosyncrasies, but other times they were grating. This morning each singular tap may as well have had the percussive force of a gunshot. 

Atsumu just rolled his eyes, wished the lights had a dimmer function, and not so much hopped as staggered into the shower. He turned the water as hot as he could handle before closing his eyes and letting it just rain on him. 

He lost track of time for a bit, indulged in the feeling of tense, knotted muscles relaxing under the relentless spray of the showerhead. But then the sink turned on again. And off. And on again.

Atsumu had the self-awareness to understand he did not have the emotional capacity to be careful or considerate. Not until he had caffeine, electrolytes, and something greasy in his stomach. But if he didn’t say something, it was just going to get worse.

“Omi,” he said, eyes still closed, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “Take yer meds.”

Kiyoomi hmm’d at Atsumu but did not immediately respond. Atsumu cracked open one eyelid, shielding the open eye from the spray with his hand. Omi’s back was to him, but his shoulders were raised so high they nearly touched his earlobes, and his hands were so still at his sides that Atsumu could tell Omi was forcing them to stay there rather than fidget or wring together. 

“Do you think?” Kiyoomi responded at last. “They knock me right out.”

It was true, they did render Omi pretty useless for the rest of the day. It would be kind of cute if Atsumu knew how much Kiyoomi disliked the feeling of it circulating in his system, the floaty, forced relaxation and dizzying, hollow, vacant exhaustion that came with the crash of mounting anxiety. Omi offered one up for him to try once, Atsumu curious (and claiming the only addictive personality he had was one where people were addicted to him), and while he could see why some got addicted to the stuff, he could also understand why the lack of control bothered Omi. It was a fortunately rare necessity, but it was like pulling teeth to convince him, sometimes, that it was indeed a day in which it was necessary. 

“Yeah, I do think. It’s ramping up. Ya ain’t got nothin’ to do today but sit on the bus and sleep anyhow.”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.” And, god, if he did, Atsumu would follow right after, his nausea welling up with the thought. Shouldn’ta done shots. Getting too old for shots.

“Pacin’ around and worryin’ yourself sick ain’t gonna help anything,” Atsumu tried, and he could hear his patience wearing thin, even as he saw Omi practically flinch at the phrase ‘worry yourself sick,’ but honestly, while it was his problem, he wasn’t in the mood to choose his words carefully.

“Look,” Atsumu tried again, “there’s a bottle of water in the mini fridge. Drink it, take yer meds, go lay down, and I’ll finish packing.” Kiyoomi didn’t move from the spot, didn’t move a muscle, and Atsumu could almost see the dark, twisting lines of anxiety radiate off the man. “Omi.”

That did it, that tone. Kiyoomi finally left the bathroom and by the time Atsumu finished his shower, Omi was sitting on the bed, rubbing at his forehead with one hand, clutching the half-empty water bottle with the other. 

“Ya gotta drink the water, not just stare at it.”

“I know,” Kiyoomi shot back icily.

The shower worked wonders, but Atsumu could still feel the pulsing in his head, vertigo pumping in time with his pulse. But he had to uphold his end of the deal in order for Kiyoomi to comply with his, so Atsumu started packing up the hotel room. Atsumu’s idea of packing at the end of a road trip was throwing everything in his duffel bag with no rhyme or reason, shoving everything down until it fit, and then figuring out where it all ended up later, so it didn’t take him long to finish up. He could feel Kiyoomi’s eyes from across the room, could feel the judgement regarding his packing strategy, but that was an old argument that would never be resolved, one resolved only by agreeing to disagree. 

When the bags were at the door and he’d double checked that nothing was left unpacked, Atsumu glanced back over to his partner. “Did you take ‘em?” Kiyoomi nodded once, shortly. “D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Kiyoomi shot a disgusted look across the room to Atsumu. “No.”

“Thank god,” Atsumu admitted. Kiyoomi’s face twitched in amusement, a win in Atsumu’s book. “We got under an hour before we gotta get to the bus. I’m gonna run to the konbini and get something to cure this fuckin’ hangover. Do ya want anything?”

“More bottled water,” Omi said quietly.

“Right, got it. I’ll be back soon. Call me if ya need anything,” Atsumu replied, patting his pockets to ensure he had his wallet handy.

“Don’t be gross,” Kiyoomi shot back with a side eye. Atsumu chuckled to himself and took his leave, turning to see Kiyoomi lay down as he closed the door.

-

Atsumu returned with four water bottles, three sports drinks, two breakfast sandwiches, one bag of individually-wrapped ginger chews, and an amusing anecdote about Barnes looking like death itself from his hangover. Kiyoomi was a little glassy-eyed and quiet, his left fist clenching and unclenching, but managed to make a joke about how the rest of the team must be doing, and so Atsumu took it as permission to begin filling the space of the hotel room with a play-by-play of last night’s antics between bites of his breakfast. By the time his food had been demolished (with only one snipe about talking with his mouth full), one sports drink gulped down, and the previous evening’s main events regaled, it was time to make their way to the lobby and aboard the bus. 

Omi was more willow branch than person at this point, looked like even a soft breeze could easily knock him over, so Atsumu took both their bags down, following his partner all the way down to the lobby. Most of their teammates had also managed to make it from their respective rooms, even if they looked more like a hoard of zombies than volleyball players, gray, sweaty faces acknowledging their arrival, shuffling their feet as they headed towards the exit. Atsumu’d laugh at them if he didn’t relate, although the fact that Hinata’s shirt was inside out and Bokuto’s hair was flat across his face was perfectly amusing, and, worse still, Inunaki was wearing sunglasses inside. 

Players collapsed in their seats, one by one, and Atsumu was absolutely positive it would be a quiet, quiet ride back to Osaka. Kiyoomi leaned against Atsumu, head heavy against his shoulder, and really it couldn’t be that comfortable, the way his neck was angled, so Atsumu wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulders until Kiyoomi settled into the crook of his neck. He silently offered up one of his ear buds, but Omi scrunched up his face like he’d rather pull out his own brain through his nose, so Atsumu put it in his own ear instead and scrolled on his phone until he found a playlist that wasn’t composed of hard bass and screaming lyrics. The food helped, but he wasn’t cured yet. 

The bus lurched forward and Atsumu closed his eyes, ready to drift off.

-

Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: a photo of the Miya twins from the kitchen of Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s shared apartment. Atsumu reaching up, as though trying to pull Osamu’s hair. Osamu points a spatula at Atsumu’s chest like a weapon. Both twins share the same wide-eyed, open-mouthed indignation, caught mid-argument, captured frame freezing it forever.

No caption beneath.

-

The wind was cold, cutting through protective layers of clothing as they walked together through the crowded streets of the city. Osamu was hosting a small New Year’s get together, and Atsumu had batted his pretty eyelashes and whispered increasingly filthy promises in Kiyoomi’s ear until Kiyoomi relented, agreed to go socialize with his partner’s brother and friends, even though he always felt like a very strange kind of third wheel around the twins and would rather give himself a lobotomy than spend several hours with drunken, Miya-approved acquaintances. 

In one hand, he had Atsumu’s, and in the other, a rather large and conspicuous gift bag labelled in his neat handwriting for one Miya Osamu. It contained a wide range of Atsumu-themed merch, some official, some not so much. Kiyoomi’s favorite inclusions were some rather scandalous fan-designed articles of clothing and a few pieces of especially interesting fan art from some of the more dedicated SakuAtsu shippers. Osamu was going to hate it. Kiyoomi could see Atsumu almost bouncing in anticipation of the reveal. He couldn’t quite keep the smirk off of his face, either, not until they’d made their way inside and the gift was stored, put away to be opened later.

The food was good, at least; Kiyoomi could admit that he trusted Osamu’s abilities in hosting a party with food that was delicious, plentiful, and sanitarily prepared. The drinks were, blessedly, as considerately plentiful as the food, something Kiyoomi was relying on to get him through the night. Osamu’s apartment wasn’t too bad either, all things considered, and the conversation they’d had about the current season of V League had been civil, tame, and even interesting. Kiyoomi was about one step from admitting he was enjoying himself. Unfortunately, that was when Atsumu decided to break out the Monopoly board. 

Kiyoomi flat out refused to play, despite Atsumu nearly begging him. He’d seen enough of the Miya competitive spirit to know that not only did he want nothing to do with the game, he wanted enough distance between himself and the board to keep safe from the inevitable, literal fall out. Suna had refused, as well, instead perching next to Kiyoomi, offering up a game of his own.

“Suna, we’re going to get alcohol poisoning,” Kiyoomi grumbled, skeptically reading the written set of rules that Suna had pulled out of his coat pocket.

Miya game night survival guide

Take a sip when…

• Osamu accuses Atsumu of cheating

• You catch Atsumu cheating

• You catch Osamu cheating

• Voices are raised

• Name calling

• Taunting

• Physical threats

• Tears are shed

• They say the same thing at the same time

• Board pieces are thrown

Finish your drink when…

• Hands are thrown

• They hug it out

“I’ve known these two for years. The team used to play this all the time in high school. Haven’t died yet,” he shrugged, narrowing his eyes in silent challenge before making a pit stop to the kitchen while the twins, as well as Osamu’s very brave or very stupid assistant manager, set up the game. He returned, silently setting up two rocks glasses on the side tables beside them. “Pick your poison,” he offered. 

Kiyoomi considered the two bottles in front of him. “Oh, what the hell, alright,” he agreed, took the tequila, and mentally wished any hope of an easy, peaceful start to the year goodbye. 

-

I think I’m drunk, Kiyoomi mused to himself later, walking home beside a slightly bloodied Atsumu. Well. Leaning against. Led by. Not quite carried by, but it was a bit of a close thing. If I asked, would he carry me back?

“Oh, yer definitely drunk, Omi,” Atsumu responded with a snort, pulling Kiyoomi closer by the waist.

Oh, so he’d said that part aloud after all. “It’s Suna’s fault.”

“If somethin’ ain’t ‘Samu’s fault, it’s Suna’s, that’s how I’ve always lived my life,” Atsumu said, nodded seriously, as though it was a real part of his personal philosophy. Kiyoomi believed him. And Kiyoomi had no idea where they were going, wasn’t paying any attention to the pavement beneath his feet, was looking too intently at the dark circle in the delicate space beneath Atsumu’s eye. That one wasn’t Suna’s fault - all Osamu and his sharp elbows. 

“I hope your eye doesn’t swell shut,” Kiyoomi said after a moment. “It’d look really stupid for that interview in a few days.” He laughed, picturing it - full suit, press room, Atsumu’s face all swollen shut. It was a wonder he still had all his teeth.

“Aw, Omi, and here I was, thinkin’ you were all concerned for my health and safety,” Atsumu whined, but his eyes were bright.

“I’ll kiss it better, don’t worry,” Kiyoomi offered, and his hand found its way into the back pocket of Atsumu’s jeans. 

“Better put yer money where yer mouth is, nursemaid,” Atsumu teased back, and that was just so stupid, wasn’t it, so perfectly stupid and annoying and Kiyoomi stopped walking entirely, pulled Atsumu close, kissed him hard, kissed him until Atsumu stumbled and tripped and they found themselves suddenly against the pavement, fall not even slightly padded by a cushion of snow.

“You missed,” Atsumu said, laughing, cocky, but a little breathless nonetheless. He pointed to the shiner as if that was what Kiyoomi was supposed to have kissed better.

“Mmm, no I didn’t,” he said, dizzy from the alcohol and the fall and the proximity. To further prove his point, Kiyoomi pressed his lips back onto Atsumu’s, a softer, breathy whisper of a kiss this time, lilting, teasing, until Atsumu gave in, kissed back, noses bumping, heads turning, mouths opening, heat seeking heat. A sensory overload that ended breathless, gasping.

“Happy New Year, Omi,” Atsumu smiled, and it was the soft, private, open one, the one Kiyoomi knew belonged to him. He felt his face twisting, matching his partner’s, the smile that was strictly Atsumu’s. 

“Hey, ‘Tsumu?” Kiyoomi thought to ask after a moment, when the swell of dizziness ebbed, waned. “Where are we?” 

Kiyoomi should have felt insulted by Atsumu’s returning laugh. But he wasn’t, he really wasn’t.

-

 “Suna’s an evil bastard,” Kiyoomi grumbled, head pulsing, room spinning.

“Good mornin’ to you too, darlin’.”

“Next time we’re against him, I’m aiming every spike for his face.”

“You coulda said no,” and if Kiyoomi could bear to open his eyes, he knew he’d see that an absolutely appallingly smug face looking back at him.

“Every. Single. Spike.”

-

“It’s serious,” said Kiyoomi’s mother on the phone, bringing to a halt any feeling of previous victory against Raijin. “The tests are showing -”

“What could I do to help?” was Kiyoomi’s initial response. His setter’s approach, really, if he were measuring things. Snowflakes fell from heavy, dark clouds above the city’s skyline, melting as they touched the asphalt, pooled into puddles on the pavement. “What do you need?”

-

An assortment of things, sent to his parents’ Tokyo dwelling: face masks, gloves, hand sanitizer, for the frequent hospital visits. An informational packet about a meal delivery service, already paid for and scheduled to be routinely delivered to their address. Lavender-scented bath salts, his mother’s favorite. A bottle of sake, a pricy one. A weighted blanket. A slew of cleaning supplies.

Things wouldn’t help, wouldn’t bring the fragmented remains of an otherwise tidy existence together. A jigsaw puzzle couldn’t be completed by throwing things at the empty spaces. It was an impotent, flailing, frustrating feeling, but there was nothing to be done. And if Kiyoomi could just see them, see what they needed, actually needed, see how he could be of any use at all, that might have helped, but his mother kept denying his offers to visit, waving him away about how they don’t want to be any trouble, and that was the most troubling part about it. 

-

One win, two losses. A stain of red wine on the rug of the entryway. There: a frustrated tug of Atsumu’s frown. There: the pile of unread mail in the entry. There: an untouched meal, an empty glass. There: the visual equivalent of the static of Kiyoomi’s mind, exposed but uninterpreted. 

-

“Can’t sleep, Omi?” Atsumu, newly awoken, called from the hall. Bedhead suited him, Kiyoomi thought to himself, preparing himself another cup of tea. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replied, the sound terse in the early morning’s air. He wrinkled his nose at his own response, too terse even for Kiyoomi, and turned away. The better to not see his partner’s reflection to his tone. 

“Yeah, alright.” Resignation, then. “Well, come to bed soon.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi sighed. “Soon.”

-

Two photographs, tastefully framed and hung next to one another on the wall. Photograph #1 - Kiyoomi, maybe two years old, framed in the center, eyes skeptical, hands clutching onto both of his smiling siblings. Behind him, mother and father both, mother smiling, father sharing Kiyoomi’s skeptical expression. Photograph #2 - a similar shot, though taken a few years later, with one family member notably absent. Sakusa Aiko, her two little teenaged clones, and Kiyoomi, dark hair and eyes and expression. 

Kiyoomi only realized that he’d been standing, drowning, staring at the exact same spot on the wall, for a conspicuous amount of time when Atsumu cleared his throat and chuckled.

“Lost in thought?” he offered Kiyoomi, a life raft of excuses. Kiyoomi turned to him, nodded, accepted the easy answer, the half-truth of it. Looked at Atsumu, the easy openness of him, there in his tank top and gym shorts, hair damp, lips upturned, hips cocked to the left as he leaned on the wall. 

“I’d rather be lost in something else,” Kiyoomi offered, stare now fully focused on the figure just a few steps away. Considered his broad shoulders, the hollow of his throat, the dexterous fingers loosely holding the ample musculature of his upper arms. “Atsumu…”

“Yeah?” Atsumu raised his eyebrow, a smirk beginning to etch its way across his features. 

“Distract me.”

Atsumu obliged. Atsumu distracted him against the wall, right there, no, there, and distracted him out of his clothes and all the way to their bedroom. He distracted Kiyoomi with lips unabashedly marking his collarbones, fists pulling his hair, hips grinding into hips, hands kneading his thighs and then up, up, there, right there, until Kiyoomi was writhing against him, eyes open but unseeing, and Atsumu was relentless with those hands, on the court and off, but, god, wasn’t he just doing what was asked of him, and Kiyoomi was clutching on to him for dear life, rendered unable to communicate beyond moans of Atsumu and oh, fuck. Rendered Kiyoomi’s brain useless, endorphins overwhelming any other possible emotion, too well-fucked to do more than review tape of their shared climaxes. 

-

“Hey, Omi, has anyone ever told ya yer eyes are like the ocean?” Atsumu wrapped his arms around Kiyoomi, kissed his hair, inhaled deep through his nose.

“No, I can’t say anyone has ever told me that.”

“Hmm. Well, they are.”

There it was. A twitch of the mouth. A pleased look, there, for just a second. “You’re a moron.”

“I love ya too.”

-

To Do

Call mom

Warn Foster

Pick up suits from dry cleaners

Refill prescriptions

Confirm dates V League gala???

Make shopping list

Tell Atsumu

 - 

Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: The familiar shape of the coffee table, an unfinished meal pushed to the side. A book of poetry open to a page reading,

“When a thing is said, 

The lips become very cold 

Like the autumn wind.” 

- Basho

No caption beneath.

-

There was bickering on the court, often, teasing, usually, but whatever this was between Sakusa and Atsumu, it had to end. From the expressions of Hinata’s teammates on the floor, there was full agreement.

It started light, a sarcastic jab from Sakusa, a taunt from Atsumu. Normal stuff, nothing to even think about. But over the course of the game, it had grown intense in a hot-cold-hot-cold kind of way, beyond bickering and into just full-on meanness. Every missed ball, every miscommunication was an opportunity to gripe and snipe and pick, and - especially this set - there were quite a few opportunities.

“Get yer fuckin’ head in the game!” Atsumu nearly yelled at the man next to him.

“My head is in the game, unlike yours, Miya, which is completely up your ass!” Sakusa positively hissed, and it would be amusing, maybe, if they weren’t down in the middle of the fifth set, but they were, and it was almost embarrassing, the way Kageyama raised an eyebrow at him from across the net.

“Trouble in paradise, huh?” Hinata opened his mouth to retort something like ‘shut up, Bakageyama!’ but was saved by the whistle signaling the incoming service. Hinata’s head, luckily, never left the game - like, literally, never - and so he did his best to help his team snatch back control of the serve. But volleyball was a team sport, after all, and when two of a team’s players weren’t working well together… well, that was a whole third of their opportunity to win, just self-destructing.

The whistle blew. Time out. Hinata ran over to the sideline, gulped some water, and stayed far away from the tirade happening on the other end of the bench.

“Seriously, Kiyoomi, ya injured or somethin’? Yer playin' like shit. Coach, somethin’s wrong with him, sub him out!” Atsumu was red all over, more from anger than from exertion on the court. 

Foster looked at them for a moment, assessing the situation with the even keel of experience. “Sakusa, how are you feeling?”

Sakusa’s face intimidated Hinata a little bit on a good day, and right now the glare it was sporting was so icy that he thought he would freeze in place were it directed at him. But it was solely focused on Atsumu, even as he responded in clipped tones to his coach. “I’m feeling fine, but I’d be better if Atsumu would think about where he’s putting the ball instead of trying to set it directly into the net.”

Sakusa was subbed out the next side-out - probably, if Hinata were being honest (and he was, to a fault) just to keep him and Atsumu away from each other. It didn’t help. They lost anyway. 

-

Kiyoomi, once again, refused to join in on the post-game team-building commiseration. The team was used to it, didn’t ask after his initial denial, and Atsumu didn’t look back once, not once, as he joined them, didn’t even make his typical excuses, no Omi’s tired, no it was a long day, no bad day for the team to nod at, understanding without asking. Either they saw, they understood, or they didn’t. 

Atsumu sure as hell didn’t, he thought to himself, as he took another proffered shot at their table in the izikaya, Hinata shouting in his ear about how he’d do better, jump higher, move faster, receive better, next time. Someone offered him food - Meian, maybe? - and he took it, hoping it would offset the alcohol’s invasion, the stumble in his step as he, grim set to his typically wideset expression, made his way with another round for the team. It was cold, freezing even, and neither alcohol nor his hoodie’s protective offering could offset it, could beat the chill from pervading the bones of his forearms, his spine. 

“It’s just - ” he said, cut off, not sure how to explain, but the alcohol was telling him to talk. “Somethin’s wrong and I dunno what, and he won’t say, and it’s makin’ everything wrong, and - give me that beer, that one’s mine, Bokuto!” Atsumu made grabby hands until Bokuto slid the beer next to him. “And I keep thinkin’, ya know, what if’s and all that shit.” He gulped down half the bottle, almost choking on it before taking a breath. 

“So he’s being an asshole,” said Inunaki, taking a sip of his own before scoffing. “Is that a surprise?”

“Yes!” replied Atsumu and Hinata - always quick to defend someone not there to defend themselves, and god, did Atsumu appreciate him for that, but “...no,” Atsumu admitted, finally. “He’s bein’ a real ass.” 

“And it’s affecting you two on the court, and it’s affecting the team,” Inunaki continued, and Atsumu tried, really tried to find something to critique about his delivery of the statement so that he could act defensive, but he couldn’t.

“Yeah,” was the only way he could respond, deflating. Defeat, through and through. 

“Have you asked all of the questions?” Hinata asked him, head tilted, eyes wide like he hasn’t just asked the most cryptic thing of all time. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” he asked, exasperated. 

“It’s a valid question,” Meian responded. “I think, what Shoyo means - if I can elaborate -” and Hinata nods, assenting, “- is have you really tried to find out the root of this issue, or are you just reacting to the side effects of what the problem is?”

“I dunno,” Atsumu shrugged. “I’m tryin’.”

“Of course you’re trying. We see you trying. But you’re both too damn stubborn to actually do more than try the same thing again and again, is what we’re seeing,” Meian continued, Hinata nodding vigorously, his head a red blur in the glow of the neon lights of the Tokyo exterior. 

“He just won’t talk to me,” Atsumu continued, since he’d found a captive, concerned audience that might sympathize with him better than his worse-than-unhelpful brother. “Like, he’s not denyin’ that somethin’s up, it keeps comin’ up and he just says ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’” he finished with his best Omi impression, inscrutable face and all, slightly pleased with the amused reaction he received in response. 

“I’d shove you in a room together and force you to talk until you sort it out, but you already live together and Sakusa’d rather rip out his own tongue than have an unwanted conversation,” Meian shrugged. “But, captain’s orders: sort it out. If you motherfuckers break up, this season is over.”

“Yeah, it’d suck so bad to end the season early because you two are emotionally constipated,” Bokuto sighed. 

Atsumu felt his face clunk into the table before he registered its downward sway. It was somehow equal parts greasy and sticky, and it unfortunately felt correct, this table. It related to him in a way no human interaction of the past forty eight hours had. “I can’t believe I yelled that shit on the court. I’m so embarrassing, guys. Sooooo unprofessional.”

“Don’t worry, Tsum-Tsum. We can always count on you to be embarrassing,” Bokuto said, not unkindly, patting Atsumu on the back. Atsumu groaned in defeat. I don’t want to go home, he thought, dreading the possibilities of his welcome back. Would the fight continue? Or, worse, would it halt right there, stay on the court, festering for later? 

“You can crash at my place if you want, Atsumu!” Hinata offered, and Atsumu realized he’d said at least part of his sentiments aloud. “Not sure how that’d help, but my couch is free for you to surf on if you need it.”

“Thanks, buddy, but I should prob’ly just nut up and be a real adult here.”

“Hey, that’s the spirit, Atsumu,” Meian clapped him on the shoulder, towing the line of threatening in its impact. “Get. It. Sorted. Now, one more round of shots before we shuffle you home.”

-

Kiyoomi was still awake when Atsumu stumbled into the apartment, as evidenced by the lamplight emitting from the bedroom. He made a trip to the bathroom to wash up a little before making his way down the hall, leaning on the doorway, forehead cooled on one of its hinges. Kiyoomi was propped up by pillows, scrolling on his phone.

“There are injury speculations circulating Twitter,” he said without looking up to acknowledge Atsumu, voice oozing more exhaustion than venom.

“Yeah, I’m - I… I crossed a line there, Omi, I know.” I’m sorry, he didn’t say. 

“Likewise,” Kiyoomi replied, voice flat, face inexpressive. “I might have misplaced my frustrations today.” I’m sorry, he didn’t say. What he did say: “I’m working on it. I’ll get better at it. Come to bed.”

And Atsumu did, but Kiyoomi didn’t reach out for him, just reached out for the lamp, three taps before turning it off, and turned on his side, and Atsumu heard himself say, “I just don’t know why it has to be so hard,” before a dizzying, drunken slumber took over his form.

-

Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: A photo of a photo, an old one, with a young Kiyoomi centered, surrounded by what appeared to be his family. 

No caption beneath.

- 

“Hey, what’s up?” Komori asked casually across the line, hundreds of miles away.

“My father’s dying,” Kiyoomi said, as easy as anything. “I don’t know what to do.”

-

Do you ever really know someone? Kiyoomi thought to himself, watching Atsumu chase after a ball down the hallway after it escaped the gym. Atsumu, undaunted, unaffected by his teammate’s kill, his own shanked receive. Can you really ever know someone? Or is it just this, an idea of who they are, until they aren’t?

-

Atsumu was out of town, some kind of advertisement campaign, but Kiyoomi hadn’t really been listening to the reasoning given for the short separation. Kiyoomi never claimed to not be opportunistic, and so he’d taken his opportunity when he saw it. That was why everything from the kitchen cabinets and counters was currently living on the kitchen table as he scrubbed the entirety of the space with an almost manic enthusiasm.

He’d started with the refrigerator, removing each little paneled section of glass, washed them in the sink, disinfected, Windexed, before giving the fridge’s inside a similarly thorough treatment. It was top-down from there, beginning with the tops of the cabinets, inside them, outside them, the little knobs he always managed to catch himself on. 

He lost track of time some time ago, too singularly focused on the task at hand. It wasn’t just that Kiyoomi was physically revolted by germs, or that messiness and disorder left him feeling exhausted, although those were both truths, and sometimes his brain just itched with it - Kiyoomi just really enjoyed cleaning. There was a ritualistic nature to it, a routine, a pattern. It was fixing something, something tangible, improving on it. It allowed Kiyoomi to control the tides of chaos and disorder. And it allowed him to think, think properly, something Kiyoomi could admit to himself he needed to do. 

He wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t naive, and he certainly wasn’t fooling himself. He could see his partner’s frustration, the confused stares, hear his long, emotional phone calls with Osamu. Kiyoomi knew that it was all his fault, their tension, their lack of communication. That it was all leaching out of him, seeping out and touching people around him. He needed to stop this, to just bite the bullet, swallow his pride, and explain his irrational bullshit behavior to Atsumu, because the only way it was going to improve was if he did, and delaying the inevitable was only making it harder. God, that sucks.

And so he wiped down surfaces and scraped crumbs from corners, a marathon session of thinking and consideration and pep talks, if he were to be honest with himself, and time really did work in interesting ways sometimes because before he knew it, he could hear the click of the lock and Atsumu walked in. 

“I’m home!” he called out as he took off his shoes, and Kiyoomi could hear the padding of his feet as he entered the space properly. He could also hear the padding stop once Atsumu noticed the toppling tower of pots and pans and dishes and silverware and small appliances, could hear the quiet “what the fuck?” and heard the man set down his bag and make his way to the kitchen, where Kiyoomi was laying, half inside the lower cabinet space as he attempted to scrub away anything that might have stuck itself to the underside of the shelves there.

“Uh, Omi?” he asked, upside down from Kiyoomi’s perspective, an amused smirk moving in the wrong direction.

“Welcome home,” Kiyoomi answered, popping his head out from beneath the cabinets to see his partner more completely.

“Yer a fuckin’ psycho, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu shook his head, wry, and turned to let Kiyoomi be.

“Hmm, love you too.”

-

Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: A picture of Atsumu, at practice, mid-action. He’s laying on the floor, tongue out in concentration as he tries to balance a volleyball on top of another volleyball.

Simply captioned beneath: Moron.

-

“I want to talk about it,” Kiyoomi said one morning, staring outside at the lazily falling flakes of snow as if they’d personally offended him.

“Okay,” is all Atsumu could give in response. Finally, he thought, but he couldn’t tell if the feeling in his gut was relief or dread. He sat next to Kiyoomi on the couch, waiting. 

“I… it’s, fuck,” Kiyoomi grimaced, scrubbed at the curls atop his head, put his head between his knees. He murmured incomprehensibly. 

“I… didn’t get that,” Atsumu admitted. Kiyoomi glowered at the floor between his knees. Removed his hands from his hair, tapped the couch three times, pushed his fingers into the cushions.

“It’s my father,” Kiyoomi started, stopped. Took a breath. Atsumu was struck by him, by the deep lines under his eyes, the tension of his mouth, the pulsing of his heartbeat in his temples. An aborted gesture of Atsumu’s own hands followed, not sure what to do with them - wring them? Hold Kiyoomi’s nervous energy for him? Something in between? 

“He’s… he’s got…” Kiyoomi mumbled again, Atsumu only able to pick up the words through careful study. And Kiyoomi took a breath, a deep one, centered himself, looked directly into Atsumu. “He has cancer. He’s had cancer. Skin, first. It spread. Lung. It’s - months, maybe. It’s bad.”

“Oh,” said Atsumu, feeling dumb as fuck as he said it. Oh, though, oh, that would do it.

“Oh,” replied Kiyoomi. “‘Oh’ is right.”

Thoughts of his own family, of his father, mother, Osamu, flooded his brain, how he would handle - or not handle - the news. Atsumu felt his face crumple, his breathing grow heavy in the face of it. “How’re ya feelin’ about it?” he asked. Maybe that was the easiest way to approach this. Or maybe not. 

Kiyoomi’s face, a series of hard, grim lines. “Selfish.” He said the word like he was biting down on it. 

Alright, Atsumu wasn’t prepared for that one, would have to file that one away for later, as that was certainly one to unpack, but a more important question pressed. “What do ya need?”

“Nothing. It’s… nothing.” Kiyoomi’s head turned, looked steadily at the run of carpet beneath them as if he would rather be swallowed up by the earth than elaborate. “I don’t even know him, really.” 

“Okay. What do you want, then?”

He felt, more than saw, Kiyoomi collapse beneath him. Lean into him. “I don’t know.” A confession he did not expect. And then, Kiyoomi, pale but open: “But I need you.” 

The pattering of melting snow on the balcony, dripping below to the pavement of the street. The song of a bird outside - soft, then insistent, crooning for its partner. Spring hadn’t quite arrived, not yet, but the promise of it remained. 

-

“Why’d it take ya so long to tell me, anyway?” Atsumu asked, the two of them in the bedroom, side by side, packing overnight bags.

Because I’m scared. Because I’m vulnerable. Because I don’t want to be pitied. Because I’m selfish. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” Kiyoomi felt the words, his mother’s words, repeated through the phone over and over again, clawing their way out of his mouth from deep in his throat. And oh, the realization of that repetition wasn’t a nice feeling, was it?

Atsumu made a noise halfway between a snort and a scoff. “An awful lotta trouble coulda been avoided, months of it, had ya just talked to me, Omi.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Kiyoomi sighed. 

“And besides,” Atsumu leaned into him, kissed his cheek, “yer always trouble. Now, ya ready for Tokyo?”

-

Atsumu could not imagine a more unconventional way to meet his partner’s parents. There, in the Sakusa household, Omi’s childhood home, bags stored in the undecorated, empty room of his youth, polite dinner conversation artfully sidestepping the elephant in the room as Aiko-san, as she’d insisted to be addressed, filled Atsumu’s plate with seconds, and Omi’s father, bone-thin and pale in his pressed button-down and slacks, stepped onto the balcony for another silent cigarette.

Still, he did his best to fill the space, to fill the silence with patented disarming, charming Miya warmth and appreciation, playing up the accent she seemed to find endearing, to compliment Omi’s mother and her hospitality and praise safe, comfortable strengths of their season with MSBY and offer up congenial glimpses of their life in Osaka. He’d won her over, he could tell, and there was an innate urge to bask in that knowledge, but there was still an insecurity there, an urge to perform a version of perfection he’d never cared to practice or perfect. 

Atsumu could tell that if it were any other occasion, with any other circumstance, he could see origins of Kiyoomi here, would witness the combined influences of personality on him, would perform familiarity and insist on seeing the embarrassing childhood photos Omi’s mother would offer up freely. Instead, he listened to mundane stories intently, one hand holding his utensils, the other holding Kiyoomi’s, reassuring circles pressing into his palm, eyes affixed to his carefully impassive face.

It was, in a word, uncomfortable. In another, awkward. In a phrase, par for the course for what he knew was inherently Sakusa. Atsumu was just glad that it was informal, not a full-family affair, with Omi’s elder siblings joining, outnumbering him further. And he was especially glad that Kiyoomi’s father, when he’d emerged from the smoke break, simply nodded in polite acknowledgement at Atsumu before taking his leave, too tired to continue to socialize.

Atsumu nodded back, seeing his partner’s dark, resigned eyes reflected in his father’s before refilling Omi’s empty cup from the bottle of expensive sake on the table in front of him. 

The next morning, as the two prepared to take their leave back to Osaka, Aiko-san looked at Kiyoomi with a fierce protectiveness before pulling Atsumu into a tight, maternal embrace. “Thank you for bringing him here,” she said quietly, gratefully, and he thought to himself that this is where Kiyoomi got it from, that sincerity, that honesty that made him raw all over.

“Ah, Aiko-san, you’re mistaken’,” he responded. “Omi brought me. If you need anything, tell me. Anything. Thank you for havin’ us.”

-

It was early spring when Kiyoomi had it, the realization, the thought, not for the first time, as he brought down another wicked serve, another spike hand-delivered for him by his partner, that he could do this forever. Would do this forever, if given the chance. He was lucky, really lucky.

-

got it sorted

Thank fucking god

meian my capitan

deets to follow

;)

Absolutely not

meian my capitan

no but fr omis got some news to share

and if anyone treats him with kid gloves he will dissolve on the spot

so PLEASE tell the team BUSINESS AS USUAL

That’s so vague but ok

meian my capitan

u refused deets thats on u

Fair enough, man

meian my capitan

-

Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: A picture of a coffee table, two mugs atop coasters, and a book of poetry open to a page reading

“Both plains and mountains 

Have been captured by the snow— 

There is nothing left.”

• Joso

No caption beneath.

-

Sometimes life didn’t end with meaningful conversations, satisfying endings. Sometimes there was no conversation, no realization. Sometimes life just ended with the end of a life. 

And so, it seemed was the life of Sakusa Itsuo, an existence discussed in sales pitches and capitalistic success and dedication to a company that would dedicate time to finding his replacement. 

Kiyoomi’s eldest sibling, his brother, gave a clipped speech in tones so familiar, so familial, that it almost made Atsumu smile. He assessed Atsumu later, afterwards, stepped back and measured him up with a careful glance, then shook his hand and nodded to him, and that was that.

They missed the final game of the regular season though the ceremony of it all – the formal wake, the cremation. Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to care about the Black Jackals’ record, one hand holding Kiyoomi’s, the other, Aiko’s. 

-

Spring was a resignation, an acceptance. Spring was the closing of one chapter, the turning of a page to the next. Spring was a season of growth, so they grew. Atsumu wrote intentionally terrible poetry on sticky notes for Kiyoomi to find and critique. Kiyoomi continued to try and continue to fail at making Atsumu the dishes from Osamu’s gifted recipe book. They found increasingly convoluted places to hide the TV’s remote control from one another. They attended practice, prepared for the final battles of the season, met up with the team for dinners and drinks. They argued about what to do with the off-season, whose turn it was to take out the trash, whether that serve was in or out. 

The weight of the year didn’t disappear, not exactly, and Kiyoomi frustrated himself in his inability to really place it, the heaviness of his father’s passing, his own nebulous reaction to it, and the way that death affected everyone surrounding, everyone but the one it captured. Some days were better than others, but other days were heavy, some days were bad, some days he pressed his face into the crook of Atsumu’s neck and just breathed, trying his best to resist the urge to say “I don’t want to talk about it,” even though he didn’t, would rather bash in his own teeth than talk about it. And Atsumu hummed through it, filled the space with his words, with levity, until the weight lessened, and the sky was bright once more.

 Life moved on, and they moved through it. Together.

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Kiyoomi’s weekly Instagram post: A photoset - The Jackals scrimmaging offseason beach volleyball; the twins grinning at one another inside the newest branch of Onigiri Miya; a photograph of Kiyoomi and his mother conversing over tea; a small, calico cat, sleeping upon a cat tree in the familiar space of their living room.

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