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Many things are challenging, Atsumu thinks. Nekomata’s puzzles, for one. They’re endless, like an infestation of weevils. They get through solving one, and another pops up and another and another and then two more fly in from nowhere, and then before they know it, there’s a whole fucking table full of maps and keys and journals sitting in the captain’s quarters that make absolutely no sense.
Science is hard too. No matter how many books Kiyoomi reads him, or how many things about physics, or astronomy, or biology he explains, it all enters Atsumu’s left ear and exits the right without so much as leaving the slightest impression upon his brain along the way. He only ever really remembers the things that sound nice when Kiyoomi says them, like long names of constellations or theories, or the weird, complicated terms for bones and organs that Kiyoomi will punctuate by ghosting a kiss upon the corresponding place on Atsumu’s body.
The most challenging thing in the world, however, is trying to fit two grown men into a bathtub without flooding the inn washroom, especially when one is less than enthusiastic about the idea.
“Get the fuck out,” Kiyoomi tells him, sinking deeper into the water and purposefully taking up more room. “Use it when I’m done.”
“Can’t,” Atsumu insists as he crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. “I’m already naked. I gotta get in now or my dick will fall off. Move over.”
Kiyoomi looks at him in exasperation. “Move where? It barely fits me.”
That’s true enough, he supposes. Kiyoomi’s far too tall and the tub is far too small. He’s been forced to pull his knees up just to fit inside, but Atsumu sleeps with him every night upon that tiny single person bed on the ship. They’re used to solving puzzles together by now. This should be no exception.
“Just stop whinin’ and scoot.” Atsumu pushes his knee aside to create a sliver of space and puts one foot into lukewarm water. It takes a lot manoeuvring, a lot of splashing and a lot of fucks and bastards and assholes, but Atsumu manages it, because he is nothing if not determined.
“See,” he says with a grin as though most of the water isn’t on the floor. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
“I want nothing more than to drown you,” Kiyoomi says, hair now soaked, Atsumu’s knees caging his so that there’s no room to move at all.
Atsumu lets out an exaggerated sound of contentment. He leans back against the tall wooden walls of the tub and rests his hand upon Kiyoomi’s knee that’s poking above the surface of the water to draw small circles over the bruised skin from their most recent spar. “You okay?” he asks, because Kiyoomi may be forthcoming in his feelings for Atsumu, but he bottles other things up and ages them like rum, until Atsumu has to pry the cork from them and find out the flavour himself.
“I was,” Kiyoomi scowls. “Until you ruined my bath.” Atsumu raises an eyebrow until Kiyoomi’s pout softens and then he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling and sigh. “Yes,” he says.
As is typical whenever Atsumu brings up Miyo’s wedding, Kiyoomi’s words are layered with emotion. Love is the first. His sister means a lot to him, more so than ever these days, he says, since they’ve grown closer since being apart. Whenever they return to the orphanage there’s always a letter there waiting for him, and he reads them most nights before bed with that small smile on his face. He lets Atsumu read them too, even the embarrassing parts in which Miyo gushes about Kiyoomi’s obvious infatuation with him.
Anger is the second. Or resentment? Irritation? Annoyance? There are a lot of words Kiyoomi uses to describe his parents, none of which are kind since he returned from the estate a few months ago. Because one day, Miyo’s wasn’t the only letter addressed to Kiyoomi. One day, another turned up from Kiyoomi’s father demanding his return to the estate, announcing he’d picked Kiyoomi a wife and that they were making preparations for his wedding too.
Atsumu’s seen Kiyoomi mad plenty of times, but never as furious as he was upon reading that letter.
“Take me to the estate,” he’d said through gritted teeth. “I need to speak with my parents.”
A week later they were checking into the inn nearest his old home, and Kiyoomi was kissing him furiously in a bout of possessiveness, hands grasping, teeth biting, groans tumbling desperately from his lips. “I’m going to tell them of you,” he’d said, yanking Atsumu’s head back by his hair to attack his throat. “Not simply as a means to stop them pestering me, but because I want them to understand I could never love another as much as I do you.”
Kiyoomi had made Atsumu see stars that night, not the ones beyond the window they usually watch together before sleeping, but the ones behind his eyes that spark and flash like gunfire when he screws them shut and cries out Kiyoomi’s name like it’s a newfound religion he should be preaching on cobbled street corners.
The next morning Kiyoomi had shrugged on a coat and a pair of boots and left for the estate without him, afraid his parents might attempt something stupid, confident that he could handle it alone. Atsumu couldn’t find the energy to argue. His legs and back were stiff and he was still far too exhausted from the night’s activities to walk more than a few steps without them giving out; he’d have hindered Kiyoomi’s case if anything.
Eight hours later he’d wished he’d sucked it up and gone anyway. Kiyoomi had returned incensed, spitting curses, speaking so fast Atsumu almost couldn’t keep up. “I could tell them the grass was green and they’d still tell me I was wrong!” he’d said, seething. “Apparently, I do not know my own feelings! Apparently, I am young and stupid now, as opposed to old and smart enough to partake in business. I am simply going through a bout of delirious rebellion brought on by a life spent spoiled and starved of reality.”
Atsumu had watched Kiyoomi as he’d packed his clothes violently into his suitcase. He hadn’t even bothered to fold them, just balled them up in a way a Kiyoomi in his right mind would have balked at. “I told them I’m happy and they told me that’s impossible. I told them I love you and they told me that the sea water has turned me mad, that a doctor will fix me if I return home long enough. What the fuck do they know?” He’d slammed his case shut and whirled around to storm over and grab Atsumu’s hand. “Come on,” he’d said. “The sooner we get away from here the better.”
“Don’tcha wanna talk about it first?” Atsumu had asked, bewildered.
“No need,” Kiyoomi had said with a bitter twist of his lips. “It’s not as though I value their opinions.”
He’d tried to pull Atsumu to his feet then, but there had been a bitter taste in Atsumu’s mouth, words that would no doubt turn rotten unless he spat them out, because Kiyoomi wouldn’t be that angry if he didn’t care at all. Atsumu pulled him backwards. “Sit,” he’d said and Kiyoomi had glared at him for a moment before giving in and sitting opposite him at the end of the bed.
“I get it, if ya don’t really wanna talk about it. I’m not gonna force ya, but I gotta say this now. I gotta make sure you know.” With as gentle a hand as he could manage beneath all the callouses of a pirate, Atsumu had cupped both sides of Kiyoomi’s face to demand his attention and looked into his eyes, dark and glistening with controlled rage. “Listen to me real fuckin’ good, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Yer not mad, or crazy, or foolish, or wrong. Yer brave, and smart, and I think yer the most fuckin’ incredible person on this whole damn planet. If yer parents can’t appreciate ya as you are, if they don’t even wanna try, then I’ll work harder to make up for it, love ya three times as much. Fuck it, four for ya grandmother too. Ten for all yer uncles and aunts. Twenty for yer cousins and whoever the fuck else disagrees with me. Okay?”
Kiyoomi’s lip had quirked into a smile for a moment, then it had fallen with a sigh as he placed a hand on Atsumu’s thigh. Atsumu hadn’t thought he would say anything in response, but he had. “I’d rather them be angry,” he’d said. “At least then it would mean they believe me.”
Atsumu had smoothed a thumb over Kiyoomi’s cheek to wipe away the tears he was refusing to cry. “I believe you. Miyo believes you. Samu, and Suna, and Ushiwaka, and Shouyou, and—”
Kiyoomi had laughed then, and Atsumu had stopped it was such a pretty, such a relieving sound. “I think I get it, Atsumu,” he’d said and leaned forward to card his hand into the hair at the back of Atsumu’s head, to pull him in and press their foreheads together. “Thank you.”
He’s exchanged more acidic letters with his parents since, asking Atsumu to provide inventive swear words for him to sign them off with. Atsumu complies all too willingly – it’s no secret he dislikes Kiyoomi’s parents just as much as he does - and though they make no effort to understand him, or their relationship, his parents have at least called off the supposed wedding and stopped trying to convince him to return.
Atsumu’s sure that if Kiyoomi had it his own way, he’d go the rest of his life without seeing them ever again. As it stands, he’ll be forced to spend the whole of tomorrow with them, but at least this time, Atsumu will be there to entwine their fingers and hold his hand through the ensuing storm. And the rest of the family will be at the party later in the evening, courtesy of Miyo’s promise not to let the authorities anywhere near her special day.
Despite it all, Atsumu’s pretty excited. He’s never been to a wedding before, and it’ll be a rare opportunity to peek into Kiyoomi’s life. Kiyoomi’s been so eager to leave it behind and forget it that he only ever offers Atsumu short, edited stories of his sister and his cousin Komori, claiming the rest is too dull to bore him with. It’s impossible, Atsumu thinks, for Kiyoomi to be boring, but Atsumu makes do with what he’s given; they have what’s probably forever ahead of them for Atsumu to collect more pieces.
Osamu thinks Atsumu’s going to fuck it up and inadvertently cause disaster, destroy a gazebo, give a pensioner a heart attack. Atsumu’s certain he’s going to convince every noble at the party to fall in love with him too. Even Kiyoomi’s evil grandmother will be throwing away her title to run away with him by the end of the night.
“It’s the thought of seein’ me all dressed up, ain’t it?” Atsumu asks with a grin. “Makes ya dizzy with lust. Overcome with desire.”
Kiyoomi tilts his head forward again. “I’m looking at you naked, and mostly, I still just want to throttle you.”
“Fuck yeah.” Atsumu drops his hand from Kiyoomi’s knee below the water to stroke the outside of his thigh, to trace the pattern of moles he remembers that resembles Aries. “Kinda love it when ya choke me.”
“Take your filth elsewhere,” he drawls with commendable disinterest. The water isn’t hot enough to explain the flush overtaking his cheeks though.
“Like where?” Atsumu leans forward. “Here?”
Kiyoomi flicks water at his face. “Like elsewhere. Spend yourself in this water and I’ll be attending your funeral right after the wedding.”
Atsumu frowns and slumps backwards. “What’s the point in gettin’ in this tub if we’re not gonna have sex in it?”
“I didn’t get in the tub to have sex. I got in it to get clean.”
Atsumu takes back what he said about Kiyoomi being boring. He purses his lips as his eyes roam what skin of Kiyoomi’s exists above the water, the darkness of his curls falling across his forehead, the glint of an earring at his ear, the sliver of a new scar through his eyebrow after injuring himself during lubricated stool curling, the muscles in his chest and arms that have grown firm through months of work on the sails. He’s breath-taking; Atsumu’s tongue darts out to wet dry lips. “Not even just a little bit?”
The day Atsumu had met Kiyoomi on the street, drunk beyond mortal description, he’d thought – aside from superficial love at first sight – that Kiyoomi would be impossible to crack. His face was impassive, his words sharp and lethal, his glares disinterested and unaffected by Atsumu’s goading. He’d made Atsumu angry, made him throw Osamu’s best soup on the floor, made him want to drill holes into his ceiling just for the chance to see a wrinkle in his perfect brow, made him spend hours of his day concocting ways to piss him off, to hear him snap “Miya!”
But the day the pirates boarded it had all shattered. Atsumu saw all sorts of emotions warring upon his face that night: fear, shock, courage, determination. Then he’d saved Atsumu’s life and held his hand, spoken softly, eased his panic and patched him up. Kiyoomi had eaten pancakes with him, gotten arrested with him, sparred with him, played cards with him, kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. Along the way Atsumu had fallen in love with Kiyoomi all over again, properly, irreversibly, and has done every day since.
Kiyoomi’s face softens as he sends Atsumu a look, the way it does when he thinks he’s being neutral. “Do you even know the meaning of ‘just a little bit?’”
“Sure I do,” Atsumu says with a smile. “I’ll just use my mouth, make sure nothin’ gets in the water.” When Kiyoomi scowls, Atsumu tries again. “Hands?” A disapproving click of Kiyoomi’s tongue. “That thing you like when I use my fingers to—”
A deep sigh leaves Kiyoomi’s chest, then he sits up slightly with a trickle of moving water and pulls Atsumu in by the strap of his medallion. “Let me teach you,” he says and Atsumu thinks that’s the worst possible thing he could have said if he really wanted to keep the bath clean. Atsumu can already feel something stirring deep in his gut.
The tips of Kiyoomi’s ears are red, his neck is flushed, and his eyes are dark, and Atsumu knows it’s taking a lot for him to keep his composure, to feign disinterest as he speaks against Atsumu’s lips. He calls Atsumu insatiable all the time, but Atsumu’s not oblivious to the ways in which Kiyoomi will clutch at his shirt when he wants attention, to the marks he leaves on Atsumu’s skin, to how little of his newest book he’s read because he keeps putting it down early every night.
Kiyoomi parts his knees slightly so that he can lean over them and capture Atsumu’s lips with his own. Kissing Kiyoomi is always warm, Atsumu thinks, like a swig of expensive whiskey that burns his chest pleasantly as he swallows it. Reflexively, Atsumu’s hand reaches up to wind around the back of his neck, to pull him closer. It’s slow, and languid – too slow and languid for Atsumu’s liking – but Kiyoomi’s determined to teach him whatever the fuck it is he’s trying to teach him. Atsumu doesn’t really know anymore, or care, he just wants to stick his tongue in Kiyoomi’s mouth and taste him.
When Atsumu tries that, Kiyoomi pulls away and raises an eyebrow at him. “You are an awful student,” he says. “It might actually be impossible to teach you patience.”
“I don’t wanna learn how to be a prude,” Atsumu says, and it probably sounds a lot like he’s whining. “I want you to fuck me ‘til I—mmph!”
Kiyoomi kisses him again and it’s considerably more intense; he finally uses his tongue and his teeth, makes Atsumu groan gutturally when he grips the sides of his throat and squeezes.
“Get out,” Kiyoomi says, parting just enough to near growl the words breathily.
“Yes, captain,” Atsumu chuckles as Kiyoomi stands up with a torrent of falling water and drags Atsumu up with him.
That they make it to the bed at all is a miracle. That Kiyoomi’s so hot and bothered he forgets to lay down a towel makes Atsumu arch into his touch from the covers with boundless satisfaction.
The morning brings the warmth of sunlight through the open curtains. They forgot to draw them with how distracted they’d gotten, but it’s for the best, Atsumu thinks. They might have remained blissfully comatose throughout Miyo’s wedding had the sun not woken them up.
Kiyoomi was insistent that Atsumu wear “Whatever the fuck you want. Miyo will like you regardless,” but Atsumu’s quite keen on making a good impression for Miyo’s sake. When they first docked in Seijoh last week, he’d made Kiyoomi pick him out a tailcoat of maroon velvet and gold brocade, a cravat that forces his topmost button closed, and a waistcoat in place of his belts that makes him feel naked despite how many layers he’s wearing.
Dressed similarly, but in a dark navy, Kiyoomi fusses with Atsumu’s cravat nearly the whole carriage ride to the church where Miyo is to be married.
“Before we get there,” Atsumu says as Kiyoomi straightens the fabric. “Do ya want me to keep my mouth shut ‘round yer parents? Or try my best to charm ‘em?”
“My parents are not going to like you,” Kiyoomi tells him. “They don’t like me either and I’m their son. Don’t even bother trying.”
“Thank fuck,” Atsumu breathes. Every time he thinks about the nasty words Kiyoomi’s parents had spat at him that day, what awful things they’d said to him, and what more Kiyoomi has kept bottled up inside his head since, he feels an unbridled rage setting his nerve endings ablaze. He would hate to have to pretend to like them.
Kiyoomi finishes his work on Atsumu’s cravat and places his hands atop his shoulders to smooth out the lines of his coat. “I give you full permission to be as obnoxious as you please.”
That makes Atsumu grin. He has plenty of things he’d like to say to Kiyoomi’s parents. “You sure about that? Rumour has it I’m pretty fuckin’ annoyin’.”
“I’ve been dreaming of the day your foul mouth would shock both my parents into silence. Don’t disappoint me.”
“When have I ever disappointed ya?”
“This morning,” Kiyoomi says with a sigh as he picks up Atsumu’s hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss his ring-adorned knuckles. “When you left your clothes in a heap on the wet washroom floor.”
Atsumu winces. He’d been meaning to pick those back up, but then he’d seen Kiyoomi in his new breeches and forgotten entirely in favour of ogling the stretch of fabric over his ass and the way his belt pulled in his waist.
“You can punish me for it later,” he says with an obviously suggestive wink.
“That’s starting to wear a little thin, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, but the tightening of his hand around Atsumu’s suggests otherwise.
Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Absolutely not. Try it as many times as you like.”
They’re one of the last to arrive, or perhaps everyone else has just been milling about outside the church for longer than they should have been. It’s the type of building Atsumu makes a point of steering clear of, made of towering grey stone, caustic and cold, frequented by people who would sooner see him hang than ask his name. The grounds are grassy and open, save for a few trees shot pink with apple blossoms, and there are crowds of people dressed in fabrics so expensive Atsumu’s suddenly glad for the high price tag of his own coat.
Kiyoomi takes his hand the moment they step outside. His grip is vice-like, but Atsumu doesn’t complain. He tightens his own to remind Kiyoomi that he’ll anchor him as he needs.
As they walk into the throng of people to find a place to wait for the church doors to open, Atsumu can feel the palpable stares of nobles upon their backs. They glare, gape, and whisper behind their hands and Atsumu revels in the attention, wonders what exactly their prudish minds are thinking of their linked hands, dares them to speak a little louder so he can hear it.
Kiyoomi remains stiff as they walk, his glare searching right and left like the beam of an angered lighthouse, one that’s threatening oncoming ships to stay away, rather than lead their approach. One man lifts a hand in a wave and calls out Kiyoomi’s name; Kiyoomi scowls back so vehemently the man drops his hand and returns to his previous conversation with fright in his eyes.
“Who was that?” Atsumu asks him, wondering if he should have been scowling too.
“No clue,” Kiyoomi says, leading him to the shade of a nearby tree where no people are. “Hopefully it’ll stay that way.”
Only one person is completely impervious to Kiyoomi’s non-verbal threats. A guy with brown hair, wrapped in a coat of pale gold brocade and a look so confused on his face Atsumu wonders if he’s at the right wedding. He jogs over, large eyebrows furrowing deeper as he glances notably down at their linked hands, then up at Kiyoomi.
“Kiyo!” he says with considerable surprise, placing a firm hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder and squeezing it in a greeting. “It’s so great to see you! I didn’t think you were coming today.”
Kiyoomi narrows his gaze. “Why would you think that?”
Kiyo, Atsumu thinks. That’s cute. Not as cute as Omi, though, and Atsumu counts that as a petty victory against whoever the hell this guy is with his nicknames and his nice face and his innate ability not to make Kiyoomi scowl when he speaks or shudder when he touches him.
“Your parents said you’d disowned yourself. They said you wouldn’t bother turning up. Your mother said you definitely wouldn’t.”
“That’s a new one,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “Though it’s a little lacking in imagination.”
“I don’t know, at last month’s dinner party they said you were performing on street corners with the circus.” Kiyoomi offers a sharp laugh, then the guy’s gaze travels over to Atsumu. He looks him up and down, hand dropping from Kiyoomi’s shoulder to gesture at him. “Who’s, uh… who’s this?”
“Wouldn’t you like ta know,” Atsumu bristles, hardening his stare, straightening his shoulders.
“Put your dick away,” Kiyoomi drawls, nudging Atsumu in his side. “That’s my cousin.”
Oh.
“That’s yer cousin?”
Atsumu’s heard a lot about Komori. He was Kiyoomi’s sparring partner, a good friend to him growing up. He’d keep him company at parties, was there to ease his anxieties when his sister wasn’t around, would take the horses out for a ride with him when the world got a little too much. He’s good, Atsumu’s learned. He’s nice, and cares a lot about Kiyoomi, enough not to tease him about the things that matter. Atsumu should have guessed who he was – he’s not sure why he expected them to look more alike. Maybe he’s just too used to having a twin.
“Forgive me,” Atsumu says exaggeratedly, dipping into a low bow, the one that makes Kiyoomi’s nose wrinkle in disgust. “Enchanté, Eyebrows.” He takes Komori’s hand and lifts it to his lips to kiss it in the polite greeting he’s read about in books.
Kiyoomi pulls Atsumu’s head back by his hair before he makes contact with skin.
“This clown is Miya Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu grins up at him and Kiyoomi loosens his grip on his hair to rest his gloved hand at the back of his neck instead. “My beloved.”
Komori gapes at them both. Mostly at Atsumu, at his earring, his hair, his hand snaking around the back of Kiyoomi’s waist to rest on his opposite hip. When Atsumu winks at him, his eyes bulge. “Your…wait, what?”
“His sweetheart,” Atsumu supplies. “His dearest, his heart, his soul, his lover.” He turns to Kiyoomi. “Did I miss any, darlin’?”
“I think you got them all.”
“Wait, you—” Komori turns back to Kiyoomi. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. I wrote you a letter.”
Komori’s face works through various emotions: shock, disbelief, confusion, realisation. “That was real?” he asks in a loud whisper, still mindful not to draw any unnecessary attention. “You actually ran away with pirates? Jesus, I—” He spares a glance back at the church and lowers his voice further still. “I thought you were joking, Kiyo. I thought you’d gone to study abroad. That you’d fallen out with your family over the arranged marriage.”
Kiyoomi shrugs. “I did fall out with them,” he says. “The arranged marriage was a cowardly attempt to lure me home, because they refuse to accept my new life and those I have chosen to spend it with.”
“The pirates,” Komori says again like he’s struggling to make sense of it all.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu feels him lean slightly into his side.
Something clicks behind Komori’s eyes as he watches Atsumu pull Kiyoomi completely flush against his hip. Atsumu’s not sure what, but suddenly Komori’s smiling at them both so genuinely it makes Atsumu’s throat feel a little thick with emotion. It evaporates just as quick, because then Komori is shaking his head and pointing at him with a look of outrage. “Is he the bastard that taught you how to fight like that?”
Atsumu perks up when Kiyoomi nods. “Ah! Omi told me ‘bout yer little spar. Said he used my special footwork to win a few bouts. Think he used the word ‘humiliated’.”
“A few bouts,” Komori scoffs. “You mean, he bullied me for two hours and had the audacity to laugh afterward!”
“That’s nothing,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m even better now. I could bully you for four.”
That is true. Sometimes Kiyoomi scares Atsumu with how quickly he picks things up. Atsumu used to revel in the angered looks Kiyoomi would shoot him from the ground when he knocked him down, but that rarely happens anymore. Not even when Atsumu attempts distraction by whispering filthy things in his ear. He no longer bothers trying to outshoot him either; Kiyoomi’s accuracy is terrifying.
Talking to Komori is fun. They stand a while beneath the apple trees, and Atsumu watches Kiyoomi speak without reservation, enjoys hearing of their adventures through his lens despite having lived it himself – the cave they spent three days trapped in looking for a single tiny Nekomata key, the week they spent being chased by pirates along the shores of Shiratorizawa, the seagull that flew into the sleeping quarters and lived with them for a month, and the ensuing memorial Hoshiumi held when it finally flew away.
For the first few months Kiyoomi had joined them, Atsumu had been scared. Scared that Kiyoomi would regret giving up his life at the estate for an uncertain, grimy, turbulent one atop the sea. But with each day that had passed, that feeling had ebbed away like a receding tide until it disappeared beyond the horizon entirely; Kiyoomi wakes most mornings (the ones he’s not hungover on) with a glorious, albeit small, smile on his face and an enthusiasm for life he claims he’d not felt before meeting Atsumu.
As they stand together now, Atsumu a part of Kiyoomi’s life as much as Kiyoomi is of his, he can’t control the bounce to his step, the energy in his arms as he talks loudly and without concern for those around them. Atsumu even manages to make Komori laugh, which is gratifying. He earns a few stories of Kiyoomi as a child that make him giddy with how endearingly adorable they are, and a few more of his bad attitude at parties over the years. When the church doors open and Komori has to return to his family, he does so with a firm shake of Atsumu’s hand first, and a promise to meet him again later at the reception, which Atsumu supposes is just a fancy name for party.
“I like him,” Atsumu says as they trail behind the rest of the crowd to enter the church last.
“Don’t think for a second that just because Motoya laughed at your urchin joke it means it’s funny,” Kiyoomi says in his ear. “It’s not. Motoya’s sense of humour is warped.”
“Sure it is, Omi. S’why you were laughin’ too.”
“That was not a laugh. That was an embarrassed grimace. The more times you tell that joke, the more years of my life I lose.”
Atsumu hums; Kiyoomi’s not a very convincing liar.
The interior of the church is large, so large that Atsumu spends the first few seconds inside staring up at the tall ceiling, marvelling at the echo of chattering voices reverberating against stone walls. The rows of seats are filling fast with bonnets and frilled dresses, top hats, and bright coats and it doesn’t take long for them to realise that the only available row is the one at the very back of the church nearest the door.
Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t try to get himself a seat closer to the front. They slip onto the bench, sit squashed against one another as close to the aisle as they can so that they are able to see above the sea of heads.
“Is that Mrs. Omi?” Atsumu asks, nodding to the woman standing near the raised altar and chatting to a man in black and white robes. She must be, Atsumu thinks, she has Kiyoomi’s dark curls and eyes, a look of perpetual disinterest etched into the lines of her mouth.
“That is my mother, yes,” Kiyoomi says bitterly. “Don’t look at her for too long. You might turn to stone.”
Atsumu laughs and watches her anyway. Watches the minimal, concise way in which she moves, the small flickers in her expressions as she talks. Kiyoomi definitely inherited a lot from her, though not her heart, clearly, with how coldly she treats her son, and how warmly Kiyoomi treats those he cares for.
He realises he’s been staring too long when he accidentally catches her eye. Atsumu doesn’t turn to stone, but Kiyoomi’s mother looks as though she might be; her eyes widen, and her hand flies up to her chest, and she mouths something that looks a lot like, “Oh dear god.”
“Uh oh,” Atsumu says with a wicked smile. “I think she’s spotted us.”
“You think?” Kiyoomi scoffs as he watches her scurry off, face pale with terror. Atsumu feels a weight beneath his chin, then one of Kiyoomi’s gloved hands is tilting his head to the side so they can lock eyes. They might just be Atsumu’s favourite part of Kiyoomi, his eyes. They hold whole worlds and universes, the words he doesn’t speak and emotions he finds hard to express. “Don’t forget what I told you.”
“Be a bastard,” Atsumu nods. “Gotcha.”
Kiyoomi smooths a thumb over Atsumu’s lips. “Completely insufferable,” he prompts. “Worse than you were when you first met me.”
“Ha, easy, Omi-kun. I wasn’t even tryin’ hard back then. That was all on you.”
Kiyoomi’s mother doesn’t find them alone. She’s attached to the arm of a man just as tall as Kiyoomi, with glasses perched on the end of his nose and streaks of grey shot through the slicked back straightness of his dark hair. Despite how much Atsumu dislikes them, they’re an attractive pair. Incredibly attractive. It’s no wonder Kiyoomi looks the way he does, that he still makes Atsumu double-take even a year later into knowing him.
“Kiyoomi,” his mother whispers furiously with an acidic glance Atsumu’s way. “What are you doing here? Bringing this—this—”
“Charmin’ly handsome rogue?” Atsumu supplies, standing up and bowing. He hears Kiyoomi’s mother make a choked sound of horror and he wonders what, exactly, makes this bow so atrocious. He’d always thought it was pretty good – better than the rest of the crews’ attempts anyway. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Omi!” he grins. “I’ve heard so much ‘bout ya from Kiyoomi. None of it was good!”
They don’t bother to take his outstretched hand, so Atsumu reaches over and takes Kiyoomi’s father’s anyway to shake it. Mr. Omi snatches his hand back with a foul grimace and Atsumu scoffs at the way he wipes himself clean on the side of his trousers.
“Nice dress,” Atsumu says, gesturing to the fabric of Kiyoomi’s mother’s gown. “Pattern looks just like that rug I threw into the ocean last year ‘cause I spilled the shit barrel over it.” He hums and looks down at the full skirt of the gown pointedly. “It was really fuckin’ ugly, actually, now that I think about it.”
Kiyoomi laughs and stands up to join Atsumu. “This is Atsumu,” he says, eyes alight with mischief. “The man I told you about. The one that I’m in love with.”
It never fails to bowl Atsumu over when Kiyoomi says he loves him. He says it a lot, says it like it’s the easiest thing to say in the world, easier than good morning. Atsumu still can’t quite believe it, that someone other than his chosen family loves him enough to stick around, to want him the way Kiyoomi does.
Atsumu shoots his parents a wink and his most obnoxious smile, tilts his head in the way he knows highlights the charming press of his dimple. “I’d say it was nice to meet ya, but I’m gonna be honest, it’s not been that great so far. I’ve met corpses more hospitable.”
Kiyoomi’s mother pales and her eyes dart around to check nobody has heard him. Atsumu doubts any of these nobles possess the decency to mind their own business, everyone within a ten-foot radius is likely straining their ears for the chance to listen into this sort of gossip. Atsumu makes a note to speak a little louder for them so as not to let them down.
“You’ve made your point and had your ridiculously uncouth idea of fun, Kiyoomi,” his father snaps, refusing to glance Atsumu’s way. “Now take your thieving trollop and leave, immediately. Before you ruin your sister’s day with your dramatics.”
Kiyoomi chokes on a laugh and Atsumu blinks. Thieving trollop? That’s a new one, one that Kiyoomi will undoubtedly utilise any chance he gets from now on alongside strumpet, harlot, and clown. Atsumu will have to broaden his own horizons one of these days, invent some new words so Kiyoomi’s head doesn’t get too big.
“My trollop and I will stay, thanks,” Kiyoomi says, immediately proving Atsumu’s point. “Miyo wants us here, remember?”
He sits back down and pulls Atsumu with him. Atsumu follows easily, hikes his legs up to rest upon the back of the seats in front, and leans so that his arm lies along the back of the row and his hand rests idly on Kiyoomi’s far shoulder.
Kiyoomi’s parents look like they want to say more – if Atsumu’s being honest, Kiyoomi’s father looks more like he wants to strangle them both – but they don’t get the chance. The doors open and a woman walks in and whispers something in Mrs. Omi’s ear that irons out the furrow in her brow.
“Ruin this,” she snaps, glaring between them, “and I will call the authorities on the both of you whether Miyo likes it or not. Mark my words.”
They both leave then, through the door instead of returning to their seats, and Atsumu finds out why soon enough. The church hushes, some loud music starts to play, the crowd stands, and then the wedding happens, he supposes.
Like all noble affairs, it’s lengthy and unnecessarily long-winded. People start to filter in wearing dresses of pale fabric. Some carry huge bouquets of flowers, while others throw handfuls of petals on the ground in a colossal waste of flowers. A group of men stand near the altar in coats of stark black against white shirts, and Kiyoomi points to the man with a white corsage attached to his breast and tells Atsumu that’s Miyo’s fiancé, Fukashi.
He’s handsome enough, Atsumu thinks; that he’s already crying is probably what makes him good enough for Miyo.
When Miyo walks in, linked at the arm with her father, Atsumu’s not sure why, but his breath catches in his throat. He’s heard so much of Miyo, talked to her through letters alongside Kiyoomi for months, seen for himself the way Kiyoomi softens when he speaks of her, how much she means to him, how much she supports them.
According to Kiyoomi, she’d refused to invite her own parents to her wedding until they promised to accept the idea of both Kiyoomi and Atsumu being there should they turn up. She’d even gone so far as to personalise invitations and secure safety for the whole damn crew too. Seeing her for the first time, her dark curls, her sweet face, her bright smile, and pretty dress, he thinks maybe he does know why he’s getting choked up after all: he loves her too.
The moment she spots them she halts her walk along the church aisle, dislodges herself from her father and pulls Kiyoomi into a hug. “You came,” she whispers into his shoulder. “I knew you would.”
“Of course I did,” he whispers back. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
When Miyo looks over Kiyoomi’s shoulder at Atsumu he finds himself a little wide-eyed, a little awkward, entirely awestruck. Then then he smiles - how could he not? - because she says, “There you are,” with a smile of her own that creases her eyes like crescent moons and makes Atsumu feel like he’s known her forever.
The moment is fleeting; Kiyoomi’s father tugs her along, and she relinquishes her grip of Kiyoomi to continue walking.
“She’s beautiful,” Atsumu tells him.
“I know,” Kiyoomi replies.
They sit, and everything turns quiet save for the droning voice of that old guy in the robes as he talks some nonsense Atsumu doesn’t understand. Atsumu leans his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder through it, and Kiyoomi rests his hand on Atsumu’s thigh without looking away from the front.
Weddings are boring, Atsumu concludes, the longer they sit there and absolutely nothing happens. Hinata and Kageyama’s sworn rival ceremony was more interesting and that was three solid hours of them arguing, though Atsumu supposes he had considerably more alcohol in his system for that and a pistol he could point at them when they got too loud.
The only part of it that makes him sit back up is when Miyo and Fukashi start reciting why they love each other. Atsumu finds out what real poetry sounds like when Miyo speaks. He suddenly becomes hyperaware of Kiyoomi at his side as she tells the room with flowery words why Fukashi is the love of her life, because everything she says makes Atsumu want to climb up onto the seats and profess the same about him. Makes him want to embarrass himself, makes him want to sing even though Kiyoomi still tells him his voice could do terrible things like scare babies or start plagues.
Maybe weddings aren’t all that boring, actually, Atsumu overwrites his previous conclusion to conclude. If he axes the ugly music, throws out the lengthy speeches by religious strangers and cuts to the part where he forces his family to listen to him ramble about Kiyoomi, maybe he’ll have one of his own one day. Though he doesn’t need a church for that, he can just climb the rigging and do it any day he likes. Osamu would probably tell him he does that enough already after he has more than one cup of rum, but considering Osamu still hasn’t found a way love Suna honestly, his opinions on the matter mean less to Atsumu than a tubeworm.
Miyo and Fukashi kiss, and it’s prissy and chaste yet nonetheless cute, and then they’re walking outside together while everyone cheers and throws more flower petals at them.
“You okay?” Atsumu shouts over the sound of loud church bells when he glances over at Kiyoomi and finds his eyes glassy.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi says with a smile, and Atsumu believes him this time.
They hang about forever waiting for a chance to talk to Miyo before they leave. Seemingly endless hordes of people crowd her and Fukashi to extend their well-wishes and kiss their hands with kind words.
Kiyoomi leads Atsumu beneath the gentle shade of a tree again as they wait for the mob to thin, and he enlightens Atsumu with gossip he’s picked up of the guests over the years from the corners of ballrooms and shadows of soirees. He doesn’t know anybody’s names, just faces and dark, dirty secrets spoken drunkenly in assumed secrecy.
“He’s having an affair with a duchess,” Kiyoomi tells him, pointing to a stout guy wearing a garish orange coat and a wonky moustache.
“No shit,” Atsumu says with some surprise. “Lookin’ as ugly as that?”
Kiyoomi nods. “His hair isn’t real either.”
That’s no surprise. It’s looking a little lopsided now, like a strong breeze might carry it off into the clouds.
“Their whole family is completely bankrupt,” Kiyoomi says, pointing out a group wearing arguably the most expensive-looking coats and dresses of the entire congregation. “The father gambled their fortune at the races but claims he was scammed so that his wife doesn’t file for divorce. They pretend otherwise but everybody knows.”
“Damn, nobles are somethin’ else. At least we’re upfront ‘bout our crimes. Wave flags to say we’re comin’.” Atsumu glances around and points out a woman with long blonde hair and a saccharine smile. She seems innocent enough. “What about her?”
“Ah,” Kiyoomi says. “More speculation than gossip, I suppose, but I’m certain she murdered her husband.”
“What?”
Kiyoomi hums and brings up a hand to his mouth to speak behind it. “I was studying poisons and herbs at the time he died,” he says and Atsumu listens raptly. “She always carried a faint scent of belladonna about her, even at the funeral.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi shrugs. “Nobody liked him anyway. It’s probably why nobody’s so much as batted an eyelid since, glad to finally be rid of him.”
“Jesus, Omi,” Atsumu balks. He stares at the woman, at the way she laughs so nonchalantly, smiles so warmly, acts so—
“I’m kidding,” Kiyoomi snorts. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“Wh—” Atsumu pushes his arm and frowns. “You good for nothin’ lyin’ bastard.”
Kiyoomi pushes him back. “Gullible trollop.”
“Motherfucker.”
“If I had a gold coin for each time you’ve called me that these last few weeks, I’d have a larger horde than Ukai,” Kiyoomi drones. “You’re going soft on me.”
When Kiyoomi moves his arm to elbow him, Atsumu catches it and pulls him closer instead, slips his hand into Kiyoomi’s coat to rest upon the small of his back. Fuck noble attire, Atsumu laments as he does so. He can’t feel the dip of Kiyoomi’s spine through all the layers of fabric, not like he usually can through the loose-fitting shirts Kiyoomi wears aboard the ship, the ones that make it so terribly easy for him to press his lips to Kiyoomi’s skin.
Later, when they’re face to face, moments away from sleep, Atsumu will tell Kiyoomi the reason his insults are lacking is because his brain is too full of reasons to love him.
Now, he hums as he runs his other hand down Kiyoomi’s arm to join their hands and says, “As you wish it, milord.”
Atsumu starts to recite the long, long, long list of vulgar expletives he usually reserves for Hoshiumi and Osamu, the one that starts with fuckin’ ends with cocksucker and turns the air blue somewhere in the middle.
Atsumu doesn’t reach the end though, Kiyoomi uses his other hand to cover Atsumu’s mouth and he’s about to complain about the fact that’s what Kiyoomi asked for, when he spots him breaking into a smile and saying, “Miyo.”
Atsumu straightens and whirls around, and she’s bounding over, one hand securing the crown of flowers atop her curls, the other holding the front of her dress up so that she doesn’t trip over it.
“Fukashi is keeping them busy,” she calls. “I couldn’t wait to see you any longer!”
Miyo pulls them both into a hug as soon as she’s close enough and Atsumu can smell all sorts of pleasantly floral things on the breeze she brings. She leans back and cups a face each with a daintily lace-gloved hand, the gold of her new ring cold against Atsumu’s cheek. “Look at you both,” she says. “You look wonderful!”
“Pale in comparison to you, milady,” Atsumu says with an affected accent, a flourish of his hand and the same bow that’s been pissing people off all day. Miyo doesn’t choke when she sees him do it though, she giggles, and lets Atsumu take her hand to bestow a kiss upon it.
Kiyoomi doesn’t stop him this time.
“Many congratulations,” he says, as he straightens.
“Thank you, Atsumu,” she says. “It is so delightful to finally meet you!” Her other hand settles on top of his and she finds his eye. “Thank you for keeping my little brother safe. For making him so happy.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you heard what he just called me,” Kiyoomi scoffs.
“How ‘bout ya shut yer trap while the pretty lady’s talkin’ Omi,” Atsumu says without peeling his gaze from Miyo’s. He doesn’t need to be looking at Kiyoomi to know that earns an eye roll.
Miyo turns to Kiyoomi as she tilts Atsumu’s head left and right by his chin. “Your letters have done him no justice,” she tells him. “He’s far brighter in person.”
“Remain blissful in your ignorance, Miyo,” Kiyoomi sighs. “Spend more than a few moments with him and you’ll realise there’s a whole lot more I’ve failed to mention.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” she says with mischief in her smile. “You’d have to be something quite extraordinary to keep up with Kiyoomi. I can see you are that and more. It’s why he adores you so dearly. Why he can’t stand to be away from you for more than a day.”
Something about that makes Atsumu’s chest clench, makes his throat close, makes his teeth worry his lip to stop it wobbling. Maybe it’s the amount of tangible love in the air, maybe it’s the wedding, maybe it’s the way Kiyoomi’s looking at him – maybe it’s all three.
“Oh dear, don’t cry,” Miyo says, wiping a tear away before it gets the chance to spill over. Kiyoomi – the bastard – laughs.
“I’m not cryin’,” Atsumu says with a sniff. “I’m just allergic to apple trees, s’all.”
“He’s not,” Kiyoomi says, winding an arm around Atsumu’s waist. Kiyoomi’s fingers press into his side, a comforting pressure that feels like a whole flurry of words without him saying a single reassuring thing. “He’s a habitual liar.”
“Well I think he’s charming,” Miyo says, patting Atsumu’s cheek. “And so do your letters.”
Atsumu’s never felt so overwhelmed with affection, never felt such softness after a life spent on rough seas. Sure his family love him, but they show it by ribbing him or putting their lives on the line for him, not calling him sweet names and holding him like he’s made of something precious.
Miyo eventually lets him go once he coughs out the emotion and straightens out a little. She looks between them both. “Are your friends still attending this evening?”
“You’ll be hard pressed to keep them away,” Kiyoomi says. “They’ve not shut up about it since the invitation arrived.”
“I can’t wait!” she says with a muffled clap. “Fukashi and I were talking about how boring these sorts of events can be. How forgettable. We’ll be counting on you to liven it up a little. Make it a night to remember.”
Atsumu thinks Miyo should probably be careful what she wishes for. Bokuto’s bringing Kenma, Akaashi, and Kuroo, Hoshiumi’s choreographed what he thinks is a waltz that he wants to try with both bride and groom, and Hinata’s insistent on bringing his knives to demonstrate his juggling trick despite literally everyone trying to convince him otherwise. Not to mention Atsumu’s never taken Osamu somewhere where food has been served and left without a warning from the offended chef not to return.
“I have been… advised not to ‘cause a scene’ once already,” Kiyoomi says. “Don’t expect too much.”
Miyo’s expression darkens, and Atsumu sees even more of Kiyoomi in her, aside from their identical curls and beautiful mole-marked skin. He sees stubbornness and resilience.
“I gave you my word, Kiyoomi. You are free to do and act as you please. I encourage it. All of you. I don’t want you to have to hide yourself ever again. I want you to feel as free tonight as you do on the water, I want to see you smiling as—Oh dear, now you’re crying! It seems I’ve made everyone cry today but myself, how funny!”
“I’m not crying,” Kiyoomi says thickly. “That asshole’s apple blossom allergies are just contagious.”
Miyo rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, deny it all you like. I should probably go and save Fukashi now. But I will see you both later, and I want you both to promise me a dance!”
Atsumu thinks that’s probably the least he can offer in return for her beautiful acceptance.
They cling to each other on the carriage ride back to the inn. Atsumu can’t seem to hold Kiyoomi tight enough, and Kiyoomi might very well be better off sitting on Atsumu’s lap.
“Thank you,” Kiyoomi says to him after he closes the inn door and joins Atsumu in lying down on the bed.
Atsumu turns on his side to face him, leans a cheek in the palm of his hand and raises a brow with their faces inches apart. “For what?” he asks. If anything, Atsumu should be thanking him: he has far more to be grateful for.
“I’m not even sure,” Kiyoomi says with a breathless huff. “Being you. Loving me. Everything.”
Atsumu kisses him. Because he can, because he’s wanted to all day, because he thinks he might die if he doesn’t. It feels as tentative and soft as their fist kiss rather than their billionth, but unlike the first time, it doesn’t escalate into panting and groping. It remains quiet and assured, just a simple meeting of lips, tongues moving in wordless tandem to the ticking of the nearby clock. It makes every hair on Atsumu’s body stand on end, makes his toes curl inside his boots, makes his cheeks feel warm and his pulse beat steadily in his ears.
“So you do know the meaning of ‘just a little bit’,” Kiyoomi murmurs against his lips.
“Never said I didn’t,” Atsumu grins. “S’just that a little bit of you is never enough.”
His laugh is a huff of breath that tickles Atsumu’s skin and makes him shiver. “I think Miyo likes you more than she does me,” Kiyoomi says.
Atsumu thinks that’s impossible, but— “S’only fair.” He reaches out and tucks a stray curl behind Kiyoomi’s ear. He’s grown it a little recently, the way Atsumu likes it, the way that sometimes forces him to tie it back so that it doesn’t tickle his neck. “Samu definitely likes ya more than me.”
“Osamu called me a bastard last night.”
It’s Atsumu’s turn to laugh. He captures Kiyoomi’s lips to suppress it, smiles against Kiyoomi’s mouth. “You gotta know by now that’s a Miya term of endearment.”
Kiyoomi hums. “Like motherfucker?”
Atsumu hums back. “S’pecially motherfucker.”
There’s a shuffle of fabric and movement as Kiyoomi tugs his gloves off and throws them aside. He doesn’t remove his mouth from Atsumu’s as he does so, and then he’s resting a soft hand on Atsumu’s cheek, pulling Atsumu closer and simultaneously rolling away slightly until Atsumu’s sitting atop him, leaning down to keep them both connected.
Kiyoomi is slow and methodical in undressing Atsumu; he loosens his cravat with expertly deft fingers, pops the buttons of his waistcoat teasingly, helps him shrug his way out of his coat so slowly Atsumu can feel the drag of fabric against his skin through his shirt and it’s somehow more intense than the times Kiyoomi’s torn his clothes from him in a frenzied passion.
Kiyoomi doesn’t undress him entirely, however. He leaves Atsumu’s shirt and waistcoat hanging open just enough so he can press his hand against Atsumu’s sternum, smooth over his pectorals, dip down to his abdomen, press a kiss to his clavicle and huh, maybe Atsumu remembers a lot more from Kiyoomi’s biology lessons than he thought.
With a kiss to Kiyoomi’s palm, Atsumu moves Kiyoomi’s hand away so that he can start a lecture of his own. Unlike Atsumu, Kiyoomi is always an attentive student; he arches up so that Atsumu can remove his cravat easier, manoeuvres himself easily out of his coat, and guides Atsumu’s clumsy fingers when they fumble a little too long with buttons.
“No marks above the shirt line,” Kiyoomi tells him on an exhale.
“Hm?” Atsumu inquires as he mouths at Kiyoomi’s throat. “But what if it’s yer turn to be the thievin’ little trollop?” He complies anyway and moves down to his collarbone. “The insatiable harlot?” His chest. “The hopeless strumpet.”
“I’ll never—ah—I’ll never play the part better than you,” he hisses, tightening his grip on Atsumu’s thigh as he moves lower still and presses a kiss below Kiyoomi’s navel.
“We’ll see ‘bout that,” Atsumu says, fingers dancing atop the skin of his abdomen, trailing lower until they arrive upon his belt. “Let’s try holdin’ a little audition, yeah?”
Atsumu barely gets the buckle of Kiyoomi’s belt loose before there’s a knock against the door making him sigh and sit back.
“Yo!” Hoshiumi’s voice carries through the wood. “Are you back yet?”
“Yeah!” Atsumu responds impatiently over his shoulder. “Whatcha want?”
Hoshiumi pauses for a while. “Are you two fucking again?”
They’ve been walked in on and interrupted enough times for that not to mortify either of them anymore. When Atsumu gets really irked, or when the Anti-Atsumu faction get a little bold, he doesn’t bother trying to stifle his moans aboard the ship either, and that pisses everyone off more than any prank ever could. Sometimes he fakes it when they’re cuddling, when Kiyoomi’s reading to him, just so that they don’t get disturbed. Evidently he’s been doing it too much, if the thought alone is no longer threat enough to keep Hoshiumi away.
“Not yet,” he calls. “Why? Wanna join in?”
There’s a huge thud. One that’s definitely the sound of Hoshiumi violently kicking the door. “No!” he yells. “I just wanted to ask what time we were leaving!”
“The same time I told you yester-fucking-day,” Kiyoomi snaps. “And the forty-eight consecutive days preceding that!”
“Alright! Keep your dick on Count Sakusa!”
There’s another pause. One long enough for Atsumu to think Hoshiumi’s finally fucked off. He moves back in to capture Kiyoomi’s lips, kisses him once, twice, three times, and then—
“Bokuto’s asking if he can bring the birds too?”
Atsumu feels Kiyoomi sigh into his mouth, not in a sexy way, but in an I’m going to headbutt Hoshiumi kind of way. Which… is still kind of sexy actually now that Atsumu thinks about it.
“He could find a feral dog on the street and bring it for all I care,” Kiyoomi says through gritted teeth.
Atsumu knows that’s his dick talking – Kiyoomi would sooner die than let Bokuto touch a rabid animal. It makes Hoshiumi shuffle away though, and then Kiyoomi’s pulling him back in, seemingly having forgotten his own lessons in patience by biting at Atsumu’s lip and palming him through his breeches.
“I dunno what yer—ah, shit—talkin’ bout, Omi,” he gasps, bucking his hips when Kiyoomi squeezes a little too hard. “Yer playin’ the part of a harlot just fine. Could stand to project a little louder maybe.”
“You’re loud enough for the both of us.”
“Don’t mean I don’t wanna hear your—”
“Omi-san! How do I tie a bowtie? Kageyama’s saying I’ve done it wrong and I’m finding it hard to breathe!”
“Try tying it tighter,” Kiyoomi seethes.
“That would probably kill me, Omi-san!”
Atsumu thinks Kiyoomi will probably kill Hinata himself if he doesn’t start taking the hint.
“Why are you even gettin’ dressed now?” Atsumu asks. “We have five more hours!”
“Aaah! Sorry! I’m excited! Ushiwaka-san’s been dressed since nine, so I thought I was running late, and Hoshiumi said you weren’t busy! He said you’d be happy to help!”
Kiyoomi lets out one final sigh and Atsumu knows that means he’s giving up on getting off. It’s only a matter of time before someone else comes knocking or Bokuto comes barging in or a bird comes flying through the damn window. Atsumu rolls off him with a laugh, and somehow, watching him furiously button his shirt back up to help Hinata with something as stupid as a bowtie doesn’t feel like as much of a loss as it should.
Five hours pass in the blink of an eye. Aside from Ushijima and Bokuto (who’s had Kuroo and Akaashi fussing over him all afternoon) Kiyoomi’s spent most of it helping everyone with at least one item of unfamiliar noble clothing and Atsumu’s done nothing but sit by and watch and laugh. Because Atsumu kind of loves watching Kiyoomi, especially recently, now that he’s become familiar enough with the crew to touch and talk to them like they’re related by blood. If it’s even possible, Atsumu falls in love with Kiyoomi a little bit more every time he finds him learning to cook with Osamu, or puzzle solving with Ushijima, or humouring Hoshiumi with chess.
“I told you all you didn’t have to wear any of this shit,” Kiyoomi says as he reassembles a scowling Kageyama’s cravat for the second time.
“But we want to, Omi-san,” Hinata says, bouncing around the inn’s lobby and clicking the heels of his dress shoes together. “It’s fun! I feel like a king!”
Kiyoomi doesn’t question that. He probably knows better than anybody that it’s because they all want to make an effort for him (and want an excuse to wear the fuck tons of treasure they found last year. Hoshiumi’s insistent on wearing a crown.).
He’s grateful they all care enough about Kiyoomi to do that for him, but Atsumu can’t control the ugly laugh that escapes him when he sees Osamu round the corner with his waistcoat buttoned wrong. In their twenty-four years shared alive Atsumu’s never seen him without a food stain on his ratty shirts, never mind one with frills poking out at the neck and wrists. Over the ensuing rest of their lives, Atsumu will neither forgive nor forget how hard Osamu had laughed the first time Atsumu had donned a nobleman’s shirt.
“The fuck’re you laughin’ at, scrub?”
“You ya fuckin’ idiot. You button that drunk?”
Osamu looks down and scowls. “Shit,” he says, fingers fumbling to undo the mess.
“Maybe you should have asked Suna to help you,” Kiyoomi drawls over his shoulder.
“Ha, yeah,” Atsumu scoffs. “Shame yer too much of a—”
Atsumu stops dead when he catches sight of the blush colouring his brother’s cheeks. It’s not the ordinary, stupid, ugly, embarrassed blush he wears because everyone – even Suna – knows how ridiculously infatuated he is. It’s a different kind of blush, the same kind Atsumu used to wear during the weeks following his first kiss with Kiyoomi.
He doesn’t need twin telepathy to know what that means.
Osamu swallows visibly when he catches Atsumu staring. “What?”
“Oh my god,” Atsumu says, tripping over himself to cross the room and plant his hands on Osamu’s shoulders. He searches his eyes, and when Osamu refuses to meet them, when Atsumu spots a patch of reddened skin beneath his jaw that looks suspiciously like it’s been bitten, he knows it’s the end of an incredibly irritating era, the dawning of a new age, liberation from a lifetime of pathetic pining. “Call the fuckin’ town crier!” he chokes out, shaking Osamu like a rag doll. “It’s a goddamn miracle.”
Hinata cocks his head at them. “What is, Atsumu-san?”
“Suna did button his shirt,” Atsumu says, throwing an arm around Osamu’s shoulders to pull him into a sloppy hug and pointing to his embarrassed face. “Right after Samu was through fuckin’ his brains out! Ain’t that right, champ?”
Osamu throws a sharp, nasty elbow into Atsumu’s stomach that makes him cough and wheeze, but it’s worth it.
When the usual denial doesn’t follow, every available member of the crew stares at him in blank-faced shock. It takes a little while before it sinks in, and who can blame them, really? Osamu’s been in love with Suna since he was thirteen, since before he even knew what the word meant. Everyone else has known Suna loves him back since they were fifteen, when they all thought it just meant they wanted to kiss each other.
Atsumu’s impulsive, impatient brain will never be able to fully understand why Osamu decided to make Suna wait so long, why he’s wasted years of precious time. He’d wanted to strangle him and his excuses the month he was suffering without Kiyoomi, but he’s here now, and Atsumu’s going to cry for the second time today because supposes he’ll have to find new ways to make fun of his dumb brother.
As it clicks, Hinata and Hoshiumi rush over with screams and yells to pat Osamu’s back and ruffle his hair. The commotion summons Bokuto from two floors away, who by extension brings Kuroo and Akaashi and Kenma and his three noisy parrots, Banana, Tomato, and Cabbage.
“Couldn’t you have waited a few thousand more years?” Kiyoomi says, though there’s no mistaking the surprised relief raising his brows. “I had ‘the end of time’ in the betting pool.”
“Fuck you,” Osamu grumbles.
“Hey, hey! I’m so proud of you Myaa-Sam!” Bokuto wraps him in a hug, suffocates him in the frills of his jabot. “I knew a wedding would inspire you! Though I thought it would be Tsumu’s and Sakusa’s that would give you the push.”
Atsumu’s heart does a thousand consecutive somersaults at the mere idea of calling Kiyoomi his husband; it grows wings and flies the moment he catches Kiyoomi’s eye and feels the warmth in his smile from across the room, a smile that says, me too.
Atsumu would marry him right now if he could, under the dim light of flickering candles, surrounded by stained tables and rickety old chairs, though Kiyoomi would probably deny him, start another lecture on impatience and organise something a little more practical.
When Suna walks in, grinning from ear to ear, a happy flush to his cheeks, a skip to his step, and an uncharacteristically straight spine, it’s to a hero’s welcome. Atsumu wraps him in a hug, pats his hair and tells him with a watery smile “Bravely fought, soldier.”
“We did it, comrade,” Suna says. He thumps Atsumu’s back in return. “Now we shall both eat like kings.”
“You’d better be talkin’ ‘bout his food, Sunarin,” Atsumu tells him with a smile.
“I’m definitely not,” Suna replies, and Atsumu wants to cry again.
It takes five carriages to transport them all to the manor house. Before Ukai’s Island, they’d have insisted on walking the forty-minute journey to save money before considering paying a taxi fare – now they throw gold coins around like they’re bronze, tip so generously the drivers are left awestruck on their benches.
“Dunno what he’s thanking me for,” Bokuto says as the carriage pulls away to park elsewhere. “He’s gonna need that tip to clean all the bird shit from the seats.”
Akaashi’s grimace, Kenma’s laugh, and Kuroo’s balled up coat tell Atsumu that’s not the joke he wishes it was.
Kiyoomi brandishes their invite at the gate and settles his hand around Atsumu’s waist to lead them all inside, a determination to his step that was decidedly absent at the wedding earlier despite how many times Kiyoomi had said he wasn’t nervous.
The place is huge; bigger than Kiyoomi’s estate. The gardens are overtaken with gazebos and enormous displays of flowers and sculpted topiary, and Atsumu can hear orchestral music carrying over the light summer breeze, the distant murmur of guests chattering, and the splash of numerous fountains.
The guests are all concentrated there, milling about with flutes of champagne. Atsumu almost laughs as he takes it all in, because Kiyoomi really wasn’t joking when he said noble parties were stagnant. It feels as though he could hear a pin drop over the dry atmosphere.
“Where are all of the half-naked bards?” Suna jokes as they carve a path across mown grass to enter the tedious fray.
“Get him drunk enough and Tetsu will show you!” Bokuto jeers.
A few turn to Kiyoomi to gauge his reaction, waiting for admonishment or the warning to behave. When it doesn’t come, Atsumu sees the cogs turning in their heads - especially Hoshiumi’s and Bokuto’s – watches them stand a little taller and speak a little louder.
More heads turn as they enter the party – not the crew’s this time, but the heads of shocked nobles as gossip starts to spread like wildfire. Atsumu supposes no amount of lace or silk or velvet can hide their true nature; one look is all it takes for them to know they don’t truly belong here.
Kiyoomi hails down a butler, takes the whole tray of champagne from him and starts handing them out, two glasses each to start the evening with the right kind of buzz. Hinata and Kageyama race to finish theirs first, Akaashi and Kenma hand their extras off to Kuroo, and Hoshiumi hits both of his against each other in such a vigorous toast that he smashes them and darkens the pale blue of his tailcoat with stains.
For the first hour they do behave of their own volition: they emulate other social circles and stand amongst themselves, talking loudly about other guests, laughing, and joking. Atsumu and Kiyoomi keep their hands around each other’s waists, free hands always nursing a drink of some sort, be it champagne, or wine, or whiskey.
Miyo finds them as the music starts to pick up, as nobles start to loosen their own corsets a little and dance prudishly with one another under the setting sun.
“I simply had to follow the trail of scandalised chatter to find you, Kiyoomi!” she laughs as she approaches. “It didn’t take me long to—Oh my.”
The whole crew drop to one knee before her, heads bowed, hands outstretched and ready to take hers just like Atsumu taught them when Kiyoomi wasn’t looking.
“Oh god,” Kiyoomi groans.
With a delighted giggle, Miyo listens to and blushes beneath each offer of congratulations and heartfelt compliment as they press kisses to her gloved hand.
Atsumu takes her hand last with a wink. “Thank you for having us all,” he says.
“The pleasure is mine!” she says, fanning at her own face. “What a handsome bunch. I came to ask for a dance, but I find myself spoiled for choice!”
“Me first!” Hoshiumi says, shouldering his way to the front and bowing.
“I will pay you to stop doing that,” Kiyoomi pleads a little desperately.
“Leave him be, Kiyoomi,” Miyo teases, taking Hoshiumi’s proffered hand.
“Yeah Kiyoomi,” Hoshiumi mocks with a childish poke of his tongue. “Leave me be.”
The night only grows louder from that moment on. As more drinks pass their lips, they branch off to do as they please, to explore the gardens, to satisfy the curiosity of nobles brave enough to approach with conversation. Atsumu watches his family with a heart fit to bursting; Kuroo and Akaashi talking animatedly to some guy who looks intimidatingly intelligent, Kenma standing on Bokuto’s feet to be whisked around in a dance, Osamu pressing a kiss to Suna’s cheek with the widest smile on his face, Ushijima twirling Miyo around the dancefloor like a prince from a novel, Hinata and Hoshiumi keeping an already obliterated Kageyama on his feet and out of the fountain.
The weight of Kiyoomi’s hand disappears from the small of Atsumu’s back, and he turns to find out why. Kiyoomi puts down his flute of champagne and tucks one hand behind his back, extending the other outward in an invitation.
“Dance with me?”
Atsumu grins at him. “Yer bowin’ all wrong, sweetheart.”
“I am not bowing wrong. Dance with me, trollop.”
He drains the last of his drink and settles it down next to Kiyoomi’s. “How can I refuse an offer that charmin’? Sure. I’ll fuckin’ dance with ya.”
It’s nothing like the dance they shared at the festival last year. It’s closer, more intimate, and Kiyoomi keeps hold of one of his hands and settles the other on his waist rather than looping them around his neck.
The music is slow as Kiyoomi leads him around the outdoor ballroom, and his eyes only ever leave Atsumu’s to check they aren’t about to careen into other dancing pairs. “How is it that you make even the most difficult of things seem easy?” he asks as they slow to a sway, rather than continue attempting to waltz. “I’ve never danced at a party before now. The weight of stares and the thought of so many surrounding bodies used to nauseate me.” He picks his hand up from Atsumu’s waist and rests it at his jaw. “Now it feels as though you are the only one here.”
“When I was eighteen,” Atsumu tells him. “I paid a witch to put a spell on me, to make me even more irresistible than I already am. She said she only had enough power to make it work on the love of my life. Maybe that’s how.”
Kiyoomi laughs, probably because he thinks Atsumu is joking, mostly because he’s well on his way to being hopelessly drunk.
Atsumu feels his head being tilted back, then Kiyoomi is leaning down to kiss him, just a peck of the lips that breaks with his smile. “I love you,” Kiyoomi says. “More with each passing minute.”
Over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, Atsumu catches the hardened gaze of Kiyoomi’s parents watching them. They’ve made a point of steering clear of the crew all night, keeping Kiyoomi’s grandmother company as she sulks. He can see their mouths working furiously around words now, none of which are likely nice, so he brings his own hands to Kiyoomi’s face and kisses him again. “However much ya love me,” he says. “I love ya just as much and more.”
“S’not a competition,” Kiyoomi frowns, alcohol slurring his words.
Atsumu hums. “I know,” he says. “But I’m s’posed to be lovin’ ya enough for twenty, remember?”
Kiyoomi blinks at him and then something softens in his gaze. He pulls Atsumu in until they’re just gently swaying, leaning on each other in a hug. “Just you is enough,” Kiyoomi murmurs into his ear.
They don’t need to cause a scene; their presence alone is loud enough to constitute a scandal, but as the night crawls on and Miyo returns from more conversation with guests, she finds Atsumu and whisks him away for another dance.
“I’m terribly bored,” she says. “Fukashi looks as though he’s about to fall asleep, poor thing.”
Atsumu looks over her shoulder where Fukashi is sitting with Kiyoomi’s father, eyes struggling to stay open mid-conversation. The whole party has muted somewhat; even the crew have found a quiet rhythm of conversation. Osamu and Suna have been chatting with Komori, Ushijima’s been talking to Kiyoomi’s attractive brother Ichirou about ships for fucking eons, and to absolutely nobody’s surprise, Kiyoomi’s been getting on well with Akaashi, sitting around a white-clothed table, talking about medical stuff Atsumu will never understand.
The party could use a little fire, if Atsumu is completely honest.
He hums in agreement. “Omi wasn’t lyin’ when he said these events were nothin’ like pirate parties.”
Miyo chuckles. “What are they like?” she asks. “Pirate parties.”
“Loud,” he says. “Indecent. Hasn’t been a good one unless ya end up wishin’ you were dead the next mornin’.”
It’s Miyo’s turn to hum. She leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. “Can I ask something quite selfish of you?”
“Anythin’ ya like,” Atsumu tells her. “It’s yer special day. I’d bring ya the moon if I could reach it.”
“Goodness, you are a charmer,” she laughs, and Atsumu makes a point to remember that for the next time Kiyoomi disagrees. “It’s likely I won’t see any of you for a long while after tonight,” she says. “I think I’d quite enjoy experiencing a real pirate party. Do you think you can make that happen?”
“In less than five minutes,” Atsumu grins.
With a mischievous grin of her own, she runs away to fetch Fukashi and Atsumu gets to work immediately, passing out more glasses of champagne to the crew as he gathers them in. “Miyo wants a real party,” he tells them. “We’re gonna give her one. That alright, Omi?”
Kiyoomi lifts his glass with a slow blink and a sloppy shrug. He’s gotten considerably more drunk after being cornered by his parents and grandmother a while ago while Atsumu was busy dancing, though Atsumu’s sure it wasn’t as bad a conversation as the last time. His grandmother even smiled. “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
“A real party?” Bokuto asks so loudly Kenma winces next to him. “Like, a real one? An us one?”
“A real one,” Atsumu confirms.
They shrug off their coats and put down their drinks; Atsumu plucks Kiyoomi’s from his unrelenting hand and replaces it with his palm to drag him back over to the where some couples are still dancing.
They’re lit by oil lanterns now, rather than the waning evening sun, and they all join hands with loud, excitable cheers to form a large circle as Bokuto starts up a familiar shanty over the droning sound of classical orchestra.
It’s a song Atsumu’s sung since he was a kid, a song that’s popular in taverns across the continent, a song that even drunkards can remember most of the words to. With their hands all joined, they sing loudly as they follow the instructive lyrics – they run inwards together and run back out, like a pulsating heartbeat of bodies bright with laughter. They skip their circle clockwise, then the next verse tells them to skip the other way. They raise their arms in the motion of a tumultuous, messy wave, they clap to the beats, go in again and out again and laugh and sing and it’s warm and Atsumu can’t stop smiling because Kiyoomi’s laughing and Miyo’s laughing even harder and it feels a little like magic.
The more fun they look as though their having, the larger the circle becomes with nobles drunk enough to cast aside their inhibitions. Even Ichirou joins in, clasping hands with Miyo and his wife. When the song starts up the second time, more people catch onto the simple lyrics, and the orchestra improvises an upbeat tune to accompany it. Sometimes, couples will dip into the centre of the circle and dance together – Bokuto starts the tradition first, dragging Kuroo in to twist each other around and dip each other dangerously as the circle continues to spin and laugh and sing around them.
For the first time ever, Osamu drags Suna into one, looks the damn fucking happiest he has in years and Atsumu thinks he might explode. He definitely does when Kiyoomi pulls him into the middle before Atsumu even thinks about turning to ask. Drunk out of his goddamn mind, Kiyoomi almost drops Atsumu as he whirls him around, does when he attempts the same kind of dip Bokuto tried with Kuroo, but it’s fine, because Kiyoomi falls on top of him and kisses him like nobody is watching before helping him back to his feet.
They finish up with Miyo and Fukashi, let theirs go on with an encore that’s undoubtedly woken Fukashi up and put a huge smile on his face.
The circle stays and becomes something of a makeshift amphitheatre as a new song starts up. Those in the circle clap to a steady rhythm, while performers step into the middle and expose ridiculous talents. Hinata goes first this time – he pulls out his knives to everyone’s dismay and concern. His juggling act goes down a treat however. He gets the whole crowd cheering as he throws them high in the air and catches them expertly, earning oohs and aahs as he flirts with death. Bokuto gets the parrots to sing, Hoshiumi walks around on his hands, Kageyama stands spaced out for forty-five seconds thinking he’s doing the same thing and nobody has the heart to tell him otherwise.
Attendants bring around so much alcohol even Atsumu hits his tolerance, and he drags Osamu into the middle to showcase their twin telepathy to the uncultured masses. It’s a trick they’ve performed plenty of times before, by pretending to think of and guess predetermined words like they were spontaneous.
A noble guy Atsumu doesn’t know the name of joins in. He starts singing an operatic piece at the top of his lungs, and the crew lose their minds, warbling along with him like a chorus of dying cats, of which Atsumu is the lead singer. Ichirou’s wife takes off her shoes and performs something out of a ballet, Ushijima gets so demolished he attempts a jerky old jig that almost makes Suna pass out he’s so overcome with laughter, and Kiyoomi – Kiyoomi looks like he’s having fun. Even here, surrounded by nobles, wearing his ruffled shirt at a party full of people, a sight Atsumu didn’t think possible. He’s not scowling, not even a little bit.
Atsumu slings an arm around his shoulder. Kiyoomi smiles and returns it with a tight gripped one of his own as the games devolve into more dancing – the upbeat, dizzying, groping kind – then devolve again when Miyo picks up a handful of heavily frosted cake and throws it at Fukashi.
It’s a mess from there. The nobles too scared of what’s happening – the ones too old to see beyond scandal, the ones that disapprove so heavily Atsumu can hear the clicks of their tongues through the noise - escape inside the manor while food flies across the gardens and stains expensive coats and dresses alike.
Clothes disappear or get soaked in fountain water as they climb in, birds squawk, people sing and laugh and shout – like it’s a real pirate party. Like they’re all tucked into the cosy walls of a tavern rather than outside in the open air of a manor house.
When Atsumu drunkenly kisses Kiyoomi against a cold brick wall, there's jam on his cheek, bread in his hair, and cake beneath his finger nails. He can taste the heat of whiskey and the sugar of frosting on Kiyoomi's tongue. He can feel joy and love in the wide, honest stretch of Kiyoomi's smile against his own.
A lot of things are challenging, Atsumu thinks as he holds him tight. Puzzles, and long words, and shirt buttons.
Loving Kiyoomi – his miraculous soulmate brought to him on the back of the Sea Dragon – is the easiest damn thing in the whole world. The galaxy. The universe. And whatever the fuck else exists beyond that.