Chapter Text
Nothing was becoming too intimate of a word for Sakusa Kiyoomi over the past six months.
“What are you up to?” Nothing.
“What’s bothering you?” Nothing.
“What’s going on between you and Miya?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Hidden glances, barbed insults, hollow threats, accidental touches, that heady tension that thrummed whenever the locker room was empty except for them—nothing. It was nothing, and it meant nothing. If it was more than nothing, then it was no more than harmless fun and petty grievances. It was no more than Miya Atsumu being a general annoyance and menace to his sanity. It was no more than secretly admiring him and publicly telling him to go to hell.
Which all practically amounted to nothing if Kiyoomi were forced to say how much it mattered.
“You’re a bad liar,” his cousin Motoya said over a cup of tea.
“I’m not lying.” He took a sip from his cup and wrinkled his nose. “This is too bitter. I’ll brew something else.”
“Now you’re deflecting,” Motoya said with a sad smile. “Which more than answers my question.”
“You didn’t really ask me a question so much as list a series of inane observations and expect me to corroborate your theories.”
“Pointing out that something is going on between you and your teammate is not a theory,” Motoya said, his eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a fact.”
Komori Motoya was both Kiyoomi’s cousin and one of his only friends, which was the main reason why he wouldn’t throttle him to death and toss his corpse out the window.
“It’s not like you two are subtle,” Motoya continued. “We played each other yesterday, remember? You know I saw—”
“Please shut up,” Kiyoomi hissed.
Kiyoomi didn’t know what was the most damning piece of evidence from their match yesterday. Sure, it began like it always did. They never quite grew out of competing to get the most service aces. Atsumu still called him Omi-kun or Omi-Omi, and Kiyoomi still called him Miya through gritted teeth.
Kiyoomi thought no one saw the small, insignificant moments. He thought no one paid attention to how he never batted away Atsumu’s touch, how he failed to suppress smiles in his presence, or how he let Atsumu tie his shoes.
“Yer shoes are untied, Omi-Omi! Can’t have ya trippin’ on the court—yer already behind me in service aces.”
“I think it’s the other way around.” He began to kneel down, but Atsumu’s outstretched hand stopped him.
“Lemme do it,” Atsumu said with that impish grin, quickly crouching down and grabbing Kiyoomi’s shoelaces.
Kiyoomi tried to kick his hand away. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Atsumu asked with a cocky grin.
When Kiyoomi responded with a disgusted scoff, Atsumu only laughed and steadied Kiyoomi’s foot with both hands. His movements were unbearably slow as he crossed the laces at a snail’s pace.
“Did you forget how to tie shoes? I can teach you.”
“Shut it. Just makin’ sure I do it right. Don’t need my favorite spiker dyin’ on me.”
Favorite spiker. Favorite spiker. Favorite spiker.
Kiyoomi curled his hands into fists and closed his eyes. The sounds from the court dissipated until all that was left were the sounds of their breathing and the warmth where Atsumu grazed Kiyoomi’s leg.
“All done,” Atsumu said.
Kiyoomi braced himself for another one of his annoying shenanigans. Perhaps he tied his shoes together. Perhaps he tied them into a ridiculous, impractical knot. Perhaps he did nothing and made Kiyoomi stand on the court with his eyes closed like an idiot.
When he opened his eyes, his shoes were perfectly tied.
Atsumu was down on one knee, staring up at him with that intoxicating grin and glittering eyes.
Kiyoomi could only stare back, either in awe or in silent horror. Atsumu just looked so good, and what he did was sweet and—
Atsumu’s grinning face softened into one of quizzical eyes and parted lips, and Kiyoomi swallowed a gasp.
Kiyoomi had never been so grateful for their coach yelling for everyone to group up. He walked away from Atsumu without a single remark, and they spent the whole game sharing more silence than words.
“That had to be the most sexually charged shoe-tying I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Motoya.”
His cousin threw his hands in the air. “I’m just saying if I can see it on the other side of the court…”
Motoya’s voice trailed off, and Kiyoomi frowned. “What?”
“It must mean you see it, too.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“You’re going to regret it, you know. This whole denial thing.”
Kiyoomi furrowed his brow. “There’s no denial thing.”
“Kiyoomi,” Motoya said with an exasperated sigh. “If it makes it any better, he’s got it bad for you.”
Kiyoomi shot him a glare, but Motoya was undeterred.
“Denying yourself of what you want is torture,” he said, his voice softer now. “It might feel easy to be in denial now, but what if someone else comes along for him? Would you be okay with that?”
The invisible knife that sliced through his stomach said no. He would never be okay with that.
“I get why you don’t want to. Relationships are hard.”
“Messy,” Kiyoomi corrected him. “Relationships are messy.”
“Only bad relationships are messy. Do you really think a relationship with him would be messy?”
It had everything and nothing to do with Atsumu, and Kiyoomi wasn’t going to bother explaining his very rational, very logical reasoning to his cousin.
Because no one would take him seriously if he said that he avoided romance because everyone in the Sakusa bloodline was cursed in love.
Motoya glanced at his watch and set his empty teacup on the table. He slowly stood up from the table and offered Kiyoomi a sympathetic smile.
“I’m supposed to meet Yukie for dinner, so I should probably head out if I want to make it in time. But don’t think you’re off the hook—this won’t be the last time we talk about this.”
“You’ll get the same answer next time,” Kiyoomi said, setting his cup on the table with an unnecessary amount of force. He winced at the heavy sound of the clattering porcelain. He didn’t want his time with Motoya to be soured by his stubbornness. “How is she?”
Motoya smiled in response. “Good. I’m proposing soon.”
“Congratulations,” Kiyoomi said with an approving nod. “I’ll set aside my dislike of crowds for your wedding, so I look forward to it.”
“I’ll give you a plus one, but only if it’s Miya.” Kiyoomi scowled, and Motoya scurried toward the door. “Sorry! Couldn’t help myself.”
“Right,” Kiyoomi said. “I’ll take my invitation sans plus one. Tell your unlucky girlfriend hello and that you are terribly out of her league.”
“Ouch,” Motoya said, pretending to take offense. “But that’s old news.”
“A reminder may be in order.”
“When will you learn that insulting me won’t stop me from pestering you about this?” Motoya asked as he laced up his boots. “Someone needs to talk some sense into you.”
“You hardly have enough sense for yourself.” Kiyoomi made his way toward the front door and awkwardly stood beside his cousin. “It’s time for you to bother Yukie instead of me.”
“Alright, alright. Still meeting us for dinner in a few weeks? You could bring—”
“Dinner sounds lovely,” Kiyoomi said with a forced smile, swinging the door open and gesturing toward the empty hallway. “Until then, fuck off.”
Motoya laughed and stepped through the doorway. “See you later.”
“Later,” Kiyoomi echoed and promptly began to close the door. Before it could click shut, Motoya pushed his hand against the door hard enough to keep it open by a handful of centimeters.
“At first it made no sense,” Motoya said, his voice muffled by the door between them. “Like Miya? I could see someone more well-mannered like your captain, but Miya? Loud-mouthed, arrogant Miya? I thought you would have murdered him by now.”
Kiyoomi wanted to argue, but he swallowed every insult and disagreement alongside the lump in his throat. All he could do was stare down at the floor.
“But I get it now. In many ways, you two are the same. You’re both prideful. You’re both competitive and relentless and aware of your skill. You’re both blunt to a fault and prioritize volleyball over everything, and as a result, you two have an easier time making enemies than friends. You and Atsumu are terrifying to everyone except to each other, and I think that’s what makes him perfect for you. He’s not terrified of you. He’s excited to be around you, he likes you for who you are, and he’s going to keep challenging you to be better. You could show him all the skeletons in your closet, and he wouldn’t flinch. He’d probably just show you his and make a contest out of it.”
Beneath Kiyoomi, the floor was swimming. A chasm opened beneath his feet and beckoned for him to jump. He toed the horizon of it and considered plunging into the nothingness. He thought about running away, and he thought about dismissing everything Motoya said. He thought about denial, that all-consuming monster that took and took until he had nothing left to give. He thought about what it meant to let go, and he thought about Atsumu.
“Just some food for thought,” Motoya said. “I’ll let you get back to your afternoon.”
Kiyoomi barely registered the sound of the door closing shut. He stood there at the threshold, numbly staring at the floor, at that void within himself, at the naked truth.
Never had Atsumu talked about his bluntness like it was off-putting. Never had Atsumu looked at him with apprehension. Never had Atsumu looked at him and been terrified.
Atsumu looked at him with adoration, and Kiyoomi was starting to look at him that way, too.
Once warmth returned to his board-like limbs, Kiyoomi marched to the cabinet under the kitchen sink and pulled out every cleaning product he could find. If he couldn’t scrub his memory clean of Atsumu’s questioning eyes and pleading mouth, he could at least scour his condo of every imperfection, every speck of dust, and every mess he had ever made.
Fifteen Years Before Falling
Kiyoomi was eight when Motoya became his friend.
They had briefly met before at family gatherings, but their friendship began with a request from his mother. With both of his older siblings out of the house, there was no one left to supervise him when his parents were away on business. His aunt agreed with his mother to keep an eye on Kiyoomi, which meant Motoya was to be both his guardian and companion. His mother sent him to the Komori house with a saccharine smile and the promise that he’d no longer be lonely. Lonely. He found that funny. He had always been alone but had never found fault with it. His siblings’ resentment of him led to neglect, and he was parented by books or by their nosy neighbor, who only asked questions for the sake of gossip. When his parents were home, the house remained eerily quiet except for whispered arguments that grew louder as Kiyoomi aged.
Kiyoomi wasn’t lonely. He was independent, and he lived carefully to avoid drama or forcing his parents home prematurely. He cooked his own meals and prepared his own bento. He completed all of his homework without guidance, and he kept their house clean. Adults praised him for his diligence; his peers ostracized him for being too serious. He liked his way of life. He was not lonely.
He trudged toward the Komori house and sniffed the summer air, sticky and bloated with pollen, with distaste. The front door was slightly ajar, and he could hear a television sports announcer excitedly shouting over a roaring crowd. Before he could knock, the front door swung open and his cousin’s head popped out with a grin.
“Hi!” His messy brown hair was unbrushed and unruly, and his thick eyebrows were raised to his hairline. “My mom said you’d be over today—you remember me, right?”
“Komori Motoya,” Kiyoomi said as if reading off of a teleprompter. “I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
Motoya smiled wider. “Come in. My mom’ll be back soon with stuff for lunch, but we can watch TV until then.”
Kiyoomi stepped inside and removed his shoes. Motoya’s house wasn’t sterile like the Sakusa residence. It was cluttered and loud, and each wall was adorned with family photos and shelves boasting awards and souvenirs. It was lived-in and warm.
“Want some juice?” Motoya asked.
“Water.”
“‘Kay,” his cousin replied with a smile that reached his eyes. He skipped into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a glass of water. Kiyoomi accepted it dubiously, inspecting the glass for smudges or dirt, but took a grateful sip of cool water that washed away the summer heat.
Motoya pointed at the TV with his thumb. “Do you like volleyball?”
“I don’t know anything about it, so I can’t like or dislike it.”
Motoya studied him for a moment before giggling into his fist. He motioned toward the couch, where he plopped down and lazily propped his leg over the side.
He patted the cushion beside him. “You’ll like it. Promise.”
Kiyoomi was unconvinced. Group sports never interested him, and he liked his current routine. His eyes wandered from the television, which was currently showing an advertisement for beer, to a framed photograph squeezed between two uneven stacks of books. Motoya stood at the center of the photograph, surrounded by his parents and two sisters against the backdrop of the ocean. All five of them were tangled in a group hug, their faces aglow with happiness. Kiyoomi could practically hear their laughter over the ocean waves. He could feel their love.
His chest hurt like a hole had been ripped open in the middle of it. It was the first time he felt like he might cry. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t aware he had stumbled into his first lesson on love—of what love could be like if he were someone else. If he weren’t born with the name Sakusa.
“Come on,” Motoya insisted. “You’re going to love it.”
He snapped his head away from the photograph and sat down on the couch, shifting uncomfortably on the cushion before settling into the corner. Motoya watched the television with a giddy smile. Kiyoomi watched a player approach the back perimeter of the court, tossing the ball back and forth in his hands.
Motoya rubbed both of his hands together. “He’s got one of the best serves. Watch.”
The referee’s whistle cut through the cheering crowd, through the sounds of the living room’s box fan and the passing cars outside, through the uneasy beat of Kiyoomi’s heart. The player threw the ball high into the air, ran forward, effortlessly jumped with impressive height, and swung his arm down like an efficient blade. The ball struck the opposite side of the court like a bullet, and the crowd erupted into screams.
“Yes!” Motoya cheered. “Did you see that?”
Kiyoomi’s heartbeat was accustomed to a slow, steady rhythm. Nothing excited him, and nothing made his chest or stomach flutter. He had been stuck in a state of waiting. Waiting for something to motivate him other than duty. Waiting for anything to make his heart quicken, rumble, and soar. Waiting for proof that he was alive, that he wasn’t a scary monster, that he was a child. Waiting to know what it felt like to feel love.
Motoya lightly poked Kiyoomi’s arm. “Wanna play volleyball with me? There’s a camp next month.”
“Yes.” Kiyoomi’s voice had never been so loud or clear. His heart raced as the opposite team received the ball, and the game became a melody of collisions—feet against the court, hand against the ball, the ball against the floor, Kiyoomi’s heart against his ribs. The hole in his chest filled with love for a sport he hadn’t played yet, with a love he knew he could never have with others—but he was happy just to feel it. “I want to play.”
The chasm followed him to practice.
Early morning practice at the MSBY gym was easy; the strength training and endurance exercises didn’t require social interaction, and lifting weights provided a more manageable focal point than thinking about his totally-not-staring-at-him teammate. He focused on the burn and stretch in his muscles, and any Atsumu-related dread floated away.
Then the practice match rolled around, and Kiyoomi was, for probably the first time in his life, functioning at 99% rather than his usual 100.
“Omi!” Atsumu bounded over to him, his skin flushed and dripping with sweat. “What’s goin’ on with ya? Yer hitting’ like a total scrub today.”
Just looking at him made Kiyoomi dizzy. The sweat that trickled down his neck. His blond hair stuck to his forehead. His practice jersey clinging to his chest like it was life or death. His strong legs, the muscles of his thighs, his toned arms, his perfect skin. That lush red mouth. Those eyes. Those warm brown eyes that drove Kiyoomi crazy.
It was easy to ignore his conversation with Motoya when Kiyoomi was busy serving or spiking a ball. It was easy to pretend Kiyoomi didn’t want Atsumu when he was devoting himself fully to his job. It was easy. It was supposed to be easy.
Everything was easy until Kiyoomi met Atsumu. Everything was easy until he saw that beautiful face.
Atsumu cocked his head. “Omi?”
Kiyoomi blinked away his daydreams and narrowed his eyes. “Did you just call me a scrub?”
“I said what I said,'' Atsumu said, his voice abrasive but not unkind. “Yer not yerself today, and I’m givin’ ya nothin’ but perfect tosses.”
Kiyoomi wished he could disagree with him. His tosses were perfect. They were always perfect. Kiyoomi understood why people disliked Atsumu’s arrogance, but he knew that his arrogance was deserved. Kiyoomi had never played with a setter who understood his strengths so fully and who tailored sets with both hunger and ease. Atsumu was the best setter he had ever played with, but he would never admit that to his face.
“It’s none of your business,” Kiyoomi replied coolly.
“It is my business,” Atsumu said, taking a step closer. “As yer setter.”
“Just as my setter?”
The words tumbled out of his mouth with terrifying effortlessness. His tone was daring, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight Atsumu, silence him into oblivion, or even worse.
Kiyoomi stared directly into his eyes and nowhere else. If he looked down at his mouth for even a second, all of his hard work would be for nothing. If he gave in to what he wanted, he would ruin everything. He poured all of his concentration into Atsumu’s eyes, which burned and blinked and finally darted away.
“No,” Atsumu murmured. “Not just as yer setter.”
The chasm was on the verge of swallowing him whole. He felt himself begin to sink into the void, and his anxiety unfurled in his bloodstream in the form of poisonous adrenaline.
“Omi?”
Kiyoomi was wide-eyed and frozen, but before Atsumu could press further or decipher Kiyoomi’s fear, Bokuto appeared from behind with an enthusiastic wave.
“Hey, hey! Tsum-Tsum, are you bullying Sakusa again?”
An awkward silence settled between them. Bokuto waited with bright eyes and an eager smile while Kiyoomi stared blankly at the far wall. Atsumu looked again at Kiyoomi, but this time with a frown.
Kiyoomi reoriented himself to the present. Counting to ten. Deep breaths. Tightening his hands into fists and then letting them go. He couldn’t let this interfere with work. No relationship of his would end well, and he couldn’t afford a mess. If he wanted to keep playing volleyball, he needed his life free of clutter. He needed consistency, and he needed order.
With one long exhale, Kiyoomi filed away those meddlesome emotions for a later date. His face relaxed into its usual indifference, and he acknowledged Bokuto with a small nod.
It was only then that Atsumu faced Bokuto and forced a grin.
“Those are wild accusations, Bokkun. I would never bully our Omi-Omi.”
“True,” Kiyoomi agreed. “Bullying is one-sided. I beat Atsumu all the time.”
Bokuto let out a hearty laugh while Atsumu seemed ready to burst into his usual flurry of complaints and accusations. Instead, he stuck his tongue out playfully at Kiyoomi and gave Bokuto a light smack on the arm.
Kiyoomi couldn’t decide if he wanted to rip that tongue out or taste it.
The chasm beneath him grew wider.
“Just wanted to see if you two were interested in drinks tonight,” Bokuto said, his eyes practically glittering under the fluorescent lights. Kiyoomi already knew where this was going. “Kuroo’s visiting for work, and he’s bringing Akaashi and Kenma. We’re getting drinks at Cherry tonight. Do you wanna join us?”
If Kiyoomi weren’t in such a daze, he would have spat out no immediately. He occasionally forced himself to attend celebratory drinks after games, but this was way out of his comfort zone for two reasons.
One, while Kiyoomi liked Bokuto’s boyfriend Akaashi, he wasn’t sure he could tolerate any displays of affection. Suppressing his feelings toward Atsumu was already difficult enough, and their lovey-doveyness would not help.
Two, Cherry, the team’s bar of choice, just so happened to be only a couple of blocks from his condo, and he hated having to pretend his commute home was longer than it actually was.
“I’m busy tonight,” Kiyoomi said.
“Aw, c’mon, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu whined. “Whatcha busy with on a Wednesday night anyway?”
“None of your business, Miya.”
Kiyoomi couldn’t tell if Atsumu’s frown was from a place of annoyance or genuine hurt. Bokuto only gave an understanding nod.
“Let me know if you change your mind. You in, Tsum-Tsum?”
Atsumu’s eyes slowly drifted from Kiyoomi to Bokuto’s, and he gave a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Awesome,” Bokuto said with a beaming smile. “Coach wants us to play another set, so we better get back to it.”
Bokuto jogged back to where their teammates were having an animated discussion about their next match. An uncomfortable silence settled again between Kiyoomi and Atsumu, who were locked in a game of who-will-blink-first. Kiyoomi was determined to win; no matter how much he wanted to leap into the void, he refused to let Atsumu sway him.
“Yer really busy tonight?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Thing is,” Atsumu said, “I think yer lyin’.”
Kiyoomi was tired of being called a liar. With a deep scowl and a menacing tilt of his head, he said, “Speaking of wild accusations. I am not a liar.”
“Takes one to know one,” Atsumu said with a shrug. “I’m basically a human lie detector.”
“Are you bragging that you’re a good liar?” Kiyoomi asked incredulously.
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m also real good at tellin’ the truth.”
“One, that makes no sense. Two, then you won’t mind telling me what you meant,” Kiyoomi said, trying to hide the warble in his low voice, “when you said it wasn’t just your business as my setter.”
Atsumu blinked.
Kiyoomi managed a smirk.
“I think that’s coach callin’ for us,” Atsumu said, gesturing to their coach who was, in fact, not calling for them. “Hit my tosses this time, Omi.”
“Whatever you say, Miya.”
Atsumu turned on his heel and nearly sprinted toward their teammates.
Kiyoomi gathered every drop of anxiety into his lungs and breathed it out with a long exhale. He swept up every nervous thought into his hand and imagined slamming them into the court like he spiked a volleyball—with all of the strength he had.
He hit every toss for the rest of practice with nothing less than perfection.
No matter how hard Kiyoomi tried to leave early, he and Atsumu were always the last two remaining in any given room. After a hurried shower, he dressed so quickly that he put his shirt on backward, but he wasn’t fast enough. Everyone filed out of the locker room, which left him alone with Atsumu.
“Yer really not comin’ out with us tonight?” Atsumu’s voice was muffled as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head, awkwardly forcing his arms through the sleeves. When his head popped out of the fabric, his damp hair wildly stuck out in a thousand directions. He glowed with a lazy charm only Atsumu could manage, which Kiyoomi detested.
“Is your hearing failing you?” Kiyoomi responded in a clipped tone as he secured his mask over his mouth. “I said no.”
“Just tryin’ to figure out what the great Omi-Omi’s got goin’ on when he’s not gracin’ us with his presence,” Atsumu drawled. “I know yer a big bookworm, so’s there some book that’s more interestin’ than us?”
Kiyoomi wrinkled his brow. “Bookworm?”
“You always got some book yer workin’ on. I always see ‘em in yer bag. Am I wrong?”
Kiyoomi picked up his gym bag delicately and slipped the strap over his shoulder. He mindlessly toyed with the zipper in a desperate attempt to silence his shrieking mind. “I’m busy. You don’t need to know the details.”
“What if I wanna know?” Atsumu asked, his face alight with his signature lopsided smile that made Kiyoomi’s chest hurt. He bridged the small space between them until they stood toe to toe.
Kiyoomi took a small step back. Atsumu followed.
“That’s unfortunate for you then,” Kiyoomi said flatly.
“C’mon, Omi,” Atsumu said with his hands on his hips. “I’m not some stranger or nothin’. I practically know everythin’ ‘boutcha anyway.”
“Knowing how to set a ball to me does not count.”
“Yes, it does,” Atsumu asserted. “‘Cause I know how ya play. I know how ya think and how ya move, and I know all yer preferences. I know you like to read. You like melon soda, you dislike drinkin’ but you’ll occasionally drink beer but never sake or wine, yer favorite food is umeboshi, yer always listenin’ to music in German for some reason, and I bet underneath that mask you got the biggest frown anyone’s ever seen.”
As if a hole had been punched right through Kiyoomi’s chest, his blood drained out of his face and all air completely vacated his lungs.
Atsumu’s voice was low and daring when he asked, “Am I wrong?”
Before Kiyoomi could detail all the ways Atsumu was very, very wrong and absolutely not spot on in any way whatsoever, his phone began to ring. When he looked at the caller ID, his soul left his body.
Sakusa Yumiko.
His mother.
Dread, like an unruly weed, sprouted in his stomach and grew into a monstrous, heavy thing. He’d have to talk to her eventually. Ignoring the call would only lead to five more missed calls, and he’d never hear the end of it. If anything, talking to her would get him out of answering Atsumu’s question.
A small consolation, considering it was his mother.
Kiyoomi accepted the call and brought his phone to his ear. “Hello.”
“Have you spoken with your brother or sister?”
Kiyoomi’s grip on his phone tightened. It was imperceptible to everyone except for Kiyoomi. The hollowness in her voice, each consonant slightly slurred but somehow made proper by her cold tone and the clinking sounds in the background that could be a small glass or a whole bottle. He should be over it by now, but just hearing her voice made him feel like a useless teenager all over again. It brought the memory of the worst night of his life back to the forefront, and it took everything in him to shove the memory back into the dark where it belonged.
“I haven’t.”
“I thought they might have told you.” Kiyoomi had long given up on reminding his mother that the twins, who were both ten years older than him, had little in common with him. “Your step-father and I are getting a divorce.”
“Oh.”
This was a much better alternative to what he really wanted to say, which was something akin to, “Why the fuck should I care?”
“We filed it a week ago.”
“Okay.”
“You’d know this if you came home and worked for the family business. Instead, you’re off playing volleyball or whatever else you do in your free time.”
“I’m not doing this in my free time. It’s my job.”
Atsumu quietly watched him with apparent concern, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth parted as if on the verge of producing a question.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” his mother snapped. Kiyoomi winced. Anger pulled apart her exterior enough for the drunkenness to slur her words. “You’ve chosen that sport over your family. I’m sure your father feels different, but you know where I stand.”
“Alright.” Once his father was a part of the conversation, Kiyoomi officially had no reason to linger. When he graduated high school, Kiyoomi cut as many ties with his family as possible. The day he left home he ceased to be the little chess piece in the game they called marriage.
It had been a shock to no one when his parents divorced soon after.
“Your brother is going through a divorce himself. And your sister,” his mother said with a harsh scoff, “ended her engagement, resigned from the company, and—well, would you by any chance be the reason she pulled that stunt?”
Kiyoomi furrowed his brow. He couldn’t even properly recall what his sister looked like. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” his mother laughed. “Sure.”
“Well, if that’s all—”
“If you’re going to ever make me happy,” his mother said suddenly, “marry a decent woman. Can you do that for me?”
“You know that’s not happening,” Kiyoomi replied, his voice low and quiet.
Atsumu still stood in front of him, his eyes widening in a way that meant Atsumu heard what she said. Kiyoomi turned around and looked up at the ceiling.
His mother knew he was gay, but it was the sort of knowledge she considered theoretical. Theoretically, her son was gay. Theoretically, he’d only ever date men. Theoretically, he’d never marry and have children. Practically, then, anything was possible. Including a wife.
“You’re never coming back to Tokyo, are you?” his mother asked coldly.
“That’s correct.”
“You really are your father’s son.”
Click.
Kiyoomi could always shrug off his mother’s comments until the silence on her side of the phone came, and in his mother’s absence, he realized he wasn’t fine at all.
“Omi,” Atsumu said softly. “Everythin’ okay?”
Yes, no, maybe. Because yes, he was used to it; and no, it still hurt; and maybe, just maybe it would be different this time. Maybe this time the past had been buried like a slain beast and his memories could no longer hurt him. Maybe this time she’d put down the bottle. Maybe he didn’t care anymore.
Kiyoomi shoved his phone into his pocket. “I need to go.”
“But Omi—”
Kiyoomi stepped around him, aching at the warm brush of their shoulders, and counted each wide stride to the door. Before Atsumu could say another word, before Atsumu could change his mind, before Kiyoomi could drink in that beautiful face once more, he ran out of the gym and into the dreary outdoors. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the right name and sent one message:
Emergency.
Four Years Before Falling
“You’re a bandaid baby,” Hattori, his then partner in college, told him in bed.
“Excuse me?” Kiyoomi asked.
“A bandaid baby,” Hattori repeated. “When a couple has a kid to fix their marriage. I’m not saying that to be mean, but that’s what you are. A bandaid baby.”
Even in retrospect, Kiyoomi could never figure out why he and Hattori were together. They met by chance at a bookstore at their university and bonded over a mutual appreciation for historical nonfiction. Hattori was the first person he slept with, and the sex was good enough for Kiyoomi to agree to an open relationship. Outside of sex, they never expected much out of each other than occasional affection. They would have serious conversations about books or philosophy but never volleyball. It was convenient and nothing else. The end of their arrangement was brief and impersonal. Hattori simply explained he met someone else, and Kiyoomi hardly felt a thing when his apartment lost a visitor.
Hattori crossed a line that night, and it was then that Kiyoomi was reminded why he couldn’t let anyone get close to him. He didn’t even intend to share his family history. But that night Kiyoomi drank too much beer and spilled long-suppressed secrets. How his siblings hated him despite hardly knowing him. The constant fighting between his parents, the affairs, and how he grew up with Motoya’s family more than his own. How his parent’s worst fight was because he got the flu, arguments about carelessness and neglect, and how he strove to never get sick again. How his mother hated volleyball but would come to his games anyway to hold it over his father, to show that she cared more, to prove that she was the better parent. How his father gave him money and nice things and nothing else.
Hattori said the phrase bandaid baby casually, but in his eyes was something worse than sympathy. It was pity. He saw Kiyoomi for who he was and surmised Kiyoomi was blunt and aloof because he was a troubled child, not because it was who he proudly was. He pitied Kiyoomi for his supposed misery, and he looked at Kiyoomi like everyone else did. Like he was scared of him, except this time, Hattori had a real reason to be afraid. He knew that Kiyoomi came from a long line of failed loves. There was no better time to turn around and run.
“I’m going to get something to drink,” Kiyoomi told him.
Hattori sighed, a sad smile tugging at his lips.
“Sure,” he said. “Might as well get me something, too.”
Kiyoomi was just entering his condo when his phone began to ring. He glanced at the caller ID and quickly answered it.
“Hi! What’s going on?” Yachi’s voice was breathy and energetic, her usual blend of anxiety and eagerness. Kiyoomi only had three close friends: Motoya, his high school volleyball captain Iizuna Tsukasa, and his most trusted confidant Yachi Hitoka.
They met at Cherry of all places. Kiyoomi begrudgingly joined his teammates for a victory party and sulked in the corner, only lifting his mask to take the occasional celebratory sip of beer. When Kiyoomi felt someone sit down beside him, he instinctively turned toward them with a glare but immediately relaxed at the sight of a wide-eyed, panicked blonde. She squeaked an apology and a greeting all in one breath, but she didn’t flee from him. Kiyoomi immediately liked her. She was earnest and attentive. She was kind, and she was incredibly smart. She was often nervous and unsure of herself, but she was self-aware and determined. Their conversation that night was brief, but from then on they shared a table at every celebration. A few words turned into full conversations, which then turned into texting each other for advice or meeting for coffee when they had a chance. Somewhere along the way they made a pact to be each other’s emergency contact.
She had texted him Emergency a handful of times. Today was his first time.
“My mother called me,” Kiyoomi said, slipping his mask off of his face and neatly folding it onto the nearest table. He took a deep breath and rocked back on his heels. “There’s also a guy I have…feelings for.”
“Atsumu?”
Kiyoomi groaned. “I never told you that.”
“Sorry,” Yachi said. “I am sorry for assuming, but also it’s really, really obvious.”
“I keep hearing that.”
“But your mother called?” she asked softly. “What did she say?”
“She’s getting a divorce.” He turned a metal tin of tea leaves over in his hand three times before setting it down on the counter. He turned on his electric kettle and swallowed. “She wants me to get a wife.”
Yachi said nothing. Kiyoomi could only hear the sound of a door closing and her muffled footsteps. Eventually, she took a deep breath and said, “I’ll be there tonight.”
“Tonight,” Kiyoomi echoed. “In Osaka?”
“I’ll leave within the hour.”
“But it’s a Wednesday.”
“I know,” Yachi said. “I can handle work remotely, and my current project’s mostly done. It’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Then why did you say it was an emergency?”
Kiyoomi couldn’t muster a decent excuse or lie. The electric kettle began spouting steam and emitting a string of angry beeps, and he made quick work of pouring the hot water over the tea leaves. He cleared his throat and asked, “How will you even get here? Do you think you can get a train?”
“I’ll drive.”
“You? Driving?”
“Hey,” Yachi said, her voice both accusing and amused. “What are you implying?”
“You know exactly what I’m implying.”
“Just spit it out!”
“Every curb between Tokyo and Osaka should be on high alert.”
“That was one time!”
Kiyoomi could already imagine her flustered expression, and it almost made him smile.
“We can talk on the phone,” Kiyoomi said. “This is sufficient—”
“Would you rather I not come see you? I can stay in a hotel.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I’d never make you stay in a hotel. I assure you everything’s fine.”
“It doesn’t sound that way,” Yachi said, and Kiyoomi wished she was less attentive. “Honestly, I was about to text you emergency, too.”
“Why?”
Kiyoomi could hear Yachi anxiously shifting from foot to foot. Her voice was quiet and distant when she finally spoke. “Maiko and I broke up.”
“What?” While he was by no means close with Yachi’s now ex-girlfriend, he respected her and found her to be a perfect match for Yachi. “What happened?”
“My mother.”
“Oh.”
“Talk about it in person?”
“I’ll see you tonight,” Kiyoomi said. “Keep your car on the road this time.”
Yachi giggled. “Why am I friends with you again?”
Kiyoomi leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed into his teacup. “I have no idea.”
Motoya had always been supportive of Kiyoomi. He knew firsthand how tumultuous Kiyoomi’s home life was, and he rarely asked questions unprovoked. He was content to toss a volleyball back and forth for hours, and he never expected Kiyoomi to be friendlier or more easygoing. When Kiyoomi came out as gay, Motoya hardly reacted. If anything, he held back I knew it! Motoya was, in every way, a perfect friend.
But Motoya didn’t understand what it meant to be gay, what it meant to love someone of the same sex, the risks and the anxiety and the delicacy of it, the precarious state of the law, and the ways it broke his mother’s already broken heart.
Yachi understood. She understood as a lesbian, and she understood as a daughter to a successful woman whose support was nearly unconditional and yet very complicated. There was so much she understood without anything needing to be said, and perhaps it was why she was one of the few people he could be at least a little vulnerable with.
Yachi knocked on his door just after nine, and Kiyoomi rushed to open it. She looked the same as last time, except noticeably more tired. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled into a ponytail, but a halo of flyaways sat atop her head. Her face was pink from the nighttime air, and exhaustion settled into the bags under her eyes and her chapped lips. She looked small underneath her scarf and jacket, and her smile was as sweet as it was brittle.
Yachi crossed the threshold and slipped out of her shoes. “I got my flu shot.”
“I know,” Kiyoomi said. He was the one to remind her to get it. They stood quietly across from each other, and Yachi tilted her head. After a moment, he nodded and awkwardly lifted his arms at his side.
Yachi leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a brief and gentle hug. “It’s been forever.”
“About a month.”
“Feels like longer.” She set her duffle bag before extending her arms high above her head in a long stretch. “I forgot how exhausting that drive is.”
“At least it looks like you were able to drive this time.”
“That was one time! One! Time!” She plopped down on the couch and huffed a loud exhale. “Don’t make me drive back to Tokyo. I’m so tired I might actually crash my car.”
“Stay.” He sat on the couch beside her and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thanks for having me,” she said. “Moms, huh?”
Kiyoomi took a deep breath and pushed it all out in one heavy exhale. “Want to talk about it?”
“I’d like to get some food first if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Kiyoomi said. “I could make something, or we could go to the convenience store a few blocks away.”
“Convenience store,” Yachi said. “Your cooking is good, but my situation calls for cheap food.”
“Let’s go then.”
They laced up shoes, zipped up jackets, and shared mindless chatter about Yachi’s drive. After putting on his mask, Kiyoomi locked the door behind them and led Yachi to the elevator, where they stood side-by-side, their hands in their pockets and their arms almost touching.
“How long’s the walk?”
“A few minutes,” Kiyoomi replied, watching the floors count down from fifteen to one.
“Mind if we talk about it on the way there?”
“Go ahead.”
Kiyoomi could hear Yachi fidgeting with change or trinkets inside her jacket pockets, probably bobby pins or bubblegum, and her breathing was choppy and shallow.
The elevator dinged, and Yachi jumped when the doors opened. They walked across the lobby, and she tucked her chin behind her scarf.
“You know how it is with my mom.” Her shoulders tensed as they stepped outside, the wind cold and harsh, and they fell into a steady rhythm of mild strides. “She’s never made a big deal of me being a lesbian, and she supports me. She really does. It’s just…”
“It bothers her,” Kiyoomi supplied.
“Yeah,” Yachi said. “It bothers her. She’s afraid I’ll get hurt, but it’s always, ‘What about your job? What would they say if they find out? Romance gets in the way of careers.’ This all sounds so silly when I say it out loud. She’s supportive, so why am I even upset?”
“Because it’s upsetting.”
“Well, obviously,” she said sheepishly.
“It’s upsetting,” Kiyoomi clarified, his voice strained as he tried his best to be gentle, “because you wonder if it’d be the same if you were into boys, and you’re also upset because she’s a little bit right.”
“Yeah,” Yachi said with a heavy sigh. “That’s about it.”
“What happened with Maiko?”
“I brought her to dinner with my mother.”
“I thought your mother liked her.”
“She does like her,” Yachi said. They rounded a large office building and began walking down the main road. “It’s just…” Yachi’s voice trailed off and disappeared into a loud sigh.
“What?”
“Maiko’s moving to the States next month.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, but...I had a feeling of what you’d say.”
Kiyoomi kept his chin nearly pressed to his chest, his eyes trained on the sidewalk. He knew exactly what he would have said, and he bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying it now. He wasn’t opposed to long-distance relationships in theory, but in practice, he rarely saw them end well. He would never wish that loneliness or heartbreak upon Yachi.
She patted his arm before shoving her hand back into her pocket. “I can practically hear your advice. I kinda wish I had heard it from you instead of from my mom.”
“She told you to break up,” Kiyoomi guessed.
“She said it would be too hard on my career, that it takes hard work, and I already have too much hard work. It’s like—I get it. She’s mostly right, and you’re probably right, too. I wish it were all easier.”
“It?”
“Love,” Yachi said. “People, relationships, work, love. I wish I didn’t have to pick one.”
Kiyoomi considered everything Yachi said. He considered what it meant to pick one, to make a singular choice, to hold everything in his hands and let most of it go. Atsumu’s face came to mind against his will, and Kiyoomi closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Do you regret your decision?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Work’s really important to me, and I know I’m too young to settle down, but I still love Maiko.”
“How did she take it?”
“She was sad,” she replied, her voice small. “She understood, though. I think—I think it was mutual.”
“You think.”
Yachi sighed and ran her hand through her hair, freeing several blonde strands from her tight ponytail. Out of the corner of his eye, Kiyoomi watched Yachi chew on her bottom lip.
“I know what your advice would be, but would you do the same thing? If it were Atsumu, for example.”
Kiyoomi came to an abrupt halt and gave her a severe look. “Don’t.”
“What?” Yachi asked, batting her eyelashes with an overly innocent flair. “Hypothetically.”
Kiyoomi scoffed and continued walking at a brisk pace. Yachi followed behind him with a soft giggle, and the question she asked chased after him, too.
It was common for players to change teams. He and Atsumu would always be tied through the National Team, but there was a possibility one or both of them could play abroad. Kiyoomi tried to imagine his life without Atsumu. He’d have a different setter, who only had a marginal chance at being better than Atsumu. He’d no longer be called Omi-kun or Omi-Omi. He’d no longer hear Atsumu’s annoying voice saying annoying things. He’d no longer witness Atsumu’s shameless excitement and his childish antics. He’d no longer have someone with whom to argue, to trade insults, to push each other to the edge and wait for the other to fall. Atsumu would simply disappear from his daily life.
Kiyoomi wondered if the ache in his heart and his eyes was what it felt like when you’re about to cry.
He cleared his throat. “You could give the long distance a try. Talk to Maiko and see how she feels.”
“Woah,” Yachi breathed, tugging on Kiyoomi’s arm and bringing him to a standstill again. They stood in the middle of the sidewalk, surrounded by busy bars and the nearby convenience store. He tried to shrink from her, but she squeezed his hand. He looked down at her and swallowed. She appeared so earnest and kind and heartbroken. Each warm breath summoned a wispy cloud quickly carried away by the wind, and she gazed up at him with wide, honest eyes.
“What?” Kiyoomi asked. He fought the urge to rip his hand away but instead let it lie limp in hers.
“What did Atsumu do to you?” she asked, almost awestruck.
Kiyoomi frowned. “Nothing.”
“You’re going to have to tell me, you know,” she said softly. “Why your feelings for him made you call emergency.”
Before he could argue that he did not have to share anything or lie that he was fine, they were interrupted by a deluge of loud, drunken voices streaming onto the sidewalk.
“Yacchan!”
Kiyoomi froze.
Idiot. He was such an idiot. Drinks, the team, Cherry. He led Yachi directly into their ridiculously loud group of friends when the two of them only wanted to eat cheap food and wallow.
Kiyoomi slowly turned toward his teammates with his eyes wide in horror. Only about two meters away, Bokuto and Hinata were wildly jumping up and down in a manic greeting. Akaashi and Kuroo waved, their faces flushed and happy, and Kenma blinked at them over his phone. Atsumu stood at the center of them, staring directly at the place where Kiyoomi and Yachi joined hands.
Kiyoomi immediately stepped away from Yachi and shoved his hands into his pockets. Yachi, in contrast, waved excitedly with both hands.
“Hinata! Bokuto!” she called out, jogging right into a massive group hug. Kiyoomi begrudgingly followed her, shuffling his heavy feet along the concrete.
“It’s been forever, Yachi!” Hinata cheered. “You’re here a bit early for our home game next week.”
“I’m actually here to visit Sakusa,” she said with a smile. “But you know I won’t say no to seeing you play whenever I get the chance.”
“What are you two doin’ out here?” Atsumu asked, his voice more pitchy than usual. His cheeks were bright pink, and his eyes were slightly glassy. He wore a v-neck sweater that exposed his toned chest, and his jeans hugged his legs perfectly. Kiyoomi hated it. “I thought you were busy, Omi.”
Kuroo not so subtly smacked Atsumu on the back of his head, and Atsumu turned around with a glare and grumbled a series of threats.
“I am busy,” Kiyoomi said coolly. “We’re about to get food.”
“Oh?” Atsumu asked, his hands on hips. “Where?”
Kiyoomi opened his mouth to insult or dismiss him, but Yachi answered Atsumu’s question in his place.
“Just at the convenience store, and then we’re walking back to Sakusa’s. We’re both pretty tired, so we better—”
“Do you live close by, Omi-san?” Hinata asked curiously.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yachi must have realized her mistake because she looked up at him with a face that contained a thousand apologies. Kiyoomi looked down at her without a drop of forgiveness but without any anger either.
This was bound to happen.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi said between gritted teeth.
“Where?” Atsumu asked.
None of your business. None of your fucking business! Why do you need to know where I live? Is it because you need to come over? Do you want to come over? Do you want to see my condo, be in my bedroom, be in my bed? Why do you want to know? What exactly will you do with that information? Nothing? Everything? Why should I fucking tell you anything, Miya Atsumu?
Kiyoomi didn’t have the energy to fight with him, who was clearly agitated and maybe tipsy. But if he were to be honest with himself, he wanted Atsumu to know where he lived. He wanted Atsumu to know where to find him if he ever got away.
Kiyoomi pointed at the high-rise behind him. “There.”
Atsumu’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “You live in that buildin’?”
Kiyoomi’s voice was low and strained with annoyance. “Yes.”
“So all those times ya said ya didn’t wanna have to go all the way out to Cherry and deal with the train, you were fuckin’ lyin’?”
“I thought you said you were a human lie detector,” Kiyoomi deadpanned.
Kuroo burst into laughter, and Bokuto playfully shoved him.
“None of us have been to Sakusa’s,” Bokuto said. “What’s it like, Yacchan?”
“It’s just like him,” she said cheerily.
Kiyoomi glared at her, but she laughed.
“It’s very clean,” Yachi explained, “and minimalist. It’s nice.”
“Maybe Omi can invite us to his nice apartment one day,” Atsumu drawled. “Since he’s been to all of ours.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kuroo mused. Bokuto restrained Atsumu from attacking him. Akaashi hid his amusement with his sleeve, and even Hinata and Kenma looked like they might laugh.
Kiyoomi was definitely going to kill all of them, one by one. Starting with Atsumu.
“Well,” Yachi said, shooting a nervous look at Kiyoomi, “we better get going! I just got here from Tokyo, and I’m starving, so—”
“Why don’t you come with us?” Hinata asked. “We’re headed to the karaoke bar down the block. You could get some food there.”
“Yeah,” Kuroo said with a lopsided grin, “and you can be in on the bet, too. Tsumu over here claims he’s got an ‘angelic’ singing voice, so I’m making him sing every ballad on the books.”
“My singing voice is perfect,” Atsumu said with a wink. “You should come hear it, Omi.”
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. He was contemplating saying either Pass or I hope you die, but Yachi looked on with excitement. To Kiyoomi, these imbeciles were his idiotic teammates. To Yachi, they were her long-time friends. She didn’t get to see them as often as Kiyoomi did, and Kiyoomi suspected she wanted to spend time with them while she could.
Kiyoomi stooped his head and whispered into her ear, “We can go if you want.”
“Are you sure?” she whispered back. “We still need to talk about your emergency, and I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, you know, and I hope you’re not—”
“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi whispered. “We can talk tomorrow, and I’m not angry. Do you want to stay?”
“I’d like that,” Yachi admitted.
Atsumu loudly cleared his throat, and Kiyoomi glared at him.
“Fine,” Kiyoomi said. “Don’t even think about asking me to participate.”
“Aw c’mon, Omi!” Atsumu whined. “I’m sure there’s some creepy German song for you to sing.”
Yachi laughed. “Sakusa really does listen to creepy German music.”
Betrayed, Kiyoomi looked at Yachi with a deep scowl. The traitor smiled back. Atsumu frowned, and Bokuto slapped him on the back.
“It’s decided then!” Bokuto cheered. “Let’s get going. We still have practice tomorrow morning.”
Hand in hand with Akaashi, Bokuto led the way toward the karaoke bar while whistling a cheery tune. Kuroo and Kenma talked quietly about something Kiyoomi couldn’t hear, and Hinata excitedly began asking Yachi about work. Like always, like clockwork, Kiyoomi was left to trail behind them with only Atsumu at his side.
“I’m glad you could join us tonight,” Atsumu said, leaning into Kiyoomi with a smile. When their shoulders touched, Kiyoomi almost flinched at the warmth. He did not take a step back.
“The feeling is not mutual.”
“Why ya gotta be so mean?” Atsumu huffed, but his pretty red mouth smiled wider. “Especially when I’m so nice to ya.”
“You?” Kiyoomi said, holding back a sarcastic laugh. “Nice?”
“When have I ever been mean to ya, Omi-Omi?”
“Just now,” Kiyoomi said, “when you called me Omi-Omi.”
“That’s not mean! I call ya that ‘cause I…”
“Because you what?”
“‘Cause I like you,” Atsumu said. For a brief moment, he froze in place, a furious blush washing over his cheeks and ears. He cleared his throat and continued walking. “Y’know, as a person.”
“You like me,” Kiyoomi repeated, his heart thundering in his ears. “As a person.”
“Yep,” Atsumu said, kicking at invisible dirt on the sidewalk.
“As opposed to what? An animal? A concept?”
“Yer impossible,” Atsumu laughed, shaking his head. “An impossible, prickly sea urchin.”
“Do you like me as a sea urchin?” Kiyoomi asked with a raised brow.
“Especially as a sea urchin,” Atsumu said with a resolute nod. “That’s the best kinda Omi.”
Before Kiyoomi could ask Atsumu how many kinds of “Omi” existed in his deranged psyche, they were shepherded inside the karaoke bar by Bokuto and Akaashi.
Kiyoomi walked past this place often but had never been inside. It was more upscale, and it was perfectly clean. The last time he went to a karaoke bar was in college when his volleyball team at the time had decided, for some godforsaken reason, to celebrate with singing. He ran into his brother in the lobby, who had been quietly arguing with his now ex-wife. When he murmured a hello, his brother pretended he hadn’t seen him. Kiyoomi never went there or any karaoke bar ever again.
Yachi was already laughing at one of Hinata’s jokes, and she wore a smile that warmed the exhaustion and heartbreak that had dulled her usually cheery features. Kiyoomi’d go anywhere just for that.
Before he could place his drink order, Atsumu told the attendant that Kiyoomi would take a melon soda. Kiyoomi glared at him, but before Atsumu could speak further, Kiyoomi put in his own order: a Tequila Sunrise.
Kiyoomi set aside the drink menu and folded his arms over his chest. “You’re not the only observant one.”
“Omi knows my favorite drink,” Atsumu said, an annoying smirk already splayed across his lips. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. It just means you’re predictable.”
Atsumu leaned in and lowered his mouth to Kiyoomi’s ear. “Liar.”
“Tsum-Tsum! You’re up first!” Bokuto shouted, waving the microphone in their direction. “Kuroo picked a song for you.”
“It’s a good one,” Kuroo said through a grin, “and relevant.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it is, you fuckin’ rooster.” He leaped to his feet and looked down at Kiyoomi with twinkling eyes. “Pay attention, Omi. I’ve been told my voice is godly.”
“By whom?” Kiyoomi asked. “The elderly?”
“You’ll see,” Atsumu said, wiggling his fingers. “Just listen.”
As Atsumu made his way to the front of the room and grabbed the microphone, Yachi took the seat beside Kiyoomi.
“I know this isn’t how you saw the night going,” she said quietly.
“You’re right.”
“Sorry.”
“I wouldn’t have said yes if it actually bothered me.”
“I know, I know,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I feel like I showed up here to help you with an emergency and dropped a new one in your lap.” She pointed at Atsumu, who was watching them intently. It was only when Kuroo raised his voice that Atsumu finally looked away.
“He looks like he’s going to rip my head off,” Yachi said nervously.
“I’m going to kill him.” He channeled his annoyance into a furious glare in Atsumu’s direction, who only winked and grinned in response.
Another mission failed at the hands of Miya Atsumu.
“No need. He’s just jealous.”
Kiyoomi nearly choked. “Jealous?”
“It’s obvious. You pride yourself on being a realist, and you really don’t see it?”
Kiyoomi clenched his jaw.
Of course, he saw it. He just preferred to look away.
“His jealousy is idiotic. I’m gay, and you’re a lesbian.”
“Does he know that?”
Kiyoomi mulled over his interactions with himself, Atsumu, and Yachi. Kiyoomi never told anyone he was gay except a very small circle of people, but he didn’t exactly hide it either. He would answer truthfully if asked. Yachi was out to her mother and her close friends, but she tried to keep it private for the sake of her career and to appease her mother’s worries. She brought Maiko to volleyball games, but she kept affection to a minimum—mostly because she’d get too flustered and start stumbling over her words, which Kiyoomi always found endearing.
As for Atsumu’s assessments and assumptions, Kiyoomi couldn’t say. He’d like to think it was obvious he was attracted to Atsumu, but considering his lack of action, that wasn’t the most compelling evidence. As for Atsumu’s perception of Yachi, Atsumu knew and even liked her. Most days, he called her Yacchan like everyone else. He was never particularly close to her, however, so he never needed to aim his calculating eyes at her.
“Probably not,” Kiyoomi said.
“Maybe you should tell him.”
Kiyoomi stared up at the ceiling and ignored her.
A server brought in a tray of drinks and snacks, and Yachi immediately grabbed a large handful of chips and shoveled them into her mouth. When she began coughing, Kiyoomi lightly patted her back.
“Don’t forget to breathe.”
“Shut up,” Yachi said with pink cheeks.
Kiyoomi chuckled and sipped his soda, which was initially perfectly sweet and then suddenly bitter when he remembered that Atsumu seemed to know exactly what Kiyoomi wanted.
Do you know I want you? If you do, why haven’t you done anything about it?
“Time to watch the show,” Yachi giggled. “What do you bet? Atsumu being ‘godly’ or, what does he call it, a ‘scrub?’”
“I’m betting he’s terrible.”
“Because you want him to be,” Yachi teased.
“Eat your food.”
It was at that precise moment Atsumu took center stage and raised one arm in the air, squeezing his fist into his signature shut-the-fuck-up-and-watch-me stance.
Everyone proceeded to laugh at him.
“Goddammit, Atsumu,” Kuroo laughed. “This isn’t a fucking volleyball game, just sing the damn song!”
“Yer all too fuckin’ noisy!” Atsumu argued back. “We’re only here so I can prove I’m an amazin’ singer, so shut the fuck up and listen!”
“We’re listening, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto cheered, and he and Akaashi lifted their glasses.
“Yes, we’re listening!” Hinata said, his eyes never leaving Kenma’s Switch.
Kiyoomi gave Atsumu a condescending wave. Atsumu winked at him.
Oh, Kiyoomi was definitely killing him.
After a ceremonious countdown, Kuroo began tinkering with the console, and a series of immediately recognizable, iconic notes poured out of the speakers.
Of course, Kiyoomi wanted to laugh. Of course, Kuroo would choose Let’s Get It On.
As soon as Atsumu opened his mouth, Kiyoomi wondered if his soda had actually been liquor and if he was drunk.
His voice was perfect. A charming croon, his voice was smooth and buttery and decadent. It was fucking perfect. He sang each word with his signature smirk, and he looked in Kiyoomi’s direction an uncomfortable amount of times. When he wasn’t singing, he moved his hips in lazy circles to the song’s rhythm. Under the neon lights, his blond hair glowed blue and red and purple. Pink light danced along his cheekbones, and his lips looked full and kissable.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi said under his breath.
He was not going to get turned on in a karaoke bar.
Yachi suppressed a laugh beside him, and Kiyoomi stabbed her with his elbow.
Atsumu stared at him with unwavering eyes, unblinking as he sang directly into the microphone. Kiyoomi tugged his mask down over his chin and mouthed, Show off.
Atsumu blew him a kiss.
Kiyoomi feigned disgust and tightened the ear loops of his mask and covered his trembling mouth.
When the song ended, Kuroo slapped several yen into Akaashi’s palm. Yachi held out her palm in a similar fashion, and Kiyoomi swatted it away.
Atsumu took an exaggerated bow. “Fuckin’ told ya! Got another song for me?”
“I think you made your point,” Kuroo said, half-laughing and half-defeated. “Who’s up next?”
Atsumu pointed directly at Kiyoomi. “Omi.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“C’mon! Whatcha scared of?” Atsumu taunted. “I bet yer a great singer.”
Yachi giggled into her hand. Kiyoomi told her under his breath to watch it. She was probably the only one in the room who had heard him sing—once, totally by accident, and it was mediocre at best, and definitely nowhere near Atsumu’s level.
“Fine.” Kiyoomi stalked toward the karaoke console with a scowl. “But you asked for it.”
Atsumu handed him the microphone, and Kiyoomi shivered when their fingers brushed against each other. Atsumu flopped down next to Kuroo as if nothing happened.
“I sure did,” Atsumu said. “Make me proud, Omi.”
Kiyoomi loudly tapped the touchscreen, angrily jabbing each character and itching to wash his hands. When he found the right song, he tossed Atsumu the microphone.
“I have to go to the bathroom. Sing for me?”
He pressed play and stepped into the hallway, letting out a soft laugh at the chorus of groans as the opening notes to Baby Shark blared through the speakers. The door clicked shut, and he was blessed with precious quietude.
He crossed his fingers and prayed to the gods that his teammates would have the song stuck in their heads until the end of the week. They’d never invite him to karaoke again.
He slowly made his way to the bathroom with his head down and his hands tucked into his pockets. The men’s bathroom was thankfully empty, and it was sufficiently clean by Kiyoomi’s standards. He relieved himself and tried to keep his mind blank. When he washed his hands in the sink, he was met with his own reflection.
He looked more tired than usual with dull skin and bags under his eyes. His hair lacked its usual luster and hung in limp waves over his forehead. His moles were the same, and his eyes were as dead as they usually were. He wondered how genuine Atsumu’s flirting could possibly be. Atsumu was golden. It wasn’t just his platinum blond hair. It was his smile, his skin that looked sun-kissed even in the dregs of fall, and his eyes that glittered even in dim light. His laughter, that fucking smile, lazy and effortless and warm.
Kiyoomi did not glow like Atsumu did. He absorbed light and buried it deep within himself where no one else could find it.
The door to the bathroom swung open, and Kiyoomi jumped. The devil himself appeared in the mirror’s reflection, his blond hair lightly damp with sweat and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his toned arms.
Goddammit. Kiyoomi looked down at his hands, which he began scrubbing with soap for the tenth time.
Atsumu leaned against the wall. “You can’t hide from me. Don’t make me do it.”
Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose. “Do what?”
Atsumu took a deep breath and began belting Baby Shark like it was a sultry ballad and not a torture device.
Kiyoomi whipped around and flicked soapy water in his direction. This did not deter him. He only sang louder.
“You,” Kiyoomi hissed. He marched across the bathroom until he was nearly toe to toe with him. “You are insufferable.”
“Thanks, Omi,” he said, slightly rocking forward. “Yer perfectly sufferable.”
“I’ll make sure to be less tolerable then,” Kiyoomi said, yanking a paper towel from the dispenser. “I wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable around me.”
“Like Yachi is?” Atsumu asked.
Kiyoomi dried his hands and aggressively threw the paper towel into the wastebasket. “What are you implying?”
“That yer very comfortable with her.”
“I am,” Kiyoomi responded defensively. “We’re friends.”
“Do you hold hands with all yer friends?” he asked, taking a step closer. Kiyoomi took a step back, but Atsumu followed him. He followed him like he always did.
“It was platonic,” Kiyoomi retorted. I’m gay, Kiyoomi could say. I’m gay, and I only like men, so I could never like Yachi, but I could definitely, maybe, absolutely like you. He could say that. But he couldn’t; he was suffocating in an ever-shrinking room, and his throat was so dry it ached.
“Then you wouldn’t mind,” Atsumu said, his voice a soft rasp, “if I held yer hand, right?”
Maybe hell was a karaoke bar bathroom. Maybe hell was Kiyoomi’s heart stopping and starting with a roar, like an angry typhoon, like a car going from zero to one hundred, like a crowd screaming at a point scored. Maybe hell was Miya Atsumu, and maybe it was the space between them. Maybe hell was all the things Kiyoomi couldn’t but wanted to say.
Kiyoomi stared at Atsumu wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When Kiyoomi’s objection never came, Atsumu tentatively pressed his fingertips into the soft skin of Kiyoomi’s palm.
Kiyoomi’s hand trembled, but he did not pull away. Atsumu slowly threaded their fingers together until their hands were entirely intertwined, flush and warm. Atsumu’s eyes drifted to their joined hands and then back to Kiyoomi’s face. His eyes did not glimmer with mischief. They burned.
The door opened with a loud bang, and Kiyoomi jumped away from him. A familiar head of orange hair appeared from behind Atsumu and skipped into the bathroom.
“There you two are!” Hinata said. “Kuroo sent me to go check on you. What are you two doing?”
“Nothing,” Kiyoomi and Atsumu said at the same time.
Hinata opened his mouth as if he were going to ask another question but quickly closed it. As if in slow motion, his eyes moved from Kiyoomi’s face—his eyes wild and panicked—to Atsumu’s face—flushed and almost drunk—and finally to their hands, which were trembling and reaching for each other.
Atsumu cleared his throat. “What do I gotta do for you to not tell Kuroo?”
Hinata blinked and cocked his head. He looked almost lost or confused, but after a moment his face erupted into a devilish smile. “Extra practice time.”
“Deal,” Atsumu said.
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. He must have lost his mind to be caught holding hands with Miya Atsumu in a public bathroom. He kicked the door open and spat, “Don’t even think about leaving until you two wash your hands.”
Before either of them could respond, Kiyoomi began the shameful march back to their karaoke room. The hand that held Atsumu’s flexed at his side, unable to shed the uncomfortable warmth, unable to forget Atsumu’s soft touch, unable to let go of him. A part of him was in disbelief that he had done something so rash in a karaoke bathroom of all places.
The other part of him, now having known what it meant to hold Atsumu’s hand, never wanted to be apart from him again.
Kuroo and Bokuto were amid a duet when he returned to the room. He sat down next to Yachi in an empty chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Do I want to know?” Yachi asked softly.
“Later,” Kiyoomi gritted out.
Yachi smiled at him and popped a chip into her mouth. “Can’t wait.”
Atsumu and Hinata reappeared, and Kiyoomi felt dizzy at the sight of him. Atsumu had his usual charm, that blond hair Kiyoomi wanted to smooth and pull and run his fingers through, that tanned skin he wanted to taste, that pretty mouth he wanted to kiss or fuck, those eyes he could stare into for hours. He looked beautiful. He looked like he always did: annoyingly, casually perfect. But Atsumu also looked as uneasy as Kiyoomi felt. His skin was unnaturally flushed, and his smile was more forced than cocky.
They met each other’s eyes. The room spun. Kiyoomi’s mouth turned dry. His blood was made a fire. He looked down at his lap and counted to ten in his head.
“Well,” Yachi whispered, “at least I know something happened.”
After finishing their duet, Kuroo sat beside Hinata, who whispered something into his ear. Kuroo loudly sighed and leveled his annoyance at Atsumu.
“Miya Atsumu,” Kuroo said, his voice reminiscent of a parent scolding a toddler.
“What?”
“How much did you give Chibi-chan?”
Atsumu fluttered his eyelashes, but his trembling shoulders betrayed his poker face. “No idea what yer talkin’ ‘bout.”
“I know you bribed him,” Kuroo said. “Do you know what I’m talking about, Sakusa?”
“No,” Kiyoomi said flatly. “What I do know is that most of us have practice tomorrow, and I’d much rather be in my bed than lose sleep over karaoke.”
At the mention of his bed, Atsumu’s head jerked in Kiyoomi’s direction. Kiyoomi pretended not to notice and instead swirled around imaginary liquid in his empty glass.
“I agree,” Hinata yawned. “Coach won’t be happy if he finds out me and Bokuto stayed up all night singing karaoke again.”
Again? He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t be surprised by his teammates’ antics, their idiocy, and their carelessness.
But given what happened tonight, Kiyoomi had no right to judge anyone on the basis of stupidity.
Yachi stood up from her chair and stretched her arms over her head. “I’m ready to pass out.”
Atsumu’s gaze shifted to Yachi, and Kiyoomi could see it clearly. The flared nostrils. The narrowed eyes. The frown.
Jealousy.
You fucking idiot, he wanted to shout. You’re the one I want. You. Only you.
Hinata and Kenma were the first to leave, quietly discussing something on Kenma’s Switch, and Yachi hurriedly skipped after them. Bokuto, Akaashi, and Kuroo filed out of the room afterward, loudly complaining about bribes and secrets.
Then there were just the two of them. Like always, a crowded room had been distilled to the two of them, to a hellish warmth, to an unbreakable tension, to Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi.
With anyone else, this would be funny. The neon lights, the abandoned drinks, the distant singing. But with Atsumu, this might as well be Kiyoomi’s bedroom bathed in candlelight.
Kiyoomi cleared his throat. “We should go.”
“Wait.” Atsumu’s hand shot out toward Kiyoomi’s arm but fell short. His hand lingered for a moment before returning to his side. Kiyoomi wanted to chase his touch, but he remained frozen in place.
“What?” Kiyoomi whispered.
“Are ya okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “You don’t gotta tell me, but that phone call earlier seemed bad. I meant to ask ya earlier, but I didn’t wanna put ya on the spot.”
Kiyoomi furrowed his brow. “You put me on the spot all the time.”
“This is different,” Atsumu said. “‘Cause it’s yer family, right? I didn’t mean to overhear, but…”
Since first meeting Atsumu, Kiyoomi had learned that behind his brash ego laid a much more complicated man. His first impression of him had been that of an arrogant setter who managed to both play perfectly and act like a clown in between plays. He assumed Atsumu could only ever be noisy and demanding and proud. He assumed Atsumu only expressed kindness through his perfect sets, and even that kindness had to be earned. He assumed and assumed and assumed, which wasn’t necessarily hard to do when Atsumu kept proving his assumptions right.
Then over time, those assumptions were whittled down to a thousand little truths. Atsumu was proud not because he had every right to be but because he had to. It came to light during Atsumu’s drunken ramblings that he only had his hard work to blame for his talent, which meant that if he let go of his perfectionism then he would fail. In his rants about his twin brother, Atsumu confessed to feeling lost without him, to feeling like he was half the person he used to be, to feeling like he was in first place while being second best. Atsumu shared all of that in pieces while laughing, but Kiyoomi could feel it. The pain. The longing. The loneliness.
Underneath that shiny and conceited exterior was softness. Atsumu shined golden, but he also held within himself shadows and pale colors. He rarely showed them to anyone.
But now, looking at Kiyoomi with a protectiveness that was both sweet and fiery, Kiyoomi knew he had the privilege of seeing an Atsumu no one else got to see.
Kiyoomi could shed his defenses for a moment.
Just for him. Just for Atsumu.
“My mother is getting a divorce,” Kiyoomi said. He couldn’t divulge more of the conversation without unearthing secrets and truths he didn’t want to explain, especially in a karaoke bar. “I don’t have a pleasant relationship with my family, so phone calls rarely end well.”
“I didn’t know that, Omi. That sucks.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” Atsumu said and placed his hand over his heart. “Promise.”
Kiyoomi almost regretted telling Atsumu something so private about himself. Not because it had been scary, not because it had been embarrassing, not because it had betrayed the indifferent demeanor he spent years cultivating.
It was because with each additional secret he possessed, he would belong more and more to Miya Atsumu.
Kiyoomi nodded at the door. “We should go. I don’t want Kuroo asking more questions.”
Atsumu laughed. “That fuckin’ rooster won’t mind his fuckin’ business.”
Despite knowing their friends were waiting on them, they remained in place, hesitant to be the first to leave. Kiyoomi looked at Atsumu’s hand, still pressed to his heart in a promise. A hand he knew what it felt like to hold. A hand that set volleyballs, a hand that was warm, a hand he dreamed of holding every night.
Kiyoomi wanted it. Kiyoomi wanted him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Kiyoomi grabbed Atsumu’s hand and led him out into the hallway. Atsumu gasped at the sudden contact but eagerly tightened his grip on his hand. Kiyoomi waited for Atsumu to tease him, but Atsumu said nothing.
Kiyoomi was thankful Atsumu trailed behind him because he was sure he looked like a fool, like he might fall apart, like he had won first place, like he was happy. He could only hope his hand wasn’t sweaty and shaky, but Atsumu held on tightly like he was being saved.
When they came into view of their friends, Kiyoomi let go of Atsumu’s hand and immediately missed its warmth. Atsumu let out a ragged exhale, and Kiyoomi pushed open the front glass door with a hard shove of his hip.
Kuroo raised both of his eyebrows. “What took you so long?”
“Nothing,” Kiyoomi and Atsumu said.
Yachi’s smile was both supportive and amused. A stray giggle came loose from her mouth, and Kiyoomi glared at her. She only smiled wider into the sleeve of her jacket. Maybe that emergency text message was a mistake. Not only had it led to his friend bearing witness to new heights of his idiocy, but it had led to him holding Atsumu’s hand. Twice.
Not that he was entirely complaining about it.
Kuroo snorted. “If you two say so.”
A traitorous blush warmed his ears. As an act of mercy, Yachi diverted Kuroo’s attention away from Kiyoomi and Atsumu with a loud yawn. “It’s time Sakusa and I head back. I’m exhausted.”
Jealousy roared back to life on Atsumu’s face. I just held your hand, Kiyoomi thought. And you’re jealous of her? Are you really this big of an idiot?
“Um,” Yachi added nervously, obviously aware of Atsumu’s seething stare, “and Sakusa has to set up the futon for me in his living room. It takes some time, so…”
Atsumu finally tore his gaze away from her. “See ya at practice, Omi?”
“Obviously.” Why wouldn’t I? Kiyoomi’s tone seemed to ask. What has changed?
In Atsumu’s unwavering eyes was the answer: Everything.
“We’ll be there, too,” Hinata said, pointing his thumb at Bokuto. Hinata was genuinely earnest unlike most of his friends, who were all bursting at the seams with laughter.
Atsumu blinked. “Oh yeah. Well, we’re all walkin’ to the train together, so that’s different.”
“Right,” Kuroo said. Just before Kuroo was about to tease them again, Kenma tugged on his hand and frowned.
“I don’t want to miss the train, Kuro. I’m tired.”
In an instant, Kuroo’s face lost its deviousness and was replaced with adoration. “Let’s go then. It was nice seeing you, Yacchan. Drive safe back to Tokyo, okay?”
After exchanging goodbyes and reminders about practice tomorrow, Kiyoomi’s teammates and friends began walking toward the train station. Atsumu lingered behind. Kiyoomi had seen Atsumu in all sorts of disarray, but he had never seen him so dazed and bewildered until now.
“See you tomorrow, Omi-Omi.” His hand clenched into a fist and then relaxed by his side before he shoved it into his pocket. “It was nice seein’ you tonight.”
“Likewise.” Kiyoomi tried to keep his voice even. He tried to seem sane, rational, and unaffected. But when Atsumu looked at him with those rosy cheeks and that pouty mouth, his mind short-circuited and pushed out words he would normally never say:
“Good night, Atsumu.”
Atsumu looked like had been punched in the gut. A mouth that opened and then closed over and over, unsure of what to say. A chest that heaved with rattling breaths. Wide eyes that blinked closed and opened even wider. A spreading blush that made him glow golden and pink.
“Tsumu!” Kuroo yelled. “Get your ass over here!”
Atsumu blinked one, two, three times, took a few steps backward while surveying Kiyoomi with uncertainty and awe, and finally turned on his heel and jogged toward their friends.
When Atsumu was out of earshot, Yachi burst into a fit of giggles.
“Please stop,” Kiyoomi said wearily. Yachi only giggled harder, and he buried his face into his hands and groaned.
“I just want to let you know that there is no heterosexual explanation for what I just saw.”
“Let’s just go home please,” Kiyoomi muttered as headed down the block toward his condo. Yachi skipped after him, leaving a trail of laughter behind.
“This is just like high school all over again,” Yachi said. “I thought watching Kageyama and Hinata was painful. You two are worse.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Kiyoomi walked faster. Yachi’s strides were shorter, but she was determined to keep up.
“Are you going to tell me what happened back in the karaoke bar?”
Kiyoomi’s cheeks burned against the biting cold. “No.”
“I can’t help you out with your emergency if you don’t tell me,” she said, this time with tenderness rather than teasing. “I’m not laughing to be mean. It’s just—it feels like payback for all the times you watched me be a nervous wreck around Maiko.”
“I think this is a thousand times worse.” His mask felt uncomfortably warm against his face, each panicked breath leaving behind itchy moisture on his skin. He yanked it down over his chin and took a gulp of winter air.
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It is that bad. I think I’ve gone insane.”
“Insane?”
“I held his hand.”
“You held hands?”
Kiyoomi clenched his jaw. “He was jealous we were holding hands, and he asked if he could hold my hand. And we…I’m not going into the details.”
Kiyoomi began to board up the vulnerable side of him that Yachi could see. This was a new vulnerability that he wasn’t ready to entrust to anyone. He didn’t want her to see the way he looked when he was drowning in another person. He didn’t want her to see his yearning eyes and how he ached with desire.
There was only one person he wanted to show this side of himself to. If anyone was going to see him this vulnerable, it could only ever be Atsumu.
“I won’t push it. I’m sorry for teasing you.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sakusa,” she said gently. “I care about you. It breaks my heart to see you clearly into him but holding yourself back. You called an emergency, and I won’t force you to talk about it. But it would be negligent as your friend to ignore it.”
“I know,” Kiyoomi said as they rounded a corner, wincing as they walked headfirst into a strong gust of wind. “I hate this. I don’t do this—I don’t act carelessly.”
“Having feelings for him isn’t careless,” she said. “You two make complete sense together.”
Kiyoomi frowned. “Motoya said the exact same thing, but I don’t understand him.”
“What don’t you understand about him?”
“If it’s obvious I’m into him, why isn’t he doing anything? He’s always been the type to do whatever he wants, no matter how brazen. Why not just do what he always does and make his move?”
Kiyoomi’s condo building came into view, and he walked faster, aching to be as far away from the karaoke bar where everything changed. Yachi clutched the hem of his jacket and pulled on it hard enough to stop Kiyoomi in his tracks.
“Let me ask one question.”
“One question,” he replied. “Then we’re going inside.”
“If he were to ask you to be his boyfriend right now, would you say yes?”
He inhaled shakily and tensed. He tried to find the words yes or no, but they crawled down his throat before he could catch them. He reached for a maybe, but it too left him. He was left with nothing, not even a justification, not even an excuse. Just the pathetic sound of his useless breathing and trembling limbs.
“You’re hesitating,” she observed. “Atsumu is incredibly perceptive. He knows you’re hesitating, even when you’re holding his hand or saying his name. He sees that hesitation, and he’s not going to make a move when you’re hesitant to be with him.”
“I guess that’d bruise his ego,” Kiyoomi said weakly.
“It’s more than that. For one, he is abnormally kind to you—don’t give me that look. You know I’m right. He doesn’t want to push you. But that’s not all. We all want to be with someone who wants us completely. It hurts to be with someone who is unsure about whether they want us.”
“I’m not unsure about him. I want him.” Kiyoomi closed his eyes tightly. His defenses were at the ready. Harsher words. Walking away. Evasion. Going to sleep and pretending nothing happened.
Yachi’s voice was unbearably patient and kind, which kept Kiyoomi from retreating into his shell. “I know you’re not unsure about him. You’re unsure about being in a relationship. Those two things can be true, which means you need to address the latter if you want to be with him.”
“What if I don’t want to be with him?”
Yachi didn’t need to reply. Kiyoomi’s body answered for him with a gruesome punch to the heart.
“Let’s go inside,” she said. “I’ll make some tea, and you can get ready for bed.”
Kiyoomi numbly nodded, and the two of them walked toward his building in silence.
The teapot was empty, and their teacups were drained. The moon stared at Kiyoomi through the window, its pale light making him feel more morose than alight. Yachi sat on the couch beside him, drumming her fingers on her thighs.
Kiyoomi should sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he could only see Atsumu’s face when Kiyoomi said his given name.
“Did you have fun tonight?” Kiyoomi asked.
Her head jerked up, and she found Kiyoomi’s face with a smile. “Yeah. Talking to Hinata helped me figure out some things.”
“What things?”
“About Maiko.”
“Oh.” Guilt left an ache in his hands. Kiyoomi was a repeat offender of tunnel vision. A competition, achieving a single goal, a burning pain in his heart—he’d choose a focal point and never stray until it had been dealt with. His hesitation to be with Atsumu was not going to be dealt with tonight, and for Yachi he would tear himself out of the tunnel to be there for her.
“You know Kageyama and Hinata are dating, right?”
Kiyoomi arched his brow at her. Everyone knew that. One good look at them was all one needed.
“Yeah,” she laughed. “They never dated in high school. It drove me crazy.”
“So you’ll tease me about Miya, but you didn’t meddle when it came to those two?”
She gave him a playful shove. “That’s different. We were kids then. You and I…it’s different.”
Kiyoomi felt a dull ache in his heart. Despite their well-established friendship, this sort of friendship was still new. He could only bring himself to nod.
“I always wondered if they would get together eventually,” she said. “I thought they’d either get together when Hinata came back to Japan or maybe they’d move on and figure it out when it was too late. But they actually started dating while he was in Brazil.”
“That makes sense.” Hinata never shared the origins of their relationship nor chose to provide intimate details, but he once blushed furiously while talking about Kageyama visiting Brazil.
“It was funny. They couldn’t figure it out all of high school, but then Kageyama sees this picture of Oikawa and Hinata together in Brazil, and all of a sudden he makes the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard about why he needs to go to Brazil. I don’t even think he knew he was jealous. Probably rationalized it as some volleyball thing, but they figured it out, and they’ve been together since.”
“What is it about jealous setters?” Kiyoomi grumbled, uncomfortably warm at the memory of Atsumu’s jealousy serving as the catalyst for holding each other’s hands.
“I guess they’re protective of their spikers.”
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, and she giggled. Her laugh lines and smile soon melted into a more serious expression. “Their relationship is funny, but those two are built for forever. They survived being oceans apart, and now they play for two different teams in two different cities. Also,” she said, lowering her voice, “don’t tell anyone, but Kageyama’s considering playing abroad.”
Kiyoomi raised his brow. If Hinata had heard any difficult news recently, he didn’t show it. “Is Hinata okay with that?”
“I think he is,” Yachi said. “He’s a bit sad but mostly excited. He still wants to go back to Brazil eventually. They love each other, but I think they love volleyball more. Because they both love volleyball the same amount, it’s okay to choose their careers over living together. Even though they’ll be apart, they still want to be with each other because it doesn’t make sense for them to be with anyone else. Seeing Hinata talk about it so casually made things less scary. Obviously, my situation is a bit different.”
Yachi anxiously played with her hair, endlessly braiding and unbraiding it. Kiyoomi nudged her gently with his shoulder, and she sighed.
“Hinata and Kageyama have a bond spanning years and years,” she explained. “Maiko and I don’t have that at all, but the more I think about it, the more I want to give it a shot. Even if it’s irrational or if it’ll make my life harder. I think I’ll spend the next year wondering what if? I think I’d rather experience heartbreak than stay up all night thinking about what could have been.”
Kiyoomi’s head lolled back onto the couch. A terrible weight both fell into his lap and had been lifted. He hated leaving anything unfinished. Could he leave what lay between him and Atsumu unfinished? He imagined a world in which he lost all of his chances to be with Atsumu forever. Would he lie awake and wonder? Would he sift through his memories and try to figure out where it all went wrong? Would it be torturous? Would it take long? Would stopping now before falling head first cause less pain or a pain that could never be lessened?
“You’re thinking about that, too,” Yachi said softly. “I think I’m going to talk to her. It might be too late. I wouldn’t blame her for saying no, but maybe I could try.”
Kiyoomi imagined a world in which he asked Atsumu to be his, and Atsumu said no.
Kiyoomi felt like burning that world into ashes.
“What do you think?” she asked. She finally stopped toying with her hair, and a single braid began slowly unraveling itself.
“Do it,” he said.
She blinked up at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
She picked up her phone and waggled it. “I’ll text her, but only if you tell me why you’re hesitating.”
“Yachi…”
“You called emergency. I’m not leaving until you tell me why. I know it’s more than what your mom said.”
“We’re doing this tomorrow.”
“Will we actually talk tomorrow?”
“I said we would.”
“If you don’t, I guess I’m never getting back together with Maiko.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m not,” she said with a bright smile. “Because I know you’ll keep your promise. I’m just providing an incentive.”
“I don’t need an incentive.”
Yachi tilted her head, and Kiyoomi frowned.
“You know everything I say or do is because I care about you, right?”
Kiyoomi willed himself to not look up at the ceiling or down at the floor. He held her gaze and forced a nod. “I care about you, too.”
“I can tell that it took about ten years off of your life to say that,” she said. “I know you care. You might not be good with words, but you always speak clearly with your actions. You’re a good friend.”
He winced at a pang in his heart. He was good with words. Certain words, blunt truths and kept promises. He learned how to be honest from watching his parents, who were straightforward with their cruelty and dishonest with their love. He swore himself to never fall into a pit of lies and messy fallouts. He’d never make anyone guess how he felt. He’d make his world simple, and if anyone disliked his world, they would be free to leave.
But Atsumu wasn’t going to leave. He did not pry apart Kiyoomi’s defenses to discard them; he made a home of them—but not as an unwanted visitor. He was a grateful guest. Atsumu may not be terrified of Kiyoomi, but Kiyoomi was. His terror stole from him the words he wanted to be good at saying. He was afraid that as soon as he said them, as soon as he made it real, Kiyoomi would ruin everything.
Because there was no such thing as a Sakusa in love. He was the lowest branch of his family’s tree, and he shared his parents’ rot. Atsumu would not survive him.
But Kiyoomi couldn’t stop wanting him. He couldn’t stop wanting to say those dangerous words. If Atsumu didn’t know Kiyoomi wanted him, Atsumu might stop wanting Kiyoomi, too.
“He knows you care about him,” Yachi said as if reading his mind. “He just wants to hear you say it.”
Kiyoomi breathed out the weighty terror in his chest. “I know.”
“Good,” she said. “Now all we have to do is figure out what it’ll take for you to say it.”