Chapter Text
☆
If anyone asked Atsumu why his nails were always so pristine, he absolutely would not lie. As a setter, he likes to keep his cuticles trimmed and tips short, and he can’t be embarrassed by such a thing, why would he be? It probably can’t be attributed as a personal ritual, because he isn’t the only setter—or person—in the world who believes in and enforces good nail hygiene, but it makes him feel accomplished as he coats the strengthener onto his pinky and watches the gloss encase the previous natural matteness of his pre-cut, pre-filed, pre-oiled nail.
It’s quite fascinating to Atsumu, the idea that someone spent their precious time developing a so-called liquid that would harden after being exposed to oxygen—or maybe carbon dioxide? Or another gas that flits around him everyday that he doesn’t care to remember the name of because chemistry bored him—just so someone could make their nails look nice, or, in Atsumu’s case, keep them strong, because God forbid one splits during a game, or worse, he gets a hangnail; they are way too painful given their microscopic size, and having to set a ball after discovering one would piss him off to astronomical levels of pissed off-ness.
Maybe in another life, Atsumu could’ve studied the sciences (not chemistry), but fate and complete driven infatuation had different plans. At this point in time though, Atsumu would like to say a few choice words to fate, because she must be an evil, scheming bitch to think that bringing Kageyama Tobio into his living room on a Sunday evening could be considered a good idea.
Honestly, it’s debatable whether Atsumu would’ve felt better had he seen Shouyou before Tobio-kun. If he had, then the feeling in his chest would have been more so erratic and swelling, soon to be crushed into a little pulp by setter hands that aren’t his own; but instead, it feels like an untrimmed talon etching the initials K.T into it, along with some scrawled message in what Atsumu can only assume would be almost incomprehensible kanji that reads something along the lines of ‘he’s mine’ — and isn’t Atsumu all too aware of that particular truth.
“Oho, lookey what we have here! What’s shaking, Kageyama-yama?” Bless Bokuto for being who he is. Atsumu hopes he never changes.
“What’s shake—what?” Kageyama asks dumbly; clearly Shouyou goes for looks over intelligence. Atsumu tries not to think of the implications of that in favour of keeping his ever growing—but only to be fractured by Shouyou—ego in tact, and Atsumu feels some sense of vindication as he starts on his second layer of nail strengthener from the safety of the debatably old couch.
“What’s shaking! Like, how’re you doing, what’s going on, what’s up—“
“I think he gets it, Bokkun.” Atsumu didn’t mean to interrupt, but the shorter this awful attempt at pleasantries, the better.
“Oh—I’m doing good. Thanks.” Shouyou gives Kageyama a little nudge that Atsumu definitely doesn’t see, because he isn’t looking, why would he be? “And you?”
“Ahh, you know,” Bokuto gestures from his lazy boy, as if Kageyama Tobio would know what’s going on inside Bokuto Koutarou’s mind, as if anyone does, “life gave me lemons so I’m making a bunch of lemonade—that’s the saying, right ‘Tsum-Tsum?”
Atsumu glances up from his ring finger where a wet coat begins to undergo the drying process, which he still doesn’t quite understand, and is met with one of Bokuto’s ‘aren’t you so proud of me?!’ faces. The sudden urge to drizzle nail polish into his eyes and ears almost takes over all of his bodily senses before he can snap out of it and nod halfheartedly—which is always full of heart when it comes to Bokuto—at the unasked question.
“He’s still weird.” Damn Kageyama Tobio for saying something that makes Atsumu want to laugh. It’s even funnier because he knows, regretfully, that Kageyama’s statement is a mere observation rather than an attack on Bokuto’s personality for the purpose of humour—he doesn’t know the meaning of the word—and it pisses Atsumu off more than the fact that Kageyama got to Shouyou first.
Well, maybe not more, but it still pisses him off all the same.
“Oooh! Bokuto-san—” Atsumu hates Shouyou— “did you show ‘Tsumu that recipe I sent you?” He hates him. “Atsumu-san!” Hair like the sun that’s too bright, too blinding, in the early hours of the morning and it burns Atsumu’s eyes. “I think you’d really like this one—well, you’ve liked most of the ones so far—” Atsumu hates him— “but this one is special!” Wide smile and glistening eyes, all too much and not enough and it hurts. “Pedro’s grandma sent him care packages allll the time, and she’d always bake this bread—“ Hates. “—and it was sooo good, you’d love it!”
He smiles a bit too earnestly at Astumu and… what a stupid thing to think. Hating Hinata Shouyou seems like a hell-worthy sentence and so incredibly outside the realm of possibility that Atsumu feels like a f*cking idiot to even entertain the idea for more than ten seconds. Someone must have forsaken him at some point in his existence, because he can’t refuse Shouyou, even if his own life was laid out in front of him.
The mention of a recipe tells Atsumu everything he needs to know, despite not being asked in so many words by Shouyou, and again, it’s not like Atsumu can sayno.
“Want me t’make it for ya?” Maybe Atsumu can sue Osamu for emotional distress for making him somewhat privy to the ins and outs of how a kitchen works at such a young age—and Ma, but Atsumu can’t blame her because she’ll find out somehow and curse him, and he’s not feeling much too lucky right now.
For a second, offering his services so willingly seems like the best idea Atsumu has ever had since ramen hot dogs—he stands by it, Osamu be damned—because Shouyou’s head bounces like a bobble figurine that’s taped to a car's dashboard driving across a desert of broken glass and different sized boulders during a storm. Joy twists itself into Shouyou’s smile as if it hadn’t been there previously, but Atsumu knows it had, because it’s Shouyou, and he can’t help the smugness that trickles deep into his veins and clots his blood due to the fact that he was the one to make Shouyou light up like the millions of stars that scatter the sky at nighttime. Well, that is until:
“Oh! Yama-yama can try it too, then!”
Glass? Shattered. Dreams? Broken. Heart? Forget about it, it no longer belongs to Atsumu and has been stretched so thin that he may need a balloon pump to even attempt to reassemble it’s bulbous shape if he’s to ever feel it beat beneath his ribcage again.
He decides to look away now, not because he’s upset, no, but because Shouyou’s joy is now being sent in shockwaves to f*cking Kageyama, who is still standing idly at the step up from the genkan like some lost kid at the grocery store. Atsumu hates him. Yeah, that’s better.
Factually, Kageyama never did anything to Atsumu directly, but by confessing his life long (not even ten years) love to Shouyou almost three months ago, he has subsequently and indirectly directly made Atsumu’s own life unbearable, and frankly, Astumu has just about had enough.
Kageyama has been a frequent guest in Shouyou’s bed for far too long—frequent meaning no more than once a week and too long meaning less than five weeks, which feels like an eternity—and when said bed is pressed up against the wall he shares with Atsumu, it’s only natural that his life has become the most horrendously awful experience ever.
It’s needless to say, but having to hear Shouyou have sex with his ‘boyfriend’ makes Atsumu want to vomit. He can’t get into the details of what ‘hearing’ means because the rhythmic knocking of a bed frame against the wall and hushed ‘Tobio’s and ‘Oh, God, Shouyou—’s haunt him outside of his unconsciousness, and he doesn’t know whether he wishes Shouyou’s grunts and moans were directed at him, or if someone would come and put him out of his misery.
Jealousy is an emotion that not even the proudest person can admit to, but envy buries itself deep into someones very being, it forces every breath out of unwilling lungs that want to shrivel up and die along with the useless piece of meat nestled between them, and there’s no use in denying a feeling that is slowly killing it’s receiver. That’s how Atsumu feels about the whole ordeal anyway.
“—ok, but keep it down this time, yeah?” Bokuto wiggles his eyebrows and Atsumu despises himself for glancing up to catch the remnants of whatever conversation had been taking place, especially when Shouyou rolls his eyes with a fondness that could put Atsumu into cardiac arrest whilst Kage-f*cking-yama blushes like a lovesick idiot. Not that he can blame the guy. No one is immune to Shouyou’s endearment and charm, not even Atsumu. Especially not Atsumu.
It feels like it takes literal years for the lovebirds to traipse their way through the living room and down the hallway towards Shouyou’s bedroom, and Atsumu would like to say that relief flushes through his nervous system when they do, but as the door clicks shut and he screws the lid back on his nail strengthener, bile begins to rise in his throat because he knows that later on he’ll have to endure it all again. The slow creak of bedsprings will make Atsumu dream of a sinking ship; the old wood not unaccustomed to the harsh waves that push it past its limit, but this time, it will sink. Rough waters become so calm when pushed below surface, and maybe drowning would be welcome if Atsumu didn’t have to bear the pain of knowing that Shouyou wants Kageyama, and not him.
“You good, ‘Tsum?” Bokuto asks not-so casually from his weathered lazy boy; an ugly brown that Atsumu can’t help but imagine that his friend is sitting on an enormous—but comfortable—pile of sh*t. He tries to find the connection between the chair and Kageyama, but the word ‘sh*t ’ just swims around his head on a never ending loop.
“Mhm.” The hum is for politeness, but Bokuto knows that Atsumu is not good. In fact, he is probably very bad, and Atsumu assumes his lie splinters the air and cuts Bokuto somewhere on his arm, his neck, his heart, because not long after, a tub of mango sorbet is thrown into his lap along with two spoons. An extremely large Bokuto accompanies them, complete with the very old, very worn, and very loved throw that Bokuto’s grandma knitted for him when he was little.
Atsumu thinks such a time seems impossible because Bokuto is—and has been since Atsumu has known him—a giant bear. Not a grizzly one, no, but one of those ones that Atsumu sees being gifted to partners on Valentine’s Day. It’s a combination of Bokuto’s gentle nature and soul restoring hugs. Atsumu had always been somewhat jealous of the countless people he saw lugging them around on his most hated holiday, but then he’d remember that he has his own real life version of the thing, so that jealousy was in vain.
People don’t often give Bokuto credit where credit’s due. He asks Atsumu if he wants to talk about it, and it’s so pure and genuine that he almost spills his guts all over the blue patchwork of the blanket, but he figures that he’d have a hard time picking through the threads to fish out the pieces of his heart that went along with his feelings, so he shakes his head ‘no’ and they eat the sorbet that is not in fear of melting while Kiki’s Delivery Service plays on the TV instead.
It’s a funny thing: love and its ability to harm those who bear it, who feel it so deeply that it can, and will, wound them, and not for lack of giving. Atsumu, who gives and gives and gives, but never receives. Atsumu, who, just someone accept it, please, would share it with anyone who could bring themselves to welcome such a precious gift with even an outstretched hand, rather than open arms, but they don’t, they haven’t, he won’t. Atsumu needs to stop kidding himself.
Maybe it’s unfair of him to think in such a way, because people do love him. It’s made especially clear when he turns to Bokuto and is greeted with a beaming smile, warm and inviting as it always has been. They love him, but not in the way he wishes it could be. Sometimes he thinks the right thing to do—the safe thing to do—is to keep his love under an unassuming rock, something that no one would dare to pick up because it’s just a rock. If they knew what lay beneath, bent out of shape and flattened into something indiscernible and ugly, then maybe they wouldn’t even believe Atsumu’s love is worth receiving, and that’s something Atsumu thinks is fair, and funny, because he doesn’t think he deserves it, any of it, all of it, none of it, not at all. Not even a little bit.
What Atsumu does deserve though? A good night’s sleep.
He’s not in the business of asking things of the universe, because in his world, in this world, everything is up to chance, and if Atsumu tossing and turning this way and that, unable to forget the unwelcome memories of Kageyama’s previous visits in the silence of his bedroom, then that’s the universe’s way of telling him that he shouldn’t be asleep.
The thought crosses his mind as he stumbles to the kitchen, no light to lead him through the oblivion of darkness; why was there no noise tonight? He doesn’t know, doesn’t think he wants to know, doesn’t think—
“Oh.” There, in his kitchen, clad in nothing but Shouyou’s peach cartoon cat print boxers—Atsumu knows they’re Shouyou’s, he does the laundry—holding two glasses—two—is Kageyama Tobio. The light trickling out from the fridge smoothes over his body, and Atsumu tries not to follow the path that leads to his collarbone, to the hickey—
“Sorry.” Kageyama twists his body using his elbow to shut the fridge door. Atsumu hadn’t noticed before, too busy wondering how and why and how Shouyou’s boxers fit Kageyama, but one of the glasses is filled with milk, and Atsumu hates that he knows it’s not for Shouyou because he’s lactose intolerant. Suddenly, he feels some sort of primal urge to snatch the drink from Kageyama’s hand because he didn’t buy the milk, Atsumu did. It belongs to him, it’s his right to have that milk and—Atsumu realises this is a metaphor and slouches against the doorframe, waiting for Kageyama to pass him without a second thought.
“Oh—” another ‘oh’ and Atsumu might punch an O-shaped hole in the kitchen wall— “Atsumu-san.” Atsumu-san. “Is this brand good?” He doesn’t want to turn, the sturdiness of the wooden frame keeping Atsumu upright, instead of downleft and downside up, but he manages just enough to co*ck his head over his right shoulder to half-acknowledge at Kageyama through the darkness of partially moonlit walkways.
Atsumu hates himself for not noticing before, too distracted by spoilt-not-spoilt milk, but now he can see the tubular shape of a nail varnish bottle slotted between Kageyama’s middle finger and glass of water. The metaphorical punch to the wall reforms into a nonphysical punch to his gut and Atsumu almost winces from the impact.
“I use a different brand, but Shouyou said you like this one best.” ‘But Shouyou said.’ So Shouyou talks about Atsumu. It should be everything all at once, but it’s nothing, never. “I’d like to try it out sometime.”
The punch twists and hardens, turning into something familiar and disgusting. It blooms in Astumu’s chest and disperses itself through his veins, sticky and unforgiving. It’s a feeling that he isn’t too proud to admit — it’s envy.
Glaring seems pointless when it’s so dark, but it helps ease Atsumu’s pain by a mere morsel. He uses what remains of his strength and dignity to pushes off the door frame and takes two steps to close the gap between him and Kageyama.
”That ,” he says, pinching the bottom of the nail polish bottle and sliding it out from a grip that seems pitiful considering it belongs to another setter, “is mine.” Atsumu won’t snarl, because even though he feels the instinct like a caveman would for clobbering another caveman who dared to approach his partner, he isn’t an animal.
The thought of quenching his thirst is long forgotten now that Atsumu feels like he is drowning. His space has been invaded by Kageyama, Shouyou’s partner, Shouyou’s boyfriend, Shouyou’s ‘love of his life’, and Atsumu cannot breathe the tainted particles anymore. Wading through the thickest of nighttime like a stray dog back to his room, Atsumu wonders whether it’s all worth it—the ‘welcome home!’s, the movie marathons, the cooking and the baking and doing it all together—but it’s always down to Atsumu, he who gives and gives and gives.
Maybe it isn’t worth it.
Maybe being in love with Hinata Shouyou was an accidental fate that the universe handed him some stupid time circa Shouyou’s return from Brazil, but Atsumu knows that can’t be true. The universe, if not unforgiving, is plentiful and generous, readying itself for Atsumu’s change of heart and change of plans when an advertisem*nt for ‘New and improved apartments in Central Osaka!’ displays itself in black text underneath a random Instagram post as he scrolls his troubles away.
Moving out, huh? Is it a selfish thought? Atsumu lets the question float away into the cool air of his bedroom, the ‘click’ of a door—Shouyou’s door—signals that Kageyama made his way back to Shouyou’s room in one piece. Shame.
Of course, Atsumu would miss Bokuto. Living with the guy has been an… experience, to say the least, but Atsumu doesn’t regret it, how could he? Not when Bokuto, a friend, a bestfriend, lets and allows, and wants, Atsumu to love him. It’s not that Shouyou doesn’t want, let, or allow, he just doesn’t accept. Not in the way that Atsumu needs him to, and that answers his question; the one he so carelessly and thoughtfully forgot about. It is not, he decides, selfish to preserve his own sanity in sake of civility, in sake of Shouyou, in sake of love, so he clicks onto the popup and weeds out apartments that do not fit his price range, and then those that would feel too big if he were there alone.
Alone, but, it’s for the best.
☾
An 11-second clip is replayed, stretched out frame by frame on Kiyoomi’s laptop screen from the comfort of his bed. The track pad is beginning to wear thin under his precarious touch, sliding back and forth between moments that felt like they lasted forever, but all flashed away in a blink as they were actually happening.
Their serve had been impeccable; Barnes is strong and mighty, always putting his all into every spike, block, dig, and Kiyoomi can’t fault it. Then, there was Heiwajima, the Adlers libero, positioning himself beneath the ball of what had been a somewhat impressive float, but that’s fine, it should have been expected—it was expected, because Meian, Miya, and Kiyoomi himself reformed to block off a very much anticipated and murderous spike by Wakatoshi. Of course, attempting to stop one of Wakatoshi’s spikes needed some form of backup, because, well, he’s almost indestructible. Almost. Inunaki had been waiting, knees bent and ready to bounce into a more effective stance if the ball were to veer off course.
Despite any personal woes Kiyoomi harbours for the libero—none of which are actually significant, just a difference of opinion, maturity, life choices—he can admit that Inunaki isn’t all talk and can absolutely put his money where his mouth is. The ball ricocheted off Inunaki’s forearms, and if Kiyoomi had been in his position, he honestly, truthfully, believes that he couldn’t have stopped it from flying out of bounds, but he won’t tell Inunaki that he finds his skills more impressive than he lets on; not ever.
Kiyoomi uses his forefinger to drag the cursor left along the play bar on the bottom of the screen, rewatching Inunaki’s arms act as an elasticated shield with their own rerouting system to change the trajectory of the ball, and f*ck, Kiyoomi hates how much it pulls him in. A million thoughts flood his mind, all balancing on the edge of a compliment, but the only one Kiyoomi allows to slip past the barrier of bluntness he built years ago is: not bad.
Blinking the momentary lapse of praise away, Kiyoomi drags the cursor back right. The camera struggled to keep pinpoint tracking on the ball as it flew into the air, but Kiyoomi has the upper hand of advanced technology on his side, so he uses his laptop's frame rate to his advantage.
Inunaki’s not bad receive was sent to Miya, as directly as it could’ve been considering how intense the spike was, but lucky for him—yes, lucky—Miya managed to step into a jump set and send it to Bokuto who slammed the ball over the net for a line shot—one that Hoshiumi somehow dug up and sent right back to Kageyama.
Kiyoomi asks for a bout of forgiveness as he chuckles at video Miya tripping over his own foot when he comes down from his jump set. It’s not his fault Miya is as clumsy as he is stupid. Besides, the guy thrives off any and all attention thrown at him—memories of Miya’s interview with Volleyball Monthly titled ‘Cheers or Jeers? I want them all.’ flash in his mind—so Kiyoomi allows himself to watch the stumble once more before moving on.
Rewatching the two second play is enough to throw Kiyoomi back into the game that happened months prior. The phantom sting warms his palms as he moves the cursor along millimetre by millimetre, zoning in on the singular moment where Kageyama’s pin-point set landed itself into the open hand of Wakatoshi, who slammed it down before anyone even had the chance to react. Kiyoomi remembers it so clearly; it felt as if he had been watching the play happen in slow motion. His body had lagged behind his eyes and his feet stayed glued to the court as cheers erupted throughout the gymnasium almost instantaneously.
He should’ve been disappointed about losing, about his team just missing out on winning the final leg of Japanese Mens’ Volleyball tournament back in April, and he was, he is, but spring seems so far away that now, all Kiyoomi can do is reminisce in awe over that final point.
The moment the ball hit the floor, the MSBY Black Jackals had been bumped down the league’s table by one spot, ending up directly beneath the Schweiden Adlers. It sucked, but when Kiyoomi sees Wakatoshi using his trained skill and raw power to take the win, he feels some sense of pride. Obviously the other Jackals played well, and he could barely find a fault that was superficial or less than, but, Wakatoshi.
Kageyama’s last set was sent with one person in mind, the only other player, besides Romero, that Kiyoomi has unlimited amounts of respect for. The ball was drawn to Wakatoshi’s palm as if there was a divine force guiding it to the place where it truly belonged; Kiyoomi can’t blame neither the ball, nor the universe, because he too feels the exact same way.
The last time Kiyoomi spoke about Wakatoshi in an uncharacteristically enthusiastic way, Motoya had teased him and said “It’s like a moth to a flame!” which Kiyoomi thought was utterly ridiculous because a moth would never fly into a flame, they aren’t that stupid, but Kiyoomi may be. Wakatoshi has been, and probably will be, the centre of his universe for a long time. Ever since their first meeting ten years ago, Kiyoomi’s adoration has amassed into a neatly ravelled ball of infatuation, one he longs to unravel and use to knit the most comforting of scarves to wrap around himself, hoping, praying, needing it to be enough to keep the frigidity of his hollow, dark soul from freezing him to death.
It’s silly, ridiculous, f*cking bizarre, but Kiyoomi can’t help the fact that he is drawn to Wakatoshi the same way a moth would be to a light (Motoya’s an idiot), a magnet to iron, a volleyball to the palm of either of their hands.
Wakatoshi’s personal rituals, his placative nature, the way he always acknowledges Kiyoomi with a small smile and a polite nod anytime they are within the vicinity of each other; everything Wakatoshi does ignites the burning pit of anxiety that made itself home inside Kiyoomi’s guts all those years ago. His nerves go haywire and his heart feels like it’s being compressed against his ribcage whenever Wakatoshi is around, and Kiyoomi would like to say that it feels fantastic, adoring him so deeply, but it would be a lie.
Deep down, he knows that no matter how many triumphs of his own Kiyoomi can account for, they will ever hold a candle to Wakatoshi’s, for he is so much better than Kiyoomi ever will be. They have similarities, common interests, barely any personality differences—apart from the fact that Wakatoshi is unpurposefully matter of fact, whereas Kiyoomi chooses to be—but it’s not enough. So, from afar, Kiyoomi allows his heart—and Motoya, reluctantly—to tease him over his desire for Wakatoshi. He lets the pull of an invisible force drag him close enough to keep himself in Wakatoshi’s orbit, but never so he crashes down onto the surface, burning himself in the process; because Kiyoomi knows that no matter what, he is nothing in comparison to Wakatoshi, and that really isn’t something he likes to acknowledge all too often.
Despite his own personal woes in relation to his… crush, Kiyoomi still holds Wakatoshi in high regards, as not only a professional athlete and an opponent, but as a friend as well, because really, what more could he ask for?
In the end, Kiyoomi couldn’t find a fault in their lineup during the last match of the season, so with a forlorn and somewhat dejected huff, he closes the lid of his laptop and sets it aside on his bed and reaches for his phone. He hadn’t planned on revisiting the past, but October crept up on him, and now it’s time for them to do it all over again. He won’t complain about it though, because as much as Kiyoomi loves settling into a routine, he loves to win a little bit more.
At 09:15 on a Tuesday morning, people might think Kiyoomi would have better things to do than sit around in bed and reminisce, and they would be correct. Usually, Kiyoomi wouldn’t be awake this early on a day where he doesn’t have practice, but someone in his apartment building is making an unreasonable amount of noise at a stupid time, hence his assiduous scrutiny of the prior season's final game at an ungodly hour. As Kiyoomi taps away at his phone, a reminder flashes across the screen, letting him know that he planned on doing a grocery shop today.
Coach Foster had a one-to-one with Kiyoomi just two weeks ago and politely suggested (re: ordered) that he revisit his previous eating and exercising routine from their last season, which Kiyoomi dutifully agreed to. He hasn’t changed much about his routine, however, it would be an outright lie to say that he has been diligent with it over the last couple of months; at the end of the day, Kiyoomi is just a guy with an arguably overactive sweet tooth. Telling himself it would be ok if he bought some Kanto Sakura Mochi from the only cafe uptown that makes it—not too sweet that he’ll get sick of them, but enough to tide him over before he can eat a disgustingly creamy Matcha Swiss Roll and not feel guilty about it—is what has Kiyoomi determined to make the day his bitch as he peels back his duvet to finally step out of bed.
As he purges his way through his morning routine—brush teeth, shower, skin care, drink coffee, style hair, scowl in the mirror when said hair doesn’t cooperate—Kiyoomi lets his mind wander back to that very last play six months ago and how incredible Wakatoshi had been. He’d tried, over the summer months, to not let himself get hung up on the man of his dreams and to let sleeping dogs lie or whatever the saying is, but when said man is due to play opposite him in less than five weeks, his resolve begins to crumble and a low buzz of anticipation ripples through his body.
With an atypical pep to his step, Kiyoomi grabs his keys from the dish in the genkan and slings his satchel over his shoulder. Having long forgotten his rude awakening, Kiyoomi is startled when an unholy string of swearing breaks through the barrier of his door. His hand hovers over the handle for a moment, but the reminder of self-promised mochi forces him to wrap his fingers around the cool metal and exit his apartment.
“Hmph—ya f*cker—” An exhausted grunt pierces Kiyoomi’s ears as he pads into the hallway. It’s still too early for someone to be making such a racket, but he likes to mind his own business, so he ignores the uncivilised grumbling coming from his left and decides he’d like to grab another coffee before he sets off on his day of arduous but enjoyable errands.
Ignorance is bliss, but when a particularly loud ‘THUMP’ echos through his ear canal and bounces through the vessels like a bumper car in his skull, Kiyoomi decides that giving someone a well earned death glare will serve as a warning for what is to come if they proceed to piss him off. Eyebrows scrunched at the ready, Kiyoomi turns his head to what he can only assume is his new neighbour—something he never wished for or wanted in this life—but instead, his gaze is met, and matched, with Miya f*cking Atsumu.
What. The. f*ck.
If Kiyoomi thought he was going to have a good day, consider that idea well and truly gone, because any day seeing Miya’s face is guaranteed to be completely f*cking awful.
Kiyoomi is staring, and he knows he is staring, but his opponent is just as locked in as he is and an uncomfortable silence makes itself at home in the two metres between them. Miya is carrying a box, and if Kiyoomi has to imagine the implications of it then he might just go back into his apartment and call Motoya to say his goodbyes, because there is no way in hell that Miya Astumu—the f*cking setter of the MSBY Black Jackals, Miya Atsumu; his teammate, Miya Atsumu—is going to be his new neighbour.
☆
This is undoubtedly the best day of Atsumu’s life.
Sure, he was feeling down this morning as he lugged an array of boxes and bags down the stairwell of his previous apartment complex and into the small van that he’d hired from some guy on the internet, but now? Well, it’s safe to say all doubts and regret are being vacated from his body and are being replaced with everything mischievous. Atsumu had no idea that Sakusa lived in the same building he had scouted out just six days ago, but here he is, in all his pompous and prestigious glory, giving Atsumu a look that says something like ‘why the f*ck are you here?’, and it really is a great day to be alive.
“What are you doing here,” Sakusa says more than asks, as if reading his very thoughts. He has to suppress a shiver.
Atsumu tries his best to act nonchalant, as if this isn’t the most incredible turn of events, but the box he’s holding is really heavy, and despite his fake nonchalance, his hand slips slightly from underneath and he has to use his knee to reposition it in his hands.
“‘M movin’ in, Omi, what’s it look like?” He may be struggling, but Atsumu still manages to smirk over to Sakusa, who really does not look impressed. Small wins.
“No you’re not.” It’s funny, Atsumu must admit, seeing Sakusa traverse into a deeper state of standoffish-ness than he already exudes on the daily.
“Oh, but I am.” Readjusting his grip on the box again, Atsumu feigns indifference, because it’s worth it to see Sakusa go through the five stages of grief in twenty seconds.
“No, you’re not. If you are, you might as well call the police now so they can get a head start on your murder investigation.”
“Wow, real welcomin’, Omi.” Atsumu playfully rolls his eyes. This really is fantastic.
“You can’t.”
Atsumu’s fingers are beginning to go numb. “But I am.”
“I’ll die.” Atsumu is getting bored now. He begins to step into his apartment, setting the box down with the others he brought up earlier. As much as he loves and cherishes any moment spent taunting Sakusa, he decides that his hands are more precious than making his new neighbour/teammate’s life hell. “I’m serious.” Atsumu ignores the unserious declaration and huffs as he stands upright with a hand on his hip before turning to face Sakusa, who is now, unexpectedly—and weirdly—standing in his doorway.
“Stop bein’ a baby.” Atsumu walks forward to head back out into the hallway for the last of his things sitting in a sad pile that he really doesn’t want to think about, but Sakusa puts his hand against the doorframe, blocking his path entirely.
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow at Sakusa, not completely surprised by the childishness of his actions, but getting pissed off all the same. Atsumu just wants to get his stuff into the apartment and go into his duffel bag to drag out the lilac blanket he had bought himself when he first moved away from home—it reminds him of the lavender fields by the lake that him and Osamu learnt to swim in—and lay down on the floor of his unfurnished, unhomely, lonely, flat.
Alone.
“I’m serious, Miya.” Sakusa’s eyebrows are drawn down, his irises barely visibly in the unforgettable void that is his eyes, and Atsumu will never understand the darkness. He hates it. Hates what it represents and will only ever seek out the light, because he cannot see in the dark without the sun lighting the way. “If you move in here, then I will have to leave, because I can’t live next door to you. I will literally rip my own hair out of my scalp before I ever decide to willingly be within ten feet of you outside of the court.”
Sakusa’s harsh monologue only serves as a reminder of Atsumu’s anguish. No one would choose to be around him, to accept the love, or even the friendship, that he offers out free of charge. He wishes it was funny. He wishes that Sakusa’s words weren’t a harbinger of his own self-conscious thoughts, but they are, and Atsumu really just wants to be alone. As it always should have been.
“Move.” As well as the darkness, Atsumu hates himself, because even when Sakusa is being a patronising, impudent asshole, he still can’t make himself cross boundaries that were placed years ago. Memories of the U-19 training camp flash through his mind as he avoids invading Sakusa’s personal space.
Years are taken off Atsumu’s life—and Sakusa’s, he hopes—as they find themselves stuck in a stalemate neither wants to be checked from. It’s foolish, childish, pathetic; they have been teammates for over two years, and yes, they get along when necessary, but being literal walking contradictions of each other makes for a gruelling, but fortunately funny, experience.
Just as Atsumu decides he’s had enough, Sakusa drops his hand from the doorframe and takes a step back, eyes never leaving his. Atsumu silently extends his gratitude to whatever guardian angel is watching over him, probably offering him a pitiful mercy (which he hates), but takes the out he’s been given anyway. Being pitied is not something that Atsumu is a stranger to, but it doesn’t make the feeling of being small any easier. No matter how much he should be thanking someone for their backhanded charity, it still pisses him off.
Taking a side step around Sakusa, Atsumu yanks up the hood on his zip-up, no longer wanting to be perceived by anyone—Sakusa—or anything. He could say ‘See ya later’ or ‘Wanna grab dinner tonight?’ because he really doesn’t want to be alone—even though he would deserve every second of extended silence and each once-forgotten, self-deprecating thought—but he doesn’t. There is no point in even attempting to extend an olive branch because Atsumu will never get what he wants—will never get Shouyou—and he would rather eat nails than spend time with Sakusa; he imagines it would be the most mind numbingly boring experience of his life, and his life already sucks as it is, so he won’t ask. Instead, Atsumu turns left to head back down the hallway to where the rest of his belongings are, everything he has ever owned, sitting by the elevator's closed doors.
Again, fate is just a funny little bystander in the laws of the universe, so when Atsumu feels the urge to turn back around to maybe, partially, somewhat acknowledge Sakusa before they go their separate ways, he is both completely exhausted and entirely amused when his new neighbour tugs on the strings of his jacket that sit loosely against his chest so the hood bunches together around his face.
With that last display of juvenile hostility, Sakusa stomps off in the opposite direction. Atsumu watches him hesitantly open the door to the stairwell, then continue to trudge on as if someone just told him that he would never get to play volleyball again.
“Bitch.” Atsumu huffs as he pulls apart the tightly stitched strings around his hood. It seems like a cosmic joke is being played on him. Who in their right mind would want to live next to Sakusa? Not Atsumu, that’s for sure. If he’s as uptight on the court as he is off the court—which he is, Atsumu’s brain supplies helpfully—then Atsumu believes that the rest of his days are numbered, and an enormously minuscule part of him thinks: well maybe that’s a good thing.
If he doesn’t have to see Shouyou again, doesn’t have to hear him, speak to him, fake smile at him, painfully laugh with him again, then life would be a whole lot easier. Truthfully, it would hardly be considered a life. Atsumu shakes that thought away in favour of moving onwards and upwards, not wanting to go back and re-live any memories that might make him feel smaller than he already believes he is.
Making his way back to the ever-shrinking pile of his belongings, Atsumu feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and makes a mental note to check it once the duffle bag he’s slung over his shoulder—the one containing the blanket—is safe in his unfamiliar apartment; safe in a space that has yet to be tainted by Shouyou.
It feels like a never ending charade, the universe playing cruel jokes on him, because when Atsumu pulls his phone from his pocket after dumping his bag in the centre of a very empty, open plan living room, the name that lights up on his screen is pointing at him and laughing.
2 messages from: shoukun
(10:09) Hey Tsumu !! Hope your move is going well , sorry I couldn’t come and help :( Its Yamas only day off
(10:10) Are you sureeee you dont wanna move back in :((( we miss you already !!!
It takes everything, literally f*cking everything in Atsumu’s heart, mind, body, and soul to not go over to the two-pane window on the other side of the room and throw his phone down onto the street below, then throw himself down along with it. However, he is a grown man and is not against rising above, so he takes a deep breath and slips his phone back into his shorts’ pocket.
The scramble of characters and spaces and incorrect punctuation invade his mind, rendering it a wholly useless lump of pink muscle that never lets up on him in the darkest of times. However, luck seems to be on his side for once, because all Atsumu has to do is drag two more boxes into his new, light-filled, untainted apartment.
It’s a nice place, he can’t deny that, and he knows he’ll enjoy his time here, but Atsumu’s whole life had been about sharing a space, never purposefully making himself too big to fill a room just incase the people inside were crushed and splattered against walls like flies under a swatter. Now though, as he looks around a bare room that contains nothing but a stack of boxes and two duffle bags, he doesn’t think he could ever fill it all alone.
Osamu was a constant in Atsumu’s life that he only recently had the unpleasantness of being without. They shared a womb, a crib, and a bedroom until they moved away to make something of themselves, and Atsumu moved in with a random guy who had a spare room upon his signing to the Black Jackals.
A little over a year into his stay, he met Bokuto again, and his heart soared when the college graduate suggested they get a place together. For the first time, someone had chosen to live with him, rather than being forced to under a set of universal circ*mstances that couldn’t be helped.
Then Shouyou came back, and a cosy two became a troublesome three. It reminded Atsumu of being in high school and hearing the phrase, ‘Three’s a crowd’ being whispered in the hallways between classes by people who thought they weren’t being listened to—but he’d heard it all. He recalls how their observations were directed at him, Osamu, and Suna, and he hadn’t thought about it before—maybe he was being intentionally ignorant—because why would he? Osamu is his brother, his twin,his other half, willingly or not. Atsumu never thought he would stay by his side unless he really wanted to, but then he realised that maybe it was all down to obligation, rather than choice.
However, Suna had chosen; chosen to be his and Osamu’s friend, willingly this time, and together they filled rooms and shared spaces. The idea of not being wanted, chosen, allowed to love, flitted away with childhood memories that needn’t be remembered, because kids suck, and Atsumu was no exception to this rule.
Like his time with Osamu and Suna, Atsumu found that being with Bokuto and Shouyou in a shared apartment was as bright and welcoming as the sun on the first day of spring. But it’s now October and Atsumu can’t remember the last time the sunshine didn’t strain his eyes and singe his skin.
The reminder of such a thing, of the light guiding Atsumu through a sea of darkness he never knew he was afraid of until his late teens, makes him pull his phone out of his pocket.
When he brought up the topic of moving out two weeks ago, neither Bokuto nor Shouyou had a coherent retort that could even slightly convince him to stay, because Atsumu himself had been stumbling through an unconvincing explanation of why he needed his own space. Thinking back, it was so clearly a lie that it pisses Atsumu off to know neither of his friends saw through it, but he knows it’s not their fault. Atsumu is undoubtedly honest, through and through. If someone is annoying him, he’ll tell them. If he thinks one of his teammates aren’t putting their all into their plays, Atsumu will tell them. He is truthful and forthright, unforgiving and grudge-holding, so if he tells a little white lie in the form of saran wrap around his stabbed and sliced up heart, then who could ever tell the difference?
The brightness from his phone screen should be a comforting reminder to not let the darkness in; to not let its unrelenting vines and branches wrap around his body to squeeze unwanted thoughts and forgotten-too-soon memories out of his subconscious and drag him down into a bottomless void.
Atsumu doesn’t want to remember the time he and Shouyou stayed up having a Ghibli movie marathon, curled up on the couch under Bokuto’s baby blue blanket as they ate a weird concoction of leftovers with a side of fridge sweep. He doesn’t want to remember the games of subjective Guess Who using printed images of their mutual friends, and how Shouyou had snorted when Atsumu asked if his person had the sh*ttiest hair known to mankind (he had been referring to Kuroo’s teenage years, and Atsumu wasn’t even the slightest bit offended when Shouyou said ‘yes’ and his person was later revealed to be Atsumu himself).
He won’t remember the time Shouyou snuggled up to him in a corner booth when they went out for team drinks to celebrate him joining MSBY. He refuses to remember the touch of Shouyou’s skin attached to his arm as they dragged themselves through food markets and festival stands. He doesn’t want to, he won’t, he can’t; but Atsumu’s guilty conscience reminds him that trying to forget someone like Shouyou is not allowed in this life, so he lets out a shaky breath and summons his most bravest of faces as his fingers tremble over his phone’s keyboard.
New message to: shoukun
(10:21) it was high time i get my own space , but u two better come and visit me >:(
(10:21) plus, ur gonna see me all the time at practice
It feels like a perfectly valid, non-conceited, selfish reason for Atsumu to move out, and because sometimes—most of the time—people see him as an egocentric asshole, so he figures it’s fine to give into the partially truthful rumours.
Dropping his phone onto a box labelled ‘IDK BOKUTO’, Atsumu trudges over to the window and pulls down the blinds. He grabs his home-away-from-home blanket from the duffle and pulls it around his body, letting his legs give way as he slumps to the ground next to everything he has ever owned.
For the first time in his life that he can remember, Atsumu sits in the darkness of an empty apartment, nothing but his unsteady breaths breaking through the desolate silence. It should scare him—terrify him—but as he wraps his arms around bare knees and lets every thought about himself scratch their way free from the locked cage that sits rattling in his deepest subconscious, his eyes begin to adjust and really, maybe it’s not all that bad, learning to see in the dark.
☾
”Sooo, I heard you’ve got a new neighbour. How’s that working out for you?”
Summer ended almost a month ago and the weather in Osaka is letting everyone know. It’s raining and cold, and well, Kiyoomi hates the rain. He thinks Inunaki must love it though given the question he just asked. If Kiyoomi were to take him outside and smother his face in the murky puddle he saw on his way into the gymnasium, he figures Inunaki would jump with joy. Here's to hoping Kiyoomi gets to find out.
“Oh, come on,” Inunaki continues despite being ignored, “you’ve got to tell us what it’s like living next door to Miya!” Kiyoomi wonders if Foster would allow him to go outside, collect some rain in his bottle, and waterboard Inunaki with it. Then again, he could just cut out the middleman and use one of the showers. Seems a lot less inconvenient.
It’s fine though, because Kiyoomi is so zen about the fact that Miya has become his next door neighbour. He definitely doesn't sneak in and out of his apartment to allude that he may never be home. He absolutely does not religiously take the stairs despite living on the 13th floor. If anyone asks, he isn’t avoiding Miya per se, he’s just an illusive kind of guy who’s apparently been doubling down on leg day.
“Don’t you think Hinata and Bokuto have enough stories of their own to satiate your weird obsession with Miya?” Kiyoomi doesn’t look over, opting to keep his eyes trained on the ridges of his gym socks as he slips his trainers on, but he can imagine Inunaki sporting some offended, disgruntled expression, and it makes his lip quirk up in amusem*nt.
“Wow, two years on and you’re still an ass. Never change, Sakusa.” His retort must’ve been deemed good enough because the locker room falls into comfortable chit-chat that Kiyoomi doesn’t make himself a part of. Honestly, he doesn’t care what they talk about, as long as it isn’t–
“What’s up my lovely little friends?”
–Miya.
“Little?” Barnes’ replies from in front of his locker.
“And lovely? Are you on drugs?” Inunaki scoffs back.
“Friends was a bit of a stretch too,” Kiyoomi decides to tack on in favour of bullying Miya, which is admittedly one of his favourite pastimes. He may be avoiding the guy—he isn’t—he is—but it was too good an opportunity to resist.
“Oh my, Omi, I didn’t know you could speak.” Kiyoomi raises his gaze from where it had been inspecting the lacing of his shoes, meeting Miya’s as he waltzes past to get to his own locker. “It’s been a while, I missed ya.”
“I’m sorry, who are you again?” It’s always so easy.
“Mhm, pretend all ya want, but I know that yer avoi–” Miya’s sentence gets cut off by Hinata pulling him into a hug and Kiyoomi decides it’s best to leave them to it, because honestly, he doesn’t have the time or brain power to go back and forth with an obnoxious faux blonde today. Kiyoomi needs to conserve all of his energy—which is barely anything at all—so he can make sure the next time he plays Wakatoshi, in four weeks, he will be in his best form. For Wakatoshi; and the rest of the Adlers too, he supposes.
“Ok, but are we seriously not going to talk about those two living next door to each other?!” For f*ck sake. Inunaki needs to mind his business. Kiyoomi just wants to go out and practice already, but he has the stupidly respectful etiquette of a Victorian woman waiting for her husband to allow her to go out and run errands for the day, in the sense he wants to clobber Inunaki for bringing the topic up again. Kiyoomi’s glad feminism has come such a long way, but it won’t stop him from physically assaulting MSBY’s libero given the chance.
“Nothin’ to talk about, Wan-san,” Miya butts in quickly. Kiyoomi bites back the retort he had on the tip of his tongue, ready for whatever bullsh*t he thought Miya would spew. It disturbs him, like, a lot, that he didn’t even need to defend himself.
Leaving Inunaki sputtering and begging Miya for details, Kiyoomi makes his way into the gymnasium upon Meian’s ‘Come on guys’. He’s more than happy to let his neighbour deal with whatever privacy-invading questions Inunaki has just so he can actually warm up and do his job.
Time seems to warp and dissipate when Kiyoomi has a volleyball in his hands, practising jump serves like his life depends on the resounding ‘SMACK’ that pierces his ears each time the ball hits the other side of the court. He completely locks in, not once tearing away his focus and the seconds turn into minutes, minutes into hours, and the concept of time doesn’t even seem like a coherent idea anymore.
Without even realising, half of their practice session has closed in and everyone else is taking a break to refresh themselves. Deciding it would be a good idea to give his right palm a break, and his throat a reprieve, Kiyoomi joins the other players at the side of the court to drain his water bottle.
“—and then we can bring out the cake! He’ll never know!”
“Mhm… but what about ‘Samu?”
“Oh… well—”
“Come on, Shou! Use your critical thinking skills!”
Kiyoomi wasn’t eavesdropping—he would never—but not once in his life did he think Bokuto Kotarou would use the phrase ‘critical thinking skills’ in reference to Hinata, so he decides to pay more attention to the muted conversation happening two steps away from him.
“O-K,” Hinata clasps his hands together in though. “How about this: we get the landlord to let us in and text Osamu-san from ‘Tsumu’s phone—”
“No.” Hinata flails as Bokuto crosses his arms against his chest, the obscenely sweaty fabric sticking to each curvature of muscle leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Touché, Bokuto. Kiyoomi tries not to imagine the feeling of said sweat—that is definitely not exclusive to Bokuto’s own jersey—against his skin, otherwise he just might die on the spot, and that just wouldn’t be good for team morale amongst other things. Besides, the mere thought of Kiyoomi’s tombstone reading ‘death by sweat’ is enough to sober him back into a somewhat coherent and responsive state.
“If you’re gonna reject all my ideas, then how about you come up with some?!”
Kiyoomi suddenly wishes he had died because Bokuto’s intense eyes catch his own and his bottle falls lax in his grip, a dribble of water spilling out of the nozzle right onto the front of his jersey, which might be more embarrassing than the ‘death by sweat’ thing.
“‘Yoomi.” Oh no. It feels like a weird moment in a nature documentary when the prey is spotted by the predator, and if Kiyoomi remembers correctly, it’s best to stay still and not attract attention—then he remembers he is in fact a person and there is water soaking itself into his top and everything is awful.
Snapping out of the insanely ridiculous scene playing out in his head, Kiyoomi straightens his bottle and grabs his towel to blot at the wet patch stretching across his chest. Ignoring Bokuto is still his best bet.
“I know you can hear me!” Kiyoomi feigns an ear blockage as Bokuto closes the difference between them in just one step, which he tries not to find impressive. Kiyoomi hears the high pitched squeak of trainers on the waxed floor as Hinata shows up by Bokuto’s side. Whatever they’re planning cannot be good, Kiyoomi assumes, so he really wishes to stay out of it; if he remembers correctly—although it would be hilarious if he had forgotten—the two spikers mentioned ‘Osamu-san’, and Kiyoomi is more than certain, having met him numerous times, that he is Miya’s twin brother.
Knowing Miya is somewhat indirectly related to their plans makes everything less and less appealing by the second, but everyone is still on break and for some reason, Miya isn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe he can entertain the dramatics, just for a minute — as long as Miya isn’t here.
Huffing a sigh of defeat, Kiyoomi lets his hands fall down to his sides as he turns to fully face Bokuto and Hinata, both men lighting up at his sudden uncharacteristic attention.
“First things first, your new serve is killer.” Bokuto uses his hands as he speaks, one following the other in a pointless display of praise as Hinata nods along enthusiastically. “Seriously, you’ve got to let me try and receive it one day—”
“Flattery doesn’t work on me. What do you want?” Kiyoomi hopes his bluntness mixed with his eternal scowl is enough to get them to either shut up or f*ck off, but alas, he had forgotten that he’s talking to Bokuto.
A mischievous grin hides beneath the facade of a friendly smile and Kiyoomi is mildly—extremely—creeped out. “I don’t know if you know this, or care—” Bokuto shrugs— “but it was ‘Tsum-Tsum’s birthday last Saturday.”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, forgetting the towel and bottle in either one and attempts to act nonchalant when he almost drops them. If either Bokuto or Hinata noticed, they were both courteous enough not to mention it, which makes Kiyoomi want to scream at them, but it’s fine. They’re friends, somewhat.
“He was so busy looking for an apartment and getting his stuff ready to move that we barely saw him, and when we asked him about doing something he just waved us off—”
“And we always do something!” Hinata interrupts. Bokuto pulls an offended expression at him, and Kiyoomi, well, he really doesn’t care for this conversation. Surely the break should be over by now? He begins to search the gymnasium for any sign of life moving back towards the court, but his other teammates are still gulping from their bottles and chatting. The universe is never on his side.
Kiyoomi sighs and turns back to the two in front of him, clicking his tongue in disapproval whilst they bicker with hushed voices. “What has any of this got to do with me?” Reminiscent to the ball hitting the court during one of Kiyoomi’s practice serves, Hinata and Bokuto turn back towards him in an instant. Kiyoomi wants to scold them when he hears the couple of ‘clicks’ that invade his ear canal that imply they may not have stretched for an appropriate amount of time, but it’s mildly disgusting so he just grimaces and shakes off the thought entirely.
“Well,” Bokuto begins, gesticulating wildly; it’s a miracle that the guy has both eyes and all other precious body parts present and accounted for at his current age. “We wanted to plan a kind of ‘Happy-Birthday-and-Congrats-on-Your-New-Home’ surprise party for him, but the logistics are…” He trails off and Kiyoomi begins to grow impatient as his foot taps at the waxed floor unceremoniously. “Let’s just say we can’t figure out how to make it a proper surprise.” Usually wide, friendly eyes narrow as Bokuto faces Hinata to glare at him, to which the shorter spiker just scoffs in response.
Being on the MSBY Black Jackals for the past two years and a lifetime with Motoya has equipped Kiyoomi with the patience of a saint, but as he watches Hinata and Bokuto scowl at each other in a petty display of annoyance, he genuinely thinks being on a professional volleyball team isn’t worth the hassle anymore.
“Look, we know you don’t wanna acknowledge the fact that you’re living next door to ‘Tsumu—and that’s fine, you don’t have to, buuut we could really really use your help with this.” Bokuto clasps his hands together ready to plead with Kiyoomi, who is not feeling generous in the slightest, especially in regards that involve his new neighbour, but…
“Fine.” Hinata’s eyes almost explode from his head and Kiyoomi reels back slightly so he isn’t in the splash zone; Bokuto literally jumps into the air, which just feels entirely too dramatic, and that’s coming from Kiyoomi. “But you owe me.”
As if they expected this, the two nod enthusiastically at Kiyoomi’s terms. He doesn’t know what he wants yet, but he will make sure that it will be just as big of a hindrance to them as whatever it is he is about to do to help them surprise Miya.
“What’re you guys talkin’ about?” Kiyoomi flinches like a skittish cat when an annoying blonde unexpectedly pops up on his right. Honestly, the universe really is out to get him if the mere thought of Miya was enough to literally make him appear from thin air.
“N-nothing!” Hinata stutters out. Kiyoomi has to fight the urge to drag a hand down his face in exasperation.
“We were just discussing the sudden change in temperature and how it’s raining much earlier this year in comparison to last year.” Bokuto turns to Kiyoomi and winks somewhat slyly to him. “Must be climate change, right ‘Yoomi?”
This time, Kiyoomi does drag a hand down his face.
“‘Yoomi’?” Miya raises his eyebrow and brings his fingers up to his chin in a mock display of thinking. Kiyoomi has half a mind to tell him to not hurt himself. “Hm, I think I’ll stick with Omi-kun,” Miya lands on a decison much to Kiyoomi’s utter surprise. Kiyoomi can’t say he necessarily likes the nickname that Miya had coined upon his joining arrival, but it sure as hell is a lot better than Yoomi.
Fortunately for Kiyoomi’s sanity, Coach Foster blows the whistle and signals for everyone to get ready for a 4v4. Keeping a respectful, and needed, five paces behind Miya, Bokuto, and Hinata, Kiyoomi can’t stop himself from overhearing the conversation they’re having between themselves.
“I baked that bread by the way, Shou. It’s in my locker so I’ll give it to ya when we leave.”
“Oh my god, really?! I can’t wait to try it—ooh Yamayama can have some too when he comes over tomorrow!”
“Haha, yeah. Let me know what ya think.”
Miya bakes?
☆
Atsumu has never found the mundanity of grocery shopping to be a hindrance. In fact, it’s a task he prefers to savour. Pure moments of uninterrupted bliss where he can imagine some of the finest flavours coating his tongue as he pictures the meals he’ll be making for the week ahead. It’s a chore that doesn’t feel burdensome to him, only contentedness and peace as he guides his trolley aisle-to-aisle.
From the King Prawns to the Thai green curry paste that they’ll be paired with, the small cut of rump that will be more tartare than charred; Atsumu revells in the feeling of pure euphoria that grocery shopping permits him. He always enjoyed his time traversing through the store at the oddest of hours with Shouyou and/or Bokuto, but something about being alone, for the first time in a long time, brings about unmatched tranquillity. Well, that was how he felt until his phone started vibrating in his pocket.
Pausing in front of high shelves stacked to the ceiling with cleaning bleach, Atsumu pulls out his phone only to see a face identical to his own plastered across the screen.
“Wha’dya want Samu?” Atsumu answers with a huff as his favourite playlist—noughties throwbacks, don’t judge—ceases playing in his ears, ready to be replaced by a much more annoying tone.
“Don’t be a dick yer whole life.” Ah Osamu truly is a delight. Not.
“Sorry.” He’s not really sorry, but he can’t exactly start spilling all his best kept secrets to Osamu in the middle of the supermarket, he has some dignity left. “What’s up?”
“Mm, I was just callin’ to see if you were busy, need to show ya somethin’.” Atsumu wraps his hand around a bright orange bottle of unscented bleach, which only serves as a reminder of his annoyingly still ever present crush, so he puts it back immediately.
“Yep, pretty busy right now, Samu.” He grumbles more to himself than to Osamu as he picks up a different bottle: yellow and apparently has a citrusy—which can only mean lemon—scent. It reminds him of something but he can’t quite put his finger on what.
“If yer busy, why’dya pick up, scrub?” Atsumu briefly wonders if the bleach would also taste like lemons, but he nips that thought in the bud as he places it in his brimming cart.
“‘M shoppin’, ya lunatic! Can’t ya let me have a few minutes of peace?!” An older couple stop to ‘tut’ Atsumu in the middle of the aisle, making him cringe inwardly to himself for the—warranted—outburst.
“Chill out, idiot, nobody needs’ta see ya have a hissy fit in the middle of the mall.”
“’m grocery shopping, actually.” He manages through gritted teeth as he sends the couple the most apologetic and I-promise-I’m-not-crazy smile he can muster.
“Ah, yer grocery shoppin’.”
“Yes, freak?” Astumu takes a steadying breath and pushes his trolley forward. He was having such a nice day too, but Osamu just had to go and ruin it, the bastard. “What did ya wanna show me?”
“Nothin’.”
“Wha—but you called me—”
“See ya, ‘Tsumu!”
“Huh ?!” Ironically, NSYNC’s ‘Bye Bye Bye’ floods through Astumu’s earphones mere seconds after and his phone almost flies out of his hands from the shock. “What a dick.” Honestly, Atsumu should’ve eaten Osamu in the womb, but if we’re talking probability, he’s surprised the pig didn’t eat him first.
With little left to pick up, Atsumu streamlines the rest of his trip, much too agitated to enjoy the calmness that has since vacated his entire being. He tries to not blame Osamu for the fact that he wants to strangle someone as he packs his groceries into bags and carries them the four short blocks home.
To be completely frank, Atsumu has been in a foul mood since his birthday. This isn’t Osamu’s fault nor anyone else’s, really. It’s Atsumu’s fault for denying any and all plans that were thoughtfully thrown his way for his birthday just because he wanted to wallow. What a tit. Now, it’s a whole week after the fact and Atsumu feels left out. Of what, he can’t be sure. Everything just feels very… far away, right now. It’s as if the world is moving on and people are living their individual, purposeful lives, and Atsumu suffers and mopes, not taking a moment to actually attempt to join the rest of them, just surviving, not living.
The rain had been a welcome reprieve from summer’s blinding sun, but it served as yet another reminder of something Atsumu has lost, and he absolutely detests losing.
Another thing he hates? Being soaked through to the bone by torrential downpours.
Shaking off like a wet dog in the lobby of his apartment complex, Atsumu begins to ponder about why he never bought a car. It’s not like he can’t afford one, not after being a professional athlete for over four years, but something just seems so unnatural about being moved from place to place without actually moving, but his toes feel pruney in sodden socks as he rides the elevator up to his floor and he wonders if it may be time to get off his exceptionally high horse. Thankfully, the automated voice announces the arrival to his floor and he feels relieved to be so close to drying his feet and unpacking his groceries.
“f*ckin’ rain, makin’ me all wet… ugh,” he mumbles to himself whilst jamming his key into the lock. He should absolutely be more careful with it, but now is not the time for being precarious. Kicking off his shoes quickly, Atsumu forgoes turning on any lights; it’s a small apartment and the kitchen is literally only around the corner to his right, so he’s sure he can find the way—
“SURPRISE!”
“ARGH—!” The previously loved parquet vinyl flooring that was a deciding factor in Atsumu’s choice to move here is now his worst enemy, alongside his stupidly wet socks. He remembers it being a lot more comfortable from the few times he’s sat on it, but when his tailbone and back gets slammed down in a short two seconds, he changes his mind.
“Holy sh*t—”
“I’m so glad I recorded that—”
“Atsumu-kun, are you alright—?”
“Argh, fuuck …” Propping himself up on an undamaged elbow, Atsumu winces and sucks in a harsh breath. “What the f*ck…” Grimacing through the unexpected pain, he takes in his surroundings; which involves a bunch of somewhat blurry faces, and a held out hand.
“You went down like a sack of rice. sh*t—you good, scrub?” Osamu, the prick. Atsumu takes his hand and lets his brother haul him up with a bit too much unnecessary force. “Come on, lemme check ya for any brain damage.” Osamu gets him in a headlock too easily for his liking and starts roughly rubbing at the crown of Astumu’s head with his knuckles.
“Ow, ya f*cker! Get off me you f*ckin’ lug.” He pushes Osamu away—who hadn’t actually been holding on too tightly, what a saint—and stands up straighter, which really f*cking hurts. Atsumu scans his living room quickly; Suna, Kita, Aran—holy f*ck Aran and Kita are in his apartment—Bokuto, and Osamu (dickhe*d), are all looking at him expectantly. Some (Kita and Aran) seem concerned, whilst others (Suna and Osamu) look amused.
“Are you ok, Atsumu?” Aran asks first but doesn’t make an attempt to give him a noogie, unlike his very loving twin brother.
“Yeah, ‘m fine.” Atsumu can feel the rain water start to slide down his face and eventually drip to the floor where all of his groceries are currently strewn in a haphazard state, but from what he can tell nothing is broken. Silver linings and all that. Maybe the universe has some luck leftover for him today. “What’re you guys doin’ here?”
“Oh sh*t—SURPRISE!” Bokuto bounds over to Atsumu and puffs a party blower in his face causing him to lean away at both the noise, and to escape the foil poking his cheek. “Happy birthday ‘Tsum-Tsum!” He’s pulled into a crushing side hug, still completely confused and not with the situation at all . “Ew, you’re all wet…”
“Uh yeah, no sh*t. It’s f*ckin’ rainin’ outside!” As if the clearly soaked state of his shirt wasn’t obvious, Atsumu thought the pelting water against his windows was enough to tell Bokuto that much.
“Don’t be rude to yer friends, Astumu-kun.” Bokuto puffs his chest out and adds on a ‘yeah!’ to Kita’s scolding.
“‘Friends’ is a bit much.” Suna can die.
“Whatever, lemme go change.”
“Don’t leave us waitin’ fer too long you ungrateful ass!” Atsumu gives Osamu the finger as he wanders past his kitchen and towards his bedroom.
“f*ckin’... ‘don’t leave us waitin’!’ ... stupid Samu… stupid party… ugh.” Too busy muttering curses under his breath, Atsumu hadn’t even heard the toilet flush and is almost knocked off his feet for the second time in two minutes when he almost walks into—
Oh no.
f*ckity f*ck f*ck f*cking f*ck!
“Oh—‘Tsumu! Did I miss the—” Shouyou peeks around Atsumu’s shoulder to look at the now probably dispersed group in the living room. Shouyou. “Aw sh*t, I’m sorry!” This is all too much for Atsumu. Seriously, what the f*ck is going on and why is he being subjected to so much mental and physical torture?! He just wanted to do some shopping and make dinner. f*cking universe. “Happy birthday! Well, belated birthday—but I did wish you it the day of too, so… happy second birthday!”
“Thanks, Shou-kun.” Atsumu has had absolutely enough of the f*ckery that’s happened thus far. He gives Shouyou a quick nod and side steps him to get some dry clothes.
“Why’re you all wet?” Shouyou asks, and Atsumu can imagine him co*cking his head to the side in confusion like a curious puppy. Gripping his bedroom door handle a bit too tightly, Atsumu clenches his jaw before pushing it open.
“It’s raining.”
Atsumu decides taking a quick shower will do good for his bruised soul—and tailbone—and finds that he doesn’t actually give a f*ck if he makes his friends wait a little bit longer. They made their beds, and for some reason, they’re choosing to lie in Atsumu’s, so sue him for doing as he pleases.
This time, the water that rains down on him is welcome, washing almost an hour's worth of infuriation down the drain. Acting as if his shampoo is a cleanser for his brain, Atsumu scrubs at his scalp with fervour, wondering why his friends are currently making themselves at home in his living area. He really doesn’t feel like celebrating his belated birthday, and Shouyou being in his—now tainted, touched, no longer sacred—apartment is really putting a damper on his already sour mood. Atsumu knows that Shouyou hasn’t done anything to him directly, but he is not innocent in the court of Atsumu’s mind, and the jury is still out as to whether the betrayal is worth reconciling.
For 446 days—not that Atsumu’s counting—Shouyou has been a poison traipsing his way through Atsumu’s bloodstream. At first, it was a joyous feeling; a naive form of love, but now it’s becoming tiresome and Atsumu just wants his stupidly pathetic crush to go away. He longs to blame Shouyou for their lack of relationship, but chooses Tobio-kun as his target instead, despite knowing it’s neither of their faults that Atsumu never threw his very small hat into the very big ring of suitors. The two were destined, so Astumu hears, but it doesn’t make playing scorned wannabe-lover any easier.
Usually, when faced with such a grievance as spending his evening with the object of his annoying as f*ck desires, Atsumu would consider getting inordinately drunk so he doesn’t have to consciously think about whatever company may be bothering him, but the season starts in less than two weeks, and he really doesn’t feel like becoming a “teaching moment” for the other Jackals, so with a stern resolve and heart strings held together with PVA glue, Atsumu dries off, puts on some clean clothes, and prepares to face his friends.
“Naah, she’s just a coworker, don’t start makin’ assumptions that ya can’t back up, Rin.”
“I’m just saying that you two looked veery cosy in that corner booth last Thursday. Doth my eyes deceive me, ‘Samu-chan?” Atsumu walks back into his living area only to be hit on the arm by a cushion—one of two, he’s still decorating—thrown by Osamu.
“Oops.” Osamu admits his mistake aloud as Atsumu picks up the discarded pillow and aims it right back at Osamu’s stupid face, who blocks it immediately. He really needs some friends who don’t know how to play volleyball. “Dick.” Osamu shoots Astumu a look and turns back to Suna. “I’m tellin’ ya, I was just sortin’ through her rota cause she needed some days off. Why’dya care anyway?”
“Are you feelin’ better, Atsumu-kun?” Kita asks. Atsumu elects to ignore his childish brother and even more childish bestfriend, and walks over to where Kita sits on the floor in front of the coffee table.
“Yeah, ‘m alright,” he lies through his teeth whilst suppressing a wince when slides onto the ground. “So, how’d you lot manage to get time off work to come all the way here?” Although his day off has been mildly ruined, there’s always room for improvement, and Atsumu is really hoping for some beautiful turn of events to make himself feel better.
“We got lucky.” Suna points between himself and Aran, not once taking his eyes away from Osamu, which makes Atsumu feel violently ill. He will not be thinking about, observing, or even acknowledging Suna’s crush on his twin brother today. He hasn’t got the heart or brain cells for it. They’re both idiots; that’s all he has to say on the matter.
Atsumu hums and turns back to Kita, ignoring Osamu completely, to hear how his favourite upperclassman (Aran not included) managed to come all the way to Osaka just for a—probably very last minute—surprise party.
“I trust my colleagues enough to watch over the crops for one day, Atsumu-kun.” Kita’s lip turns up in a slight smirk and Atsumu’s heart flutters a little bit at the expression. He sometimes forgets about his first ever crush—which isn’t nearly as prominent as it used to be—but Kita will always be the first guy he ever ‘fancied’, so excuse him for needing a moment to appreciate the serendipity of it all.
“Well, thanks fer comin’.” It’s probably the first time Atsumu has felt grateful for the impromptu gathering since arriving home and hugging the floor, but then he remembers that his current crush is sitting—practically bouncing—on the armrest of his couch, and that gratitude is promptly forgotten.
“Aren’tcha gonna ask how I got the day off work, ya inconsiderate prick?” Osamu asks from his space on the couch behind.
“Nah.” Atsumu uncrosses his legs and lets them stretch out under the coffee table, purposefully kicking Suna in the process. A heel is stabbed painfully into his shin at the same time a hand hits the back of his head. “Jesus f*ckin’ Christ! How’re you all gonna come to my home and just abuse me?!”
“Deserved.” Suna and Osamu ring in unison, and Atsumu wonders if he could make them disappear if he asked the universe nicely. Whoever let them in his apartment is a monster. Speaking of…
“How’dya get in here anyway? I haven’t even given Samu a spare key yet…” Atsumu ponders out loud, and when he feels two unfortunately familiar hands grasp onto his shoulders, he wishes he never asked.
“You will not be-lieve how we did it, ‘Tsumu!” Shouyou shakes his shoulders lightly, and it takes all of Atsumu’s pride to not shrug him off.
“Yeah, I was actually wonderin’ myself.” Aran doesn’t know Shouyou as well as Atsumu does, and he should be grateful for it, really. Anyone who does just falls in love like an idiot anyway. “Ya didn’t do anythin’ illegal, did ya?”
“Well—”
“Bokuto-san, please do not tell me ya broke into my brothers apartment and are now runnin’ from the law.”
“No, nothing like that! Shou and I just had to use some… external resources to gain entry.” Atsumu doesn’t think he wants to know what Bokuto means by that, but he’s sure he’ll find out. “Shou’s right though, you won’t believe how we managed it. Like, seriously. It’s sooo outside the realm of possibility, even I’m not sure whether I dreamt it or not…”
“Go on then, fill us in.” Suna rolls his hand unenthusiastically. Atsumu leans back and lets his head knock into Osamu’s knees, and to his utter disbelief, his usually tormenting twin runs his hands through still damp locks, so it’s only polite for Atsumu to close his eyes and hum in appreciation.
“Your wish is my command Rin-Rin!”
“Do not call me that—”
“So! Shou and I had been discussing this at length, because honestly, how the hell were we supposed to get into ‘Tsum’s apartment without him knowing and get Osamu here for the joint shindig?!” Bokuto holds for suspense, but Atsumu is too busy revelling in the feeling of comfort he lost many years ago. Despite being a complete ass, he truly misses Osamu.
“That is what we all wanna know, Bokuto-san,” Aran adds on in hopes of getting Bokuto to continue.
“The answer comes from an unexpected source—seriously, tell ‘em Shoukun!”
“Seriously! Unexpected source!” Atsumu wants to hate Shouyou right now, but the storytelling from the duo forces nostalgia to seep into his core and it tastes bitter yet sickeningly sweet simultaneously.
“You’re all familiar with the Black Jackals Outside Hitter, yes?” Bokuto goads, and Atsumu is confused because their Outside Hitter is literally the one talking. Unless…
Atsumu shoots upright, causing Osamu’s hand to fall, not without taking some blonde strands with it, to stare at Bokuto in disbelief. “Yer kiddin’...”
“Not even a little bit.” The proud smile gracing Bokuto’s features is both horrifying and warranted—if he’s saying what Atsumu thinks he’s saying, then the guy deserves a goddamn medal.
“Can one of you fill us in, or do we have to sit here and pretend to care about your dramatics?” Atsumu decides to pointedly ignore Suna, and, for the first time since he got home, he willingly turns to Shouyou for answers.
“We got Omi-san to get us into the building!” He’s still bouncing in his seat and Atsumu wants to tell him to stop, but he is too gobsmacked right now to care for the fidgeting. He opts for looking between Bokuto and Shouyou in pure shock instead.
“B-but—how—what—how?!” There aren’t enough words in the world to allow Atsumu to form a coherent sentence because there is no way in hell that Sakusa Kiyoomi helped who he deems to be the village idiots get into Atsumu’s apartment for a surprise party. It’s completely unfathomable.
Bokuto shrugs nonchalantly like this isn’t the most groundbreaking piece of information he has ever shared in his life. “We just asked him for his help, and he agreed.”
“Yeah! He called the super and asked to be let into your apartment because he forgot something and you two are friends or something blah blah, and then the guy came and did it! We were waiting in Omi-san’s apartment, but he wouldn’t let us past the genkan…” Shouyou mumbles the last part, which isn’t a shock to anyone, at all. The thought of Sakusa doing a good deed, however? Well, that does turn some heads.
“Woah. I didn’t realise you and Sakusa-san were good friends, Atsumu.” Aran ponders from the couch.
“They ain’t.” Osamu scoffs in response. Atsumu guesses he’s still upset over the events he’d been told about move-in day.
“I don’t… Omi-kun? Are you sure?” Atsumu has way too many questions, but Bokuto nods before he starts to talk Suna’s ear off about the Raijins new Wing Spiker, causing everyone but Atsumu to move on entirely.
He has one too many questions, mainly why Sakusa of all people willingly helped them with their brazen expedition to surprise Atsumu for his birthday, and how he managed to get the super to agree on letting him in another person’s apartment. Maybe they’re friends? Unlikely. Maybe Sakusa bribed him? More likely. Still, none of the options are granting clarity so Atsumu decides that once his uninvited guests leave, he will go and ask the man himself why he offered up his services, but also, why he didn’t come.
Thankfully, the gathering comes to an end just after 9pm, which is perfect timing for everyone to catch the last trains home. Atsumu was extremely grateful for the thought his friends put into the evening, and he actually enjoyed himself despite promising himself he wouldn’t, but as the door clicks shut and his forehead rests against the cool wood, relief spreads like wildfire and lingering anxiety washes away with the last of the rain outside.
At some point earlier on—between Aran showing everyone how he can open a beer bottle with his teeth—seriously, what the f*ck?—and Bokuto cutting the cake—and almost his hand in the process—Atsumu let his carefully concocted facade unknowingly slip.
Osamu cornered him in the kitchen as discreetly as he could and asked what was going on with his ‘ugly mug’. Atsumu evaded each burgeoning question until he could escape unscathed, but Osamu knows him better than anyone—when he ushered everyone out less than an hour later, Atsumu knew he would have to tell his brother sooner rather than later what is causing his broken heart to show through his not-schooled expression.
But right now, that feels like a problem that he will address another day, because he has a bone to pick with the man next door.
All Atsumu wants to know is why Sakusa even bothered helping Bokuto and Shouyou when he so desperately tries to steer clear of all situations that might cause minor disruptions to any plans he has. The Sakusa Kiyoomi that Atsumu knows would never in a million years go out of his way to help someone, especially not Bokuto and Shouyou, and especially not for Atsumu’s sake. It just doesn’t add up, and he may not be the next Nancy Drew, but Atsumu will find out why.
With three pitiful knocks to a door that resembles his own, Atsumu waits for Sakusa to answer. Patience is a virtue and not something he claims to possess, so after a hellish minute, he raps his knuckles against the wood again and waits; again.
“I know yer in there, Omi!” Atsumu tries to refrain from banging against the door—he doesn’t hate all of his neighbours—but it doesn’t stop him from doing his absolute best to peer through the peephole placed just below a glaring 63.
Failing to see through the distorted lens, Atsumu presses his ear to the door and although he can’t actually hear anything, he’s pretty certain he knows Sakusa. After spending two years on a team with him, the probability of the prickly asshole being out is lower than Atsumu’s current will to give a f*ck.
“Ya literally let people into my apartment a few hours ago!” He raises his fist to knock again but is interrupted by a moron.
“I could’ve gone out!” Atsumu’s hand falls to his side and he deadpans.
Sighing in defeat, but not resignation, he pushes his unstyled hair away from his forehead and takes a couple of steps away from the door in hopes of goading Sakusa to open it; he still hasn’t forgotten the ‘I will literally rip my own hair out of my scalp before I ever decide to willingly be within ten feet of you outside of the court’ conversation.
“Please.” The plea comes out meek and powerless, so Atsumu clears his throat and tries to forget about memories unwanted and wishes needing to be granted. “I just wanna ask a question, then I’ll leave ya alone again. Promise.”
The lack of response after the longest 44 seconds of Atsumu’s life is answer enough; he doesn’t want to spend his whole evening trying to talk to someone who would literally rather fake their own death than speak to him. Turning back to his apartment, Atsumu wonders why he even bothered in the first place. Being ignored and unwanted seems to be a running theme in Atsumu’s life, so maybe he should just do everyone a favour—namely Sakusa—and leave them all be, but then he hears a lock clicking out of a place and a latch being unbolted.
The sound of shuffling feet has Atsumu turning to the noise, and he is unexpectedly and abruptly faced with a stern Sakusa. Like their first meeting in the hallway—just over a week ago—the two are caught in a standoff which gives him deja vu; all scowls and unsaid words.
“Go on then.” Sakusa raises his eyebrows slightly, but the telltale boredom in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. “Ask your question.”
Atsumu scoffs at the bluntness, but for some reason, Sakusa chose to come out of his hideyhole—the least he could do is ask.
“Right, yeah.” He tries to shake off the tense binding that has begun to wrap around his shoulders in favour of a more approachable and open stance. Maybe willingness will be enough to sway the most uptight man he knows. “Why’dya help Bokkun and Shou tonight?”
Sakusa stares at him for a few seconds, probably assessing the likely forlorn expression Atsumu is sure he’s wearing, maybe even wondering when exactly Miya Atsumu got so pathetic; he feels like a f*cking loser.
“Because.” Atsumu’s posture slumps as his hands clench by his sides.
“Seriously, Omi—”
“Because they wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t.” Which is utter bullsh*t, Atsumu thinks.
“Riiight, so you went to all that trouble, inconveniencin’ yerself, just so they’d ‘leave ya alone’?” He really doesn’t buy it, but Sakusa’s pointed stare doesn’t waver and Atsumu feels like he’s grasping at cemented straws. “Whatever.” He turns to walk away, but there is another question that he wanted to ask and although he doesn’t think he’ll receive a straightforward answer, Atsumu might as well get it all out. “Why didn’t ya come?”
He hates how small he feels; asking Sakusa Kiyoomi—the walking embodiment of antisocialness—why he didn’t come to his stupid belated surprise birthday party, but Atsumu thinks it might’ve been nice to have someone there that wasn’t the least bit privy to his patheticness in relation to his majorly depressing lack of love life and it’s sunshiney counterpart.
Unsurprisingly, Sakusa’s frown turns into a sneer of disgust as he looks Atsumu up and down, and the inching step he takes backwards sends a clear message, along with:
“Why would I?”
Of course. Why would he?
Atsumu huffs a short breath before walking back into his apartment, though not without petulantly slamming the door in response to his neighbours rudeness. It would be unfair to blame Sakusa for his harsh words and even harsher expressions, because Atsumu knows that’s just who he is as a person, and it would be stupid of him to think that he would’ve received any type of civilised response, but it still feels like a knife is being twisted into the already gaping hole between his ribcage.
f*ck Sakusa Kiyoomi, f*ck ‘New and improved apartments in Central Osaka!’, f*ck the surprise party, f*ck the rain, and most im-f*cking-portantly: f*ck Hinata Shouyou.
All he wants—all he can ask for without it being too much—is to get over Shouyou. Never in Atsumu’s life has he felt so utterly pathetic and desperate. Everything pisses him off; even things that Atsumu loves, like his friends coming to celebrate him for his birthday, irritate him, like leaving a permanent stain on a once loved and cared for linen sheet.
Right now, there is nothing Atsumu can do other than wait. He’s moved away, hoping the lack of Shouyou will be enough to replaster his heart. He’s doing the things he loves to distract himself—mostly. Atsumu is even going as far as considering forming a friendship with Sakusa “I would rather be bald than be anywhere near you, Miya” Kiyoomi; but time is cruel and wrathful. It preys on those who beg for its completion, but everyone knows that it doesn’t heal all wounds, and Atsumu might need to learn how to sew up his own before he bleeds out.
With an apple-bruised ego and the weight of two familiar hands lingering on his shoulders, Atsumu climbs into bed, wrapped in the pitch black of his room. When he closes his eyes to try and forget the eventful evening that took place, all he can see is the flicker of fire dancing above a 2 and a 4, mocking his lack of resilience. He decides that partaking in birthday traditions of wish making may be his only hope, once and for all.
Atsumu doesn’t necessarily believe in them—if they were real, then Osamu would’ve gotten uglier with age—but the regretful thoughts of Shouyou singing ‘happy birthday’ whilst holding a homemade cake reawakens premature beliefs, and he really hopes this particular wish will come true.
☾
“I don’t care, Motoya.” Kiyoomi is so f*cking done. Between being referred to as ‘Yoomi ’ by both Bokuto and Inunaki now, and having to deal with his cousin’s antics, he really is about to lose his sh*t. Not only did he have to go along with Bokuto and Hinata’s plan to surprise Miya, he also had to spend his evening listening to distorted laughter and terrible singing. And now? He’s being lectured by his cousin of all people on ‘proper birthday etiquette’, as if Kiyoomi gives a single f*ck.
“Kiyooo~! You can’t just slam the door in someone's face when they want to ask you a genuine question!”
“I didn’t slam the door in his face. I answered and he left. I don’t see the issue.” Kiyoomi pinches his phone between his ear and shoulder as he begins folding his laundry. Miya’s ridiculous surprise birthday party last night left him with nothing to do other than sit and suffer through muffled conversations that would float through too-thin walls every now and again. His only saving grace was the slightly overflowing laundry basket which he managed to get done between ‘happy birthday’s and ‘goodbye’s.
“You looked him up and down and said ‘why would I come?’ As if that’s any better?!” Kiyoomi pulls away from Motoya’s unnecessarily raised voice and chooses to put the phone on loudspeaker to protect his ear drums. “And on the poor guy's birthday too… Do you have no heart?”
“It wasn’t Miya’s birthday yesterday.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes as he bunches together his matching socks. “And no, it withered and died around the same time as my patience did for putting up with your sh*t.”
“Ahh, so you never had one to begin with then.”
“Exactly.” Kiyoomi picks up his folded trousers and takes them to their designated drawer, readying himself to hang up on Motoya the moment he steps back to the bed.
“Look, all I’m saying is give the guy a break. You have no idea why he chose to move away from Bokuto-san and Shouyou-kun, and he’s clearly going through a rough time if what you’ve said about his behaviour recently is anything to go by.”
Kiyoomi had mentioned to Motoya—told him in full detail because he’s a gossip, not that he’d admit it—how odd Miya had been acting recently. From the impromptu move to the kicked puppy look he’s been wearing around the gymnasium, and everything else overly forlorn in between, it became quite obvious that something has been bothering Miya for the past week, maybe even longer if Kiyoomi decides to put his mind to it, but he won’t. To say Motoya is invested is an understatement; he even offered—he doesn’t know why Motoya offered, it’s not like Kiyoomi cares about Miya’s wellbeing—to talk to Suna Rintarou, but was scolded by Kiyoomi and told it was none of their business, which it isn’t. The less Kiyoomi knows about Miya’s personal life, the better.
“I’m sure he just had an epiphany for the first time in his whole existence and decided to grow up. What adult man wants to live with two other disgusting athletes anyway?” He asks, mostly to himself, because seriously, ew.
“You don’t know that they’re disgusting—”
“Oh believe me, I do.” And doesn’t Kiyoomi regret finding that particular fact out.
“Why didn’t you go anyway?” Motoya asks, and Kiyoomi… doesn’t have an answer for that—not one that will leave him any dignity. Motoya waits but Kiyoomi hopes if he makes himself sound busy by shuffling clothes around on the bed then his nosey cousin might just give up . “Whatever—” thank God, “just—cut him some slack, yeah? I’m sure he isn’t out to get you, otherwise I’m pretty certain I’d be hearing a lot more sh*t coming out of your mouth rather than what sounds like concern.”
Kiyoomi almost gags at the insinuation. “I am not concerned about Miy—”
“Gotta go, Kiyo! Love ya!”
The call drops abruptly and Kiyoomi is left holding squares of his folded underwear in the centre of his bedroom. Honestly, Motoya’s audacity should be studied in a lab.
The second Kiyoomi saw Miya in the hallway of his apartment building, he ran down the stairs and called Motoya to complain and bid his farewells, to which his cousin responded with heinous laughter and lacklustre ‘good luck’s. Ever since that fateful day not even two weeks ago, anytime Miya had been considered a hindrance in Kiyoomi’s life, he would call Motoya and update him on how utterly terrible his existence had become.
He may have mentioned the odd time when Miya didn’t seem like himself, but Kiyoomi’s unease wasn’t caused by worry for his neighbour, it was caused by concern for his setter’s ability to do his job. Again, Kiyoomi doesn’t care about Miya—not in the slightest—he just doesn’t want to become a broken toy during one of Miya’s childish tantrums. Whatever it is that’s bothering him, he needs to get over it in Kiyoomi’s humble opinion.
Unfortunately, Kiyoomi can’t blame Miya and his guests for his lack of sleep, so he pours himself a second cup of coffee before midday and lets his mind wander into territory charted but briefly forgotten.
In 22 days, he’ll be on the court with Wakatoshi. It honestly feels like a lifetime has passed since he played against his friend, much rather seen him in the flesh. The thing about Kiyoomi’s infatuation is that he will not push it beyond its limits. He’s a man known for his determination to finish what he starts, but when he chose to keep his feelings for Wakatoshi to himself—and Motoya by ridiculous deduction—Kiyoomi decided that it was a situation where he didn’t have the final say, and he’d much rather suffer in solitude than get rejected by someone he admires so deeply.
But that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy any time he gets to spend with Wakatoshi, especially when Kiyoomi gets to see him perform in an environment in which he honed and perfected his skills. It seems unfounded to love someone based on their ability to spike a volleyball, but that isn’t all there is to it.
It started as a crush, which seems childish to say, but it was. Little twelve-year-old Kiyoomi was in awe of another person—a young boy no less—using a pocket handkerchief, and that was just the beginning. As time went on and they remet at countless practice matches and official games, somehow, a friendship formed, much to Kiyoomi’s utter disbelief, and delight.
Rivalry on the court adapted into companionship off court and Kiyoomi found his awe growing into something unfamiliar and all consuming. He began to obsess over Wakatoshi’s technique, wondering what he could do to match the skills that impressed him so wholly. Kiyoomi’s plan was to become someone worthy of Wakatoshi’s friendship, and that’s exactly what he did. Almost.
A specific memory comes to mind as dishes are dried and put away from lunch: during Kiyoomi’s first-no, second year at university, Wakatoshi had shown up to watch one of his games. It had surprised him so much that he almost flubbed the starting serve. After the match—of which his team won—they went to a nearby cafe at Kiyoomi’s recommendation and fell into comfortable conversation, after a deserved, but brief, interrogation.
“I did text you, but my message didn’t send. I’m sorry if my visit has caused any issues for you,” Wakatoshi had stated matter-of-factly. Kiyoomi felt the world shift beneath his feet when he remembered what had happened the week before. Blocking Wakatoshi’s number was a mistake made by a somewhat inebriated Kiyoomi, and if it weren’t for his friend’s obliviousness he might’ve confessed to his crime, but instead he made a mental note to conceal his guilt and unblock Wakatoshi’s number before returning to his dorm. Pathetic.
“No, not at all, I was just surprised.” It took every fibre in his being to not swoon and blush at the tentative smile that barely graced Wakatoshi’s lips, but little did Kiyoomi know, he was about to form a bond that may become unbreakable. “No one has ever come to watch me play here—except Motoya, of course.”
Wakatoshi studied him for a moment, and despite Kiyoomi’s uncaring desire for human emotions and basic empathy, he notes a change in eyes that pierce his own: something akin to sympathy lighting a path for him to follow.
“At the risk of sounding intrusive, I thought as much.” Kiyoomi knew not to be offended—unlike himself, Wakatoshi would never intentionally upset anyone—but he was curious about his friend's assumptions, so he placed his large sweetened americano down and sat patiently, waiting for an explanation.
Wakatoshi took a long sip of his decaf cappuccino, the frothed milk lining his upper lip in a way that should be revolting and not endearing. Kiyoomi had to fight the urge to lean over and wipe it away before Wakatoshi took out his handkerchief—that piece of cloth was always causing problems for Kiyoomi—and dabbed it away himself.
“You told me during yours and Komori-kun’s high school graduation dinner that your siblings are much older than you and, ‘too obtuse to give a f*ck about their baby brother’, which was why they didn’t attend that evening,” Wakatoshi started as Kiyoomi recalled their conversation all those years ago. He was equally surprised as he was embarrassed that Wakatoshi had even remembered the childish anecdote, much less recited it. “And your parents—they didn’t seem overly enthralled at your choice to carry on pursuing volleyball whilst attending university.”
Not enthralled is an understatement. Kiyoomi’s parents spent hours trying to convince him to attend a more prestigious university with more focus on academic and creative clubs. “Volleyball was just a phase,” they said, and it always bothered Kiyoomi, making him feel lesser due to his so-called ‘hobby’.
Honestly, it’s his own mothers fault for alienating him from the rest of the family and lumping him with her sister for a large portion of his childhood — not that he isn’t thankful to his auntie for everything she has done, but if it hadn’t been at her request, Motoya never would’ve dragged him along to play volleyball in the first place. It’s a real shame Kiyoomi inherited the determined and spiteful DNA that ran through his parents, otherwise they might’ve raised a more obedient child.
“Yeah, they still aren’t entirely convinced…” Kiyoomi offers as Wakatoshi leans forward, pulling him back into the conversation.
“I understand.” Deep hazel eyes held steady, forcing Kiyoomi to fall prey to their authority and demand. Wakatoshi understands him… it seemed implausible, because Wakatoshi had plenty of people who went to see him play, to witness his brilliance in the flesh, to— “My mother hasn’t been to one of my matches, not since my parents’ divorce.”
Huh.
It took a second for Kiyoomi to understand it himself, that Wakatoshi was trying to connect with him, to show an ounce of empathy that he has never once extended or returned; not to Wakatoshi, not to anyone, but he was being handed an olive branch and it would be a mistake to let it slip from his reach.
“I’ve told you previously about my fathers coaching, but he left Japan a long time ago, and I have no siblings, so I think I somewhat relate to how it may feel — knowing that all the people in the stands are there for others, and not you.”
Kiyoomi could grasp it between his fingers and hold on for dear life, make it his permanent home, reformed and all for him, sacrilege be damned, but if he loses his balance and falls…
“I hope my being there today made you feel a little more proud of yourself, Kiyoomi-kun. You are an excellent volleyball player.”
If frail twigs snap beneath great expectations and forlorn dreams—
“And one of my dear friends.”
Crack.
Kiyoomi held on regardless, using a piece of Wakatoshi’s childhood to mould a bond despite splinters travelling deep in his veins. They are friends, have been since they were young and Kiyoomi hopes they will be for a long time to come. It was a hard truth to face, knowing that was all they’d ever be, but after too much thought and many sleepless nights—and Motoya’s surprisingly helpful advice—it became clear to Kiyoomi that there was no point in chasing someone who had no interest in him, so he adored from afar. He never truly forgot, or moved on, but that’s his cross to bear. He’ll get over it eventually, right?
With nothing to do other than watch a recent practice match held between the Adlers and Red Falcons sent by Coach Foster, Kiyoomi decides to reorganise his wardrobe in preparation for the winter before ordering himself some dinner to sit in front of his TV and screen share the game from his laptop. Somewhere between the swap of short to long-sleeved shirts, a much too audible ‘thump’ ricochets through his apartment walls, something too loud for his liking, but he decides to take a deep breath and ignore it. When he unfolds his cable-knit sweaters from their storage container in the bottom of the wardrobe, Kiyoomi comes across the same navy crewneck he had worn on that unforgettable afternoon spent in his favourite coffee house. A thread hangs loose from a snag in the right sleeve—he must’ve caught it on something and not realised. It seems oddly fitting that the same day he lost hope for his ever-present, unrequited crush, one of his most loved pieces of clothing also began to unravel. Irony is funny, sometimes.
Kiyoomi’s previous resolve to ignore the noise coming from the hallway goes out the window when another ‘thump’ makes its way into his apartment. Abandoning the sweater on his bed, Kiyoomi all but stomps into the living area to find out what the f*ck is going on, but when he hears a certain someone’s voice emanating through the wall, he stops dead in his tracks.
“—mornin’—long—can’t wait—!” Each muffled word winds the coil in Kiyoomi’s stomach leaving it short from snapping and replacing his major organs with shrapnel built from frustration. He has absolutely no interest in whatever bullsh*t his neighbour has gotten himself into, no, not even a shred of his attention is being directed Miya’s way.
Kiyoomi presses his ear against the smooth wood of his apartment door, distorted grumbles and huffs breaking through on a continuous loop of aggravation. From what he can tell, Miya is locked out of his apartment and has no way of getting in — even the front desk can’t help him apparently. Kiyoomi deduces that his key most likely snapped in the lock, which seems about right considering the few times he’s seen Miya shove and jiggle it inside the keyhole over the past week alone.
It’s been weird having his teammate as a neighbour; mostly because Kiyoomi has started to see the difference between the setter Miya Atsumu, and the random guy who lives in his building, whom he has tattled on to Motoya countless times. Kiyoomi isn’t a psychiatrist, but it seems as if Miya is putting on a front for the other Jackal’s and then coming home and turning into a stroppy teenager—Kiyoomi would know, he was one of them not too long ago. In any case, it’s really f*cking weird.
“Nah, Samu, don’t worry about it. It’d be too much of a hassle for ya. It’s cool. I’ll figure it out. Yeah. You too.”
Miya’s sighing increases tenfold and Kiyoomi decides it’s time for him to return to his bedroom and put the last of his summer clothes away, promptly and purposefully ignoring Miya’s existence once again. He’s only able to step up from the genkan when a forceless knock against his door freezes him in place.
Oh no. Oh God, no.
Another knock times itself with Kiyoomi’s lifeless blinking. There is absolutely no way Miya is coming to him for help. No. It’s completely implausible. Miya has definitely just left and this is his upstairs neighbour Tsukiko-sama with another batch of homemade Manju cookies and a hearty list of complaints about the young—practically teenage—boys who live in the apartment at the end of the hall. Yeah, it’s definitely her, but as a precaution, Kiyoomi stealthily tiptoes back to the door and peers through the peephole to calm his nerves.
A familiar head of blonde is warped through dense glass, stubbornness and anger both pitching themselves on Miya’s face as Kiyoomi takes in the unwanted sight. He seriously cannot be thinking that Kiyoomi is willing to help? If he is, then Miya is as stupid as Kiyoomi always thought.
“Omi-kun, are ya in?” Miya leans closer and pinches one eye shut as he tries to look through the fisheye, forcing Kiyoomi to duck down quicker than he ever has in his life. A soft knock pushes a vibration through his shoulder and another defeated sigh slips beneath the frame. For some absolutely horrific reason, Kiyoomi finds himself somewhat pitying Miya and against every single nerve in his body screaming at him to not open the door, he stands up and slips the chain from the bolt and welcomes unflattering fluorescent lighting through a crack.
Miya’s eyes snap up from his bunched up fist and catches Kiyoomi’s own. It almost startles him, but he schools his expression and raises his eyebrow a millimetre in question.
“Ah, Omi!” He definitely doesn’t know that Kiyoomi was looking at him through the peephole, because the facade of happy-go-lucky teammate reinstates itself through a halfhearted smile and less abrasive body language. “‘m so glad yer in.”
“What do you want, Miya?” Kiyoomi’s pretty sure he knows what Miya wants, but he won’t be outing himself as a nosey neighbour.
“Well, I’m in a bit of a pickle ya see…” He gestures to his door and then gently waves the head of his key in front of his chest. “My key snapped in the lock and the locksmith guy can’t come an’ fix it til tomorrow. Apparently Saturday’s his day off or whatever…” His eyes narrow slightly before replacing any sign of aggravation with his famous schoolboy grin. “I know ya don’t like havin’ people in yer apartment, but you’d really be helpin’ me out—I’ll stay outta yer sight, if I can. Promise.” Miya smiles again as he holds out a pinky finger, and it all feels so fake and put on that it almost makes Kiyoomi cringe.
One thing he loathes most in this world are people who pretend to be something they’re not. It’s actually one of the reasons he somewhat respects Miya—well, the other version of him; the co*cky bastard who thinks God dropped him on earth to change the trajectory of everyone’s lives individually. This version of Miya is pitiful and Kiyoomi thinks it’s a real f*cking shame.
“Why don’t you stay with Bokuto and Hinata?” It seems like an obvious choice and Kiyoomi isn’t sure why Miya didn’t think of it himself, but the forced smile drops slightly and abandons the creases by his eyes. Something Kiyoomi has never recognised on Miya’s face makes itself present and he hates that it pokes at the useless muscle in his chest. “Or a hotel?” He adds on tactfully.
“Right…” But now it’s worse. That look is morphing into something desperate and pathetic. Despite the mask Miya is trying to wear, Kiyoomi can make out its jagged edges and transparency. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll go to a hotel or somethin’. Sorry.” Miya turns away and Kiyoomi quickly weighs out the pros and cons in his head:
CONS
1. Miya will be in his apartment
2. He’ll have to listen to Miya
3. Miya doesn't shut up
4. It’s Miya
PROS
1.
It seems like an obvious choice, but the way Miya drags his feet along the floor makes Kiyoomi feel like he just murdered a stray puppy in front of its mother and he doesn’t feel like harbouring a guilty conscience for the whole evening. It won’t be that bad, right?
“Miya.” Kiyoomi hopes he doesn’t regret his next sentence when lidded eyes brighten under the yellowed overhead lights. “You can sleep on my couch, but you better be gone in the morning.” A ghost of a once dead dog turns and if Kiyoomi squints, he thinks he would be able to see Miya’s metaphorical tail begin to wag. Instead, he pulls the door open and steps aside to let his neighbour in. The etches of a mistake begin to scribble in his mind, but it’s too late for him to retract his offer.
The way Miya toes the entrance to Kiyoomi’s apartment is comical; he must think there are traps set or Kiyoomi is going to cage him up like an animal, so to satiate the out of character nerves radiating from him, Kiyoomi hands him a pair of guest slippers from the built in storage cupboard and gestures for him to come inside.
“Nice place ya got here, Omi-kun.” Miya lets out a low whistle and Kiyoomi scoffs at the ridiculous compliment.
“We basically have the same apartment.”
“Nuh-uh. Yours is definitely nicer than mine. Did ya bribe the landlord?” Miya wiggles his eyebrows causing Kiyoomi to roll his eyes and walk past him and over to the closet by his bedroom.
“Funny.” He turns to find Miya who is eyeing up his desk like a nosey kid, figures. Pulling out a fresh towel, Kiyoomi steps back up into the living area. “Do you need to shower?” He asks like it’s a question when it’s actually an order, but he has some semblance of manners.
“Oh—” Miya looks at the black towel splayed across an open palm and then back up to Kiyoomi, “—yeah, sure.” He may be a dog, but at least he’s an obedient one.
“You know where the bathroom is. Please wipe the shower down when you’re done and don’t use my luffa.” A genuine smile cracks its way onto Miya’s face as his shoulders drop from their hunched form; Kiyoomi feels the tension smooth in the air as he takes the towel.
“Gross, Omi! I’d never wanna use yer luffa!” Kiyoomi doesn’t offer him a response and instead goes into his bedroom and shuts the door.
Like a good host—based on Motoya’s advice during a frantic phone call circa the time Miya stepped into his shower—Kiyoomi lays out some clean clothes by the bathroom door and waits for his guest in the kitchen. This whole situation was not a part of his evening plans, but if he can get Miya to shut up for more than 5 minutes, then Kiyoomi may be able to keep it within the seams of the routine he’s built for himself. As he leans against the counter, Kiyoomi scrolls through the different apps made for ordering food and contemplates what he wants to eat for dinner. Too entranced by his favourite Thai restaurant on screen, he doesn't hear the door open and almost jumps out of his skin when Miya appears from around the corner.
“Sorry, Omi. Yer probably not used to havin’ people sneakin’ around yer apartment.” Miya is towelling his hair in an attempt to dry it—must be nice—and wearing a much more relaxed expression now that he’s freshened up.
“It’s fine. Do you eat Thai food?” Kiyoomi looks back down to his phone and almost begins salivating at the thought of their Panang Curry and Vegetable Stir Fry.
“Yeah, I do. Are ya cookin’?” Miya steps forward but doesn’t invade Kiyoomi’s personal space at a criminal level, although he isn’t holding out hope for that to remain applicable.
“God no.” He holds up his phone for Miya to glance at briefly before adding his curry to the basket and handing it over. “I’m not paying for you though.” Kiyoomi folds his arms across his chest and scowls at Miya who looks absolutely affronted over the accusation.
“I can pay for my own food, thank you very much.” He’s wearing the white t-shirt and red shorts that Kiyoomi left out and they fit him so differently. Kiyoomi finds it extremely f*cking odd and mildly uncomfortable seeing someone else wearing his clothes. “Y’know you don’t hafta be a dick all the time, right?” Miya smiles menacingly as he hands back Kiyoomi’s phone.
“I know.” Offering Miya an equally fake smile, he clicks order and stilts his excitement by moving into the living area to set up his laptop. “I’m going to watch the match Coach Foster sent.”
“Can I join ya?” Oh God, this is so f*cking weird. Kiyoomi does not like having people over. He seriously does not know how to act.
“Obviously.” Kiyoomi deadpans. When he looks up, he sees Miya thumbing at the hem of his shorts with an unreadable expression on his face. What is up with him?
Regardless of Miya’s bizarre behaviour, they quickly fall into comfortable silence once their food arrives and they sit to watch the practice game between the Adlers and Red Falcons. Miya is sitting on the far right end of the couch, and Kiyoomi on the far left, just as God intended. He may be sleeping on it tonight, but as long as Kiyoomi is sitting on the sofa, Miya will be staying no less than 4 feet away from him. Not that Kiyoomi doesn’t trust in his cleanliness, he just doesn’t want Miya invading his personal space, apartment now not included by forced proxy.
The game has been on for almost 10 whole minutes and Miya hasn’t said a word, which Kiyoomi is rapidly growing bored of—there’s a first time for everything—and that sad look behind his eyes never really went away. Although Kiyoomi doesn’t want to get involved, he absolutely can not spend his evening like this.
”Hoshiumi-san’s receive is weak when he’s in the back.” Kiyoomi sends a silent apology to Hoshiumi for the criticism—it was a low blow, but if he has to listen to the painstakingly obvious sighs coming from Miya’s mouth any longer, then he might commit murder, but thankfully, the comment is taken in its stride with a low chuckle and Miya finally begins to talk.
“Oh man. I think Ushiwaka’s spikes are gettin’ nastier by the day.” It’s not an observation Kiyoomi can disagree with; he’s looking forward to receiving them again.
”Mm.” As much as Kiyoomi would revel in talking about Wakatoshi for the rest of the game, he thinks it would be best for his own sanity to change the subject. “It seems as though Kageyama is gearing up for a new serve; it’s quite impressive.” He states, because it is.
But then he doesn’t get a response, and when he chances a glance in Miya’s direction, the biggest regret of his life so far, he can see the stiffening of a jaw and keenly narrowed eyes. What a baby. Miya is so self centred as a setter that he can barely acknowledge any others, it’s ridiculous, but if that’s his prerogative, then so be it. Kiyoomi will just move on.
"Wakatoshi-kun might be the MVP for this practice match, like that’s any different from usual.” He adds on quietly.
"Wakatoshi-kun—you seriously think he’s the best player they’ve got right now?” Kiyoomi doesn’t sense hostility in Miya’s voice, but it comes off mocking and it irritates him. Of course Wakatoshi is their best player—he’s probably the best spiker of his generation right now, so he states as much.
"Eh?!” Miya gawks from his end of the couch, completely taken back by Kiyoomi’s definitely true statement—what’s the big deal?
“He has all of the skills to qualify and his technique is practically flawless.” He defends matter-of-factly, because it is a fact.
“Hold on, Omi-kun—yer tellin’ me that you think Ushiwaka is the best player in our circuit right now?” Miya turns on the couch so his body is facing Kiyoomi’s. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Miya takes a deep breath and rubs his hands together, “I’m not havin’ that.” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at him as he reaches for the laptop on the coffee table. “May I?”
Kiyoomi waves his hand as a sign of permission and Miya searches ‘MSBY Black Jackals’ on YouTube.
He full screens a video titled ‘MSBY’S BEST MOMENTS’ and skips through the first 52 seconds as if he’s seen it before, and if Kiyoomi had to take a guess, he would put money on the idea that Miya sits at home watching clips of himself on repeat.
They finished eating a while ago and Kiyoomi feels satiated and content after having one of his favourite meals and watching Wakatoshi play volleyball, even if he is reluctantly entertaining a man he never wished to be in such close quarters with.
”Ok.” Miya adjusts himself on the couch, moving a couple of inches towards Kiyoomi and begins to point at the TV on the wall, his finger following Bokuto’s figure. “Watch Bokkun and how he reroutes his spike—” Kiyoomi watches and Miya waits “—ya see how they had all three of their blockers on him, and he still got the point? He could’ve broken through their defence or even made them touch the ball, but instead he went for the clean kill because he can.”
Kiyoomi hums in consideration; Miya makes a point—he won’t call it a good one—but that doesn’t mean Bokuto is better than Wakatoshi.
”Bokuto is…” He really needs to get over his fear of complimenting other people, it won’t kill him. Besides, is Bokuto in the room with them? No. “Good. He is a good player.”
Miya scoffs at the lacklustre reply but proceeds to spend another few minutes pointing out the multitude of Bokuto’s skills, and Kiyoomi is slightly impressed. He knows his teammates abilities, but when he’s on the court and trying to win, he doesn’t dare waste his time on the people on his side. Even when he rewatches past matches, all he is looking for are mistakes and things to improve upon, so having Miya point out the good makes him feel somewhat guilty. Wakatoshi would never be so selfish.
”—and you’re amazing at makin’ split second decisions, I mean, look at the way ya just spiked that chance ball?! EJP were in bits after that.” Kiyoomi’s wandering mind is brought back from its self-deprecating at Miya’s words. He’s still watching the screen where all the clips are now focused on Kiyoomi himself, eyes wide and entranced. Miya truly believes that Wakatoshi isn’t the best spiker of his generation, he thinks that the members of his team are; that Kiyoomi is.What a f*cking strange turn of events.
Unsure of what to reply, Kiyoomi stands and takes their empty dishes to the kitchen; he needs a moment to wallow in his probably lost argument—and to get away from Miya complimenting him. It’s been a weird day. His guest takes no mind to his departure and carries on skimming through the video, replaying moments that almost force him to his feet. It’s fascinating seeing Miya like this; full of childlike wonderment—not that Kiyoomi is familiar with the concept—but if he really thinks about it, Miya has always been this way about volleyball. Kiyoomi wonders why he never noticed it sooner.
They stayed up watching YouTube compilations for far longer than Kiyoomi cares to admit outloud, so he decides to call it a night around 11pm. Kiyoomi pulls out a pillow and a blanket from the hallway closet, handing them to Miya as he bids him a monotone goodnight and leaves his impromptu guest alone in the living room. He pointedly ignores the growing number of messages from Motoya and switches his phone onto sleep mode before finally slipping under the covers.
Kiyoomi spends the first hour in bed tossing and turning; his brain too aware of the invited intruder sleeping soundly on his couch just some feet away. He’s never had anyone stay in his apartment before—ok, that’s a lie. Motoya slept on his couch once because the idiot got too drunk and Kiyoomi wasn’t willing to risk hurting himself in an effort to haul him into an Uber, and he might have been somewhat concerned but that’s a secret between friends slash cousins. If Motoya had choked on his vomit in his sleep, then auntie would have killed him and Kiyoomi didn’t need such a burden hanging onto his soul for the rest of eternity.
Having Miya in his space had been one of Kiyoomi’s recurring nightmares—alongside the other Jackals turning up at his front door with a keg or something along those lines—but it turned out to be almost pleasant,and he finds that to be even more disturbing than the idea of throwing a rager. Miya had been in a bad mood when Kiyoomi heard him outside his apartment, of which only marginally improved with a shower and some food. But once they began watching the practice game and provided their additional commentary, it was as if whatever was bothering him fizzled away and Kiyoomi was left with surprisingly decent company—but he will never let it happen again. He’s just doing Miya a favour, that’s all.
As his eyes begin to droop and his mind wanders effortlessly, Kiyoomi reminds himself that this isn’t the only ‘favour’ he’s done for Miya since he moved in, and he wonders why all of his previous hostility—according to Motoya—hadn’t been brought up all evening.
When Kiyoomi wakes up only a few hours later, tired and restless, he bunches up his brief stint of charity work and throws it straight in his bathroom bin. He doesn’t necessarily regret letting Miya sleep on his couch, but he doesn’t know why he even bothered in the first place. It’s not as if they’re friends. Whatever. After purging through his morning routine on too little sleep, he emerges from his room and prepares to face whatever horrors lie within the living area.
To his complete and utter surprise, Miya is still fast asleep on the sofa. Kiyoomi’s fairly certain Miya is an early riser—unlike himself—so it seems out of character that he’d still be asleep at… he checks the time on his phone and almost throws it at a wall when he sees 05:13 displayed at the top. It is way too early, but there is no chance he’ll be getting any more sleep, so he makes himself a steaming mug of coffee—black with three sugars—and stares off into space for an inordinate amount of time.
Something horrible compels him to check on his guest as his body reluctantly takes him around the kitchen counter to stand at the far end of the sofa. Miya’s lips are parted slightly but he seems to be breathing through his nose. One of his legs is bent up and an arm is propped behind his head; he looks…
Peaceful.
Never in Kiyoomi’s existence of knowing Miya Atsumu has he seen the guy look peaceful. Smarmy, all the time. Determined, more often than not. Concentrated, why of course, but peaceful? Well, they aren’t two things that Kiyoomi believes go together. It’s completely unnerving and Kiyoomi feels a shiver go down his spine as his body jolts to follow.
Annoyingly, the realisation of Miya’s supposed ‘peacefulness’ puts Kiyoomi on edge. He worries at the skin around his nail beds, trying his best to shake away the thought of Miya’s sleeping face.
“Mornin’ Omi…” Kiyoomi almost jumps up into the air but manages to stop his feet at the last second; he turns to Miya who’s sitting up right on the couch rubbing his left eye whilst yawning. He blinks tiredly as his eyes adjust to his surroundings, and Kiyoomi can’t find it in himself to move from his spot in the kitchen. “Did ya sleep alright?”
Miya swings his legs off the uncomfortable couch—Kiyoomi doesn’t think so, but Motoya said it’s like sleeping on a bed of rocks, the ungrateful asshole—and stretches with his arms above his head.
“Yes, fine.” Kiyoomi turns away and clicks a double espresso shot into his machine. It’s too f*cking early for this.
“Good. I slept alright, but I don’t think yer couch was made fer sleepin’ on.” Kiyoomi isn’t looking, but he hears a couple of ‘clicks’ come from Miya and he feels the tiniest pang of guilt spread through his gut, but what can he do. “Don’t worry about it though, I don’t plan on sleepin’ on it ever again.”
“Good.” Kiyoomi taps his fingers on the counter impatiently.
“Charmin’.” Just at that second, and not a moment too soon, a God grants Kiyoomi freedom by way of Miya’s phone ringing from the coffee table. “Hello?—oh, that’s great—ok, I’ll meet you there in a minute—thanks!” He hangs up just as Kiyoomi turns back to the living area and begins to sip on his way too hot coffee. “That’s the locksmith, surprised he’s up an’ out this early… anyway, I guess I’ll be outta yer hair then.” Miya stands from the couch and folds up the definitely too small blanket that Kiyoomi provided him with the night prior. His hair is tousled and it sticks out at the sides. He looks tired still, as if he barely slept at all, but he smiles and this time, it reaches his eyes as they pin themselves shut. “Thanks fer lettin’ stay here, I really owe ya.” Kiyoomi nods and then the weirdest thing happens… “See you soon?”
“Yeah, see you soon.” Kiyoomi runs the pads of his fingers over each of his nails as the door to his apartment clicks shut and he decides that he didn’t necessarily hate having Miya Atsumu in his apartment.
Weird.
