Chapter Text
Sakusa Kiyoomi is not a liar. In fact, he can count on two hands how many times he has voluntarily lied to anyone about any single serious thing in his entire life. Growing up, Mother taught Kiyoomi to always be well-behaved and polite, which… well, was pretty hypocritical considering how she’s ended up, but alas, she always made it clear that she disapproved of lying. At this point, though, that’s what her whole life is based upon. She’s been a somewhat reluctant liar for the whole time Kiyoomi has been alive, or at least, since he was still a child – those first few years before things changed were bliss.
Spending your developmental years in the Sakusa household is not something Kiyoomi would ever wish upon anyone, this fact even including his worst enemy – if he were petty enough to actually have one, that is. Every day was filled with silence or scolding, disparagement filling the halls of a house that had always been too big, that surely would be too big for even someone with a hundred friends. It was deafening in the sense that if Kiyoomi uttered a single word, it would sound like a scream, and if Mother walked through the building, it sounded like a raging giant sending thunder through the house. It is a place and a family that he has done everything to avoid over the years since leaving for Osaka, but somehow, every year without fail, Kiyoomi manages to get roped into returning for the holidays. He doesn’t get a single day where he doesn’t have to live some stupid lie. He doesn’t get a break, he doesn’t get to breathe. A whole week where he must return to a life that he often tries so desperately to forget.
Considering all of this, all the terrors and secrets that reside in his childhood home, he supposes it makes sense that of course, one of the only times he has voluntarily lied in his adult life, it would backfire on him.
“Holy shit,” Motoya had cackled through the phone when Kiyoomi, panicked beyond belief, had called him to relay the awful situation he had managed to put himself in.
“Shut up, it’s not funny,” he’d groaned, tempted to just suffocate himself with his pillow; surely it would be a better fate than his current one.
“It kind of is,” he’d said, laughter still evident in his voice. “I can’t believe you lied to your Mum. About being in a committed relationship. That’s gold!”
“Stop,” Kiyoomi had pleaded, almost desperate for this to not be rubbed in his face any longer. “You know how she is. She wouldn’t stop talking about me being single, how I’ll feel so left out at Christmas because Riku and Noriko are both married and Riku has a child and oh Kiyoomi, wouldn’t you like children too?”
“Seriously? They’re like, way older than you are, though.”
“I know,” he had sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose where a headache was beginning to form. “She wouldn’t stop with it, and it was starting to annoy me, so I just told her I’ve been with someone for months. Now she’s insisting I bring him for the holidays.” It’s the most semi-positive attention he’s had from his parents in years, and there’s a small part of him, deep down, that feels happy about it. He despises himself for that.
“What’d your dad say?”
“Funny that you think I’ve spoken to him.”
Motoya was quiet for a few minutes before he’d then piped up with the most ridiculous thing he has ever said, which really is a feat for him at this point. “Why don’t you just ask someone to pretend to be your boyfriend?”
Kiyoomi had frowned at that. “I’m serious, Toya.”
“So am I!” he shouts. “You’re friends with your teammates, right? Wouldn’t one of them be able to help you out? It’ll get Auntie off your back, and after, you can pretend you’ve broken up; she never has to even know that you lied to her! I’m pretty sure it’s a win-win situation, Kiyo.” Then, because he’s an asshole, “Don’t you have that weird thing with Atsumu? Y’know… the whole, like, we have the hots for each other but won’t talk about it thing? You could ask him; maybe it’ll kickstart something.”
Kiyoomi had rolled his eyes because really, what kind of world was his cousin living in? Again, ridiculous. “I’m hanging up on you now.”
“Coward,” was the last thing he had heard before he did, in fact, hang up. He’d thrown his phone down, screamed into his pillow like an angry teenager – though he never did such a thing as a teenager himself – for what he’s pretty sure was a solid minute, and then decided to bring it up with the team at their last practice before the break in hopes that they would be able to help. Now sitting in the locker-room with the few of them that haven’t left for home yet, he wishes he hadn’t bothered. He hates them more than Motoya.
“It’s too bad most of us are in relationships,” Bokuto says apologetically. Kiyoomi holds back the groan that builds in his throat. He’d only told them about Motoya’s suggestion because he thought it was so insane; he wasn’t planning on getting help in finding a fake suitor. It doesn’t exactly help either that Inunaki is still wheezing over the idea in the corner of the room.
Kiyoomi turns to Atsumu because, as upsetting as it is, he’s seemingly the only other one of them still remaining in the room that has some semblance of a brain, and he’s hoping that maybe he’ll at least stop their conspiring – he’s just staring at him, though. Kiyoomi raises a brow.
“I’ll do it,” he says then, shutting everyone up.
“What?” is all Kiyoomi can manage to get out through his shock.
Atsumu shrugs, but the blush steadily spreading over his face betrays his discomposure. “Well, not to brag, but I’m actually a pretty good boyfriend, I’ll have you all know: real or fake,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Plus, my mum’s goin’ away on holiday with my aunt and Samu’s going to Sunarin’s, so I’ve not really got any huge commitments.”
No way this is real. What is happening? Surely, he’s fucking with him.
“I don’t—” This is ridiculous. He’s not going to pretend that he’s dating Atsumu. That’s stupid. Whatever tension is between them, the most it would ever end in is drunk sex, not a… relationship. Fake or not.
“Oh yeah! You’d be perfect for it!” Hinata cheers unhelpfully. Kiyoomi takes back every time he has ever thought of him as his friend – he’s nothing but a traitor. Inunaki starts wheezing again; when he inevitably passes out from asphyxiation, Kiyoomi is not going to help him.
“You two do get on well… other than all your dumb arguments,” Bokuto says, smirking at Atsumu. Kiyoomi senses that he knows too much.
“How is this possibly a good idea?” he asks, mostly to himself. His teammates are idiots. He wishes Meian hadn’t left the gym already. Or better yet, he should have just joined the Adlers instead.
“Well, you see Omi-Omi, you need a pretend boyfriend, and I don’t wanna third wheel my stupid brother and his boyfriend, even if they’re my best friends. Also, I’m a great liar,” Atsumu says, and somehow his smile manages to come off as both shy and devious; it’s annoyingly attractive, as he usually is. “I’m here to help if you want me, ‘s all I’m sayin’.”
Kiyoomi groans. Maybe it would be more believable if it were someone on the team, and Atsumu does respect his boundaries more than anyone at home, that’s for sure. Mother probably won’t believe him if he doesn’t actually bring someone, since she had already sounded somewhat suspicious when he’d told her about it, but… Gods, he’s going to regret this.
“Fine—” he mumbles, and Inunaki falls to the floor. Kiyoomi ignores him. “—but I’m serious Miya, if you embarrass me, I’ll ‘break up’ with you in front of everyone, and I’ll make it the worst fucking experience of your life,” he warns, staring at him. He has the decency to look at least a little frightened.
“But that’ll ruin Christmas, Omi-san,” Hinata says, pulling on a jumper.
He tries not to laugh. “Don’t worry about that, Hinata. It’ll be ruined the minute I get there.”
They’re all quiet for a moment, his joke apparently not going down very well, and then Atsumu grins.
“I’ll be on my best behaviour, honey.”
Kiyoomi mimes slitting his throat.
They’re on the train to Tokyo the next day when Kiyoomi decides that he should warn his “partner” of what’s coming – he’d rather not, but it’s probably not fair to push him into that place blind.
“Miya—”
“Hey, we agreed you were gonna call me Atsumu now,” he interrupts, pouting. Kiyoomi refuses to think of this reaction as cute.
He glares at him, ignoring the smile he gets when he corrects himself. “Atsumu.” He takes a deep breath. “I think you should know that my family isn’t like yours. We aren’t close and honestly, I would rather not go at all if I had the option.”
Atsumu frowns, but he stays quiet and lets him continue.
“My parents are big on appearances and public opinion, especially my Mother, so just… I know it’s annoying being forced to accommodate for shitty behaviour, but please, for my sake, just ignore them if they say anything rude. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to be around them much,” he says, squeezing his hands together in his lap. He’s never been very lucky with their judgement, whether he’s near them or in a different room, and he doubts this will be any different. “It’ll be better when we visit Motoya’s family.”
Atsumu doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he tilts his head. “Omi… why are you even going?”
“Huh?”
“Well, you already look miserable, and we’ve only just left Osaka. Plus, you’re not exactly speaking very highly of your family. So why not just stay here?” Kiyoomi almost laughs, because his family can speak highly enough of themselves, they don’t need him for that.
He stares down at his lap instead. “Motoya, my aunt… my sister, too, I suppose.” He thinks of his embarrassing answer to when his cousins had asked him the same question a few years ago. Sometimes I just want somewhere to belong, even if that place sucks.
“Okay,” he says eventually, then shrugs. “I’m not here for them anyway, so I don’t really care if they judge me.” Kiyoomi tries to ignore the jealousy that bites at him at that – the thought has followed him throughout his whole life: what is it like to be so unaffected by it all? Sure, he doesn’t care so much about the opinions of strangers, and he knows his family’s opinions and behaviours are ridiculous, but… they still manage to get to him, no matter what. Maybe it’s just because that’s how he’s been taught. Logically, Mother is never right, but somewhere inside of him, he has been convinced that she is always right.
Before he even dares to push the front door open, Kiyoomi takes a moment to suck in as deep a breath as he can, and then he straightens his shirt out and silently curses himself for not bothering to iron his coat; he’d forgotten that was something his family expected of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at Atsumu who’s staring up at the house in awe, seemingly unbothered that he’s carrying the majority of their bags. He sucks in another breath, hoping his anxiety isn’t visible, and enters the house. Mother is, of course, already standing there beside her sister-in-law, and her face lights up when she sees him, while he’s sure his own falls.
“Kiyoomi, how was your train ride?” she asks, hurrying over to him as if she’s spent the whole day worrying about him – like that would ever happen.
“It was okay,” he says, and he stands perfectly still. She holds onto his shoulders, looking him up and down, like she’s trying to make sure that he’s not injured himself in some way, though everyone who has ever met her would know that’s not the case. She does not hug him, because she never does. Not anymore.
“Oh, your collar’s messy,” she hums, adjusting it from above his jumper, and this is where it always starts; a small thing that she uses to pick on him. “These curls too… so unruly as always.” She smiles at him like his hair is a joke between them, and then suddenly scowls, perhaps remembering the truth of the matter; the way it’s carried out almost makes it seem as though it’s normal for those two expressions to be found together. “I don’t know why you ever stopped straightening your hair, Kiyoomi. Didn’t he look so lovely with his straight hair?” she turns to his aunt, Father’s sister.
“He looked so much like his father,” she says with a nod, a statement that he desperately tries to ignore; he’s managed to get used to hearing those kinds of comments, to an extent, but they still sting. They probably always will. “Do women—” Hikaru clears her throat, “boys, even like the curls on you? Straight hair is much smarter, I’d say.”
Kiyoomi sighs and takes a step away from their hands, already tense all over, too aware of their touch. “Well, I don’t think that matters so much anymore, seeing as I have a partner now. He’s right here. And I’d appreciate if you said men, rather than boys, when you talk about my attractions; you have a knack for twisting words and making things sound wrong, Hikaru.”
Her eyes snap open wide, probably shocked at Kiyoomi’s talking-back. He’s a little shocked himself. Though, it only takes a second for her and Mother to seemingly process his first statement, and they stare at the man beside him; Kiyoomi genuinely can’t tell if they’d both just been ignoring him up until this point, or if they somehow hadn’t noticed him.
Atsumu’s barely-there frown changes to a smile in an instant and he holds out his hand for them to shake. “Nice to meet you both! I’m Miya Atsumu, you can call me Atsumu though – I’m Omi’s partner,” he says it so fluidly, unafraid of making a mistake. If someone didn’t know him well enough, they wouldn’t see the way his eyes narrow slightly, animosity just slightly visible in them. Kiyoomi knows him though. “Oh, and I’m only sayin’ this cuz I love talking about him, but I think Omi’s curls are adorable.”
Oh. He ducks his face, too embarrassed by the small statement, which is just embarrassing in itself. When did he become shy to Atsumu’s shameless compliments and flirtations, real or not?
Mother looks taken aback. “Ah, of course. Welcome. It’s good to meet you.” She’s studying him, looking at his t-shirt and jeans that she probably deems far too casual for meeting the parents, but Atsumu is studying her too. What’s he thinking?
Kiyoomi’s already been feeling anxious enough over the past few days, never mind how he was on the verge of a panic attack on the train, but now he’s starting to just freeze up. What if Atsumu doesn’t remember their names? What if he lets something slip? What if he loses his temper? Sure, him giving Mother no bullshit would be amusing, but it would also be horrific.
“Where are you from, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi’s aunt asks, faux smile plastered on her face. He can’t tell whose in the room is the fakest.
“Hyogo, Hikaru-san – is it alright if I call ya that? I figured it’ll get pretty confusing if I call everyone Sakusa,” he answers, standing back up straight after shaking their hands. “I live in Osaka now, though, near Omi’s place.”
“Ah, lovely. My sister has been to Hyogo a few times,” Mother says, but she doesn’t really look too interested in the conversation, her gaze going back to Kiyoomi and sticking on him. “Darling, your hair really does look a mess. Have you not at least been taking care of it? Maybe we should get the straighteners out.”
Kiyoomi just stays silent, as always, letting her judge him, as always. His hair has always been one thing that he really liked about himself, and him stopping straightening it was one of his rare acts of rebellion in this house. He just hadn’t had the time this morning to follow out his usual routine, but the Gods know he’d tried his best to look smart and clean for her. She’s just never happy with him. He hopes his eye isn’t twitching visibly.
He's broken out of his thoughts by the ghost of a hand on the small of his back, touch light enough that he can barely feel it but still somehow a little warm, if possible. His head snaps to look at Atsumu, but he’s just smiling at Mother and Hikaru; when was the last time Kiyoomi saw his expression this fake? It definitely hasn’t happened for a while, he knows that much.
“You know, Omi-Omi was real eager to show me ‘round your house, and I’m itching to put my stuff away, so I hope you don’t mind if we split off for a bit,” he says, and they both straighten their backs up like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t and are being scolded for it. They nod in unison.
“Of course, go ahead. We’ll be in the living room,” Mother says, and with that, they scurry away. Atsumu instantly appears in front of Kiyoomi, concern already on his face; they’ve not even been here ten minutes yet.
“You okay, Omi-kun?” he asks, looking into his eyes. “They’re fuckin’ critical, huh?”
Kiyoomi blinks. Is he that obvious? “I’m fine. Let’s go upstairs.”
Atsumu hesitates for just a moment before he shrugs it off and nods, picking up their bags; hopefully he’s just decided to let it be. Kiyoomi really can’t be bothered getting into the depths of evil that Mother can reach, right now. He’s pretty sure he would just wipe his memories if he could. Wouldn’t that be convenient?
“Show me the way, then,” Atsumu says, and when Kiyoomi starts moving, he becomes an annoyance again. “Does your room have pictures of you and Toya-kun when you were kids? Oh! Or posters of your favourite things? Awards? I bet ya won a lot of them, right?” His eyes are practically shining, and all Kiyoomi can really do is roll his own eyes in response.
“It’s just a normal bedroom, Atsumu,” he says, leading him up the stairs and down a hallway that has never failed to unnerve him, even as an adult. It’s too long, too dark; too many ghosts lurk at the dead-end.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not; it’s a childhood bedroom, Omi-Omi, that’s completely different.”
Kiyoomi glares at him, but it doesn’t last long, because the second they reach the door to his room after what feels like miles of walking, he feels all of the energy in his body get sucked out; as apathetic as he has tried to become, it never gets any easier breaching the barrier, not after that first time he moved out for university.
His name is plastered on the white wood of the door in brightly-coloured foam stickers, done so by his sister when he was much younger and she was in her rebellious-teen phase that she never fully grew out of – he never removed it because he was sure that the empty space would scream of a time that he could never get back, whether that be positive or negative, much like the room he had left behind when he had packed away the very few belongings that meant something to him when he moved out.
He reaches for the handle and pushes it down, letting the door swing open slowly, as if to prevent any invisible force in there from grabbing onto him and pulling him into the shadows of a very, very bad memory.
Atsumu pushes past him, and Kiyoomi can’t even scold him for it, only able to follow him inside and watch his face fall as he drops the bags on the floor beside the bed that was always far too big for a child. It still feels too big for him, if he’s honest. The whole room does. He doesn’t understand how Mother and Father can stand this building.
Does Atsumu feel as small as he does?
“This is the saddest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen, Omi-kun,” he says, looking around at the almost bare walls, each a light grey aside from the one behind his bed, an accent of dark-blue paint; there are only a couple of paintings here and there, and one singular framed photograph above his bedside table of him and Motoya at their graduation – it’s a copy of the original one that he has in his apartment back in Osaka. The only thing worth noting other than that is the pile of stuffed animals at the end of his bed, which he already knows Atsumu is going to make fun of him for.
He sucks in a breath, and he swears the cold seeps into his lungs. “It’s fine. It’s always looked like this.” I never got used to it. It was never fine.
He pauses, debates sharing the piece of information that then floats into his mind, and the thought begins to thaw the ice that’s started to coat his lungs, so… maybe it is worth sharing. “My room at my Aunt Mio’s is probably more what you were hoping for. She let me decorate it with whatever I wanted, and Motoya often forced me to put things on the walls as well.” The only good thing about this bedroom is that it collects far less dust.
Atsumu seems to lighten up a bit at the news, but he still looks hurt, and Kiyoomi can’t really fathom why. Sure, shocked maybe, but… hurt? It doesn’t make sense to him.
Atsumu turns around to face the bed and a grin spreads over his face in an instant, causing Kiyoomi to suddenly wish that he hadn’t invited him.
“What’re these?” he hums, walking over and leaning in to see the plushies better, careful not to touch them or the bed. He finds that he doesn’t mind all that much if he does; everything in here feels dirty anyway… plus, a small part of him has learned to trust Atsumu. Kiyoomi sits himself down on the bed and reaches for the little dog sitting at the front of the pile, old and tattered. It was his favourite, the one he could never sleep without, and… well, he knows why he left it here, but a voice at the back of his head regrets the decision more than he’d like to admit. It was the only thing he really had of his own to take with him to Osaka, yet he still left it behind along with the majority of his clothes, desperate to forget it all. He can’t ignore the guilt that’s steadily gnawing at him, though.
“They were given to me over the years as gifts,” he says, holding it with both of his hands and smoothing the fabric away from its eyes as if it can really see. He snaps his own eyes up to glare at Atsumu. “Don’t make fun of them. And don’t touch this one.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, eyes shining with held-in laughter. “I would never, Omi-kun.”
He glares harder.
The two of them stay upstairs in Kiyoomi’s depressing childhood bedroom for a couple of hours, unpacking at first which then leads to Kiyoomi staring up at the ceiling while Atsumu – who has claimed the window seat for the time being, the bastard – calls Osamu. Once he eventually hangs up, shouting something about his brother being annoying just as their calls usually end, he asks Kiyoomi what he wants to do, and well… he’s never really been much for getting to do what he wants in this house, so he shrugs and says they should go downstairs. Maybe if they just get it over with, everything will be better.
Mother and Hikaru are, as promised, in the living room. Father has returned home from work as well, sat in his armchair and reading the newspaper; it manages to make Kiyoomi’s breath hitch and also adds a slight, strange air of calmness to the room. Funny how that works.
“Father,” he greets, his voice thankfully coming out steady, as they enter the room, Atsumu right beside him. He feels like if he weren’t there with him, he’d just float away, completely dissociating the whole week away; it always feels a bit like both a blessing and a curse.
He doesn’t look away from his newspaper. “Kiyoomi. How was the train?” It doesn’t feel as suffocating when he asks as it did when Mother did; though, he supposes that’s because he doesn’t feel so much like the answer is being torn out of him. With Father, it doesn’t really matter what his response is, as long as he doesn’t get emotional.
“It was fine, thank you,” he says, remembering the manners he is expected to demonstrate, nonetheless. He glances over at Atsumu. “This is Miya Atsumu.”
Atsumu perks up, happy to have something to do, and steps forward, sticking his hand out for Kiyoomi’s dad. “I’m Omi’s boyfriend, sir. It’s nice to meet ya.”
Father shakes his hand, firm as always, and for some reason almost looks a little excited to be meeting him; it almost sends a shiver through Kiyoomi, because it’s rare for him to see Father like this whenever he’s in the room with him… unless, of course…
“You too, Miya. I’ve seen you play; you’re very talented.” Of course, he brings volleyball up now, because Father doesn’t care that he’s meeting someone special to Kiyoomi, only that he’s meeting a talented athlete.
He was surprisingly one of the only people who supported Kiyoomi’s decision to play volleyball professionally, having always been a fan of the sport; it’s probably the only reason the two of them have ever had a conversation that lasted more than two minutes.
Atsumu grins, standing up straight when he lets go of his hand. “Thank you! Don’t tell anyone, but your son’s my favourite spiker,” he says, hand propped beside his mouth like he’s telling a secret. It definitely does not make Kiyoomi’s stomach flutter in any way whatsoever, because that would be ridiculous. “Oh, and you can call me Atsumu, Hiroto-san.”
Father grins, like he’s proud, and it sends a feeling of ugliness through Kiyoomi, because he has never shown anything close to pride for him; no matter what lies his face portrays, Father would never show such love for Kiyoomi.
“Good to hear, Atsumu-kun. It seems like you’ve got a good one here, Kiyoomi,” he says, turning back to his newspaper.
Kiyoomi barely registers his words, his gaze having slid to Mother who’s studying their interaction with furrowed brows, and well, whatever he was feeling before doesn’t matter because he can say for definite now that he feels like he’s going to throw up. He can feel himself already beginning to curl up, desperate to become so small that no one notices him; he used to be so good at it, but being in Osaka hasn’t really called for the action. The attention he gets there is much more positive, and he has the privilege of harbouring a lot more confidence when he’s away from his family. Mother doesn’t usually pay him this much attention unless they’re in public together.
Kiyoomi thinks of the ways he has learnt to lie from a woman who told him not to, and forces a smile onto his face, looking back at Father. “I think so, too.” He can see Atsumu blush out of the corner of his eye, completely unaware of the tension spreading throughout the room that even Father has noticed, looking between him and Mother as his own eyebrows lower. They’re both waiting for her to speak up, for the tiger to lose patience and pounce.
“Kiyoomi, straighten your back,” she says suddenly from where she’s sitting, Hikaru sighing from her seat beside her. “Hasn’t your father taught you better than to slouch?”
Kiyoomi fixes his posture so fast that he swears his spine snaps, and a very quiet – it’s not really that quiet – voice in the back of his head suggests that he snap her spine. She’s always been critical, but today, she’s definitely doubled down on it; perhaps because Atsumu is here. It’s still someone to perform for, even if she doesn’t like him.
Father stands up and Kiyoomi knows the room will somehow only get colder with his departure. Atsumu can surely feel the frost now, while Kiyoomi’s sure it’s already creeping up his fingers and turning them blue at the tips.
“Excuse me, I’ve got some work to finish up in the study before dinner,” Father says, monotone, and it reminds Kiyoomi of standing in the study, being taught how to cover up his emotions. Honestly, over the years, he’s realised that anyone in this family could’ve probably had a good chance at a successful acting career had they tried, seeing as they’re constantly pretending… even around each other, to an extent. This is not a house of honesty.
He can’t help but mentally hit himself for having suggested he and Atsumu come back downstairs. He knew it would be bad, but he also knew there were no other choices. The best course of action would’ve been to just hide away in his room, but Kiyoomi is remembering that he has no semblance of freedom here, and even if they stayed up there, they would have been forced down soon enough. Just because he’s twenty-three now doesn’t mean that’s any different. Kiyoomi is just an extension of his mother, and somehow nothing at all, when he’s here.
She looks at the both of them, eyes switching between them, and her gaze eventually focuses on Atsumu, sharp. “So, you play volleyball as well?” She’s judging him. She never wanted Kiyoomi to go into sports, even fought occasionally for him to quit his high school team, and so of course she is most certainly not happy that he’s dating someone in the sports industry as well. And of course, she doesn’t bother to watch his matches, unlike Father who usually makes the effort to at least keep up on the points… though, Kiyoomi probably has nothing to do with that.
Atsumu seems surprised for a moment, and despite feeling his eyes burning into him with questions, Kiyoomi keeps his own directed at the floor. This was a bad idea. He should never have let Atsumu and the others talk him into this. He shouldn’t have let Atsumu come at all, not when he’s someone he – begrudgingly – cares about so much. Why would Kiyoomi have ever thought his family might come across as even slightly normal? Like they care even the smallest bit? Like Kiyoomi exists to them as something other than a sculpture that was never quite right.
“Um, yes, Itsuki-san. I’m the setter on our team,” he says after a moment, voice steady, though Kiyoomi can hear the cogs turning in his head, trying to piece together all of the little bits of information he’s getting from today. He’s always wondered if he would make more sense to people if they knew his family; it would explain why Motoya is his best friend, since he’s known it all since they were children.
Mother looks at the both of them straight-faced, a low hum sounding from behind her lips. For just a moment, though, Kiyoomi swears he sees something flash in her eyes. Hikaru copies her expression, but Kiyoomi knows that she doesn’t actually care about what he does with his career; she just doesn’t want to get on Mother’s bad side, which honestly? Fair enough.
“What’s your degree?” Oh no.
“Sorry?”
“In university; what did you study?” she asks, and seriously. Oh no. Oh no. Kiyoomi really shouldn’t have brought Atsumu. He really underestimated how much judgement they were going to get this week, and even then, his estimate had been a lot. Atsumu can handle it, he knows that, but he still doesn’t deserve it.
“Oh! I didn’t go to uni,” he says, though the tone of his voice makes it clear that he knows they won’t be happy about it. “I went straight into the V-League after school, like Toya-kun.” They had always silently – and not so silently – judged Motoya for that, too.
“Ah.” Their faces lose all discernible emotion, especially Mother. She narrows her eyes at Kiyoomi, and he knows that as soon as they’re alone, he’s going to hear all of her opinions about the man he’s chosen to “date”, and none of them will be positive. He stares back at her, wishing he were anywhere but here. It’s too much to deal with, a complete 180 from the life he’s worked to gain back in Osaka. He should have just stayed upstairs, or better yet, never have come back. He should have run away for good. But alas, as always, he feels a ridiculous, unbelievable amount of guilt surge through him at even the idea of staying in Osaka, because this place is his home. He’s supposed to want to come back no matter what. Right?
“You must be very good then,” Hikaru says, and there’s a hint of something rude in her tone, like she doesn’t believe that Atsumu could possibly be good at his job, as if he’s some talentless loser. Kiyoomi – and the world – knows that Miya Atsumu is far from that, though.
He nods, smile incredibly fake on his face, and it’s even better than the ones he’s seen from Mother – Atsumu really is good at lying. “I like to think so. I doubt I’d be named the second-best setter in the country if I weren’t.”
The room goes silent at that and while Kiyoomi loves seeing people act anything close to cocky with Hikaru and Mother, he can also feel himself tensing up even more, can feel the goosebumps making their way up his arms, sticking his hair on end. He clasps his hands in front of his legs and tries to breathe as subtly as he can. He’s used to this behaviour. He knows how to deal with it. He knows what his family is like and what visiting them entails. He knows, he knows, he knows.
“How has your club been, Mother?” Kiyoomi asks, and his voice is emotionless and steady, and he feels himself relax into the nostalgic role of being nothing. It’s eerily familiar.
Mother brightens up a little, happy to talk about herself and her own enjoyments, and starts speaking about the book club she goes to twice a week, full of people just like her with too much time on their hands and not a care for anyone in their lives. She goes on for hours, and Kiyoomi feels unconscious as he watches, nodding occasionally though he has no idea what she’s talking about.
He ignores Atsumu’s eyes whenever they burn into him, because to acknowledge his stare is to acknowledge himself. He can’t do that right now. He doesn’t want to do that right now. It’s just easier to simply be nothing until he’s allowed to be something else again; isn’t it?
Later that night, after they have suffered through the most awkward meal of their lives, Kiyoomi and Atsumu go back up to his bedroom, and he is faced with the fact that he is now going to have to sleep in the same bed as him. It’s not the idea of the germs that even spikes his anxiety, especially not in comparison to how it was before he began therapy; Kiyoomi knows that him getting sick wouldn’t be the end of the world, no matter how he sometimes wishes it would be. It’s just… the touching. He doesn’t know it well enough. Occasionally, Mother will fuss over him when they’re in public, but it’s never in a kind way, not anymore; the only people who do that are Motoya and his family, and it’s not like Kiyoomi sees them as often nowadays.
What if Atsumu is a restless sleeper and he accidentally touches him? What if it sparks a panic attack in Kiyoomi? What if—
“Omi-kun? You good?”
Kiyoomi blinks. Oh. He’s been glaring at the bed. “Yes.”
Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “You sure?” He looks between him and the mattress, putting the puzzle pieces together and understanding – or what he thinks is understanding – dawning in his eyes. “I can sleep on the floor, if ya want.”
He shakes his head, because while he wouldn’t really hesitate to do so with Bokuto or Hinata, as much as he does appreciate them, Atsumu’s different. Everyone knows it. He’s just… he’s so afraid of… “People don’t touch me a lot,” he says then, by way of explanation.
“Yeah, cuz you don’t like it, right? Because of the germs?” he questions, and Kiyoomi shakes his head again.
“Not so much anymore,” he mumbles, and he falls back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling just as he had done earlier that day. Atsumu hesitates, then copies him, laying beside him, still careful not to touch him.
“What is it then?”
Kiyoomi sighs, his chest tight, his own mask beginning to fall; he’s been so out of practice using it. “It used to be that. The germs. But then… I don’t know, I suppose I just grew used to not being touched, and now it makes me…” he trails off. This is ridiculous: his fear and the fact that he’s telling all of this to Atsumu. The idea that he would ever say any of this aloud to anybody other than his therapist is stupid.
“Anxious?” he finishes, and Kiyoomi doesn’t stop himself from turning his head to him and nodding. He doesn’t stop himself from talking either, no matter how idiotic it may be.
“My mother hugged me at my university graduation,” he says suddenly, the memory playing on loop in his head. He’d thought at first that she and Father had only shown up for the appearances, but then standing on the side of the road outside the venue, Kiyoomi still in his robes and Dad in the car, she had stepped towards him and wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him like she didn’t want to let go. It was the first and only time she has hugged him since he was seven years old. He swears, as she pulled away, she had whispered ‘I’m sorry.’
He'd had a panic attack as soon as they drove off, crying alone on the pavement until Aunt Mio was able to pick him up and take him back to her house because she refused to drop him at his apartment all alone.
“It doesn’t seem like she does that a lot,” it comes out of Atsumu’s lips as an almost-whisper. Kiyoomi shakes his head.
“She doesn’t. I think… part of me avoided people even more after that,” he says, and wishes that it didn’t feel so loud in such an empty room. It always felt like no one could hear him in here, no matter how loud he was, but now he’s sure he must be screaming, audible to everyone within a hundred feet of the house. How are Atsumu’s ears not bleeding from the sheer volume of it?
“I bet it shocked you, right?”
“Yeah.”
At his graduation, they didn’t even say more than a few sentences about Kiyoomi’s being named MVP on his university volleyball team, Mother clearly not caring and Father not caring enough. But standing at that car in the cold, she hugged him. She apologised, her words almost sounding like she was telling Kiyoomi that she loved him, and for a moment, he felt like she actually really cared about him again. At least for those few seconds, she loved him again, and his body had wracked with shivers that he’d tried to blame on the cold. His mind had swarmed with memories of his early childhood, of sitting at the piano with his mother, baking with her, watching movies with her. And then one day, she had looked at him, her face morphed into one of heartbreak, and she told him their family’s biggest secret, and that was that.
Even now, he still feels like he’s freezing from the inside out.
“Hey, Omi-kun… it’s okay, y’know? To be scared. I’m scared of loud noises,” Atsumu says then, and Kiyoomi wonders if he’s staring up at the ceiling too, wishing it were the sky, wishing there were only stars there. He bets that he and Osamu had glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on their ceiling when they were kids.
“But you’re always loud.”
That startles a laugh out of Atsumu, and his shoulders shake with it. It makes Kiyoomi feel ever-so-slightly better, like he’s not being completely surrounded by the unknown. “I guess you’re right,” he says, not even pretending to be annoyed with him. He’s just completely honest right now. It’s almost suffocating. “I meant more like bangs and stuff; like, thunder scares the shit outta me.” His mouth quirks up at one side in a smile, like he can tell what he’s thinking. “It sounds dumb, right?”
“Not really,” he rushes to defend him. “I wouldn’t judge you for—”
“Exactly,” he interrupts, “but it is dumb. All fears are a bit dumb when you think about it. But what I’m saying is, you wouldn’t make fun of me for not likin’ those noises, and I’m not gonna laugh at you for not being comfortable right now. There’s nothing wrong with being scared, Omi.”
Kiyoomi wants to tell him to stop being kind, to stop being so damn likeable. He doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t really offer much of a solution, just like how you can’t stop the thunder when it happens, but we can work around it, I think,” he hums, and honestly, it’s frustrating how much better of a person he’s become over the past years since high school. Part of Kiyoomi wishes he would just start insulting him again. At least he’d feel like he deserved it.
“Like exposure therapy?” he asks, thinking of all the years he’s spent working at that with his therapist.
“Eh, not really, but we can try that if you want to… though I don’t really know how we’d do that. I guess I could cough on you?”
He pulls back in disgust. “I already said it’s not about the germs anymore, dumbass. Don’t be so obnoxious.”
Atsumu practically cackles and it really shouldn’t be any kind of endearing. It shouldn’t. “Just kiddin’, Omi-Omi. Nah, I mean like, when it storms, I put on headphones to help block it out. So maybe in this situation… I could let you watch over my cleaning routine? I know you said it’s not to do with all that, but I figure it might give you some kind of comfort, right? You can make sure I’m up to your standards, and that way if we accidentally touch, you’ll at least not have to worry about any contamination. I don’t know… maybe it won’t be any help, I’m just trying to think of—”
Oh.
“That sounds okay,” he says, and he hates how small he sounds, how he feels like a helpless child; being back home, he never feels much like himself. Kiyoomi isn’t used to allowing himself to be vulnerable with others.
True to Atsumu’s word, he lets Kiyoomi follow him throughout his entire process of getting ready for bed, which happens straight away seeing as it’s eleven already and they’re both tired from the train ride earlier, especially Kiyoomi who couldn’t stop tensing up the entire time from the mix of possible germs as well as the fear of seeing everyone… not to mention all of the uncomfortable interactions of the day that they’ve had to sit through. He pushes Atsumu away when he offers to let him watch his shower, telling him to shut up and stop being so crude, and then he does nothing but sit on the edge of his bed while he waits, satisfied when Atsumu leaves the bathroom twenty minutes later in a pair of unbelievably soft-looking sweatpants and a t-shirt.
He leaves him to his own devices while he takes his own shower, letting the boiling water melt away the past few hours and all the dirt that’s come with it. He makes sure to moisturise properly, and then leaves in his own pair of matching pyjamas, something he never really grew out the novelty of, and they both stand in front of the bathroom sink and brush their teeth together. It shocks Kiyoomi that the domesticity of it doesn’t feel all that scary. Or at least, not until they leave and stand in front of the bed.
He sucks in a trembling breath and turns on the bedside lamp, then switches off the big light and sits down beneath the covers, his whole body shaking as Atsumu moves to copy his position on the other side of the bed. He was always so used to sleeping in the middle with too much space on either side of him, feeling the complete opposite of claustrophobic, like he was just completely alone and would continue to be forever.
“I don’t know how much is too much,” Kiyoomi says after a moment of trying to build up his courage; as much as he’s prone to saying and doing whatever the hell he wants, he feels like Atsumu deserves some kind of explanation. “That’s why I’m afraid. When you touched me earlier, it wasn’t so bad, but… I don’t want to be caught off guard and have a panic attack.” He hates this, doesn’t know how to talk properly to someone that isn’t his therapist, and he definitely doesn’t want to treat Atsumu like that. He just… can’t figure out how to be honest with the things he’s always kept so quiet about. “I couldn’t breathe after my mother hugged me.” He’d felt like he was in a trance for days, like he had frozen to death on that pavement. His therapist says he was dissociating.
“Geez, Omi-kun, ya look like you’re constipated. We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi doesn’t even spare him the effort of glaring at him. Asshole.
Then there’s a shift against the mattress from beside him, Atsumu turning towards him. “What if we practice?”
Kiyoomi’s head snaps up and he stares. “What?”
Atsumu’s cheeks look pink in the warm lighting, mixing in with his skin that’s still slightly tanned even in the winter; of all the new expressions he’s seen on him over the past year, bashful was not one of them… until now. “I mean, you mentioned exposure therapy earlier, so I figured maybe it could help. If you’re anxious, then there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep properly. Or at least, that’s what happens for me. I dunno if you’re the same.”
Oh. “Okay.” He turns around to face Atsumu, legs crossed and heart racing. He feels too real. He tries not to remember that night, shivering in his graduation robe for far too long.
“Yeah?” he asks, to be sure. Kiyoomi isn’t sure, but he’ll try.
“Yeah.”
“Where do you want me to start, then?” he asks, and Kiyoomi looks down at his hands because it seems the only place to start. It’s weird, wrong, because he knows how to touch people, he’s not completely starved of it, but… it feels different now, with Atsumu. It’s unfamiliar and new and he doesn’t know why he cares so much. How does he always make it look so easy? His teammates always make it look like it’s just second nature to fist-bump or high-five after they get a point in a match, to hug after a win as if such a thing isn’t some big feat. But it is. It’s big for Kiyoomi. It means being vulnerable, being willing to risk the idea of getting sick or scared, being honest.
“Hey,” Atsumu hums, voice like honey mixed into tea; it’s something Kiyoomi’s not drank for a long time, yet in this moment, he feels like he’s in the middle of swallowing it down as if it’s the only thing that will save him. “I won’t push you. I’m not gonna make fun of you. Tell me what’s okay, when to stop, and I will.”
He nods and places his hands on his thighs, palms up, and watches as Atsumu reaches out slowly, arms steady in contrast to his own shaking ones. Part of Kiyoomi is terrified, and part of him feels almost fine, and he doesn’t know which side to listen to, not even when the tips of their fingers brush and it feels like an electric shock. Atsumu’s arms are stuck out much further than his.
He presses the pads of their fingers together, and while Kiyoomi’s own hands are smooth from constantly moisturising throughout his life in an attempt to avoid any possible wounds or infections, his are calloused from volleyball and gym-work. His skin is a lot warmer than Kiyoomi’s, too, which he swears have been cold his whole life, and he briefly wonders if their fingerprints will melt together because of it. Will Atsumu burn him and bring callouses along with it?
He pushes on when Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t urge him to stop, because he’s still confused on how he feels. Atsumu’s fingers dance around his, like they’re performing a ballet, and then they slowly intertwine with his, pressing their hands together. He’s far warmer than Kiyoomi in not only heat but skin-tone too, a contrast to the paleness of his own skin dotted in moles – honestly, he’s pretty sure that he’s just warmer in every aspect of his life; even his smile feels like it could tan Kiyoomi. It’s almost as bad as Hinata. Almost.
While Kiyoomi doesn’t fully remember the last time he wasn’t deathly cold to the touch, not even fully convinced that he ever wasn’t, Atsumu is like the tip of a flame. He imagines himself as a little kid again, trying to warm up his hands by holding them in front of the fireplace; it reminds him of when Nozomi and Amaya, Motoya’s sisters, had compared him to a malnourished Victorian child.
“It’s wrong, you being nice to me,” he says, a whisper in the golden lamp-light, that feels like a flame itself. He’s almost convinced that he’s the only thing in control of the fire, like it will be up to him whether it dies or spreads, and he’s afraid of both outcomes. What if he freezes to death without it? What if its strength kills him?
Atsumu laughs. “I could say the same for you, Omi-kun.” His face falls then, just slightly, enough to be noticeable. Especially to Kiyoomi. “You feel like a completely different person here. It’s not you.”
He decides to deflect. “What, are you a masochist? You enjoy when we argue?”
He rolls his eyes and pushes their hands lightly. “Shut it. I mean, like, for one, we both know we don’t argue for real anymore; I know I’m basically your best friend apart from Toya-kun, Omi.” He pushes their hands back towards Atsumu, and so he pushes back again. “I enjoy when you’re not pretending to be someone else.”
Oh. Kiyoomi goes back to studying their hands, lips pulled tight before he lets out the breath that he’s sure he’s been holding since they arrived in Tokyo. He’s been holding in a lot, he thinks. “I wish I didn’t have to be.” Strands of hair fall in front of his eyes, obstructing his view of their conjoined hands, and before he can attempt to move them, Atsumu lets go of one of his hands and reaches out, taking the curls in between his fingers and pushing them back behind his ear with a melancholic smile. His breath hitches and he wonders if Atsumu can feel it against his skin. He blushes and pulls his hand away, eyes wide like even he’s surprised by his action.
“Sorry!” he almost squeaks, and if Kiyoomi weren’t so – begrudgingly – flustered, he’d make fun of him for it. He rushes to shake his head, because it’s not too much. It’s unfamiliar, it’s terrifying, but it’s not scary. He doesn’t know how that can make sense, but here in this moment, in the confines of his brain and his heart, it does.
“It’s fine.”
They watch each other for a moment, and then Atsumu swallows, eyes calculating, and he slides his hand up Kiyoomi’s arm carefully, studying his reaction and waiting for the sign to pull away, and he’s still so warm. He stops at his elbow. It’s strange, because in some ways, the two of them can be so similar but this… well, Kiyoomi’s sure that they’re complete opposites because he has always had cold fingers and pale skin that burns in the sun. Somehow, he feels simultaneously hot and freezing at the same time. Fire and ice.
“Are ya cold?” he asks, and when Kiyoomi looks up at him, his face is practically glowing in the lamp light, soft and kind and it is so un-Atsumu, yet just as he would expect. It’s the Atsumu he has come to know, to understand, over the years through rare moments like this.
“I don’t know.”
Fingers tap against his arm, sending tingles throughout his body. “Is it still scary?”
“I don’t know.”
He thinks of Mother hugging him when he was little and then at his graduation. How nice it used to feel, how safe. And how terrifying it was when he was an adult. How the only people he’s never been scared to let touch him is his mother’s side of the family, which is painfully ironic. He’s not scared, though. Not now. Not of Atsumu. “No.”
Atsumu smiles, and Kiyoomi hates that it brings him a sense of comfort. His teenage-self would truly hate that they have become… this. Friends that never seem to be named as such. “Y’know, I touch everyone, like high-fives and hugs and shit, but you always felt so unreachable,” he hums, like it takes nothing to say, like it’s easy to be so honest. Does he just run on impulse?
I felt unreachable to myself, he thinks bitterly.
Atsumu fiddles with his fingers, his eyes full of contemplation. “You were like… like the stars. You know, like, they’re right there, you know about them, but you can never reach them. It sounds dumb, but I guess that’s how I see it. And you.”
Oh. Miya Atsumu thinks he’s like the stars. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Apparently, all he knows to do is blush profusely. And also, maybe throw up. Possibly. Potentially.
He grins, almost like he can tell that Kiyoomi’s gone speechless. “It’s funny, actually, cuz my mum always said me and Samu were like the sun and the moon for some reason; she even got us matching necklaces,” he laughs, pulling a hand away to reach under the hem of his t-shirt’s neck and revealing a loose brown, faux-leather necklace with a sun charm dangling in the middle. “Honestly, I think she really just did it as a joke about our hair colours. She loved doing things like that, dressing us in specific colours and shit; y’know, I bet she just couldn’t tell us apart at that point.”
Huh. Of course, he wears that necklace everywhere he goes. Kiyoomi tries not to let the jealousy creep into his heart, instead allowing the adoration in. Being an important person to someone like Atsumu seems special.
He gazes down at where their arms touch, skin still feeling fuzzy all over, both on the outside and the inside. Weirdly, he thinks he likes it. That is something that scares him. He pulls his hand away and looks back at the ceiling, nerves telling him to retreat now. He reaches for the dog plushie he’d stuffed under his pillow and desperately hopes Atsumu doesn’t see. “We should sleep.”
“No complaints here,” he says around a yawn, laying down on his side without argument, “I’m exhausted.”
Kiyoomi holds in a sigh; while his skin is still struggling through goosebumps, he knows that Atsumu will probably fall asleep within minutes. He turns off the bedside lamp, surrounding them in darkness, and hesitates on his next words before deciding to just say them, because it’s night and at least he can’t see him like this.
“Tomorrow, and the other days… we should try to keep touching. So that my family doesn’t suspect our relationship being fake.” He shivers.
Atsumu doesn’t speak for a moment, and then, just when he figures he must be asleep already, he surprises him. “Okay. Na-night, Omi-Omi.”
Kiyoomi turns onto his side, facing away from him, and clutches onto the old teddy like he did every night for years, willing himself to stop shaking from his declaration. He swears he can feel the ghosts watching him from the corner of the room, just like every night of his childhood after he turned seven. He prays that they won’t cause trouble. “Goodnight.”