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As he watches Wakatoshi take his suitcase to the other side of their small shared bedroom and immediately start undoing it, arranging neatly folded clothes carefully on his bed one by one, Kiyoomi knows he should feel lucky about the current outcome.
And there’s a part of him that truly enjoys it, he can feel it. A part that screams with relief, knowing his body might not be on such high alert as it would have been if he had been put with someone else.
As soon as he’d learned that the Olympics meant shared rooms, he’d made a list of people he absolutely didn’t want to get as roommates. It was one thing to share a room for one night with one loud, untidy MSBY teammate during the V League season. It was something else entirely to have to put up with someone for fifteen nights and mornings.
Anyone who’d met Kiyoomi once in their life could bet it would have been quicker for him to actually do a list of people he could tolerate as roommates for fifteen days, as the final list actually included the names of all his teammates but four: Motoya Komori, Aran Ojiro, Yudai Hyakuzawa, and Ushijima Wakatoshi.
So yeah, by getting Wakatoshi as a roommate, he definitely should feel happy about the current outcome.
But there’s an internal conflict too, and Kiyoomi can also feel it. There’s something dark lurking in the corner of his mind, an unknown uneasiness that already prevented him from writing Wakatoshi’s name at the top of the list, without being able to explain it.
There are a lot of things Kiyoomi abhors in life and should the list be made, people would once again end up thinking it would have been far quicker to establish the list of things Kiyoomi actually enjoys. But hesitation, internal conflicts, and unknown fears would definitely stand at the top of that infinite list.
Kiyoomi watches Wakatoshi stumble upon his national uniform and use a belt to display it on the hook near his bed, using his calloused fingers to get rid of any small wrinkles. It wouldn’t surprise him the least if Wakatoshi were to carry a little iron with him. And well, if he doesn't have any, Sakusa could always lend him his.
Observing Wakatoshi being this careful and straight-faced while taking care of his clothes as if they were the most precious things in the world, Kiyoomi’s chest aches in a strange, unknown, and distressing way. And he hates that feeling. He hates that it slips under his skin like dirt clinging under his nails and refuses to go. He loathes the lingering anxiousness it brings because he can’t understand how he can feel both relaxed and restless around the opposite hitter.
He focuses on undoing his own suitcase and decides to put rationality above all to figure out what’s wrong. Practically speaking, he can't deny that having Ushijima as a roommate is just nice. They have the same hygiene standards and are actually aware of what personal space is. It should be something normal, but Kiyoomi had learned early on by sharing rooms with the Black Jackals that the concept of personal space seems to be subject to personal interpretation and doesn't have as much of a clear definition as he had initially thought.
So yeah, he should definitely feel lucky not to have to share his space with people that can’t shut up and have the irritating habit of sitting on his bed without asking for permission -a permission that wouldn’t be granted anyway and, Kiyoomi realizes it may be why they’re not asking for it- while eating energetic bars whose crumbs get lost among his sheets or borrowing his shampoo.
He should totally feel safe and relax and just enjoy sharing a room with a friend. There’s nothing wrong about that.
Behind his mask, Kiyoomi slowly exhales, remembering his breathing exercises.
“I think it’s nice,” Kiyoomi lifts his head from his already half-empty suitcase -there’s a second one waiting to be unfolded- to find Wakatoshi still looking at his. “That we’re sharing a room together.”
Kiyoomi’s next breath gets stuck in his throat so suddenly he barely manages to hold on to the violent cough that should have followed.
A vivid memory comes into his mind immediately after. I’m pleased to be on the national team with you.
At the deafening silence, Wakatoshi lifts his head and Kiyommi immediately turns his attention back to his suitcase. He can feel the piercing yet doubtful gaze of those mesmerizing olive eyes scrutinizing his wavy hair.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi manages, trying to make it sound as clear and neutral as possible. He’s absolutely not flustered. “I agree.”
They don’t say much afterward. Kiyoomi manages to brush the invading thoughts out of his head, busying himself with refolding each of his clothes and ironing his national team jersey. As expected, Wakatoshi does the same.
When he heads to bed later, Kiyoomi considers he should be just blessed to have such a roommate and think nothing more of it. The strange sensations of warmth and turmoil that inhabit his body knowing the opposite hitter, fierce rival since middle school and long-accepted friend, sleeps not one meter away are certainly due to the novelty of the situation. And Kiyoomi has a long history of roughly dealing with new situations that come into his life unexpectedly.
So yeah, it’s nothing more than that and it will go away soon enough, he repeats to himself one last time before going into slumber.
***
Kiyoomi doesn’t know if the word “soon” has a clear definition or established duration, but it seems to stretch further than the day after.
And Wakatoshi, by being the most respectful teammate he’s ever shared a room with, does absolutely nothing to ease the whole situation.
Sure, Kiyoomi was already familiar with the opposite hitter’s strict hygiene and pretty healthy living habits -at some point, he was starting to wonder if anyone else but him brushed his teeth more than once a day. After all, their fateful meeting hadn’t taken place in a bathroom for nothing, and Kiyoomi remembers all too well the short, vivid encounter. The reglementary twenty-two seconds of proper and careful washing. The soap smoothly running on the skin and under the nails, the fingers interlaced as to meticulously rub every inch. The calloused fingers dutifully wrapped around the cotton fabric of the hand-pocket tissue.
A sight transcending all previous beliefs. The truth laid bare in front of him, the comfort of knowing that someone else cares , that Kiyoomi may not be as lonely as he thought, smothered into his cleaning obsession shielding him from the others.
So, of course, Kiyoomi already knew. Still, Wakatoshi manages to surprise him once more.
On their first day, they attend the athlete information gathering that precedes the official opening ceremony. Some teammates decide to go out for a drink after that, and Kiyoomi manages to slip through the crowd and avoid any teammate that would definitely coerce him into going. Truth be told, the mass has exhausted him enough for the whole day, endless chatters and buzzing sounds and germs coming from every corner of the large room that yet felt too narrow and suffocating, and he craves nothing more than a nice shower and a quiet place.
He didn’t expect Wakatoshi to silently follow him, but it somehow doesn’t surprise him. On their way back to the bunkers, they walk side by side but neither of them speaks. The silence is comfortable, soothing and warm. Then again, Wakatoshi’s sole presence always brings a steady, quiet reassurance along.
Upon entering the room, they neatly place their shoes near the door, both focusing their efforts to display the sneakers as parallel to each other as they can. That small gesture from Wakatoshi tugs a small smile out of Kiyoomi, that he allows solely because he’s still wearing his mask.
Kiyoomi has his own ritual when entering a living space after hanging out in the unkempt outside with so many individuals. A habit he’s been following for years, that eases his conscience and allows him to feel a little more protected and a little less soiled. Sure, it certainly isn’t tremendously effective if he happens to share the space with another human being that attends the outdoors as well, but he isn’t going to ask Wakatoshi to-
When Kiyoomi looks up from his shoes to search for his plastic bag, he certainly doesn’t expect to find Wakatoshi already half undressed, currently shoving the tee-shirt he previously wore in a small plastic bag he seemed to have also placed near the door before their departure. Kiyoomi’s body freezes on the spot as he simply watches him in awe, knowing he should simply do the same but being absolutely unable to move his muscles.
Ushijima seems to notice the state of utter frozenness he’s in because he turns around to look at him with displayed concern, already shirtless, his left hand hanging under the waistband of his yoga pants.
Kiyoomi can feel the blood rushing to his face, his cheeks reddening as if to mirror the color of their national jersey. Bless the mask, truly.
“Should I have not done that?” Ushijima’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes alert.
Seeing the uncharacteristic genuine uncertainty of Wakatoshi, Kiyoomi feels a little remorseful. While opening his mouth to speak, he tries not to think about the fact that he never felt an ounce of guilt for any of his teammates for causing them to be ill-at-ease.
“No, it’s good.” Short, controlled, tempered. “I just didn’t expect it.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Still, neither of them moves for one inch, simply looking at each other. Kiyoomi can swear the only sound filling the otherwise quiet room is his loud, pounding heartbeat whose rhythm likely has doubled. He’s struggling to keep his eyes set in an even gaze, locked onto Wakatoshi’s beautiful olive orbs, when all his senses urge him to let the gaze trail beneath, to those perfectly carved abs and sculpted hip bones.
Kiyoomi closes his eyes quickly before beginning to tug his sweater out, allowing him to hide his face under the fabric.
“Do you want to take your shower first?” Kiyoomi hears Wakatoshi’s polite question from beneath the cloth, as well as the folding of fabrics, certainly meaning his roommate now stands only in underpants in front of him.
“No, you can go ahead.”
At least being hidden prevents him from further immediate embarrassment.
When he gets out of his sweater, Wakatoshi has already disappeared in the bathroom and Kiyoomi releases a slow excruciating breath before rubbing his hand against his tired eyes and nodding in disapproval against himself.
He feels utterly stupid for reacting this foolishly without any reason. Kiyoomi has spent years sharing changing rooms with other teammates and this kind of sight has never flustered him for the slightest. On the contrary, it used to disgust him, and nowadays he couldn’t care less if Bokuto or Miya decided to spend an entire evening hanging around shirtless in their shared room.
Kiyoomi, on the other side, has always been mostly pudic. It comes for one part from years of avoiding public showers with other people for sanitary purposes and for the other part because the more clothes on, the less bacteria underneath.
Kiyoomi gets rid of his shirt, putting one cloth after the other in his own plastic bag with care. He hears the sound of the water running and sighs once again while tugging his sweat pants off. It’s only been one day and he’s been acting all embarrassed and flustered as if he was a high school girl hanging around her crush.
A crush , huh. Kiyoomi’s eyebrows pucker annoyingly at the thought, his gaze wandering on the nice fitted carpet of their room and trying not to assess how much dust has already been trapped between the fibers, his mind desperately focusing on understanding his strange behavior.
He doesn’t get much time unfortunately because Wakatoshi gets out of the bathroom a few minutes later. He’s wearing new yoga pants, a loose shirt -that somehow still manages to be tight around his arms- and is carefully drying his hair with a fresh towel.
Their eyes meet for a second but Wakatoshi looks away a second after. Kiyoomi gets his toiletry kit and is on his way to salvation, already knowing the tremendous powers hot running water can have on his body and mind, when Wakatoshi speaks again, slow and hesitant.
“They said it is more fitting to get rid of clothes when you enter a space if you wish for it to stay uncontaminated. Was I wrong to do that?”
“They?” Sakusa asks immediately as he turns around and only meets Wakatoshi’s back, confused at the evasive phrasing.
For a second, he thinks about Miya saying something dumb and confusing to Wakatoshi on purpose to indirectly annoy Kiyoomi.
“A book I read recently.”
Wakatoshi doesn’t elaborate further, and Sakusa does wonder what kind of book would say that. He remembers his younger self spending hours reading about germs and cleaning methods and making a space as sterile as possible. Does Wakatoshi read this kind of thing too?
However, he decides to not press the subject. Germs have clung on his skin, the hideous feeling of filth impregnating his body, and nausea dangerously threatens to rise at the back of his throat. He needs to wash it off, it's nerve-racking and urgent.
“You weren’t wrong.” Kiyoomi answers in front of the bathroom’s door. “...Thank you.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t wait for an answer and closes the door. He exhales deeply and rushes under the shower to scrub away the remnants of the unkempt outside, his tense body immediately relaxing under the hot water. With a sponge, he forcefully rubs every inch of his skin until it feels unsoiled again, the characteristic redness appearing on the surface of his already bruised body. A pitiful sight for a pitiful person.
He still goes on and rubs, rubs, rubs. He frantically rubs, fully knowing that washing the surface won’t clean his sullied mind.
That maybe those dirty thoughts aren’t going away, and maybe they were graver than he initially stated.
***
If anyone were to describe Kiyoomi’s childhood with one adjective, they’d use lonely. If Kiyoomi were to describe his own childhood with one adjective, he’d prefer the term “quiet”, but would only shrug hearing what the others thought of it. He never cared for others’ opinions anyway.
When Wakatoshi barged into his life, tenacious and deferential, it was strangely quiet. It happened unexpectedly, both the encounter and the defeat shaking Kiyoomi to the core, as the day after he was focusing even more on receiving and desperately searched for a left-handed spiker around him. But as unforeseen as it was, Wakatoshi still fitted nicely into the scenery without making a fuss.
A silent and mesmerizing shooting star tagging along on a beautiful summer night.
They were rivals at first, no doubt about that. They still are, Kiyoomi considers a night after one of the pool games they managed to win. But they also started to see each other outside of the court as their teams always managed to qualify for national competitions. As such, twice a year they were reunited in a different gymnasium for a short period of time.
Kiyoomi can still remember, not without a hint of fondness, the first time they actually talked to each other.
The first time Wakatoshi approached him, he was sitting on a bench and pouring once again a generous amount of hand sanitizer on his blemished hands.
“ Your last spike was unpredictable.”
His gaze lowered to Kiyoomi’s hands and the latter half-expected him to say something about those nasty flexible wrists or to comment on the dreadful look of his dry, bruised skin, but he did none of these things. Ever.
He simply looked at the empty space near Kiyoomi and asked, “ May I ?”, and Kiyoomi would have refused to anyone else but he just nodded, and Wakatoshi sat near him, careful for their bodies not to touch and keeping a respectful distance.
On that day, Kiyoomi had left the gymnasium with a warm, pleasant bundle inside his chest.
Since then, Wakatoshi has been the one person Kiyoomi has always taken pride in calling his friend.
“Sakusa,” the low-toned voice reaches him from behind and Kiyoomi turns around to look at Wakatoshi. “Would you want to go out and eat with the rest of the team?”
Kiyoomi’s heart leaps in his chest when he realizes Wakatoshi stopped more than three feet away from him. Certainly, the weird behavior of his roommate hasn’t escaped him and he might believe he has something to do with it. Maybe it’s just his considerate way of giving him more space then he’s allowed to have in their shared room, but Kiyoomi feels gloomy at the thought.
He feels uncomfortable watching Wakatoshi from this far, with the dark sensation he may slowly drift away.
“Why not.”
Kiyoomi hates nothing more than restaurants and crowded places. Still, he walks towards Wakatoshi, closing the gap between them, and they start walking side by side.
“You had quite the nasty serve today, Wakatoshi-kun.” Kiyoomi casually states while looking straight ahead. He feels Wakatoshi’s gaze on him.
“They still managed to send it back at some point.” Wakatoshi replies with the tone of the conversation. “I didn’t succeed in hitting it as I had planned.”
“If we were getting points only because of your serves, it wouldn’t be much interesting for the rest of the team.”
“It’s true.” Kiyoomi can detect the warmth behind that tone, and when he looks at him, he sees Wakatoshi’s ghostly smile. His insides tickle in bemusement. “At least the blockers had some difficulties predicting your hits as well as Bokuto’s.”
“I guess they didn’t expect my wrists to be this flexible.”
“It’s reassuring to know those flexible wrists happen to be on the same side of the net as I am, for once.”
“I could say the same about that particular left-handed spike.” Kiyoomi answers, as casual as possible.
“Would you, though?”
Kiyoomi is taken aback by the sudden question and looks at Wakatoshi’s face to search for any trace of playfulness. He’s only confronted with the usual stern face, an impenetrable wall.
Kiyoomi doesn’t know which one stopped in his tracks first and which one followed. It seems his mind has stopped functioning as well as he watches Wakatoshi slightly turn around to face him completely, a serious and hesitant expression on his face.
Until now, he never realized what “tension” could fully express as a word. He’d mostly experienced it on the court but never when talking with another human being. But he can perfectly feel it, his body suddenly stiff as a rock as his heart frantically jumps in his chest, surrounded by the heavy atmosphere and the strong impression that they should both choose their next words carefully.
But the truth is, Kiyoomi has absolutely no idea what to say, probably because he has no idea about how he feels. Maybe because he doesn’t want to admit those feelings, not even to himself.
They open their mouths to speak at the same time.
“Of course I-”
“Sakusa, I-”
They immediately stop, looking at each other with a mix of surprise and indecision. Kiyoomi watches Wakatoshi’s mouth close, and for a brief, all too brief instant, he lets his mind wander, he lets himself imagine what it’d feel like to lean into the other opposite hitter’s personal space, to smell his cologne from this close, to have those tight and carved arms wrap around his body, to kiss the sun out of those firm lips.
For the first time in days, maybe even weeks or months, Sakusa lets himself fantasize.
Wakatoshi opens his mouth once again, seemingly breathing in. Kiyoomi impatiently waits for the next words, tension rising dangerously in his blood, as the time has likely slowed down since they stopped earlier.
But they never come.
“Ushiwaka-chan!!”
They both turn their head at the same time towards the noisy source, only to find a man Kiyoomi easily recognizes as Oikawa Tooru pace towards them, a bright smile on his lips.
“I just came across Shrimp-chan and he told me you were behind! So, how was your game today? You’d better not lose before I have the opportunity to crush you down!”
Kiyoomi has only seen Oikawa Tooru from afar once or twice at the beginning of the Olympics. As a former Japanese volleyball player coming from Miyagi, he was seemingly acquainted with several players of their national team.
But more than anything, he remembers how Wakatoshi used to talk about him during the nationals, as they were standing side by side and waiting for their respective turns. He remembers the little frown that came with the subject and the unusual animated way with which Wakatoshi was describing this teenager, longing to play on the same side of the court one day.
Oikawa’s gaze switches towards Kiyoomi, his head tilting a little on the right. He grins. “Yahoo! You must be omi-chan? Ushiwaka-chan told me so much about you!”, he says while extending his hand to the opposite hitter, certainly expecting a handshake.
Kiyoomi’s frown distinctly deepens as his gaze switches between Oikawa’s grinning face and his hand. Then, he just answers “Yeah, it’s me.” in a tone devoid of any emotion before resuming his walk, sidestepping on the right of Oikawa and ignoring the extended hand.
He silently heads to the restaurant, hearing Wakatoshi and his long-time friend go along a few steps behind him but not listening to the endless flow of words that seems to get out of the Argentinian setter’s mouth. He’s too lost in his head, too confused about the last minutes that endlessly loop in his mind, desperately trying to understand what’s happening to him.
At some point, he wonders when he stopped considering Wakatoshi as a friend and started yearning for something more, something that doesn’t fit into their current relationship.
And maybe he should feel disgusted with himself for holding those inappropriate feelings towards someone who trusts him, who sleeps under the same roof and plays in the same volleyball team, but somehow he doesn’t find the strength to do so.
It’s absolutely not going away, but it still doesn’t mean Kiyoomi wants to do something about it. On the contrary, he’s determined to make sure no one -and first and foremost, Wakatoshi- ever discovers the distasteful feelings his teammate arbors for him.
* **
"Ya know, omi-omi, ya gotta stop simping and start acting. Get yer shit together, s’mthin like that."
Kiyoomi doesn’t even deign to look at the annoying teammate with an even more annoying accent currently speaking to him. His gaze has been directed in the same direction for the last five minutes. On the other side of the bar, Wakatoshi and Oikawa appear to be entranced in a lively conversation.
At this point, he doesn’t realize the joints of his hand grabbing his glass of iced tea have turned white. It’s a nice drink Wakatoshi bought him earlier, without even asking him about before. This being said, Kiyoomi’s love and care for tea have never been that much of a secret.
"I didn’t ask for your opinion so, thanks for nothing." Kiyoomi grits his teeth, still not turning his gaze away. “Also, I feel forced to clarify that I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
As if he wasn’t already terribly annoying, Miya comes to sit in front of Kiyoomi and prevents him from further stalking, a nerve-racking shitgrin on his face.
"Hm maybe ‘bout yer big fat an’ disgusting crush on one of our lovely teammates, ya know?" Displeased wrinkles appear on Kiyoomi’s nose. "Don’t worry ‘bout that, I’m th’ only one who's noticed it. Well, Moto-chan too but he’d rather be left outta this narrative."
This last sentence may imply that the two of them did talk about Kiyoomi’s love life behind his back, exchanging information or whatever, and Kiyoomi has never felt more betrayed by a member of his own family.
“Your absolute lack of love life makes you fantasize about mine apparently.” Kiyoomi sternly answers. “Wakatoshi-kun and I are just friends, but I get that the concept doesn’t appear familiar to you.”
“Ouch, that hurts omi-omi.” Of course, Miya doesn’t seem hurt in the slightest. Kiyoomi wonders what a hurt Miya would look like. “Afta all, we’re friends! That’s why I wanna help ya get yer man.”
“We’re not friends.”
Ordinarily, Kiyoomi would assert this sentence with all the conviction in the world because he considers his relationship with Wakatoshi to be the pinnacle of what a friendship should be like, and his relationship with Miya clearly doesn’t look like that at all. However, it lacks conviction, as the definition of what friendship means has slowly started to crumble away, leaving him doubting and aching.
“Yeah yeah I know.” Miya doesn’t falter for an inch, taking a sip of his disgusting soda whose color perfectly matches his pissed-colored hair. “Still wanna help ya. It’s sad to look at ya and see ya so lovestruck and depressed at the same time. I miss the old omi-omi.”
“I’m not-” Kiyoomi hisses, but he’s being cut off by a loud laugh. His head slowly dips to the right, watching what’s happening behind Miya.
Oikawa is laughing to his heart’s content, one hand over his stomach and the other one gripping Wakatoshi’s bare arm. But the worst is Wakatoshi’s small, genuine, rare smile, his eyes creasing in fondness at the sight of his certainly beloved setter laughing so hard for god knows why.
Suddenly, Kiyoomi feels sick. And he hates that more than anything else, being sick. He hates the painful aching on his chest and the feeling of his stomach being turned upside down. He hates the cold shivers that go through his body and the repugnant taste at the back of his mouth.
He feels sick of himself, for believing he has the right to be jealous, for letting gloomy thoughts pollute his mind and handicap his body.
“I’m leaving.” Sakusa swifts promptly off his chair and turns around to leave.
“Omi-omi, wait!”
Kiyoomi doesn’t wait, and heads for the front of the bar, leaving without another word. Unfortunately for him, Miya manages to catch up and comes to stop in front of him. The street is broad, and he’s certainly conscious that Kiyoomi could bypass him without a problem. Still, the opposite hitter stops, an exasperated expression on his face.
“Miya.” Sakusa growls, and it’s not funny. It’s never been, but somehow Miya manages to make it worse.
"Omi-omi, I swear I ain’t making fun of ya, ya should tell him."
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Kiyoomi hisses between his teeth. “Not with him, not with you, not with anyone. Leave me alone.”
He resumes his walk and doesn’t turn back when Miya calls him once again.
Kiyoomi shakes his head in desperation several times while heading back to the bunkers. He’d prefer to suffer in silence and stay yearning for most of his life than risk losing the friendship he has with Wakatoshi, there’s’ no doubt about that.
But that’s not all of it. Kiyoomi doesn’t think he deserves to have this type of relationship with Wakatoshi, because Wakatoshi deserves someone better, someone different.
Maybe they’re too similar, and that’s what friends are for. Maybe opposites attract each other. Maybe Ushijima Wakatoshi deserves someone who manages to make him smile and laugh and raise his eyebrows in adoration.
He certainly doesn’t deserve to get stuck up with an obsessed, clean-freaked man who finds joy in loneliness and whose company ends up being utterly boring.
***
They manage to qualify for the semi-finals and everyone hardly believes it. Back in the changing rooms, the atmosphere is ecstatic and Kiyoomi, for once, lets himself be swept away by the warmth and the contaminating happiness of those who surround him. Tiredness will come soon enough and knock everyone out until the next match.
On the same day, they learn that their next opponent will be Argentine. As everyone looks at Kageyama and Iwaizumi to grasp their reaction, Kiyoomi’s quiet gaze goes to Wakatoshi. He watches the opposite hitter’s face subtly illuminate, a small devious grin plastered on his face. It was expected, but it still leaves his heart aching.
On their way back to the dorms, neither Kiyoomi nor Wakatoshi exchange a word. Then again, their idle chattering has become sparse since that night at the bar, and the serene aura emanating from them has transformed into a heavy, stifling atmosphere. Considering the concerning or questioning gazes some of their teammates address them, the situation appears somehow abnormal, even for two people who are used to being quiet and find contentment in silence.
Kiyoomi wonders if Wakatoshi can feel it too, or if maybe he’s just imagining all of this. Maybe he’s just overthinking, maybe Wakatoshi is indeed acting as usual and Kiyoomi’s behavior is the incomprehensive one, as it’s been since the beginning of the Olympics. Maybe he’s too self-centered, too engrossed into his doubts and infatuation to consider another possibility, too exhausted and tense to cool down and think calmly.
Anyone would say that a good night of sleep will help figure out whatever mess is going on more clearly. But as the night quietly settles in Japan, Kiyoomi doesn’t find sleep. He lays still in his bed, waiting for a slumber that has seemingly decided not to show up. Worse than that, he can distinctly hear Wakatoshi fumble with his sheets and turn around on his bed every five minutes.
The scenery goes on for certainly a good hour before Kiyoomi decides he has to stop this comedy at once.
“...I can’t sleep.” He quietly articulates, his gaze transfixed on the ceiling.
The absence of an immediate answer lets him imagine that Wakatoshi has managed to find sleep. However, he hears the soft brushing of sheets, followed by the characteristic deep voice.
“Me neither.”
“...Would you like to watch a game?” Kiyoomi responds after another few seconds. He has made a habit of watching volleyball games on the rare nights where sleep can’t seem to find him.
“... That would be nice.”
They both get up, turn on the lights, and take a few minutes to install everything. As considerate as ever, Wakatoshi doesn’t even ask if he can sit on Kiyoomi’s bed. He simply pushes his bed until the two bed’s sides are touching, transforming it into a double bed. Kiyoomi tries not to think about that fact too much as he settles his tablet in the middle of the two mattresses.
They decide to watch one of the games Argentine played during the tournament. Each of them is carefully sitting on his own bed at a respectful distance from each other, backs against the wooden wall. Still, weirdly enough, as the game goes on, Kiyoomi can’t help but feel his body lean towards Wakatoshi’s one. He can smell the characteristic odor of fresh linen and mild cologne, the smell fondly reminding him of those moments they spent quietly sitting side by side during middle school tournaments.
Melancholy rushes through Kiyoomi’s body. His gaze flickers to his own hands for a few seconds, and he reminisces about the time where Wakatoshi had approached him between two games and given him a small bottle of hand sanitizer. “ I looked on the internet and this one appears to be less abrasive for the skin. ”
Maybe he had already fallen for this stern-looking, quiet and kind teenager, back on this day. Maybe it’s always been there, the strong infatuation hidden behind layers of endless admiration and stubborn denial that were slowly taken apart.
He never switched to another brand of hand sanitizer after that.
On the screen, Oikawa makes a successful dump. God, Kiyoomi hates those.
"Oikawa-san is an unpredictable setter." Kiyoomi says, and Wakatoshi only hums in response.
"Oikawa has always been a talented player.” Wakatoshi simply states a few minutes after. “He has the ability to sort out each of his teammates’ talents to the best of their abilities.”
Kiyoomi feels like drowning, the comment brutally bringing him back to reality. He lifts his knees and gathers his legs against his chest, wrapping his arms around, shoulders slightly shrinking in response.
“You used to talk about him a lot back in high school.” At this point, he doesn’t know why he’s pushing this far. Maybe he wants to hear the sentence, to have the confirmation that Wakatoshi would never be his, and loathe himself for still having hoped in secret.
“He was a worthy rival.” Wakatoshi simply answers, his eyes still riveted on the game. “I’m glad we overcame our initial grudges and became friends.”
Friends .
Kiyoomi doesn’t like this word. He learned to hate it over the past days, to loathe it, because it means nothing, because it doesn’t protect you from impure feelings and yearning for more.
Apart from some small comments on the match, neither of them talks much afterward and Kiyoomi can feel the heavy, unwanted tension coming back in the room. The second set has just wrapped up and both teams are heading for a third one when he starts wondering if they shouldn’t get back to sleep, if it wouldn’t make it less difficult than having to stay within Wakatoshi’s reach while being unable to touch him.
“Sakusa, I-” There’s an abrupt pause. Surprised, Kiyoomi lifts his eyes from the tablet for the first time in the evening and looks to his right. Wakatoshi is still stubbornly looking at the screen, but his gaze tentatively flickers towards the other opposite hitter.
Kiyoomi doesn’t dare to talk -he doesn’t know if his constricted throat would be willing to cooperate anyway-, so he just waits for Wakatoshi to gather whatever thoughts he’s currently having.
"Miya-san told me something two days ago and I-” Wakatoshi states of the blue, after having taken the deepest breath in the world. "And it’s not that I don’t trust him, but I thought he might be making fun of me.”
“That little dipshit,” Kiyoomi hisses under his breath. He’s so going to terminate Miya. A slow, painful death, that’s all that bastard deserves. “What exactly did he say to you?”
Kiyoomi’s trying his hardest to not yield to the intense sense of panic that’s currently spreading through his bones.
“He said...” Wakatoshi hesitates as if he didn’t know how to correctly phrase it. “He said things that may have made me hope." He's careful about each word, speaking slowly, but Kiyoomi has a hard time registering anything. "But, of course, I wouldn’t take it wrong if you don’t return my feelings. And if that makes you uncomfortable, I can ask to switch rooms with Bokuto, I wouldn't hold that ag-”
“Wait, slow down-” Kiyoomi cuts him off, beyond confused and trying to process all the information. “Certainly not for switching with Bokuto, I'd rather sleep in the gymnasium than sharing a room with him." He deadpans, then takes a short pause, gathering his thoughts and choosing his next words carefully. His throat has never felt so dry in his life. "I didn’t quite understand the "feelings" insinuation, and, anyway, aren’t you supposed to, you know, with Oikawa?”
Wakatoshi furrows his eyebrows, and for the first time in the evening, he turns his head and looks directly into Kiyoomi's eyes, a complicated expression on his face. “First, Oikawa is my friend, a-”
“So am I.” Sakusa immediately answers as he holds his gaze and loses himself into those mesmerizing olive orbs. The sight forces a breath out of his painful lungs.
Wakatoshi opens his mouths, before closing it again, a deepening crease forming between his eyebrows.
“Yes, of course, you are.” And somehow, Sakusa realizes how close they are to each other, and wonders if Ushijima’s head isn’t shifting closer, inch by inch. “And I wish for us to always remain friends. But I cannot help but yearn for more, with you. I like you. I like you more than I like other friends, no, I mean I like you in a different way.” Wakatoshi lets out a frustrated sound, so unusual for the usually composed man. “It’s- hard to explain.”
There's a small silence, where Kiyoomi just keeps looking at his discontented face, finding he looks absolutely adorable like this. He’s so engrossed in his feelings he almost forgets that he just received certainly one of the most earnest confessions this world has ever seen -and no, Kiyoomi isn’t biased for a thing-.
“I think I understand what you mean.” Kiyoomi answers, his gaze not wavering.
And suddenly, he thinks that Atsumu might not be as awful as he initially thought. That maybe Atsumu is a friend, after all. Maybe different people can be friends, and friendship doesn’t have to fit a whole bunch of the same exact criteria to exist. Maybe all of his teammates are his friends actually, in a way or another.
And maybe Wakatoshi can be more than that, maybe similar people can yearn for more than friendship.
For once, the utter feeling of adoration that fills Kiyoomi’s chest doesn’t leave him nauseous and aching. He watches Wakatoshi’s concerned expression switch to confusion for a few seconds, and before he has the opportunity to open his mouth to ask what it actually means, Kiyoomi crosses the distance between them to capture his lips for a brief moment.
The kiss is chaste and quiet but the contact of skin against skin is all too new and explosive for the opposite hitter, as waves of electricity wander through his body. When he withdraws seconds after, he looks at his teammate’s face and watches it blossom with contentment as the realization finally sinks in.
His gaze then flickers for a fraction of second towards Kiyoomi's hands that he carefully kept for himself during the brief physical encounter, not wanting to invade the opposite hitter’s space too much.
“Can I hold our hand?” Such a whisper Kiyoomi almost misses it.
A simple yet so significative question. It bears endless meanings and Kiyoomi answers by quietly taking Wakatoshi’s hand into his, his fingers running along the smooth, foreign skin. He feels the larger hand hesitantly close around his, a loose and reverent grip, a silent sign of utter worship.
The room falls silent once again, only animated by the commentators’ sayings as they resume watching the third set that has already started.
Slowly, Kiyoomi’s head lingers towards Wakatoshi, until it rests peacefully against his broad shoulder. Inhaling the opposite hitter’s spellbind scent, he closes his eyes as he realizes slumber has finally managed to get back to him.
In Kiyoomi’s head, there’s a small, hesitant voice. “Are you sure?”
He remembers that huge gymnasium, the bench in the corner. Wakatoshi’s hand is casually placed on the bench while Kiyoomi’s one is forcefully tucked into his jacket’s pocket.
He remembers his flickering gaze towards a barren land.
He wonders what it would feel like to touch that unsoiled, foreign skin.
It doesn’t take him long to sort out an answer. “Never have I ever been so sure before.”
Maybe there’s a world where you can be friends and lovers. Sakusa Kiyoomi finds that idea beyond reassuring.