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With repetition comes control.
Kiyoomi knows this. He has lived his whole life by this philosophy, wrangling the unknowns of the world from the mystical streets of Tokyo down to the improbable fields of his mother’s cooking.
It’s tried and tested, as evidenced by his survival of the many dangers life has thrown at him. Lost his sense of smell and taste after a really bad flu? Wear a face mask every day. Hate the texture of okra despite his mother’s insistence for him to eat it? Eat the cursed thing some rando decided to weirdly call lady’s finger every day until he tames his tongue into tolerance. His magic going haywire upon Manifestation? Go through thorough daily practices under his grandmother’s watchful guidance. An unpredictable classmate vying for the valedictorian spot? Work harder and smarter every day with a stringent study schedule.
Now, he’s relying on it, clinging to it for dear life, because by god it has to be true or else he no longer knows what to do.
And so his desperation has now made him roam around the Department of Fine Arts, sticking out like a foreigner in Shibuya just to approach the last person he ever thought he’d willingly seek help from.
Amber eyes look up and meet his, confusion immediately morphing into curiosity then to fascination as Kiyoomi begrudgingly walks toward him.
“What are ya doin’ in the lowly side of campus, Omi-omi? Missed me?”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, hovering beside Atsumu hunched over an easel with a brush on one hand and a palette of acrylics on the other.
“You’re either gonna spit it out now or stand there for as long as ya want, Omi.”
The room smells distinctly of paint, acrid and dizzying even with the floor-to-ceiling windows busted wide open to let the fumes out. Kiyoomi scrunches his nose and looks back to Atsumu.
“I know about your business,” Kiyoomi blurts out, ever straight to the point. “I know you’re a shapeshifter.”
He had expected some sort of fear, maybe even surprise. He had never known about it in all the years they were classmates in high school, so it must have been a well-kept secret if Kiyoomi had only known about it now in their second year of college.
Instead, Atsumu only groans, the only sign of discomfort seen in how he shifts his weight on the stool before going right back to mixing paints on his palette. “Who tattled to ya?”
He could scare him. Maybe lie. It’d be fun to see Atsumu fear for his life, but he even he wouldn’t stoop that low. “No one. You’re not the most careful with it anyway.” At that, Kiyoomi procures a business card from his pocket that he had found wedged on the cafeteria vending machine. The paper is blue with the words Build A Buddy printed on it, and the subtitle reads Build your one-day companion now! with a number fixed below it.
The giveaway is in the monogram above it, a familiar flowing cursive that reads M&M, which Kiyoomi has unfortunately heard of every day in high school in association with one insufferable pair of twins.
“And it makes sense, honestly, for you two to come up with something this…” Kiyoomi scrambles for the right word. Stupid comes to mind. Instead, he says, “Imprudent.”
Atsumu snorts as if he knows what Kiyoomi truly thought, shrugging indifferently in a move to paint again. “Anyway, I don’t care. We have the right to turn down customers, and I’m sure as hell not accepting you .”
Okay, so maybe he can stoop down that low. And he will. “You’re unregistered, aren’t you? You and Osamu,” he begins. “I’ve never heard of shapeshifters back in Hyogo, especially twins. Everyone would’ve known. It would’ve been the talk of the town.”
Kiyoomi feels smug. He has Atsumu by the throat now. He has to.
Except he doesn’t.
“Were you tryna blackmail me?” Atsumu outright laughs, slapping a hand on his thigh in glee. “That’s cute, Omi-omi. We’ve seen greater threats than you, and you’re not it, sorry.” Atsumu then shifts his body back toward the easel, shutting Kiyoomi out.
“You haven’t heard my request yet,” Kiyoomi blurts out before he loses him completely. “You might change your mind.”
Atsumu quirks an eyebrow in intrigue, crossing his arms as he stares Kiyoomi down. “Out with it then.”
“I need a practice date.”
Kiyoomi and Atsumu have been up at arms with each other since they were in high school.
Conflict was inevitable between two people with contrasting personalities such as theirs, especially when they both vied for the top rank every year.
Every group quiz or project became a dramatic, high-stakes event because of them. Their classroom would buzz with unnecessary tension whenever exam results are being passed out, and no one dared to speak until a scream of victory and a wail of loss rang through the room.
Years of animosity, however, cultivated in Kiyoomi graduating as their batch’s valedictorian to Atsumu’s utter indignation.
Their conflict has since mellowed down with their divergence towards different college degrees, but their lack of immaturity even two years after graduation meant that their childish rivalry refused to subside either. Instead, it had merely changed form from teenage classroom feuds to the good-old collegiate science and art discourse.
Kiyoomi has always had the upper hand since then, but now he fears he may have lost his upper hand for the next years to come, if not for good.
Atsumu finally gives him his full attention, his body fully facing Kiyoomi with great interest.
He can see the change of hands as mirth floods Atsumu’s face, lilting his tone and lifting his lips into an astoundingly annoying grin. “I’m sorry, what?”
His eye twitches at the amused look on Atsumu’s face. “I need to practice for a date—a practice date , if you will—and I need a shapeshifter for it.”
Atsumu’s lips curl manically, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll have ya know that our shapeshifting services aren’t for free.”
Kiyoomi scoffs. “Of course, it isn’t.”
If Atsumu caught the spite in his tone, he disregards it with a hum. Instead, Atsumu moves toward a row of desks shoved at the back and grabs a laptop, typing for a moment before calling Kiyoomi over. When Kiyoomi reaches the table, the screen is already open to an interesting Moogle form tab.
“Fill up this form then.”
It’s essentially a form version of the business card,
Atsumu is still eyeing him curiously as he sighs and sits down beside Atsumu. He pointedly ignores the curious grin on his face as Kiyoomi scans through the form and, with a heavy sigh, begins filling out the text fields one by one.
He had just reached a text field saying Purpose of service, the caret blinking before him in the blank text box. Then he hesitantly types out Practice date.
“Ya still haven’t explained what the hell that is. Practice date,” Atsumu repeats mockingly.
He knows irrationally he shouldn’t even have approached Atsumu for this. He’s giving leverage to Atsumu that he’s sure the latter will lord over him forever, and he is willingly giving it.
Kiyoomi sighs. After so many years, this is where it all comes down to. It’s like waving a white flag in surrender. “I have a… crush on someone, but I get too nervous whenever I’m around him. So I want you to shapeshift as him so I can get used to looking at him, and so I can practice my dates with you as him so everything goes smoothly when I do ask him out.”
Atsumu looks far too happy for Kiyoomi’s comfort. Kiyoomi snaps a what towards Atsumu but the latter couldn’t seem to care less. “God, so even on dating you’re an uptight prick, huh.” It isn’t even a question as he chuckles when Kiyoomi casts him a glare. This whole thing has flipped their dynamic upside down and Kiyoomi loathes it. “So who’s the not-so-lucky guy?”
The pregnant silence that follows is far too telling. He knows Atsumu will make fun of him for it endlessly.
“Ya know you’re gonna have to tell me anyway because you’re asking me to Shift as him, right?”
Kiyoomi presses the heels of his wrists to his face with a grunt.
“It’s Aoki-san.”
He knew it was coming, but he still isn’t prepared for the comical jaw drop and wide eyes Atsumu is currently sporting. “Aoki-san? As in, our senior in high school, student body president Aoki-san?”
He has begun considering hiring someone to “deal” with Atsumu as Atsumu loses it over his reveal. He hasn’t submitted the form yet. Osamu has no evidence that he ever knew of their business. He’d be safe. “You know what? That makes sense, Omi. The fourth-year prissy prodigy for the second-year asshole genius.” Kiyoomi would have bathed in the praise had it not been delivered in the most derisive way.
Then Atsumu stops in realization. “Wait, isn’t he in the science department here, too?”
“Yes. We’re both taking chemistry. I’m currently part of the study group he started.”
And there comes the theatrical gasp. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes indignantly. “Aww, Omi-kun is in love,” he coos, ready to jab a finger on Kiyoomi’s waist. Kiyoomi swats his hand away just in time. “Hold up. Ya said ‘when I do ask him out’. So you haven’t asked him out yet.”
“No.”
“And we’re already going on a practice date,” Atsumu says slowly as if he’s talking to a child.
“…Yes.”
Atsumu whistles lowly in response. “You’re that sure Aoki-san will agree to go on a date with ya huh.”
He doesn’t appreciate the lack of confidence in him, but he shouldn’t have expected much. Kiyoomi casts his doubt aside and begins explaining. “I did think about it because it’d be a waste of effort going through all this only for him to reject me. But in the off chance that he does say yes and I only approach you after, then I don’t know how long we’re going to have to practice before I’m certain that I won’t fuck it up. Maybe by the time I finally get my shit together he no longer wants to go out with me because it took me forever to prepare.”
He has nightmares about it, too. He can just imagine himself asking Aoki out, Aoki says yes, and then Kiyoomi approaches Atsumu to help him except it takes him a month or two to practice. In his dreams, by the time he’s ready, Aoki’s already tired of waiting. He’s already dating someone else. Or worse, Aoki already forgot he even said yes.
Atsumu stares at him silently, seemingly keeping in his laughter until it eventually bursts out, actual tears brimming in his eyes. “Nice to hear you’re self-aware, Omi.” Kiyoomi flips him off and he only laughs harder.
Atsumu’s laughter subsides just as he reaches the last input box. It’s a media file attachment asking him for a photo of Aoki. Atsumu leans in to check his progress, nodding affirmatively. “You’ll have to send me more pictures of him for reference so the Shift comes out better. The more angles and the more recent, the better. It’s been a while since I last saw him, so it’s better to be safe. My number’s in the email you’ll receive once you submit the form.”
His cheeks heat up at the idea of having to send photos of Aoki. His neck is red as he takes his phone and sends a recent photo of their college study group to Atsumu’s laptop, cropping everyone but Aoki out.
A second barely passes since the photo sends through when Atsumu begins talking again. “Okay, so about the payment—”
“I tried to blackmail you and you’re still going to ask me to pay?”
Atsumu shrugs nonchalantly. “As I said, we’ve had bigger threats before. You’re just a tiny nuisance. And ya have more use of me free than in jail, so.” Atsumu grins in confidence—because of course, he’s right—as Kiyoomi begrudgingly hits Submit. “How about I give ya a discounted price of 2300 yen per day?”
Kiyoomi glowers at him. “The form said your rate is just 2500 yen, that’s barely a discount—”
“Yes, and you should be grateful for my kindness, Omi-omi.” Atsumu even drawls on the word, a direct contrast to the way he mocks Kiyoomi as he speaks. Then he adds, “And what about the deadline? When will you ask him out?”
“Until I know I’m prepared and won’t fuck up.” He cuts in before Atsumu inevitably answers him with snark and sarcasm. “And before the year ends. Obviously.”
“Glad we have a deadline because if we based it on your capacity to not fuck up this’ll never end.” Atsumu brushes off his snarl with a wink, doubling over in laughter when Kiyoomi physically cringes at him. “Just submit the form and text me when we’re starting, okay? See ya soon, Omi-kun!”
He knows he’s the one who approached Atsumu, but being on the receiving end of that wink makes Kiyoomi think he does not want to see him anytime soon.
Maybe he should begin praying for his soul.
To understand just how deep the extent of his depravity is for reaching out to Atsumu, it is best to compare it with the extent of Kiyoomi’s crush over Aoki.
Aoki was a third-year when Kiyoomi entered high school, and he had been sweeping awards left and right while also crushing it as student body president. He had admired him so much that he began spending more time in the library than he already is just because Aoki volunteers as a library assistant. In fact, it was because Aoki took up Chemistry that he had been inspired to do the same.
(In Kiyoomi’s defense, he had already been considering the degree because of his growing interest in potion-making, so the decision is not all just pining.)
The road to trying to get Aoki’s attention is one filled with repetition, too. Working extra harder in science and math classes, going to the same cram school, taking the entrance exam for the same university and the same course as Aoki’s—
So yes, it is that bad.
Still, Kiyoomi can’t quite believe that he’d sink—no, had sunk—as low as to seek for Atsumu’s help, who he knows is going to be a piece of shit during this whole ordeal.
And it hasn’t quite sunk in that he had asked Atsumu to come to his dorm until Atsumu is gleefully knocking on his door, his voice far too chipper at 10 am on a Saturday. “Omi! Omi-kun! I’m here!”
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, bracing himself for a whole day of Miya Atsumu. He opens the door and Atsumu struts in like he owns the place. He can feel his eye twitch as Atsumu crookedly sets his shoes by the doorway and as he walks towards the shelf-lined wall, drawn by the glinting rows of snow globes with a myriad of flowers and pollens pooled at the bottom.
Kiyoomi approaches him warily, watching Atsumu’s hands lest they accidentally knock over his collection before letting his eyes linger on the globes. “They’re my grandma’s. She made them with witchcraft.”
“I was shocked and thought that you actually have good taste in art, so that explains everything.” Atsumu does not even turn to look at Kiyoomi as he speaks, still fixated on the globes. “These are beautiful, Omi.”
A tiny smile plays on his lips as he looks at his collection fondly. “She tried to rope me into making some with her, but I don’t have the patience for it,” Kiyoomi explains, taking one of the snow globes in his hand. The petals move from his touch alone, dancing above and around a miniature version of his childhood home with the remnant of his grandmother’s witchcraft.
“Yeah, because you have no taste.”
Kiyoomi grumbles, puts back the globe on the shelf, and then ambles back to his cramped kitchenette. Atsumu follows suit, eyeing the array of ingredients set up on his counter with an approving nod.
“Day one it is.”
Atsumu shakes his head disapprovingly as Kiyoomi makes another attempt with the tuna. “Omi, I know you’re payin’ me, but this is just sad.” The new cut comes out too thin, nearly shredding with a single nudge from his knife. “Why can’t ya just take him out at a nice restaurant?”
Kiyoomi readjusts his hold on the tuna, eyes focused on the knife for another cut. “I want to impress him. I want to cook his favorite dish with him watching.”
He should have known better than to try and be honest and serious with Atsumu, because that disbelieving, teasing grin is there again. “Yeah, seeing ya all shy and meek over a crush is the funniest and most adorable thing, Omi.”
A waft of cinnamon hits his nose as Atsumu breaks through his personal bubble, leaning in to inspect the fish. The sudden proximity makes Kiyoomi jump. “And you actually bought otoro too just for ya to butcher it with yer poor knife skills. That’s so expensive. Ya must be really whipped.”
The next slice of tuna comes out ridiculously thick and Atsumu makes a noise of disapproval. “Nope, nope, nope, you’re torturin’ it!”
“It’s dead .”
Atsumu only groans before bumping his hip against Kiyoomi’s, nudging him away. “Lemme do it.”
Soon, Atsumu is setting the fish in a hot water bath and delegating Kiyoomi to the tasks that he is “least likely to fuck up”, leaving Kiyoomi stewing over the ginger as he cuts it into matchstick pieces. His eyes can barely keep up as Atsumu mixes in the mirin, soy sauce, sake, ginger, and ginger ale over the water with practiced ease.
“You’re… good at this,” Kiyoomi admits tentatively as the crinkle of aluminum fills the air. Once Atsumu has riddled it with holes, Atsumu drops the makeshift otoshibuta inside the pot and hums approvingly when it lies right on top of the tuna.
“Yeah. Between Samu’s experimental recipes and our idealistic career choices, we had to cut down on take-out so I learned a few things along the way, too.”
Soon, the smell of ginger rises prominently in the air, and Kiyoomi sits by helplessly as Atsumu sets the dish on his dining table, the beginnings of a pout forming on his face. “This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to cook.”
Atsumu pats him condescendingly, and Kiyoomi grits his teeth in annoyance. “Hell no. Don’t even attempt it. Just take him out somewhere else.”
Atsumu takes a seat soon after, excitement coloring his face—a prey ready to pounce. “So, now the part that you cannot run away from. The dinner.”
The poor, tortured tuna now sits between them on Kiyoomi’s tiny dining table. Atsumu laughs again as he looks at the sad half of the plate with its uneven slices, not stopping even as Kiyoomi coughs and glares at him. “So... are we actually going to start or what?”
Atsumu repeats the sentence mockingly before eventually giving in. “Fine, fine, here we go.”
The Shift happens in an instant. He’s literally watching Atsumu’s features shift right before his eyes, but he still can’t seem to comprehend it. His platinum blond hair deepens into a rich chocolate brown, shrinking and curling softly like gentle waves. His torso stretches until he is roughly an inch taller than Kiyoomi even when seated, and his filled-up muscles deflate into a slimmer, lankier frame. The most startling is his amber eyes, normally dazzling and bright, now cool and chilly with the blues of Aoki’s eyes matched with slimmer, more arched eyebrows.
“Shit.”
Kiyoomi can’t stop himself from gawking in surprise. It really looks like Aoki, in the flesh, even more so as Atsumu takes a pair of fake eyeglasses and dons it, further completing the Shift.
Still, despite knowing that it is just Atsumu, the familiar surge of shyness and intimidation Kiyoomi often feels around Aoki comes creeping back and he suddenly can’t stare at him anymore, eyes turned away from the table.
“Okay, first up, you’re going to have to be able to actually stare at him if ya want to go on a date with him.”
And there it is, the Hyogo accent sneaking past Aoki’s lips, successfully breaking through the illusion.
He knows Atsumu is right. He glares at him anyway.
Atsumu glares back before sitting up straight, flicking two fingers towards his eyes. “I have an idea. Ten seconds. Just look at me.”
“What?”
“Act like it’s a staring contest. Go.”
Despite it being the deep blues of Aoki’s eyes, knowing that it is actually Atsumu under it all is the only thing that got him through all ten seconds. As he stares into the deep blue of Aoki’s eyes, Kiyooomi pointedly ignores how Atsumu had effectively stirred up his inner competitiveness to distract him. Instead, he lifts an eyebrow as if to say bet you thought I’d lose to that, leaning smugly against the dining chair .
“Sure, that counts if you want to stare at Aoki while scowling at him.” Atsumu snorts before popping a bite of tuna into his mouth. “Actually, why don’t ya try to not scowl or leer at me while you talk to me, then I’ll respond as Aoki.”
“Talk about what?”
Atsumu grunts, as if the answer is clear as day and Kiyoomi is the biggest moron on earth. “Anything he likes. Anything you both like. C’mon, Omi, ya can’t be that hopeless.”
“How will you talk to me about chemistry when you know nothing about it?” The familiar taste of victory as Atsumu throws daggers at him fills his chest with joy.
“Fine,” Atsumu begins, brushing off his loss with zero finesse. “Just talk about anything I can answer. Practice holding a conversation with me without scoffing or rolling your eyes.”
As if in cue, Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, sighing resignedly as he thinks of a topic.
“Wow. Ya already failed. Way to go, Omi.”
He’s still grasping for a conversation starter minutes later, and it feels like a huge reality check: a reminder of why he had wanted to do this whole practice dating thing in the first place. The memories of the various lunches and dinners that have gone quiet and awkward because of his inability to hold a conversation hits him full force as he pins his gaze on the chopsticks on his hand. “Omi, if ya stay quiet for any longer, you’re gonna bore him—”
“Tell me about your magic,” he blurts out. “Since I only knew about it now even after being classmates with you for years.”
Atsumu nods in thought, mouthing not bad as he plucks out some rice from his plate. “It Manifested pretty late—like, first-year high school kind of late—so Samu and I were old enough to realize that we can use it for something else. So we never told our parents and we were never registered.”
“It used to just be tiny things: ‘Atsumu, I want to see how my favorite celebrity looks like in person’ , or ‘Atsumu, please Shift into my crush, I want to see him up close’ . It felt more like a parlor trick then that we kept on the down-low.”
“Then more people knew and started making requests. Shift as my ex so I can hug him, Osamu! Shift as me so I can skip cram school today, Atsumu! And suddenly we had the brilliant idea to begin charging people. That way we earn from it while also controlling how the word spreads. And it worked wonderfully. Ya never even heard of it.”
Kiyoomi refuses to acknowledge the smug look on Atsumu’s face and shakes his head disdainfully instead. “Definitely not a good basis. I didn’t care for anything besides my books back then.” Kiyoomi reaches for a piece of tuna and takes his time chewing it, marveling at the way the tuna, soy sauce, and ginger blend and melt in his mouth. He tries to quell the look and sound of satisfaction he instinctively lets out.
Atsumu seems to have caught it, though, eyes crinkled and lips curving up self-approvingly. “Yeah, yeah, and ya tried to blackmail me and failed.”
“Well, you’re here Shifting as my senpai, right? Doesn’t look like a failure to me.”
Atsumu only flips him off, at a loss for a comeback before steering right back into the conversation. “What about you then? How did yer magic Manifest?”
Kiyoomi lets himself grin at the memory. “My witchcraft went crazy. Flowers wilted at my touch because my hands would just automatically extract the dye in them. I’d spontaneously burn things, too. My teacher thought it was a lame excuse when I said I burned my homework, but I really did.”
The anecdote makes Atsumu throw his head back in glee, his mouth wide and his laughter bright. “Holy hell, I can’t believe flowers actually died around you.”
He had wanted to bite back as he always does — and he did for a second as he shoots a glare towards Atsumu before it slowly turns into a snort. “My grandma always said that witchcraft is tied to emotions. To feelings. So I tend to shy away from the abstract part of it because it’s so erratic, so unpredictable. Potion-making and chemistry are better. They’re logical. Straight-forward—”
“Boring.”
“I don’t remember asking for your input.”
As Kiyoomi shakes his head at the jarring combination of Aoki’s visuals paired with Atsumu’s booming laugh, it’s only then that he realizes that he has been staring at Aoki’s face all this time, talking without feeling the need to look away under those inscrutable blue eyes.
Atsumu seems to reach the same realization at the same time, his eyes softening as he gives Kiyoomi an approving nod. “Ya were only mean to me, like, five times this lunch. Congrats!”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes yet again, but even that can’t conceal the happiness bubbling in him. “Were you actually counting? Because I feel like it should be less.”
He did it. The first step towards control.
“Well, now it’s up to six, asshole.”
Atsumu can call him all the names in the world, but nothing will break the happiness of the practice lunch’s success. He can look at Aoki in the eyes now. Maybe he has a shot in this, after all.
“What are you thinking?”
Atsumu lifts his head up from where he has been staring at the pile of dishes by the sink, his hip propped against the counter. “I just realized we never talked like this in all three years of high school,” Atsumu shares, pensive. “I don’t think we ever talked at all. Not really.”
“We were busy coming for each other’s throat over the valedictorian spot.”
Atsumu snorts derisively at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “All of that for a stupid title that barely matters in college.”
“I don’t know about you, because I can’t hear you over the sound of my certificate saying that I am the High School Valedictorian of Batch 2014.” His grin only widens as Atsumu throws a harsh asshole his way.
“I still believe ya used witchcraft to get higher grades. I’ll find proof one day.”
Atsumu had dropped the Shift the moment the last tuna was taken by force by Kiyoomi, leaving Atsumu mumbling and pouting over the loss. Now, they fall in an easy groove, unspoken yet somehow perfectly in sync as Atsumu moves to wash and lather the dishes while Kiyoomi rinses and dries them off. Only the soft clink of ceramic and metal over the gush of water fills the narrow kitchenette for a few minutes until Atsumu speaks, sincerity a foreign and surprising tone lacing his words.
“Hey, Omi. You know how you prodded me to share my thoughts just now?” He turns his head just in time to see Atsumu looking at him. He is promptly reminded of how their hips are touching, elbows and forearms bumping each other within the tiny space. “That was good. You should do that on your date.”
He has always seen Atsumu as an open book, so he never really felt the need to look any closer than he has to.
But now, as Kiyoomi stares at those auburn eyes, he begins to think there might just be more to Atsumu than he always thought.
“Okay.”
A week later for Day 2, Kiyoomi scurries them off to the nearest mall to Atsumu’s amusement.
Kiyoomi fights back the snarl when a lady’s hair whips past his face. The shopping mall is, as all shopping malls are, crowded on a Saturday morning. He presses the face mask along the bridge of his nose, scooching just a bit closer to Atsumu to inch away from the crowd. They are still one floor away from the cinemas and Kiyoomi is getting impatient, suddenly preferring to stew in the questionable cinema seats than to combat the Saturday mall mob.
“Don’t you hate crowds? And yet you’re the one who thought of this.” The crude fascination in his voice is as flagrant as the shit-eating grin on his face, taunting and gaudy. “Ya must really like Aoki-senpai.”
“Don’t call him senpai,” he hisses in a weird misplaced possessiveness, shoving his hands down his pockets when Atsumu swats his wrist over his fabric. “Don’t do that! How are ya supposed to do the accidentally holding hands thing?”
“Does that even work for you?” Kiyoomi asks incredulously, eyebrows bunched together. The slow rise and fall of Atsumu’s eyebrows are his only answer.
“Gotta experience it to know the feelin’, Omi,” Atsumu singsongs. “Only if you want to, of course.”
Kiyoomi lifts his hand in lieu of a response. A group of loud high schoolers, giggling and wobbling as they playfully hit each other nearly bumps into Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi visibly tenses.
Then, right on time, he feels it: a soft graze of a pinky against his, and his finger jerks instinctively at the touch, consequently increasing the area of contact.
He doesn’t move away.
Atsumu seems to take it for the sign that it is and his pinky curls around his. Kiyoomi manages to fight the instinct this time, and his hand stays still. The next movements come too fast—too slow—his fingertips grazing Kiyoomi’s palm crease by crease until they slip past the grooves and settle in the spaces in between. He can feel his palm tingling with every second until it becomes so unbearable, he yanks his hand away.
“So? That wasn’t bad, right?”
“This is overrated.” The words—the lie—burn in his tongue the way Atsumu’s hands burn in his palms, his hand still somehow heavy despite—no, because of the absence of another hand. He holds his hand close, wiping the sweat down his pants. “And my hands are sweaty.”
“Ya might want to slip a hanky in between yer hands if you do that, though.”
Kiyoomi shoves him away at the jab, his hands tingling where a sliver of skin under the sleeve of Atsumu’s shirt catches his palm, as he glares at a gleefully snickering Atsumu.
Over the week, Atsumu had suggested that they should try practicing a movie date, because apparently, “a date where Kiyoomi can’t talk for two hours is the only date he can thrive on.” He had nearly blocked Atsumu’s number then.
Atsumu teaches him more tips, each one more asinine than the next. He has been Shifting as Aoki since they entered the cinema, safe from any mallgoer who could possibly recognize Aoki in public. So when he tells Kiyoomi to subtly lay his head down Aoki’s shoulders, Atsumu is taller but somehow smaller. After minutes of chivvying from Atsumu, Kiyoomi reluctantly settles his head on his shoulders and finds out that Aoki’s shoulders are more bone than muscle, collarbone and joint capsule digging against his cheekbone.
He can’t help but compare it with the fleeting touch of Atsumu’s shoulder just moments ago, the flesh full under his hands. It probably wouldn’t hurt his cheeks. His neck would suffer because Atsumu’s a tad shorter, but it would definitely be softer. Comfortable.
“What?”
His gaze flickers away lightning-quick when amber eyes catch his, but Atsumu’s eyes stay on him even as he flees, insistent.
Aoki is difficult to look at. He has always been. Kiyoomi has never been able to stare at him too long without inadvertently looking away, his face and neck flushed red and hot whenever he joins Aoki’s study group sessions. Aoki is a force too big for Kiyoomi’s tiny life, leaving him shuddering with his biting blue eyes.
At least, this is what he says—what he reminds himself—as Atsumu stares at him unflinchingly wearing those same blue eyes. He feels himself wilt under his attention, but there’s a foreign feeling, too: he doesn’t want to run away from it.
“Stop staring at me,” Kiyoomi hisses under his breath.
“What? He’s going to stare at you when ya go on a date. Get used to it.”
Before Kiyoomi can think more about it, somewhere in the back of the cinema, someone yells at them to shut up. Atsumu laughs and Kiyoomi refocuses on the screen, unseeingly watching the scenes fly by as his skull tingles with a gaze that is no longer there.
They are silently working their way back to Kiyoomi’s dorm when Atsumu speaks. “Can we pass by our department for a while? Just have to do somethin’.”
He would appreciate the consideration from literally anyone else, but from Atsumu, Kiyoomi knows he wouldn’t accept anything other than yes. “Do I even have a choice?”
The laughter comes right on cue, uncaring in its volume. “Of course not.”
Soon they are approaching the opposite side of campus, the buildings and pathways unfamiliar to Kiyoomi. Even stranger is the fenced section of campus that Kiyoomi is pretty sure he has never seen before.
Atsumu unlatches the metal gate, the hinges creaking with rust as they swing open. Beyond them are rows of flowerbeds, a full rainbow of floras spread out for nearly a hectare. It’s laughably tiny compared to the Scholars’ Forest, but lush and verdant nonetheless as he looks up, up, up just to catch the sunflowers dotting the sky.
He can feel Atsumu glaring at him through his peripherals. “We have to make do with what little space we have since you science folks keep gatekeeping the Scholars’ Forest.”
Kiyoomi groans in exasperation at the mention of this stupid debate again. Just when their stupid high school rivalry has been laid to rest, it resurrected in the form of the art students with Atsumu at the head of the throng rallying in front of the Department of Biology, claiming that the Scholars’ Forest should be open for everyone.
He had sided with the Department of Biology then since almost all science courses benefit from the forest. His degree program relies on the forest for most of their natural products, too, and he cannot imagine having to squabble for resources with another department when they’re already fighting tooth and nail with the pharmacy and medicine departments as it is.
But mostly it was because of Aoki. Aoki was one of the students who had to stand and defend the science departments’ jurisdiction over the forest when the mob had gone so bad the university had to set up a forum between both parties. The moment Aoki spoke of medicine and innovation and research, Kiyoomi had clung unto every word and shut out everything else.
It all ended with a petition spanning all the departments of the university for impartiality. He can still remember Atsumu’s golden eyes, then dark where they bore into his skull as Kiyoomi lined up and signed the sciences’ petition.
The science eked out over the arts by seven signatures. The administration sided with them, the sciences got to keep to the forest, and Atsumu has been extra annoyed with him ever since as if it’s somehow his fault.
“And because of your prejudice against art students, ya have to extract the dyes for me.”
They squabble over it for a while, with Kiyoomi complaining over why his magic services should be free whereas Atsumu’s aren’t. Soon they settle with today’s fee to be cut at 50 percent, and before he knows it, he has five mason jars in his hand, a funnel on the other, and a row of lilacs before him.
Atsumu takes the other four as Kiyoomi opens one, setting the funnel over the rim and lifting it to the edge of a bundle of lilacs. Kiyoomi lets his fingers loose, curling them against the air and the flowers curl with them as Kiyoomi guides the sun towards them, a stream of purple-pink dye trickling down the leaves and into the mason jar.
His giddiness comes out unrestrained as Atsumu takes the now full jar from Kiyoomi, his grin splitting his face wide as he stares at the pigment swirling with life—with Kiyoomi’s magic—inside the mason jar.
“It’s always so pure and pigmented when extracted through magic.” Atsumu whistles lowly as he gives the jar a little shake. He hands Kiyoomi the next jar and they move towards the gardenias, and the process repeats: jar to petal to dye then to jar again. “Your magic is elemental witchcraft, right?”
Kiyoomi hums in agreement. “I mostly use solar magic, though.”
“It must be hard, huh? Handling the brunt of the sun like that?” When Kiyoomi faces him, with the white dye flowing steadily to the jar, Atsumu’s head is trained to the sky, blond hair nearly luminescent against the sun. Harder than you think, Kiyoomi thinks. “For someone who doesn’t like the more whimsy, abstract part of witchcraft, you’re awesome at this, Omi.”
Witchcraft is tied to emotion, Ki-chan. He does not mention how it took him years to master dye extraction, how much he had struggled and continues to struggle with the craft.
He does not mention how surprisingly easy it is now, deceptively natural in the sudden fluidity of his movements as he guides his magic from flower to dye to jar. His magic has never felt this smooth—this alive— in a long while, like it somehow wants to show off under Atsumu’s watchful gaze.
His fingers still at the thought, the gardenia dye sloshing over the mason jar. Kiyoomi manages to swerve the jar just in time, and only a trickle of dye runs down the glass. Good save.
“Don’t you have a witch in your department to do this?” Kiyoomi sidetracks, the dye sticky in his hand, uncomfortable in the way it clings and sticks and stays there, lingering.
Atsumu moves to another row, forcing Kiyoomi to fumble and follow him. “Just two in all the degrees. It’s pretty rare for witches to choose art for a living.”
The white dye from the gardenia still clings to him as they move to the sunflowers, mighty and bright as they rival their six feet statures. Kiyoomi turns to Atsumu and vaguely thinks about how it is Atsumu making a run for the sunflowers’ money, his hair nearly melding with the petals grazing his hair, now a vibrant platinum yellow under the sun.
“Art is weird. Every stroke counts. Literally, one stroke can change a flat painting to something deceptively three-dimensional, so when ya can just do all that with a flick of a wrist, it kinda defeats the whole point of art, I think. Maybe that’s why a lot of witches aren’t into art.” He then turns to Kiyoomi and brandishes a hand towards him. Kiyoomi begins extracting the dye from the petals, taking extra care to not spill the dye his time. “I mean, case in point, you. You’re a witch and ya hate art. I think it just doesn’t mesh well together. You can literally make sculptures and statues by waving yer hands around. Us non-witches have to make our own magic with silly little paintings.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t really hate it, he thinks. Its fickle, mutable nature simply bothers him, lacking the structures he seeks in his daily life. It’s an acquired taste in that way, a hit or miss, and more often than not, it misses for Kiyoomi.
But then there’s Atsumu, who, by simply standing there by the sunflowers, seems to bend nature itself to his will as they all bow towards him, Kiyoomi included, sun forgotten altogether. And Kiyoomi thinks maybe he gets it now. Art . Art that makes you stare, art that commands your attention, art that makes you think, making you reflect and turn toward things you have never even thought of before, like—
“How do you confess?”
The words come out before he even realizes he’s thinking about it, cheeks burning up in embarrassment. He had fully expected Atsumu to make fun of him—it’d be amiss of him not to—but he doesn’t, somehow, honey-brown eyes softening with a look he can’t place.
“I don’t know. Just say that you like him.”
Kiyoomi fixes him with an exasperated look. “Obviously. What I meant is, what do you say?”
He is giving Kiyoomi that look again, like he can’t believe half of what Kiyoomi is saying. “What is this? Ya writin’ a script or something?”
He gives Atsumu no other reaction other than his unyielding, deadpan stare until Atsumu eventually concedes, sighing in defeat. “Okay, okay. I guess start with how he makes you feel. Or how ya feel around him. Aside from the obvious that ya like him.”
“How?”
Atsumu groans, which usually proceeds a string of muttered curses and complaints, but this time the crease in his eyebrows only fades, his face relaxing as he shrugs and meets Kiyoomi’s stare. “Something along the lines of... I feel comfortable around you. I’m happiest when I’m with you. You inspire me.”
“Or something cheesy like that,” he adds like an afterthought. “But honestly, I think it’s the lack of expectation that makes the confession. Ya don’t come in expectin’ that feeling to be reciprocated. Ya don’t confess in the hopes of getting the person at the end of it. I know that’s the opposite of what we’ve been practicin’ all this time, but I think that’s what makes a good confession. Just a baring of soul without any hidden agenda, without wanting to get something back. Just giving.”
Atsumu coughs, as though easing the atmosphere his ramble had set, lifting his hands from his pockets and wringing them out before taking the jar of yellow dye from Kiyoomi. “Anyway, wanna try it with me?”
The thing is he was already prepared before that, the three-word one-liner already at the tip of his tongue, poised at the ready, until it fumbles and tumbles off-track when Atsumu begins Shifting as Aoki as he says, “I like you.”
Atsumu only groans, stomping his feet childishly. “That must be the stiffest, coldest confession I have ever heard. One more time.” Then, he adds, admonishing, “With feeling this time.”
As he stares into Aoki’s blue eyes, he does not feel like running away, not anymore. The problem is he doesn’t know to where and to whom he should attribute this new and sudden desire to stay: if it is the result of weeks upon weeks of exposure through Atsumu’s Shift, or if it is just Atsumu— Atsumu and his tender hazel eyes vastly overpowering Aoki’s searing blue ones.
“I like you.”
When he says it, even he can’t tell who it’s supposed to be for, the addressee as vague as the tangle of half-formed thoughts in his head.
When Atsumu Shifts back to himself, his eyes turn to a delicate, molten brown as he regards Kiyoomi with a chipper smile. “Sounds like your confession’s as good as secured, Omi.”
Secured. He may be right, but as he stares at Atsumu and his heart lurches to his throat, he thinks it might have been secured for someone else entirely.
The following weeks go by in a blur of experimentation and demonstration. On one, he had to sit through a whole morning of table etiquette which he argued he already knew until Atsumu glared at him to “suck it up anyway”. Which is weird to hear while he’s wearing Aoki’s face.
They have tried a private picnic practice date that Kiyoomi had actively opposed to because Atsumu had insisted on sitting down on a grassy lawn to get the full effect. On another, they attempted an arcade practice date before they inevitably slunk away as soon as Kiyoomi gathered far too many curious looks after having wiped down every single ball in the basketball hoops. (“Have you seen those kids? I think they have Cheeto dust on their fingers when they played. Cheeto dust, Atsumu.”) All of this had been done with Atsumu Shifting as Aoki whenever they were alone, and ever since Kiyoomi has been able to stare and hold conversations all the while. The kicker? He began wishing he was just Atsumu instead.
After a while, it begins to feel more of the same with only the setting changing week after week, and eventually, Atsumu decides that that Saturday should be their last practice date because he has “already taught Kiyoomi everything”.
“Ya can’t possibly be that hopeless, Omi-kun. I think you’ll do fine if ya decide to confess tomorrow,” he had said, eyes trained on the jellyfish tanks casting violet shadows across his face, his voice eerily quiet.
“Guess I’ll do it tomorrow, then.” He stared at Atsumu as he spoke, as though seeking assurance in his decision.
“You do that.” The assurance comes in glowing bold letter and Kiyoomi realizes that’s not the answer he’s looking for, but it had given him another answer entirely. It felt like a big hand shoving Kiyoomi away, the final slam before the door clicks closed.
They are on their way home now, mere minutes from the curtain fall of whatever this is, but it feels weird. Ending weeks-long of suffering and having to spend his Saturdays with Atsumu should be a cause for celebration. He should be raring to end it. He had antagonized even the idea of asking Atsumu for help at the beginning, hadn’t he?
And yet he doesn’t want it to end.
As they reach the university gates, right at the fork where Kiyoomi turns left and Atsumu turns right, Kiyoomi blurts out, “Can you stop by my dorm just a sec? I left my payment for you there.”
It’s such a stupid excuse, he expects Atsumu to call him out for it. Atsumu’s eyebrow quirks in an instant and a hint of something glints in his eyes, but he doesn’t. He only shrugs and walks ahead of Kiyoomi. “Let’s go then. It’s gettin’ late.”
There’s an ominous feeling blanketing his dorm as they step into the threshold. Their practice dates don’t last this long, he realizes, his dorm now suffused with the warm glow of the afternoon sky. He pads towards his coffee table where the thick envelope of cash sits, and when he turns he can see the sun dipping down the horizon in a rich, vibrant orange, only a few minutes before the Tokyo skyline cuts it neatly in half.
It feels like a countdown, a visual of the window closing in on them. He drops the envelope back on the table. He refuses to let it slam shut. “I don’t know how.”
“To what?”
“To kiss.”
It’s blatantly obvious in its patheticness, and he knows it. He’s grasping for straws, and he honestly couldn’t have spelled his feelings any clearer than that.
But when Atsumu finally looks up, there’s none of the acknowledgment he had expected to see in Atsumu’s eyes. He doesn’t call Kiyoomi out for the flimsy excuse to let Atsumu stay longer.
Maybe it’s the somber mood of the sunset filtering in through his window, or maybe it’s the foreboding, creeping sensation of the end looming over them, but Atsumu doesn’t taunt him for it; he only stares, like he’s figuring something out, and then he nods.
“Practice with me then.”
It takes a while for his body to catch up as Atsumu sits on the couch, their bodies mere inches away from each other. Atsumu shifts to face him and he follows suit, both of them sitting with their legs folded beneath them, knees and shins bumping against each other.
“You should probably do it while standing, or else you’ll end up in something as awkward as this,” Atsumu begins, his eyes flitting to the strained position of their limbs.
Atsumu is too calm for Kiyoomi’s taste, whereas Kiyoomi’s eyes cannot settle on a single spot, restless and on-edge. How? How is it possible for anyone to be in this state of calm when Kiyoomi’s chest has been raging in confusion for weeks now?
“Anyway, first things first. Tilt yer head so yer noses don’t hit each other. No teeth. Absolutely none. Not this early on, at least. That hurts. Tongue? Debatable. But that’s probably too much for a first date.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but it’s all for show. He shifts a centimeter closer towards Atsumu, four legs pressing further together, always drawn to him like a sunflower to the sun. “Just do it.”
At that, Atsumu’s hand questioningly hovers over his hips and his palms—finally, finally, finally —make contact with the bone, just barely, when Kiyoomi nods approvingly.
“The secret to a good kiss is contact. As long as he’s okay with it, too, of course. Make sure to always touch him somewhere. Since you haven’t kissed much before,”—Atsumu plows on even as Kiyoomi scoffs—“you have to make yourself known in other ways. Make Aoki see you even with his eyes closed. Like this.”
“It can be the hips—” Then the hand on his hip tightens, making itself even more known than it already is, and fuck, Atsumu is right. His eyes are still open. He can see the hand on his hip as clear as day, but it isn’t the sight of it that registers the movement but the sensation of it: the heat of Atsumu’s palm emanating on Kiyoomi’s hip, feverish in the anticipation of his untouched expanse of skin.
Kiyoomi begins breathing heavily, and he forces his eyes to look at Atsumu’s hands to ground himself. By looking at it, you can anticipate it when it happens, where it happens, he reasons. So just look at it.
He’s too collected, and it doesn’t feel fair when his insides are turning inside out. His hands are too still as Atsumu touches him, like it’s nothing, and it’s everything to Kiyoomi and Kiyoomi’s out here losing his mind from a single touch and it’s all so unfair .
His brain is still taking in the touch when Atsumu speaks again, the fingers on his hip growing lose in its departure. “The back—” His hand creeps up, up, up to Kiyoomi’s back, his hand snug against his shoulder blade, barely a touch but a mere graze as Atsumu keeps a discerning gaze on Kiyoomi, gauging him. His spine snaps upright at the touch, his skin tingling even through the fabric.
Kiyoomi nods. The hand settles. His spine arches at its weight.
“If you’re feelin’ a bit shy, go for the shoulders—” His palms skim up his back and over his shoulders, but there is nothing shy about the way his fingers trace Kiyoomi’s collarbones, nothing shy about the certainty of both hands bridging their bodies.
“The chest—” His eyes continue tracking Atsumu’s hands as they dip down the slope of his shoulders and to Kiyoomi’s chest, simultaneously constricting and accelerating the muscle underneath, and his breath falters.
“If ya want to be intimate, hold his face like this.” His hands now travel upward, gentle as they curl over his jawline, his thumbs running up and down the cutting edge of his cheekbones. With Atsumu’s hands now out of his line of sight, the new position forces him to look at Atsumu for the first time since they began.
The couch is too tiny for this position, their knees digging uncomfortably into the couch’s backrest, nor is it big enough to provide space for retreat from the blinding vibrance of Atsumu’s eyes.
“My favorite is this, though.” His voice drops with his fingers, crawling to Kiyoomi’s nape before settling there, and Kiyoomi instinctively jerks forward at the touch, shying away from Atsumu’s hand which only draws him closer to Atsumu.
“Ready, Omi?”
He nods, because he is. He knows he is as his body cants imperceptibly towards Atsumu, but right before he closes his eyes, he sees Atsumu’s form flicker and his hands grab onto Atsumu’s shoulders lightning-quick, holding him away at arm’s length.
Aoki’s eyes stare back at him, striking in their clarity. “Omi?”
“Change back.” He’s not looking—not thinking —as he pleads.
“Why? You’ve been doin’ well starin’ at my Shift for a while now.”
Now, that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not used to Aoki ; he’s used to Atsumu’s Shift—to Atsumu, and isn’t that the most damned thing.
“I don’t want to kiss him.” The magnitude of the truth surprises even as he says it. Then he adds, to save face, a haphazard band-aid over his messy emotions, “Not like this. Not when it’s fake. It doesn’t feel right.” The practice touching. Practice kissing. The Shift. Aoki in front of him. It’s all fake, fake, fake.
He still wants it, if this is the only way he can have him.
Realization dawns on Atsumu slowly, nodding as he takes it in. “Should I Shift as someone that looks sorta like him, then? So ya can still practice starin’ at him?”
How does he say that’s it not about what Aoki looks like? How it’s about Atsumu’s hands, stockier but firmer with his neatly trimmed nails and hardened callouses from years of painting?
The truth slips free undeterred nonetheless. “No, just go back.”
The Shift flickers away and Atsumu comes into view, and Kiyoomi finally takes a deep breath.
“Better now?” He knows Atsumu is asking about Kiyoomi’s nerves, always the gentleman, and not about how he looks now—just Atsumu, as he always is.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi whispers, an answer to an altogether different question as he stares at Atsumu, just Atsumu, and he does think— “That’s better.”
“Okay.”
Then Atsumu lifts a steady hand to Kiyoomi’s nape and, with a slow nod, Atsumu leans in for the kiss.
Nothing, even kissing, is perfect. But that’s what practice is for.
The first one is a mere graze of lips, the contact so flimsy it does not make sense how it manages to take Kiyoomi’s breath away. Atsumu draws back and so do his hands. “Breathe, Omi.” They move to Kiyoomi’s jaw, as though coercing them to open, to take in air.
“One more.” Atsumu nods. Kiyoomi takes in Atsumu’s lips instead.
The second one is too enthusiastic, noses bumping in their haste.
“ Omi, I told ya—”
“Yeah, I know, I know.” Kiyoomi brushes his nose, right at the apex of the collision. Then he looks up. “One more?”
The next minutes pass by in a blur, a symphony of hands and body parts falling right where they should and shouldn’t.
A hand on his shoulder, pulling him close. Teeth clacking, the noise rattling his brain. His thoughts stay unmoving, though. One more.
A hand on his hair. Teeth clamped on Atsumu’s lip that follows a wince, a yelp of pain, and an apology. Kiyoomi nearly considers stopping from embarrassment. Still, Atsumu says, One more.
A hand back on his hip. A tongue on the roof of Atsumu’s mouth, making him lurch away and then giggle. One more.
It’s a wordless practice, lips and hands moving forward through body cues and soft moans and One mores that never seem to stop coming.
They continue until the clashes grow to a minimum. Until Kiyoomi learns to touch Atsumu in the same places Atsumu touches him. Until Kiyoomi only realizes it’s getting harder to breathe not just because the kisses have grown longer and smoother with practice but also because he’s on his back, his airway now fighting against gravity, his body caged under Atsumu’s in the ratty couch that seemed way too tiny for their seated bodies just moments ago but somehow now feels just right when they lay down.
Atsumu has long stopped touching him, favoring to use both hands to hold himself up, leaving Kiyoomi to his own devices with no pair of hands to mirror. And so wherever his hands land is his intention, his own doing — not by mindless emulation but by choice.
It’s his choice to touch Atsumu’s face as he kisses Kiyoomi, his choice to run his thumb down the slope of Atsumu’s cheeks. It’s his choice to let his palm rest on the curve of Atsumu’s nape, his choice to draw circles on the skin, waiting for the goosebumps and soft sighs it brings out of him.
It’s his choice to keep both hands on that sharp jaw even as Atsumu pulling himself up by his elbows. He lets himself forget how he had instinctively lifted his head in a move to follow Atsumu’s lips, instead focusing on the warm caramel of Atsumu’s eyes.
“Yeah. I think you’re more than prepared for tomorrow, Omi.”
Prepared? Kiyoomi wants to laugh.
If anything, his kisses have rendered Kiyoomi all the more helpless, those lips prying him wide open and leaving him bare and vulnerable.
It’s his choice to speak, too, to stick a hand and wedge the window open before it closes fully before him.
“I like you, Atsumu.”
The window closes anyway.
A grim look falls on Atsumu’s face as he sits back on the couch. Then he laughs flatly, eyes seemingly unable to look at Kiyoomi. “Were ya practicin’ just now? Jeez, give me a heads up, Omi-kun.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t think I like him for weeks now, actually.”
Atsumu purses his lips into a tight line, looking at Kiyoomi with something akin to distrust and lament, and Kiyoomi’s breath leaves him.
“You don’t believe me.”
Kiyoomi huffs in a laugh but it’s empty. “This is why I needed help confessing. I suck at it,” he rattles on, babbling off the hollow ache in his chest.
“Hey,” Atsumu calls, and he wouldn’t have looked had it not been for the gentleness in his tone. “C’mon. Can you blame me? Ya literally paid me to do all that with ya.”
Does he think he’s only a convenient company for Kiyoomi? That he only spends time with Atsumu because he hired him? Maybe it began that way, but now, with Atsumu in front of him, he’d choose Atsumu any day, any time. If Atsumu would let him.
“I haven’t even paid you yet,” Kiyoomi offers.
Atsumu only balks, staring and pointing at the coffee table frantically. “It’s literally there beside us as we’re makin’ out, Omi.”
Kiyoomi bites his lip. It’s as if the dam has been struck, and now it’s just free-flowing, all his emotions spilling out unrestrained. “I haven’t gone back to Aoki’s study group since I approached you. I always went to our practice dates instead.”
Atsumu fixes him a gaze he can’t decipher, his eyes probing deep into Kiyoomi’s soul. Then he sighs, the fight visibly leaving him as he straightens his back. “Omi, I was Shifting as your crush. Are you sure you’re not just… confused?”
The brief pain lacing his gut shifts to disbelief, mouth agape as he takes in Atsumu’s question. “When I confessed to you, were you Shifting as Aoki? Or when I kissed you just now?” He cuts back the edge in his words, staring straight into those amber eyes hoping it reaches him in some way, somehow. “Atsumu, I deliberately asked you to stop shapeshifting. What’s not clicking?”
“Ya said you were going to confess tomorrow!”
Kiyoomi throws his head back, grunting. “Because you suggested it. Like you were pushing me to him. And I didn’t know how to say no without giving myself away.”
“So why? Why say it now?”
The question makes him pause. The glow of sunset is now blending with the beginnings of night, casting dark-orange shadows across the ceiling. It’s getting late already. “I didn’t want you to leave. Because you won’t come back anymore.”
“Omi.” It sounds like Atsumu just took a blow, like Kiyoomi punched it out of him, his name soft and airy in his mouth.
When he dares look at Atsumu, bright eyes are startling in contrast to the dimming night sky, a sliver of hope amidst the shadows. He should really turn on the lights now.
“Give me one last day,” Kiyoomi offers, voice wavering like the last flicker of a candle before the wind blows it down. “I won’t meet you for two weeks. I’ll even go back to Aoki’s study group, which means I’ll be seeing him every day. If I still call after two weeks, that will be enough proof that I like you not just because of the shapeshifting, right? That I did not just like you because you’ve been shapeshifting as Aoki all this time?”
Kiyoomi lets out a stuttering breath. “Then you can decide if you still don’t believe me or not. I’m not going to force you to make a decision after that. Like you advised, I’m not expecting anything after that. I just want you to believe me, Atsumu.”
The last of the sunlight catches in Atsumu’s eyes. Then he sighs, “Make it three.”
Three weeks without Atsumu. That can’t be that hard, can it?
“Fine. Three weeks.” His back goes ramrod straight with the certainty in his tone, and Atsumu’s Adam’s apple bobs up then down under his gaze. He has never been this sure of anything than this. “Three weeks and you’ll see. I’ll still be there.”
What happens when there’s not just a lack of repetition, but a complete loss of occurrence?
Chaos erupts.
And boy, is it hard.
He hadn’t realized how much he had centered his whole week on his Saturdays until he lost them. He had found himself counting down the days: grunting through his Monday homework with a “just stick through it for four more days”, his Wednesday lab reports with “two more days before Saturday, Kiyoomi”, his last Friday class with a “just one more hour and a whole night”, only for the spurt of motivation to immediately crest into disappointment when he remembers that there is no Saturday to cling to. For three weeks.
The loss of it whirls in his gut, and whenever he reminds himself that it’s only for three weeks, Kiyoomi, he remembers that Atsumu’s future appearances beyond that are out of his control, something that he can never achieve no matter how many times he repeats his pleas.
He can only show. Act.
Kiyoomi sets his plans in motion, pulling up a tiny working station right by his living room, and starts working. In between the mess of glass-making and flurries of print-outs, though, Kiyoomi attends Aoki’s study group after school every 5 p.m., surprising himself with just how well their practice dates worked. He can look Aoki in the eye now, his gaze no longer skittering away whenever Aoki approaches and his voice no longer hesitating as he asks for study pointers on his upcoming exam.
He recognizes his emotions for what they are now: mere admiration. Idolization, to be exact, to a person who had shown so much devotion to a field that he had singlehandedly inspired Kiyoomi to pursue it.
In hindsight, he finds it funny how he had confused the cold sweats as like, the shaking knees as a debilitating crush, the constantly thrumming nerves as romantic devotion whenever the man even so much as breathes around him. Because that’s not love, isn’t it? It never has been.
It still does not make the emotions any less real, though. And because he began this whole thing because of Aoki, he has to end it, too.
After three weeks of waiting, Kiyoomi walks to the department library as the afternoon sun sits high in the sky, his gift nestled inside a paper bag. When he enters, the library is empty but for the librarian and Aoki, still volunteering as a library assistant even in college. Kiyoomi pads towards an aisle on microbiology books where Aoki is sorting through a cart of books, then he reaches out the paper bag in his hand. When Aoki takes it with a confused look and a quirked eyebrow, Kiyoomi bows deeply and takes a deep breath.
“I have liked you since high school, Aoki-san. I don’t anymore, not really, but you have been my inspiration to take up chemistry and I am grateful to you for it.”
Kiyoomi straightens up the moment Aoki takes the paper bag, watching with bated breath as Aoki reaches in and pulls out the petri dish. He already knew, deep down, but he knew he needed a visual—a magical —confirmation.
The yellowy-white carnation petals in the clear, all-glass petri dish remain static. His touch does not respond to Kiyoomi’s witchcraft embedded in the glass. If it all went according to plan, it should have moved the way his grandma’s snow globes react with his touch, but it didn’t with Aoki. Because why would it?
He’s not Atsumu.
Aoki still looks at it in awe, though. “This is beautiful, Sakusa-kun, thank you.” Then he glances at Kiyoomi, eyes softening with guilt and pity. “I’m sorry to say that I don’t feel the same way about you, though—”
“No, please, don’t be sorry. It’s fine,” he cuts him off, waving off the concern and apology that he does not care for. “Like I said, I don’t really like you anymore. I just thought you should know, seeing as I literally took up this degree because of you. Just take that as a token of appreciation for inspiring me and being the senpai I needed all these years.”
He knew his heart has long shifted its gears for someone else, but now he knows as Aoki flashes that goddamned smile that used to send his pulse into overdrive. Kiyoomi merely smiles in return. It’s funny now that he thinks about it. Past Kiyoomi would have looked away. Maybe run. Most probably die.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Aoki starts, still grinning as he looks at the yellowing carnation interspersed in the glass, “but this might just be the weirdest confession I’ve had. And in a good way, I swear. Almost everyone tries to ask me out, too, and you shut me down before I can even say no.”
Kiyoomi lets himself laugh then. Atsumu would, too, if he can see him. “I know. I do need help in this aspect of things,” he supplies as his lips twist into a smile, bearing an inside joke in its curl.
Then Kiyoomi snaps into attention when he feels the clipboard in his backpack dig into his back like a gentle nudge, and an idea forms in his mind.
“Actually, Aoki-san, if you’re really sorry about rejecting me, I have a favor to ask.”
With repetition comes control.
Kiyoomi knows this. His whole life is evidence of this, a cocoon of safety built from years of repetition and habit. And yet here he is, upending the philosophy he’s lived by his whole life for a man who is literally unpredictability personified.
Any time he’s lost control, he’s left frayed and lost. When he lost control of his sorcery, he had shut himself in, and only his grandmother’s caring hands could coax him out of it. When he left his face mask on an unassuming Tuesday, he had been tense through all his classes, his body and brain frigid the whole day.
And yet there he is, purposefully running towards uncertainty that precariously teeters past the edge of danger. It should be nerve-wracking, heart-rendering, and it is, but for reasons he would never have imagined.
If anything, it’s almost freeing.
Now he’s off towards his new goal, heart frantic as he dashes across campus.
Nothing about liking—loving—Miya Atsumu is safe. Even loving him is a direct contradiction of how Kiyoomi views love. Atsumu is a whirlwind of a personality, sunshine embodied in a man, and Kiyoomi is but a conduit of warmth, prone to combust from his abundance. Even the trajectories of whirlwinds can be tracked, but not Atsumu. He never knows what Atsumu is thinking or what he is about to do. Nothing about him repeats, every single occurrence in his life so interesting they never occur twice.
It’s not safe, how he takes Kiyoomi’s breath away with his grin—that annoying, full set of teeth grin. How a single afternoon with him can change Kiyoomi’s whole perspective on something with his sheer passion alone. How he can make Kiyoomi crave for his touches when he’s the one who asked for it.
Kiyoomi runs anyway.
His shoes skid in front of the familiar metal grates of the Scholars’ Forest and he hides right where he knows the surveillance cameras won’t catch him. He then wills the sun towards the cheap plastic of the lens, hands guiding the rays toward them until they melt and pop with a soft fizzle.
Kiyoomi gives the forest a quick glance-over. The area seems to expand before him, hectares upon hectares of colorful floras. As he looks over the whole hectare dedicated to the department’s garden, Kiyoomi thinks about just how much paint Atsumu and his classmates can get even from a row of those flowers alone, with dozens upon dozens more to spare for everyone else.
Kiyoomi takes in all 15 feet of gilded metal gate and whispers a silent apology. With a deep breath, he tugs on his disposable gloves and takes a bundled container from the depths of his bag. He unfolds the wad of towels and uncaps the bottle nestled within, white powder flowing out toward his gloved palm. His free hand hovers over his right and the powder settles as Kiyoomi wills the wind away.
Then he opens his hands, his fingers stretched wide with the inside of his wrists touching as he pushes the nitroglycerin up, up, up, guiding them until they cling unto the metal bars, his right wrist twisting to keep the wind from blowing them away.
Before his magic even wavers, he curls his fingers around two metal bars, willing the heat to concentrate on his fists. He can visualize the sun rays flowing to his hand in waves, converging on his hands as they would to a magnifying glass, and soon the metal through his gloves picks up heat and smoke.
Then Kiyoomi giggles.
This isn’t art. This isn’t safe. This is a straight-up crime, and Kiyoomi is giggling like a kid, like a madman, because for the first time since his grandmother’s death his witchcraft doesn’t hurt. Not even as the metal under his hand melts like goo, not even as sparks begin forming beneath his fingertips, not even as he thinks about the possibility of being caught.
Witchcraft is tied with emotions, Ki-chan, his grandma had said. It had hurt to do sorcery when his grandmother’s no longer there to help him through it. Not even his newfound love for potion-making or chemistry quite quelled the underlying tingle of pain as he yields his elemental magic. If he focuses enough, he can still feel the stinging in his hands as he carefully crafted Aoki’s petri dish under the bare peek of sunlight granted by his tiny dorm window, and for the longest time he had just accepted that his incapability to understand the unpredictability of witchcraft without his grandmother beside him means that practicing it will just always come with an underlying amount of pain and discomfort.
He’s feeling none of it today. Instead, it feels comforting.
It is akin to the sensation his six-year-old self felt when he controlled his magic for the first time, with his grandmother’s hand enveloped around his. It feels warm, and not just because of the melting metal against his skin. No, it feels like a tight hug after a long, tiring day. Like sipping hot choco on a shivering winter morning. It feels just like that afternoon in that tiny garden, the afternoon sun on his hair and his magic flowing naturally, as it should be, under Atsumu’s watchful gaze.
Except Atsumu isn’t here now and yet somehow, despite his absence, even the idea of doing this for him has brought his sorcery—his chest, his mind, his soul—to an ease he has long forgotten, a safety that no amount of repetition can ever attain.
The gate glints once under the sun, a wink from the sky as the last of the sun rays plunge into his fists before the explosion comes.
The force throws Kiyoomi back, sending him meters away from the gate as he lands haphazardly on the graphite. The impact and the smoke make it hard to open his eyes, now stinging despite being closed, the pain from his backside keeping him crouched on the ground. He gives the smoke a few seconds to clear before he opens his eyes, and Kiyoomi nearly chokes as he laughs at the sight before him.
Instead of a gaping hole that he had intended, the gate has collapsed from where he had burned it, leaving the Scholars’ Forest wide open to anyone who dares to enter it.
Just as it should be.
It isn’t pretty like his grandmother’s snow globes. He had considered making something like that for Atsumu—another snow globe, another paperweight, maybe, but it didn’t feel right. Atsumu’s an art student; everything he does will be way better than anything he can make with his witchcraft. And how do you even give art to someone who lives, breathes, and is art himself?
So he opened doors for Atsumu just like Atsumu had for him.
This is his love, explosive and uncontrollable and wholly, devotedly all for Atsumu.
Kiyoomi looks at his hands, checking for any sign of blood, but he knows even without checking that there’s none. He feels no pain, spare from his still stinging haunches. There are no signs of blisters or burns—just a sad-looking pair of gloves and a gate torn down by the sun for the sun in his life.
Kiyoomi grins. Then he runs.
Kiyoomi calls him the second he walks away from the site of the blast. Atsumu picks it up in two. Kiyoomi tries very hard not to think about what that implies, even as his heartbeat surges for reasons beyond the literal explosion he had just caused.
“Omi? Ya sound winded, are you okay?"
“Atsumu,” he greets, panting, his lips already curling from the feel of his name on his lips alone. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m in the storage room looking for supplies. Why?”
“Call your friends. Anyone, everyone in the department. Get everything that you use to get art supplies. The Scholars’ Forest is open. Tell them to go here now.”
He wouldn’t have known Atsumu is still there had it not been for the muffled noises on the other line. “What? How? Why?”
“The gates exploded.” He would laugh in any other circumstance, but he can still feel his magic thrumming under his skin, alive and raring with the certainty of his emotions, only leaving room for the cresting bloom of affection in his chest. “Well, I blew them up for you, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“What?” The line crackles at the volume of his voice and Kiyoomi laugh oer his hysteria. “I have so many questions, Omi, but I gotta run. You have so much explainin’ to do when I get there. See ya!”
It’s been three weeks. It’s about time.
“See you, Atsumu.”
It only takes ten minutes for all of the art department to come rushing to the Scholars’ Forest with Atsumu at the lead, the reminder of a similar memory making him grin from where he is standing.
Kiyoomi rushes through the mob and tugs Atsumu by the sleeve of his paint-stained shirt, yanking him to where he is hiding in an alley shrouded by an outgrowth of vines. He is panting in exhaustion, blonde hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and Kiyoomi still can’t take his eyes away from him. Still want to run his fingers through those locks even with his history of hating sweat.
“Omi? What the hell was that—”
“Three weeks,” Kiyoomi begins, far too proud for someone who had just blown up school property. “Three weeks and I’m still here.”
Atsumu lets out a shuddering sigh, his eyes shifting everywhere in Kiyoomi’s face—from eyes, to nose, to lips, to eyes again—like he can’t quite believe he is really there, like some part of him actually believed Kiyoomi won’t call and show up after three weeks. His heart squeezes at the thought.
“Are ya sure? What if you’re just another shapeshifter—”
Kiyoomi lets his hand drop from his sleeve and down to his wrist. Atsumu’s hand stills under his grasp. Make yourself known in other ways. “You’re the shapeshifter. You tell me.”
Amber eyes stare down at his wrist before creeping back up to Kiyoomi.
“You blew up the gates.”
Kiyoomi smiles and shrugs nonchalantly, and Atsumu nearly follows, lips already halfway to a smile before it falters as soon as the shock settles in. “What the fuck was that? Can ya not prove a point without committing arson? Don’t look so fuckin’ happy! This isn’t romantic!”
“It seemed right to me.” Then, Kiyoomi points, “And that’s not arson. I exploded it, Atsumu.”
Atsumu sputters over his words, but nothing comes out but blubbered noises. The noises stop when Kiyoomi lets his thumb graze the back of Atsumu’s hand in invitation. Atsumu’s fingers open at the touch. Kiyoomi lets his hands trail down, down, down, his fingers fitting perfectly in between Atsumu’s.
“I understand why you doubted me. I get it. I did start it wanting to practice dating Aoki-san. I really did, I can’t deny that. And you know what? You did a really good job. I spent the past three weeks with his study group every afternoon, and I can look at him now. I can talk to him now. I even told him that I had a stupid high school crush on him this morning. But I don’t think it’s because I have controlled my feelings for him to the point that I can now face him. No, you made me realize they were never there at all. At least, not the feelings I thought they were.”
Then he laughs. He has been so stupid, hasn’t he? “Because I shouldn’t be scared of being around someone I like, right? I shouldn’t feel like I want to run when they’re there. But Atsumu, you…” A smile blossoms unbridled on his lips. “I want to be with you. I want to see you. You. Just you. I’d rather hold your hands and all of its callouses and not his. I’d rather look at your eyes even when they always taunt and make fun of me.” A grin skirts around the edges of Atsumu’s lips then, and it’s always those goddamned lips, aren’t they? Prying open Kiyoomi’s inner gates until he’s spilling, open and raw.
“Atsumu, you make me comfortable. And as much as I want you, you make me feel okay with being me, too. I don’t have to go through a silly series of practice dates just to get along with you because with you I can be myself.”
“You taught me everything but to handle my feelings for Aoki,” Kiyoomi says with a gentle laugh. “You taught me to be comfortable with myself. With you. You taught me to kiss you, to confess to you, to touch you.” Kiyoomi tightens his grip on Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu squeezes back.
“You taught me how to fall for you and you’re not running away from this, Atsumu.”
He has never once stopped looking at Atsumu as he spoke, never once felt the need to look away. This is how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? Not being afraid of being perceived, of being seen?
And Atsumu can see him as clear as the blistering sun in the sky, now fully smiling as he takes in Kiyoomi. “Can I ask when? When did it stop being just practice dates for ya?”
The question makes him look down at his finger, and Kiyoomi can still recall how it tingled that day in its search for more contact. “Probably when we went to the movies. I found myself wishing I was lying on your shoulder instead.” Then he adds, much quieter this time. “And when you held my hand and I wanted you to do it again.”
The chortle Atsumu lets out erupts in staggers, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “That stupid pinky thing worked for ya? Oh my god, Omi.” Kiyoomi grumbles a shut up under his breath and Atsumu pointedly ignores him, only laugh harder. And fuck, he’s smiling again. Is this normal? Is this okay?
“What about you then?” Kiyoomi asks, silent in a fear he had refused to acknowledge since.
But there’s nothing to worry about, isn’t there? “Who said anythin’ bout me?” Atsumu retorts but there’s no bite to it, just a smile he’s clearly holding back. He’s lying through his teeth and they both know it.
“What, we’re still lying about this? You kissed me, Atsumu. Many times. And you didn’t have to. You could have said no.”
His cheeks flush red so fast Kiyoomi nearly makes fun of him for it, but the fondness floods in first when Atsumu answers. “Probably that day in the garden, when ya practiced confessing. I suddenly wished it was true. And that you were saying it to me.”
“It was true,” Kiyoomi confesses. He takes a step closer to Atsumu, because if his words are not enough to convince him then perhaps his presence might do the trick. “It was for you.”
Atsumu chuckles, matching Kiyoomi’s steps until they are mere inches apart. It effectively breaks the sadness the regret and doubt had strung between them as Atsumu holds out his hand in front of Kiyoomi’s face with a smile. Kiyoomi nods. The hand settles in his cheek and Kiyoomi instinctively leans towards it. Like it has always belonged there. “Ya could’ve been caught, Omi.”
“I’m not dumb. I disabled all the cameras with witchcraft.”
Atsumu chuckles, bright and soft, the other hand mirroring the one on Kiyoomi’s face. “My stupid arsonist boyfriend.”
His heart lurches right up to his throat then, and he blames it for the way his breath turns shallow, his head lightheaded. “It’s not arson,” he corrects again, but who gives a fuck about semantics now?
Boyfriend. That’s the only semantic he cares about right now. He doesn’t think his smile can widen further but it does.
Kiyoomi looks back to the forest and hears the muffled noises of a crowd of rowdy art kids pillaging the forest.
“You know I don’t really get art. The last time I ever connected with it was with my grandma and her snow globes. I never understood anything that didn’t have a direct, practical use to me, so I didn’t value them that much, but I still loved her snow globes because she looked so happy making them for me, for my family.”
“And I still don’t get it,” Kiyoomi admits with a sheepish smile, scratching his nape to cover his shame. “But I’ve seen how much you love it. And it feels unfair that you have to sit through some random college sophomore’s bullshit practice dates just so you can afford extra paint. So just take this as my payment for your shapeshifting services that you didn’t take yesterday.” Kiyoomi turns his head towards the billowing column of smoke.
Atsumu follows his gaze and laughs. “Omi, ya know this is just a short-term solution, right? They’re going to build a new gate eventually.”
“No, actually, this is my payment.”
Kiyoomi reaches for his bag and pulls out a clipboard holding a thick pad of papers in its clasp. “I’ve been working on a new petition. I have a theory the admin would take it much more seriously if the petition was started by someone from a science degree, so that’s what I did.” Kiyoomi flicks through the pages with a sigh before passing the clipboard to a silent Atsumu. “It’s pretty slow going, so I can’t guarantee that you’d even have access to the forest before this year or before we graduate. But at least future batches wouldn’t have to struggle the way you do, right?”
It’s not much. It’s barely 150 signatures in three weeks, but Atsumu stares at the clipboard like Kiyoomi just gave him the sun and the sky. Not that he ever needed it.
“Fuck, I am so into you.”
Oh, his heart will not survive this. Not with those wide caramel eyes mooning over him like he’s the only thing Atsumu sees, and he should want to look away, but he doesn’t. Not really.
“Sorry I was an elitist prick back then. Aoki-san spoke, and I thought of nothing but my pining.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes in contempt before grinning smugly. “Good thing you’re pinin’ for me now, huh?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi admits shamelessly. “It’s just you.”
Kiyoomi moves in first this time, leaning in to capture Atsumu’s lips as he did multiple times yesterday. His hands cannot decide where they want to go, moving up and down from Atsumu’s hips to his face to his hair in his desire to hold him everywhere all at once.
It’s fine. They’re not bound by the sunset this time. Not anymore. He can always try again later. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month, hopefully.
This whole afternoon is a huge disservice to weeks of practice dates with Atsumu, every moment riddled with contradictions of yesterday’s lessons. There are teeth everywhere because Atsumu cannot stop grinning against his lips, and neither can he. There are noses bumping with every peck, like the contact between their lips and their hands stitched on the other’s body can’t quite cut it.
When Atsumu pulls away, with Kiyoomi instinctively leaning in to follow his lips, he grins.
“We can practice more later,” he teases as Kiyoomi glowers at him. “I want to see yer confession first.”
With repetition comes control.
Kiyoomi knows this even as they inch out of the alley and into a better hiding spot with a better vantage point. They stand together and watch the cloud of smoke billowing where the tall metal gates once stood, the embodiment of Kiyoomi’s complete lack of— no, disregard of control.
Atsumu’s laugh comes out in spurts, eyes full of disbelief as he takes in the chaos: the dying embers of fire Kiyoomi’s sure the other elemental magic users in the department had dealt with the moment the alarm rang, the far-away sounds of hooting and pillaging followed by the screaming and chasing, more witches bringing in scraps of metal in an attempt to make a makeshift gate that Kiyoomi’s sure even his lanky college body can jump over easy.
“Ya really could’ve been caught,” Atsumu says in awe, like he isn’t talking about the possibility of Kiyoomi literally being imprisoned. “Ya could’ve been suspended. Expelled.”
“I know.” Kiyoomi grins, far too proud for someone who had literally destroyed school property.
Atsumu looks back at him and cackles, and Kiyoomi’s heart rattles in his chest. “I can’t believe I like ya.” Kiyoomi lets himself smile again. It’s so bad. He can’t seem to stop, yet another manifestation of his lack of control in this world. How can the complete loss of control feel so safe with Atsumu?
Then he remembers how this started. “Will you still keep up your shapeshifting services?”
Atsumu hums in thought before shrugging. “Well, I still need supplies and so does Samu, so maybe, yeah.”
Suddenly Atsumu is flashing him his puppy eyes that Kiyoomi discovers might just be his new weakness. “Unless ya keep extractin’ dyes for me while the petition is still on-going?”
“That’s stealing,” Kiyoomi points out. “But sure. Why not.”
Atsumu gasps theatrically then, mouth agape with a hand on his chest. “Aw, Omi, I feel honored that ya’d willingly commit crimes in my name.”
He can feel his cheeks heat up, but he brushes it off quick. “You don’t have the cleanest record either, Mister Illegal Businessowner.”
Atsumu links their hands in response, beaming at him. “That’s why we’re perfect, Omi. We’re partners-in-crime. Tell me if ya need a shapeshifter for your theft and arsonist needs and I’ll be there. We can be cellmates if they catch us.”
“Don’t we need one of us free to bail the other out?”
Atsumu claps then, as if Kiyoomi just solved the cure for cancer. “True, true. This is probably why ya were the batch valedictorian, Omi. Ya were meant to use your brains, your degree, and your witchcraft to blow up gates and steal for yer struggling artist boyfriend.”
Kiyoomi stares at him in disbelief before they dissolve into a fit of laughter, and god does Kiyoomi want to stay in this moment.
“Hey,” Atsumu begins with a nudge once Kiyoomi’s laughter dies down, the beginnings of a tease curling the corners of his lips. “Ya haven’t actually said it yet today. Still can’t do it right?”
With repetition comes control.
Kiyoomi knows this. There’s a reason why he chose to confess with a blast of sun and explosion instead of words. The words sit heavy in his mouth, awkward as it stumbles and fumbles past his tongue, his lips not quite catching up to the gravity of the emotions behind the words yet. And so whenever he says the words, he fucks up in some form or another.
But Atsumu doesn’t seem to care. So why should he?
“I like you,” he says softly, almost timid.
“One more time.” Even his prodding is as soft as the gentle coaxing of his lips as he leans in and kisses Kiyoomi senseless. Atsumu doesn’t say with feeling chidingly this time because nothing has ever been more obvious than this. He can see it in the smoke coloring the Tokyo sky, can taste it in Kiyoomi’s lips, can hear it in Kiyoomi’s strained voice no matter how much Kiyoomi struggles with saying it right now.
Because he knows now. They both know.
He’ll keep saying it anyway. He’ll repeat the words endlessly until his lips don’t quiver under the weight of the words, until his voice can hold every ounce of certainty as he proclaims his devotion for this man, because Atsumu deserves nothing less.
“I like you, Atsumu,” he whispers right over Atsumu’s lips, hoping the proximity conveys his emotions better than his words ever can.
Atsumu doesn’t prompt him to say it one more time, seemingly satisfied with the way Kiyoomi said it, but Kiyoomi isn’t. He probably never will be. So he’ll keep saying it until he tires of it.
Which is to say, he’ll never stop saying it. Maybe until it changes to another four-letter word—but even then, Kiyoomi thinks there’s no end in sight.
And honestly? Kiyoomi doesn’t mind.