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He reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist,
and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.
— Richard Siken, You Are Jeff
There’s nothing that Kiyoomi likes about this neighborhood.
It’s long past midnight, but it’s never quite dark enough here. There are too many lights, the glow of them rising like smoke off of the buildings and bleeding into the edges of the sky, a perpetual electric sunset. The streets and sidewalks of Shinsaibashi are an endless rushing stream of people and people and people, jostled shoulders and trod-on toes and eyes that press into Kiyoomi’s skin and linger there. The city’s noise and light reaches like dirty fingers into everything, everywhere; even into the dim, narrow side street where their apartment building sits wedged between a convenience store and an overpriced bubble tea shop. Atsumu comes home with one every single day.
Well. There’s one thing that Kiyoomi likes about this neighborhood.
Oh, this one, Atsumu’d gasped, barely a step out of the genkan, before the realtor had even shut the door behind them. Damn, look at those windows, Omi. It’s like we’re on top of the whole world.
And—transfixed by all of that neon tangled together in Atsumu’s wonder-wide eyes, how he filled every corner of their living room with warmth just by standing in the bare center of it—their living room, theirs—
Kiyoomi signed the fucking lease.
He’s not sure what emotion, exactly, had strung itself up high and taut in his throat as he’d watched Atsumu roll around the floor of his shared apartment with Osamu, wrestling over a threadbare Inarizaki hoodie rescued from one of Atsumu’s hastily-packed suitcases. Kiyoomi’s not sure if there’s a name for the thing that had unfurled in his chest as he’d loaded the suitcases into the too-small trunk of his too-small sedan, scrubbing at the burning corner of his mouth where Atsumu’d stolen kiss after kiss—for moral support, you ice-cold bastard, I’m packin’ up my entire life for you.
If it has a name, he’s never known it before. If it has a name, neither of them want to be the first to say it.
So it goes unsaid. It hovers in the air of their little apartment on top of the world; spins itself ever-larger as they shove and hip-check each other through cooking the first meal in their shared kitchen. A little larger, three months later, legs tangled together on their too-small couch, Kiyoomi’s stomach aching with laughter as Atsumu gasped and cried his way through a particularly melodramatic moment on Terrace House. Again, six months after that, Kiyoomi’s heart rabbiting in his chest in the bluish dim of their bedroom, overwhelmed by the slow slide of those colored lights over Atsumu’s bare shoulders as he moved above Kiyoomi, their sweaty foreheads pressed together, fingers intertwined.
Theirs. Theirs. Theirs. The thought sticks too-sweet to the roof of Kiyoomi’s mouth. He can feel it aching in his teeth like a cavity. He slams the door of the washing machine hard enough to topple one of the detergent bottles sitting on top of it. Frowns into the dark, soapy depths as the clothes begin to spin.
All Night Coin Laundry is cramped, outdated, lit in flickering fluorescents that are perpetually dim like they’re a moment away from burning out completely. No-frills, with little more than a clean black-and-white checkerboard floor and an elderly attendant who’s almost always asleep with his feet kicked up on the counter, or crouched out front, smoking. The low tinny sound of eighties ballads swims through the heavy, damp, detergent-scented air. Kiyoomi likes that it’s strange. Liminal. Far removed from time and space, like the spectacle of Shinsaibashi is a thousand miles away instead of right outside.
Somehow, Atsumu knew about Kiyoomi’s habit for doing late-night laundry long before they were together. It was one of those things—a half-remembered scrap of a fact Atsumu’d hoarded to himself somewhere along the line, then thrown back into Kiyoomi’s face as soon as they’d started dating, when every admission still crumbled to anxious pieces in Kiyoomi’s mouth. Your favorite ice cream is strawberry. Two sugars in your coffee. You do your laundry at ass o’clock at night. God, ain’t I a great boyfriend? You’re so lucky.
Kiyoomi straightens from his crouch in front of the machine. He supposes that he is—lucky. To have—him, to have Atsumu, insufferably annoying, insufferably insufferable, insufferably—handsome, even here, tired-eyed beneath the murky greenish tinge of the laundromat’s lights. Even as his drowsy smile starts to curl at the ends in the way that means he’s about to start trying his best to piss Kiyoomi off.
“Four washing machines is, like, three too many, if you ask me.”
He’s perched atop one of Kiyoomi’s four occupied washing machines, humming off-key along to the music as he folds a dish towel in his lap. He always goes a little soft and starry-eyed when they’re doing something mundane and domestic together, like he can’t quite believe that Kiyoomi trusts him to fold their (their) dish towels. He’s folding them wrong.
“I didn’t ask you,” Kiyoomi snaps, hating himself for loving the way Atsumu’s face immediately splits into a full-fledged grin when he realizes that his boyfriend’s risen to his shitty bait. “Why would I ask for laundry advice from someone who managed to fuck up all of our jerseys and all of our underwear last month—”
“Hey! I said I was sorry about that!”
Kiyoomi moves to nudge Atsumu’s thighs apart to stuff a pile of their uniforms into the fourth washing machine. He lingers there after he closes the door and straightens up. Atsumu’s squinting at him, mouth twisted like he’s weighing the odds of this rolling downhill into a real argument. He’s abandoned the pile of dish towels for a violently pink gossip magazine someone left on top of one of the machines, twisting it into a tube and then letting it unroll itself.
Kiyoomi’s too tired to fight. The crook of Atsumu’s shoulder looks inviting. The wall clock ticks: 1:47 AM.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Atsumu gripes when Kiyoomi’s hand slides higher on his thigh, spine curving toward him—“don’t try gettin’ all sweet on me, not gonna work, you’re the worst,”—but he’s already opening his arms for Kiyoomi to slump into them, tilts his head to let Kiyoomi’s fall to his shoulder.
Atsumu’s laundry detergent smells like green apples. He’s been using the same brand for as long as Kiyoomi’s known him. It’s revolting: an artificial, sugary-sweet smell that clings to everything and lingers there, bright and cloying and as familiar to Kiyoomi as the feeling of the smile Atsumu’s pressing into the crown of his head.
It’s revolting, and it’s Kiyoomi’s favorite smell. He likes the way that he has to press his nose right against the hollow of Atsumu’s throat to catch the last fading notes of it against his skin, beneath the hair products and too-expensive cologne and practice sweat. Kiyoomi closes his eyes, breathes deep to fight off a yawn.
“Hey,” Atsumu murmurs into his hair, completely ignoring the way that Kiyoomi’s moved lower to nose along the loose neckline of his sweatshirt. He folds his arms over Kiyoomi’s back to prop up the magazine and starts reading aloud from it in a high, nasally voice. “Meet the Bachelors of Japan’s National Men’s Volleyball Team! Who’s Your Volleyball Soulmate? Question one. What’s your preferred way to hit one of Miya Atsumu’s perfect, incredible, showstopping—”
“That’s not what that says,” Kiyoomi says without lifting his head.
“—earth-shaking, gorgeous, stunning tosses? Option A—”
“Is it a good toss?” Like this, pressed nose-to-pulse, Kiyoomi can feel Atsumu’s heartbeat rattling through his skull. Metronome-steady. Maybe a little quicker than normal.
Atsumu scoffs. “‘Course it’s a good toss. Anyway, Option A—”
“I wouldn’t hit it,” Kiyoomi says. “Unless it’s a good toss.”
That gets Kiyoomi shoved up and away, swatted in the chest with the magazine for good measure. “That’s not one of the options,” Atsumu hisses.
They stare at each other for a long moment. The only sound is the clatter of the machine beneath Atsumu, where their jerseys are tumbling together into a single crimson streak. A cheesy pop song trickles down from somewhere above their heads in a cloud of green apple-scented air.
And it’s here—watching the way that Atsumu’s eyes reflect the lazy fluctuations of the laundromat’s eerie light, the disastrous blonde tousle of his hair, the way that he’s chewing viciously on his bottom lip to kill the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—that Kiyoomi feels something catch in his throat.
There has to be a name for this. Kiyoomi only has to say it.
“What are you smilin’ at, huh? You thinkin’ about how lucky you are to be dating the sixth hottest guy on the national team roster?” Atsumu leans forward a little to dangle the magazine in front of Kiyoomi’s eyes, pointing at his own printed face amid the rankings like Kiyoomi'd have trouble finding it otherwise. He’s smiling, too, now. A real one; his nose scrunches with the force of it. “This is so—c’mon, Iwaizumi-san’s not even a player—”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu’s eyes go wide at the way that the word drops easy from Kiyoomi’s mouth. Too blunt, probably; a little too honest, too, probably. His fingers tighten a little where they’re clutching at the edges of the page.
“Let me see that.”
“No!” Atsumu shrieks, crumpling it against his chest. “This list is fake, I’m gonna get this rag shut down for libel, no, stop, get offa me—ow, fucker!”
Kiyoomi’s number two.
***
Atsumu feeds the last of their coins into one of the half-empty gachapon machines lining the front wall of the laundromat. He doesn’t pop the candy-colored shell open until they’re back on the deserted streets of Shinsaibashi, arms straining with the weight of their overloaded laundry baskets.
It’s so quiet. The loudest sound is the scrape of Atsumu’s sandals against the neon-slicked asphalt, the vague mechanical buzz of the billboards and bright-lit signs flickering over their heads. It’s strange, otherworldly, like they’re the last two living things on earth.
“Look, it’s you,” Atsumu says. There’s a keychain dangling from his index finger: a miniature black cat, back arched, tiny white-painted fangs bared in a ferocious hiss.
“You’re annoying,” Kiyoomi replies. It’s not what he wants to say. The words hover in front of his face, a white cloud in the chilly 3 AM air. “And you folded the dish towels wrong.”
Atsumu ignores him for a while, shifting the laundry basket to try to clip the keychain onto his house keys one-handed. Kiyoomi watches him, face half-buried in the green apple-scented laundry piled high in the basket he’s cradling against his chest.
Shinsaibashi looks good on him. There’s something about him that the city lights cling to; Atsumu in technicolor. There’s one thing that Kiyoomi likes about this neighborhood.
Eventually Atsumu speaks, and his voice is low. A little rough around the edges. He’s staring at the bright silver glint of their house key in his palm. “Show me how to do it your way, then.”
They’ll get home. There will be an overflowing bag of Onigiri Miya’s daily leftovers sitting on their kitchen table, still mostly warm, with a note from Osamu: choke on it xoxo. They’ll bitch at each other as they try to stretch the freshly-washed fitted sheet back over their mattress; then settle into sleep, Atsumu’s thigh wedged between Kiyoomi’s, his fingers tangled deep in Kiyoomi’s hair as he breathes warmth against his neck. They’ll go to practice tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Kiyoomi will show him how to fold their dish towels. Theirs. Theirs. Theirs.
Maybe there is a name for this feeling. Kiyoomi tucks it under his tongue.
“Okay.” Kiyoomi’s voice is quiet in the still night air. “I will.”